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aphelea · 4 months

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like an old enemy (keefitz)

Ao3 Link

hi @when-wax-wings-melt i was your secret santa!! apologies for the late gift, it got slightly longer than expected, but i hope you enjoy this keefitz royal AU :)

(also thank you @song-tam for hosting this!)

quick note: the fic is non-linear and the scenes alternate between the adult and child/teenage versions of fitz and keefe, with excerpts of letters in between.

Summary: There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.”

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

(Or, the story of two princes, through childhood wonder and wartime unrest.)

Warnings: vague mention of vomiting and canon-typical violence

The guards find Fitz in the garden at sunrise, pen in hand as he attempts to write a letter to be sent with tonight’s delivery to Candleshade. He is surrounded by drafts deemed unworthy of his intended recipient’s eyes—though, these days, Fitz thinks that nothing he could write would ever be truly worthy enough for him. No words could ever fully communicate what he needs to say—and yet he tries anyway.

“You’re here early,” Fitz says, upon hearing approaching footsteps. He pats his pockets frantically and sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any payment for the delivery right now. Or a delivery at all, actually.” He turns, expecting to see the palace’s messenger—but he is instead met with the carefully blank faces of five goblin guards, each quickly moving to surround him. Grizel, his personal bodyguard, stands in the middle, but she refuses to meet his gaze—Fitz’s first clue that something is terribly wrong.

“Your Highness,” one goblin begins, after a long moment of tense silence. “I—”

She’s cut off by a scream, loud and harrowed, from inside the palace. Immediately, Fitz scrambles up and reaches for his own sword, but is stopped by Grizel’s outstretched arm. He casts her a quizzical look, but she only shakes her head and looks toward the doors.

“Who did this?” comes the next cry, now in his mother’s voice. Fitz’s heart stops for a moment. He’s never known such anguish from her.

“Grizel?” he asks, and his voice wavers dangerously. “Who…”

Fitz can’t bring himself to say the words. Of course, it isn’t the first time that rebels have come after one of their own—he still vividly remembers the night of Jolie’s death, and how the fires had been so deceptively warm for a moment—but today, of all days? If he knew better, he’d take it as a sign from the universe.

But even the universe could not have prepared him for the words Grizel utters.

“King Alden,” she says quietly, and the world stops for a moment.

Even the birds are silent, as if mourning alongside him.

Fitz’s throat thickens. He’d seen his father just hours ago, in this very garden. They’d spoken about the state of the world, and as always, he’d told Fitz that there was no reason to worry about the rebels, and Fitz had scoffed and told him to stop treating him like a child. Was that truly the last thing he’d said to him? The last thing he would ever say to him?

His turmoil must be evident on his face, as Grizel reaches out and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. But he can only stare at the ground, unblinking.

“I thought the palace was secure,” he says, after a long moment—ever since rebels burned the old Havenfield Palace, the Alliance kingdoms have been incredibly careful with who enters and exits the palace grounds. Everglen is perhaps the most secure kingdom of the five—or, rather, it used to be.

From the grim expressions on the guards’ faces, that might no longer be the case.

“It appears to have been the work of a clever assassin,” Grizel says, and Fitz is surprised to see true fear in her eyes. In all his years of knowing her, nothing has ever shaken her composure, and certainly not enough to be plainly visible on her face. “They somehow exploited a secret entry into the palace just outside the gardens.”

A secret entry.

Fitz tries his best not to react, but he knows the recognition is all-too-obvious on his face. The only other person who knew about the path was…no, that’s impossible. He wouldn’t do this.

And Fitz wants, so desperately, to believe it. He wants to say that he trusts him more than anything—but when it comes down to it, in the final choice between right and wrong? Fitz isn’t sure where he would go.

Keefe has no reason to kill a king, he tells himself.

But the people he keeps company with certainly do, his mind rather unhelpfully supplies.

Fitz shakes his head, as if that will erase the presence of his thoughts. Why does he torment himself with speculation like this? He looks to Grizel, trying to appear as unshaken as possible, the furthest from his true turmoil. “Who did it?” he asks; the only way he has ever taken after his mother.

Grizel is silent and unreadable. But she has experience in stealth that the other guards do not, so the glances between them are all-too-obvious to Fitz now. “Who did it?” he repeats, raising his voice. “Who? Answer me!”

“Fitz,” Grizel warns, in that familiar way that tells him he won’t like the answer.

“Was it Alvar?” he asks, well aware that his voice is slipping into an unrestrained shout, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Quinlin? Biana?” She frowns, but remains silent. “Somebody just tell me!” He doesn’t realize he’s drawn his knife until it’s pointing at Grizel, tickling her throat.

Gently, she removes it, watching him with all the sorrow he’s not sure he deserves. “We recovered one of the many arrows found at the scene. It carried a…familiar flag.”

“Of the rebels?” Fitz asks. He knows the sign of the swan by heart; he has known it since it graced the cloaks of Jolie’s murderers, all those years ago. And it would make sense—too much sense, perhaps.

“No,” she replies, her voice so soft it’s barely a whisper. “Though that would be more predictable.”

“Then who?” Fitz asks, racking his brain for another group that would both want his father dead and shatter him badly. He doesn’t exactly keep close connections with many people, personally. With war looming over them, it’s easier to trust nobody but the people he loves.

Grizel lets out a shaky breath. “It carried the flag of Candleshade.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Fitz leans over and throws up in the roses.

Dear Prince Keefe,

Hi! It’s me. Fitz. Obviously you know that, because what other royal from Everglen would be writing to you (unless you’re secretly pen pals with Biana, which would be weird since she doesn’t even know how to send a letter yet. Also, her handwriting is atroshous atrocuos atrocious.) I figured since it takes forever to get from Candleshade to here, it might be easier for us to send letters while we can’t see each other. Although, my father says that your father is coming over next month for a trade meeting, so maybe you can come then?

(Please come. Biana and I are really bored without anyone else our age around.)

Anyway, I used that goop you gave me earlier to prank my bodyguard. It worked! She was stuck to the wall and I swear it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Biana and I were laughing so hard that the other guards ran in because they thought we were choking! Then we had to get her out, sadly, and Grizel was pretty mad, even though some of the other guards were definitely laughing too. But at least I didn’t have to do my sword fighting training. So thank you! I’m sending some ripplefluffs along with this letter as a thank-you gift.

(I didn’t make them, though. I’m still banned from the kitchens after that prank we pulled last time.)

Oh, and on that note, I also found…

The first time Fitz speaks to Keefe, it’s by Jolie’s insistence. They’re eight years old, sitting in the gardens of Everglen and pointedly avoiding each other’s gazes—it’s the first time that the prince of Candleshade has ever visited, and he seems to be much more interested in his sketchbook than speaking to any of the other children. Though Fitz isn’t exactly interested in being social, either; he’s still sulking from being banned from the meeting room, despite the fact that he’s certainly old enough to be discussing grown-up matters. And if Alvar is going to be there, then why isn’t Fitz allowed? It’s all stupid. And unfair. And stupidly unfair.

The Princess of Havenfield, to her credit, listens to all of Fitz’s concerns. She doesn’t let him leave, of course, but at least she doesn’t treat him like a baby like other adults. This appeases Fitz a bit—but that still doesn’t mean he wants to run around the gardens playing games with his little sister and her new best friend. He’s not six anymore.

“I know you’re not,” Jolie says, sighing. “But I’m sure they would still really appreciate it if you joined them. Hey, you two, what game are you playing?” She directs the last sentence to the two girls who are currently galloping around a tree and waving sticks around wildly.

Princess Stina stops and grins. “Super Cowboys!” she shouts gleefully, then returns to hitting the air violently. Woltzer, Biana’s bodyguard, watches the whole situation with clear discomfort—it’s only a matter of time before he’s forced into playing one of their characters. Likely as whatever thing they’re killing.

Jolie raises an eyebrow. “And what are you cowboys fighting?”

“Rebels,” Biana answers, glaring at whatever imaginary person she must see in front of her. “We’re fighting rebels!”

Jolie pales, ever so slightly, but she still manages a smile. “See?” she tells Fitz. “You can play a…rebel-fighting cowboy.”

“I don’t want to be a cowboy. I hate cowboys.” Truthfully, Fitz doesn’t know much about them, but he definitely doesn’t want to be running around with a bunch of babies. He’s almost nine. If he’s going to be a good prince for his kingdom, he has to give up on childish pretend games now.

“Why?” Jolie asks. “Cowboys can be fun.”

“Yeah, but you only think that because you live in the land of cowboys. That’s different.” Fitz has never been to her kingdom, but he remembers learning about Havenfield during his diplomacy lessons—while it’s certainly not lawless, the towns on its outskirts are nowhere a prince should be sent to. Plus, it’s the closest Alliance kingdom to rebel country, so danger is always lurking around the corner outside the capital.

Grizel snorts behind him, and Jolie sighs. “Look,” she tells him, standing up, “it’s fine if you don’t want to play with them. But your father told me to watch over you here, so don’t plan on going anywhere else. At least, nowhere where I can’t see you.”

Fitz only wrinkles his nose and turns away. Why can’t his father just trust him? Alvar’s been attending Alliance meetings since he was nine. And Fitz has excelled in all his lessons; he’s done even better than his brother in most of them. And he’s not ignorant, either—he knows why today’s meeting was called. He’s heard the whispers of the growing rebel conflicts in all the kingdoms; he’s heard the rumours being spread about the real reason the Crown Princess of Havenfield was sidelined to babysitting instead of speaking for her kingdom. Rebel sympathies, they say. Will Princess Jolie’s first act as queen be removing her kingdom from the Council Alliance? Who was the mysterious commoner seen at her Winnowing Gala? Is she truly planning on betraying her country?

“Maybe you can talk to Keefe, then,” Jolie says, after a moment. “I’m sure he’d like some company.”

“Who?” Fitz asks, and then notices the boy sitting on a bench near them, drawing quietly in a sketchbook.

The boy—Keefe, apparently—looks up upon hearing his name. “I’m fine, actually,” he says, then returns to his drawing without giving Fitz so much as a glance.

Fitz scoffs. “Yeah, me too,” he says, moving to sit on the furthest possible bench that’s still in Jolie’s sight. Which, unfortunately, isn’t far. He should really ask his father to build more benches in these gardens.

For at least ten minutes, they sit in tense silence—Keefe, with his nose buried in his sketchbook, and Fitz, sulking and glaring at the dirt beneath him. Jolie and Grizel are having a conversation about the hardships of babysitting, or something. Fitz tunes them out.

Then, he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he turns to find Jolie looking at him with raised eyebrows. “What did the ground ever do to you?” she asks, gesturing to where he’s kicked up enough dirt to create a small hole in Everglen’s perfectly pristine path. Oops.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Fitz replies. It’s a lie.

She sighs. “Why don’t you two just talk to each other? I’m sure he didn’t mean to offend you earlier. Besides, you two must be about the same age.”

Fitz huffs, but he knows she’s not wrong. He can’t sulk like this forever, after all. And the artist in front of him does look to be closer to his age—which is refreshing, since Fitz is used to spending all his time with either his six-year-old sister or his nineteen-year-old brother. Life in the palace isn’t exactly conducive to healthy social development, anyway.

So he sighs, gets up, and sits down next to Keefe. “Hi,” he says, in a perfectly normal and very chill way.

“Hi,” Keefe replies, still focused on his drawing.

“Uh,” Fitz starts, but he doesn’t quite know what to say. It’s then that Keefe finally looks up and meets his gaze, and it’s then that Fitz suddenly realizes who the boy in front of him is: Keefe Sencen, Prince of Candleshade. Of course, how could he not have realized? He’s seen the king and queen of Candleshade dozens of times, as Everglen’s closest ally. Fitz had been vaguely aware that they had a son, though he’d never stopped to think about him much.

“Want a cookie?” Keefe says, after a long moment of awkward silence.

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“Here.” Keefe shoves a cookie in his face, and Fitz accepts—at first, for politeness, but then he takes a bite and he’s not sure he’s ever tasted a cookie this good. “I made them yesterday.”

“You…made these?” Fitz replies, frowning slightly. He’s never even been in the Everglen kitchens. And he doubts he could make a cookie that’s even edible, much less tasty.

Keefe shrugs. “Yeah. I like baking. It takes my mind off things.”

“Wow,” Fitz says with wide eyes. “I wish I had time to learn that. I feel like I spend all my time in lessons or training or something.”

Keefe snorts. “Oh, I’m supposed to be doing that. I just skip.”

Fitz’s jaw drops. “You…skip? Your lessons?”

“Yeah,” Keefe replies casually—clearly, he has no idea how much he’s just completely overhauled Fitz’s mind. “If I don’t want to be there, I just don’t go. Besides, I already know pretty much everything they try to teach me.” He pauses and wrinkles nose. “Except for the sword fighting stuff. That stuff sucks.”

“Woah,” Fitz breathes. “That’s pretty cool.”

The longer they talk, the more Fitz starts to forget about the meeting he’d so desperately wanted to attend. Something about this boy—a boy like no other he’s met before—is entrancing, the only puzzle Fitz has ever encountered that he hasn’t been able to decipher immediately.

He resolves, that night, that one day he will figure out the mystery of Prince Keefe Sencen.

No matter how long it takes.

Dear Keefe,

I think something serious is happening. You know how your father arrived in Everglen over the weekend? I’ll admit, I was kind of disappointed that you weren’t with him, but I think I understand why now. He, King Grady, and my father have been locked in the King’s office for nearly three days now—and every time I see them, they have these terrible, grim expressions on their faces. I’ve been asking everyone for information, but nobody will tell me anything! Not even Alvar. He keeps telling me that everything is fine. What a liar.

I know that it’s something to do with the rebels, though. I can see it in their eyes.

Anyway. I just want to make sure you’re okay, since I heard that there were a lot of rebel attacks in Candleshade recently, and you haven’t responded to my last letter yet…no pressure to respond quickly, of course. I just like knowing that you’re not dead.

I miss you I hope you’re okay, Keefe…

“You have a lot of nerve asking me to come here,” Fitz says. He doesn’t turn around; he won’t give Keefe the satisfaction of looking into his eyes, no matter how much he desperately wants to.

Keefe’s breath is warm on his neck—it’s December, and Fitz is so, so cold without someone to hold—and he sighs. “And yet, you still came.”

“I need to know why,” Fitz says. He keeps his gaze trained on the horizon, even as Keefe moves to stand in front of him, begging for his attention. What attention does he deserve? The attention of a prison guard, perhaps. Not a prince.

Keefe shakes his head in Fitz’s peripheral vision. “I didn’t know,” he says, and Fitz can only scoff.

“Didn’t know what?” he says incredulously. “That I would find out? Your kingdom’s flag was on the arrow that killed him! They found footprints on the path behind the roses—the path that only you and I know about. I’m not stupid, Keefe. I know what that means.” Fitz is well aware that he’s shouting, now, but they’re deep enough into the woods that he doesn’t quite care anymore. He directs his fury at the air beside Keefe’s perfectly-maintained curls—of course he has the nerve to look pretty even among all this pain. Fitz wouldn’t expect any less.

But Keefe only stares at him, with something akin to grief in his eyes. “Fitz, please,” he begs, stepping forward. “Look at me.” And if they were just a few years younger, Fitz wouldn’t have hesitated to do so; after all, most of their childhood had been spent following each other blindly. Now, though, they are both hardened by the war at their borders; now, Fitz shouldn’t trust Keefe as he once did, even if his faith in him has become muscle memory.

“Just tell me it wasn’t you,” is all Fitz can manage to say without succumbing.

There’s a long pause before Keefe finally replies. “I swear to the moon and the stars, Fitz. I would never, ever kill the only person who ever loved me like a son.”

And how could Fitz’s will ever hold against that?

So he gives in, and finally meets the gaze of the only man who could ever ruin him; it’s stormy, terrifying, and all too familiar. Under the moonlight, it reminds Fitz of their younger days—before war caught up to them, when they would spend most of their nights together running off to where they weren’t meant to be and ignoring the shouts from their bodyguards in favour of each other. He’s forced to remember that the boy in front of him is the same boy who taught him how to prank his tutors, years and years ago; the same boy who taught him that love is as easily taken away as it is given.

“What happened to you?” Fitz asks, and even he’s not quite sure what he means by it.

Keefe chuckles dryly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

It’s then that Fitz notices the bruises on his cheeks, nearly covered by the blood and mud smudged across his skin. “You’re hurt,” he realizes. He reaches out to examine further, but stops midway—he can’t hold Keefe like this anymore. They aren’t who they once were.

“Oh, that,” Keefe says, rubbing his face. “I lost a fight with some rebels.”

Fitz gapes at him. “What?”

Keefe looks away and moves his hair across his face, presumably trying to hide the extent of his injuries. “They attacked the palace three days ago. It shouldn’t have been as bad as it was—we have more than enough forces to counter them—but they were one step ahead of us. As they always are.”

A million situations run through Fitz’s mind, but he’s studied the rebel tactics long enough to understand what Keefe is saying. “They had people on the inside.”

Keefe nods. “They knew every weakness in our defense, and every single passage in or out of the palace. Even the ones I thought only I knew about. I was only able to run because Ro fought them off behind me.”

That means… “So the rebels killed my father, then.”

Keefe pauses. “I don’t know. I’ve been on the road for three days—I didn’t even know he was dead until I got into town. But I can’t imagine that my father would choose to make an enemy out of our only allies.”

Fitz sucks in a breath. “Which can only mean that Candleshade has fallen.” It seems almost impossible, but if what Keefe is telling him is true…then the rebels have grown much more powerful than he ever thought.

“This is the start of the real war,” Keefe says quietly. “They’ll stop at nothing to take down the Alliance. And with your father dead…Everglen is definitely going to be next. It’s an easy opening for them.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to prepare for a fight,” Fitz says. “After that, hopefully, we can help you reclaim Candleshade.” And with it, perhaps, they can reclaim some of themselves too.

At this—strangely—Keefe’s face falls, and he winces. “About that…” he begins, and suddenly, he won’t meet Fitz’s eyes. “I’m leaving.”

Fitz stares at him. “What?”

“I can’t stay here,” Keefe says. “You said it yourself—people think I’m a killer. And even once I tell them I’m not, if they believe me…what can I do? The rebels need me dead to end the line; they’ll be searching for me everywhere. I’ll only bring death to your door even quicker.” He chuckles, though it’s as dry as the winter air surrounding them.

The idea is so absurd, Fitz can’t even believe it’s coming out of his mouth. “So, what, your best solution is to run away?” Fitz snaps. “You have a duty, Keefe! A duty to your kingdom, a duty to your legacy, a duty to—” He stops himself before he can say something ridiculous like a duty to me.

Keefe scoffs. “I have no obligation to a kingdom that despises every bone in my body.”

“You’re a prince.”

“I’m well aware,” Keefe snaps. “Not all of us are as obsessed with our legacies as you, Fitzroy.” The name is like a punch to the stomach; it’s a dirty trick, hitting where he knows it’ll hurt Fitz the most.

The reply tumbles out of his mouth before he can fully process what he’s saying. “Then maybe you should just leave!” Fitz says. “Clearly I can’t stop you.”

For a moment, the devastation is evident on Keefe’s face, But it’s gone in just a second, replaced by a fiery determination unlike any Fitz has seen before. “Fine. If that’s what you want.”

Is this what you want, Fitzroy?

“I’m not the one who called you here. I don’t care what you do,” he lies. “I haven’t cared in a long, long time.” Lies, lies, and more lies. Keefe can see through it, of course—he knows Fitz better than to believe anything he says out loud.

“Fine,” Keefe says. “Then I guess this is it.”

He turns, and Fitz can only watch, frozen, as Keefe mounts his horse. Say something, his mind begs him, Tell him you don’t mean it! But wouldn’t that be too easy?

He waits silently, until Keefe is entirely out of earshot, before he mutters one final wish to the wind—perhaps Keefe might think he’s forgotten about what today is, but of course, he hasn’t. He can’t. “Happy birthday, Keefe,” he says, hoping that the wind can carry his message home.

Then, he begins on the path back home, and resolves to forget that this—that Keefe—ever happened.

He fails, obviously.

Keefe,

Do you see her too? In your dreams, in your nightmares…Do you hear her screaming? Because I do, every single day and it doesn’t stop please Keefe you’re the only one who understands

Look, I know there’s snow piling outside my window, I know it should be icy and frigid and terrible without a fire on—but somehow I can’t stop feeling like every inch of me is warming up, exponentially and endlessly until I’m burnt to a crisp. Like a pig on a spit, forever roasting.

And logically, I know we’re not there anymore; I know I’m safe behind the walls of Everglen—well, as safe as anyone can be, in these times. But somehow, for some reason, I can’t stop feeling like I’m still stuck in Havenfield, doomed to watch her burn forever.

I guess what I’m asking is…does it haunt you too? Does she haunt you too?

You’re the only one who saw it like I did. Running to the woods for just a moment, and then we come back and the world’s on fire right in front of our faces…were we the last people she saw? The last people whom she trusted, I mean.

Or maybe I shouldn’t be asking these kinds of questions. It’ll only make it worse—at least, that’s what my mother says. But what does she know of real terror?

I think life was easier when I saw the rebels as this distant, intangible thing. I used to be obsessed with being allowed into Alliance meetings, and I never understood why they wouldn’t let me in when I knew so much about the war—but I understand now. I had the information, but I didn’t truly know them. I didn’t have the fear that’s required to really understand what they’re capable of. I didn’t have these dreams that remind me of how cruel the world can really be to people who don’t deserve it.

I do now, though.

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Maybe because nobody else listens? My mother tries, but she just can’t understand what I’m feeling. And my brother keeps ignoring me, for some reason. I’m trying not to read too much into it.

I just wish you were here, Keefe. Being around you is kind of like a cure for everything, you know? Like I’m a walking wound and you cauterize me. Or maybe you burn me. I’m not quite sure yet.

The unfortunate consequence of sneaking out of the palace at night is that the much-harder process of sneaking in has to occur eventually.

The first time Fitz and Keefe find themselves in this predicament, they’re fifteen, and regretting many of the night’s decisions as they stare up at the heavily guarded palace in front of them. Sneaking out hadn’t been incredibly difficult, surprisingly. It’s Grizel’s day off, and her substitutes aren’t quite used to the antics of the young royals yet, so they’d employed Biana to distract the goblins—with a promise to do whatever she wants for the next three days—and had successfully lowered themselves out through a first-story window. Easy.

What’s less easy, however, is getting back in. They’ve searched for an easy entrance back into Fitz’s room for nearly an hour, now, to no avail—and Fitz is starting to shiver, in the cool autumn air.

“Do you want my cloak?” Keefe asks, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before slipping it off.

“Won’t you be cold?” Fitz replies, staring at his friend with wide eyes—Candleshade is considerably warmer than Everglen, so there’s no way Keefe is used to the cold here. Fitz isn’t even used to the harsh winters of his home, and he’s lived here his whole life.

Keefe shrugs. “I’m really not cold, and your nose is turning red, so.”

Fitz probably turns even more red at the comment. “I’m fine,” he swears, and Keefe raises his eyebrows. “...Maybe I’m a little cold,” he concedes.

With the admission, Keefe grins and reaches around Fitz’s shoulders to wrap his cloak around him. He’s forced to step closer to pin it shut, and Fitz finds his face burning once again at their proximity. Please don’t notice, he begs, but of course, the universe hates him.

“Are you okay?” Keefe asks, frowning. “You look a little weird.” He hasn’t moved, yet—he’s still just inches away from Fitz, so close that he can make out all the little scars on Keefe’s face.

“I’m fine,” Fitz replies, and he knows he’s staring. But how can he not, when Keefe is so close?

What he doesn’t expect is for Keefe to meet his gaze with equal intensity, a small smirk growing on his lips. “Are you?” he asks, with a teasing lilt to his voice.

And for a moment, Fitz is stunned speechless.

Then Keefe leans forward, kisses him lightly on the cheek, and steps back as if it’s just a casual motion—as if he hasn’t just stopped and started Fitz’s heart all in the span of two seconds. “Hey, what’s that?” he calls, already running toward a random patch of roses before Fitz can say a word.

Not that Fitz knows what he would say, if Keefe had waited. He can’t confess to feelings that he doesn’t understand.

So he runs after Keefe, as he always does, bracing himself for the pain of the thorns. Hopefully the healers don’t ask too many questions about his cuts and bruises from the night—though it’ll be obvious to them once they notice that he matches Keefe. (It’s nice, knowing that they’ve been marked together. Even when the wounds fade, his memories certainly won’t.)

“What are you doing?” Fitz whispers once he finds Keefe crawling beneath a particularly thick rosebush.

“There’s something beyond this,” Keefe says, pushing forward. “Something hidden in the roses. I think it’s a clearing of some sort.”

Fitz scoffs. “Why would there be a hidden clearing in the middle of our gardens? What could we possibly have to hide—”

“I found it!” Keefe suddenly exclaims. “Come on, come through!”

Well. That’s certainly strange. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself as he makes his way through the dirt, wincing each time a thorn catches on his clothes. Thankfully, he has Keefe’s cloak to protect his arms—though he can’t imagine how scratched up Keefe must be, with only a sleeveless tunic to protect him.

After a minute of fighting a maze of flowers, Fitz emerges in a dark clearing, with flowers above blocking the moonlight. The ground beneath him is dusty, and he realizes with a start that this isn’t just a clearing—it’s a path. “What the hell?” he mutters, and Keefe snorts.

“It’s a bit concerning that the Prince of Everglen isn’t aware of a secret passage into his palace,” Keefe says, and Fitz can tell he’s grinning even without seeing him.

“This goes all the way into the palace?” Fitz asks, glancing around at the little he can see.

“Yeah,” Keefe replies. “I followed it to the end. Turns out, Everglen isn’t quite as secure as it claims to be.”

And Fitz really shouldn’t be celebrating a secret breach in the castle’s defense. But clearly, no potential intruder is aware of it, since no-one seems to have discovered it…so there’s really no harm in using it himself, right? “You know what this means, Keefe?” he asks.

“What?”

A Keefe-like grin makes its way onto Fitz’s lips. “This means we can get in and out of the castle any time we want.” It’s both a terrifying and exhilarating thought—for the first time in his life, he’s free. At least, in some sense of the word.

Keefe laughs. “I guess you’re right,” he says, smiling softly. “Oh, and, by the way, I have a gift for you.”

At this, Fitz raises his eyebrows. “A gift?” he repeats. “Why? It’s not my birthday.”

Keefe shrugs. “I just thought you would like it.”

“Oh.” Oh. It’s a strange feeling, to be known like this, and Fitz loves every second of it. He watches Keefe bring something out of his pocket and hand it to him, gentle and delicate, and it takes him a moment to realize what it is—then he’s blushing wildly again. “Is this a rose?”

Keefe smiles. “Yeah. It’s classic, you know?”

Fitz does know. In fact, he knows quite well, since he’s read practically every novel in the library…but Keefe can’t possibly mean it like that.

In response to his shocked silence, Keefe steps forward and tucks a strand of Fitz’s hair behind his ear. His hand then falls to Fitz’s chin—still as gentle a touch as ever—and Fitz can barely breathe. Maybe he’s reading far too much into this, but… “Isn’t a kiss classic, too?”

Keefe grins. “I suppose it is.” And Fitz doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting to hear it, or how long he’s been waiting to step forward and hold Keefe’s face like this—like a lover, like a dearest friend. But he holds him, now, and it feels like releasing a breath of air he never knew he’d been holding.

Keefe’s lips are as soft as morning sunlight.

And Fitz’s world has never been so peaceful.

Dear Keefe,

I wish we could live forever. Just you and I, immortals for eternity—wouldn’t it be fun? We could look at the stars together, every night until the end of the world. We could speak as we wish and love as we’d like and nobody would have the guts to bother us…we’d be gods, really, in our own little world.

But since we aren’t immortals, I think I’d like to know you for every remaining night of my mortal life. And who knows how long that will be?

Truthfully, Keefe, I’m terrified. I’m terrified that this war will take over our lives and we’ll forget who we truly are amidst the chaos. I’m terrified that I’ll become someone who you don’t know how to want anymore—I fear, sometimes, that I already am.

I just wish you and I could stay the same forever. I know it’s ridiculous—impossible, even—but wouldn’t it be nice to have something constant in our lives?

Just promise you’ll never let go of me, Keefe. Not until our dying breaths.

“I heard about Keefe,” Biana says from the doorway, and Fitz startles. He’d been so engrossed in watching his ceiling that he hadn’t even noticed her come in—a luxury he doesn’t have, now that rebels could be coming for him any day now.

“What about him?” he asks, forcing himself to seem as nonchalant as possible.

It’s impossible to hide anything from his sister, after all these years together. “That he’s gone,” she states, three simple words for such a complex thing. “I’m surprised you’re not with him.”

Fitz scoffs. “I wouldn’t abandon our family like that. Especially not now.” Not now, when the throne where Alden should sit still lies vacant, with no agreement on who should fill it next. Not now, when there could be killers around every corner.

Biana’s expression softens, and she moves to sit beside him on his bed. “I know,” she says quietly. “But…don’t you ever wish you could? Just leave, and be free of all this. Be a normal person.”

Every single day, he wants to say. But these are times that call for his strengths, not his weaknesses. “That’s what the rebels want us to do,” he says. “Run away from our lives, and give them our kingdom without a fight. We can’t give up so easily.”

“But we can’t let our fear of them control our lives, either,” Biana replies. “Let yourself be selfish for once, Fitz. What do you actually want to do? Who do you actually want to be?”

Fitz laughs dryly. “When did you become so wise?” he asks, hoping to avoid a real answer. But she keeps her gaze sharp and steady on him, and he realizes that there is nowhere for him to run from this. “I don’t know,” he finally answers—the most honest he’s been with himself in a very long time.

Biana smiles. “Yeah. Me neither,” she says, and it’s strangely comforting.

But as peaceful as not knowing sounds, Fitz knows that he can’t afford to indulge it for very long. Perhaps, as a child, he’d been able to run and play to his heart’s content, but those days are gone now. Those people are gone.

“I can’t afford to be selfish, though,” he tells her. “Maybe in a few years, once this is all over, I can be who I want. But not today.”

For a long moment, Biana just looks at him, with something like sadness in her eyes. “Well,” she finally says, her voice wavering slightly, “I suppose you’ll make a great king, then.”

What?

Fitz sits up so quickly that there are spots in his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asks, because there’s no way she’s saying what he thinks she is. Because that would mean…

“Alvar officially abdicated this morning,” she tells him, softly. “The throne is yours now.”

Fitz…doesn’t even know what to think. For as long as he can remember, he’s had a set path for his future—Alvar would be king, and Fitz would work by his side, a prince with the freedom to travel the continent, learning everything he possibly can. “Why would he abdicate?”

Biana sighs. “You know he and Dad were never on the best terms.” It’s true, though Fitz hadn’t understood why until he was nearly an adult. Alvar has always had drastically different ideas on how to run the kingdom, and there were certain things that Alden simply wasn’t willing to change.

The older he gets, the more Fitz realizes that neither of his idols are quite what they seemed to be.

“You know, you don’t have to do it,” Biana says. “You don’t have to bear the burden of the crown just because it fell to you. We have more than enough cousins to give it to.”

And the idea is tempting, for a moment. Handing off the crown and living life as a normal citizen, away from the pain that this palace has brought him…but he has a duty, both to his father and to his kingdom. Fitz was raised a prince, unlike his cousins—this has to be his burden to bear. It has been his burden since he was born.

“No,” he tells Biana. “I won’t run away. Not anymore.”

If this is what his destiny is, then so be it.

Fitz will be a king.

Dear Keefe,

My Winnowing Gala is set for November.

Isn’t it strange, how old we are now? I don’t feel old enough to get married. Or engaged, even. Though I suppose I don’t have much of a choice—with how long Alvar is waiting, my family is itching for a wedding. To bring joy to the citizens, if nothing else.

Anyway, I’m writing to you to ask if you can come. I need someone sane to be around while everyone is caught up in the chaos of finding me a perfect match. That, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve attended a single gala without you since we were twelve, and there’s no reason to change that now.

Also, I miss you.

Please come.

Fitz spends the first ten minutes of his Winnowing Gala hiding in his bedroom, watching the swarms of carriages arriving through his window. There can’t possibly be this many women here to see him. This must be more people attending than he’s met in his entire life—though given that he’s only ever had two friends who weren’t related to him, perhaps that isn’t much of a bar to set.

While he panics, Keefe is standing at the vanity, aggressively scrunching hair gel into his curls. “You look fine,” Fitz says, after hearing far too many frustrated grunts—and then he really stops to look at him. “More than fine, actually. You look incredible. So stop fussing around with it!”

“The beauty is in the details,” Keefe replies, carefully adjusting one singular strand of hair. “It has to curl away from my face. Not toward. That’s my secret to looking perfect everyday.” He sends Fitz a wink, and for some reason, Fitz’s face burns. Charming fool.

But he rolls his eyes anyway. “You would look perfect even if you dyed your hair green and shaved half of it off,” Fitz says, and immediately regrets it as a grin grows on Keefe’s lips.

“Good idea,” Keefe replies, that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye—but before he can elaborate on his terrible plan, they’re interrupted by a loud banging on the door, accompanied by a chorus of shouts.

“Your highness, where the hell are you?” comes Grizel’s voice.

“You lovesick fools better be hiding in there, or I’ll kill you!” comes Ro’s.

“Fitzroy Avery Vacker, get your ass out here right now!” And Biana.

None are particularly promising.

Fitz immediately runs to hide behind his curtains—he can’t possibly go down there and speak to all those people, what if they hate him? What if he trips and falls in front of everybody? What if he scares off every single possible match?

(That last one doesn’t seem so bad, actually. It’s not like he wants to get married soon. He can’t imagine falling in love with anyone else, right now.)

Keefe grabs his wrist before he can fully tuck himself away. “Fitz,” he says, and his voice is suddenly serious. “You’ll have to go eventually, you know. Might as well get it over with now.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to have a Gala,” Fitz says with a scoff. “Suddenly you’re a fan?”

Keefe sighs, but his hold on Fitz’s arm never wavers. It’s a comforting constant, right now. “I didn’t want you to go through with it only because your family asked you to. I thought you, of all people, should get at least somewhat of a choice in who you love...but it’s too late to change that now, isn’t it? The Gala is happening. So we might as well show up, if all of this is in your honour.”

“I suppose,” Fitz agrees, electing to ignore the parts he doesn’t understand. He has his suspicions, of course, as to what Keefe is implying—they’re suspicions he’s carried himself, after all—but this is hardly the time to be thinking about that. Now that he is about to walk into the traditions of a prince, he cannot be bound to his past distractions.

Though his worst distraction still sits here, holding his wrist gently as if it were porcelain. And Fitz cannot bring himself to send him away. (He brought him here, after all, despite his parents’ protests—rarely are friends allowed to attend Winnowing Galas, but Fitz had insisted. He couldn’t bear to think about love for a whole night without the boy who personified it by his side.)

Another series of loud bangs on the door prompts Keefe to stand up, bringing Fitz with him. He sends Fitz a look—the kind only the two of them can decipher—and Fitz nods. He is as ready as he can ever be—which still isn’t quite ready at all.

“Finally,” Biana says when they open the door. “I’ve been fielding questions about you left and right. Your potential matches are awfully inquisitive.”

Keefe snorts. “Good luck with that.”

As it turns out, when they reach the gala, the attendees are indeed strangely curious about him—his favourite colours, his morning routine, his favourite things to cook, and more ridiculously irrelevant things. More than once, their conversations fall into awkward silence, because Fitz finds that he has nothing substantial to say to them. He isn’t actually interested in finding a wife here, anyway.

Though many of them aren’t even here for him—they’re only here to see the legendary palace of Everglen, and he’s simply their ticket inside. Which he doesn’t quite mind, except for when they’re swarming him and asking him a million questions about the size and the material and the location of the palace…things that he doesn’t know, and things that he cares even less to talk about.

And now there’s about twenty people trying to talk to him at once, and probably at least one hundred people surrounding him, crushing him, suffocating him, and suddenly Fitz just can’t breathe.

“Get me out of here,” Fitz whispers to Keefe, interrupting his conversation with some blonde Noble from Havenfield who looks eerily like Jolie.

Keefe mutters an apology to the girl—Sophie, apparently—and immediately slips out of the room beside him, a worried expression on his face. “Are you alright?” he asks, and Fitz shakes his head.

“There’s people everywhere,” he says. “Nobody is giving me space to even think.”

Keefe sighs. “Yeah, well, seeing how many people are on that list, I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed.” He gestures to the wall behind them, where a long scroll is pinned to the wall, covered with a long list of names and check marks.

“Oh,” Fitz realizes. “That’s my match list.” He never even knew that they had taken it from his bedroom—but, then again, he had stayed as far away as possible from the gala planning.

Keefe walks forward to examine it, and Fitz’s breath catches. These two worlds—his duty and his choice, his head and his heart—were never meant to exist so close to one another. And yet, here Keefe is.

“Your number one match is Sophie,” Keefe reads out, his expression indecipherable. “She seems nice enough. Maybe you should consider her.”

The words are so incredibly foreign to hear—Keefe, telling him to marry someone else. Some stranger. As if Fitz was ever truly going to walk out of this ball engaged. He doubts he’s even capable of giving his heart to anyone else, now. He’s invested too much of it in one place. In one man.

“You know,” Fitz says, after a long moment, “I wanted it to be you.” It’s as close to a confession as he’s ever gotten, and Fitz regrets the words immediately after they’re spoken. Now, Keefe is staring at him like he’s said something outlandish, when it’s certainly nothing he didn’t already know.

After a minute, Keefe rips his gaze away from Fitz, and stares at the wall with the intensity of a thousand stars.

“Keefe?” Fitz says. If only he could read his thoughts.

Keefe shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the din of the Gala.

“What?”

Keefe sighs. “You deserve someone better than your kingdom and better than me. I’m not what you really want, Fitz. You just don’t know any better.”

And before Fitz can respond, before he can protest that he’s not a child, he knows exactly what he wants—Keefe is gone. Out the main doors, into the rain.

And the silence that lingers has never felt more suffocating.

Dear Keefe,

Happy birthday, you idiot.

I miss you.

Please respond.

What the hell am I writing?

I can’t tell what you want from me. You tell me to want freely, and then tell me I shouldn’t want you. You want me to live selfishly, and then claim I can’t live beside you. Do you despise me? Do you fear me?

Or is it that you’re too afraid of it all, yourself?

I know that I can be both your prince and Everglen’s. I resigned myself to living two lives, long ago—but you? You’ve always wanted more. More than your duty, more than our secrets—but when will it all be enough?

Part of me doesn’t even want to send this letter, because I know you won’t respond to it.

Happy birthday, Keefe. I hope you think of me.

His coronation is far too grand for the times, but Fitz lets it slide. The kingdom needs some joy, after all. (And a distraction from the fact that their new king, who is supposed to lead them through war, is barely twenty years old.)

There’s still over an hour before it’s set to start, but the hall is already filled with decorations and massive displays of opulence. The guest list is small, by Fitz’s own request—he can’t risk inviting anyone he doesn’t know well into the heart of the palace. It would be far too easy for someone to send an arrow through his throat while he’s distracted, even with Grizel’s extra security measures.

Right now, though, he’s more concerned with trying to find his siblings. In the chaos, he somehow managed to lose Biana, and Alvar is, of course, nowhere to be seen. Though that isn’t entirely unexpected; ever since Fitz had agreed to take the throne, his brother hasn’t spoken even a word to him. Alvar walks out of every room Fitz enters, eats only in his own bedroom, and refuses to even look at him. Fitz can’t deny that it hurts—in the span of just a month, he’s lost three of the most important people in his life, and only one is actually dead.

But he pretends to be unfazed, for the sake of Everglen. He can’t let his personal issues get in the way of leading his kingdom.

Through the crowd, Fitz suddenly notices Alvar, pushing through and running with some strange sense of urgency. Where could he possibly need to go right now? There’s nothing in that wing of the palace except for…

Except for Fitz’s room.

Fitz drops his staff and rushes after him.

But when he finally reaches his bedroom, he finds it to be empty. “Odd,” he mutters aloud. He looks around, but everything seems to be as he left it in the morning, with nobody else in sight. Fitz could’ve sworn he saw Alvar run up these stairs. Where else could he have gone?

He gets his answer in the form of cool metal to the back of his neck and a sudden, strong grip on his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” Alvar snarls, pressing his dagger into Fitz’s skin.

“Have you lost your mind?” Fitz snaps. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t let you become King,” Alvar says. “I can’t let you continue this madness.”

Fitz scoffs. “What madness?”

“The madness of the Alliance, Fitz!” he spits. “Not one of these kingdoms truly cares about their people. Don’t you see? The endless exiling of so-called rebels, the matchmaking system—it’s all built for maximum control.”

“So your solution is to kill me?” Fitz replies, and he so desperately wants to run, but he needs to understand whatever curse has befallen his brother. This cannot be the man he idolized as a child.

“I had high hopes for you,” Alvar says. “You used to be more than a prince, you used to have passion! I really thought you would be the one to change things, when we were younger. Now I see you’re no better than your father.”

“Our father was a good man!” Fitz protests, but even he can’t entirely believe it.

Alvar scoffs. “Alden was a good king, but he could never be more than that. That’s why he had to go.”

It’s a strange way to word the statement, and to Fitz, it almost seems like… “You’re talking as if you killed him.” The idea is absurd, but the more he thinks about it, Fitz can’t deny its plausibility. In the months leading to the King’s death, Alden and Alvar had had such dramatic disagreements that practically the whole palace knew about them. Fitz had been too worried about Keefe to really pay attention, then, but…it certainly makes sense.

“Because he did,” a voice suddenly says from the shadows behind them.

Fitz’s blood runs cold.

Alvar’s dagger falls from his neck and he pushes Fitz to the floor, whirling to face the intruder. A cloaked figure emerges from the corner, a pair of curved blades in their hands—blades that Fitz is all too familiar with.

“Keefe Sencen,” Alvar sneers, stepping backward. “The disgraced prince returns.”

But when Keefe’s hood falls, Fitz is practically faced with a stranger—his face is decorated with scars from all manner of weapons, and his once-beloved hair is now a tangled mess that reaches past shoulders. No longer is he the man Fitz had known. This is someone new.

“I’m not a prince anymore,” Keefe says, bringing his hand to his chest where a small pendant sits—too small for Fitz to really make out what it is. But Alvar seems to recognize it, as his eyes widen.

“So the Black Swan have finally decided to emerge from the shadows,” Alvar says, reaching for the sword at his waist. “How cute.”

“Step away from the king,” is Keefe’s only response.

Alvar glances between the blades, both pointed at him, and Keefe’s dark scowl. “And what if I don’t?” he asks. “What will you do when the strongest kingdom in the Alliance falls to us?” He steps forward, drawing his own sword and matching Keefe’s stance.

Quietly, Fitz draws himself up to a sitting position. Neither Keefe nor Alvar are paying attention to him anymore—they’re too focused on each other, waiting for the first strike. And while Fitz knows that he and Keefe have been strangers for far too long, he doubts that Keefe’s skills in swordsmanship have improved enough over the past year to beat Alvar. He’d been a sword fighting prodigy in his youth, after all.

So while they circle each other, Fitz draws his own dagger from his pocket—a gift from his father, once upon a time. He wonders how Alden would feel, if he saw his sons now. Probably disgusted.

And then it all happens at once—Alvar lunges toward Keefe, and Keefe parries wildly though it’s clear he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Fitz scrambles to stand up, watching with increasing alarm as Alvar pushes closer and closer toward Keefe. There’s a clear winner, already, and Fitz knows this fight will not end until Keefe is too injured to fight any longer.

He watches Alvar kick Keefe to the floor, some unbridled fury in his eyes. And as he holds his blade above Keefe’s chest, Fitz realizes he has only one option.

He lunges and tackles Alvar to the floor, sinking his dagger into the skin above his collarbone.

It’s deathly quiet, for a moment.

Then Alvar starts gagging, and Fitz suddenly realizes that his hand is covered in blood. The blood of his brother.

“Fitz,” Keefe says, his voice wavering. “What did you do?”

Alvar squirms beneath him, and the horror of what Fitz has done washes over him like a wave of fire. “I had to,” he says, as if he can make himself believe it. “He was going to kill you.”

Keefe is silent, for a moment. Then, he says, “I didn’t think you would care if I died anymore.”

“No,” Fitz replies, laughing bitterly. “I didn’t think I would either.” Somehow, in the month since he’d left, Fitz had managed to convince himself that he didn’t care about Keefe at all. He’d convinced himself that he had finally grown out of his old distractions; that with the crown, he could be reborn with a fresh heart to give.

But the blood on his hands is proof that he can never truly break free of his childhood devotion. And the body beneath him is proof that he has let this love corrupt him beyond his ideals.

“I hate that I love you,” he confesses, and it’s as much a confession to himself as it is to Keefe.

Keefe rests a hand on his shoulder, as gentle as when they were kids. “I know,” he says. “I know you.”

I know you.

And Fitz hates that he’s right.

#kotlc #kotlc secret santa 2023 #i put random lore in here because i do plan to expand on this au someday. not today though #keefitz #oh and fun fact this about 8k more words than i ever expected to write!#august's writing!#sorry to anyone who is passionate about sword fighting. this is probably not super accurate

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bubblesandgutz · 25 days

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Every Record I Own - Day 815: Nomeansno Sex Mad

My first introduction to Nomeansno was hearing Sex Mad's "Dad" on a punk rock radio show on Oahu's Radio Free Hawaii station sometime around 1991 or 1992. The song's straightforward fury and harrowing depiction of domestic abuse carried the musical power and lyrical urgency that was like a drug to my young teenage mind. But I wouldn't actually hear the rest of Sex Mad until my college buddy dropped this LP on my doorstep a decade later.

The first two tracks off Sex Mad---the title track and the aforementioned "Dad"---sound like classic early North American hardcore. But that one-two-punch opening sequence was a Trojan Horse. By track three we have "Obsessed," a twisted and puzzling instrumental song that's like a punk version of Rush's "YYZ" (side note: I wouldn't actually hear Rush until sometime around 1997, and I distinctly remember thinking "this sounds like an arena rock version of Nomeansno"). Then there's the a cappella shout-fest "No Fgcnuik." These aren't exactly the kinds of departures that your average liberty-spiked punk wants to hear. Side one wraps up with "Love Thang" and "Dead Bob," both of which deconstruct hardcore's rage with syncopated rhythms, jarring shifts in song structures, and a general musical aptitude that one could only imagine both intrigued and puzzled the punks back in 1986.

Things get even weirder (and WAY cooler) on Side 2. "Self Pity" is the kind of protracted, exploratory, slow-build jam that completely avoids the three-chord, top-speed formula of hardcore. Instead, a low, menacing bass riff and nimble drum pattern drive the song, with brief explosions of guitar hinting at some inevitable climax. We keep getting teased with a big pay-off, and there are a few moments of thrashy release, but you get the overall sense that the ultimate moment is just on the horizon. And then it arrives, and it's not some big mosh part or circle pit anthem. It's guitarist Andy Kerr sending a signal through some sort of delay effect and tweaking the knobs into a swirling storm of chaos. Thirteen years later, Botch would do something similar on "Transitions From Persona To Object" without ever having heard "Self Pity."

Side 2 continues on in its strange journey with "Long Days." This is another track that almost owes more to prog rock than punk. Rob Wright plays a dexterous bass line on an infinite loop while John Wright keeps teasing us with various fragmented drum patterns. Rob sings a mournful melody on top of all of it. Andy appears to have not shown up to the studio that day. There are a few moments where John finally locks into a four-on-the-floor drumbeat and it's completely gratifying, but the overall intention of the song seems to be all about depriving the audience of what they want.

That vibe continues on "Metronome." Another looping bass line. Another song where John spends more time hinting at a beat rather than playing the full kit. Andy is back from his coffee break to provide vocals, but when the song actually lays into the bass riff it's so satisfying that the band apparently decided to leave guitar out of the mix entirely. There's hardly any guitar on Side 2 until the closer "Revenge," where Rob ditches the bass. We get angular guitar riffs for the verses and triumphant chords for the chorus. It's big and epic, but hardly the kind of straightforward blitzkrieg that kicked off the album.

The punks must have been completely perplexed, but maybe the punks were actually bored by the old formulas at that point. After all, Sex Mad gave Nomeansno their first hint of success. The band got signed to Alternative Tentacles, providing massive exposure across North America, and the band was invited on their first tour of Europe, where they would close out the decade as one of the top drawing punk acts on the continent---just behind Fugazi and Bad Religion. By 1986, the first batch of North American hardcore bands were dying out or crossing over into metal territories. Up in British Columbia, Nomeansno were charting a path that would now qualify as "post-hardcore," taking the urgency and DIY spirit of hardcore but expanding its parameters with a broader emotional spectrum and a larger arsenal of musical influences under their belt.

#everyrecordiown #nomeansno

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lastoneout · 2 years

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heard y'all like barely edited angsty mcd surveyshipping drabbles inspired by Les Mis songs that I wrote on my phone a 1am

(it’s on A03 and there’s art now!!)

Cyllene wants to scream, and not just because of the aching wound in her side. It's been a long time since a survey mission has gone this poorly, especially one she's been in charge of, but a rampaging alpha can foil even the best of plans, and she and Laventon end up desperately trying to hide in a nearby cave, separated from their group, supplies long abandoned, and, in Cyllene's case, gravely injured.

She can tell it's bad without looking, a full-power attack from a vespiqueen—because of course it was a bug pokemon—is more than enough to kill a person, and the steady feeling of blood soaking into her uniform along with the blinding pain is a sure sign she's at risk of becoming naught but a fond memory and a cautionary tale.

Still, she's a Captain and she's been near death before, so she shoves the concern aside, trying to act normal even as she limps into the cave after Laventon. She can worry about her injury later, after they have a plan to get out of this frustrating situation.

Of course, her luck runs out there as well and the Professor catches sight of her side and gasps, "Captain, you're bleeding-"

"I'm fine," she insists anyway, steadying herself against the cool rock wall. "We need to regroup."

Laventon huffs. "Not before I take a look at that-"

"I said it's fine, Professor," she snaps, hating how the pain makes her voice weak.

"Captain, survival is our first priority, if you're injured we need to address it!"

She glares at him as best she can. "I order you to-"

"Don't be ridiculous, you're hurt!" he shoots back, marching over to stand by her side, hands already reaching for her side.

"I'm fine!" she shouts, and Laventon flinches at her tone, but even that exertion makes her wound burn, and she lets out a pained gasp.

He doesn't try to touch her again, but his voice grows desperate as he pleads, "Captain, please-"

"I'm...I'm fine." The lie is less convincing than ever, and just to drive it home she feels a wave of dizzy nausea overtake her, and she all but collapses into Laventon's arms, her legs growing uncomfortably cold, and then numb.

"No, you're not! Captain you're-!" His voice dies on a short, choked breath as peels her hand away from her side, at last seeing the full extent of her injury.

She tries to shove him away, and then not to look, but eventually her eyes drift lower, and her stomach churns at the sight. Injured isn't the right word, no, she's been maimed, the wound large and deep and still oozing blood.

Her heart shudders as the reality sinks in. Unless one of them can manage a miracle, she's going to die here.

Cyllene struggles with the thought, some stubborn part of her desperately lunging for any thread of hope—or perhaps comfort—she might find, so she looks at Laventon, but his gaze is fixated on her wound, his mind silently running through the variables, weighing their options, and it's not long before he shakes his head, a look in his eyes she's known him more than long enough to recognize.

Defeat.

They've both come to the same conclusion. She's not fine, not by a long shot. In fact, she's dying, very soon, and there's nothing either of them can do about it.

"Cyllene..." he breathes, forgetting—or perhaps not caring—that he's used her first name, and skies above the way it nearly breaks her. How horrible it is to hear her steadfast, optimistic, beloved Professor say her name like that, so devastated, and even worse knowing she can't help him feel better.

(A weak, hidden part of her mourns a familiar fantasy she used to have of what it would be like to finally hear him say her name, just her name. To share such intimacy with him, grow so very close, oh how she had ached for it, and while the sting of what could have been is small compared to the wound in her side, it's still there.)

"It's...it's the way of the world," she replies, trying her hardest to resist the mass of panic and disbelief building in her chest. Despite everything, she's still his Captain, and she intends to keep her dignity about her, even now. "We all die eventually."

Laventon shakes his head again, his arms tightening around her. "Not now, you shouldn't...you can't, not now-"

Cyllene almost laughs. "If only death could be halted so easily..."

She's right, but it hardly placates him. "I could go get help-!"

That's pointless, even without the rampaging alpha keeping them trapped, now that she's paying attention she can tell she's fading fast, by the time he found help and brought them back she'd be long gone. Besides, any attempt to move her without a doctor or two would likely only serve to kill her faster.

That...and, well, she'd rather not die alone.

So she grasps his vest with what little strength she has left and asks, "Please, just stay."

"But you can't- you can't die, Cyllene, we need you," he tries, voice growing thick with emotion. "Rei and Akari need you, your Abra needs you, I need you-"

"You'll be alright," she says, failing to fight the tears that burn in her eyes at the reminder that she'll never see her small, precious, makeshift family again. She tries to think of the last moment she had with each of them, and kicks herself for not cherishing that time when she had the chance. "You'll take care of them, won't you?"

Laventon nods, because he's a good man, though he still insists, "I can't do it, not without you."

"There's no one else I'd trust with them."

"Cyllene, please-" he begs, "please don't go."

"I like it," she admits, leaning into him properly and letting her eyes fall closed, "when you say my name."

It's perhaps a bit selfish, but she's glad to be here in Laventon's arms. Even if he doesn't love her the way she loves him, even if it's hurting him to see her like this—and it truly must be, given how he's shaking with every strained breath, how tight he's holding her—this is still where she'd choose to die, every time. She can feel his body's warmth, seeping through his starched lab coat and soft dubwool vest, smell the scent of parchment and ink and tea that trails after him, yes...his arms feel more like home than anywhere else ever has, and she's thankful to be blessed with such comfort in her last moments.

Cyllene is roused from her thoughts by a droplet of water landing on her face. Strange, she thinks, they're inside a cave, surely the rain can't reach them here—but when she opens her eyes she sees the true culprit, and the sight twists her heart.

"Don't cry..." she says, orders, begs. "Please don't cry."

Laventon tightens his grip so much it's almost painful, refusing to let her go even to wipe his tears away. "How can I not?"

"Professor-"

"You're my dearest friend, Cyllene, you're- you're everything to me, please, I can't...I can't lose you-" His voice breaks into a soft sob, and he shakes his head once more. "I love you."

Her heart, weak as it is, still manages to skip a beat. "You do?"

Laventon nods helplessly. "Yes, truly."

Fresh tears burn in her eyes, and this time she doesn't fight them. "Oh..."

There's so many things she should feel; anger at herself for not getting the courage up to tell him how she felt before all this, at him for the same, at the gods for denying her what she's longed for until now, when she's about to lose it all. Anger, yes, bitter regret, too, and anguish, all of it just at the tips of her fingers, but her mind is starting to grow hazy, so she pulls away from it, deciding to simply let herself feel happy that the man she's loved for so long loves her in turn.

Cyllene smiles. "I love you too."

The same myriad of emotions cross his face, but the one he settles on is far closer to pained regret than joy. "Oh, Cyllene...what a fool I've been-"

"Don't say that," she replies firmly. "Let's just...be happy, while we can...alright?"

More tears pour down his cheeks, but he nods. "Okay."

She settles in, clutching him tighter. "How long...?"

"Ever since I saw you on the dock when I first arrived here," he says, barely managing to keep his voice level. "You looked so beautiful, with- with the wind in your hair a-and the sun in your eyes..."

Cyllene lets out a soft sight, sinking into the memory of his arrival. The sunny sky, warm ocean breeze, and Laventon, over-eager like a young poochyena and bundled up in so many layers it was a wonder he could even breathe. What she wouldn't give to return to that day, to feel the joy and excitement and promise, enjoy the wind and sun, to be with him when they were both younger and happier.

She'd tell him, then, how she felt, instead of waiting for all their time to slip away to nothing, too scared to be honest until it's too late.

"And you?" Laventon asks, swallowing back another sob.

"Your picture...the one you sent me?" Cyllene smiles a bit wider at the short, incredulous laugh he lets out. "You were so handsome...and your letters, so passionate...even when you showed up, wearing all those layers...it only made me love you more..."

"You have very low standards," he says, finally giving her a watery smile.

"You sell yourself too short," she replies fondly.

"You deserve only the best, my love."

What's left of her heart soars at the affection in his voice, and while it makes her wound burn, fresh blood soaking into her clothes as the motion jostles her body, she tugs on his vest and leans up, clumsily pulling him into a kiss. He leans in, even at last taking his hand off her side and raising it to her cheek, keeping her head steady. She’d fantasized about this as well, but despite the pain and tears, the soft, loving way he presses his lips against hers is better than she could have ever imagined.

When they pull apart her mind is even hazier, and she keeps her eyes closed, relaxing back into Laventon's warm embrace.

"I love you, Cyllene..." he whispers, "and I'm sorry."

She shakes her head ever so slightly at his apology, but doesn't chastise him for it. "I love you too."

"I'll take care of them, Akari and Rei and Abra, I promise."

"I know...you will..." She forces her eyes open, and through the haze she can just see his face. He's crying still, but she won't fault him for it, though she wishes she could see him smile one last time.

He keeps his hand on her cheek, gently wiping away the last few stubborn tears that fall from her eyes. "You...you can go-" Another sob shakes his chest, far harsher than those that came before. "I've got you, it's alright, you can go..."

She nods, or thinks she does, her body feels so heavy, and her eyes fall closed. "Thank you..."

"I love you, so much," he says again, and she tries to say it back, but all she can seem to focus on is the water droplets landing on her face.

Must be the rain, she thinks, but that's alright. Rain brings life, and the water can't hurt her now, anyway. Hopefully Laventon will go inside soon, she'd hate for him to catch a cold. She tries to say that too, but she doesn't manage, and her last thought is a faded vision of a night not so long ago, when she, Rei, Akari, and Laventon sat in his office, huddled safe and warm under the kotatsu, cuddling their pokemon and enjoying mugs of hot tea while a storm raged outside.

And then, she's gone.

#pla #pokemon legends arceus #surveyshipping #ask to tag #angst #major character death #captain cyllene #professor laventon #Text

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nvvermore · 1 year

Text

Idle Worship

The apprentice seeks Amaryllis’s help in the investigation

[the lovers]

words: 1.5k

cw: none

accompaniment

-☽☼☾-

A whole afternoon socializing with the courtiers leaves me exhausted. Even after Nadia retired for the evening, the group still demanded my attention, with no way to escape, until Portia finally came along to distract them.

We walk through the halls and chat for a little while, Portia doing most of the talking about whatever little things happened around the Palace today. When there’s a short lull in the conversation, I take my chance.

“When do you think Amaryllis will show up? To court, I mean.”

Portia gives me a knowing smirk. “They really caught your eye, huh? They’ll do that to you. As for showing up, good luck. Since I've been here, they only really leave their quarters to hunker down in the music room.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not really, I've tried to get them to open up— they’re pretty friendly to me— but I got nothing. Apparently they've been like that since before I showed up.” Portia explains. “Staff who have been here longer than me say that it all started after the Count’s death. Some say it was in mourning, some say it was out of guilt, but no one has a concrete explanation as to why.”

“But before they weren't like that?”

“Apparently not. Before, they were one of the biggest names in Vesuvia thanks to their music. Anyone who was anyone wanted to see them perform, whether it was at the opera or down in the South End at some dive. Their contributions to the city, from their art to their aid during the plague, were well documented. And then it just stops.”

“Their aid?”

“They were treating the sick. Their music has a magical quality, it was rumored that they were able to create a song that healed people. On top of that, they took anything they made financially and funneled most of it back into the city. The Count and the courtiers hated them for it.”

Everything starts to make sense to me as Portia explains. I need Amaryllis to get to the bottom of all this. I can't wait a second longer.

“Do you know where I can find Amaryllis now?”

“Probably the music room, but they really don't like to be disrupted while they're working in there.” Portia glances up at the clock on the wall as the two of them pass by. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to go check on the Countess. But please, don't go and bother Amaryllis, okay? Cause I’ll end up hearing all about it.” She bids me farewell with a quick side-hug, dashing down the hall towards what must be the Countess’s wing.

All alone for the first time in forever, I take it upon myself to wander the palace halls, looking for any sign of the songstress.

It’s already been a long day, and I haven't even had time to recover from yesterday.

Julian breaking into the shop again, the masquerade announcement, whatever happened with Asra at the fountain. It’s all been so much, compared to just a few days ago when all I had to worry about was tarot readings and restocking shelves. But something in me tells me not to stop now.

I stroll down the halls, admiring the craftsmanship of everything from the delicately carved moldings on the ceiling to the art hung on the walls, making turn after turn, getting lost in the maze of the Palace.

Eventually, one more turn brings me to a dead end, with a set of large, carved double doors at the end of it. From behind them, I can hear a soft melody being played on the piano. It’s enchanting, and strangely familiar, and I can't help but follow the sound until I’m against the door, just trying to hear the music clearly.

l’m so lost in the melody that I don't notice the door opening until I’m practically falling into the room. A few discordant notes are hit and the music stops, and I look up to find Amaryllis, the court musician, behind the piano, quickly standing from their place at the bench.

“Can I help you?” they ask, their gaze sharp as the grimace at me.

“I’m sorry, I was just—“

“Barging in on me? The least you could have done was knock.”

“The music… It was just so…”

“It was nothing.” Amaryllis studies me for a moment longer, before sitting back down on the bench. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

I watch as they position their fingers on the keys, preparing to play once more.

“Why are you still here?”

I take a few steps closer to the piano. “Actually. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh really?” they ask, with a mild air of annoyance. I ignore it.

“Yes. From what Portia and the Countess have mentioned, you've been here at the Palace a long time.” Amaryllis keeps their head down, focusing on the keys as I speak. “Were you there the night the Count was murdered?”

They slam the cover down, rising once more. “Why do you need to know?” they ask, a strange amount of ire directed at me.

“I’m sure you know by now why the Countess has invited me here. I’m just doing my due diligence to track down Doctor Devorak.”

“If you were truly trying to bring him in, you would already know he’s back in the city.”

Amaryllis knows?

They stare me down, towering over me, eyes cold and accusing. Their demeanor is enough to make me lose the small shred of confidence I had.

“I— I haven't been able to pin him down just yet. I need help.” I plead, but the way Amaryllis regards me doesn't change.

“Strange. It doesn't take much to pin him down. Last I checked he was just begging for retribution.” There's an inkling of disdain in their tone— not as much as there is when Asra talks about him— but it’s enough for me to pick up on the negative feelings they have about Julian.

“The Countess told me that you once made it your mission to know everything going on in the city.” I mention, trying a different approach to get through to them.

“She must have neglected to mention that my services come with a price.”

“Why didn't she just ask you to find him if you know so much?”

“She did. And I told her no. And I’ll tell you the same thing.”

I can't quite figure out Amaryllis’s motive. It’s not love, like Portia. It’s not justice, like Nadia. They’re similar to Asra, but withholding what they know has nothing to do with protection. Once I figure it out, maybe they’ll give me something.

“What if I don't ask you to find him? What if I just ask you to help me find the truth?”

“The truth?” they scoff.

“Of what happened that night. I have a feeling you might be the only one who really knows.”

“Even if I do know, I can't tell you.”

“Why? Are you protecting yourself? Are you guilty?”

From behind their veil, Amaryllis’s hard expression cracks, for just a split-second. Had I blinked, I would have missed the subtle downturn of their lips, full of regret.

Was Amaryllis somehow the Count’s killer? Going undetected within the walls of the Palace all these years? I don't want to believe it, but everything they say only pushes me closer to the conclusion.

They take a deep breath, letting it out with an audible sigh, arms dropping down to their side. “Lucio was a horrible man and leader. He deserved worse than what happened to him. My greatest regret is that it wasn't under my hands that he suffered.”

“I’m not very inclined to believe you if you won't even tell me anything.”

“Why would I let you shed unnecessary light on his death?” Amaryllis’s voice raises into a shout. “So that his spirit can rest easy? So the people can suffer some more as we dredge up another spectacle about it? Making everyone he victimized relieve it all over again? I don't think so.”

It finally hits me then.

Vengeance.

“Portia told me you used to do everything to aid the people. You were actively assisting and donating all of your salary during the plague. I know you cared once. Tell me so that the people can have closure. So you can. So that Julian doesn't end up as the Count’s last victim. Don't let your hate for him overpower your love for this city.”

“You don't know me,” they spit.

“I feel like I do.” It’s true, somehow.

Suddenly, Amaryllis turns, gathering up the pages of music that were spread out upon the piano. They brush past me, heading for the door.

“I hope you find what you're looking for, but it won't be from me.” Amaryllis says, not bothering to address me directly.

And with that, they're gone. The receding sound of their heels is the only sign that they were ever here.

#the arcana #the apprentice #amaryllis leroux #the arcana game #amaryllis route #my fic #amie fic #hehe

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percabeth4life · 2 years

Note

🌺🍓

🌺 favorite poetic quote from a published work

🍓 favorite poetic quote from a wip

🌺 - Mourn Oh Moon (The Sun is Snuffed Out) - Chapter 2: The Moon's Memoriam

Oh sister mine, I’m sorry so

You had nothing but love for me

You stood by me in all I could be

And yet my hands struck the final blow

I remember now, horror slowly dawned

Your light, so bright by my side

Forever gone, you have died

It was my hands, hands Ronodin conned

Perhaps grief is not my right

I looked you in the eye and said

“You deserve this” and you spilled red

You had no chance, no time to fight

I picked a side, a side in the dark

My tears now cruel, sparkling like you do not

Grief and pain ache, pain my actions wrought

I thought it grand, removing your spark

This cruelty I have given, sun setting behind

You breath stilling at long last

It was a victory if any asked

But now I fall to my knees and beg in my mind

Come back to me, sister mine

I’m so sorry, please I believe you now

I want you home, if you would just allow

Sister mine, please, send me a sign

War has called, the Sister’s made a demand

But my grief is unending and I stand aching

There is nothing I can do, my strength breaking

If only the loss I’d been able to withstand

Now I stand grieving beneath the stars

With all dark, even the moon’s light gone

Even the heavens mourned the loss of the dawn

Mourn oh Moon, this is the Sun’s memoirs

And with the light gone, my heart cold

With the demands ignored and the threat given

I sit with wings folded, enemies forgiven

And wish one last time, for her arms to hold

You mean literal poetry right? Anyways- that fic has two poetry pieces in it :P it's not a PJO fic (and is very dark) but I quite like it.

🍓 - A Story Unknown, A History Remembered

Bow drawn, I stand firm

String straining, I hold stern

Mouth open I sing

The song where war bells ring

Arrow aim straight and true

Let loose at last, it flew

Enemy mine, war finally comes

Hands are raised over the drums

My bow ready, quiver full

Bloody fingers on the string pull

Enemy mine, holder of ill

None shall be spared the kill

It's a price I must pay

So you'll rue the day

With the price taken from you

Standing in deep red hue

Through grief this will cease

Hear this requiem for peace

Eye for an eye, heart for a heart

It's time for the war drums to start

-a requiem for peace

This has so much lore behind it I can't even begin to explain just accept this is very deep lore that's maybe relevant to ATLOP, maybe not, you'll have to wait and see.

Send me an emoji

#dragongoddessoffate #fablehaven #the first quote comes from Fablehaven #emoji asks

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unenlightenedcrashandburn · 5 months

Text

It’s my birthday today.

I always have 1 very big thought on my birthday and then silly little party thoughts for the rest of the day, so:

Crash’s Birthday Thought (2023):

Being the friend who constantly misses big events in people’s lives sucks. Missing a day where your friend could’ve used your support, really not fun.

But being the friend who reaches out over and over and over to try and keep any sort of connection is worse. The idea of “outdoor cat attachment style” is bullshit (with respect to op).

1) Outdoor cats shouldn’t be a thing, this associates cats with being kinda unloving or unattached, and the owners of outdoor cats start to worry that the cat is hurt or worse when the cat disappears for long periods of time which festers anxiety.

2) Friendship isn’t about choice. CONSENT IS VITAL IN ALL INTERACTIONS WITH THE WORLD. So what I mean is, you don’t get to chose that someone is your friend when you aren’t friendly to them. You don’t get to chose when to be friends and when to give that title any weight.

3) You don’t have to be perfect, miss one week, ignore a few texts. But don’t forget someone exists for a month, miss their birthday, forget long-standing plans, and still call them your friend. As a society we have lost the significance of terms. Friendship is about mutual care and kindness, if you do not also put in a little care and kindness, you are acquaintances.

I know this is a weird reaction to being ignored on my birthday, or someone is going to notice I have distinct signs of whatever mental illness. I don’t want to hear it or see it. I’m not mad or upset, I honestly find it refreshing that I can sit drinking my tea and know that I can let go of the things and people who aren’t truly adding to my life. I can mourn the feelings of friendship I’m realize dwindled away. But really I just wanted to say something out to whoever would hear it so someone might check their messages and send a text, or reach out to someone they miss, just try to make a connection. My dinner table will be very small tonight, but that is a chance to reach out and expand someone else’s.

Happy birthday to anyone who sees this, if it’s your birthday or not, treat yourself to something nice, sing along to your favorite song, and remember that you can change the world you live in through the relationships you build and maintain.

#friendship #friendship is so hard #I have so many feelings #it’s my birthday #and I’m still thinking about everyone else #and I am happy goddamnit #if I put a candle in my tea #would that be dangerous?

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elxctrics · 6 months

Text

the davis family

"there was a time i used to look into my father's eyes in a happy home. i was a king, i had a golden throne those days are gone now they're memories on the wall i hear the songs from the places where i was born"

william 'willy' davis (33 years old, deceased since 2000)

sebastian 'sebby' davis (27 years old)

elanor 'ellie' davis (56 years old)

tw: death, depression

the story of willy and ellie started on the kindgergarten playground in park slope, brooklyn in 1972. willy was smaller, quieter and more reserved than the rest of the boys in their class. he wasn't able to run as fast, nor was he able to hold his weight that long on the monkey bars. and the other boys made fun of him for it, as little boys do. and while most people just stood by and watched, ellie wasn't going to stand for it. did she get in trouble for pinning those other boys down to the ground, kicking them and shoving playground sand in their mouth? sure. but was it worth it? to this day, she'd say abso-fucking-lutely.

growing up in brownstone apartments right across the street from one another, willy and ellie spent their childhoods talking to each other through their bedroom windows. they made up their own secret hand language that only the two of them understood, held up signs and did silly dances and when they were old enough to realize what love was, they knew they were each other's person no matter what. willy was always the quiet, more reserved calm force, which was something that was needed around ellie, who was a ball of energy and a relentless defender for the right thing - always standing up for any injustice her eyes fell upon.

they were the yin to each other's yang, and while there was never an official moment of willy asking ellie out, it was just something that was known, an understanding they both had between each other that they'd be together forever. they were each other's first and only everything and they didn't want it any other way. ellie bought out a different side of willy, bought him on adventures all over the city and taught him not to be afraid. and willy bought a calm to ellie's crazy, taught her to just let some things go and to not sweat the small stuff.

they were married straight out of high school and remained in brooklyn, attending brooklyn college together, since they both knew that whatever they did, they wanted to be in service to their community. ellie taught willy to be brave, so he became a new york city fire fighter. and willy taught ellie to be patient, so she became a high school teacher. they enjoyed many happy years together, living simple lives, staying true to their roots and in 1996, welcomed their first and only baby boy, sebastian - who just like them, was gifted with a cute little nick name, 'sebby.'

growing up, sebastian got the best of both worlds from his parents, polar opposites in every aspect, he certainly took after his loud mother much more than his father, but whenever he wasn't feeling well or wanted comfort as a little boy, it was his father's arms he found himself crawling into. despite being a tough city firefighter, he was the most gentle and kindest soul. and even though he was so young, he remembered watching his father treat his firecracker of a mother which such a softness that he hoped he could be that peace for someone one day.

in 2000, ellie received the worst phone call of her life. willy tragically passed away in a fire, but he didn't die in vain. he died saving the lives of children that were trapped in the apartment building and with that, he was forever a hero. while sebastian was too young to understand what was going on, ellie fell into a deep depression for a while, mourning the loss of the only love she had ever known and promising that she'd never love anyone else. they moved in with ellie's parents after a few months of her not being able to stand living in the home that they used to share and she knew that this wasn't the version of her that willy knew and loved and that that was who their son deserved.

so, ellie took a deep breath and decided to live in her life in honor of willie and everything he had done for her and raised their son to be the best possible man. growing up with a single mom and being the 'man of the house' sebastian always felt a fierce protectiveness over her. he was highly sensitive and intuitive from a young age - able to tell when she was stressed and needed help, would put on shows for her to make her laugh when she was sad, and tried his best to never be a difficult kid.

as he grew up and decided to take the path of comedy, ellie couldn't have been prouder of him, often telling him that he's his father's legacy - a light that was bought into this world to rid it of the darkness, to bring smiles to the faces of those around them. and although he doesn't remember the little things about his dad, he remembers how his dad made him feel. he remembered the smile on his mother's face when she looked at him, and he blames that for making him the hopeless romantic that he is, forever chasing the day that someone will look at him the same way.

#hillztask #sebastianheadcanons

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westwoodyu · 1 year

Text

Dearest, Livy of the valley

I am not one to write romance and songs for I have only written tears and tragedies. However, a person made me realize a lot of things. Now, I am writing for flowers and oceans. First of all, I intend to give not discomfort and offense for I am writing this to express how I feel, affection and care.

Starting with the name, I have been fond of the flower lily-of-the-valley not too long ago. It is wonderful how the nicknames I call you are almost identical - Liy and Livy. Lily of the valley is a flower of various meanings. It symbolizes joy, spring, mourning, prosperity, serenity, and kindness. See, how the positives overcome the negatives but does not erase it? I believe that's how this flower grows. And I believe that you, too, will learn how to prosper healthily.

I am not expecting any kind of answer at all. I merely want to let you be aware of my feelings. This letter needs no reply but I request to please keep the flower. I hope it multiplies so it may never die.

You, dear Livy, is like the lily of the valley. You radiate such brightness some people may find overbearing, but not me. I find your beams in my veins and it flourishes me. Softly. Tenderly. You are the spring that melts away the winter, the sun that shines after a long day of rain. However, weathers change and so do you. When you are at loss, the town lits up their fireplaces and sets their bed cozy. The plants, on the other hand, rejoices. For the rain has come and they will be nourished. In times that you feel lonely, you must embrace it with warmth, and so you and your loneliness will not feel lonely at all. There is togetherness and peace and there is growth that awaits. The pain will not cease if you do not aid it. After the great pain comes kindness, to yourself and others. You do not want others to experience the events you have gone through. There is power in being kind. You are a beautiful soul. Such beauty surely deserves appreciation.

I wish to give you a bunch of lily of the valley flowers in the near future. Along with another letter that I will write for you. For now, take this letter and keep it close to your heart. I appreciate your efforts, and you as you are. How I wish I could give you a tight embrace, to stop the world and give you time to breathe. Beloved Livy of the valley, if it is still not obvious. I may have caught feelings for you. For a long time now since the day I told you that I admired you. I was afraid I was just mistaken at first. But God, has it been so difficult to stop myself from starting random banters. When you call me that silly call sign, I smile from ear to ear. When I see your name on my notifications, I get giddy. When I hear songs that are all tingly and fluttering, I think of you. I was also thinking, "I'm doomed," for catching feelings for my best friend. There's an inkling inside of me that speaks, "Take the risk." I was afraid not too long ago, but now I am not. So, I wrote you this letter.

I am aware that there are things you wish not to talk about and I respect that. I respect your time and pace. I understand if it may seem sudden. Have my signs been unclear? I hope they weren't. Whatever happens, I will treat you the same way as before- with genuine love and support as a friend. Should you wish to reply, you are free to do so. But as I told, it is not required and you should take your time. I only intend to let you know how I've been feeling.

I hope this letter finds you well.

With love,

Frog of the lake

Spring Flower Lily of the Valley, 1954. Kawarazaki Shodo.

#Spotify

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tonkimat · 2 years

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Marty stuart burn me down

"This my very favorite Johnny Cash song ever ever ever. The melody is the same as "Streets of Laredo" with the song about a prisoner determined to break out. Stuart closes "Country Music" with the haunting, mournful "Walls of a Prison," a song recorded by Stuart's ex-father in law, also known as Johnny Cash, about 40 years ago. We've put a blue collar price on the ticket. The first person I thought about was Merle because he's written the soundtrack to the common people. Everything is so urban and pop driven that our original country audience has been left behind."Īfter thinking about the old Grand Ole Opry shows with Roy Acuff, Stuart went with the idea of having making "a hillbilly circus out of it. I also saw it as a life that country music had gone off and kind of forgotten. The more I played these small towns, the more I fell in love with the atmosphere of small town America. I noticed people were starting to come again. We started playing small towns across America. I said let's go back to places where there is not so much pressure. The '90s have run their course, and we're basically starting over again. "A year ago when I first put the new band (the Fabulous Superlatives) together, my request to the booking agent was to hype me. The Barnyard tour also includes bluegrass star Rhonda Vincent, BR549 and Smith. Of course, with Merle on it, it gives it another whole level of credibility and interest." That I think that is one of the finer things I've ever been a part of. "If we tour, we should sing a song together. "It just seemed like country music marketing 101," says Stuart. That's an outgrowth of the Electric Barnyard tour they are doing this summer. Merle Haggard also appears on the album singing "Farmer's Blues" with Stuart. When Stuart was 13, he left his home to hit the road with Lester Flatt of Flatt & Scruggs fame. I can tell it, but you can also hear it." Josh and Earl are true masterful teachers. Go back to my old alma mater of the Foggy Bottom Boys. "Why just tell the same old joke one more time? The more I thought about it, the more I listened to it.it became a vehicle to use (Dobroist) Uncle Josh Graves and Earl (Scruggs) on the record, and that made a lot of sense to me. "I didn't know that I wanted to tackle that again," he says of the subject matter. Stuart had another motive in mind as well in recording the song. The song felt like a sermon that I wanted to preach." The second half mentioned bands like Charlie Daniels Band and Creedence Clearwater Revival, 'which are absolutely valid bands, but I wanted to rewrite the song.and make it more traditional. While calling it "well written," Stuart put his own stamp on it. "I passed on the song."īut the more Stuart listened the song of former Boy Howdy lead singer Jeffrey Steele, the more he liked it. "I thought I've talked this kind of language for so long," says Stuart. When "Tip Your Hat" was presented to Stuart, he, at first, begged off. "Finding 5 or 10 great songs, finding things that will stand the test of time is the hardest thing of all," says Stuart. "The upside to that is it's totally my product, but the downside is a lot of work to put on any artist when they tour. "Tony Brown (former MCA label head) and MCA just depended on me to bring it all in," says Stuart. Having written 5 of the 12 songs on "Country Music," Stuart relied on staff to find "Tip Your Hat," Mike Henderson's "Wishful Thinking" and "If There Ain't." "I always had the benefit of an A&R staff that I'd never had the benefit of before," says Stuart, referring to the label staff that signs artists and also helps them with recording. "First and foremost, they let me alone, and I think that's great." Stuart says he feels he's at a better place now with Sony. He had another hit with Tritt as well, "This One's Gonna Hurt You (For a Long, Long Time)" and on his own with "Burn Me Down."īut after enjoying moderate success with "Now That's Country" (as you can see, Stuart's been plying for country music for a long time), Stuart continued a downward spiral commercially, culminating in "The Pilgrim." From 1990 to 1992, he scored top 10s with "Hillbilly Rock," "Little Things," "Tempted" and his biggest hit, "The Whiskey Ain't Workin'," recorded with soul mate Travis Tritt. When things with Sony didn't work out, Stuart went to MCA where he enjoyed his greatest success. After one self-released disc and "Busy Bee Café" on Sugar Hill in 1982, Stuart eventually signed with Columbia, which released "Marty Stuart" in 1986.

#Marty stuart burn me down

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memecatwings · 4 years

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we should really talk about Foreigner’s God by Hozier more its such an emotionally devastating song its a lamentation of the systemic destruction of Irish culture under English colonial rule but it also expresses a universal grief that every culture that’s been lost to colonialism can connect to the lyric “all that i’ve been taught and every word i’ve got is foreign to me” reflects so much yearning and loss Foreigner’s God is easily the most underrated Hozier song and is undoubtedly one of his best

#Hozier #any time i hear that song i just *long and mournful sign*#he said in an interview that its about alienation and feeling distanced from your culture

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Prompt day hurray! What does BaXia think of ChenQing? They would have crossed paths in the war, right? What do all the other weapons and instruments think of WWX apparently setting aside SuiBian for ChenQing? Can THEY tell he's got no golden core?

ao3

You seem kind of evil, Baxia remarked when she first met the flute.

Yeah? The flute responded without first bothering to extend her perceptive aura out to see who was talking to her, sounding like a little punk, arrogant and bold. Well, you seem kind of – oh fuck oh fuck you’re terrifying!

This was true. Baxia was terrifying.

Please don’t destroy me! My master needs me!

Baxia said nothing, enjoying how the flute squirmed, and nudged her own master pointedly.

Do not destroy the flute, her master responded with a sigh. He knew Baxia well. Her master is on our side.

Truly, war made for strange bedfellows. Baxia mourned the loss of the easy, straightforward night-hunt.

She nudged her master again.

Yes, fine, you can chase.

Her master - loving, wonderful, understanding master that he was - very casually walked across the room, unhooked her from his back, and put her down next to where the flute was hanging off her master's belt.

Chase, Baxia said happily, the aura of her power already spreading beyond the confines of her blade. Chase, chase, chase –

Someone help meeeeeee!

You’re kind of a dick, Chenqing said, having finally realized that Baxia had no intention of destroying her incipient spiritual soul. Anyone ever tell you that?

Yes.

…really? Who dared?

My master.

Your master is badass. Chenqing contemplated for a moment. So is mine, he's very brave, even suicidally brave, but not – you know – that much.

Baxia considered this, and accepted it. Her master was indeed a superior sort of human.

Why do you smell of death? she asked, mildly curious.

My master uses me to direct resentful energy, so I’m affected by its aura. You?

I bathe in it.

…you're so badass.

Yes. Baxia was.

You’re not bad, she told Chenqing, which almost predictably got a little huffy.

I raise armies of the dead! I am terrifying! They call me the phantom flute! I am more than 'not bad', okay?!

Baxia ignored Chenqing's nonsense. It would not take long for her to realize that being called ‘not bad’ by Baxia was a very high compliment, as such things went.

Are there any swords that aren’t afraid of you? Chenqing asked. She was very chatty. Or sabers. Or musical instruments…

Which musical instruments have you met?

Uh, mostly Wangji? Wangji’s cool.

Baxia occasionally wished for eyes so that she could roll them. Her human got a great deal of relief out of doing that, according to him. Wangji has a temperament of ice, yes.

No, I mean, that’s not what I meant, I – wait. Are you making a joke right now?

Baxia said nothing.

You have a sense of humor?!

Baxia said nothing.

This is ridiculous. It’s like meeting a hurricane with sharp teeth and finding out it also likes to sing bawdy brothel songs.

You’re kind of stupid, Baxia observed.

Well, yeah. I mean. Have you met my master?

Baxia had.

He’s only scary by accident, Chenqing said ruthlessly, which was only to be expected – no one dunked on a human like their spiritual weapon. Inside, he’s a big soft squishy meatball.

My master cries when he has feelings.

My master too! Humans, am I right?

Baxia supposed Chenqing was, in fact, right.

Perhaps she could stay.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything Wei Wuxian is doing for us, Baxia's master remarked to her one day. But didn’t he have a sword at one point? The one with the ridiculous name – Suibian.

At the next meeting, Baxia asked.

Suibian? Yeah, master doesn’t use him anymore, Chenqing said. It's a bit sad, actually. He can’t access the spiritual energy in the blade anymore.

Baxia didn’t like the sound of that. How come?

Master doesn’t have a golden core, Chenqing said. I think he used to, but he doesn’t anymore.

Seems careless.

Hey, I’m pretty sure it’s not his fault! Anyway, it’s a whole big secret. Why do you ask?

My master wanted to know.

Hah, Chenqing said. Nice of you to ask on his behalf, since you can’t tell him what the result of your question was.

Baxia said nothing.

You – can’t. Right? Masters can’t hear what swords say.

I, Baxia said, am not a sword.

…oh shit. Shit, no, you can’t –!

“We need to talk,” Baxia’s master said to Chenqing’s. “In private.”

You’re a rotten tattletale, Chenqing said.

Why do you care? He won’t know it was you that squealed.

Yeah, well, I know that I did it!

It’s for the best. My master will be nice about it, and your master will feel better for it. Baxia considered. There may be tears.

There were many tears.

Master really does seem like he feels better, Chenqing observed. I wouldn’t have called that.

Told you so.

So, Chenqing said. This hunt is probably the last time we’ll be able to hang out.

Probably, Baxia agreed.

I was hoping to ask for some advice.

Bichen is amendable to your flirting, and Wangji follows where she leads, so you have a shot.

I – what? That wasn’t what I was going to ask.

Baxia waited.

…wait, are you serious? Will that work? I could do that –

The flute’s an idiot, Baxia told her master. But maybe she and that master of hers can help you here.

It would be inappropriate for me to ask, her master said, rubbing his eyes. The Jiang sect kicked him out, remember? It would be stepping on their face to approach him despite that.

Okay, Baxia said. So step.

Baxia…

You share a secret with him, at his request, she pointed out. He owes you for keeping it secret for him. At minimum, even if he can’t help you right now, he can help protect your brother when you’re gone.

Her master was silent. That was his weak spot, and had always been.

No one would be able to know, he finally said. And Meng Yao comes every week.

Is our home so small that we can’t hide someone from Meng Yao’s sight? Baxia said scathingly. Since when is he the master here, not you?

I just meant that he’s a sneak that’d sell me out to his father given half a chance, her master sighed. All right, I’ll see if there’s anything that can be done. Wei Wuxian is a musical cultivator, and a genius; maybe he can tell me why Clarity doesn’t seem to be having the impact we hoped it would.

Sure, Baxia said. Whatever. I don't really care. Just get help.

Well, that worked, Baxia said to Chenqing. Sort of.

How are you this badass? You just -! Singlehandedly -! I can’t – how?!

Calm down, Baxia advised. What are you, human?

How dare you.

You’re the one acting like you need air to speak.

…so I’m looking forward to seeing the Lotus Pier again now that we're not banished any more, Chenqing said, pointedly changing the subject because she was wrong and she knew it. Thanks for that.

Thanks for figuring out that the evil meat was poisoning my master.

That’s. uh. Sure a way to call someone.

Why not? He’s evil, and he’s made of flesh, and he’s going to be nothing but meat as soon as I have an opportunity.

I thought your master was thinking of some sort of confinement…?

He certainly has thoughts, Baxia allowed, purposefully broadcasting.

I have very strong thoughts, her master replied pointedly. Do not kill him on your own – I’ll only get the blame for that.

Oh no, Baxia told him insincerely. How terrible for you.

Baxia. Please.

Fine. What about Jin Guangshan?

…what about him?

Me and the flute are going to take care of him.

We are? Wait, are you talking to your master right now? Oh that’s so cool. Tell him to tell my master that I said hi.

Baxia would tell her master no such thing.

That’s probably not the right way to do that, her master said, but in that wavering tone of voice that suggested he was open to being convinced. Though it would be easier to sell Meng Yao as being only collateral damage in the scheme if Jin Guangshan took the lion’s share of the blame, which would only happen if he wasn’t around…that doesn’t seem right, though.

Sure it is, Baxia said soothingly. He’s the one who wanted to play with resentful energy, right? All we want to do is play with him back. Who can say no to that? He’s practically volunteered!

“Okay, I have a weird question,” Chenqing’s master said to Baxia’s. “Please don’t judge me. But…did we happen to work together to drive Jin Guangshan into a resentful energy backlash?”

“We did not,” Baxia’s master said.

“Okay. Right. Got it. Sorry, stupid question.”

“Our spiritual weapons did.”

“…what?”

“If you’re wondering why your Chenqing shows signs of use in the manner that would be associated with Jin Guangshan’s untimely demise, it’s because the resentful energy you’re using has been sufficient to allow it to cultivate in the direction of a guai,” Baxia’s master explained. “It has a will of its own now, just as Baxia does. You will need to account for that when you master it in the future.”

“Wait. Are you saying that my flute has, what, a personality? Can think and talk and do things on its own?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…that’s so cool. Can you tell Baxia to tell Chenqing I said ‘hi’?”

Why are they like this, Baxia’s master asked Baxia.

I don’t know, you’re the human expert, she replied, ignoring the way that Chenqing was happily chirping answers to her human’s questions even though he couldn’t hear her. Why are you all like this?

I don’t know, he said. I really don’t know.

It’s nice to meet you, Suibian said, sounding appropriately respectful. I appreciate your master finding a way for my master to continue to wield me.

It’s through resentful energy, Chenqing said gleefully. Lots and lots of it, refining the sword like a saber – my poor master’s going to have to stay up late and learn so many techniques, his hair’s all going to fall out.

Yes, Baxia said. I can see the resentful energy. There’s a lot of it.

Lots and lots, Suibian said proudly. I drew in everything I could.

Without sorting out the evil?

…isn’t it all evil?

Mm, not really, Baxia said, and began to extend out her aura.

Uh, Suibian said. What’s going on.

I told you to be more patient! You shouldn’t have taken the evil parts, Chengqing said. It makes you a little bit evil, too, and that makes you Baxia’s prey.

…prey?

Chase, Baxia said. Chase, chase, chase –

Help! Help – somebody help!

I would, Chenqing giggled. But master doesn’t speak flute. Sorry!

#mdzs #baxia #chenqing #suibian #nie mingjue #wei wuxian #my fic #my fics #kind of evil

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joshstambourine · 3 years

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A Seconds Glance

"Hi I have a request for either Josh or Jake 💛 can I get a story where they see a girl, either at school or they can already be famous in this, and is instantly enamored. I don't know if you've seen The Virgin Suicides, but if you have then something similar to when Trip sees Lux for the first time. I'm interested in how those two would go about getting a girl's attention when they have a crush.💕💕💕" - Anonymous

//Hi Doll! I can’t say I have seen that--- but I will try my best to write something that I feel matches the idea you had.

I’m gonna be repeating this forever--- but again, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get this request out for you! I decided to go with Josh being in school for this one.//

Warnings: Cursing, awkward beans

Word Count: 1969

Synopsis: Josh had never really believed in love at first sight... but yet....

Josh Kiszka x Fem!Reader

The first day of sophomore year. For most this was just the start of another school year; a sudden reminder that a new binder or fun pencil case is exciting for all of 10 minutes when it comes to actual classes and work. But for Josh… this year felt like it was filled with possibilities. It sounds like some sort of stupid thing you'd see on a motivational calendar, but it really truly did.

Josh hadn't imagined for a second that he actually would have a chance in making music his career; and yet, he had spent all summer with his band mates playing for different occasions and pubs. All the while they were working, working hard on writing songs that they could be proud to play for others.

All of that said, Josh was returning to high-school this year with a new found amount of confidence and excitement; it showed in every step Josh took. His one hand held loosely on to the arm of his backpack, walking in time with Jake.

"But what do you think? Would it look good on me?" Jake inquired, fingers lightly playing with the mid-length pieces of hair on his head.

"I mean… I don't know…" Josh lightly starts, glancing at his twin and begins to take a good long look at him.

Jake's eyes widened just a touch, his expression becoming one that said, 'Well…?'

"Uh… honestly I don't really know Jake. I've never seen you with anything else than this." Josh admits, then snickers a little, "Except for that one time when we decided it'd be fun to take those scissors and---"

"No, that's fine, I didn't need to think about that." Jake immediately stopped him, his hand going to take a full dive into his mess of dark brown hair.

"Cmon, it was really funny though. Ma really lost her shit when she saw your head like that." Josh continued to muse, hands folding into his pockets with the utmost of ease.

Jake shook his head in a mournful way, "I can say I will never go back to a buzz-cut again… not without a fight."

Josh's smile never faltered, it was his laughter that changed, softening into a bit of a sigh as they reached the double doors at the front of the school. With a swing of the doors they both were making their way down the hallway to their lockers.

"Meet by Mr.Shapiro's class before lunch?" Jake questioned, to which Josh nodded. No matter which school the twins went to the teachers seemed to know that the best course of action was to keep them separated. That said Josh and Jake always had separate homerooms at least, through most of their time in school.

"See ya in a bit." Josh waved, taking a few steps back before turning on his heels and heading to his own locker.

Josh's excitement to be back in class showed on his face more than he probably would have wanted. A few pencils in his hand along with a binder filled with blank paper and tucked away dividers.

As soon as Josh stepped into the class room his eyes were met with many familiar faces. Some of these people he had been in school with since kindergarten; like Meg, a rather tall blunt faced girl with long kinky black hair. She simply threw a peace sign Josh's way as he stepped through the doors; he eagerly returned it, bringing a small smile to Meg's lips.

With some brisk steps Josh moved to place himself at the back of the classroom, just behind Meg. He threw his things on his desk without much thought. Despite there being a good number of kids he knew... there seemed to be equally just as many new kids.

Leaning on his desk Josh moved closer to Meg, "Where the hell did these guys come from?"

Meg's brow lifted as she leaned back a little, "Know the high-school on the east side?"

"The one where you can get crack for super cheap?" Josh inquired,

Meg's head bobbed, "They closed it down, so now we get half the kids that went there." She explains with her head resting on her hand in a bored way.

"Oh shit really? That's a lot of kids---" Josh was quick to respond, glancing around the room.

"Oh yeah... way too many in my personal opinion --- not that anyone cares." Meg mutters, beginning to click her mechanical pencil.

Josh's eyes were still taking in all the new faces as he started to respond, "Wow aren't we positive today."

Meg sighed, "Eh.... I'm just not excited, Justin and I broke up over the summer and I'll have to see him in history." She began to explain, "Things are just really tense, yknow?"

She waited a moment for him to give some comforting... but still idiotic response, however none came. It finally got Meg to turn and look at him, as she did she immediately noticed that Josh's eyes had widened just a touch, cheeks dusted a light pink.

Meg followed the line of his eyes to a beautiful young woman. The expression he wore was more than enough to tell Meg that she should move.

Josh was so busy just... taking the new girl in that he didn't even notice Meg slip to the free desk to the side of the one she was previously sat in. Josh just couldn't put his finger on it, there was something... something so breathtaking about her. Was it her eyes? Or maybe how her hair fell around her face? He couldn't be sure. What he was absolutely sure of was that he had never had a moment in his life where he could hear music just by looking at someone.

"Hey... do you know if this desk is free?" A new voice shook Josh. It was her. She was standing at a desk to his left with a bit of an awkward air.

He was just so shaken. What did she say again? Something about a desk? Josh's lips parted, "Uh--- I uh, what did you--?"

"No that one isn't open, but the one just in front of my dude Josh is, right Josh?" Meg interrupted, pointing to the desk ahead of him.

"Oh y-yeah, that one's open! Definitely 100% open! It couldn't be more open even if it tried!" Josh started spouting, he really wasn't even aware that his mouth had moved, and that was clear in the fact that it just kept moving when she had come to sit down. "Do you need any pencils at all?? I have like 20!" He continued, though his hand held one full sized pencil and one shorter than the average person's pinkie... both chewed on. "I mean not on me but--- who needs a pencil right?"

The girl laughed a little awkwardly, her gaze moving from Josh to Meg and then to the desk. "No, no I'm okay thank you though." She slipped into the chair, keeping her gaze frontwards.

Meg looks to Josh with a shocked look, 'What was that??' She mouthed,

Josh responded with an absolutely mortified expression. He would never say he was the smoothest guy on the planet, but he had never been that awkward in his life.

Meg shook her head before reaching out to tap the girl's shoulder, "I'm Meg!" She introduces, "And that goober is Josh."

The girl lightly moved to glance over her shoulder at Josh in a shy way. "It's nice to meet you both. I'm (Y/N)." She hummed with a sweet smile.

"That's a pretty name, isn't it Josh??" Meg quickly said, trying to get him to continue the conversation in a less awkward way.

Josh nodded very enthusiastically, "The prettiest name I've heard in a long time!" He said with a smile,

(Y/N)'s cheeks began to hold a flush of their own. "Oh! Uh... th-thank you!" She sputtered out.

'OH FUCK. She's so cute.' Josh thought to himself, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat with a shaky swallow.

Little did Josh know that (Y/N) was thinking something very similar. She might not make it as obvious as he was, but being so much closer now... being able to see the warmth in his brown eyes, seeing how his wavy brown hair came to cup his cheeks --- she couldn't help but continue to stare back at him.

The only thing that could pull them both out of the little trance they had fallen into was the bell. Both of them quickly looked toward it, followed by a man's voice at the front of the class.

"Alright everyone, take your seats!"

(Y/N) was reluctant but she turned herself to look toward the front of the class. A little bit nervous, but mustering an ounce of courage she tore a piece of paper from her notebook quietly and began to scribble something down.

Josh hardly got anything out of that language arts class, he was way too busy trying to figure out what excuse he could make to talk with (Y/N) again. He was just rattling through every little conversation starter he had ever heard in his life... but none of them felt like they would work.

Before long the bell had rung overhead once more and everyone was shuffling to grab their things and head to all of their next classes.

Biting his lip, Josh was determined to catch (Y/N) before she could head off to her own next class. Luckily for him she had a similar idea. Both turning to each other as they stepped out of the classroom, it was painfully quiet at first. It seemed as if they were trying to get their thoughts together really.

Finally they spoke,

"Hey would you---" "I was wondering if you'd---"

At once.

A small awkward laugh left their lips, "Please, go ahead I was going to say something dumb---" Josh quickly said moving to rub the back of his neck.

(Y/N)'s lips parted as she let out and unsure chuckle, eyes moving downwards for a moment. "I was just going to ask if you would mind if I joined you for lunch? I just am new and don't really have any---"

"Yes!" Josh quickly said, "Yes absolutely. You didn't even have to ask, you could have just showed up if you wanted to!" He quickly says to her.

The speed he seemed to talk at entertained (Y/N) a heck of a lot. A smile creeping across her face, "Okay! Thank you!" She responded.

"Do you know where the cafeteria is? I can show ya if you want??" Josh quickly continued, "I mean I'm sure you could find it on you're own, you seem very smart and capable. Most women are to be honest; I remember reading an article about how men need to---"

"That would be really great actually." (Y/N) smiled in a gentle way. 'He's even more nervous than I am.' She thought to herself.

"Oh-oh! Okay cool! Uh, do you know where Mr.Shapiro's class is?" He asks,

(Y/N) seemed to think for a minute, "113... right? I have him for chemistry this afternoon I think." She mutters.

Josh swiftly nods his head, "That's the one!! Meet me there okay?" He says.

(Y/N) nodded back, understanding the little plan they now had. "I'll see you in a little bit then?" She lightly asks.

"Yeah absolutely." Josh began to grin, suddenly beyond excited. Even as she began to walk off to her class all he could think about was how sure he was now that this year was going to be fantastic.

That was until a warning bell played overhead, "Oh shit--" Josh jumped in shock, immediately beginning to run to his next class.

//That's all for now lovely! I do actually have an idea on how to continue this one if anyone would like! Pretty please let me know in the comments if that's something you guys would like 💜//

#greta van fleet #josh kiszka #josh gvf #greta van fleet fan fiction #jake gvf #jake kiszka #awkward beans #greta van fic #greta van fleet imagines #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet fluff

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anyoneseenadam · 3 years

Note

That fenrys fic was divine 😭🔥 can I request something for him having a nightmare for the first time since he found his mate and she comforts him and reassure him ?a tiny bit of angst maybe 💔🤧

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: blood, violence, nightmares, character death (kinda), mainly fluff with a lil bit of angst

a/n: I completely stole the first half of this from a short story I wrote about Achilles lmao, also THANK YOU FENRYS IS AN ICON AND DESERVES ALL THE LOVE WHICH I AM HAPPY TO GIVE, hope u enjoy <3

(I did not proof read this because I am tired :))

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Fenrys hands shook as they refrained from touching her, from pulling her in and wrapping himself around her, drowning in her hair, her skin, her clothes, her laugh, eyes, smile. She turned with a smirk and a cheeky eyebrow raise, beckoning him in. He lunged, grabbing her, ready to make true on his wish, staring in wonder as her solid form turned to mist in his hands as she moved further away. Her laugh drawing him in. And of course, he followed like the lost puppy he was, begging, and whining to return to comfort, home, safety. She was his home, and he would follow her to the ends of the world if it meant she stayed that way.

She had moved again, this time into a series of winding corridors, the maze he called his heart, a maze she owned. He chased after her, but she was quick, twisting and turning through corridors and secret doors, the map laid bare for her to see as he stumbled blinding, led only be the light she left in her path and her infectious laughter. Finally, she reached a dead end, casually bracing herself against the cold walls, releasing an exhale of laughter through her nose. He slowed his pace to a walk as she smiled up at him through curling lashes, nothing but the faint smudge of rouge high on her cheeks concealing her natural face to him, which he proceeded to wipe with his thumb when he reached her, his build towering over hers.

“Finished running, are you?” he mused quietly,

“I knew you wouldn’t let me get too far,” she whispered back, lips tracing his jaw.

“That’s because you hold my leash,” he allowed himself to concede, “always have, always will my darling.”

She let out a sigh of agreement, before leaning to his ear, their bodies pressed so tightly together he could feel her heart beating in his own chest, as if they had swapped hearts giving the other all they were, all they could be.

“There is no me without you.” She uttered the vows they had made that beautiful day, where she dressed as the angel he was sure she was. He leaned down to express his love, but she did not allow him to rest in her arms for long, pulling away with a giggle.

“What?” he asked with a smirk, but she was already gone giggling behind him, the chase beginning again.

But as he turned, blessed by the smile she gave him, all pearly white teeth and rosy cheeks, the warning shout he cried was not quick enough as a wash of deep red replaced the once pure and untainted white of her smile. Her mouth filling with blood, the sword protruding from her stomach like a handle. She stared at him questions not asked soon enough as she splutters up blood onto her previously fresh clothes, eyes full of fear, splitting his heart in half, the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

He tried to run to her, hands grasping at air as he fell through the cracks in his own heart, a scream tearing from his throat as she was pulled from him, skin draining of colour and eyes turning black, full of hatred and contempt as she stared him down.

His own scream woke him up, sweat and tears blending on his face like paint on a pallet, as he gripped her pillow and sobbed on their bed. He herded himself into the far corner of the bed, afraid when he realised she was not lying next to him, comforting words, and gentle hands ready to lull him back to sleep. Fear and sadness battled in his heart, the heart he had given her during the war, the heart she had held safely as she cut her way through armies to reach him again. The heart she had put back together with soft kisses and words of undying love. The heart she had tied to her own the day they wed and had kept pressed safely in her chest since.

He looked now, tears blurring the image he was presented with, bookshelves filled with stories you promised you would read eventually, tubes of lipstick on the floor next to the frame of their mirror, tea left to go cold in mugs dotted around the room, sketches left to be forgotten on desks and ribbons tied haphazardly around bed posts.

He saw all these signs of you, the clues you left him as he navigated your shared life. His eyes darted around the room, breath picking up when he couldn’t see you, pressing a hand to your side of the bed and finding it warm, his breathing only slowing a little.

He stood, pulling on a pair of boxers, and grabbing two daggers he kept next to the bed as his mind filled with the worst possible scenarios. He slowly padded out the room, moving silently through the house and thinking of a million different ways to torture whoever had dared to touch you. The tears on his face had dried uncomfortably but it was the least of his worries as he stalked through his own home, fear clouding his judgement that argued you were probably safe.

He heard movement in the kitchen and walked that way, footsteps light as he rounded to corner to a beautiful sight. His arms dropped as he took in the sight of you in nothing but his shirt, sipping from a glass of water, illuminated by the moons glow. You turned when he walked in, smiling at his but furrowing your eyebrows when you saw his facial expression and the knives in his hands.

“Fenrys, what happened?” you asked, moving over to him as he threw his daggers down, arms encircling your waist as he breathed in your scent. “Fenrys please, you’re scaring me.”

He pulled away from you and you reached up, stroking a hand down his face and looking up at him with nothing but concern in your eyes, eyes that were searching his for any clues of why he was acting this way.

“I though you were- I thought someone had,” he struggled to get the words out, pulling you even closer, one hand tangling itself in your hair as you furrowed your eyebrows at him, kissing his sharp jaw.

“Slow down love, tell me what happened,” your soothing voice calmed him, his breath coming easier as you moved a hand to his shoulder, your loving grip grounding him.

“I had a dream, then I woke up and you weren’t hear and I- I thought someone had taken you,” he whispered, eyes filling with tears as he pictured your lifeless eyes and limp body.

“Oh my love, I’m sorry,” you pulled away from him, clasping his large hand in your smaller one and pulling him to your shared bedroom, “But you know I’m not easy to kidnap, I make too much noise.” You joked, holding his hand to your mouth, and kissing it lightly as you walked over to your bed.

He sat down first, and you stood between his legs, his arms wrapping tightly around you again. “Don’t joke about that,” he muttered into your stomach, but he couldn’t resist the smile forming.

You pushed his head back and climbed into his lap, arms resting on his shoulders. “I mean honestly, if I ever got taken hostage I’m pretty sure I’d annoy them into letting me go, I’d just start explaining my top three reasons why every Jane Austen novel contains gay subtext.”

“Or you could explain to them the tier list you and Aelin made of all the men you know.” Fenrys laughed as your eyes lit up.

“I forgot about that!” you exclaimed and Fenrys laughed, lying down, and pulling you with him as he tickled your sides, revelling in your squeals as you batted your hands at him.

When you calmed down, breathing quickly you rolled off Fenrys as he nestled himself between your breasts, holding you close.

“Please never leave me,” he whispered into your chest as he listened to the steady beat of your heart as it created a song just for him. The vulnerability in his voice broke you and you moved a hand to his head, stroking lightly.

“Never.” You spoke with such surety that Fenrys let out the exhale he had been holding in. “I am never going to leave you, I’m always going to be by your side.”

“I love you so much, so much when I thought you were gone, I felt sick. I can’t do this without you.” He whispered into your skin. “Sometimes I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and all this will have been a dream. And I’ll have to lie with Maeve again and kill for her and watch her hurt Conall and it will be so much worse, because I’ll remember this softness, I’ll remember you and maybe one day I’d find you and you wouldn’t recognise me, and for the rest of my life I’d think of you, of the woman I never got to love.”

“This is real.” You whispered, kissing his head, and ignoring the tears welling in your eyes, “I’m real, you’re real. We’re real Fenrys.”

He didn’t reply, just buried his face deeper into your chest, addicted to the feel of your heartbeat. The constant reminder that you were here, you were alive. After he lost his brother you noticed Fenrys had become clingier, you initially presumed it was just because he was in mourning and needed comfort but one night he had drunkenly confessed his biggest fear to you. The nightmares he would have where you left him, told him you hated him, and the worst of all, the nightmares in which he watched your life be cruelly ripped from you. He could live with you hating him and leaving him, knowing that somewhere in the world you were safe and breathing, but everyday he feared your death.

The mornings he would wake up and find you wincing, a hot water bottle pressed into your lower stomach, the thought of you in any form of pain ripping into him, making his heartbeat faster and his palms sweat. The powerful warrior brought to his knees for you, but you were always quick to reassure him with kisses and promises of staying in bed all day.

As he breathed in your scent now and listened to your heartbeat, happily surrounded by you and only you, he allowed himself to relax under you soft touch, his own heart slowing to beat with yours as the fear slowly melted from him.

He needn’t fear your death, as he knew that he would never let you die. No, instead he would always fall before you, sacrifice his own life, any life if it meant you survived. You were a Goddess sent to bless him and he would fall to worship before you, always.

#acofas #acomaf #acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acowar #acofs #acosf

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westmoor · 3 years

Text

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @elliestormfound @justjess94 @fontegagrilledcheese @dani-dandelino @honeysuckletook @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

#post before i chicken out #the fox #the hare #the hart #geraskier #the witcher fanfic #shapeshifter!jaskier #geralt #jaskier

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whatanoof · 3 years

Text

Cal Kestis Headcanons that No One Asked For

So I’ve slowly been going through story mode of Jedi: Fallen Order, and I’m about to go to the Fort Inquisitorius so I haven’t even finished yet but I’m absolutely in love with Cal Kestis, so here are some hc about him, romantic and non-romantic.

SPOILERS FOR JEDI: FALLEN ORDER

Cal x female!reader

You both love it when you play with his hair. The first time was almost an accident on your part, because you were just sitting behind him on the bunk while he’s tinkering with his saber and staring at the back of his head. It’s so red, and you’d honestly rarely seen such a bright color naturally occurring, much less growing out of a human head? Your hand brushed a strand almost of its own volition, and you both just froze. He slowly turned to look at you, and you almost stopped breathing because Did you just mess up did you just fuck up the relationship oh shit shit shit--. And he just whispers, “Uh, could you do that again?” And you’re in such a state of shock and relief that you just scoot back on the bunk and gesture at your open lap. Cere walks in on the two of you later, him dopey and almost asleep with his head in your lap, your fingers running through the silky strands. She doesn’t say anything, even when Greez points out the two small braids that you left at the nape of his neck.

He’s so competitive. Like come on, this man refused to back down from two or three separate fights against fully-fledged Inquisitors and one insane Jedi Master while he was still technically a Padawan. So he won’t let you beat him. At anything. You’re watering the latest seed that he brought back from a planet? Bam, he’s got Greez’s special plant food and he’s giving every single one of them a five-course meal. If you’re a Jedi, and you’re meditating in the back of the Mantis? You open your eyes after ten or so minutes and he’s right there in front of you, doing that little concentration face that you fell in love with so easily. If you’re a Jedi, you’re evenly matched in almost everything that you do in terms of abilities, and you teach each other where you’re not. Greez is terrified of watching you two spar, because you don’t hold back, but you’re also so equal to him in skill that it’s a whirl of light and blocking known attacks.

Him and BD-1 were a package deal, but as soon as you were welcomed aboard the Mantis, Cal couldn’t believe how easily the little droid warmed up to you. Of course, BD sticks with Cal and is his right hand man on adventures, but Cal no longer occupies 100 percent of BD’s free time. You refuse to tell Cal exactly where, but you found a spot right behind BD’s “head” where if you scratch it, the droid is on the ground and kicking a leg in the air in happiness. If you’re a mechanic, you can usually be found in the back, tinkering with BD’s processor to make it run more efficiently, or oiling his joints again, or designing new paint jobs for the happy little droid. Either way, you’ve stolen a decent fraction of the droid’s affection, and none of the Mantis crew has any idea how you did it. It’s actually the first thing that urged you and Cal to start spending more time together, and you remember BD’s happy little hops after you’d finally kissed Cal for the first time.

There is absolutely no backing for this, but I think that Cal can sing. Nothing fancy, of course, it’s not like there are vocal lessons available on Bracca or in the Jedi Order, but he can carry a tune. It’s sometimes the only way you can fall asleep on the Mantis, because even though Greez and the crew make it cozy, it’s not home. But as soon as you’re curled up in the twin-sized bunk, and Cal starts humming to you, you’re out before he’s finished the chorus. Sometimes the songs are happy, but they’re often little ditties that he heard from the clones before Order 66, or mourning songs that fellow workers on Bracca would sing during the night when the rain was pounding on the metal and creating a natural rhythm and harmony for the tired mechanics. They’re songs of lost love, fallen brothers, and vague longings for newer, better lives. You fall asleep to his soothing voice, but you often wake with an ache in your heart for the suffering and pain that Cal has experienced and witnessed in his short life.

He’s ticklish. He hates that you know. He hates that you told Merrin, and now she can blackmail him into getting her favorite foods from supply markets. But you love the childish giggles that you’re able to pull out of him when you finally corner him and run your fingers over his neck. Tickle fights always end in make-out sessions.

+18 NSFW under the cut

So... Cal never had the chance to understand wanting intimacy before you, sexual and non-sexual. He was terrified the first time he looked at you and didn’t recognize that strange feeling in his chest. He’d never felt it before, was there something wrong with him? Was he sick? It takes a sit-down with Greez for him to figure out what’s going on, and it’s even scarier than the possibility of illness. Jedi were forbidden to love, it had always been a taboo in his mind, even if he had never had the opportunity to find out what it felt like.

He pushes it away at first. He ignores the flutters in his chest when you’re laughing with Merrin at dinner. He denies the complete shorting out of his brain when he accidentally brushes too close to you while trying to get to your shared bunk.

He has his first wet dream, and wakes up absolutely throbbing with the memory of the dream that involved you and him and way too little clothes for his repressed childhood. He tries to grit his teeth and go back to sleep, but it’s too uncomfortable, and he can’t get the image of your body out of his mind. Jedi Masters always gave their Padawans the sex talk, and Jaro Tapal was nothing if not a good Master. So Cal knows basically what he has to do to relieve the tension so that he can get a little more sleep. He just doesn’t expect to lose control of himself to the point where he grunts your name when he comes. His heart just about stops when he hears the bed above him creak, and he yanks the sheets over his head until he’s sure that you’re not awake. He gets up early the next morning so that he can clean up without fear of you catching him.

After you get together, Cal is even more scared of the relationship. He had checked with Cere, and though she skews more traditional in her beliefs, she knows that Cal’s trauma and overcoming of it is more than she could hope to understand. Maybe this relationship could bring a stability to his life that nothing else could provide. She cautions him on the power of Dark Side, and how the fear of losing love dragged many great Jedi astray. But she also trusts you, and she knows that you would never do anything to hurt him. She hadn’t missed the lovesick puppy eyes you’d been sending his way.

You start out promising to take it slow. Neither of you had much experience in the areas of relationships and dating, much less sex, so at the beginning, you make sure to clarify that there’s no pressure to rush through anything. It’s mostly just spending more time together, slowly exploring each other. You both learn about each other’s pasts, and spend time talking through the different experiences, rationalizing and comforting each other. Before you even begin to experiment in bed, he’s become your best friend.

When you finally do, it’s short and sweet and perfect for two people who are trying to take their relationship slow. You teach him about what you like, and he gasps out in between moans what feels good and ohhh, what feels even better.

Okay, a bit of a time skip here, but after Cal’s more experienced, he is a sucker for you riding his thigh. He’s built and strong, so the ridge of muscle beneath you and rubbing against every single spot that sparks delicious warmth in your belly brings you to climax so much more quickly than you could have expected. He loves looking up at you, mouth open and eyes half shut in ecstasy as you chase your high, your heat leaving sticky wetness on his thigh that only serves to make him harder. He’ll grind his leg up if only to hear that heavenly little squeal and whimper that he can get out of you. You’re beautiful to him even on the worst days, but when you’re above him, sweaty and on the brink of coming all over his thigh? Stars, you’re the most glorious thing he’s ever seen, and he rode a shyyyo bird over the untouched forest of Kashyyyk.

Sadcanons. Don’t read if you don’t want sad feels tonight

There is no denying that Cal’s not a whole person at the beginning of the storyline. He definitely regains some of himself back, but there are parts of him that I believe died with the clones and died with Jaro. There are times where he has nightmares, and when he wakes up, he doesn’t want to be with anyone. Even you. He’ll lapse into silence for hours and days at a time, staring at the blank wall while you try to get him to eat or drink something because damnit it’s been days and he hasn’t so much as moved. Your heart breaks at every sign of his damage, because you know that there is only so much you can do to help. This is a journey that he has to complete independently, though it doesn’t mean that you won’t be here for him when he wakes up.

You trace his scars to comfort him. He’s insecure about them, and is terrified of the memories that they bring back. But when you’re there, loving even his jagged edges, it’s all marginally better and he can bear to live with himself a little more.

He comforts you too. Whatever your background, the Clone Wars and the Purge gave everyone a little bit of damage, and you were no different. He holds you when you’re crying, and comforts you after your nightmares. He’ll purposefully pick a happy song to sing when he knows that you’re down, and he never fails to make you laugh through the tears.

His psychometry allows him to understand your trauma better than you could hope to understand his. Before you even allow him to sense your past, you make him promise to not internalize any of it. You know that he would, though it makes no logical sense. He promises.

Oops I made myself yearn. Now back to our regularly scheduled program of single life. School’s kicking my ass right now, but this made me feel better so I can’t complain too much.

But in all seriousness, I recommend this game 10/10. The Star Wars content is absolutely impeccable, the graphics are gorgeous, it gives me a thrill in my chest to know that every single second is canon. Cal is a beautifully written character, and even though his story breaks my heart, it’s written so well. He doesn’t lash out in anger, rather internalizing his fears and pain in a way that I can relate to, and he’s scarily powerful. It’s a feel good story for me despite the pain, and I’m looking forward to finishing it this weekend!

#cal kestis #headcanons #cal kestis x reader #smut #fluff #angst #cere junda #greez dritus #nightsister merrin #jedi: fallen order

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