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kxxkiecxre · 1 year

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╰┈➤ keep me warm | Park Jimin

✎PAIRING: Angel!Jimin x Fem!Reader

✎SUMMARY: He’s always there for you when you need him.

✎WARNINGS: y/n’s grandad dies - just angel Jimin comforting Y/N. Child birth.

You wondered if he ever was tired of you. Coming to this huge tree in the depths of this magic like forest, tearing up as you waited for the angelic creature to come to you, wrap you in his warm embrace with his sympathetic eyes and ethereal smile. He kept you safe and sound. No matter what happened in this world, he kept you alive. Safe. Perfectly fine.

It wasn’t like you wanted to burden him, it’s normal. Everyone has an angel with them, you just so happen to be extremely close with him. Finding yourself leaning your head against his white wool jumper, back to his front. The forest was just like you said, magical, flowers of every colour mixed perfectly with each other, trees of all shapes and kinds spaced out over the whole landscape. Sun shining bright down onto the ground, animals of all sorts roaming the forest. It was a safe haven he built just for you. Strictly for you.

If Jimin wasn’t an angel, he would of definitely been your husband, albeit a bit weird, but he’s just as human as you. Just with magic, and extraordinary powers. He was amazing, meeting him was the best part of your entire life. He was just sitting on the bus - despite not needing it, and he saw you tearing up, hugging your knees to your chest and curling up with your head in your lap.

That day was amazing.

Meeting someone as special as him was, rare. He was someone who would dedicate his entire life for someone else. He was the type to take the coat of his back and give it to you and that, that broke your heart. Because you’re sure many people have taken advantage of his kindness.

He held you a little bit tighter today, your body so fragile and heart as palpable as glass. So incredibly fragile. Your body rocked his as you tried to hold back your sobs, his arms wrapping themselves tighter around you, as if to keep you cocooned away from the awful way reality works. His face burying in your neck, entire body hugging you tight, helping you calm.

He was truly the best creature to exist. To walk this earth, he’d deny it but you’ll tell him that till your very last breath.

He thought of as one of his most precious beings. He had a handful of people to protect and help, but you, you were his shining supernova he had to keep fuelling, his biggest mission in this life was to keep you burning for as long as possible. Today, today he was sure a tiny bit of that spark was taken from you, wether that was you giving it your grandfather or not, somehow, it made you even more special.

When you came this place roared to life. The flowers turned as if they had little heads, became more vibrant the second your foot took a step in, the animals began to automatically gather around you. Filled of life and joy, as if singing between each other- they harmonised perfectly.

Life for the human heart could be a bit much, Jimin imagined it like a shell. If you hit too hard, it’ll crack, it can take small punches, small hits, but throughout its strength it’ll start to crack, a little harder and it’ll fracture, and just another little push and it’ll shatter to pieces. Crumbled, dusted and crushed. He had to make sure no one else could do this to you.

Crack that little shell that keeps you alive, happy and healthy. Shiny.

He had to make sure you had a safe place, and he knew that was his arms. You reminded him of his own little sweet sound of a beautiful smooth melody, so soft and soothing, wonderful and joyful. Blooming with life and full of love. You were a woman he had a pleasure of protecting, even if he wasn’t specially your designated angel, you were his precious little human. He was going to love you from a distance, but nurture and help you sprout at any chance.

Any time you’ll need him, he’ll drop everything and come back to you.

The minimal wind blew your hair around your face, your body calming in his hold as he looked at your teary eyes, a smile lacking that usual shine, lips cracked and red. He hated seeing your glow struggle to spark.

“Thank you Jimin.”

“Always.”

Jimin watched your life from a front seat. From comforting nineteen year old Y/N, to your twenty first birthday party. That day you met a man named Hoseok, your true angel. That was the man he saw you argue with, the man who broke your heart and you’d come to him for comfort, the man who made you laugh the most and the man who gave you an additional spark. The same man that seven years later, got down on one knee and asked you to marry him.

That same day, he saw your eyes shine brighter by a little more, your smile become bigger and your features softening. Amazing.

He witnessed your successful career, the money you could enjoy and take holidays with. You never had to worry about that, not with Jimin by your side. With the amazing saving skills he thought you, you put away enough money to put along with Hoseoks and purchase a cozy, beautiful family home. Your little forest right at your back garden.

You never forgot about him. Ever. Always, at the end of the week you’d come to your favourite tree with different homemade treats and catch him up on everything he already saw happen.

He spent the next year watching you prepare for your wedding, everything themed towards your secret garden. Mixed flowers, fairy lights strung up and everything was perfect and serene. That day Jimin teared up a little when he heard your vows, and the ring around your finger. That day, though a little jealous, he was ridiculously happy excited and content for you. His supernova growing brighter every day.

Another three years passed, and you started growing a small bump. A little life inside your belly, and everyday, Jimin casted a little spell to keep you extra safe and lucky. Following you - invisibly, everywhere. Making sure you were 100% safe. For nine months he saw you get bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter. You were soft and squishy, he knows because many times when you’d come to the forest, he have to rub your feet, and legs, help you relieve the aching pressure on your muscles, that despite his efforts to keep you away so you wouldn’t strain yourself so much, you just wouldn’t listen.

It was you coming a little more often, asking him advice for baby names, you didn’t want to know the gender until the birth, so you had to pick two names. He listened to every complain, every suggestion, every little story you had to tell him intently. Looking at you with so much happiness and love.

Finally, he witnessed the birth of your beautiful baby boy. A little mini you. He watched happily as you held your baby for the first time, your face full of joy and ecstasy. You had an amazing vibrant glow now. Absolutely beautiful.

“I have decided the name.”

“Do tell” he said, sitting on the chair by your side.

You smiled at him, lips full and plush, skin radiant and eyes glimmering with so much love.

“His name is going to be Jimin.”

He froze. Body still as he looked at you suspiciously, trying to figure out if you were tricking him somehow. But after a couple of beats he realised you weren’t, not with the way you smiled so softly and sweetly at him with innocent bug eyes.

“Why?”

“Because I have a certain someone in my life named Jimin, you know he uses magic and all these powers because he’s an angel and so basically he thinks I don’t know when he follows me around ‘invisibly’ or that he went out of his way to find my husband and bring him here, my designated angel and husband who roamed to the wrong country,” you chuckled, “he thinks I don’t know that he casts little spells of safety and luck on me, and sometimes casts of extra protection. Or that he gets our forest animals to follow me when he can’t. But, otherwise, he’s the most beautiful and important creature in my life. The most wonderful thing to happen to me, a person I can trust with everything. There’s no limit with Jimin. No filter. I can tell him about slime and he’ll listen so carefully intently, he’ll always comfort me when I need it, and most of all, he sacrificed his love for my happiness.”

“Y/N,” he tried, body heating up with the emotions taking over his body as your teary eyes gave him the softest luck.

“I know he gave up his love for me so I could be with Hobi. But, I can promise him, that I will never, ever, love another creature, person or anyone for that matter, the way I love him. Jimin is a selfless person, who’ll give his last dime for someone else’s happiness. That is what Jimin means to me.”

He wipes at his eyes, hugging you with one arm under your head and his lips kissing the top of your head, looking down upon your baby boy,

“And he’s handsome like me.”

an: this was sooo cute ahh

NO COPYING, TRANSLATION, OR CREATION OF ANY KIND PERMITTED!!!!!

MASTERLIST

#bts drabble #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts x reader #park jimin #bts park jimin #jimin fanfic #jimin x reader #bts jimin #jimin x female reader #jimin au #jimin x you #jimin fluff #jimin angst #jimin ah #jiminshiii #jimin icons #jimin edit #jimin smut

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thedo0zyslider · 1 year

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Distraction - Chapter 3: Promises - 1k words

Scar and Grian make promises, ones that they aren't sure they can keep. But there sure all hell try too. if this chapter is a little rough, its bc i forgot the original idea for it. alas it needs to happen for ultimate angst potential!!!!

A03 Link

Getting caught a few times didn’t stop Grian and Scar’s meetups, not at all. It probably encouraged them, more than anything, since they kept going at full force. They really had no intention of ever stopping, because this was intoxicating , addicting , enjoyable ; it was a lot of things Scar couldn’t describe. All he knew was that he left every meetup burning for more , more of the soft touches and the passionate kisses, and Grian was more than happy to keep on giving. He gave the gift of his presence like it was Christmas, and Scar was receiving all the presents.

The two now sat at the abandoned building BigB had first made, cuddled up behind a wall. They’d decided to be more discreet for once, meeting up under the moonlight like a true forbidden love story. Apparently, sneaking away from the mansion was much harder than sneaking away from the Rock, and everytime the Bad Boy complained of it Scar cheekily suggested not flooding and burning the place next time. Grian had whacked him with a wing a few times, but the teasing and play fights had long since ceased.

Grian was sitting comfortably in Scar’s lap, and was currently snuggling closer. Normally, Scar would be smiling with fondness at just how cuddly Grian would be, but no tonight. He could tell something was off by the other’s almost stiff movements, the little avian had begun clinging to him like his life depended on it, and that wasn’t good. It reminded Scar of huddling together on cold and fearful desert nights.

“G?” He asked softly. “I can tell something’s wrong, so what is it?”

The admin took a moment to respond, burying the side of his face into Scar’s shirt. “Well, we’re both red now,” He began. “And I was worried about us having to fight each other, especially because our groups are enemies and all…” Ah, so that was the problem. Well, no matter, nothing Scar’s normal swagger and reassurance couldn’t quell.

"Promise not to kill me?" Scar muttered into fluffy blonde hair, a little too lighthearted for the moment.

"Only if you don't kill me first." His avian hummed in response, shifting slightly so he could look up at the sky.

"I suppose that's fair." He sighed, chuckling just a little.

"You suppose!? " Grian exclaimed, lighting punching Scar's arm when he started to giggle wildly. Despite the amused response, the brunette still felt as if he’d missed something, like he’d forgotten an important detail.

"What if we're the last two alive again?" Grian muttered only a moment later, quiet enough Scar initially had to strain to hear how broken his tone sounded. Oh , so that was what he’d missed, which was embarrassing, it was a pretty big detail to forget. "I..I can't do it again.." The avian's voice became louder as he spoke, more panicked. Claws started to dig into the fabric of Scar's shirt, almost ripping it.

"It won't happen again, G." He soothed, letting Grian twist in his arms until they were face to face. He twitched in discomfort at the thought, at the memory of the last time. He’d rather kill himself than do that again.

"How do you know that?" Grian eyes were wide and searching his face, they were scared . Scar hadn’t seen that look since…since their last few days in the desert; since the cactus ring. He didn’t like it. He wished he could magically wipe the frown of Grian’s face, make him laugh and smile until he forgot his fear for good. But he wasn’t a magician, not here, so all he could do was over comfort that might mean nothing later.

All he could do instead was let Grian hold his face and ask, “What if we have to do it again?”

"I couldn’t…kill you…" Scar muttered, pulling Grian to his chest once more and wrapping him into the tightest hug he could manage. He didn’t want to do it again, he couldn’t, but he wouldn’t have to. This wasn’t Third Life. There was no red army, they weren’t in the desert, they couldn't possibly be the last two alive again, it was statistically impossible. Probably. At least that’s what Scar had been telling himself since they began seeing each other again.

"You might have to!" Talons gripped his shoulders tight enough to rip the fabric of his shirt a second time and dig into his skin. "Please, I can't…I don't…." The avian sobbed, burying his nose against Scar’s neck. I can’t kill you again, went unsaid. Scar let Grian cry in his arms as long as he needed too, offering nothing but soothing murmurs and tentative wing pets, which he hoped were working. He was never sure if they did. He didn’t think of what they had just discussed, but the avian could tell when he was holding back his own emotions, even in such a destroyed state; Grian could tell that Scar was purposefully leaving his grip gentle, avoiding clutching onto him because Grian was the one who needed comfort in that moment. Their relationship was funny like that, it seemed.

"Only kill me if there's not a lot of people left, okay?" Grian whispered a moment later between hiccups, and Scar just now felt how wet his shirt had become over the past few minutes. He sighed softly, resting his chin on top of the smaller’s head. He held him tighter, closer, more protectively. He vowed silently that nothing would hurt the avian like that ever again, not even Scar himself, not if he could help it. Even if he had to kill himself to do it.

"Okay." Scar muttered a response, resting his chin on top of the smaller’s head. The brunette knew he probably couldn;t do that, not unless the bloodlust of a red overtook him completely. But he’d try, and only would try such a thing for the person currently in his arms.

"Promise?" Grian wanted a conformation, a promise that could be broken as easily as it could be forged.

"I promise." Scar buried his face into Grian’s hair once more, shutting his eyes.

They fell asleep there, like that, together. Scar pressed soft, comforting kisses to Grian’s scalp, only able to hug the smaller as he sobbed himself to sleep against his torn and bloody shirt. The brunette could care less about waking up with back pain, damp clothes, and questions from his teammates. For now all he cared about was the birdie restlessly sleeping in his arms, and how to keep them both alive, and how to avoid fate.

#ron.fic #ron.writing #grian #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #distraction #traffic shipping #traffic series #traffic smp #traffic life series #trafficblr #desert duo #scarian #limited life #limited life grian #limited life goodtimeswithscar

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biillyhargroves · 2 years

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Dude watching the boys almost see Max die horribly has made me totally obsess about what Billy would have done. Obviously it’s impossible for this situation to exist and for him to be alive at the same time but… maybe through tropey fanfic magic? 🥺🤔 Maybe he could really be trapped in the upside down and pop out when Vecna gets close to the surface…??

I do have a Billy-in-S4, Max-getting-Vecna'd fic here, but that one is very much rooted in Hawkins and I simply adore the idea of Billy being stuck in the Upside Down while all of this is going on so. Here's another Billy-in-S4 AU! Because I can! I'm also taking some creative liberties with Vecna and the Upside Down because...I can.

(we've been) hiding from our sins fic requests open

Halloween moon blazes high in the sky, bright as a summertime sun and, God, it hurts — all that silver and gold, all that awful heat. Billy raises a dirty hand to shield tired eyes. He has been in the dark for...how long? He's lost count, gave up around the hundredth tally dragged across the dirt; he has been dark and cold, so deep inside this otherworld, that the slightest warmth burns.

But there is more: a voice. Dear Billy, it says, and he swears, swears up and down that he knows that voice, that it has screamed at him, has called him a prick and an asshole, as raised its middle finger to is back a thousand times, and it had begged him, pleaded with him to wake up, wake up, wake up. "Max?"

Billy staggers to his feet. Max's voice echoes all around him, soft and steady and...sad. She sounds sad, so sad, and Billy's chest constricts, fragile ribs closing around a fatigued heart. He listens and he screams — "Max! Max!" — but she keeps talking, her words swelling in the empty space around him.

The air is eerily still. Overhead, a flock of bat-like creatures, all leathery white skin and howling mouths, rise up in the bleak sky. The sky. Billy dares turn toward the moon is not a moon, or a sun, but is...a door? Of sorts, he thinks, because he can see the greenest grass and the bluest sky and headstones like rows of hungry teeth. She's there. "Maxine!" Billy tries, voice hoarse from disuse, but she doesn't hear him. He moves toward her, but no matter how many steps he takes he can't seem to get closer.

And then she rises, lifts up into the sky, and the door, or portal, or whatever it might be, shrinks down to a pinprick. Billy screams, runs, but he can't get to her. She is gone, and his world returns to shadows — to darkness.

Another voice comes then. His own voice, stronger than he's heard it in months. It is saying awful things, horrible things. It is talking to Max. "No," Billy whispers, whirling around and around until he sees her and — not himself, but something, not quite man, not quite beast, but hovering in between. It speaks in his voice and it stalks toward Max like a predator corner its pray and no, no, no, no, no.

The word "death" is like a bomb, devastating and final. It echoes in Billy's head, a warped version of his own speech and the creatures monstrous growl, and all that Billy can think is, not her, not her, not her.

He uses every last ounce of strength inside of him to shout Max's name. Run, he wants to tell her. I'm right here, he wants to cry, but nothing else comes out of his rusted vocal chords. Still, Max runs. She turns heel and runs as fast as she can and that thing takes off after her.

Billy doesn't think. He moves as fast as his legs will carry him, follows Max and the monster through graveyard grass and icy night and into...Billy isn't sure, hasn't been to this part of this world before, but it is red hot and grotesque. It reeks of death and decay and it takes all of his effort not to vomit on the spot. He ducks behind a rock, zig-zags between floating boulders and, when he is close enough, he reaches for Max.

She screams when he grabs her, when he yanks her toward him, pulling her with him behind some kind of volcanic rubble and claps a hand over her mouth. She struggles, slaps and kicks at him, every strike igniting fresh pain in old bruises, but Billy holds tight and whispers, "I'm here. It's me. I'm here."

Max's energy wanes, and Billy gently loosens his grip. She twists around in his arm, her eyes glaring daggers until they land on his and —

"Billy?"

She reaches up to touch him, her cold thumb shocking the skin of his face. Her eyes are glossy, tears and confusion and frustration all welled up in her tiny face, and when she drops her hand Billy thinks she might reel back, might strike him, but she doesn't.

The ground beneath them shakes, trembles, and Max loses her balance, falls against Billy. He catches her, holds her steady, and he peeks around the corner to find that thing striding Micheal Myers slow-and-steady toward them. Max swallows thickly. Billy grabs her shoulders, squeezes and whispers, "Run."

They waste no time, the two of them, hand-in-hand, sprinting like hell. The creature follows them and as it does, as it walks leisurely after them, it laughs.

"You've come out of hiding," the creature says, and Billy knows that it is talking to him, and then it taunts his sister. "Don't you want to stay with him, Max? Is that not what you've longed for?"

Vines whip out and strike their feet. Billy tugs Max with him, pushes her in front of him and shields her as he comes skidding around another corner.

"What the fuck," Max breaths, neither a question or a statement.

"I—" Billy starts, but he does not know what to say, does not have time. Another sound comes then, drifting as if from the sky, and when Billy looks up the not-moon, not-sun, almost-door is open again.

"Oh, my God," Max nearly cries, and fresh tears spring to her eyes because she is seeing herself, vacant and glassy-eyed, drifting above her friends, all of them yelling to her, screaming her name, and there is music playing, throbbing against the ground and pressing into the air around them.

The creature growls. The music builds. The door opens wider.

"Go," Billy tells Max. A tear slips down her cheek and he wipes it away, holds her face in his hand and says again, firmer, "Go."

There is a moment of hesitation so brief Billy isn't sure it's really there, isn't sure he really sees her finger twitch, her hands reach up to touch his face, to feel him there. She looks almost like she might hug him, but there isn't time. He rises and he forces her up, too. He shoves her forward and she stumbles, glancing over her shoulder at him.

Billy takes a few strides, keeps pushing her forward, runs and runs and runs until she finally swings around, faces the portal, runs with all of her might. The music is all around them now, consuming them, and it seems to follow Max as she sprints away.

Vines lash out, catch Billy's ankle. He falls hard, his head in a dizzying daze, lifts his eyes to see Max leap through the portal and he smiles. Even as the creature drags him backward, pulls him back into the dark, into the cold, into the nothingness, he smiles.

Because Max is okay.

Because he knows that she is safe.

Because she knows that he is here.

And when she lands in Hawkins, the real Hawkins, the Hawkins of sunshine and spring flowers, there are hands and arms all around her, hugging her, all sighs of relief, and she promises that, "I'm still here, I'm still here, I'm still here." while she looks at his name carved in stone, WILLIAM HARGROVE, her breath heaving and tears in her eyes. He's still here, he's still here, he's still here.

#electric-sympathy #answered #lex writes fics #billy Hargrove #max mayfield #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #billy Hargrove fanfiction #this might be continued #I have another request that suits it sooooo

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slipper007 · 3 years

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I can't imagine the pain.

Word Count: 3,262

TW: child loss, grief and grieving, discussion of death. See AO3 for complete tags.

Special thanks to @angelfishofthelord and @shirtlesscastiel who both asked for a part 2, as well as @featherasscas , who's reblogged part 1 more times than I can count

Companion to this, + also on AO3. [Masterpost]

Castiel stayed on the ground, broken, for what felt like hours, lacking the strength to look away from the devastation of his grief.

He stayed there so long that the Winchesters gave up hope. They mumbled something about Chuck and the end of all things, of the ghosts that Cas’ total grief had obliterated and how they might not have been all that was released. Castiel didn’t care. He didn’t have it in him to, and maybe the Winchesters saw that. Dean tried to touch his shoulder, maybe even offer an apology, but Castiel shot him a look that ended the conversation they had been dancing around for years. They left him in that graveyard with what was left of his son.

He almost prayed, but what could an angel do to reverse God’s will? No, he needed to do something else. He was desperate enough to try anything he thought would work.

Bargaining. Maybe he could strike up another deal. Whatever the price was, he would pay it happily. He would give his life in a heartbeat, just like before, if it would bring Jack back.

He reached out to Death directly.

He felt Billie’s presence before he saw them and slowly turned as they offered a laid back “Hey.”

“Bring him back.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both,” Billie replied. They raised a brow as Castiel drew his blade. “Killing me again? That seems a little redundant.”

“If you won’t bring him back then maybe your replacement will.”

“Everything has its time, Castiel and everything dies.”

“And it wasn’t his time! His story isn’t done!”

“God said otherwise.”

“You’re going to let God do your job? Kill Jack and wreck the order?”

“God isn’t wrecking anything. Every story has different endings. This was one.”

“Then change it.”

“It’s already happened. It can’t be undone.” Billie’s voice was gentler than Castiel expected when they continued. “It’s not fair, or kind, or right, but it’s life. You need to make your peace with that.”

“No.” Billie’s brows drew together and if Castiel didn’t know better, he would think that it was from pity. Even as he spoke, he felt the tip of his angel blade drop. “I can’t accept this, he can’t be...”

“He is. And nothing you do will change that, regardless of what your time with the Winchesters has taught you.”

Castiel felt the lurching ill sensation rise up again.

“What if I go to the Empty directly?”

“Then you die. It keeps both you and Jack. But you know how the Empty works.”

“I still won’t get to see him...say anything...”

Billie touched his shoulder, a rare gesture of remorse from Death incarcerate. “He’s gone, Castiel, but he can live on in you.”

Castiel didn’t answer, and Death left him to grieve.

Even as time ticked by, Castiel was at a loss for what to do. In the dust, he drew the Enochian sigil to create a portal to Heaven, paid it enough attention that for a moment he could pretend Jack was sitting in the truck playing on his phone.

Castiel almost called his brothers and sisters down to open the portal, to take both Jack and him from the Earth, to let them rest for the first time in years. He wanted Jack to know the peace that used to exist in Heaven, the safety of the place he had once called home. More than that, he wanted to be at peace, to quell the anguish and anger writhing in his chest. It would be easier to go back to proper angelhood, forget what it was to feel.

Emotions had never brought him anything but trouble. They’d lost him his family, his home, his friends, his life…

Still, his tongue wouldn’t speak the words to bring his siblings down. He remembered how they’d treated Jack, and him. The angels had manipulated Jack just as the Winchesters had, and they would do so again if given the chance.

Even dead, Jack could still be used as a weapon. His body harbored the remains of not only nephil grace, but also that of the archangel Michael. Those were both cosmic; they would endure longer than his body.

As much as it sickened him, Castiel realized a hard truth.

Not only was Jack unable to come back, but it wasn’t enough to simply lay him to rest. His body needed to be destroyed so completely that he could never be manipulated again.

He only knew one person he could even start to trust with something like that.

“Hello, tweetie pie,” Rowena answered. “Is this a social call?”

“No, I need your help.”

“Now as much as I’d like to, I’m busy. Tell the Winchesters—”

“This isn’t for them,” he said, words coming out harsher than intended. He took a breath and added a gentler, “Please, this is important.”

“More important than—”

“Yes. Can you meet me at...” Castiel faltered. The Bunker wasn’t an option, and he certainly wasn’t going to stay where he was, surrounded by death, destruction, and his son’s wings scorched into the earth. “Uh…”

“I’ll need some time to tie things up in Nevada. Could you perhaps meet me halfway?

“Yes.” Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. “In Colorado? Grand Junction?”

“Alright,” Rowena agreed. “Now tell me what it is you need so I can prepare.”

“I need you to help me burn a body.” He risked a glance to Jack, feeling bile rise up. “So completely that he can’t come back.”

“Dearie—”

“I can’t talk more; I’ll see you tomorrow,” Castiel blurted, hanging up before what little control he had over his emotions could slip.

The drive was even harder than watching him die.

He talked and played music, anything to avoid the screaming silence, the way Jack was growing cold and stiff beside him. It didn’t work. His mind still repeated the horrified knowledge of “this was your child,” a broken record he feared would never stop.

Neither of them would recover from this.

He arrived after Rowena and nearly cried as she offered him a smile in her prim and proper way and asked if Jack would be joining them or staying in the car.

He didn’t know what gave it away. The unnatural stillness and silence of the car, one that he’d grappled with for hundreds of miles, perhaps. Maybe it was a witch’s intuition, since she’d seen enough over the last several hundred years. Maybe it was because he couldn’t answer her, or even look her in the eyes.

“Oh,” was all she said before embracing him. He couldn’t return it. He couldn’t tear his mind from the hug he had given Jack in the graveyard, how he hadn’t hugged back, how he’d kneeled rather than fight, and how he’d died even when Dean couldn’t go through with it. How it felt to hold Jack, limp and soundless in his arms.

The dam broke, and all that pain and grief and anger nearly brought him to his knees.

Rowena saw it: how broken he was, how broken he’d always been. He didn’t know who he was anymore if he wasn’t a father or an angel, yet he was neither anymore. What was he supposed to do now?

Maybe she understood that. She had suffered the loss of a loved one, too. She knew what it was to watch the world die around her, to lose herself for a time.

When Castiel was able to collect himself, pull the broken shards of his being back together, Rowena asked something that almost tore him apart again.

“Dearie, are you sure you want to…”

“I can’t bring him back. I talked to Death, and I can’t bring him back,” Castiel said softly. “I can’t have someone take advantage of what’s… left.”

“But something so permanent…”

“I would do it myself,” he offered, “but I seem to have fallen.”

Rowena gave him a strange look, the likes of which he hadn’t received in years, so he explained.

“I felt it. Something in me breaking. The emotion growing stronger. I don’t know how to describe it… It felt like when the angels fell. The same kind of desperation.”

“My dear, you’re still an angel. You still have your powers.” She looked him up and down. “Maybe you’re not as powerful as you once were, and you’re a smidge weaker than last we saw each other, but you’re far from powerless.”

Castiel looked away, lost.

“Maybe you can’t do it because you don’t want to,” she offered gently.

“What I want is for him to come back. But he needs to be….” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Rowena nodded, understanding.

They found somewhere private, somewhere quiet outside the city. The trees stood tall and proud and vibrantly alive. A felled one became the pyre.

Castiel placed Jack on it, still wrapped in the trenchcoat.

The flames that swallowed him were brilliantly red, orange, and gold like the ochre rocks on the horizon.

It took hours, even with the help of magic. Castiel stood by Jack’s side for all of it, even long after the embers had cooled and all that was left was a small pile of ash and smudges of soot. Rowena collected it up in a jar as the sun rose, and Castiel took it in his hands.

It never should have ended like this.

The day carried on as if Castiel’s world hadn’t ended hours ago. He was grateful to Rowena for what she had done, but even sitting in her kitchen he was too lost in grief to thank her.

Standing by a whistling teapot, she finally asked, “Would you like to talk about the wee boy?”

“It hurts too much.” Castiel bit into his lip, hard. What did it say about him, that he could hardly even say Jack’s name? Shame bubbled up, hatred of himself swift to follow.

“It hurts because of how much you loved him.”

“I still love him.”

“Yes.”

The pair fell silent for a long while and Rowena set a cup of hot tea in front of Cas before settling into her own seat.

“Rowena…”

“Yes, tweetie pie?”

“When did losing Oscar stop hurting?”

Rowena bowed her head, and Castiel knew the answer.

“It didn’t,” she finally said. “Just as losing Fergus hasn’t stopped hurting.”

Castiel’s instinct was right. This was something he would never recover from, would he?

“It’s a different kind of hurt, with time,” Rowena offered. “It stops being so keen. You survive and you try to carry on without them, because that’s what they would have wanted.” She stared deep into her tea. “You learn to talk about them, and to them, even though they’re gone.”

Castiel nodded and held his tea closer. He couldn’t see that happening, not with how much it hurt, but she was right: he would survive. With Jack gone, his deal would never come due. Happiness wouldn’t kill him because he would never feel it again.

Rowena offered him a place to stay for a few weeks, but Castiel declined. He couldn’t stay there, not where the earth was scorched and the air still smelled faintly of smoke. Instead, Castiel drove for hours, not paying much attention to where he was going until he found himself parked outside of the Bunker.

It wasn’t where he wanted to be, not by a longshot, but he had something he needed to do. The door creaked as loudly as it always had, and Castiel was halfway across the library before a voice called out to him.

“Cas.”

Dean.

“I’m here for his things. Then I’ll be on my way.”

“Cas, hey. Stop for a moment, would you?”

Castiel did.

“Look, alright.” Dean walked over until they could look each other in the eye. “I’m not proud of how everything went down. And I’ve given what you said some thought. You’re right. It is our fault, but it’s Chuck’s, too, man. You gotta see that.”

“What I see is that you’re finding any excuse you can to get the blame off yourself.”

Dean’s eyes darkened.

“Chuck has been toying with us—”

“No, you made the decision to kill him, just as I made the decision not to. You told me to get onboard or walk away, and I left you and Chuck both of my own choice. Because you taught me that people and families and love are worth fighting for, and I was going to fight for him!” Castiel tried to keep the waver out of his voice as tears brimmed in his eyes. “Chuck couldn’t have changed that even if he’d tried.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to, huh? You think of that? Maybe he wants us divided.”

“You should have thought about that before you tried to execute him in front of me.”

“Cas—”

“You had a choice and you made the wrong one.”

Castiel left him there in the library and locked himself in Jack’s room. Almost instantly, it proved to be too much, and he slumped down against the door, sobbing.

The room was holding its breath, waiting for Jack to come home. A half-read book sat on the desk, a few stray papers underneath. A pile of clothes waited patiently to be returned to a drawer. The nightstand was bare save for a pencil. One good deed….

Castiel packed it all away. He hated himself for destroying the illusion, for leaving the room as empty as his chest felt, but what he was waiting for would never happen. Jack would never walk through that door again. The decoder ring in the drawer would never be used. Everything had fallen into ruin.

He managed to get the first box into his truck with no issues, no run-ins or confrontations. The second box was smaller, and he rested it on a hip as he closed the bedroom door for the last time.

This time, he wasn’t so lucky. Dean watched him cross the room and quietly said, “You’re not the only one grieving him.”

“It’s not the same, Dean. You never felt his soul. You never took the time to know him: you spent your time trying to make up for wanting him dead. Well, you got what you wanted.”

Dean flinched at that, but Castiel didn’t care. His son was nothing but ash and a box and a half of belongings. Anger flared again.

“You think angels can’t feel.” He laughed bitterly. “Even though I’ve proven that wrong. Did you think killing him wouldn’t kill me, too? As if I haven’t given more for him than you could possibly imagine. As much as you’ve given for Sam. My life. My happiness… I signed away my future in a heartbeat so that he could come back and I would do it again. I tried to do it again.”

If only it would have worked.

“Wait, what?”

“I made a deal to save him. When I’m happy, the Empty will take me forever.”

Dean gaped at him in horror.

“Cas, what’ve you done?”

“What I had to. What any father would do. Don’t give me that look. You’ve done worse for Sam.”

“And it’s always come back to bite me in the ass.”

“Well, I haven’t been happy in years, so don’t worry about the deal.”

“You shouldn’t have made it in the first place.”

“Oh, so now only you get to make deals to save the people you love? Only you get to cheat death time and time again while the rest of us suffer?” Castiel looked at him incredulously, anger seeping through him. “Do you know how many brothers I’ve lost? Sisters? Friends? Now Jack. Why can’t I save them? Why should they stay dead when you and your brother have been raised so many times?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. We would have figured it out without making the deal!”

“We didn’t have the time! If I hadn’t made the deal I would have lost him forever, right then and there. I couldn’t stand by and watch him die!”

It would have killed him. And it had.

“We would have figured it out,” Dean maintained. “Like we always do!”

Castiel shook his head. “Then you figure it out. If you bring him back, I’ll be back, but until then…” Castiel looked around the wide expanse of the Bunker with a strange longing. This had never been home, but it could have been, just as his friendship with the Winchesters could have been more. He was leaving behind an almost.

“Jack’s dead. Chuck’s gone. You and Sam have each other. I think it’s time for me to move on.”

“Cas, wait.”

As angry and tired as he was—as they both were—Castiel wanted to. A decade of comradeship, of camaraderie and pining, did that, made him reluctant to leave. Then he remembered standing between Dean and Jack, realizing that if that gun went off, he’d lose them both. He knew now that he’d lost them both long before that.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

It was years before they saw each other again.

It took longer than Castiel could ever admit to find peace.

He still ached for Jack to come back, felt the pain in every drawn breath, but Rowena was right. Billie was right. The anger lessened and the pain dulled. He missed his son but Jack would have wanted him to try to move on. He would have wanted Cas to be happy, despite the deal still hanging over his head even if Castiel couldn’t see it ever coming to fruition now. He owed it to Jack to try to be happy.

And he would. He had to. No matter how much it hurt, even if he still wanted nothing more than to bring him back or follow him in death. Jack survived through him, in his memories and his love. He couldn’t let what was left of his son go like that.

He’d moved to Washington, made a home of where Jack had been born and Kelly had died. Where he had burned. It was a little too empty, full of broken promises and loss and regret, as if it, too, struggled to let go. One day it would. Another family would come and clean it out, fill this home with love as it always should have been. Children would run out to the sand, oblivious of the ash mixed in, while their parents painted over Kelly’s mural and took down the pale yellow curtains that had reminded Cas of honey.

One day, all memory of Jack and the world his parents had tried to give him would be gone. But it wouldn’t be today.

Castiel made his way outside, stood where the rift had first appeared. If he looked closely, he could still see the imprint of wings in the earth. This was where he and Kelly had both burned.

Cautiously, Castiel looked to the sky, the twinkling lights of stars against an unpolluted sky. Jack loved space. He would have loved it here, able to see the stars every night without fail.

It was time to let go.

Gently, Castiel let the ash catch in the breeze, wander everywhere it liked and more until it was gone. Jack was gone.

Castiel swallowed hard and tilted his head back up to the sky, to the light of a thousand stars. If he looked hard enough, he could see the golden twinkle of Jack’s grace reflecting back, his eyes glowing against a sea of blue.

“Hello, Jack.”

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blackrosesandwhump · 3 years

Text

Whump Prompts Collection

Tag me if any of these inspire you! I'd love to read the result. :)

Asphyxia/suffocation:

Whumpee joins an exploration mission that’s being sent into a place where the air is toxic, so he has to wear some kind of breathing gear; the environment and discomfort cause him to lose his mind and rip the gear off, exposing him to the toxic air and damaging the equipment. The others on the mission have to make an awful decision on who to save.

Denied air, then forced to exercise: muzzle your whumpee or otherwise reduce their breathing ability, then force them to exert themselves. For example, whumper could tape whumpee’s mouth shut, then make them run laps until they pass out. Or force them to wear something that reduces their oxygen intake, then do rigorous chores. Imagine a whumpee on their knees, scrubbing the floor as they struggle to breathe, then passing out on the damp floor amid the cleaning supplies. Such a pretty sight for the whumper to behold…

An airless chamber: whumper has a specialized room that’s been sealed to be airtight, perfect for particularly stubborn whumpees, or even just whumpees that are fun to torture. A couple of minutes in that room, and they emerge weak, gasping, willing to submit just so they don’t have to suffer the horror of suffocation again. And then there’s that one whumpee, the one that won’t break no matter how many times they’re shut in that room. Because it’s not what happens to them that will destroy them, but what happens to the people they love…

Claustrophobia:

Whumpee is tossed into a coffin with their crossed arms bound to their chest and their ankles fastened together, then left there for hours in silence. Claustrophobia sets in and whumpee panics and cries out.

Whumpee is confined to a tiny closet and forgotten while whumper is attacked. Whumpee is discovered by the attackers much much later, completely traumatized.

A is injured and needs to have a brain scan. They start to panic at the idea of being enclosed in such a tight space. The only person who can help calm them down is B, and B is not allowed in the room for whatever reason. Then A sees B through the glass and B’s smile and thumbs-up is enough to help them feel better.

Whumpee is forced to wear an iron mask as punishment. The mask can only be unlocked and removed by someone else, so they’re stuck for an entire day (or however long) unable to speak around the bit in their mouth and also short of breath.

Whumper knows about whumpee’s dislike of anything touching his face and forces whumpee to wear a mask that completely hides his face whenever he’s in whumper’s presence. Eventually the mask becomes part of whumpee’s identity.

Curses/magic:

Hero is given the gift of a scarf. What he doesn’t know is that it’s actually a gift from the Villain. He also doesn’t know it’s been cursed and will strangle him when the time comes. It won’t kill him, though—it will keep him just alive enough for Villain to interrogate him.

Hero is chained up in a dungeon. His chains are cursed so that every struggle causes more chains to coil around him. Villain enters the dungeon to find him completely wrapped in chains: around his neck, across his mouth, restricting his chest. Villain is amused and decides to leave Hero like that for a while longer.

Hero’s weapon is cursed so that every use weakens him for a period of time. The more he uses it, the more it weakens him each time and the harder it is for him to recover. Eventually his body begins to fail from how much he’s wielded it, but he won’t rest because he’s too fixated on using his weapon to its fullest potential.

Miscellaneous:

Whumper knows that whumpee is deathly afraid of buzzing insects, so he slathers whumpee in something sticky and sweet and ties him up so he can’t wipe it off. Then he leaves whumpee outside to be tormented by insects until he’s hoarse from screaming.

Whumper ties whumpee up, but not too painfully and not to torture them; no, this time whumper is going to draw all over whumpee’s skin, to let them know who they belong to now. They’ll be whumper’s canvas, whether they like it or not.

Whumper is given a drug that induces hallucinations and is bound to a chair and left in an empty room for hours…whumper returns to find whumpee bloodied from straining to escape and delirious with fear.

Whumper knows that the rescuers are on their way, so he slices whumpee up just enough to cause him lots of pain, then rolls him up in a rug and dumps him in a corner where the rescuers won’t think to look. Whumpee’s only hope is to make enough noise that they investigate.

Alternately, whumper binds whumpee up and gags him so he can’t move or cry out, then tosses him in a corner as above, so that whumpee can only listen as his rescuers pass by without even knowing he’s right there.

Whumpee has been kept underground for as long as he can remember. He’s never seen sunlight, only fire. The earthquake nearly kills him, but he manages to survive. The sunlight on the surface sends searing pain through his entire body, starting with his eyes. He’s blinded, crippled with agony from the overwhelming light. A human voice breaks through the pain: “We finally found you. Welcome to the surface, whumpee!”

Non-human whumpees:

A fae whumpee is exposed to rain that’s been tainted with iron from an iron factory. The water burns his skin like acid. The whumpee has his chemical burns covered with bandages, but the bandages can’t take away the pain…

Sunlight equals torture. Whumpee knows this all too well. After all, he’s a vampire. But whumper has tied him up in a place where the sunlight is intermittent. Every few minutes, the torture stops and his skin can heal a little…but then the sunlight hits him again, and it’s excruciating.

Whumpee squirms as the sun blazes down on them, panicking because they’ll suffocate as soon as the water in the fountain dries up. They need water to breathe. All merfolk do. But whumpee is chained up and can’t escape. Whumper laughs as whumpee tries to get free. “My little fish out of water. I’ll let you go…as soon as you let me harvest your scales.”

Aerosolized poison for inhuman creatures: poison your whumpees with aerosolized versions of the substances that most afflict them. For example, whumper (maybe a hunter in this case) traps the werewolf whumpee in a chamber rigged with canisters of aerosolized wolfsbane. Or whumper could poison a fae whumpee with an iron-based gas. (Not sure how that would work. Just thinking on the spot here.) Imagine the inhuman whumpee trying to survive by wearing breathing protection, then having it ripped off when whumper attacks them.

Weather/environment:

One of whumpee’s regular tasks is to take care of the garden, which they don’t mind, as it allows them to spend hours outside, away from whumper. They dread rainy days because it means they’re stuck in the house with whumper and can’t escape outside. It’s been storming for days and whumper is in a particularly nasty mood, which means that whumpee is about to suffer even more, and they’re already not in good shape…

Caretaker is desperately searching for whumpee in the rain, but whumpee is nowhere to be found. The rain is getting worse and worse and caretaker is about to give up…but then they spot something in the grass. It’s a leg. No, a whole body. Whumpee’s body. Whumpee is unresponsive, their eyes glazed, their skin ashen. Caretaker sees that they’ve just about drowned from exposure to the downpour, and it might be too late…but caretaker is going to save whumpee, no matter what.

Whumpee is locked up in a tower that’s crumbling into ruin. Whenever it rains, the roof leaks and puddles of water form on the floor. They can’t escape the damp and are left to try to protect themselves with whatever they can find in the tower. After a bad storm, whumper comes to get them, only to find that whumpee has gotten dangerously sick from the cold and wet and needs help. But whumper refuses to call a doctor…

Usually prisoners are kept in the dark. This time, whumpee is kept outside in a wooden cage. Their only relief from the sun comes at night…but night is when whumper lets them out to torture them. And every time whumpee is thrown back in the cage, they can’t escape from the heat and light. A cold cloth on their bruises would be heavenly. But they can only dream about it as they wait for nightfall…

Whumpee is barefoot and lost in a pine forest. Cold and exhausted, they can only stumble forward in the dimming light, feet scratched and bleeding from stepping on countless pine needles. And whumpee has nothing except the shirt on their back to bandage their feet…

While hiking alone, whumpee slips and falls down a small cliff, gashing their side on a sharp rock. Exhausted and bleeding, whumpee can only lie in the gathering darkness and hope someone comes looking for them. To distract themselves, they start reciting all the song lyrics they can remember. As they’re slipping into unconsciousness, they hear a strange echo of the song they’re humming. It’s caretaker, blasting the song as they search for whumpee in the dark.

A thunderstorm hits when whumpee doesn’t expect it, when they’re out on a walk to clear their head and don’t have shelter. Lost in the driving rain and hail, whumpee has no choice but to shelter in the first place they find: an abandoned shed. The next morning, caretaker finds their bruised and soaked body in the one place they hoped whumpee would never find.

#whump prompts #whump ideas #whumpy things #writing prompts #asphyxia tw #suffocation tw #claustrophobia tw #magic whump #non human whump #environmental whump

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

End of the line (Santiago Garcia x GN! reader)

@autumnleaves1991-blog runs a fantasic # Writer Wednesday, and this week’s photo prompt sparked a lil idea! Of course I’m a day late, please forgive. The prompt is the photo below, and my response is a rather angsty Triple Frontier one-shot. This is different to my usual takes, so I’m so grateful for the prompt!

Summary: you are reaching the end of the line, and there’s only one person you want to pick up the phone to.

Word count: 2.4k, somehow

Rating: mature for themes of violence (18+ only)

Warnings: theme of reader being pursued / targeted; ongoing mentions of guns / gun violence (not graphic); reader injuries (not graphic); themes of character death; angst; vague mentions of past wrongdoing / implied illicit activities; theme of former lovers.

You run your fingers over your scathed knuckles and the bruises on your hands, flexing and opening your fingers and trying to work out niggles in your wrist that you doubt will ever truly leave you. You wince as the motion tugs on a spot which is particularly stiff, and a pain zips all the way up your forearm.

Your only consolation is that the other guy fared far worse.

Undoing all your attempts to unknot your taut muscles, your fists clench again as you hear the door to the dingy motel bar swing open to your right. Your head whips towards the newly-arrived patron and you tense, your hand twitching against the weapon concealed in your jacket. As it becomes clear the new arrival is an old, inebriated local and not a threat, you relax a shade; though not all the way.

You barely remember the last time you fully relaxed. You wish you could shake this state of hyper-vigilance. Eyes constantly sweeping the perimeter. Clocking every open-carry tucked into a belt, scoping every exit route, monitoring every micro-gesture and expression. But one slip now and it will cost you.

You bounce your leg under the table, filled with an onslaught of sadness that you can’t even enjoy a cup of coffee without the looming fear of retribution. Still, you are safe enough here for now, you assess. For at least one more night. At least, you hope. Certainty is a thing long-dead, just like your old life.

Your eyes flick out through the scummy window, reaching across the lot to the stretch of motel illuminated to your left. Not that there’s much to look at out there -snow and vehicles and the shitty exterior- but you are not looking at those things, after all. Your study is far more careful. You’ve been sat here long enough though to be sure that no-one is casing your room. No suspicious vehicles or individuals; at least - there are plenty of suspicious individuals, but none whom seem to have followed you here.

So, you allow yourself to shed one layer of worry, and you give your gaze permission to wander back to the only other thing you can see out there. The ominous looking phone box, stood directly in the path between your table and the window to your motel room. It glows in the dark like an illuminated angel, though you are not sure whether this signals it is a guardian or a traitor. Angels can be fickle things too.

Either way, the booth taunts you, like some dark harbinger or sentinel from a horror film, and, each time your eyes flick back to it, it seems to loom more prominent - even if that’s only because of the single, related thought which swells to the forefront of your mind.

Call him. It’s time to call him.

You promised yourself you would only call him as a last resort. If you had no other options remaining. If you were at the end of the line.

A nausea rolls in the pit of you when you realise that might be true. After so long on the run, you’ve called in every favour you were owed, exploited every scrap of intel you could, manipulated or paid-off every asset you could find to help you... And now there is no-one else left. No-one else left who owes you a favour. There is only the man who had once promised you he would always have your six. There is only the last person you want to ask for help, and the first person you want to see.

Santiago Garcia.

Your nausea turns to aching despair, and you wrap your hands around your cup of shitty coffee, reaching for some vestige of warmth, however faint. And yet, like everything else, it offers you little comfort. Indeed, you have lived without comfort for so long that you tell yourself you don’t need it, but as soon as memories of him flood you, you ache for the distant comfort of his arms.

Arms which will never encircle you again, you’re sure. Not since you’d been forced to compromise every ideal you’d once shared with the solider. Still, that was back in the days when things seemed a lot more black and white. When you still believed in good people and untarnished souls. When he still believed in you.

Your eyes flick once again to the boxy, mocking angel in the parking lot. Now you are sure it is fallen, and that it has come to drag you to hell.

Still, hell would be a relief, you think, compared to this. Compared to this vestige of a life.

Call him. It’s the end of the line.

You bounce your leg more furiously, your muscles tensing so hard they cramp as you think about the prospect. You used to carry his number on a little slip of paper in your top pocket. You’d long since memorised it, but it was the last thing he gave you - you suppose that’s why you couldn’t throw it away. Why you subconsciously kept it close to your heart.

If you ever needed him, he would be there. You knew it. Maybe you should have called him long ago, when things first went south. When you first pissed off the kinda man it wasn’t desirable to piss off. Maybe you would have, but then one thing after another kept happening, and the slow descent into hell began, one compromise and one mistake at a time. So, you called in every other favour rather than face him. Rather than having to explain how you’d let him down - become someone he could no longer believe in. Like a fallen angel.

Now, years had gone by.

Years on the run. Years of hyper-vigilance. Years that had taken their toll.

Now, you’re out of options. Out of money. Out of favours. You’re even out of burner phones until you can hitch a lift to the next town over.

So, the glowing phone box almost sings to you, as if it’s a siren luring you on to the rocks. As if it’s a magical item in a computer game and if you step into its circle of light you can have a new life. You can reset everything. Return to a prior save point.

You know exactly where you would go, if you could. Back to the last time your remember where you didn’t feel so alone. The last time you felt comfort.

You fumble some over-spilling tears from your cheeks and stand, pushing the chair back across the floor behind you with a harsh scrape. Then, with a soft smile to the barkeep you return your mug to the bar-top, to save her from having to clear up. You wonder then. You can’t help but wonder like you do every time. If she’ll be the last person to see you alive will she at least say, to who ever shows up looking, that you seemed kind?

She gives you a small smile and you hang on to this vestige of warmth too, wishing you could pocket it for later for when you inevitably feel so empty and so cold. If only you could have stored up warmth, you would have more than enough to thaw you. There was a time when you had an abundance, after all. Enough to carry you through the longest of winters.

Your face drops as you tread out, winding your scarf around your neck and your boots puncturing the fresh, powdery snow.

Would anyone who mattered even show up looking? you ponder. Is there anyone left who would remember all the things you were before all this? Before you were a cold, lost thing?

There may be one person left.

Your eyes patrol the lot around you, an automatic sweep for threats, and, seeing nothing of note, you track determinedly towards the phone box, tears near-freezing on your cheeks.

You pick up the receiver and you punch in that number you have memorised, your eyes closing and your other hand bracing itself against the scratched and cigarette-burn puckered surface. You don’t even know if it will ring, or if he will still be at this address, but you do know that your knees will buckle either way. With relief if he does, and hopelessness if he doesn’t.

The line clacks as the number connects, and you grip the receiver hard enough that a day-old wound on your knuckle splits, but you can scarce care. Instead you simply hold your breath as the phone rings once, twice, three times...

Your stomach lurches as the ringing stops.

“Santiago? Santiago Garcia?” you ask, hoarsely, tugging on the coiled phone wire so hard as you wind it around your fingers that you are close to breaking it.

“This is Mrs. Garcia. Can I help you?” a woman’s voice responds.

You want to dry heave. Your heart drops to your stomach.

“You’re his wife?” you ask, the question like a poison barb on your tongue.

“Yes, who’s speaking, please? Can I take a message?”

All this time, you had been the only one alone, it seems. You should be glad for him, but you are too sad for yourself to muster it.

You hesitate. You can’t say who’s calling. You can’t risk it. However, while he may not be at the end of the line, you are. This might be the last chance you get to say your piece.

You have to think on your feet, but that’s become second-nature for you. You haven’t enjoyed the luxury of plans or hopes or dreams for some time now.

You begin. Your voice is choked up.

“Just tell him... Tell him to remember me the way I was in Massachusetts. Tell him I’ve never been happier than then. Tell him not to worry. I won’t cash in that favour, but he’s already done enough.”

He has. He’s given you the strength to make it this far, even if he didn’t know it.

“Who is this?” his wife presses, her tone sharp.

You can’t say, but he’ll know. He’ll know - if he remembers you. Your eyes mist over with tears, and your chest tightens, emotion stealing the air from your lungs.

“Can you just tell him that? Please?” you beg, having been strong for so long and finally collapsing in on yourself, a desperate plea imbuing your voice.

Still, you don’t even wait for an answer before slamming the phone back down on its hook -can’t bear to hear her say no. Instead you surge towards your hotel room, sobs wracking your chest as you realise the cold hard facts. Now, you are truly on the run without any semblance of home to return to, even if you could ever stop. He did not wait for you.

So, you cry, even as you peel off your clothes from your pained body, leaning into the stream of luke-warm water in the motel shower. Water which may rinse the blood and grime from the surface of your skin but has no hope of washing the blood from your hands, or wiping the red from your ledger.

Nothing ever could.

Then, you lie alone in bed, your sleeping bag and liner protecting you from the motel bed covers, at least. You stare up blankly at the ceiling, and, as you often do, you try to pinpoint where it all went wrong. You try to rewrite history. You try to imagine all the ways in which things could have worked out.

As always, with certainty, you can say exactly when and where it all went to shit. And, as always, you wish that you could take it back.

You loll your head against the pillow, watching shadows dance through your curtains as snow falls past the glow of that ugly, beautiful phone box. It was a guardian after all, you think, if Santi got to know that you still think of him. That even now you can’t let him go.

Always. Until the end.

Then, your whole body jolts in shock as the phone begins to ring - a loud, shrill insistent noise sounding out into the night, setting off a dog barking across the way, and a baby crying through the paper thin walls to your left.

It couldn’t be? Could it? It couldn’t be for you?

Still, you have to know, and so, you scramble into your snow boots and dash into the brisk night, grappling to lift the phone from its receiver before it rings out, your breath a white cloud of exertion before you.

And, at the same time that you connect to the caller, you spot the second harbinger. You see the shadowed figure there, approaching you from across the lot. You see the outline of a gun in their hand, and their trench billowing around their shins as they maintain a steady pace towards you.

You have nowhere left to run. This is the end of the line. You know it in the depths of you.

So, you simply flatten your back to the phone box, facing your assailant.

You simply close your eyes, willing everything else to disappear as an unmistakeably familiar voice filters through the speaker into your ear. You grip the receiver tightly with both hands.

Santiago Garcia says your name. Your real name. Not one of many aliases you’ve had to assume, painting lies over your existence. He says your real name -one you haven’t heard spoken in so long- and your bottom lip begins to tremble. “Honey, is that you?”

You smile, tears of joy cascading down your face as his simple words stoke more warmth than you have felt in so long. Even as the cold bites at your skin. Even as you hear the continued crunch of footsteps in the snow. Even as you hear a gun cock, mere feet from your body.

Hearing his voice, you think your knees may buckle in relief regardless.

“Hey, old friend,” you say fondly, through an inexplicable, watery smile. And, despite the situation, you feel happy, for the first time in a long while. Bizarre as it is, you are finally able to relax all the way.

Will he remember me as kind, at least?

You grip the phone even more tightly as Santi’s voice surges, coming at you with a million urgent questions. You let them flow through you, and then they are gone, just as easily. You know you will not be afforded the chance to answer even one. So, you say something else instead.

“Remember me, okay?” you breathe. “Remember how I loved you. And I did, Santiago. Right until the end of the line.”

You hope that he will. You can only hope that when the stories and lies and secrets and compromises come out, that he will remember you the way you were in Massachusetts. Before things started to unravel. Before you went on the run.

And, as your eyes screw themelsleves tightly shut, and you brace yourself for what is inevitably coming, you don’t think of him as he is now. Someone distant. Someone who doesn’t belong to you. Someone at the end of the line. You don’t think of yourself that way either.

You remember him the way he was in Massachusetts.

You hope dearly, that he will think of you that way too.

You finally feel warm.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #angst #writer wednesday #santiago pope garcia

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wrctings · 3 years

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Jean Kirschtein x reader | Friends, or is it more?

the more i watch aot, the more i love jean... his moments of self-doubt and his moved smile truly are heart-wrenching 🥺

fandom: Attack on Titan pairing: Jean Kirschtein x reader summary: Where you realise that you’re falling for your best friend, whose heart is already taken—or so you thought. Fortunately, what becomes a saddening party can also turn into an unexpected occasion to make things right. word count: 3.3k

Sometimes, belonging to the Scouts regiment came with something that, from up close, resembled a flicker of momentary joy. You had, of course, been aware of the harrowing shadow of a reputation that trudged behind the wings of liberty: danger, death and despair; the three Ds accompanying your pledge to humanity drummed their deafening beat alongside your horse's frenzied gallop whenever you took place in the formation that led you outside the walls, the wind hurling through your hair and your senses at the height of their tension, ready to signal the approach of a titan at any given minute, bracing your body for every possible threat. You had faith in commander Erwin, had faith in your comrades—if giving your life was necessary for your cause, then, you had silently promised yourself and your people, you would give it with eyes wide open and undefeated fierceness, be it in the heat of battle or any other way. The wings embroidered upon your cape represented your beliefs more intensely than any word—as long as there was a Scout left, hope would live still; blossom upon the tall grass that freely grew upon the tombs of your fallen comrades. Even the smallest victory made you believe that a change could be made—and even the smallest victory was celebrated in the battalion as a sign that bode well for the foreseeable future. It was such celebrations, though as small as the victories they marked, that made room for moments of joy the regiment could barely encounter at other times. And when those moments came, life suddenly appeared coated with a hundred colours, full of humorous idiocies and heedless amusement that stirred up in you all the youthful glee of not caring about a thing in the world but the people around you and the drink in your hand.

"You guys won't believe the position we found Bertholdt in this morning!"

Seated beside Armin, who himself flanked Eren as Mikasa had naturally settled on the other side of their childhood friend, you leaned further on the wooden table of the barrack in order to hear your brunet friend more distinctly, his excited voice reviving the conversation at once. Drawn by a cheerful and carefree sort of curiosity, which was well fueled by the general bright mood, finding out about Bertholdt's daily sleeping position suddenly appeared like the most fascinating event one could discuss, especially when followed by the boys' weather previsions based on their comrade's often strange and tangled up poses. You exchanged an amused look with Mikasa, and though your friend's features remained almost as impassive as usual, the vivid twinkle you caught through the dark shine of her eyes mirrored your cheery behaviour; Armin's face, on the other hand, wore an expressive smile, the blond boy remembering vividly the description of Bertholdt that Eren began recounting.

But even as you laughed at the image of Bertholdt's knees somehow managing to stay bent as he slept on his stomach, the upper part of his legs outstretched toward the sky in an unusual—to say the least—position, your gaze went on sweeping the room, in search of the one person you couldn't wait to chat with again, though you also got along really well with Armin, Mikasa and Eren. The only problem was, said person was not that fond of the self-righteous brunet ball of energy sat at your table, so you were not surprised to find him in Conny and Sasha's company instead, talking animatedly. You had already had the opportunity to chat with Jean earlier that evening, the two of you having grown so close to each other that it would've been impossible for you not to cross paths tonight, but you wondered whether you would drift toward each other again before the makeshift party came to an end; Captain Levi had been surprisingly unbothered by your shy request to celebrate today's mission's success, accepting it on the sole condition that only soft drinks were to be consumed—Armin suspected that Commander Erwin was responsible for granting the new recruits' wishes, as they had after all already endured quite a lot during the expedition to retrieve Eren from Annie.

"We better watch out for that sleeping position of Bertholdt's, maybe it means good luck," Armin observed lightheartedly, taking a sip from his drink.

"You should keep a notebook with all of them, and maybe you'll crack the code someday," you added with a chuckle, the three of you glancing at Bertholdt.

Having your 104th comrades with you in the Scouts regiment really did bring you a lot of comfort to help you navigate these new uncharted waters, though it also made it acutely unbearable to imagine that some of them might not make it back next time; Marco served as your first and most painful lesson that even those dearest to you were never safe. It was after the freckled boy's death that you and Jean had truly bonded, brought together by the devastating loss of your kindhearted friend. You had become each other's rocks since then—checking up on each other after training sessions and expeditions, playful teasing and calling each other all sorts of funny nicknames rooted into the core of your friendship, giving it all its strength. And it was when you had been injured during the 57th expedition and Jean had almost hysterically ran up to you afterwards, cursing with no restraint and holding your arm so tightly it hurt when he helped you limp toward the medical wing, that you had been hit for the first time, though still shaken from slaying a titan and the bloody cut burning your leg, by how grateful you were to have made it out alive, to have Jean by your side. It was then that you had realised that there was no one else you would rather be with than him—it was something more than anything you've ever felt before, as your timidly pounding heart had been reminding you ever since.

But another thing unavoidable when being friends with Jean, of course, was the bickering between your comrade and Eren—and this evening was no different from any other week. A few minutes later, as you engaged in a pleasant conversation with Armin, your attention was drawn by the thunderous eruption of voices that suddenly shook the walls of the barrack, making many pairs of surprised eyes turn toward the belligerent protagonists of the argument. It just had to be Eren and Jean, hadn't it? Like the rest of your comrades, you couldn't possibly guess where the spark that ignited this new inferno came from, but with these two, a valid reason often wasn't needed; to the greatest despair of the 104th, both boys possessed magic powers to summon reasons to fight out of thin air. At the present moment, both Eren and Jean were actively yelling at each other, shooting names and accusations back and forth.

However, the lack of rational incidents to cause such a scene didn't mean that there was no deeper reason for Jean's outbursts, just like Eren's counter-attacks originated from his legendary stubbornness already well-known to his fellow comrades. You had been suspecting for a long time that Jean mainly proclaimed his hatred towards Eren because of Mikasa. Before the 57th expedition, when both of you were in a playful and mischievous mood, you would even friendlily tease Jean about his soft spot for the dark haired young woman, which he hadn't hidden very well ever since Mikasa and he met for the first time. It was quite unfortunately, really, that your heart had finally chosen Jean, of all people, to fall for—as if you weren't well aware of how much he admired and liked Mikasa! And this mascarade surely had to have been orchestrated to get her attention, just like many other failed schemes of Jean's, as Mikasa barely seemed interested in anyone but Eren, Armin, sometimes Sasha, and you.

"There he goes again..." You muttered downheartedly, sparing a glance at your best friend.

"It's Eren and Jean, after all..." Armin responded with a sorry smile, squirming on the bench to get further away from Eren, who was now up on his feet and facing Jean with balled up fists. Mikasa watched the two boys through squinted eyes, at the ready to jump and knock over Jean if needed—at least, your friend's plan to get her attention had succeeded.

"I know how this is going to end," you told Armin under your breath, averting your gaze from the fighters. "You know what, I think it's right about time for me to head off. I don't want to witness Captain Levi tearing their heads off for wrecking havoc in here."

"Really? Don't you want to stay a little longer? I'm sure it won't come to this!"

"I don't even want to know. Goodnight, Armin, thank you for the nice chat," you excused yourself, fleeing from the barrack swift as a cat, only the passage of a furtive ray of light on the floor signifying that the door to the room had been opened as quickly as it was closed.

You knew better than to cling onto something you could not reach, so why endure the spectacle of such a foolish play?

Outside, nighttime had descended upon the camp with its soothing quietness. Nothing in sight but the warm flutter of torches fixed upon the barracks; nothing ringing in your ears but the chirping melody of a cricket's song, its echo delicately carried away by the evening wind. No ecstatic shouting, no blaring laughter. Nothing but a lone constellation half-veiled by the grey trail of clouds that unhurriedly floated upon the dark depths of the sky. No Jean, no Eren. You took a lungful of fresh air before a long sigh lifted off your chest—if only things could go back to the way they had been. Back when Jean was nothing but a fun and (sweetly) annoying horse-faced boy to be around, and no cause for heartache.

You took some more steps ahead, the muffled sounds you could still hear from inside dying out as you walked further away. Although you had told Armin that your time to go had come, you didn't feel like getting back to bed right now; actually, you didn't feel like anything but escaping for a little while.

At last, you decided to retrace your steps, taking a seat on the ground beside the barrack you had abandoned, your back pressed against its wooden surface. On the other side, the cacophony hadn't ceased, only muffled by the wall that separated you from the inside mayhem. Had Jean and Eren opted for a fistfight denouement by now? Would Mikasa intervene?

But before you had enough time to explore the many scenarios your imagination could sketch out, the door beside which you had settled opened abruptly, a wide stream of light flooding the ground at once. In the blink of an eye, a visibly disconcerted figure appeared on the threshold, freezing as they took a look around before rapidly bifurcating to the side in order to follow one of the torchlit paths...

"Jean?"

"Y/n?! What are you doing here?" Jean rushed toward you as soon as he noticed your silhouette from behind the shadows, discovering your hiding-place. "I didn't even see you leave..."

"I'm sorry, I was starting to feel tired." Touched by the fact that Jean had left the room to look for you, you attempted to give him a plausible excuse.

"C'mon, you can get through a day of training, but you can't get through one of the only party nights we're lucky enough to have?" Jean taunted, taking a seat next to you. "What's the matter?" he gently elbowed you, throwing his neck back so he could press his head against the wall behind. "Just when I was about to defeat Eren..."

"Defeat Eren, really? Statistically, it's more likely for Captain Levi to smile than for us to see that happen," you laughed tiredly, trying not to think about how Jean would probably soon get back to Mikasa and the others.

"Yeah, yeah, tease me all you want, it'll happen. Someday this idiot will get his ass handed to him."

Closing your eyes, you only had it in you to maintain the forced smile painted over your lips while fighting back the rush of stinging tears that suddenly overwhelmed you. Why did Jean had to come and check up on you now of all times, right when you were more than ever convinced that you were starting to fall for him, and it couldn't be clearer that his every move longed for someone else?

"You know, I was going to get him, but Mikasa can get scary..." It was as if he could decipher the riddles of your mind, unaware of the way your heart convulsed. "I wouldn't want to cross her. Why would she hang out with this idi—"

"Look, Jean, if you've come here to rant about this, then you can leave," you ended up snapping, biting back more acre words . "I'm tired, okay? Just get back to the fun inside."

"You... You don't feel like talking?" Jean's voice softened from incomprehension, trying to read your tone. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it was that bad. Hey, you really don't want to talk?"

You shook your head in response, scolding your own self for such pathetic behaviour. Jean couldn't possibly know about your suppressed feelings, so your attitude must indeed appear more than confusing, especially since you were so used to confiding in each other and cheering each other up, for the past weeks more than ever. In the wake of Icarus's ascend towards the sun, untethered and naive, your wings of wax were melting... But who could've predicted, as much as a month earlier, that the loveable idiot by your side would doom you to downfall?

"Okay... Well...," the young man ran a distracted hand through his hair, frowning as his jaw clenched. "Then I'll talk. You know, I had an idea for tonight," he began after collecting his thoughts, breaking through the hesitant seconds that had temporarily numbed his tongue. "It was our first successful expedition after that near-death experience after all, so I thought I'd better make the most of it and make tonight's celebration useful. Who knows when we'll get another one. Maybe you're right and it's actually more likely to see Captain Levi smile than to get another one of these again soon." Jean's speech ran freely now, his torrent of sentences—for the moment still not making clear sense as to where they were headed to—submerging you in the familiar flow of his voice. As of late, your greatest fear had become to miss its distress call in the ranging mist of a battle, to watch Jean's body be torn to shreds as you could only scream until everything else vanished... "So I thought I'd be brave, for once." He took a deep breath in, fingers nervously wrapped around the back of his own neck. "There's this person I like."

There it was. Somehow, you knew that it would be coming—after the stunt he pulled earlier with Eren...

"They're much braver than I am, but they probably know that already," Jean went on, chuckling self-depreciatingly—he knew he could poke at himself in your company without being ashamed of disclosing his flaws. "They wouldn't hesitate to come and rescue me, even if I were grabbed by a titan. And they're really beautiful, too—"

"Look, Jean, if you've come to talk about Mikasa, just save it," you could only murmur. "Pl—"

"And, quite surprisingly, they're also a dumbass!" Jean didn't let you finish either, shifting his head so he could see your face better. "But that's something both of us have in common." Taken aback by such a strange confession, you opened your eyes to take an intrigued look at Jean while hoping that he wouldn't notice the tears you had at last blinked away. You met his gaze head-on, even among the shadows that coiled over his face. "Because they think that I still have a thing for a girl I liked for two weeks, while I've been talking about them all along."

"What—"

"You know, you're the one who makes being called "horse-face" the funniest," Jean cracked an unsure smile at you, fiddling with his hands. "Alright, it's the bravest I'll ever be, so time to crawl in a hole and die now," he immediately added more anxiously, looking like the unexpected nature of his confession had stricken him for the first time.

"Wait, Jean, no!" It was as if, for the first time in a span of unending minutes, you could breathe again. "Wait, is this... Is this for real?" You asked in what came out almost a whisper, fearing, in this instant where your hopes balanced on the edge of a precipice of churning doubt and elation, that this was a joke you would not be able to forgive. Jean was better than this, but what if?—the thought drilled into your heart.

"Well... Yes. I'm sorry if I've made things awkward, it's Armin who told you might like me too and—"

"Hey, hey," your hand found its way to Jean's arm in a comforting touch, preventing him from leaving as he made a move to flee after blurting out an apology. Judging by your frantic heartbeat, there was no way you could be the calmer person in this situation—and yet, Jean somehow managed to look even more distressed than you at the moment. "I do like you." It was your turn to get embarrassed, which your flushed cheeks openly betrayed, illuminated by the nearby torch's flitting flame. "But Mikasa...?"

"Y/n, I haven't liked Mikasa for longer than a few weeks. I mean, yes, she's beautiful and strong, but so are you. And you're so much more than that. You're so fun to be around, I haven't laughed so hard with anyone but you. Unlike me, you're not scared to be brave and kind, but with you, I don't need to think which face I need to put on, because I know we don't have to pretend to be someone we're not when we're around each other. And when you got injured... I couldn't stand the thought of losing you. I made myself a promise then that I would tell you, and tonight seemed like the right time. I've been talking to Armin after the expedition and I think he kind of guessed that I liked you, and that you liked me too—I don't even know how or why, but he told me he thought you did. That's not exactly how I thought it'd go but... Trying to get your attention by getting in a fight with Eren wasn't that good of a plan, I guess."

"So that's what it was...! You really are an idiot, Jean Kirschtein," you declared vivaciously, but the moved smile that brightened your face spoke louder than the fond insults Jean and you would fire at each other. "We need to watch out for Armin, he will uncover everyone's secrets, at this rate..." You joked before regaining a more serious attitude, your emotions truly swayed by your friend's avowal. "The expedition changed everything for me too. I realised that I didn't want to go without you. No, I realised that I didn't want to go at all—I wanted to stay. With you."

"Pff, get in line," Jean grinned in spite of the emotional look on his face, sighing in relief. "I've been liking you for months."

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely. Do you think I go out of my way to check up on everyone after a battle or that everyone's mom gets the privilege of being the centre of my skilfully crafted jokes?"

"Shut up," you laughed wholeheartedly, your shoulder against Jean's. "Your mom's a hoe."

"Very clever," he teased you in return, face glowing from a joy even more vivd than the fiery sparks that chased the night's spectres away. “I bang yours every night.”

You burst out laughing, rolling your eyes—mom jokes were a must in your goofy friendship. A friendship that, with a bit of unpredicted luck, was on the verge of becoming something more.

#jean kirschtien #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirschtein imagines #attack on titan fanfiction #attack on titan x reader #snk x reader #snk imagines #writing #snk fanficition

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

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the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XV

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A very steamy chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

take a look at @gen-syz-art‘s sinfully hot art for this chapter right here

(look out for chapter spoilers and your virginities)

_________________________

Jaskier is usually very warm when he sleeps.

Geralt finds some special kind of pleasure in that warmth, gets as close to it as he can without waking Jaskier up, and it allows him to sleep better than ever before.

Jaskier reaches for the witcher’s own warmth in return, and they spend the nights curled up together just like Asra and Lucio on the other side of the bed.

But this night turns out to be especially cold, and when the fire in the hearth burns out, the room too loses most of its warmth. And it’s only a few hours after the sunrise that Geralt wakes with a start from Jaskier trying to hide his freezing-cold hands between his thighs.

He hisses, recoiling from the touch involuntarily, and that wakes the bard up. His long eyelashes flutter as he opens his eyes, and the look on his face is so innocently confused that Geralt can’t help the smile tugging on the corners of his lips.

Jaskier burrows himself deeper into the soft furs, hiding from the cold, and presses his nose to Geralt’s chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, still half-asleep.

Geralt sighs, rolling his eyes affectionately, and wraps his arms around the bard, trying to ignore the bites of cold when Jaskier does the same but still flinching.

“You’re cold,” he mutters, blindly searching for one more blanket to cover them both with. “And you’re trying to warm your hands on me.”

Jaskier smiles - if not grins - and moves to press the soles of his feet - just as cold - to Geralt’s shins, making the witcher growl a warning low in his throat.

“Scary Witcher,” the bard murmurs with a satisfied smile, teasing mercilessly.

Geralt growls at him again, louder, but in return, Jaskier simply props himself up on one elbow, leans in and kisses him on the nose.

“Pretty boy,” he says in that same murmur. “Gorgeous.”

Geralt pointedly moves away, fighting back both a smile and the blood rushing to his cheeks.

“I’m not one of your dogs.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier agrees, making himself comfortable on the endless pillows and closing his eyes with a content sigh. “Bet I could make you whine like one, though.”

And oh, that is way too much.

The heat from Geralt’s chest spills all over his neck and cheeks, making him suffocate for a second, and he immediately hides his eyes, throwing an arm over Jaskier’s middle and pulling him closer, until the bard’s back is pressed to his chest and Geralt is sure he won’t be able to see him.

“You’re playing with fire, bard,” he warns, still, getting a grip on Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier doesn’t try to get out of it, just laughs, completely disarming the witcher.

“What did you just call me?” he asks.

“Bard,” Geralt repeats. “What, would you prefer me calling you Prince?”

Jaskier considers it, making himself more comfortable on the bed and rolling his hips against Geralt’s almost accidentally.

“My Lord, perhaps?” he suggests.

And that’s… well, very fitting. And, whether Geralt wants to admit it or not, thrilling.

But he’s not going to lose this game this easily.

“Well, then,” he hums. “You’re playing with fire, my Lord.”

In this position, he’s got perfect access to Jaskeier’s back and the witcher uses it to his full advantage. He moves away just enough to see the mark between Jaskier’s shoulder blades, and doesn’t even try to hide his satisfaction as he runs his thumb over it, his skin tingling with the low thrum of magic.

Whatever Jaskier was going to say dies on his lips as he gasps.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns but Geralt has never been the one to listen to warnings if there’s something in it for him.

So instead, he shifts lower, until he can brush his lips over the softly glowing mark, and Jaskier arches his back with a moan, moving away from the touch and leaning into it at the same time.

Geralt pulls him closer again, slips a hand down his bare thigh, and leaves another kiss on the same spot, dry and warm, barely even there, but it’s enough to make Jaskier hide his face in the pillows, his breath coming fast and heavy.

“You’ll pay for this later, Witcher,” he says but it does nothing if not thrills Geralt.

“I know,” he murmurs, nosing at the bard’s shoulder before going back to his shoulder blades. “But if you want to stop me, you’ll have to use your magic.”

He’s half-expecting Jaskier to take that offer on, keep him away with a force that’s stronger than the witcher, and that thought thrills him, the sheer power that Jaskier holds in his hands almost intoxicating to think about.

But Jaskier doesn’t try to restrain him, doesn’t tie his wrists and doesn’t try to move away again. He just shudders, face hidden among the pillows so that Geralt can’t see him.

It’s an invitation that Geralt cannot turn down, even if there’s going to be a price to pay later on.

He’s dying to ask what it feels like, why Jaskier reacts to it so strongly to every touch, but he’ll have time for that later, when he’s had his fill.

Slowly, Geralt starts a line of kisses down Jaskier’s neck, moving to his shoulders as he goes, mindful not to overwhelm him right from the start. He waits for Jaskier to relax in his arms, let go of the control that keeps his shoulders tense, and gradually, he gets what he wants.

Jaskier melts under his attention, soft moans escaping his lips every time Geralt brushes a kiss over a particularly sensitive spot, all of them marked with love-bites. He arches his back, the line of his spine defining in the sweetest of ways, and presses his hips to Geralt’s, allowing the witcher to brush his hand up and down his thigh.

It’s making Geralt feel lightheaded, just how much Jaskier trusts him.

As he brushes his lips over the mark in a warm, dry kiss, Jaskier shudders, sucking in a breath. His heart is beating hard and fast in his chest, and Geralt can’t help but prop himself up on one elbow to lean over and kiss him on the cheek to comfort his lover.

It doesn’t really matter what kinds of games they play, what’s most important to Geralt is that it’s not on the wrong side of too much.

“Breathe for me, Jask,” he murmurs, peppering warm kisses along the line of his jaw. “If you really want me to stop, all you need to do is say, hm?”

We should choose a word for that, he thinks but doesn’t say it. There will be time.

“Don’t stop,” Jaskier breathes, barely above a whisper, as he chases Geralt’s lips in a kiss.

His eyes are darkened and hazy with pleasure, bottomless and hypnotising like the ocean, and it’s too late for Geralt to think about making it out of those waters alive.

He breaks the kiss, allowing Jaskeir to hide his face among the pillows once more, and lets go of his thigh just for now, wrapping an arm around his waist instead to pull him closer, make him feel warm and safe.

They’ve got all the time in the world to explore each other, so Geralt doesn’t rush.

Jaskier’s skin is soft and smooth where he presses his lips to his shoulder, and it smells of vanilla and dried herbs and pomegranate. He uses pomegranate bath salts, and though it was a little overwhelming for Geralt’s heightened senses at first, he grew to love it. And, well, it was worth the time they spent together, bathing.

“There are so many things that I want to do to you now that you’re mine,” he murmurs, a soft purr to his voice. “But this is most definitely a priority.”

He runs his fingers over Jaskier’s side, over the filigree ribs, all the way to the middle of his back, and then moves up his spine, keeping his palm flat against the bard’s skin even as he reaches the mark, and Jaskier gasps, breaking off into a moan as he digs his fingers into the soft fur on the blankets and clenches his fist so hard his knuckles turn white.

But he doesn’t ask to stop.

Geralt shifts just enough to be able to reach his shoulder blades with his lips again, and this time, he’s bolder.

Just as Jaskier relaxes back into his touch, he runs his tongue over between his shoulder blades, and the bard cries out, his heart beating in his chest like a bird in a cage. He presses his hips closer to Geralt’s, and it’s torture because the witcher’s already rock-hard, and it doesn’t help when his cock slips over the crease of Jaskier’s thighs.

He knows from experience that Jaskier is still stretched enough from the night before, that it wouldn’t take long to prepare him, and the thought alone makes him dizzy.

And yet, he’s just too tempted to see how far he can push the bard just like this.

“You know, it’s almost unfair,” he murmurs, leaving two soft, calming kisses just on the edge of the mark but that, too, makes Jaskier tremble. “How this makes you suffocate even more than when I’m inside you.”

Jaskier leaves him without an answer, breathing heavily, but his entire body leans into the touch when Geralt slips his hand over his hip and between his legs, wrapping his fingers over the base of his cock, already fully hard.

He runs his hand over the entire length, twisting his wrist as he moves up, and the sweet little moan that Jaskier gives him in return makes his blood boil.

“Whatever price I’ll have to pay for this later, it’s gonna be worth it,” the witcher grins, going back to what he’d started.

He concentrates all of his attention on the mark on Jaskier’s back, following the softly glowing lines with his lips, and moves his hand slowly over the bard’s cock, smearing precome over the tip and making Jaskier tremble harder with what seems like every touch.

Jaskier moans and whimpers, keeping his face hidden as he writhes on the bed, and whenever Geralt brushes over a particularly sensitive spot, his gasps break off into stifled little cries.

Geralt keeps him grounded, whispering comforting affections against his skin, and that keeps Jaskier’s senses from overwhelming.

“That’s it,” Geralt murmurs, moving his wrist just a little faster, fingers slick and sticky with precome. “That’s it, I’ve got you.”

In the far end of the room, a tall standing mirror cracks and shatters as Jaskier loses control over his magic, and though he flinches at the sudden sound, he doesn’t recoil from Geralt’s touch still.

“C-close--” he chokes out, squeezing his thighs to make the pleasure sharper.

The mark on his back glows brighter, just like it always does when he uses his magic, and when Geralt presses his lips to it in a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his entire body seems to catch ablaze with the intensity of that power.

It’s… certainly the most unusual thing he’d ever done to someone but gods, he loves it.

The air is heavy with the scent of lust and pleasure, and the sharp undertone of salt only makes Geralt’s head reel more. He knows there are tears in Jaskier’s eyes from overstimulation, and he also knows he’s going to be the one wiping them off, but right now Jaskier doesn’t ask him to stop, and so Geralt concentrates on his pleasure alone.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, clenching his fingers just a little tighter.

And that’s all it takes to push Jaskier over the edge.

His entire body seizes, and he comes with a broken whimper, making a mess of his stomach and chest.

Geralt immediately pulls him closer, holds him as the bard trembles through the aftershocks, and peppers comforting kisses all over his neck and shoulders, Jaskier’s skin hot under his lips.

“Gods, you’re incredible,” he whispers, burrowing his nose into the hair on the nape of the bard’s neck and inhaling his scent. “I love you.”

It’s easier now, saying it.

When he knows that his feelings are reciprocated, there’s no fear of rejection.

For a few long, blissful minutes, Jaskier just breathes, still trembling all over, before turning around and hiding his face on Geralt’s chest. The witcher wraps his arms around him readily, giving him the comfort and safety he needs.

They’re both dirty but Geralt can’t find it in him to care.

“I love you too,” Jaskier finally whispers. “But you’re paying for that.”

Geralt laughs quietly, dipping his head to leave a kiss in Jaskier’s hair.

“Name the price.”

***

Jaskier keeps him wondering for the entire day.

After sleeping for a couple more hours to get back to his senses, Jaskier goes back to the poem he’d been working on for the past week, and Geralt finishes off his letter to Vesemir, deciding on not mentioning anything about the royal blood in Jaskier veins or the lack of it.

The bard purposefully keeps him at an arm's length, saying that Geralt can’t touch him until they’re back in bed, and though it’s nothing less of a torture, Geralt knows that he’d promised to play by the rules, so he obliges.

The day lasts torturously long.

There’s a constant, low thrum of heat under Geralt’s skin, because he’d only cared about Jaskier’s pleasure in the morning, neglecting that of his own, and now the bard turns that against him, slipping out of his touch again and again, leaving Geralt with nothing.

Geralt could, of course, just push him up against the nearest wall and take it from there, but abiding by the rules promised something far more interesting.

Jaskier, for his part, has his fun with being in control.

In the early hours of the evening, he leaves to take a bath, leaving Geralt downstairs with the dogs, and when he comes back, he’s wearing nothing but his silk dressing gown.

It’s almost like he doesn’t even notice Geralt as he settles down to read on his settee, the fabric slipping down his thigh and revealing his entire leg. There are still faint bruises on his knees, and Geralt is dying to press his lips to it, run a line of kisses from the bard’s ankle and all the way to his inner thigh, but Jaskier spares him no more than a look.

He does look like a prince like this.

Despite himself, Geralt finds it thrilling - just how unfazed, almost indifferent he can be. How well he knows what he’s worth.

How well he knows that he’s in control, unafraid of what his provoking could lead to.

Geralt tries to keep himself busy with a book of his own, having found an impressive bestiary among the endless shelves, but he can’t concentrate on what he’s reading.

And so when Jaskier finally puts his books away and stands up to head to the bedroom, giving the witcher a look over his shoulder, Geralt finds it hard to control the thrill of anticipation in his veins.

They make their way up the stairs and into the far end of the west wing, where Jaskier opens the door of their bedroom and lets Geralt through first, making sure to keep the dogs out of the room as he follows.

“The bed,” he says, turning the key until it clicks in the lock. “Don’t touch your clothes.”

His voice is different to anything Geralt had heard from him before.

It’s calm and perfectly measured, leaving no doubt that his words are an order, and Geralt can’t help but oblige, the magic radiating off Jaskier making his knees weak.

He crosses the room to sit down on the foot of the bed, leaving his clothes untouched like he’d been told to, and watches Jaskier light up the fireplace and the candles that Geralt is almost sure weren’t there before. The fire casts a low, pleasant light around the part of the room where the bed is, leaving everything else in the shadows, and the way it makes Jaskier’s skin glow takes Geralt’s breath away for a long moment.

Mine, he thinks, Absolutely perfect, and mine.

Jaskier crosses the room, coming closer, and the magic on his fingers is still so strong that it sends a shockwave through Geralt when the bard lays both his hands on his shoulders to straddle his hips.

“You’ve been so good at following the rules today,” he says, a soft, low rumble to his voice as he tips Geralt’s chin up with his index finger and leans down to brush their lips together, so lightly that it’s barely a touch. “Will you be good for me still?”

Now that they’re back in the bedroom, Geralt can finally touch him again, and it’s almost before he even realises it that his hands already move up to rest on Jaskier’s hips.

“If you want me to be,” he says, holding Jaskier’s gaze, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“No,” Jaskier says, still holding the witcher’s chin up. “Say it.”

A wave of suffocating heat rises from Geralt’s chest and he feels the urge to avert his eyes, but he reminds himself that he’s safe here, and that if Jaskier trusts him enough to let him do anything he wants to him, even if it makes him lose control over his magic, then he should trust him the same.

So, he takes in a breath. Lets it out.

“I’ll be good,” he promises. “For you.”

Jaskier smiles, his eyes lighting up, and leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet. He runs his tongue over Geralt’s lips, parting them, and licks into his mouth, hands coming down to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one.

Geralt lets himself be led, gives himself over to his lover, and though it’s very new to him, it lights that familiar fire in his chest.

Testing his boundaries, he slips his hands under the silk of Jaskier’s dressing gown, runs them up his thighs, the skin warm and smooth under his fingers, and he’s half-expecting Jaskier to slap his hands away, but he doesn’t.

Breaking away from his lips, the bard finds his way to Geralt’s neck, kissing a line down its side, deft fingers slipping under the hem of the witcher’s shirt, and Geralt doesn’t have enough time to bite back a moan that falls off his lips.

The neck had always been a sensitive area for him, and when it’s Jaskier kissing him, it makes him feel lightheaded within seconds.

He helps the bard strip him of his shirt, and falls onto his back when Jaskier pushes down on his shoulder, the soft furs pleasant against his bare skin. Before he really knows it, the rest of his clothes are on the floor, too, and if there’s magic involved in that, it’s too hard to single out in the overall energy of it in the room.

Jaskier, on the other hand, still has his dressing gown on, held closed with a silk belt, and it’s maddening - knowing that he’s naked underneath, that all Geralt needs to do is untie the belt.

But he keeps his hands to himself this time, allowing Jaskier to climb over him and leave another kiss on his lips.

“Tell me, Witcher,” he says, running the tip of his index finger over a scar on Geralt’s chest. “Have you ever had anyone put a cock ring on you?”

Geralt’s breath catches.

“I haven’t,” he says, the fire in his chest flaring up. “But I’m… familiar with the concept.”

Jaskier hums, a pleased smile on his lips, and catches Geralt’s gaze again, his eyes black in the low light.

“I want to put one on you,” he says, magic snaking around his fingers in shifting colours, glowing like a flame. “But you can say no.”

Geralt’s heart beats hard in his chest, and Jaskier’s voice gets right under his skin, sending a shiver through the witcher’s body.

“You can do anything you want to me,” he says before he can stop himself.

Jaskier’s eyes light up even more, and that shine is all that allows Geralt to breathe, keeps him from drowning in those two dark oceans.

“I love you,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning down to give the witcher a praising kiss and then moving down his body.

When exactly does the toy appear in his hand, Geralt can’t tell.

He’s already half-hard, and the touch of Jaskier’s fingers sends sparks of pleasure up his spine, making Geralt bite his lip and try to concentrate on his breathing, getting it back under control.

The ring is a pleasant pressure around the base of his cock, the material soft enough not to cause any discomfort, and the added pressure-points of beads all around make him swell almost immediately.

“There,” Jaskier hums, brushing his lips over Geralt’s hipbone in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. “This will make the pleasure brighter. For both of us.”

The silk of Jaskier’s robe is pleasantly cool against Geralt’s skin when it brushes over it, sending shivers up the witcher’s body, but he would much rather have Jaskier without it, no matter how good he looks with the fabric halfway down his shoulders.

Without thinking, Geralt reaches for one of the ends of the belt, but before he can pull on it, Jaskier slaps his hand away, the sound echoing through the room.

“Did I say that you can do that?” he asks.

His voice is still calm but the spark in his eyes turns into a flame before Geralt can even take a breath. It sends a thrill through him.

“No,” he says, taking his hands away obediently. “Forgive me.”

Jaskier hums, leaning down to touch a soft kiss to the witcher’s shoulder.

“That’s better,” he nods. “You wouldn’t want to break your promise, would you?”

His lips are hot and wet where he brushes them over Geralt’s chest, starting with the collarbones and moving down.

Geralt leans into every touch, careful to keep his hands to himself, and arches off the bed when Jaskier runs his tongue over his hardened nipple and closes his lips around it, sucking it into his mouth.

Geralt never even knew that he’d be so sensitive to that kind of pleasure, that it would feel so good, but when Jaskier bites on the sensitive bud, he suffocates.

“Does that feel good, Witcher?” the bard asks, rolling his hips against Geralt’s, and the feeling of his bare skin makes Geralt’s vision go dark for a moment.

“Yes,” he makes himself say, shutting his eyes against the feeling of Jaskier’s hot tongue. “Gods, yes.”

Unsure of whether or not he’s allowed to, Geralt runs his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, rests them high on his hips, and when Jaskier doesn’t protest, too preoccupied with playing with his other nipple, Geralt allows himself to clench his fingers a little tighter, digging into the soft flesh.

His eyes flutter shut when Jaskier sucks a mark onto his chest, and then moves up again, one hand slipping into Geralt’s hair to pull on the silver strands, making him throw his head back and expose his neck.

They both know that he heals fast, and that any marks or bites or scratches will not last longer than a night, but that seems to only fuel Jaskier’s interest in leaving them, for he’s got a clean canvas every time.

“Turn around for me,” he murmurs into the witcher’s ear, letting go of his hair. “On your knees.”

A familiar flush of uncertain embarrassment rises up in Geralt’s chest, but he does as he’s told, thankful that it’s dark enough for Jaskier not to see the colour on his cheeks.

He turns around, keeping his chest on the bed, and uses the opportunity to hide his face among the pillows as he props his hips up, knees digging into the soft blankets. It’s strange and unfamiliar - being on display like this, but Jaskier runs a calming hand down his thigh, and slowly, Geralt allows himself to relax again.

“That’s it,” Jaskier murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder. “You’re doing so good, my love.”

The praise gets right under Geralt’s skin, flows through his veins in pleasant weakness, and he can feel his cock throb with it, heavy between his legs.

The pressure of the ring is more tangible now, fueling the fire low in his abdomen, and though he knows that it’s only the beginning, he already starts feeling lightheaded from the attention.

The fabric of the dressing gown slips off Jaskier’s shoulders almost soundlessly, and Geralt might not have even noticed it had it not been for his heightened senses, but once it does, he can’t help but sneak a look at his lover, now completely bare.

Slowly, Jaskier runs the tips of his fingers down the curve of Geralt’s spine, watching the movement carefully, and slips over the crease of his thighs, teasing at the hole but not pushing in. Geralt’s cock twitches in response, and he can feel the drops of precome, threatening to drip down. Perhaps, the ring affects him more than he thought.

“Tell me, Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs, shifting to follow the line of his spine against, but this time with his lips, torturously slowly. “How long has it been since anyone has touched you like this?”

Geralt shivers under his touch and shuts his eyes again.

“Long,” he says. “It’s… not easy for me to give someone this kind of control.”

His breath catches when Jaskier wraps a hand around his waist, pressing a comforting, warm kiss to the middle of his back and resting his forehead against it.

“I got you, my love,” he whispers, giving them both a few long, comfortable moments before going back to what he’d started. “Tell me about the last time.”

Geralt has never been the one to discuss his sexual experiences with anyone unless he lost a bet and it takes him a couple of seconds to get around the sudden dryness in his throat.

But it’s Jaskier.

“I was spending the winter in Kaer Morhen,” he starts, focusing all his self-control on keeping his voice from shaking. “We had a guest from a different School, another witcher. Both similar and different to us.”

Jaskier doesn’t interrupt him, mapping out the lines of his back with his lips and paying special attention to the scars that he finds, and that almost allows the witcher to concentrate, but then Jaskier’s hand slips between his thighs again, and Geralt struggles to recall what he’d been talking about.

“Go on,” Jaskier urges, taking his hand away for barely a moment, and when he teases his fingers around the rim again, they’re slick with oil.

“We took a liking to each other almost immediately,” Geralt makes himself say, clenching his fists to keep himself from rocking back onto Jaskier’s fingers. “He’s younger than me but incredible with his weapons, and really, all it took is him pushing me down onto the ground and pressing a knife to my throat. The evening of that same day we were already in one bed.”

Jaskier shifts, resting his chest against Geralt’s back, and leans down to his ear, pushing two fingers inside and making the witcher gasp, back arching.

“Is that how you like it, then?” Jaskier murmurs, slowly sinking his fingers deeper. “Should I put a knife to your throat?”

The thought alone makes Geralt dizzy, and he doesn’t even notice as he rolls his hips, taking Jaskier’s fingers in deeper. A sharp slap to his thigh brings him back to his senses, making him go still again, breathing heavily.

“Not now,” he manages to say, biting back a moan.

Jaskier hums, leaving a comforting kiss on the back of his neck, and rises to his knees again, running his free hand down Geralt’s back and stopping on his hip, holding the witcher in place. He moves his wrist slowly, still not sinking his fingers in all the way, and Geralt nearly whimpers with how maddening the anticipation is.

His cock throbs almost painfully, the ring making him more sensitive, and even the calming kisses that Jaskier’s leaves on his thigh don’t help.

“Please--” he whispers before he even knows it.

That seems to be exactly what Jaskier had been waiting for.

He pushes his fingers deeper, up to the knuckles, and Geralt shudders with pleasure it brings him.

“I’ll have you come just like this, on my fingers,” Jaskier murmurs, finding the right spot inside him without mistake, and though Geralt muffles his moan with a pillow, it still sounds too-loud in the quiet room. “And then fuck you again, with a different toy. And then again. Witcher stamina, hm?”

Geralt’s head is reeling too much for him to be able to say anything to that, but the thought alone zaps through his body light lightning, making his arch his back even more, panting as Jaskier fucks him with two fingers, brushing over just the right spot every single time.

He’d never been fucked with toys before, never even thought about it, though he’d seen quite a variety in Passiflora, but now the promise immediately pushes him closer to the edge, and though he manages to bite back a whine, he knows that eventually, Jaskier will get what he wants.

“You can come whenever you like,” Jaskier murmurs, moving his wrist faster. “This time.”

Geralt doesn’t have it in him to answer, and so he just moans, head spinning with hyperventilation. If it wasn’t for the ring, he would’ve come already, even before he got his permission, but now it makes the pleasure last, building into a tight, hot knot low in his abdomen.

“I’ve never slept with witchers before,” Jaskier says, running his free hand down Geralt’s thigh and then slipping onto its inner side, when the skin is more sensitive. “Tell me, is it true that your refractory period is non-existent?”

He runs the tips of his fingers over the length of Geralt’s cock, smears the precome over it, catches on the ring, making Geralt absolutely delirious with overstimulation, but doesn’t take him in hand.

“It’s true,” the witcher chokes out, bucking his hips involuntarily and getting another sharp slap to his thigh that makes the pleasure flare up even more. “But we have our limits.”

Jaskier makes a pleased little noise, leaning down to touch his lips to the place where his hand had landed, and sinks his fingers in deep, just as his other hand catches on the edge of the ring once more.

Pleasure spills through Geralt’s veins like wildfire, taking all air away from his lungs, and he comes with a desperate, choked moan, painting his stomach and chest with streaks of white.

Jaskier fucks him through it, slow and deep, until it’s too much, until Geralt is so overstimulated that he whimpers, trembling all over.

“You did so good,” Jaskier whispers, peppering soft, calming kisses all over his thighs and lower back but not allowing him to lie down. “So good, my love. Gods, you’re gorgeous when you’re on the edge.”

His voice is barely audible over the thundering blood in Geralt’s ears, but the praise still sends a shiver down his back. He keeps his eyes closed and just breathes, letting Jaskier take care of him even as he knows that this isn’t nearly the end.

With his heart beating in his chest like a trapped bird and his head still reeling, he feels lighter than he can ever remember being, all doubt and anxiety fucked out of him.

“You ready for another round, my love?” Jaskier asks, nipping at his thigh to get his attention.

He smooths a hand up his back, making Geralt get back into his initial position, and the magic in his touch makes Geralt suck in a breath.

“What do you say we add something else to the game, hm?” Jaskier murmurs, running his tongue over his fluttering hole before pulling away, and Geralt nearly loses his fucking mind at that.

Jaskier readjusts the pillows, until Geralt’s chest is resting on one, and chooses a high cushion for his head, leaning down to steal a long, sweet kiss from the witcher’s lips before settling behind him again.

“Both arms behind your back,” he says, in that same voice that tells Geralt it’s an order.

His body recovers quickly, but his mind is still hazy with pleasure and the last aftershocks of an orgasm, but he still obliges, putting both arms behind him so that they are resting upon the small of his back. He knows what Jaskier is going to do, but even so, he shudders when the bard’s fingers slip over his wrists.

“We have two options, Witcher,” he says. “My first thought was ropes. But you’ve been so good for me that as a reward, you can get a silk belt, instead. What will it be?”

Ropes would be much more effective at holding him down, they both know it. But he’d promised to be good, hasn’t he?

“Silk,” he says, voice hoarse. “Please.”

He doesn’t see Jaskier’s pleased smile but he can feel it. The same way he can’t see the magic swirling around his fingers, but he can feel it with his very being.

“Wonderful,” Jaskier says, slipping off the bed.

He reaches down to pick up his dressing gown, pulls the long belt free from its loops, and, just before returning to Geralt’s side, hands him a cup of cold water that Geralt downs in one. Before Jaskier takes it away, he risks intercepting his wrist and pulling his hand to his lips, leaving a grateful kiss on the knuckles.

Jaskier smiles at him, warm and loving, and brushes a stray strand of silver hair out of his face, leaning down to give the witcher one more kiss before pulling away.

Geralt gets his arms back behind his back, and closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing as Jaskier ties them, starting at his wrists and moving halfway up his forearms. The silk is pleasant against his skin, but tied tight enough to keep his arms in place.

“You like it when you can feel my magic, don’t you?” Jaskier murmurs, running his hands up Geralt’s thighs.

Even though he expects it, the witcher still shivers.

“You know that witchers feel it differently than humans,” he says, the last word breaking off into a gasp as Jaskier slips his fingers back inside, moving his wrists slowly.

He’s still more sensitive than usual, and once Jaskier brushes over the right spot inside, Geralt bites on his lip to silence a moan. He’s still half-hard and swelling fast, the pressure of the ring making him lightheaded with oversensitivity.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to be in the mood for waiting any longer, so he gets him ready fast, fucking the witcher with his fingers until he’s fully hard again, panting and whimpering with pleasure, each touch bordering on too much.

He doesn’t need a lot so soon after the first orgasm, and it’s barely minutes that he’s on the edge again, his cock leaking with precome and making a mess of the sheets under him.

Behind the haze in his head and the overstimulation, Geralt barely notices his medallion trembling.

But then, without warning, Jaskier pulls his fingers out, and Geralt whines at the loss.

“There you go,” Jaskier purrs. “Told you I could make you whine.”

And then, before Geralt can say anything in his defence or even form a sentence in his head, he pushes a glass toy inside, and all words leave Geralt’s mind.

It's much longer than Jaskier’s fingers, and though the width is about the same, the three beads along the length are wider, each next one bigger than the previous, and as Jaskier slips the toy in all the way, there are sparks behind Geralt’s closed eyes.

He arches his back until it hurts, barely able to breathe, and Jaskier gives him a few moments to get used to it, to adjust to the pleasant burn of the stretch, wrapping his fingers around the base of the witcher’s cock and giving him a couple of long, slow strokes.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs, pulling the toy out halfway and then sinking it back in.

The glass feels deliriously good when it brushes over the right spot inside, the pressure almost overwhelming, and Geralt clenches his fists, desperately trying to get control over his breathing.

“Feels good--” he chokes out, hips twitching when Jaskier moves the toy again.

He doesn’t have it in him to say anything else, even to try, and Jaskier doesn’t seem to be waiting for him to do so, for he picks up his pace almost immediately, knowing as well as Geralt that he’s already on the edge.

He fucks him fast and hard, pulling the toy out of him almost entirely every time and then sinking it back in, filling the room with the dirty, obscene sounds of it.

Geralt doesn’t even try to hold back his moans and broken whimpers, rocking into every thrust, and though at first Jaskier slaps him on the hip, soon enough he allows for it.

“You can’t come until you have permission,” he says, and Geralt clenches his jaw so tight it hurts, keeping himself on the edge.

The pressure of the ring drives him insane, makes him leak with precome, ruining the sheets beneath him, and he feels like he will just pass out if he’s not allowed to come for much longer.

His entire body trembles uncontrollably, and it’s hard to keep his knees steady under him, but it feels so agonisingly good that Geralt still takes every thrust greedily, even as his eyes burn with tears of overstimulation.

“You know, I wanted to fuck you myself after this,” Jaskier murmurs, running his lips over Geralt’s thigh and sucking a mark into it, slow and thorough. “Test your limits. But looking at you now, I think I want you in me too much.”

The thought goes straight to the witcher’s cock and he bites his lip, the copper taste of blood spilling over his tongue, if only to keep himself on the edge.

He can’t remember ever coming untouched twice in a row before, but Jaskier knew his way around maddeningly well.

“What do you think, my love?” he urges, leaving another mark beside the first one. “Do you think you’ll still have enough energy in you to properly fuck me, hm?”

Every time Jaskier sinks the toy deep into his body, his cock twitches, throbbing painfully, and Geralt is far beyond making sentences, let alone talking.

But Jaskier seems determined to get an answer, for he slips his other hand into his damp hair and pulls hard, making the witcher throw his head back.

“An answer, Witcher,” he demands.

Geralt knows that there are tears in his eyes, knows that Jaskier can see them shine in the low light of the candles, but it’s too late to hide now.

“Anything you want--” he manages to say, somehow. “Gods, anything--”

As soon as he gets his answer, Jaskier lets go of his hair, allowing him to hide his face in the pillows again, and it might be minutes, might be hours, Geralt is too delirious to tell, that he finally leans down to his ear, still moving the toy inside, and whispers:

“Anytime you want.”

That’s all it takes to push Geralt over the edge.

He comes with a broken whine, making an utter mess of his stomach and the sheets beneath, and just like last time, Jaskier fucks him through it, until it gets so much that Geralt begs him to stop.

His head is spinning worse than from any alcohol or elixir he’d ever had, so much that his consciousness threatens to slip away, and he doesn’t even notice as Jaskier unties his arms, just sighs in relief when the bard rolls him onto his side and then onto his back, his lips and hands all over him.

“Gods, Geralt, do you know how perfect you are?” he whispers, peppering kisses over his neck and running his warm hands down his sides, calming and comforting. “I can’t believe you’re all mine.”

“All yours,” Geralt echoes, wrapping an arm around the bard’s back but unable to as much as open his eyes.

He knows that Jaskier won’t give him enough time to fully recover, that after an orgasm like that he’ll need an entire night of sleep, and despite himself, the thought of another round thrills him.

He’s proven right within minutes, when Jaskier, still mapping out his chest with his lips, reaches down to wrap his fingers around the base of his cock.

He slips the ring off, making Geralt shudder at the pressure of it, but once it’s gone, it feels like he can breathe again. The relief washes over him like a wave, fueling the last aftershocks of pleasure, and he doesn’t even try to bite back a trembling moan.

Slowly, his head clears enough for Geralt to blindly find Jaskier’s wrist, unafraid of any punishment that might follow, and pull the bard into a kiss.

Jaskier allows him that little disobedience, kissing him back with just as much feeling behind it, licking into his mouth and moaning softly as Geralt catches his lower lip between his teeth.

Despite the dark haze over his mind, his body recovers faster, and Jaskier’s fingers feel so maddeningly good that within minutes, he’s fully hard again.

“Fuck, I won’t last long,” Jaskier whispers, pulling him into another kiss before breaking away and straddling his hips.

He rolls his hips over Geralt’s, ruts against him, and the feeling of his warm, smooth skin against the witcher’s cock is beyond unbelievable.

“You’re not--” Geralt starts, unable to focus his gaze on Jaskier’s face, but the bard cuts him off.

“You don’t think that while I was taking a bath, that was all I did, do you?” he smiles, pushing back against Geralt’s cock. “I had a little fun of my own, Witcher. With magic like mine, there are so many ways I can play with myself.”

Geralt’s always had a rather vivid imagination, and the fantasy flashes before his eyes in a set of bright images, making him throw his head back with a moan, hands coming up to rest on Jaskier’s hips.

“You’ll have to show me one day,” he whispers, and by the way Jaskier’s eyes light up he knows that it won’t take a lot to get what he wants.

Jaskier smiles at him, full of promise, and then he can wait no longer, reaching behind him to wrap his fingers around Geralt’s cock, so slick with precome and spend that there’s no need for oil, and sink onto it, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

Even as he takes Geralt in easily, he’s still so unbearably tight that for a second, Geralt feels like he won’t be able to take it, but then Jaskier starts moving, and the witcher’s mind goes completely blank.

Jaskier doesn’t give either of them time, his own cock flush and throbbing, and picks up the rhythm immediately, both his hands pressed to Geralt’s abdomen for balance.

He moans, open and sweet, fucking himself onto Geralt’s cock fast and hard, fully in control of his own pleasure, and Geralt’s head reels with it, every move resonating through his own body in waves of sweet weakness.

They both know that he’s too overstimulated to last long, but it barely matters, if at all. They’ve got all the time in the world now.

Geralt doesn’t even notice his own moans, too focused on Jaskier’s voice, but at the same time, though very distantly, he’s aware of how good they sound together.

Jaskier drags his nails down his chest, leaving burning scratches behind, and whimpers as his pleasure builds, getting hotter, sharper.

“You’ve been so good this whole time,” he whispers, voice husky with lust. “And I want you to do just one more thing for me.”

Geralt isn’t capable of answering anymore, nor does Jaskier wait for him to be.

“I want you to come together with me,” he says, biting on his lip to prolong his pleasure just a little more. “And I’m so fucking close--”

Geralt doesn’t need to hear it to know. It’s in the way Jaskier clenches around him, in the way he loses the rhythm of his moves, in the way that he smells. And gods know Geralt will obey him at anything he wants right now.

He nods, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of Jaskier’s thighs, and the bard shuts his eyes, moving faster and faster, scratching Geralt’s chest raw with his nails, until finally, his body seizes, and he comes with a sharp cry, spilling all over both their bodies.

He clenches around Geralt painfully tight, shaking through his orgasm, and the witcher is still so overly-sensitive that it’s all it takes for him to reach his high, too, filling Jaskier’s tight heat with his spend.

For a second or two, his mind slips into complete darkness, shutting down, but before Jaskier can notice, he comes back to his senses, breathing hard.

He’d had three orgasms in a row before but never this powerful, and he can barely even feel his body with just how much it’s been. His fingers tingle with hyperventilation, completely numb, and he can barely find it in him to wrap his arms around Jaskier when he carefully pulls off and falls onto the bed beside him.

“I love you,” Jaskier whispers against his chest, still trembling with the aftershocks.

Geralt knows that he’s an absolute mess after three orgasms, and that he should tell Jaskier not to touch him until he cleans up, but fuck, he’s just a man, and there are some things that are just beyond him.

“I love you more,” he echoes, a pleased sigh escaping his lips as Jaskier pulls a warm blanket over both of them.

He’s barely conscious, exhaustion tugging him into the sweet realms of dreams, but he’s still awake when he feels Jaskier smile against his chest and say:

“Not possible.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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the-melting-world · 3 years

Text

Goosebumps 🍋

~ In which a pscyhic pirate reunites with a quiet quartermaster...

@midsummer-masquerade

Sun Bai x Jacqui

Jacqui belongs to @apprenticealec

You can read all the fics to Off To The Races: A Midsummer Masquerade here.

Music: "Goosebumps" by Travis Porter

Day 5 of The Midsummer Masquerade ~ Voyeurism

Smut Prompts 9 + 48: "Is it good when I touch you here? Or maybe here?” + “Shall we put that mouth to better use?”

cw: brief mention of death

~ 3k words

Shortly after Rodrigo leaves his quartermaster's side to pursue a masquerade guest with a swan mask, Jacqui starts to feel a familiar, encouraging sensation lightly pressing up the against the nape of his neck...

As much as Jacqui couldn’t get enough of Sun Bai’s telepathic kisses, this was the one time he could pass on them. Especially if it meant he could catch up to the slippery mantis as he took Jacqui on a maddening journey through the Palace corridors.

Though Jacqui was able to keep Bai in his sights – thanks to both of their heights, none of them had a problem getting lost in the sea of people – Bai was always just out of Jacqui’s reach. Yet the pirate continued to taunt and poke the quartermaster with those psychic touches that felt eerily similar to Bai’s lips walking down his spine.

Eventually, the halls grew darker and less crowded.

Bai, Jacqui called out in his own head, knowing that the other could hear him, where the hell are you taking us?

A kiss ghosted across Jacqui’s pressure point, followed by some quiet snickering.

[You’ll see.]

Finally, Bai went still before a pair of tall, metal doors. Jacqui caught up to him and, with breathtaking control, steered him against the wall. This close to Bai’s lean body, barely covered by a dark silk robe, Jacqui could hardly hold back from burying his face in the pirate’s neck. And so he didn’t.

Bai hissed and trembled in what Jacqui knew to be pleasure as he walked his lips up and down Sun Bai’s throat, taking in his scent of rain and whatever herbal tea he last had to drink.

Jacqui reached for the opening in Bai’s robe and slowly dragged the pad of his finger down his chest. “Is it good when I touch you here?” He pulled the edge of Bai’s robe off his shoulder “Or maybe here?” Jacqui whispered as he lowered his head and dropped a kiss to the exposed skin.

To Jacqui’s surprise, it was Bai who eliminated the space between them. “I need you closer.” The pirate sounded desperate, almost whiny.

Jacqui rocked his hips forward and once again rolled his face against his partner’s neck.

“I’m here. Take as much of me as you want.”

Jacqui sensed some of the internal battle taking place in Bai. He didn’t miss a single shiver or shudder from the former bounty hunter. Bai dragged his palms up and down Jacqui’s bare chest and keened his hips forward so his erection rubbed insistently against the quartermaster’s.

[Goddamnit Jacqui, I want all of you.]

He sounded more frustrated with himself more than anything. Jacqui didn’t know if it would ever be the right time to ask Bai how he got this way. Sometimes in the rare quiet hours on the Bleeding Heart, he wondered about Bai’s behaviors. He had seen him without clothes and knew that he didn’t have any scars or brands to speak of. So what was the source of all his avoidance?

There were other peculiarities as well. In the bedroom, Bai had an aversion to being bent over solid surfaces. He preferred to stretch out on the bed or even the floor. He was also content with being on his hands and knees. These aversions weren’t something Bai ever came out and spoke to Jacqui about. The observant quartermaster simply happened to pick up on things over time.

For now, however, his curiosity would have to wait. He wanted Bai just as much as he felt wanted by him. Jacqui used a fraction of his strength to line his entire body up with Bai’s, pinning him firmly to the wall. He fed a hand inside his robe, relishing in the way Bai’s smooth skin rippled as Jacqui’s palm traveled down to his waist where he firmly gripped. Jacqui wanted to feel more of Bai between his legs so he spread his own a little, encouraging Bai to press his thigh in between them.

Jacqui’s other hand came up last to Bai’s head. Soon he was lost in his ghostly white waves, careful not to disturb his glasses as he moved in with deep and tender kisses. By now, Bai no longer struggled with matching Jacqui’s rhythm. His body might have been shivering and losing its grip every time Jacqui flexed his muscles, but that wasn’t the case with his mouth. Bai’s jaw went slack for Jacqui as his tongue came alive and eager to tease the ring in the pirate’s lip.

“We need to find a room,” Jacqui groaned as he drew back just enough to look into Bai’s eyes. Bai was clearly in a giving mood and he didn’t want to be in a place open enough to risk getting interrupted by any of the crew.

Jacqui suddenly had a thought. It made him smirk as he drew Bai’s face up by his chin. “And then maybe we can put that mouth to better use, hm?” He gave him a soft kiss, but immediately regretted his words when he pulled back and saw the look on Bai’s face.

Jacqui wished he could kick himself. If there was one thing Bai had come clean about in the past, it was his vulnerabilities around any oral affection below the waist.

Jacqui stepped back and hid his face in his palm. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. I totally forgot–”

Bai’s hand came up to rest on Jacqui’s arm. He gently pried Jacqui’s palm from his face. “No. That’s actually something I wanted to…” He swallowed and adjusted his lenses. “Just follow me.”

The room that Bai led Jacqui inside of was almost completely dark except for a spot in the center that was lit up by a single beam of light. There was a cushion on the floor, resting under the spotlight.

Jacqui stopped Bai from going any further. “Wait. Before I forget.” He pulled out something he had carried with from the ship. “This is for you.”

Bai didn’t look at the gift until both of them were under the light. He quietly observed a simple solid black case. Once he figured out how it opened, he discovered the rich velvety interior. It came in a nostalgic shade of green much like the jade stones occupying the piercings in Bai’s septum and bridge.

“For my glasses?” The psychic whispered.

Jacqui smiled as he carefully removed the blue-tinted frames from Bai’s face and set them inside the case. “Yes. So you don’t have to keep replacing them so often. Besides, I figured it would come in handy tonight.” He set the case on the ground out of the light.

“Now.” Jacqui faced Bai again. “What was it that you wanted to show me?”

Bai looked a little lost for words. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting the gift. Jacqui reassured him by brushing his thumb over the mole close to Bai’s eye.

“You can talk to me with your mind if that’s easier.”

Bai turned his eyes up under the light, which illuminated the true gray in them.

[It is easier this way.]

Jacqui wasn’t sure at first, but he thought he heard the space suddenly fill up with the sound of a violin.

[You asked me earlier if I wanted to put my mouth to better use.]

The darkness in the room began to lift.

[The truth is I do. I have. I always have.]

It didn’t take long for Jacqui to realize that they were not alone.

[These sort of things take a little longer for me. But I think I’m ready now, Jacqui. I wanted to make tonight special for that reason.]

Jacqui scanned the room to see that they were surrounded by chairs, which were all occupied. There were two rows. The second row belonged to the orchestra. The first row closest to Jacqui and Bai was full of guests barely clothed and touching themselves in ways that were meant to bring pleasure.

[It’s going to be special because we get to have a witness. Quite a few actually.]

The party guests’ limbs were positioned at odd angles. That’s when Jacqui noticed that they all seemed to be controlled by strings at their joints. He followed the threads up and and up and up until…

[Puppet masters and their “marionettes,”] Bai explained. [It’s some sort of kink magic. I don’t know. All the parties involved are consenting, I promise.]

Jacqui’s heart was causing a lump to form at the base of his throat. He looked back at Bai.

“They’re going to watch us while you–”

Bai collided messily with Jacqui’s mouth. Hot and breathy, he whispered, “While I suck you off – yes, yes. Yes.”

[If you’re not into it, just say the word. I’ll make them go away.]

Jacqui steadied his breath against Bai’s already swollen lips. He cleared his throat and said with calm confidence, “Let them watch.”

Sun Bai didn’t waste any more time talking. He dipped his face against Jacqui’s neck, working kisses down his collarbone and over his chest. His fingers came to Jacqui’s crotch to unlace the drawstrings on his tight, leather pants.

Meanwhile, the orchestra and the masturbating marionettes carried on in the background.

[Do you want to know why I don’t get jealous when I see Rodrigo all over you? Or lose my cool whenever he catches wind of me and chases me off? It’s because I know and more importantly I know that you know: you’re mine. Just mine.]

Bai was on his knees now, dragging his open mouth over Jacqui’s tight bulge. His breath was unsteady under the musical whine of the strings playing in the background. Bai dug his fingers behind the leather and seesawed the fabric down just enough to free Jacqui's cock.

The psychic looked up at the quartermaster as he formed a ring with his index and thumb that he then slid from Jacqui’s base and up until he gently pinched the head. Bai maintained eye contact as he brought his face forward and dabbed the crease of his lower lip with Jacqui’s small spell of precum.

Jacqui’s face burned at the sight. He knew he had no control over the muscles in his jaw. Was he wetting or biting his lip? Was he arching his eyebrow in curious fascination? He had no clue.

Bai was tonguing his slit now, his eyes closed in tranquil concentration. He dug his fingers deeper past the lip of Jacqui’s pants and gave a slow tug, filling his mouth up with Jacqui’s impressive length. Bai took his time salivating over every centimeter of Jacqui’s cock, savoring each ridge, each hidden dimple that he would have otherwise missed if he had simply tried to swallow him whole.

“Bai,” Jacqui breathed, “I want you in my head too. Talk to me.”

Bai’s eyes fluttered open. He gave the softest of smirks, his mouth still full of cock.

[What’s wrong? Don’t like the orchestra that I’ve prepared for you? And here I thought you were a man who could appreciate the more alternative art forms.]

Before Jacqui could respond, Bai’s presence was back.

[Is it getting to be too much? The crowds? The lights? I can turn them off if that’s better.]

Jacqui didn’t know how Bai controlled it, but the room went completely dark. The music was still going and the audience was still getting off on themselves.

[There. Sounds like they’ve seen enough to take care of themselves. Now it’s just you and me.]

The sounds of the marionettes groaning and cycling through their orgasms were only amplified in Jacqui’s ears. That and Bai’s wet, deliberate sucking.

[Show me you’re mine, Jacqui.]

Jacqui bit back a groan. “What do you mean?”

[I know you won’t ever say it outright. Out of respect for your captain. I understand that, but I know you to be a man of action rather than words. So show me.]

The lights came back on. Bai hollowed out his mouth and came to a stop.

Jacqui shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bai came off his cock and took a moment to swallow his spit. Then he stood up and kissed Jacqui with such tenderness, the quartermaster felt his heart actually skip a beat.

“You don’t want to hurt me?”

Jacqui shook his head again, his silver ring lightly brushing along Bai’s lower lip. Bai steadied Jacqui’s head by reaching up and tightening his hand in the roots of his locs.

“Then don’t.” He steadied Jacqui’s lips with a kiss. “You know I trust you.”

Bai drifted back down to kneel on the cushion. This time Jacqui was ready. Eager even. He fumbled at his leather still constricting his waist and peeled it down to his knees so his legs could breathe and spread a little wider.

Stay with me, Jacqui called out when he felt Bai trying to fade from his head. The cool feel of wet grass stayed as he worked his cock past Bai’s lips and over his tongue.

[–mmk!]

Jacqui sensed the ebb and flow of Bai’s reactions as he held his face and found his rhythm in it, his own groans barely a whisper despite all of the charged blood that had rushed straight to his extremities.

Bai’s lashes fluttered out of his control. His gunmetal eyes lolled behind them. And then the lights began to flicker, like a strobe, dancing to the music of the marionettes and the violins and Bai’s patient gagging.

Jacqui began to feel Bai’s presence in a new way in the form of a firm, uneven pulse. He realized it was the beat of his own cock every time it kissed the back of Bai’s throat. The sensation was so hypnotic, Jacqui let go of a shuddering breath and leaned into it.

The strobe lights danced for them, Bai’s reactions registering in Jacqui’s vision only as flickers and flashes. The steady, constant beat of his hips took both of them by storm.

“Bai, I’m coming.”

[Yeah, I know.]

Jacqui was seeing stars. His fingers became tangled up in Bai’s ghostly waves. His hips managed not to jerk too hard, but he couldn’t help anchoring Bai’s face downward so his cock could take advantage of the natural curve of his throat. He opened his hips some more as he emptied out his excitement. Jacqui groaned unexpectedly at the sensation of Bai’s esophagus gently nipping the tip of his cock with each desperate swallow.

Despite his efforts, Bai hadn’t been able to get it all down. While the orchestra was wrapping up and the puppet magicians were packing their things and filing out, Sun Bai was still trying to catch his breath against Jacqui’s leg. Jacqui stroked his hair while Bai leaned his cheek against the quartermaster’s damp thigh and waited until his chest stopped heaving.

Jacqui expected that when Bai was ready, he would tuck Jacqui’s cock back in his pants and go about the rest of his night. But Bai stayed, leaving breathy, half-hearted kisses along his partner’s inner thigh.

This went on for some time, to the point where Jacqui’s already damp skin tingled under the tenderness of Bai’s lips and the light brushing of the soft, dark hair from his chin. All the other guests had left the dark hall.

Jacqui, who wasn’t used to this sort of attention, especially from Bai, called out to him. “Babe, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know that.” Bai shot Jacqui a look before he went back to kissing and sighing against him. Jacqui’s face burned under the prolonged affection. He returned to massaging his fingers against Bai’s scalp, which only earned him more delayed reactions that walked a fine line between an exhale and a whimper.

Finally, Bai helped Jacqui adjust his pants before getting back to his feet. Jacqui walked over to where he had set down the glasses case and handed them off to Bai.

“Thank you. I…” Bai hesitated. “I got a room for us. But if you want to go back to yours–”

“I’m staying with you tonight.”

Bai turned around before Jacqui could catch his reaction. “Alright then. It’s this way.”

Sun Bai’s chambers were sleek and free of the usual masquerade decorations. Without many words, Jacqui and Bai helped each other out of the more restrictive components of their costumes until Bai was just in his silk robe. He brought another robe out of the closet for Jacqui, so he wouldn’t get cold. This one was dark blue, almost black. The swirls of gold painted in the fabric were only visible when they caught the light at certain angles.

“You can keep that,” Bai said just as Jacqui was in the middle of calculating the fortune something like this must have been worth.

Soon they were under the sheets, Jacqui’s back resting against the pillows and the headrest while Bai chose to lay his head on the quartermaster’s chest. With one leg draped over Jacqui’s thigh and his arm resting along his abdomen, Bai encouraged him to let down his bun and massage his darker roots. While Jacqui happily went about doing so, running his fingers through the psychic’s pale locks, Bai spoke quietly about his travels since they had last seen each other.

“We got a cat. He’s gray and likes to ride on my shoulders sometimes.”

“He sounds a lot sweeter than Mr. Pickles,” Jacqui mused. “What’s his name?”

Bai offhandedly flexed his wrist. “Gatsby... Don’t ask me what it means. Sascha named him. Probably has something to do with guns.”

The pirates kept chatting until Jacqui started to yawn.

Bai shifted a little. “Hey. Stay up with me. Don’t let me fall asleep either.”

Jacqui arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

In all the time they had known each other, Bai had never spent the night. This was also the longest he and Jacqui had spent in a position like this. Cuddling seemed a strange word to use, but Jacqui honestly didn’t know what else to call it.

Bai hesitated. “Because…”

Jacqui held his breath. A few beats later, Bai’s confession came out honest and straightforward.

“Because the last time I fell asleep in someone’s arms, I woke up in a pit of dead bodies.”

Jacqui stiffened ever so slightly, hoping Bai hadn’t noticed.

Bai didn’t turn his head to look back at Jacqui. In fact, he didn’t move at all.

“I was nineteen.”

Jacqui closed his eyes as he dipped his face towards Bai’s crown.

“I won’t let you fall asleep.” He wrapped both arms around Bai and held him as tightly as he could. “I promise.”

Sun Bai let out a very small breath.

[Thank you.]

#the arcana #sun bai the psychic #jacqui the quartermaster #midsummer masquerade #VesuviaAfterDark #death mention #lemon #minors dni #my writing #baiqui

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toraodwaterlaw · 3 years

Text

Taken Apart

After Vergo’s attack, Corazon escapes to the coast with Law. They’re both alive for the time being, but duty soon pulls them apart.

Pt. 1 of a 2 part CoraLives!AU story. 4.5k, minor warning for a panic attack and for non-graphic description of Law dissecting/experimenting with his powers on himself.

Everything hurt down to the rough chop slap of waves against wood. Law groaned and forced his eyes open. If he wasn’t in so much pain, he would have thought that everything that had happened on Minion had been a dream because he was back on the ship that had ferried him from island to island over the last six months. He lifted himself on trembling limbs and slumped into a seated position.

“Cora-san?”

The towering blond was hunched over on the far side of the small vessel, his blood stained shirt and coat discarded while he wrapped bandages around his torso. He froze for a moment and then continued tending to his wounds. At first Law thought that maybe Cora hadn’t heard him. His voice was frustratingly weak, even to his own ears. Then Cora sighed, put the bandages aside, and pulled his shirt and coat back on.

“Commander Donquixote Rosinante from the marine headquarters,” he said, voice low and clear. “Marine Code 01746.” When he turned around, Law saw that there were tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve been with the navy from the start. I’ve been undercover so that I could try to prevent my brother from causing a tragedy in the future.”

Law had known or at least suspected most of this for some time. Then he thought of the message he’d foolishly delivered into Vergo’s hands. Was Cora upset with him for ruining his years long mission? He looked away at the angry grey sea and then back at the man— the marine— in front of him. “Why are you telling me all of this now? I already knew.”

Cora hung his head. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I didn’t want you to hate me.” He shook his head and blinked. “Wait— you knew?”

“Of course I knew. I’m not stupid.”

“No. No you’re not.” Cora’s startled expression softened as the start of a smile crept on to his face. “But if you knew, why did you ask me before?”

Law balled his hands into fists and wriggled in place. “I just wanted to see how you would answer. To know if… if you cared enough to lie about something like that. For me.”

Cora huffed out a soft laugh. He reached a long arm toward Law and then aborted the gesture. Instead, he got to his feet, his smile gone. In its place was a grim, determined look that Law hadn’t seen since Cora had confronted him about his full name months ago.

“You asked why I was telling you this now.”

He nodded his head back to the cliffs behind him. Law followed the motion and craned his neck to try to figure out what he was supposed to be looking at. There, at the top of the snow lined rocks, was what appeared to be a giant cage. He must have made some sort of face because Cora nodded in response.

“Doffy is up to something,” Cora said. “I don’t know what but I do know there are marines there who are probably in a mountain of trouble. I can’t let them face the Donquixote Family alone. Not when…” His eyes shut and when he opened them again there was a fire there. “It’s my responsibility to stop him.”

Law was beyond tired and so it took a moment for the pieces to fall together. When they did, his heart plummeted. “You’re going back?” He grabbed the side of the boat to push himself up to his feet. Between his exhaustion and the rocking from the waves, it was all he could do to keep upright. He squeezed his eyes shut while he fought back the turning of his stomach. “I’m coming with you.”

Cora frowned at him. “Law… You can barely stand.”

“And you were shot. A lot.”

Law took an angry step forward. The whole world seemed to pitch around him. He braced for a fall into the water and instead found himself in Cora’s hands. The world continued spinning and he realized he hadn’t upset the boat. He was just too ill and weak to move around in a boat without making himself dizzy.

It made him furious. He felt tears prick at his eyes in his anger.

The entire top of his head was enveloped by a large hand. “As angry as Doffy might be, I’m his brother. He won’t kill me. I’ll be back,” Cora said. “It’s you and the Op-Op fruit that Doffy wants. So what I need is to know you’ll be there when I come for you. That means you need to get out of here, start figuring out that fruit of yours, and get better.”

Law lifted a hand and looked down at it. He’d felt something the moment he’d swallowed down his first bite of the bitter fruit. Since then that feeling had only grown. He couldn’t yet figure out the shape of it but he could see the outlines.

That didn’t mean he agreed with leaving Cora behind. Unfortunately Cora knew him well enough by now to head off any argument.

“Calm.” Law felt the now familiar subtle tingle of Cora’s powers washing over him. Cora took a long legged step back. He pulled up the anchor and then grabbed hold of the rope that would take him back up the cliff. “This will ensure that you and anything you touch is silent. It will help you slip away without anyone noticing so that you can get to Swallow. Wait for me there. I won’t be more than a day or two.”

Law marveled when he was met with absolute silence as he slapped his hands on the wood of the boat. His eyes widened and that drew out another smile from Cora. Law scrambled to his feet, ready to latch onto Cora’s leg if he needed to. Before he got more than a handful of shaky steps, Cora was already partly up the rope with his foot on the bow of the ship.

Something about the way he was looking at him made Law stop. Cora’s smile became so wide and bright that it seemed at odds with the cloud filled sky above. Law blinked up at him.

“Law…” Cora’s smile broadened even further, reaching impossible levels. “I love you.”

With that, he kicked off the boat and set it adrift. Despite his frustration at being sent away, Law couldn’t help but smile himself. That feeling settled in his heart and bubbled into silent laughter. A sudden gust caught the sail and before he could do anything to stop it, the ship had carried him away from the rocky shores of Minion. Law didn’t move. He stayed rooted in place, unblinking, until Cora disappeared from view.

That effervescent feeling faded fast as the sounds of battle increased. Gunfire echoed through the air and still there was that strange, horrible cage. Law tried to focus on sailing to Swallow as Cora had instructed but he couldn’t stop from looking over his shoulder at the island he was leaving behind.

His vision started to blur so he swiped a hand across his eyes to wipe away tears, only to find there were no tears there. He shook his head but still his vision failed to clear.

“Dammit.”

All Cora had asked of him was to survive and he couldn’t even do that.

Then he realized he’d heard himself speak, which meant Cora’s powers had worn off. His chest tightened. He could feel panic welling up. Now was not the time for that. He had to look at it rationally. In all likelihood, Cora had redirected his energy somewhere more important or Law had simply travelled out of the range of his powers. He wasn’t sure if that’s how these things worked but they had to abide by some sort of rules. Cora had told him that Devil Fruits weren’t magic. They had their limits.

But there was nothing he could tell himself that would stop him from seeing Cora riddled with bullets, the snow beneath him turning red.

Law’s breathing quickened until each gulp of air was too shallow to sustain him. He felt his lungs burn and he started to cough. His vision, already blurred, darkened at the edges. He braced himself by putting his hands on his knees but it wasn’t enough to stop him from swaying. Hot tears welled up and fell from his cheeks as he cursed his body for betraying him at every turn. At this rate he was going to black out and then there was no saying what would happen to him. If he was lucky, he’d regain consciousness before he drifted too far off course. Unlucky and Doflamingo would find him after eluding the marines once more.

He curled into himself and wrapped his arms around the back of his head. He was so tired of it all. He wanted it all to be over. For weeks now, he’d been ready to lay down and wait for the end. In all likelihood, he would have given up a long time ago if not for Cora. He owed it to Cora to keep fighting.

He squeezed his arms tighter to shut out the sound of his own rasping breath, of slapping waves, and distant canonfire. His heart skipped an uneasy beat and a shiver ran through him. He suddenly felt very aware of everything wrong in his body. It wasn’t simply a matter of feeling the pain and numbness in his skin or the fire burning in his lungs. This time he felt aware of every organ— practically every cell— in his body as though he could see them spread out before him like a frog sliced open for dissection.

He slowly unwound his arms and lifted his head. He looked down at his hands, turned palm up. He looked the same but he felt different. It felt like if he tried hard enough, he could see the deposits of lead that had painted his flesh white. He blinked and realized what he had taken for a continued haze in his vision was actually some sort of blue glow. When he reached out he could feel a light buzzing film around him. He was, it would seem, surrounded by a sphere of energy. It reminded him of the way Cora’s powers worked.

Was this the manifestation of his own powers? He had no sooner noticed it when it disappeared by withdrawing into him. Try as he might, he couldn’t make it appear again. He had no idea what he’d done to summon it in the first place.

He had more immediate problems, though. The sea had grown choppier as wind picked up. If he continued to let himself be buffeted by the elements, he could end up capsized. Knowing that his powers were really there, even if he couldn’t yet figure out how to access them, helped to focus him. He could survive this. He would survive this.

With that thought in mind, he wrangled the ship back under his control and finished sailing to Swallow. He’d spent a lot of time at sea since he’d joined the Family and especially in the last six months as he and Cora jumped from location to location, but he’d never been more eager to reach land than he was at that moment. It felt like a finish line in an impossibly long race.

Law gathered what he could from the supplies left in the boat. A knife. His pack with a change of clothes and a bedroll. Flint. It was the most he could easily carry on his own and should be enough for him to hold on until Cora returned. He jumped out of the boat as soon as he felt the bottom scrape land. The shock of the cold water jolted him wide awake and then, just as suddenly, sapped all the energy from him. He had just enough strength left to make sure he fell forward rather than back. He pulled himself over the rocky shore until the water no longer lapped up on his boots.

Law cursed his stupidity. He’d been with the Family long enough, rescued a stumbling Cora enough, to know what happened to Devil Fruit users in sea water. He should have remembered. And even if he hadn’t remembered that, he knew better than to jump into waist deep icy waters. He needed to get inland and start a fire. Before he could worry about figuring out his new abilities or curing the Amber Lead, he needed to get warm.

He braced himself with a breath and pushed up onto trembling legs. He mustered his energy to push the boat back out to sea. If things went as planned, Cora would come for him. If not… he didn’t want to leave an obvious trail for Doflamingo to follow.

He followed the shore for some time to further confuse the trail by avoiding making tracks in the snow. He continued that way until he found a copse of trees. The snow wasn’t quite as deep under the pines and it would give him cover for a short time. He walked to the middle of the pines before he collapsed against one of the trunks. He got dry clothes from his pack and tossed the wet ones aside after he’d changed. It was tempting to gather wood and make a fire now, hope that he would be safe there until Cora came, but he knew better. That wasn’t why he’d stopped anyway.

He remembered his parents spending long days and night puzzling out medical problems. If he could figure out what the Op-Op was capable of, he might be able to do what they’d never gotten a chance to. So he would think things through the way they would have— he would take what facts he had and work from there, one step at a time. He was lost now but he wouldn’t remain that way.

First, he knew he had the power, he just needed to know how to draw it out. Second, he’d done it by accident on the ship. Third, it seemed to take the form of a sphere. That was a place to start. If he could visualize what he’d seen and what he’d felt, he might be able to do it again.

He held out his hand. He tried to recall every detail, no matter how miniscule, of what had happened earlier. There’d been the subtle, numbing tingle of it and a somewhat unnatural, antiseptic taste on the back of his tongue. It had an observable outer membrane that created a sphere around him. Within that sphere, he’d felt a sense of control. He’d felt as though he was not only aware of every hair on his head, every cell in his body, but that he could manipulate it all if he wanted. If that was true, he really could be free of the curse born into his blood.

There! A whirling blue ball appeared in the center of his palm. If he concentrated on it, he could make it bigger. Soon it was the size of his fist, his head, and then his entire body. He pressed the edges of it until it surrounded him and the bases of the trees around him. As before, there was a sense that he could manipulate anything around him. There was certainly a temptation to grab hold of the lead in his flesh and rip it out but, on consideration, he decided the trees would make better test subjects.

He looked at the trunk closest in front of him. He flicked his wrist in an attempt to uproot it. The portion inside the sphere shuddered but, ultimately, remained in place. He tried again with more force behind his gesture but found the same results. He stopped to consider further. Perhaps a tree was too large for him to manipulate or perhaps the problem lay in the fact that he only had a portion of the plant under his control. Maybe a mixture of the two. Whatever the case, the focus of his next trial would be something smaller.

After a quick glance at his surroundings, he settled on a fallen branch. He moved his hand upward and the branch followed. It made circuits through the air, lifted by nothing but his will. He was about to see if he could move two different objects, when his strength abandoned him all at once. The blue sphere shrank back to nothing as exhaustion fell on him like a blanket. He slumped into the snow beneath it. He could do absolutely nothing but watch the thin rise and fall of his chest.

Not the result he’d hoped for but it was still progress. He’d learned that there was a price to pay for his powers. The strongest barrier of what he could do was his own limited stamina. That was something he could work on but he had next to no energy these days and it would stay that way until he’d extracted all the lead from his system.

What he wouldn’t give for a frog to dissect with his new powers. Any animal would do, really, but that was the one he’d practiced on most in the past and so would make the best starting point. He didn’t have a frog though. He also didn’t have time to go hunting for a suitable replacement.

Law bit his lip and held up a hand. He didn’t have the time to do this right. He needed to act. Maybe not on a hand, however. As a surgeon those were the most important tools he had. He eyed his booted feet. He’d rather not lose any limbs, if he could help it, but he needed a part of him that he could easily look at. He pulled out his left boot, carefully placed it aside, and then did the same with his sock. The biting cold against his bare skin made him wince.

Easier than before, he summoned up the blue sphere. He had a moment to muse that he needed a better name for it as he expanded it just enough to envelop his foot. It felt like it used less energy the smaller it was. He needed to find a balance between the energy it took to sustain the bubble and the energy it took to do things within it.

He grabbed the knife he’d taken from the boat and held it with shaking hands against his ankle. He wished he had a scalpel. Likely he didn’t need anything at all, given he’d been able to manipulate a stick without so much as touching it, but the weight of a tool in his hands felt reassuring. Cora had said this wasn’t magic so he would treat it like any other medical procedure. This knife would be his scalpel and the space he controlled, his operating room.

He sucked in a breath and cut downward. His whole body tensed in reaction to what he knew was about to happen and he flinched despite himself. When he forced his eyes open and saw his foot disconnected from his leg, a wave of dizziness washed over him. He wasn’t the squeamish sort. Any last scrap of him that might have been had disappeared while he hid amongst dead bodies to survive. That didn’t mean that he was prepared to see himself chopped to bits.

After a few steadying breaths, he realized something. It wasn’t bleeding. It also didn’t hurt. He’d written off the initial lack of pain as shock but surely it should hurt? All it felt was cold. That’s when he noticed he could not only still feel what it felt but could move his toes if he tried. Despite the crudeness of the knife, the cuts were remarkably clean as well. He’d still feel better with better tools on hand but it seemed, if needed, he could operate with whatever was on hand.

“Fascinating.”

He aimed the knife at his foot again and sliced a few more times. His foot fell to the ground in four neat pieces. There was a sort of numb tingle along the cuts but otherwise no sensation to speak of along the incisions. He picked up one of the pieces of his foot and examined it. The tissue all seemed to be functioning as usual despite being about as far from usual as it could be. What was more, when he focused in, he could sense each of the component parts. If he tried hard enough, he was sure he could manipulate every capillary, tendon, and bone at will. Everything within this operating room was his to control. For the first time, he truly felt like he could be rid of the Amber Lead as he felt it sluggish in his veins.

A scream broke through the winter air and snapped Law back to the present. He froze in place as another followed and shouting came after that. Two— no— three voices disrupted the silence. The smart thing to do would be to stay still and hope that whoever they were, they didn’t come this way, but then he heard a call for help. One of the voices was begging the others to stop. He thought of his futile pleas to Vergo and his hand tightened around the knife. He wasn’t in a mood for bullies.

That meant it was time to see just how much power he actually had. He quickly and carefully realigned the disparate quarters of his foot and pressed them back together. They reconnected as though they’d never been cut at all. Any other time he would have been eager to experiment further but right now he had some skulls to crack.

He quickly reattached the foot and let his powers die away as he pulled on his sock and boot once more. He sheathed the knife at his belt and took off at a run toward the voices. He marvelled at the fact that just moments before his foot had been in pieces on the snow and now he was running as though that had all been a fever dream. It was a good distraction from the rage bubbling up inside him as the first voice was reduced to whimpers.

He could see now where the sounds were coming from. Two boys about his age were standing with bats in hand over a bloodied lump on the ground. It looked like a polar bear but it was wearing clothes. This close Law could hear the bear saying ‘sorry’ again and again, so it clearly wasn’t a normal bear. He remembered a story Cora had told him and his brain supplied the word— Mink. Here was a creature he’d never hoped to see and they were treating it like a monster.

Law could hear his teeth creak, he was grinding them so hard. “Leave him alone.”

The two boys looked up at him. The redhead spat on the ground at Law’s feet. “Why should we?”

“Yeah,” said the other, the one with a hat that said ‘penguin’ on the front. “What are you gonna do about it, kid?”

They both leaned down to talk to him, as though to emphasize how much taller they were than him. If that hadn’t worked for Cora, then it was hardly going to work for them. Law almost pitied them.

He dove forward quickly and punched the redhead in the gut so that he dropped his bat as he doubled over. He knocked the other off his feet with a low, sweeping kick. While they regained their bearings, Law summoned up his powers. The bubble of his Room, as he’d decided to call it, enveloped them all. He ran on pure instinct and gestured at the both of them. They lifted off their feet and then crashed into each other. He then tossed them into a snow bank. He was sorely tempted to use his knife, knowing they wouldn’t be seriously injured, but he could feel himself running out of energy. Until he knew if he could put them back together outside a Room, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble of a good scare.

He felt his knees wobble beneath him. He cancelled the Room before it stretched him too thin. Rather than wait to see if the pair of bullies got back up, Law walked up to the still cowering bear. The bear shrank even further into the snow. It looked up at him with small, dark eyes. He was almost cute.

Not that Law noticed such things. No, he was focused on the injuries the bear had sustained. He tried to approach to see if there was anything he could help with.

“I’m a doctor. Training to be one, anyway. I can help.”

It wasn’t exactly the full truth but he had been further expanding his medical knowledge while serving under Doflamingo. Besides, he figured it was probably more reassuring at the moment than saying he was a pirate. Or former pirate. Or whatever he was now that he’d pissed off his captain for good.

Not that it mattered. The bear put his paws on his head. “I’m sorry,” he whined.

Law huffed. He ran a hand over his face and took the opportunity to gather his fraying patience and energy. He wasn’t in the mood to coddle. “You didn’t do anything. Now come on. I can help you.”

The bear peered out from behind one paw. “You made them float.”

“Yeah?”

“And you threw them.”

Law crossed his arms and glared at the two dark lumps in the snow. “Well they were hurting you weren’t they? I can just stop helping, if you want.”

The trounced boys groaned. However they planned on reacting to their thorough beating, they’d be up soon. Law nodded at them to indicate as much. When the bear did nothing to react, he shrugged and started to walk away. A paw wrapped around his wrist.

“Actually, um, uh… sir?”

Law snorted at that. “Law.”

“I’m, uh, Bepo. Not that you asked. Sorry.”

Law pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt dizzy. He needed to get somewhere to rest. Soon. It looked like two hobbling teenage boys had other ideas. They’d picked themselves up out of the snow and were coming toward him.

“Hey you,” penguin hat said.

Law put a hand on his knife and turned back to Bepo. “Come on.”

“Wait.”

The redhead. Law could hear footsteps getting closer. He spun around, knife in hand. “Don’t try it.”

Penguin hat put up his hands. “That’s not—”

Law readied for another fight. His body had other ideas. The corners of his vision had gone fuzzy and his stomach flipped over on itself. He could see the boys mouthing something at him. Logically he knew they were speaking but he couldn’t hear a word. It didn’t matter. He could beat these fools even if he was only half conscious.

Another step toward them, knife raised, and everything went black.

#one piece #one piece au #trafalgar law #trafalgar d. water law #donquixote rosinante #donquixote rocinante #one piece corazon #corazon #penguin #shachi #bepo #fic

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erekiosuncreativeideas · 4 years

Text

Being Human - Chapter 01

Summary : "It was too much for Snatcher. He had no idea what was happening, what was going on around him. He felt something pounding inside him, fast, with a panicked rhythm. His horror came back at full force when he understood what it was.

This was his heart, beating inside his chest, defying every possible logical explanation. The ghost had come back to life."

Snatcher breaks a Time Piece and has to face the consequences.

Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826561/chapters/60051049

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New fanfiction ! I wanted to try something completely new and... Here it is ! I hope you'll like it ! Don't hesitate to tell me if you liked this first chapter ! I have two more finished, but I want to try to keep a few in advance !

The "Oh The Humanity" AU belongs to @doodledrawsthings ! (AMAZING AU !!!)

Happy reading !

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Chapter 01 - “What did you do to me?”

Becoming a human again was certainly something Snatcher would have never expected. If he had to be completely honest, if someone had told him it would happen to him, he would have probably laughed in their face… And would have eaten their soul afterwards. However, his afterlife had been nothing but a mess since the moment those brats had come into his life. Fallen from the sky, just like their magical hourglasses, those kids had made his life pure hell. Just like his usual victims, the spirit had forced them to sign his contracts, giving up their souls to him. At first, everything was going well, except for most of their pestering… But then, when the time had come to kill them, the ghost had made a huge mistake.

He had forgotten how truly magical those Time Pieces were. When the kids had defeated him, crushing his pride as he was forced to hand over his last time artefact… The shade had thrown it to them mindlessly, just thinking about how he wanted them to leave him alone. However, what he didn’t expect was to hear the sound of breaking glass as the item hit the ground. The kids’ face crumpled as the noise echoed all around them and, soon, a white flash blinded the trio. An overwhelming sound resonated in Snatcher’s mind, like a ringing noise becoming louder and louder. His ghostly form was suddenly submerged by a lot of unknown sensations as it started to distort itself. It was weird, it was unpleasant and it was painful. A scream left his mouth as he felt his spectral body changing on its own, making him suffer greatly. It felt so much different than the pain he had experienced while fighting the two children… And yet, somehow, it all felt terribly familiar.

The shade’s body hit the ground, falling after he had stopped floating in the air for some reason. His mind was full of static noise and he barely registered the pain because of it. He couldn’t help but curl up and tremble while he was drowning under so many new sensations. He was probably pathetic, yet the spirit didn’t care. This was absolute torture, it was too much, too much!

His hands grabbed his head, trying to cover his ears as a desperate attempt at blocking the ringing noise. But then, the ghost froze completely. His… Ears? The thought made his entire body grow cold, but it was nothing compared to the realization that his fingers didn’t meet his spectral form.

Instead, they met soft and curly hair.

The shock was enough to bring Snatcher back to reality. He opened his eyes despite the pain attacking his brain and nothing, absolutely nothing could have prepared him for what he had to see. He was lying on the ground, shaking like a leaf. He brought back his hands to examine them and oh- those weren’t his hands. An expression of complete horror appeared on his face as he observed the meaty hands in front of him. When he bent each one of the fingers, his terror intensified: he was controlling them. They were connected to arms, meaty arms, which were both connected to him as well. His entire body had nothing to do with his ghostly form anymore. His tail had disappeared, replaced by two legs he couldn’t control very well.

Oh God, no, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. A cry left his mouth and, soon, a burning sensation erupted inside of his chest. Panic settled over him as he grasped at his sides, not knowing what could possibly hurt him so much. He felt like he was dying, again, it hurt, it hurt so much, oh God…!

He suddenly felt two small hands grab his shoulders -ah, what a funny thing to have in the afterlife!-, shaking him back and forth, as a voice forced him to focus on the present. He barely heard his name and other words he had trouble to understand.

-“Breathe!” the voice said, but Snatcher didn’t hear it right the first time. All he knew was that it hurt, it burnt, it was compressing his chest so, so much. The shaking became stronger, faster, and soon, the ghost’s attention turned to the person who was ordering him to breathe. His eyes widened when he saw the hatted brat, crying as she was holding him. Behind her, the shade could see her best friend, looking panicked. When the spirit’s eyes met hers, she quickly joined her hatted friend and, soon, the ghost felt her hands taking his.

The contact was so strange, so soft, so warm…!

-“Snatcher!” screamed the other little girl as she shook him even more: “Open your pecking mouth and breathe!”

The pain was unbearable but, somehow, he finally managed to understand what she was trying to tell him and, not thinking anymore, he just opened his mouth. Survival instincts he thought he didn’t have anymore took over, pushing his rational mind on the side as air filled his lungs. It was weird, it felt strange, it felt so unnatural, and yet… It eased the pain in his chest. The ghost’s stare was lost into space as he felt his body acting on its own, trying to survive.

It was too much for Snatcher. He had no idea what was happening, what was going on around him. He felt something pounding inside him, fast, with a panicked rhythm. His horror came back at full force when he understood what it was.

This was his heart, beating inside his chest, defying every possible logical explanation.

The ghost had come back to life.

Snatcher’s panic was at its highest when the realization hit him hard, like a violent wave knocking him down: he was alive. The thought seemed so absurd, so stupid! How could he be alive when he knew very well he had died hundreds of years ago? He was there, he could testify! And yet, here he was, rocking back and forth as he kept breathing, with a chaotic rhythm.

Everything was just so unbearable. The contact of the clothes against his skin, the feeling of the air caressing his face, the touch of the kids on his body, the feeling of the air passing inside his throat as he filled his lungs, the smells of the forest… He could feel his heart pounding in his chest repeatedly, loud and hard, the pulsations spreading everywhere in his body, but mostly his temples. It hurt so much. The ghost felt like someone was hitting the sides of his brain with a bat, again and again and again… Each sound he was hearing intensified his suffering and, soon, he had to close his eyes, unable to bear any more sensations. The gesture was so foreign to him and was mostly done on instinct. Knowing he had eyelids again… This seemed like a detail and yet it was not. As a ghost, when he closed his eyes, it was just black, pure darkness. Now… He could see the light passing through the thin skin of his eyelids.

He was still seeing something. It just never stopped.

Saliva was piling up in his mouth and he had no idea what to do about it. The idea of having a whole mouth again, a tongue, teeth, a palate, a throat…! It was absolutely surreal. Well, the whole situation was, in fact.

The thought made him freeze suddenly: why did it happen in the first place? His eyes glanced everywhere, trying to find an explanation. As for his mind, it was trying its best to ignore all the new feelings he was experiencing, including the sensation of his eyes moving around. It felt so foreign, so… Disgusting.

His eyes fell on the broken Time Piece on the ground and, all of a sudden, everything just made sense. How did he not understand right away? He wondered, fear and confusion quickly replaced by rage and anger. He lifted his head, staring at the little girls comforting him, clenching his teeth as a single thought echoed in his mind.

Of course, it had to be their fault.

-“What-” the ghost coughed, the saliva in his mouth entering his throat in the wrong way. He had to spit what was left in his mouth to the ground, having no idea how to swallow yet. The kids were watching him carefully, a look of worry and fear on their face as he started to speak again, his voice very low: “What did you do to me?”

His throat vibrated as he said those words, almost making him cough again. It was just so weird.

In front of him, the kids looked at each other with confusion, as if they didn’t understand what he had meant. Snatcher’s rage grew at the observation: oh, so they didn’t get what he was asking? Then he would make them, he thought, threateningly.

-“I swear…” he started once more, a growl in his voice, glaring at the children with fury: “If you don’t tell me what happened or even try to reverse this whole thing… I will kill you both.”

A look of realization crossed the kids’ features at his words. The bow-wearing kid frowned, ready to talk back, but the hatted brat cut her short, even more outraged than her best friend:

-“I’m sorry? You broke the Time Piece!” she retorted, letting go of him and placing both of her hands to her hips: “We didn’t do anything!”

-“You know,” added the other child, in a calmer yet judgemental tone: “you could have given it to us directly instead of throwing it over like that…”

The ghost clenched his jaw harder. Oh, so this was his fault? He let out a dark and raspy laugh at the idea. How hilarious. He opened his mouth again to talk, but another fit of coughing forced him to clench his sides. It hurt. Everything was so intense, so overwhelming, so loud, so painful. He didn’t feel any of that when he was dead! And now it was just so deafening, so crushing!

-“Change… Change it back!” he ordered, having to spit more saliva to the ground not to choke himself with it again. His voice sounded so different to his usual one. First of all, it didn’t have any echo, and second… It sounded much too familiar to him.

It sounded just like when he was alive. Which… Was now the case, again. The thought made him sick. He pleaded any God listening to make this moment as short as possible. He just wanted to be back in his old spectral form, the one he was used to, the one who he felt safe with.

In front of him, the kids frowned, as a look of awkwardness appeared on their face. This made the ghost terribly uncomfortable because it just gave him a very bad feeling about his current situation. They both turned to the Time Piece behind them, which wasn’t broken anymore. When the brats glanced back at him, somehow, the spirit had already guessed what they were about to say.

And he really, really didn’t want to hear it.

-“We…” stuttered the older child, the hatted one, as she was looking for her words. She didn’t seem to find them and her best friend took over, trying to find the best way to announce the bad news to him:

-“We can’t... I’m sorry,” she said, softly, putting her hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently. It felt awful, the contact was too strong for Snatcher, It was too sensitive, he could even hear the rustling sound of the fabric against her skin! It was loud, too loud.

The words hit Snatcher like a wave, like a violent wave crushing all his hopes down to nothing. They couldn’t. That’s what they had replied to his wish to go back to normal.

They couldn’t.

A nervous laugh left his lips as his brain slowly registered what it all entailed. His laugh quickly died as his mind conjured Moonjumper’s face. Oh, God, how was he going to explain this to him… They didn’t have the best of the relationships and, well, the shade was mostly at fault for that. He had always disliked the other, not knowing exactly why. Perhaps it was because Moonjumper had stolen his body, perhaps it was because the latter had his memories yet wasn’t him. Or, perhaps…

He just hated to look at another version of himself, one that reminded him of his awful and terrifying past. How ironic! Now that he was back in his old body, fully alive, the situation had changed completely!

The spirit didn’t really want the other to see him like this now. He was already dealing with too many things at the moment…

Another thought hit him: what about his minions? How would he even explain that to them? How would they react? They were all a bunch of dead kids, who knew how they would react! There were so many of them and he had no idea how much they would freak out over this whole situation. As for him, he was freaking out a lot. However, another face came to his mind and his became deadly pale.

Vanessa. If he was alive again, he wouldn’t have any powers to fight back against her and the spread of the ice to the forest… This was an absolute nightmare, this couldn’t be happening, this just couldn’t be happening!

His breath rhythm quickened as he started to hyperventilate. His heartbeat followed his panic and he couldn’t help but bring a hand to his chest, grabbing at the fabric of his shirt. A feeling of utter distress engulfed him as he felt an immense fear settling over him. Oh God, what was going to happen now that Subcon was defenceless against the one who had murdered everyone? How would he be able to protect Subcon Forest in this useless and meaty body? He didn’t have his powers anymore, he could feel they were gone! All the souls he had consumed had vanished, as if he had never eaten any! He just felt his heart pounding in his chest, heard the same and awful ringing sound in his mind as it was blinded by so many sensations again. His muscles were growing cold from the shock and he started to tremble again.

This just couldn’t be.

He felt his body being shaken back and forth again, forcing him to pull himself together. In front of him, the older hatted brat was staring at him, worried, just like her younger friend, who started to rub his shoulder again.

-“Snatcher! Snap out of it!” said the hatted kid, very much afraid for him.

-“No…” he murmured, anger slowly replaced by despair: “No, no, no!” he screamed, hating how much his voice sounded so unnatural and human contrary to his usual one: “I can’t be alive again! I can’t be like this!” He yelled, gesturing at himself with a mix of horror and disgust. Snatcher needed to be dead in order to protect Subcon. If he was a human again… How would he be able to fight against Vanessa? Against her magic? Even the littlest problem would become a dangerous threat for the entire forest if he wasn’t there to protect it!

This was the worst possible scenario.

-“I’m sorry…” sympathized the bow-wearing child, still rubbing his shoulder as a way to comfort him. The hatted one was just staring at him, visibly upset, feeling hopeless.

Snatcher shut his eyes hard and clenched his fists, before stopping quickly: the sensation of his nails penetrating his skin was just awful and painful. Everything just hurt too much. Slowly, he felt something leaking from his eyes and he brought his hands to his face, not knowing what it was at first. When his fingers touched his wet cheeks, the realization hit him: he was crying. He, the powerful soul-stealing ghost, who had killed hundreds of people in centuries, was crying! This was just hilarious. How ironic!

… How pitiful.

He let out an insincere and dark laugh at the thought, but it soon transformed into disgusting sobs. He could feel his nose getting stuffed up from the crying and there was a lump in his throat. He tried to stop himself from sobbing even more, because it was just ridiculous and it would absolutely not help him the sightless… Yet, he couldn’t help but let other tears roll onto his cheeks. They were so cold on his skin, even more as the wind caressed his face again.

Why? Why was this happening? Why did it have to happen to him?

More sobs left his mouth as he curled up again, his forehead hitting the ground as he let himself fall forward. He couldn’t hold back the crying, no matter how much he wanted it, how much he found himself utterly pathetic for having such a meltdown, how much he was so weak when he needed to be strong…

The tears just wouldn’t stop.

He soon felt two sets of arms trying to hug him despite his uncomfortable position. But the comfort only made it worse. Snatcher didn’t want to be touched right now. All he wanted was to be dead again!

But apparently life had other plans for him.

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=> Chapter 2

#A Hat In Time #ahit #oth #oh the humanity au #snatcher #bow kid #hat kid #doodledrawsthings #fanfiction #my art #being human #BH

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ppoquita · 3 years

Text

Guide Me to Where You Are

Tags: bae seungmin x reader, wandering spirit!seungmin, tw: death, mentioned way of death, character death

Length: 3.3k words

Edited by my beloved @preciousdeerchild !!

This was loosely based on a little indie game called Cozy Grove and my obsessed with seungmin + forests

Seungmin couldn’t remember a lot, which was a shame. For as long as he’s been a wandering spirit, he’s only ever known the overgrown and lonesome forest where he died. (Or so he assumed he died there, he wasn’t quite sure anymore.) His only friends were forest creatures. However, deer and squirrels don’t make great company. He would much rather be in the company of humans. Even better if they could actually see and hear him. Occasionally, when some campers had brave hearts, they’d settle in Seungmin’s favorite area to loiter. Then for a few nights, Seungmin felt close to being alive again. He’d sit with the campers and listen in on their spooky stories and sing along with their cheesy campfire songs. It was fun. Until they left and Seungmin was alone again.

He was truly in a pitiful state of being until he met you. He’d never met a spirit scout as pretty as you. Granted, he’d never met a spirit scout to begin with. At first, he was hesitant to get attached, he figured at some point you’d leave just like the other campers did. However, the fact you could see him and talk to him made him the happiest spirit to ever wander that wretched forest.

Your presence alone slowly made Seungmin’s memory start to jog again. He understood that as a spirit scout, it was your job to help find things that will help him remember his past and then pass over into the afterlife. Seungmin didn’t know such an organization existed. However, you explained it's a private organization for other humans with your gift. It’s tucked away from society and spirit scouts spend more time in deep woodlands and abandoned places. Seungmin liked to think that he must have finally moved up the waiting list for them to finally send you.

Talking to you was probably his favorite pastime other than watching you catch fish and dig up root vegetables. From what he could remember, he was never as good at camping as you were. He could ask you all sorts of questions as he watched you go about your day-to-day tasks to maintain survival. You were a true outdoor adventurer. “It’s all in the training and the endless handbooks.” you’d reply nonchalantly. Regardless of your humility, Seungmin was beyond impressed with your skills.

“A camera!” he remembered one night as he sat by watching you roast some walnuts.

“A camera?” you raised your eyebrows.

He stroked his chin excitedly and got up to pace around. “Yeah, yeah.” He paced back and forth. “I remember… I had a camera, a film camera! I was taking photos of flowers, and I had a friend with me. I don’t remember his name, though.” Seungmin used all his willpower to remember his friend’s name. “Jango? Jongin? What was his name? Ugh, what was his name?!” He squeezed his eyes closed as if his friend’s face was magically going to appear. He couldn’t remember. Too much time had passed.

Instead, when he opened his eyes, they met your shining ones. He blinked a few times before he felt the tip of ears burn red. Your face was so close to his that he could hardly breathe. Even though you couldn’t touch him, he could still feel your energy close to him. It felt nice like a good warm hug from his loved ones, which he missed even if he had forgotten all their faces. He always admired how good-natured you seemed to be. “Can you tell me about this camera? Where could it possibly be?” you asked. He looked deep inside his memories. The only thing that came to mind was a stream of water.

He eagerly told you what he knew and watched as you pressed your lips together while thinking deeply. You adjusted your ascot under your uniform, and looked at him determinedly. Seungmin's heart raced a little as he looked at your serious business face. To him, you were cuter than any little woodland creature. For the first time in a long time, he felt excitement, and it was all thanks to you.

“Alright then, tomorrow I’ll do everything I can to find it,” you promised. “Maybe it’ll help you remember your friend.”

That next day was agonizing. He watched you shoveling up piles of dirt for hours by the nearby stream. His palms were sweaty as the two of you stood closer to the edge of the stream. The distance between where you stood and where the water was made him extremely anxious. To him, it felt as though the stream was babbling forbidden and dead languages. He watched as you took out a metal detector and paced around aimlessly. Despite his worries, he noticed how calm you were. It gave him courage to continue on.

The sun started to set and you were still hard at work. “Forget it, there’s always tomorrow.” Seungmin pouted as he attempted to kick a rock even though he couldn’t touch it. He looked over to see you bent down looking at washed up garbage.

“No, no,” you shook your head. “It’s here… I have a feeling it’s close.” You were so sure of it that Seungmin had no choice but to follow. Although, he worried you were working too hard. He’d much rather watch you happily snuggled up in your sleeping bag after a nice dinner. “Is there anything else you can remember?” you asked.

Seungmin looked around. He bit his lip as he looked at the trees. He tapped his foot rapidly trying to force his own memory to work. “Tree... A sad tree. It was so sad, I had to take a photo.” Just like that you started looking around for any sad looking trees. The tree could have rotted away by now but Seungmin knew you were determined.

Soon enough, the two of you found a very pitiful tree. It had little to no foliage and its branches were thin. It leaned far to the right and overall looked ready to fall over and die. Seungmin remembered his friend again. He saw the distant memory of himself taking a photo while his friend was trying to grab fish with a sharpened staff. “This is the tree, I’m sure of it,” he said. He watched you take your metal detector and pace around the premises. Suddenly, there was a beeping. He watched you quickly dig up a metal box. Seungmin tilted his head with intrigue. He felt a nostalgic energy coming from the box. He felt an undeniable connection to it. He scratched the back of his neck while staring at it.

“Hey, come over here,” you said, motioning for Seungmin to come closer. “The only way to know if it’s really yours is if you touch it.” Seungmin gulped at the sound of your words. He wasn’t ready. Or, at least, he didn’t feel ready. Hesitantly, he walked over to you. You earnestly had the box held out, ready for him to hold. He took it from your hands. Magically, the box began to shine and so did Seungmin. His spirit color changed from monochrome to vibrant hues and he seemed to be more human-like. He no longer looked ice-like and dreary. You stood staring for a moment and Seungmin gave you a nervous smile. “Wow” was the only word that escaped from your lips.

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin asked.

You shook your head. “Nothing, it’s just that… I didn’t know you were so handsome.” Your comment flattered Seungmin. He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever called him handsome when he was alive, but the fact that you did while he was a spirit was something special. You were truly the best thing to have happened to him. If it were up to him, he’d stay with you forever. Help you wherever you went, cozy up next to you by the crackling campfire, stargaze with you on quiet nights - he’d do all that and more. He was starting to think he didn’t really want to pass over into the afterlife.

The two of you sat by the campfire. Seungmin sat close to you as he held the metal box to his chest. He liked campfires because he could actually feel the energy of the heat against his cold spirit. He also liked you because he could feel your warmth as well. “You wouldn’t happen to remember where you left those keys would you?” you asked, referring to the lock on the metal box. Seungmin pressed his lips together as he stared deep in the campfire. He couldn’t remember.

“No,” he sighed. He watched as your shoulders slumped down. In part, he felt bad. It had been almost a year since the two of you met; he started to think you felt homesick.

That night as Seungmin watched over you while you slept, he decided to try and jog his memory. He scratched the back of his head and paced back and forth. He decided to take a walk in the area which he woke up in after he passed. He softly touched the trees and walked around in a circle. He wanted to remember something, anything. Seungmin sat in the middle of the circle he had walked and slumped his shoulders. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something peeking out from a tree. It looked to be a jacket hung from a branch. He got up to investigate it and felt like the jacket had a familiar feeling. He softly touched it and he saw his hands glow brightly. Suddenly, he remembered that it was his jacket that got wet when he and his friend visited the stream. He hung it up to let it dry and forgot it until now. He checked the pockets carefully and found the keys. Bae Seungmin was written on the keychain tag. That was his name.

***

“Your spirit colors changed. You practically look alive,” you said as you looked at Seungmin. Seungmin curiously watched as you put some mushrooms to cook over the fire. He didn’t want to tell you what he found just yet. “You’re a lot more handsome than you sound.” Seungmin only smiled as he rubbed the back of his head.

Seungmin felt guilty. He was being utterly selfish as he kept the found keys a secret from you. He didn’t want to leave you just yet; he wanted to be with you just a little longer. In the long time that he’s done nothing but wander, you made him feel happiness. Afterlife meant nothing to him if you weren’t there. Seungmin bit his lip and disappeared into the forest. He went to an open field where forgotten flowers grew. In a way, he could relate to the field flowers since he was hidden away and untouched by the outside world. Seungmin picked the prettiest flowers just for you. Unlike himself, these flowers were able to die and regrow as many times as they wanted. It was silly that he felt envious over some flowers but when you’re drifting aimlessly for so long, time has a way of kicking you down.

Seungmin returned with the flowers to your campsite. He took a moment to watch you hang up some wet laundry. You were humming a tune that seemed familiar to him but what did he know. He’d been dead too long. “Hey,” he called out. You turned to look at him with a smile. Seungmin held out his flowers. “I got these for you. They’re not much but I really appreciate all the stuff you’ve been doing for me,” Seungmin explained. He watched as you took the flowers from his hands and looked around. He carefully followed behind you. You took a discarded water bottle and put the plants inside. He pressed his lips together with a smile.

“I love them,” you assured him. You looked up at the sky and saw the clouds had turned a dreary grey and sighed. “So much for laundry.” You sat on the log by the extinguished campfire and Seungmin sat next to you. He didn’t know what to say or how to tell you his recent discovery. The two of you only sat in silence.

“I think, after you pass over, I’m gonna give up being a spirit scout,” you suddenly opened up.

Seungmin looked at you with wide eyes. “Why?” he asked.

“Dunno. We’ve been out here for months and I had a lot of time to think and well, I’m just not as passionate as I used to be.” You slumped your shoulders. As if you timed it perfectly, tiny droplets of rain started falling from the sky. Seungmin’s heart was shattered as you spoke. He felt as though he was responsible for you starting to lose your spark. He had no sense of time but you did. The rain started to come down harder and you held your head low. Seungmin shook his head. It was all his fault. You were suffering because he wanted to keep you longer.

“Wait, I-I have something to confess,” Seungmin burst out. You looked at him curiously as the rain was pouring down on you, dampening your hair. “I found a jacket that was mine. Inside the pockets are a pair of keys. I think they’re for the camera.” He watched as your eyebrows furrowed. As if you didn’t believe him. “Wait here.” He quickly went to the location where he hid the jacket and quickly went back to you. He put the jacket over your soaked head and showed you the keys.

“Seungmin, when did you find this?”

“Two nights ago! I promise, I was going to tell you but then I realized if I passed over… I wouldn’t see you anymore and well, you’re the best thing that happened to me. I’m sorry, I was gonna keep you here longer.” Seungmin looked down at the ground. He bit his lip and dropped the keys in your hand. Your energy was still warm, even if you were upset.

“Were you really gonna keep me here hostage?” you asked. Seungmin squeezed his eyes and nodded. “Wow, I didn’t think you were like that. I’m sorry, but my job is to help you pass over, Seungmin. I can’t be with you forever nor can I make any promises.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me? Even if I do pass, I don’t want to pass on bad terms.” Seungmin looked you dead in the eyes. His eyes might have seemed soulless compared to yours but he was genuine. He didn’t want you to be angry at him forever or quit the spirit scouts because he wronged you.

“Seungmin… I forgive you.” You got up to look at him face to face. “Let’s open that box.” Seungmin picked up the box for you and followed you into your tent. The two of you sat on opposite sides of the box. You slowly inserted the key and turned it. The box popped open and the two of you saw an old digital camera. You turned it on and Seungmin looked over your shoulder. It still had battery life even after all this time. You went to look at the gallery and the camera was full of pictures of flowers, Seungmin, and his friend.

“Jangjun…” Seungmin said. You looked over at him to see a tear running down his cheek. His dear friend who he missed. It had been so long since Seungmin last thought about him. “My friend’s name was Jangjun,” he said as he wiped his tears. He saw you shed a tear as well.

“Do you want to hold it?” You asked. Seungmin hesitantly took it from your hands and his spirit color turned full rich colors. He had turned into what he fully looked like alive before his passing. “Seungmin?” you asked, reaching out your hand to touch him. Seungmin jumped when your hand touched his head. He looked at you, spooked as you held your hand and you looked at him with wide eyes. “I… I touched you… and you felt me.”

Seungmin held out his hand and you hesitantly took it. The two of you were holding hands. Seungmin interlocked his fingers with yours. Just then, it was all coming back to him as he looked at your teary eyed face. “I fell… I fell to my death and died. Jangjun and I… we were hiking… he slipped. I grabbed onto his sleeve to stop him from falling but before I knew it we both fell.” Seungmin started to cry, remembering it all. He tried to hide his face from you but it was no use. It was a flash in his memory. He remembered vividly plummeting to the ground and waking up where he last slept. At first he thought it was a nightmare but Jangjun was nowhere to be found.

“Seungmin… I’m so sorry,” you interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see you, looking just as heart broken as himself.

Seungmin only shook his head as he smiled despite crying harder. “I’m gonna pass over now, thanks to you.” He turned to look at you. He noticed you were still holding his hand. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for teaching me how to feel alive again, for teaching me what it was like to fall in love again.” He smiled.

“Fall in love?” your eyebrows raised with surpise at his comment.

“Yeah, I think I’m in love with you. That’s why I didn’t want to go, but it’s too late.” Seungmin sighed. He felt a tug on his arm and looked over at you. You pulled him into a hug. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around you as well. He didn’t want to go, but he knew he couldn’t stay. Slowly he felt himself slipping from you. He couldn’t feel you anymore, he only felt your warm energy. No skin to skin contact. His eyes started to fog with white shining lights. “Goodbye, my dear friend.”

***

Seungmin woke up again. He blinked a few times as he looked at sunlight shining through trees. Confused, he sat up. His head felt like it was punched over and over. He rubbed his face. It looked exactly like where your campsite was. You were gone though. There were only remnants of a campfire. Seungmin got up and he began wandering around. His wandering turned into panicking. He ran aimlessly. He didn’t understand why but his heart was telling him which way to go. He kept running and running.

Eventually, he saw a way out. There were actual people who were going into the forest. As he ran he saw them turn their heads to look at him. He was never acknowledged by normal people. They could never see him until now. The path led to a parking area. He looked around and saw your worn out olive green spirit scout uniform. Seungmin was full of adrenaline as he called out your name loudly. You turned to look at him with wide eyes. He caught up to you. “Seungmin?” You asked.

“I’m here!”

“Seungmin? I thought… I thought you passed?” you said in disbelief. Seungmin smiled as he looked at you. You leaned over to pinch him and Seungmin jumped. “Oh my gosh. I touched you. Seungmin… you lived? Wait no… you’re alive again? How is this possible?” your eyes started to tear up. Seungmin still stood with a wide smile. He hesitantly got closer to wipe your tears away. He touched you. He felt your skin again. He could finally feel more than just your energy. “Wait! Come here!” You said taking his arm. Seungmin felt you press two fingers under his jaw. “Seungmin, you have a pulse! You’re alive… You’re alive!”

“Yeah, I’m alive. Just like you.”

#golden child #golden child imagines #golden child scenarios #bae seungmin x reader #bae seungmin #luv docs

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fragileizywriting · 3 years

Text

friends (part two)

AO3 | Start Here | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

This… this is not fun.

He wants to be in bed with Marinette.

He wants to be under the thick covers on a cold and freezing morning and curl into her warmth and never leave. Is it the cat part of him, or the demon part of him that means this? After all, demons don’t like the cold— it burns through the hellfire that covers their soul and makes them all almost insufferable. His dad, too, is inconvenienced by any amount of freeze— he doesn’t get snippy but he’s seen the way that frown has transformed his father’s face into a disgruntled god.

But cats are no different, either— making it a habit to curl up in the warmest place and hide until it’s warm enough to move. Winters are hard for Chat when he’s not in hell, and Marinette always teases him for him retracting into his cat form almost for days at a time, trying to use his fur to keep the frost from seeping into his body. The cold and Chat Noir do not do so good.

Whatever it is that makes him hate this, he listens to it, souring his mood by thinking of all the things he’s missing without Marinette near.

Why hadn’t they just invited Marinette along? It’s not like she doesn’t ever come with them sometimes. She enjoys the experience of being on Luka’s boat, even if it is to collect ingredients on her own, and Chat Noir has always very much enjoyed her company. If Luka’s feeling up to it, which he often is, he goes collecting for her. Marinette’s list is never that long, given that she stocks up on everything she can get her hands on, but sometimes she’s in need of more.

Algae, rocks, a specific crystal that regrows every two weeks or so. Snails, any bottom-feeders that Luka can lure and trap for her, and definitely whatever type of ocean or lake plant she’s looking for. Every time Luka resurfaces with a new item, Marinette is so quick to smile and so quick to thank him, turning and spinning around on the deck to show Chat the new item before she puts it in a jar for storage.

But without her, this whole fishing moment is just… exhausting.

Truly, of all things he’s done in the past week and a half— this takes the cake as both the most mundane and the most unnecessary thing to do.

He’s built fence posts, he’s seen his mother and almost passed out from dehydration— he’s seen his father and gotten his whole world tilted onto its side and backwards— not to mention the bite marks and suture in his skin. He’s kissed Marinette— done more than just that, actually— and finds himself rubbing at the tattoo on his chest the more and more he thinks about being away from her. The seal burns purple against his hand, reminding him that he’s far from his witch’s magic, and that his entire body and soul misses her.

Today’s fishing is just too much.

Luka agrees with him— he knows it— because the naga’s eyes are closed as the sun beats down on their shoulders, warming their skin and bodies to the point of laziness. Chat can barely keep his eyes open, looking out to the lake, his eyelids getting heavier and heavier as the sun continues to bake them alive.

Just their luck. The two people who struggle the most to focus when there’s a patch of sun are now subjugated to an entire afternoon of it— what he wouldn’t give to just transform into his cat form and lounge for the rest of the day, yearning to be in his witch’s lap as she pets through his fur.

“Why is it so sunny?” Chat complains into the silence, trying not to close his eyes for too long. This is perfect napping weather— all he has to do is just rest his head and… “Of all days for it to be ridiculously sunny.”

“It’s good for the festival,” Luka answers, looking just as out of it as he is. It’s laughable, of course, that a water creature such as Luka would absolutely go frozen stiff at the prospect of baking under the sun. Even though he’s not a snake— or at least, that’s what Luka always argues whenever he brings it up— he certainly acts like one. He looks ready to lay down and coil up, let his blood be warmed up by the sun, and stay that way for days.

“What’s going on with the weather this week?” He sniffs, not exactly stopping himself from laying back down on the deck of Luka’s boat. The Liberty doesn’t even budge under their weight— she’s a solid, heavy barge that is more long than tall— it offers barely any protection from the elements coming from the sky. It’s a floating platform, essentially, which is perfect for nagas who frequently spend most of their time in the water and have a tough time climbing up the sides of their boats from how slippery they are— and the boat is also long enough to house a superfluous amount of nagas, as well as their long tails comfortably, should they feel the need to curl up instead of letting their tails hang off the boat.

And it fits the fish as well.

Lots and lots of barrels of fish.

“The constellations are starting to move.” Luka answers, almost sounding a bit too serious. The tip of Luka’s tail sways in the water with the gentle current that is too soft to genuinely make a dent in the barge’s lazy course to the middle of the lake. His plumes open instinctually wherever his tail meets the water— a sway of fins that only come out when there is enough moisture. He is more sea serpent this way, than an actual snake— and his tail glitters with sparks of gold underneath the clear water. Fish swim by next to him, curious as to whose fins are swaying like a tree in a breeze, and Chat Noir admits— even if it’s to himself and safely away in his head— that he understands why nagas consider themselves sea serpents instead of just snakes. “There’s a celestial storm coming. Did you not know?”

“This sounds like a horoscope,” Chat doesn’t let the idea settle into his head. “Celestial storm? Don’t pull at my tail, Luka. You won’t believe that my parents are gods, but you’ll believe in celestial storms?”

He snorts. “No one believes you when you say your parents are two divinities.”

“At least it’s more believable than hearing you talk about how a ‘ tornado will come from Orion—’ or ‘ an earthquake has been predicted because of Antares—’”

Luka smiles good-humouredly. “Idiot, nothing of that sort. Naga use constellations to guide themselves across the sea, you pruned lion.”

“‘Pruned lion’,” Chat mutters, resting his clawed hands against his chest. Rubbing and rubbing and rubbing away at the seal. “I’ll show you a ‘pruned lion’.”

“There’s not much paper we can use on the sea. Clay is a good substitute, but they’re too heavy when using as maps, so we navigate by using stars. We can tell when stars aren’t in their place,” Luka continues, as if he’s barely heard him. “And they are most definitely not in their places. Just last night, eight northern constellations moved closer south.”

Chat’s feet dangle off the edge of the platform that makes the Liberty, and his toes sink into the water. It’s lukewarm, heated by the sun that beats down and down and down, but much easier and cooler than the damp and still air above.

He has half a mind to dunk himself body and whole into the water just to cool off, but knows that his hair will dry in the shape of a dandelion if he does that, so it’s a stern no. There’s no way in hell he’s going to worry about how his hair dries while trying to fish with a naga by his side. Besides, getting ready for the festival will take him a lot longer if he has to tame his hair— he doesn’t mind getting brushed by Marinette when she corners him, but his fur usually snags into knots and it’s painful. “Fine, fine. I believe you— you don’t need to get all technical on me. I’ve just never heard of a celestial storm before.”

“Probably not, since you don’t need to use stars to see like we do. The celestial storm just brings indication that there will be a large magical gathering soon— it’s nothing inherently serious.”

Interesting. “You mean like the festival?”

“Exactly. It’s something to be cautious of, that’s all— it just ends up confusing lots of naga who are trying to travel somewhere new for the first time. There might be a lot more naga at the festival than usual, since the stars are pointing in this direction.”

“That’s not too bad— no one has anything against your kind, anyway. Witches and magic-users from all places are coming here to see the infamous Ladybug, after all— they want to get her good wishes on behalf of my mother— so it’s not like a big deal to see more of you.”

There’s laughter in his voice. “‘The one who can cast good fortune on even the sick and the dying’, yes, I know. But unfortunately, no— the magical gathering isn’t the reason for the stars warping. It’s something bigger than that. Bigger than her. Constellations only move when sages or gods show up.”

Well. Well well well. He doesn’t really need to think about it, now does he?

“How long have they been moving?”

“They only started four days ago.”

“Have they shifted back?”

“No.” Chat doesn’t need to look at him to know that there’s a question forming on his face. He knows Luka too well by now. “Your questions are oddly specific for someone that never heard of this storm before.”

“Well, good to hear. You don’t need to worry about all that— but thank you for the confirmation.” He spreads his good arm out as far as he can reach it. He ends up hitting Luka in the chest, and the naga hisses out, startled— but other than that, they match each other by slowly cooking in the heat. Luka’s heartbeat is slow against his palm, and Chat has no real reason to pull away, so he just leaves it there on his jacket. “Everything will go back to what it once was after the festival.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in horoscopes. Why are you fortune-telling?”

“Because my dad isn’t going to set the festival on fire just because he’s up here.” Maybe. There’s a strong likelihood he won’t, given that he’s already caused too much mischief.

“Right, right. Your ‘father’. You think Plagg is here?”

“The stars said so, didn’t they?” He flashes a smile, even though they’re not making eye contact. It’s instinctual to try to get a rise out of the man sitting next to him. “Relax. I won’t let him set fire to things— Marinette’s been making all of those charms for the past three months, it won’t go to waste.”

“Remind me to get a handful of them, since I’m going to be spending most of it next to you,” The driest thing in the world is hearing Luka’s voice go flat. “The last thing I need is to catch fire from your terrible luck.”

“Wh— rude. I don’t have bad luck, that’s just a myth— but I’ll gladly walk underneath a ladder for you in order to give you what you deserve. Anyway, I thought you were going to find yourself someone new to fancy? What was the whole point of the molting?”

“The two people that I actually cared to court are currently taken. I’m not disappointed, but I’m rather bored of humans otherwise.” Luka’s breath deepens as if he’s falling asleep at the idea of spending that much energy finding someone else. “If someone were to approach, I’ll at least give them the benefit of listening, but you won’t find me looking for new people.”

“You’d make a good familiar to whatever witch shows up to you tonight,” Chat oof!s hard when Luka’s hand does the exact same and hits him on the chest. He snorts on instinct, thinking a second or two longer on the idea. “Do you have an animal form like I do?”

“I’d rather not tell you, just in case you get ideas. But I would hope that she would like me for more than just a pet, unlike Marinette.”

He ignores his comment. “Most magic users can create some sort of animal form for themselves, no? Humans can’t, but I’m sure a naga could. Are you sure you don’t have a snake form?”

“I’m still not telling you the answer.”

“I’m imagining a faceless witch wearing you like a scarf as she brews,” For some reason, he imagines a white snake wrapped around a neck, even though Luka’s tail is very much blue. “You’d be happy getting to laze around while your lady works.”

“I should give it a try with Marinette one day. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you, kitty-cat? After all, she doesn’t mind sharing you with me.”

“Funny.” He tries his best not to laugh, but he’s weak to the comedy of this whole day. It’s beyond painful to keep the laughter in, of how this day has been just another bizarre domino in the whole scheme of the week.

“It’s good to hear you laugh,” Luka sighs. “I was beginning to worry you actually hated me. Ever since this morning you’ve been snippier to me than usual— you’re not actually worried I pose a threat of some kind, do you?”

Wait. “Are you insecure?”

“You two are my closest friends.” Luka doesn’t meet his eyes when Chat lifts up from his spot to look down at him with furrowed brows. “After Adrien passed, I didn’t have many people, you know.”

Wait. “Hold on, you knew Adrien that well?”

“I didn’t know you knew who that was.” Luka raises a brow.

“Marinette talks about him.” Never mind the other things…

“He was my first friend when I was very young.” He shrugs, still giving Chat the stink eye like he doesn’t actually believe him. “Naga aren’t as scary as people think, but humans are prejudiced to their own kind all of the time, so it’s not hard to believe that they won’t be to nonhumans too. Adrien brought me into the friend group before he got sick.”

Adrien, Adrien, Adrien. Always Adrien, isn’t it? “Was he the closest friend you had?”

“Probably. Nino and I were always really good friends, back in the day. But Marinette and I got rather close after Adrien’s passing. I would see her almost every day if I decided to stay nearby.”

Oh. Oh. “No wonder you were so uncomfortable with the idea of her moving a demon into her house.”

His eyes go flat. “A girl I liked suddenly bringing a demon home? Anyone would’ve been worried.”

Chat can’t force himself to stop chuckling. “I guess I can see why you were… not the nicest person to me at first.”

“She’s never been afraid of you, but I think that just made me even more worried.” Luka gestures towards Chat’s direction, as if that helps explain better. “It doesn’t take much brainpower to realize what a Ladybug needs a Chat Noir for. Forgive me for not buying the little nonchalant act between the two of you, but I can read the little pearl like the back of my hand, after all.”

“So you know about the miraculous cure.”

“Yes. Anyone with reading eyes can put two and two together, kitty-cat. Information isn’t kept that hushed about it.”

He ignores the needling smile gracing Luka’s features. “How well exactly did you know Adrien?”

“Well enough to know that his sickness was strange. His death was stranger. The smell on Marinette’s clothes was horrid, when she’d ran into me in the woods while stricken with grief and crying. We were all terrified by it, obviously, but Marinette seemed to be the most affected— probably because she was the one to try to see him the day he died. Nino, Marinette, and I were the most affected.” He sighs. “I don’t think Nino’s ever actually talked about it that much, but they were best friends.”

“Smell.” Chat winces. “What smell?”

“Same smell that’s coming off your stitches on your arm. I recognize the smell of hellfire anywhere, it sticks to my nose for weeks. I’ll never forget the first time I smelled it sticking to Marinette’s clothes.” Luka laughs bitterly. “Running down the path in the woods towards the ocean like she was crazed. Death clinging to her dress like she was his daughter.”

“Hellfire. You smelled hellfire? Are you sure?”

Luka’s looking at him curiously, now. “I’m positive. What’s on your mind?”

Adrien’s room had been covered with the smell of… hellfire? That’s just further proof that something definitely happened— one more thing pointing to his own relation to Adrien. One more damning evidence that his past life could be tied to Marinette’s wish. If only he could get his memories back to actually prove it as fact, though…

He flattens his ears across his head, looking back out on the water. “Don’t— don’t mention this to anyone what I’m about to tell you. Promise me you won’t. This can’t start a crowd.”

Luka’s eyes turn to gold as he squints. “Of course.”

“Marinette and I found out that there could’ve been foulness in his death. Odor or otherwise.”

The naga pauses. “Are you saying a demon of some kind could’ve been the reason for the smell?”

“I don’t want to tell you something only for it to be wrong later, but the basic answer is that Adrien most likely didn’t die from an illness after all.” He licks his lips.

“You’re saying that Adrien’s father might have summoned a demon for some reason?”

“No. I have no idea what it could be, but, if there was hellfire involved, there’s definitely something to do with hell in this poor boy’s death. We don’t have all of the information yet, but I think it’s a little bit more difficult than just pointing fingers.”

Luka’s quiet for a long time. There are gears turning in his head too, no doubt, trying to piece together all of the information. “Gabriel could… most likely be at the festival tonight.”

His head snaps up. “What? He will?”

“A couple of my kind saw his ship sailing close by the shore and where our dens are. He left— or, rather, fled, now that there’s an implication that he could’ve been responsible for something to do with Adrien— town years ago, and never came back. It’s been completely silent from him, deciding to even move countries, but I think he’s here for a blessing of some kind by a Ladybug.”

“Shit.”

“Agreed.”

“Shit.”

Luka sighs. “It’s just speculation, of course. I have no idea if he even knows that Marinette is Ladybug, never mind the fact that he might not be stopping by after all. He could just be here to visit family friends, and is using the festivities as a genuine and good excuse. What will you two do? Confront him?”

“I don’t know.” Chat answers honestly. “I genuinely don’t know. My dad doesn’t know much of the story, either— and he’s usually on top of his game on paying attention to these types of things, but got distracted the day it all happened. It’s not often you hear of a human getting caught in the crossfire of hell matters— but we’re all stumped, so it’s not like we can pin it directly on Gabriel with no reason. I’m going to need more information.”

Luka is surprisingly not as agitated with the whole thing as he’d expected. He’d expected surprise, or confusion, not genuine contemplation like he is now. The naga hums at the back of his throat, attempting to piece things together himself. “Do you think Adrien is still out there, maybe?”

“Well… He’s not dead,” Well. Are demons considered alive in the first place? Is this a moral or philosophical question? At what point is Chat Noir even considered alive? And if he really was Adrien, would he consider Adrien to be dead in this case? Rebirthed as Chat Noir? His head hurts. “As far as we know. Maybe in a sort of limbo state. What a mess.”

“This sounds a lot more confusing than I thought it would be. I can’t imagine this is any easy on the two of you. Adrien was my best friend and it’s hurting me to hear about it, I can’t imagine what it’s doing to the little witch.”

“She’s been… a little bit confused about it, too. I can’t wait for the festival and get her to relax about it— yesterday it was nonstop. The both of us, honestly, need to stop thinking about this for just a bit. You and I should keep an eye out for Gabriel just in case. I don’t know what he looks like, but, anything that’ll get us closer to the truth I’ll do it.”

But Luka’s smile is kind, and Chat can sense he’s trying to skirt the subject away and get him to think of other things. “Sure. I didn’t have plans, anyway, so that’s fine. And I’m sure you two managed to distract each other at some point yesterday, right?”

“By the grace of my mother,” Chat mutters under his breath. “This entire week has been monstrous to us, Luka. Every day has been a discovery, I don’t even know what to do or how to handle it. Not to mention that even my father thinks you and I are a good match together, did you know that? The amount of years I’ve aged each day in this disaster of a week would’ve turned a human into dust by now.”

Luka turns, belly-side down, hiding away his pale under-scales in favor of showing his long blue-and-diamond-patterned back. He ends up dunking more of his tail into the water, and those ghost-like fins blossom from underneath his scales like a billowing sheet. The water is hazy from all the glittering gold and those glossy, feathery fins. “Perhaps I’ll listen more often to what you have to say about your family, after all. Is he truly the king of the underworld?”

“Shut up,” Chat really can’t stop himself from laughing, because he doesn’t have any emotional handle on any of this. “If you have any luck, you might see him visit the festival and actually find out. Maybe I’ll have all my friends meet him, so that you all can stop making fun of me when I say it.”

“What in the world is the king doing here?”

“Visiting his son, you noodle.” He slips his eyes shut.

Ah, this is more natural territory for them both, isn’t it? He can almost feel how easy it is for the two of them to slip back into banter. “Careful, now. You’re implying that I’m tasty.”

“And also very easily chewable, what do you think about that?” He’s bit into Luka’s tail a few times, and each time he’s felt how the muscles had shifted under those hard scales. It’s amazing his teeth can even penetrate the scales from how genuinely hardened they are, but he supposes that anything is possible with a jaw strength like his. He cracks back open one of his eyes, looking at Luka, who continues to just look at him with humor swimming on his face. “Hey, how come you aren’t fishing?”

“I am fishing, you idiot.”

“Bullshit. Where’s your fishing pole?”

“I’m not fishing with a pole today.”

“What?” This gets Chat Noir to sit back up, looking around. He blinks hard in the sunlight, willing his eyes to focus without hurting his vision. His pole at the far end of the barge is completely still, resting in a small divot carved into the boat, the fishing wire still swaying with nothing grabbing onto the bait. He narrows his eyes at the single pole, looking around for Luka’s, which is no doubt somewhere on the boat, only to come up with nothing. “Have you been using your net this entire time?”

“And if I have?”

“I thought we said no fishing with nets this time.”

“We said no fishing with Marinette this time.” Luka’s eyes are absolutely vibrant and gold as Chat Noir turns to look back at him in the eyes. He looks a little bit more awake than he does, but that’s probably because Luka’s cooling off in the water with most of his body in it, while Chat continues to bake. “You and I get too distracted around the little pearl, you especially more now. And the festival needs fish— the last time I went pole fishing with you, I got a hook stuck in my dorsal fin.”

“That was your own fault, noodle.”

“Again with calling me tasty,” Luka sighs. “Honestly, Chat Noir, it’s a miracle Marinette’s fallen in love with you when you’re so keen on flirting with me, instead.”

“At least I don’t injure myself while flirting with her, and don’t realize that my hook was next to one of my fins before trying to cast out my line.” He rolls his eyes. He remembers the nasty gash, and how the translucent fin had bled for what looked like to be far too long for a simple cut, and how Marinette had spent so long carefully stitching the feathery membranes back together with suture, willing for the fins to heal. There’s a scar still left behind on that fin, but it’s hard to see unless he’s close enough to really look at the little veins and how they’re slightly wobbly.

Luka snorts. “Of course, of course.”

“That’s what you get for flirting with my Lady.”

“So childish. You’d think I’d be allowed to talk to a good friend of mine without her familiar puffing up his chest.” Luka sighs, unraveling his jacket on the waist. The pearls on his sleeves shine all sorts of colors as his shoulders shift, and he folds the garment carefully with his long claws. Every bead is delicately sown in, and he knows that Marinette has obsessively looked over the pattern work, as well as the stitchwork, with amazement and gluttony.

Would she be happy if he bought a naga jacket for her? Maybe in a dark red color, or a white as similar as Luka’s and a red sash? Something pearlescent, though— a plain white jacket wouldn’t match the paleness of her skin. It would look as if she’s wearing nothing at all.

“Loverboy, I’m going to go check up on my net. Stop swimming in your thoughts and focus on fishing. Cast yours as well, won’t you?”

He registers that he’s been drifting off into thought, rubbing at his tattoo across his chest, still thinking of her. He thinks about what Luka’s said for a little while, trying to remember if he’d been making a point, only to realize: “I didn’t bring mine.”

“Use my spare, then.” Luka laughs. “I’ll be back in a second— try not to get lonely, kitty-cat, okay?”

Luka slips off the boat entirely with a gentle splash noise. Chat watches with mild interest as Luka’s long and elaborate tail starts to plume again, filling out with all sorts of fins now that he’s entirely in the water, disappearing under the boat into the shade where no doubt many fish are hiding. He reminds Chat very dimly of a betta fish, with how gentle and fanish the fins are. No doubt that naga are incredibly good hunters in the water, but Chat Noir can’t help but wonder why they look so delicate and so easily tearable once they’re subjected to a humid environment.

He looks back to the empty barrels behind him with a sigh. Maybe his mother will bless him with good fortune, although, in all honesty— it’s doubtful. Very doubtful. He’s just going to have to do this by hand, it seems, to which he sends a quick prayer to his father— hopeful that instead of blessing him with good luck, he gives Luka enough bad luck for him to win.

And maybe he’ll be able to stop thinking of it for a few more minutes, too.

She finally finishes with the first stack of charms when Alya ends up knocking on the door. There’s a breeze gentle enough to kiss her cheeks brushing up against the windows— she’s let the panels of the house open enough to catch the draft. It’s light, as gentle as a cloud against her skin as she works, and barely stirs the fire from its slow attempt to reignite from the coals. The breeze is good for her heart, she supposes— every once in a while stopping in her attempt to complete her task in order to bask in how content she feels.

Her heart is full.

Of thoughts of Chat Noir, of thoughts of them, of thoughts of being happy. The thoughts she hadn’t given the chance to breed and fester are suddenly in full swing in her chest and mind, allowing her to gaze longingly out the window, wondering about him. There are many things to do in order to get the festival up and ready, and many of them will have to be done at the fields on the other side of town, but she’s certain that she’ll be able to finish a second or third stack of charms before she has to slip out of the cottage and go start the physical preparations.

Alya’s here to collect her, no doubt, just like Luka had said she would.

She’s brought Nino along, too, and Marinette is quick to grin and pull the two close enough to smother them into her shoulders. “Hello!”

“Hello there, Mari!” Nino twirls her, pressing their foreheads together. As like many people in her life, Nino is much taller than her— he makes up for it by bending his back as much as possible to be at her height. “I haven’t seen you in so long. How have you both been?”

“We’ve been well,” She laughs, cupping his cheeks with her hands. He lets her, eyes squinting behind his glasses, looking at her with friendly affection. “Much much better now, recently. The rain finally letting up is much better for the farm— oh, but I’ve missed you both. When was the last time we spoke?”

“Far too long.” He muses, breaking away enough to allow Alya to crush her into another hug. Her friend’s arms are warm, and comforting, and so definitely sweet. Living in the cottage away from town is mostly good, and allows her to work on her potions in peace— but it doesn’t allow her to see her friends as much as she wants to. The two of them are always so busy running their tavern, and renovations to Marinette’s own shop have made her daily check-in to their eatery almost impossible. “Where is Chat? Don’t think I forgot about him— I haven’t seen him in forever, either. Where is that cat?”

“Out fishing with Luka, unfortunately. They’re at the lake, if you’d like to go join them?”

“Absolutely not,” Nino breaks out into laughter as he unlaces his boots. “The last thing I need is to be caught in the crossfire between the two of them. It’s usually fine, I enjoy their banter and their desperate attempts to find reasons to touch each other without making it weird, but I’m trying to look my best for the festival.”

“And I’m sure you can’t do that when you’re in the middle of getting your hair scorched off.” Marinette can’t stop laughing.

“You and everyone else,” Alya rolls her eyes, letting go of her so she can breathe and not cough into her sleeve. Alya hugs like she has a vendetta. “What are you trying to look good for, anyway?”

“The more presentable I look, the more likely people are willing to give us tips in the end, my dearest.” He waggles his brows. Oh, the two of them are so lovely— Marinette watches with a yearning and heartful gaze as Nino bends Alya back in his arms, dipping her low, a firm arm underneath her waist. Even with only one shoe on, and his feather in his cap dangling dangerously low to brushing against their faces through the entire action, he’s nothing short of having heart eyes for the woman in his arms instead of dissolving into giggles like Marinette is. “I may be a good player, but we all know that only the truly most handsome get the money at the end of the day.”

“Then it’s good fortune for us that I have the most handsomest man in the world by my side,” Alya smiles so warmly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Oh, the two of them— Marinette is helpless to give a little sigh at how perfect the two of them are. “We’ll be rich in no time.”

Love. Love love love.

By far one of the most important things that Marinette has ever been able to witness firsthand is the way the two of them look at each other— her heart is ready to explode. She hasn’t touched the cookies in a couple of days, still trying to get the bitter taste of love sick out of her mouth and away, and looking at the cookies gives her a slight nausea, but the core principle is still there.

Love.

She’s so giddy and warm.

“Oh! Come on, come into the house for breakfast, join me at the table. I’ll get a new pot of tea out, does that sound good?” It’ll be good for her, too— it’s a good thing she has those herbs on hand, or else she would be worried about any developments in her body she isn’t ready to have— the problem now, of course, will be to make sure neither of them pick up on her dropping additional leaves into her cup. Alya is persistent and keen and notices just about everything there is to notice, which means that unless she’s genuinely distracted by Nino, it’ll be impossible to dissuade her from asking questions.

Marinette readies herself, turns to the kitchen, and beckons the two of them to finish unlacing their boots while sitting the iron kettle on the oven to heat.

“Awh, I’m sorry, Mari. We’ve already eaten breakfast,” Nino has to help Alya, of course, because her petticoats are far too long and her stays are too thick with boning for her to bend properly for her feet.

“Oh? That’s alright. I think I have something you both will enjoy snacking on while I continue working on my stuff.” Marinette grins when they finally make it to the table. She moves the charms away and clears most of the space for there to be enough room for the three of them— she drops the unfinished charms into a corded bag, for now, tying the little string. “So. Do you remember the lover cookies?”

“Do I? The same cookies that made Nino realize that he did, in fact, have feelings for me?”

“Hard to imagine a time that you two didn’t date,” Marinette giggles. “But yes, those exactly.”

“I always knew I loved you,” Nino pouts. “My problem was I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Telling me ‘I love you’ would’ve been enough, you know.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Nino sighs. “We were all so caught up with the loss of Adrien that I didn’t know how to do anything.”

Marinette stops wiping at the table with her apron. Alya and Nino always remind her that she’s not the only one who misses their old friend. She never wanted to bring Adrien back because of her love— she wants to bring him back for everyone’s sake. Luka, Nino, Alya— their friends miss him. So dearly and so much— and talk about him as if he’s simply moved town, instead of being gone forever— but she’s never actually… explained that she plans on bringing him back. And now with the complicated mess of Chat Noir possibly being Adrien…

Oh, her head hurts. Just when she thought she could survive five more minutes not thinking about this tangled web. It’s as difficult to navigate as Plagg’s magic.

“Right, yes— I remember.”

“Mari?” Alya tilts her head, looking at how she massages her temples. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes— yes I’m okay. I just wish he were here.” Marinette smiles small, trying her best to ignore the way the seals on her ears burn. The two of them look at her with knowing gazes— they know she’s consumed some of the cookies herself. What they don’t know is that her heartache is actually pointing in an entirely different direction… or, perhaps, the same direction after all— just the person has a different name now. “I miss his laughter. I miss him— so I made lover honey cookies a couple of days ago, but I’m still in the process of making more, along with the charms. Would you two like to try them?”

Nino looked pained. “Are you making them for the festival?”

“Just in honor of our friend,” Marinette shares a private smile with herself. “It was his favorite, after all. It’s almost been ten years since he’s been gone.”

Alya’s eyes widen, looking down at the plate that Marinette puts in front of her with wide eyes. “Oh, how interesting. A cat shape?”

“Chat’s idea,” Marinette eagerly waits for them to try some, smiling a little bit wider. The cookies don’t snap in their mouths— still moist enough and sweet enough that it’s more of a chew than a crunch. The two of them hum appreciatively as Marinette takes a bit of time to pat off her apron clean of dirt. “What do you two think? Still good?”

“This tastes wonderful.” Alya sighs. “How is it that you make things taste like a whole fantasy? I feel like I’m biting into a cloud.”

“Guess it’s just part of my luck,” She giggles. “What do you think, Nino?”

“I think that, if I weren’t already with Alya, I’d confess my love to her on the spot all over again.” Nino’s face pinks. “This cookie is so strong. Did Chat try some?”

“He did.” She tries to hide her blushing and focuses instead on some dried-up flour on the edge of the table. “We both got love sick from all the cookies we ate. We probably ate a whole batch and a half, honestly— don’t do it. You’ll get overwhelmed with love.”

Alya hums with the cookie in her mouth, sharing a look with Nino. “Oh, really?”

“There’s no need to act all mysterious,” She shies, hiding her hands behind her, wringing her fingers through the laces of her apron. She looks to the single fire lily in the vase, how beautiful the blossom’s orange petals are, smiling to herself. “The cookies don’t make you feel love, but rather just amplify the feeling, and you two definitely know that. It wasn’t hard to put the context of his purring together with why we were getting overwhelmed.”

“Y—” Their eyes widen. Alya gasps. “So— he— you—”

Are there stars in her eyes? It feels like there are stars in her eyes. “We… talked about it.”

And other things. Lots of other things. Where was that bag of herbs, again?

“Chat Noir finally managed to confess?” Nino has to sit down from shock. “Holy hell!”

She sets out three tea trays, ignoring the way Alya looks at her knowingly when she sprinkles ginger root into one of the porcelain cups. Alya will accost her for that one later, that much is certain. “Wait, you— uhm. You knew?”

“Everyone does! Everyone knows that your familiar’s affections for you are much more than just friendly. Chat Noir has always— always— had his eyes on you, and has never concealed it.” Alya rolls her eyes. There’s a glitter in her smile, something that wasn’t there before, just proving to Marinette that she is absolutely going to get hounded the moment the two of them are alone. “I didn’t even need gossip for that one. His eyes follow you everywhere.”

“Oh. So, everyone, huh?” She blushes.

“Anyone with eyes can tell, yes.” Alya takes a seat next to Nino. She grabs for another cookie, nibbling on the tail, “Everyone could tell your affections for him, too. I was hoping something good would come out of it. Good to see that everything is well, in the end!”

“So are you two… together?” Nino doesn’t let Marinette steam behind her hands for very long. “Actually actually?”

“Uhm— well— I hope so. I think so. We talked about it—” Alya’s snorts cut her off, hiding a ‘yeah, and more’ under her breath. Marinette steams harder. “Uhm— and I really do think we’ll be together for a long time.”

“Is that even allowed for demons?”

“I don’t think we’re breaking any rules,” She rubs at her earlobes. Yet another thing to consider… “Uhm. Maybe I’ll have to talk to him about it. Who knows? He could be fine, considering his father—”

“Is 'the king of hell'.” Alya curls her smile. “And so, with a kiss, Marinette has accepted his propaganda.”

They have no idea how confusing it gets, do they? To know that Chat Noir could absolutely be telling the truth, and furthermore— the shenanigans that Plagg caused? She snorts behind a hand, thinking of how to even begin breaching the topic of a god stopping by to prank a witch and his demon son. Even if he really isn’t the king of hell, he’s certainly showing that he’s living up to the name… she can’t stop giggling. “Let’s hope he’s telling the truth. Why don’t you two enjoy some more cookies while I work on more of my charms? Or should we go to the field now?”

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#marichat may #marichatmay2021 #marichat #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #fire lilies au #fire lily #fire lilies #oh wow i actually finally caught up to all the chapters i've posted!

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zarcake-writes · 4 years

Text

The Witch King- Part 3

Hey! Here it is! Part 3! Thank you all for being patient, this took a little longer than expected to finish. Last time, everyone voted for reader to tell the hooded figure their name.

Catch up: Part 1 Part 2

Vote for part 3! This link is also at the end of the story. You’ll have until 10pm on Friday the 25th to vote.

Warnings: mention of slavery, kidnapping, hints at abuse

You struggle to speak for a moment because who are you? You can barely recall the person you were before the raid and kidnapping. Do you tell him the name Lady Argent gave you? Pretty Girl. You didn’t like it, but you didn’t dare tell her that. Before Lady Argent, you were only called Girl and other unpleasant names. You don’t want to think of those names or the cruel men who gave them to you.

The tattooed man who bought you from Lady Argent never gave you a name. He didn’t call you anything. Should you tell the hooded figure your real name? The one that you whisper every night before you go to sleep as a way to feel some connection to your past and to make sure you never forgot it. Do you dare? It’s been so long since you’ve said it out loud.

Taking a deep breath, you peak up at the hooded figure and whisper your name. It feels wrong saying it in front of someone. You almost expect this to be a trick and you’ll be punished.

The hooded figure simply nods. “That is a good name. Where are you from?”

You debate what to say again. “Lady Argent’s estate in Cresa.”

“Cresa? That’s a long way from here. Who is Lady Argent?”

You want to tell him the truth. You want to tell him that Lady Argent is a cruel woman who hides her true nature beneath the guise of a gentle and caring woman. You want to tell him of her pit and the punishments. Of the dungeons, the chains, and whips. Of the scars on her slave’s backs and the fear in their eyes when she walked by.

Instead, you say, “Lady Argent is the last good person in Cresa. She is a good and kind woman. She loves us all and takes care of us like family. We are her family.”

Repeating that mantra leaves a sour taste in your mouth. But all her slaves were forced to memorize it, those who did not were punished.

The figure lets out a noise and squats down to your level. “I see. Are you from Cresa?”

“N-no.”

“Where are you from?”

You think for a moment.

Your home was a fishing village right on the coast that was located between two large cities. Despite its small size, the village was on the main road, so it was always busy and filled with people coming and going. Traders, adventurers, travelers, and students would spend the night in the local inn before moving on. Sometimes they would stay if they were looking for work or had business in the area. There was even a small farm owned by a family of Minotaur’s that were beginning to sell their crops.

The village had no official name, but everyone in the region knew the small fishing village between Maport, a massive coastal city, and Olista, the city that was mostly inhabited by magic users. The fishermen of the village were skilled and the main road provided constant opportunities for trade.

And you called the small village home once. But you don’t even know if the village is there still. It was probably burned down in the raid.

“A fishing village,” you say.

“Where was this village?”

“Between Maport and Olista.”

“I know those cities. If you’re from that area, how did you end up in Cresa?”

You clench your jaw at the memory. The dark night the pirates attacked your home was filled with screams of pain and terror. The heat of the fire as the pirates burned down homes and shops. The smoke made you cough and burned your eyes. The pirate’s dark laughs as they separated families and cornered people trying to flee. Getting separated from your family and being carried away by one of the pirates. Your mother shouting your name, watching helplessly as you were dragged away with dozens of others. The horror etched onto her face will never leave your mind.

After that, you remember the ships. The constant rocking and sickness. On the ship, surrounded by people you knew, you felt safe. You could cling to neighbors and friends, hoping that you all would see home again. But once the ships docked, everyone was separated. You don’t remember much after that. Somehow, you ended up with Lady Argent.

You clench your eyes and shake your head. It hurts to remember that night and every night after. There’s a pounding in your ears and your entire body feels hot. There’s a tightness in your chest, and for a moment, you think you’re dying.

“Hey,” the man’s voice is soft and low. It penetrates the haze that is filling your mind. “It’s ok. Breathe.”

“Can’t,” you gasp.

“Yes, you can, take your time. In and out, nice and easy.”

You nod and try to do as he said.

“Keep listening to me. Focus on where you are now.”

Again, you nod. You can feel the rough stone floor beneath your bare feet. The stone pillar you’re still hiding behind is cool to the touch and solid. You can hear the man’s voice, so soft and calming. The air is cold and causes goosebumps to bloom across your skin. And you can hear your own breathing slow down.

The pounding in your body lessens and breathing becomes so much easier. When you open your eyes, the figure is still crouched in front of you.

“There you go. You’re doing wonderful. Just slow, easy breaths,” he says.

You nod and wipe your face. A mixture of sweat and tears is smeared onto the back of your hand.

“Are you ok?” he asks.

You shrug.

“Can I ask you another question?”

You look up at him. The hood still hides his face, but his voice is so soft and gentle that you imagine he has a kind face.

You want to say no, but you can’t. “Yes.”

“How did you meet my former apprentice?”

“The man with the tattoos?”

“Yes.”

You glance in the direction where his body was thrown. The pillar hides the spot where he landed from your view, but you can still hear the crunch from when his body hit the ground.

“He’s… he’s dead,” you say.

The figure nods. “Yes, he is.”

“He attacked you.”

The figure nods again. “He attacked me and I defended myself.”

“And that armor came to life and…” you trail off.

“They disposed of his body. The suits guard my home, they will not hurt you.”

You nod.

“How did you meet him?” he asks again.

You hesitate. Lady Argent told her slaves to never say they were bought or sold by her. It was the city’s worst kept secret that Lady Argent was at the center of the slave trade. Some claimed she decided what villages and towns would be raided, but you weren’t sure about that. It wouldn’t surprise you if she was the sole person behind the trade of people, she did have her hand in every other terrible thing in the city. But the city officials couldn’t touch her. No one could touch her. Anyone who tried ended up dead or worse.

“Lady Argent… gave me to him.”

“What do you mean gave?”

You look down at the floor and say nothing.

The first time you met the tattooed man was your last day at Lady Argent’s estate. She had you summoned into her meeting room. Lady Argent was seated at her massive desk, flanked by two of her guards. The tattooed man stood on the other side of the desk, his face was blank and cold.

Lady Argent introduced you to the tattooed man as Pretty Girl. Then she said you were no longer a member of her “family” and that you belonged to the tattooed man. He made no comment, simply motioned for you to follow him. And you did, because what were you going to do? Argue and demand to stay? No, you couldn’t.

When you don’t elaborate, the hooded figure lets out a heavy breath. After a moment of heavy silence, he speaks. “Can I ask you one more question?”

“Y-yes.”

“Are you hungry?”

The question catches you off guard. But at the mention of food your stomach growls. You look at the figure in fear, but he only laughs. It’s soft and kind.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Come, let me feed you.”

He holds out a hand for you to take. It’s only then you realize that he’s wearing gloves.

“You… you would feed me?”

“Of course. What kind of person would I be to not feed a hungry guest? If my mother found out I let a guest go hungry, she would bend me over her knee and spank me.”

You let out a soft laugh at the image. His gloved hand is still outstretched towards you. Slowly, you take it.

The glove is cool to the touch. The black leather is worn but clearly made by someone with skill.

The hooded figure helps you stand and motions for you to follow him.

As he leads you towards the exit of the circular room, the two metal suits come back in. They salute the hooded figure and walk pass him, not even glancing down at you. The figure nods at them and continues out the door. You look back and watch as the two suits take their original positions in front of the pillars. You wonder if any other seemingly inanimate object in this place is really alive.

The figure leads you out of the circular room and down a hall. With him, the halls don’t seem as confusing and unpleasant. They seem almost normal. The green walls don’t seem as unnatural and sickly. Even the glowing green fires don’t look as haunting.

Eventually, you both arrive at a large kitchen. Unlike the rest of the fortress, the walls here are made of dark stone. And it’s clear most of the kitchen has not been used in a very long time. A single stove in the far corner has herbs hanging above it, while the others are piled high with pots and pans and dust. Near the stove is a fire pit with a large orange fire and pot hanging over it. Something bubbles in the pot and smells good.

“Take a seat there.” The hooded figure points at a chair near the fire pit.

He grabs a wooden bowl and scoops some of the pot’s contents into the bowl. He hands it to you and takes a seat on the other side of the fire.

The bowl is filled with some kind of meat and vegetable soup. Just the warmth alone makes you want to cry, but the taste is something else. It’s hearty and reminds you of sitting in the kitchen with your mother, watching her cook, and eating dinner with her. Though much of the soup you ate with her was fish-based.

You eat the entire bowl faster than you expected. The last time you had a warm meal was at Lady Argent’s estate. While the food her cooks made was good, it could not compare to this simple bowl of meat and vegetables.

“Thank you, it was delicious,” you say, slightly embarrassed at how fast you ate the food.

“You’re welcome,” he sounds pleased, “But I must admit, I did not make this.”

“Who did?”

“The chef, Nith. She’s a goblin who has lived here for a very long time. She’s probably in her room sleeping.”

“Other people live here?”

The figure nods. “Not many, but yes, others live here.”

“How many?”

His head tilts like he’s thinking. “It depends. People tend to come and go. The most that have been here in recent years have been about fifteen. But usually, it’s about five, myself included.”

“Where are they?”

“Around. Nith spends most of her time in the kitchen and garden, but she’ll visit the library if she’s looking for a recipe. I have a maid, Yaza, who cleans most of the fortress and does laundry. Just a warning, she’s a drider.”

You nod and do your best to hide the shiver that runs through you. There was a drider at Lady Argent’s estate, but he was massive and scary and lived in her dungeons. Lady Argent often used him as a way to keep her slaves in line. When you first arrived at Lady Argent’s estate, she showed you and a few others the drider. You remember how she hinted that any bad behavior would result in a visit with him.

“Who else?”

“I have another two apprentices. A tiefling, he spends most of his time in the library doing research or out in the courtyard practicing his magic. And a half-orc who lives in the smithy.”

You open your mouth to speak, but instead, you yawn. You didn’t even realize how tired you were, but the warmth from the fire and the warmth in your belly made you comfortable. And with that comfort came drowsiness.

“You’re tired. And it’s been a long day, would you like to sleep? I have many rooms available. We can also get you some new clothes to sleep in.”

You bite your lip and look down at the empty bowl in your hand. “What will it cost?”

“Nothing, I swear.”

You nod, unsure if you should believe him or not.

The hooded figure leads you to the kitchen and towards the entrance of the palace. It feels like minutes have passed since you were first here with the tattooed man. It’s probably only been about an hour or so.

The figure leads you up those massive stairs and down the right hall. How he doesn’t get lost, you don’t know. Eventually, he stops at a wooden door. He opens it and motions for you to step inside.

The room is huge with a massive bed in the center. The sheets and blankets look so soft and warm, you’ve never seen anything like it before. Even Lady Argent’s own bed wasn’t as plush looking. There’s a set of glass doors that lead to a large balcony outside, where there’s a small table with chairs. A lit fireplace is on the wall across from the bed.

The hooded figure opens a nearby dresser and pulls out a nightgown. It’s simple and long, but it looks clean.

“This may be too big,” he holds the nightgown out for you to take, “but hopefully it will be fine for the night.”

You take it and nod. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. Get some rest, if you need anything, you can pull that string near your bed. The maid, Yaza, or I will come to check on you.”

You nod again.

“Goodnight.” He turns to leave.

“Wait.”

He stops and looks back.

“What do I call you?”

“Voxir. You can call me Voxir.”

You nod and say his name softly. It’s strange, not a name you’ve ever heard before. “Goodnight, Voxir.”

He bows and leaves you alone in the room.

You put on the nightgown. It’s several sizes too big, but it’s clean and new. You crawl into the bed, savoring the warmth and soft sheets. As soon as your head hits the pillow, you’re asleep.

When you wake, the afternoon sun is shining in the room. At first, you’re confused, but then you remember everything that happened the night before. Arriving at the fabled Witch King’s home, the man with tattoos dying, the hooded figure named Voxir, him giving you food, and him letting you sleep in a room. It almost doesn’t feel real.

But as you sit up and stretch in the bed, you know it’s real. The fire in the fireplace is still burning, just like last night, making you wonder if the fire is magic like everything else here. The sun is bright outside, probably early afternoon.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t know what to do. For so long, you had people telling you what to do. But no one is here this morning to tell you what to do. No one was even here to wake you up.

What do you do? Should you go back to sleep? You are still tired and a few more hours of sleep would be good for you. But would that be rude? It might be. Maybe you should pull the string near the bed as Voxir instructed? He said that would bring him or that drider maid he mentioned to assist you. But do you need assistance? Should you put on your old clothes and go look for Voxir? You might get lost though, so that’s probably not a smart idea. Should you try to leave? But leave to where? Again, you remember you have no idea where this fortress is or how to leave this mountain range.

What should you do?

#exophilia #monster boyfriend #lich boyfriend

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ethelindawrites · 3 years

Text

October 2

Fictober, Prompt 2 - "You have no proof."

Original fiction.

Warnings: magical battle of sorts, non-graphic description of someone being dead.

The man clutched the scroll to his chest and looked at me as if I had just insulted all of his ancestors.

“Of course I won’t hand it over to you! It is mine, and acquired only at great trouble and cost!”

“And you didn’t stop to think about why that might be the case?” I asked him, keeping my voice even and my face calm. He had no idea what he was holding, and it was going to cause trouble for more than just him if I couldn’t stop him from using it.

“Obviously, because it confers a great boon to the user,” he huffed, as if this was obvious.

“It was stolen,” I said, losing a little bit of my temper, “out of one of the most secure magical facilities in all the known lands. I know that you know this, because that is why the thieves you hired to steal it charged you so much, and why you had so much trouble finding anyone to even attempt the theft in the first place. Has it not occurred to you that it was under such heavy guard because it doesn’t do what it claims to do, rather than because it does?”

A brief – very brief – flicker of doubt crossed his face, but then it settled into a scowl again.

“You have no proof,” he spat at me, “no proof at all of those rumors! Have you ever even seen it yourself?”

I had not, of course, looked at the scroll myself. Its rolled-up exterior was all anyone I knew had ever seen.

“No one,” I said slowly and meaningfully, “who has ever looked at that scroll is around to tell us what exactly happened to them.”

“And when I gain the promised powers,” he sneered, “I certainly won’t be remaining in these petty little principalities either. Are there not vast cosmos to explore? Lands beyond even the Empire? Why should I or anyone else who has gained such magical control be contented to stay where we were trapped before?”

In that instant, I knew there as no way I was going to be able to convince him to hand the scroll over. It would almost have been better if past attempts to use it had left behind an immediate devastation, because at least then the connection and disappearance of the user would have been obvious.

Unfortunately, the harm was not so obvious. It was something creeping, insidious, a spreading blight that our known magics could slow but not completely cease or reverse, as the people of this very area had come to know all too well.

That was why it had taken so long to identify this scroll and its use as the likely cause, and it was only the previous Emperor who had ordered it found and destroyed.

Someone – we still did not know who – had convinced both the Emperor and the senior Magic Council that the potential backlash from the scroll’s destruction was too dangerous to attempt, and so it had been locked away.

Locked away…but not destroyed.

This man was not responsible for that decision, but he was certainly the latest in a line of pawns being used by whoever had been responsible for it. Unfortunately, there were always men who thought that they could get something for nothing, and who were unwilling to work to earn their way, preferring to leech off of others in one way or another.

I tried one more time, just in case. “It is proven beyond doubt that blight has spread in every place where this scroll has been used, and no other possible cause has been found. There is a price for everything, and it is clear that this price for using this scroll is everything the user has to give and more. For your own sake, if nothing else, I implore you not to use it!”

He scoffed. “It is all rumor, begun by powerful men who wish to keep power limited to themselves. You have no proof.”

I took one quick breath, then another.

“Very well,” I told him. “In that case, since you have admitted to the theft of this scroll, then I will take the steps authorized by the Council.”

And, I had already decided, one that had definitely not been authorized by them. I thought of the nearby villages, and hoped desperately that they had listened to me.

“You really think you can arrest me?”

“Yes,” I told him, “and it’s the one way you might make it out of this alive, so I’d recommend coming quietly.” I pulled out a talisman and activated it, conjuring a pair of magical restraints for his wrists. “Set the scroll down, and let me bind you, and I’ll send you out of here.”

I would, too, if he stopped now.

But his hands were already untangling the cord holding the scroll closed. “So that you can use the scroll yourself? You must be mad to think I’ll give it up now! All I have to do is open this scroll and then I’ll be—”

I snapped out a scroll of my own with one hand, flicking another two talismans across the room. One latched onto the scroll, yanking it out of his grasp just before he could start to unroll the paper, while the other hit him with solid force to slam him back against the wall. Grabbing the other end of my scroll with my now-free hand, I spoke the activating word as the stolen scroll hovered briefly between us. There wasn’t much time before he’d grab it back and he wouldn’t hesitate again—

Deep purple lines of magic burst from my scroll, binding the other in a sphere that filled with the hottest fire magic could conjure, pulled from the heart of a volcano.

Instantly, I could tell that something about the other scroll was fighting back, and fed more magic into my spellwork, keeping the conjured fire burning at full strength. Slowly, the resistance lessened, and I squinted at it through the containing sphere and the flames. One end of the other scroll seemed to be burning now, and that was enough, the fire would take care of the rest, and I could burn myself out permanently if I wasn’t careful, using such intense magic was always a risk…

I stopped myself from drawing my active stream of magic back just in time.

Only the barest hint of other, gibbering voices underneath the coaxing whisper in my mind had alerted me that something was wrong.

Doing the opposite of what that whisper said seemed like the best possible thing I could do, so I reached deep and poured absolutely every drop of magic in my body into my scroll.

It hurt, and I could trace the damage being done to the magical veins as the pain spread and branched along them.

But the fire kept burning, and burning, and burning, and now the only voice the other scroll could conjure was a gibbering, shrieking thing as it finally began to heat, and then singe, and then blaze.

Still pouring my rapidly dwindling magic out, I gasped for air against the pain, and didn’t stop.

At the moment when the last of the scroll vanished into ash, power exploded outward and slammed into the containing sphere.

A scream wrenched itself from my throat as I tried and failed to hold the spell against it, and the backlash threw me back into the wooden wall of the house that crumbled under the power almost before I made contact with it. With that barrier gone, the next thing for me to slam into was a rock that I did not remember being anywhere near the house itself, and black engulfed my mind.

Rain woke me, an unknown amount of time later.

Rain, in this place that had not seen rain for nearly two years.

There was almost nothing left when I finally managed to stagger to my feet and hobble over to where the house had been. The man who had stolen the scroll lay where he had fallen, and his staring eyes and the stillness of his body told me that he was dead. I could not summon even distant pity for him right now, given that this was undoubtedly a kinder fate than he would have found through the scroll. But he had given me the chance I needed, so I would make sure that he received a proper burial at some point.

Some of the stone foundations and part of the chimney were all that remained of the house itself. All the wood and thatch, and even the trees for a wide distance around were gone, fallen into a gray, dead-looking dust now turning to mud beneath the rain.

Concerned, I let myself slump to my knees, and pleadingly summoned a spark of violet from my battered body. But the dust felt inert, magic-less, and the ground beneath it felt different too. It was hard to describe what the blighted areas felt like, but it wasn’t like this.

And there was the rain.

I knelt there for a long time and didn’t examine too closely how much of the wetness on my face was rain and how much was tears.

There would be consequences, I knew. I could tell already that I probably wasn’t going to fully recover from this, if at all, and there was still the question of whether there really had been someone out there trying to keep the scroll intact. Given how insidiously it had protected itself, I wasn’t so sure about that anymore, but it would still have to be investigated.

There would be time, now. The scroll was gone.

So I let myself weep, and then I pulled myself to my feet again, and began the long, slow, painful walk to the now-distant edge of the forest. I let the returning villagers catch and carry me when they found me, unable to go another step.

And for the first time in a very long time, I let myself hope.

#fictober21 #fantasy #vaguely implied horror #magic #cursed objects #or something like that #oh look I managed two days in a row

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