#if your village is horrible too fucking bad none of the other villages care enough to do anything

[evilkitten3]

having some thoughts on itachi and radicalization and how people can do the most horrific shit imaginable while fully believing it's the right thing to do and police states

#naruto #naruto shippuden #uchiha itachi #i give itachi a lot of shit. which he very much deserves #but on the other hand. #idk itachi isn't a character i can really hate or stan i guess. i mostly just feel sorry for him #i feel sorry for a lot of the characters in that world really #here in this world we're all more or less on the same playing field #like there's ways to be privileged or disenfranchised sure but. no one can throw a meteor at your head for questioning the government #i feel like that's something that gets overlooked a lot in metas on why characters do things #like we can compare to ourselves all we want but we still live in a world where it's significantly more possible to speak out #and people STILL have a very hard time doing that #in the world of naruto.... you really can't #if your village is horrible too fucking bad none of the other villages care enough to do anything #if your village is awesome surprise no it isn't you've got awful shit going on and you just haven't noticed it yet #everybody seems to be running on ''well at least we're better than THOSE guys'' #and the people who actually DO want to make things better simply. don't have the know-how to do it #bc all the people who could've come up with the ideas we have here have either been brainwashed killed or scared into silence #it's a lose-lose situation for literally everybody and they all keep perpetuating it bc nobody knows how to stop #you can save the world. you can save the world a hundred thousand times and it will NEVER matter. bc you still can't save the people #it's an eternal tragedy and i love it

[mcmoth]

BOIS

The aro c!Tommy propoganda is done.

Here:

Friends can be Home, too

Summary:

Love. The thing that supposedly drove the world, that made everyone happy. He thought he knew love. But maybe… maybe not. Maybe there has been something deeply, intangibly wrong about him this whole time, and he hadn't even known. Not to this extent.

'Cause he knew before. Knew it in the unease in his bones, and the panic in his brain, and the annoyed buzz in his chest. But… but he had doubted.

 He couldn't doubt anymore.

A journey of introspection, self doubt, and realizing you're not alone.

Or read on ao3!

Warnings: swearing, internalized arophobia, which includes self doubt, a bit of self hate, that sort of stuff. Also, this will have like, mentions of attraction and all that stuff, and Tommy gets pretty confused, so if you'd like to avoid that? This isn't the fic for you, ig. Btw, as a reminder, this is all set in the dsmp universe and is not about the irl people in any way.

Now onto the fic!

Welp.

Tommy sure is ready to stab someone right now.

Well, not really. More accurately he wanted to run, or shrivel up into a fucked up raisin, or snap, or just exist in darkness right now. Because there were his two best friends, cuddling on the couch. And he was sat there, next to them, supposed to be enjoying movie night.

It's not like he wasn't happy for them. They can do what they want, he reminded himself, again and again. They're just expressing their love, they're just close, and Tommy has to stop being such a fucking oddball about it. This wasn't weird. It wasn't weird.

And he could even see Ranboo giving him looks, probably about to ask something stupid. But if he made any comment, expressed discomfort, that would just be him being a dick and a weirdo. He's not going to ruin this for them. He just has to… to ignore it. To ignore it. He can do that. Yes.

“You alright, Tommy?”

Tommy's jaw snapped, he could feel his teeth grinding, and the couch was feeling all too small. So with a fast raise to his feet, he stumbled away, throwing a brash “fine" Ranboo's way, something burning deep in the pit that was his chest.

It was fine. It was fine. Why wasn't it fine? What the fuck was wrong with him??

Maybe he was just…

Jealous.

 

***

 

“I think I have a crush on Hannah.”

Tubbo and Ranboo stilled. The silence was… bad.

“oh?”

Tommy gulped, anxiously crinkling the chip bag he got from targay. “Y-yeah.”

Tubbo hummed. “I've never seen you interact with her much. When… did that start?”

Tommy's mind buzzed, and he resisted crushing the food in his hands, reclining heavily against the backrest of the bench. “I-I don't know, uh, recently? I guess? She's just… nice. She uh…. Has pretty hair? And she gave me a flower once! That was just, swe- uh, poggers of her, so. Yeah. I just think… yeah.”

Tubbo nodded, head tilting. “Do you think she likes you back?”

Tommy's eyes widened, and he didn't know why he laughed, but he did, and when he responded, he himself was taken aback by the hiss accompanying the words. “No!! She- why would- no- no, I mean… m-ma- I don't know??”

Ranboo swung his tail. “She better not. I mean, how old is she?”

“What does that matter?”

Ranboo stared. “You’re a child. Technically.”

Tommy bristled. “Fuck you, I am a big man! I'll kill you!”

The conversation moved on after that, and Tommy, somewhere along the way, quickly got lost. Head filled with cotton, electricity running through his veins, feeling horribly, oddly, humiliated and strangely… dissatisfied.

They didn't care. And he just felt more confused than ever.

…Why did he even do that?

 

***

 

Tommy was walking, grass up to his knees, a lead in hand. When he reached the village, he tied it to a fence, patting his borrowed horse before placing feet on the path, comforted by the gravel crunching beneath his feet, the feel of the sun on his neck. He looked around, at the wooden houses and half stacked stalls and idle chatter. He looked around and he thought.

He thought back to older days. This was… strangely nostalgic. Walking alone, in an unfamiliar town, the vastness of the world enveloping him in it's many potentials. He still wasn't sure when he felt better. Running around on the streets, just trying to survive, noone by his side, weak but naïve, hopeful. Or now, with some people to care for and trust, a place to return to, enough food in his pack, but shouldered with the weight of a dozen betrayals, life slipping past him three times too many. In a sense, he was still just trying to survive. Everything was so different now, yet the same.

He supposes, one thing that remained, was the sense of loneliness.

He grasped the front of his shirt, taking in the beating of his heart, looking at the strangers mingling amongst themselves. At the pairs, at the couples, at the families, sharing laughs and smiles, a contrast to the furrowed brows or tired amusement of shopkeepers and the idle folk visiting them.

He had always wanted a family.

…there was one way to get a family.

Someone to share laughs with. Someone who would comfort you. Someone who would take your hand, or hold you through the night, and never even leave. Someone who promises to stay.

It was a nice thought.

So why was it so hard to conceptualize? To imagine, to picture someone actually coherent, to look at a person and go – yes. I want to be your partner.

...eugh. just that sentence made his whole nervous system do a double take.

But why? Why? Was it the betrayals? Was it some fucked up self conscious mind shit? Was that it? Was he just fucked up in the head? Maybe.

Maybe.

But as it is, he knew he liked girls. He did. He liked them. They were… they were nice. Like Niki, who smelled of baked goods, and had a soft smile, and who had once given him a hug when she found him crying during the revolution, and who looked very nice in dresses. Or Puffy, who had made him a pickaxe when he asked for one, and who opposed Jack in stealing his hotel, and who offered him therapy, and she had really cool horn rings. Or Hannah, with her red flowers, and pretty builds, and the way the nature seemed just a bit more lively with her around, and her laugh was bright with mischievous intent that he could empathize with. They… they were nice. Yeah. Most girls were so nice.

So why… why hadn't he found one that he could. Actually picture doing… anything. In his head. No kissing, no dates, none of that… shmuck. It was just… he could see many girls his age running around, just now, in front of his eyes, many running through his mind as he searched his memories. None of them… no. And he tried thinking of boys, but that didn't… no. Not that either. …Enbies?

No… no, nothing… nothing felt. Good. None of it felt good, he just felt sick, he just felt weird, he didn't even feel dirty per se, but more like he was charting into foreign grounds, into something alien, and none of the thoughts he forced to visualize behind his eyelids, fleeting from how quickly he shut them out, felt like him. It didn't feel like him.

His fingers trembled, his chest felt tight, throat choked, and his head, on his shoulders, heavy and woozy and oh so muddled. He felt his heart race. Was… was that it? Maybe that was a sign. People said heart racing was a sign of attraction. Was there anyone in particular who did that? Maybe he was wrong – he was not lacking or messed up or broken, he just had buried the feelings so deep below his ribs, underneath fabricated doubts and trauma and the disconnect he had with reality and relationships in general, and once he got over those barriers, and just found someone, he would experience that joy that everyone spoke about. That closeness. He just had to… allow himself to get closer. To know more people, know them better.

That was… that was probably it.

But no matter. He raised his eyes, his senses coming back to him like the wind blowing his hair out of his eyes, blinking at the noise around him.

After all, he still came here for a reason.

 

***

 

“Yeah, I like these ones the best,” Tubbo said as he handed Tommy the various colored discs. Tommy nodded, smiling as he sorted through them, writing down the names in his notepad, feeling little stones dig into his elbows. Tubbo joined him fully on the ground, laying down next to him. “What do you need these for, anyways?” he blinked, and there was a smirk growing on his face. “Are they for… someone?”

Tommy furrowed his brows, staring at the other. “What?”

Tubbo chuckled nervously, waving his hand around as he stumbled over his words. “You- you know. Like a gift? Are you going to… to try to, get someone?”

Tommy’s stare just became sharper, becoming even more confused. “What??” What the fuck was he talking about?

“You know, like a- a date?” Tommy blanked. “Cause- you know, you've been talking about girls a lot lately, and I just thought-"

“No.” Tommy interrupted, feeling numb. “No, it's not for a fucking girl.”

“Oh.” Tubbo laid on the grass, clearly uncomfortable. He began to tear up the leaf he had picked up. “Sorry, I just thought- I'm not really good at this whole thing… sorry for assuming. W- …what is the reason, then?”

Tommy sighed, thankful for the topic change. “It's for… you know how I’m going to therapy?”

Tubbo hummed in affirmation.

“Puffy suggested that, since I like music, I should like, indulge in that, use it to calm myself or give myself something to do, that junk. So I’ve just been. Collecting, I guess.” He looked over the list again, then closed the notepad and sat up, discs in hand. “I wanna build a place where I just keep all the records, maybe I’ll even sell the ones I don't like. Good business practice, you know?”

Tubbo brightened. “Oh! That sounds really cool! If you need help with the building part, I can help you, by the way!”

Tommy looked at Tubbo's grin, so sweet and infectious, and his heart thawed, thinking of working with Tubbo again, building towards something together. It was a nice thought. “Alright.”

It would be nice to be with Tubbo again.

 

***

 

Tommy felt miserable.

This… this was miserable. He didn't know why. It really shouldn't be – it was just music. He was just sorting through all of his music, picking ones he liked, picking ones to comfort him, he loved music, it was fine, it just…

Why did so many of the songs have to be about love.

It made him feel angry and hurt and alone in a particular way that was so familiar and yet so utterly different. Because when he felt alone before, he fought with himself the same, he sunk into the thoughts of being unlovable or broken or undeserving of company, but at least he could understand it. At least he could look back now and think “Dream was a bitch" and that would be some solace. At least he could have hope that even if he was unlovable, he could still love. Love others. Try to seek others. Even if he never got that back.

But now, hearing all the poetics and sweet confessions that were in such abundance, something that sounded so passionate and revered, so integral, it was like looking into another reality he didn't, couldn't, understand, and suddenly, he felt more alien than ever before.

And most importantly, how fucking stupid that was, that the thing that made him feel that way was love.

Love. The thing that supposedly drove the world, that made everyone happy. He thought he knew love. But maybe… maybe not. Maybe there has been something deeply, intangibly wrong about him this whole time, and he hadn't even known. Not to this extent.

Cause he knew before. Knew it in the unease in his bones, and the panic in his brain, and the annoyed buzz in his chest. But… but he had doubted.

He couldn't doubt anymore.

God….

He laid on the ground, head to the cold floor, the record still spinning. The noise bounced off the dark wooden walls and into his skull, grating and aching. He covered his ears, messed up his hair, breathed in and out. In and out. What was wrong. What was wrong.

The record fell to silence. Then it started back again, as it automatically swapped out. Next.

His fingers felt restless, his whole body did. He tapped his skull, feeling the thumps echo. Breathe in, and breathe out. Breathe-

“-ow will I ever know you enough to love you, if you're hiding who you are?

Don't ask me to explain-"

He startled, his breath catching. This disc was scratchier than the others. It felt different. Something in him drew in the lyrics, head loud. He blinked.

…He's not hiding. Is he? Hiding what? He’s- no. Just- Breathe in-

“-Who are you hiding from, across the table with a penny in each eye?

Don't ask me to explain, don’t ask me to explain-"

His breath escaped, arms trembling as his body froze. He didn't understand. He couldn't explain. He wanted to cry. Something was unravelling.

“I'd like to marry all of my close friends, and live in a big house together by an angry sea,”

He sobbed.

He did, he thought, with surprise, as the tears fell.

“Am I the devil's marbles don't move on without me,

Who will be watching my body when I sleep?

Who will I believe in?”

Something… yeah.

Something happened.

Because suddenly, all that stress, all that confusion, all that loathing, was detangling, and the tears ran deep, ran painful, silent, wheezing screams escaping as the sobs continued. He couldn't breathe. His chest was tight. His head swam, and he felt oh so light headed. Light. He felt light. Happy. He felt alive.

He felt understood.

He- he wanted that! He could- he wanted to live with his friends, with Tubbo with Ranboo. He wanted to stay as friends. He wanted them to protect him, to be able to trust them, to be able to protect them in turn, he wanted to reside with them, he wanted to sleep amongst them, to have them watch over him, safe, he wanted to wake up in the morning and see the sun rise with then, he wanted to have casual dinner with them, he wanted to grow old together with them. As friends. As friends.

Friends.

What a lovely thing…

He could… he could live with his friends…

He could build a family with his friends.

And he didn't even care at that moment that he didn't know how Tubbo and Ranboo would feel about that. He didn't care whether they'd want him at their house, whether they'd want him around at all. He didn't even care, at that moment, if he couldn’t join them.

Because he realized that it was a possibility at all. Just the prospect, just the thought, the realization, that spending your life, being intimate, finding a stable ground, with your friends, not romantic partner, was possible, that it was possible to not be able to feel otherwise, that it was shared by other people, who wrote this song, who sung it, who had thought about it…

It meant he couldn't be that alone after all.

“It's so easy to lie to myself,

And pretend that I could love you, but I can't"

And oh so comforting it was, that he couldn't.

 

***

 

“Ey, Ranboo! Bitchboy!”

Ranboo suppressed a smile, an exasperated sigh hissing through his teeth. Tail swishing, he glanced to the other boy, who was down below, standing in the snow.

“C'mere!! I gotta give you something.” He yelled.

Ranboo raised a brow, but complied, closing the window he had been looking out of. After making a quick detour to check on Michael, he made his way down the stairs and stepped out of the doorway and into the light. Tommy bounded to him, big grin on his face. He seemed jumpier than usual. Ranboo smiled in turn. “what is it?”

Tommy opened his mouth, then closed it, instead going to rummage through his bag. What he took out was a… box? “Here, fuckboy.”

Ranboo winced, taking the container. “Don't call me that.”

“Why, what does it mean?”

Ranboo stared. “Just…. Don't.”

Tommy blinked, laughing nervously. “o-okay.”

Moving on, Ranboo inspected the item in his hands. It was medium sized, and made of simple, but elegant, smooth black wood. On the top, there was a leather sign embedded in it, with the word Beloved stitched into it. His ears flickered. This seemed… awfully nice. “What’s in it?”

Tommy scoffed. “Just open it, you twat.”

Ranboo, with a glance, could see the anxious way Tommy was holding himself, seeming impatient and uncomfortable. So he wasted no more time, and clicked open the surprisingly sturdy iron latch after a moment of struggling, and what awaited him inside was…

“…Discs…?”

Ranboo held his breath, fingers twitching as he held the gift. …was it a gift?

Tommy was staring at the ground. “Yeah. You know, I’ve just been traveling around, collecting, and I wanted to…” He seemed to shake himself lightly, hands wringing. “I wanted to give you some, I guess. That… yeah. These are yours.”

Ranboo was stiff, still perceiving the actual gift in his hands, that looked hand made, that was hand picked, that Tommy had worked to attain, just to give to him. His tail curled, and he carefully, delicately closed it's lid and hugged it close to his chest. “I… Thank you. Thank- O-oh wow…”

Tommy scowled. “You look like a fish. It's not a big deal. Just… take a listen sometime, won't ya?”

“Y-yeah!” Ranboo reverently nodded, cursing the way his eyes felt misty. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll definitely listen, and cherish it. Thank you, Tommy.”

Tommy curtly nodded. “Alright. Pog.” And then, he was turning around, walking away with a quick “Share it with your family, too, some day. Bye.” Thrown or his shoulder.

And then, he was gone.

 

***

Tubbo heard music down the hall.

Ears tilting towards the pleasant sound, he skipped with bare feet over to the source, evening light casting warm glow through the windows as he went. When he arrived, to what was Michael's bedroom, he found Ranboo on the couch, curled gently over their son, head resting on his little head as he seemed to just… listen, wistful. Michael was listening too, letting out a little yawn as he turned his head to snuggle even deeper into his parent's warm embrace. Tubbo smiled softly at the scene.

Quietly, he patted over to them both, Ranboo eventually noticing him and watching him as he did. Tubbo buried a hand in Ranboo's hair, and the other leaned in. “What are you listening to?”

Ranboo didn't rush to explain, letting the comforting silence fill the space. When he spoke, it reminded Tubbo of soft flower petals and honey. “I didn't know Tommy's music taste was so…”

Tubbo blinked, turning to the disc lazily turning on the jukebox near them.

“-But in the end, I don't really care what you think,

Cause the bottom line is you make me happier than I’ve ever been...”

“wholesome.” He chuckled, fondly.

Tubbo hummed, unsurprised. “Tommy gave you these?”

Ranboo leaned more heavily in the couch. “Yeah. I don't know why, but…”

Tubbo's smile only deepened as he thought. Slowly, he replied, “I think he just wanted to show you he cared.”

Ranboo seemed to lose his breath a little, looking up at the other. “You think so…?”

Tubbo carded his fingers through Ranboo's hair, looking past Ranboo's twitching ears. “Tommy doesn't do things like these without reason. If he gave you something, it’s safe to say you mean a lot to him. He doesn't like to show it, usually, but… that I know.”

Ranboo stared at the turning of the discs, breathing softly. His tail curled around Michael. “Oh.”

Tubbo sat down at his feet and joined in.

Hearts warm, they laid there and listened until the sun had cast it's last rays and the jukebox no longer had a melody to spin.

 

***

 

Tommy sat behind the counter, feet on the counter, just trying to eat his discount chips while some people were being dumb children.

“Stop throwing the fucking food! I'll have to clean this up later!” He whined, to which Tubbo and Ranboo just threw him a glance, Tubbo’s apathetic and Ranboo's at least vaguely guilty, before Tubbo went right back and threw another gummy worm Ranboo's way.

Tommy scowled. “Seriously. At least pick them up and eat them.”

Ranboo made a face of disgust. “I'm not gonna eat candy off the floor, Tommy.”

“Yeah, some of us don't eat mud, Tommy.” Tubbo added.

“There’s no fucking mud here! It's a clean floor! You can totally pick them up and eat them, what the fuck!”

Tubbo raised his brows, staring. “Okay, then go and eat them, trash boy.”

“Okay, that's it.” Tommy raised to his feet, left his chip bag on the table and ran to Tubbo. Tubbo squawked, crawling onto the armchair he was reclining in to curl into a ball around his bag, but Tommy just threw himself onto the armchair with him, trying to reach for the candy. Which, considering the position, it was more like he was half-tickling, half hugging the other more than anything. “Give me that.”

Tubbo just burst out laughing, trying to hide deeper into the couch, attempting to kick the other away. “St-Stoppp!”

“C'mon, you disobeyed my shop's rules, I’m just confiscati-"

Something hit his head. Tommy stilled.

Ranboo peeked from behind his own candy bag, before digging into it again.

Tommy laid off of Tubbo slightly, raising like a puffed up cat. “Ranboo, you fuck!”

Tubbo laughed again, and Tommy was about to go on a murder spree, only for all the commotion to halt when they heard a sudden 4th voice.

Michael.

“Oh shit.”

Ranboo sighed. “He's awake. C'mon.”

Tubbo sighed as well, rolling out of the couch and dragging his feet towards the source of the oinks. “For the record, this is not my fault.”

Both of the other boys gave him the stink eye, but in the name of preserving needed ceasefire they held their tongues.

Michael was sitting up in Tommy's bed that resided in the backrooms, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and hiccuping. Tubbo reached for him, lifting him up. “Aww, did we wake you up? I'm sorry, little bossman.”

Michael clutched Tubbo's shirt, muttering something in piglin.

“He's asking what all that noise was.” Tommy quickly translated, before turning his eyes back to the kid and saying something soft in piglin back. Michael listened, seeming to quiet a little.

Ranboo, gathering that it was an affirmation, smiled and took one of Michael's hooves gently. “Yeah, we were just having fun. Do you want to have fun, too, Michael?”

Michael’s big eyes widened, and he wiggled in Tubbo's grip. “Ye! Ye!”

They chuckled, and Tubbo transferred his hold of Michael to Ranboo, who led the way in making it back to the front of the shop, chatting with his son all the while.

Tommy bumped his shoulder with Tubbo's as they walked, but didn't say anything further. Tubbo bit back a grin.

The next hour was spent feeding Michael and letting him listen to some new discs. Tommy even remembered he had some records that were in piglin, some songs, some stories, and put them on, which seemed to enrapture Michael quite a bit, immersed in the new voices and tales and familiarity. The three boys let him sit in Ranboo's lap and get lost in his own world, residing on a couch together and quietly chatting, around them comfortingly dark walls, bookshelves and the smell of wood and candles.

Eventually, the conversation steered.

“You know, Tommy, why don't you join us?”

…huh?

Tommy blinked, willing his breathing to restart and for the words to come. “W-what?”

Tubbo looked at him with warm eyes and a trepidant smile. “Like, how would you feel about coming to Snowchester? Live with us?”

Ranboo waved his hand. “Of course, you don't have to! But we just thought, you know, if you'd like a bit more, uh, company…”

“We want to be with you, is all.” Tubbo added quietly.

Tommy's heart raced, and he only blinked more, hands clutching the fabric of his pants. “B- be with me… are you…” he gulped down the butterflies clogging down his windpipes, still trying to understand that this is real. “are you sure…?”

Ranboo grinned, patting Michael's head idly. The piglin looked up at them. “Yeah! You're family, Tommy, after all.”

Tubbo tilted his head. As Tommy was still struggling to respond, he assured, “You don't have to if you don't want to, big man. No pressure.”

Tommy laughed, weak and breathless, but bright. “No, I-I’d- I'd really want that, but…” he gestured, trying to put his worries to sudden coherent sentences. “wouldn't that be… awkward? Like… you two, just, l-lovebirds," he chuckled clumsily, “and then there's… me, just, there?”

Tubbo shared a look with Ranboo, then turned back and laughed. “You won't be a third wheel, if that's what you’re asking.”

“Yeah, it's not like we’re really romantic partners, even, it'll be fine.” Ranboo said.

Tommy stilled.

Blinked.

“Uhw- what?”

The other two tensed, Tubbo quickly glancing at his husband before grimacing, thinking deep on how to explain it. “You know, we… we're not really… romantic? We just decided to marry? But we're… not platonic either, it's…”

“I-It's something inbetween. Queerplatonic is the word? I think?”

“It's hard to explain-"

“There's- there's a word for that? And you were- Like. Friends? Living together, this whole time??” Tommy reeled, head in hand.

“Well, not exactly friends, or at least, with how we decide to label our relationship, but… yes?”

“Oh my-" Tommy slumped forwards, now both of his hands holding his head upright, just. Breathing. “Shit. What the fuck. I…” he laughed, wrecked.

Tubbo and Ranboo stared at him, uncomfortable. Tubbo frowned. “Look, if you… if you're gonna say something, I’d rather-"

“No- nono, it's…” he raised his eyes, slowly, like coming out of a cave and into the light. His words tripped upon his tongue, but he was so eager to know. “So you two don't want… romantic partners?”

They blinked. “Not… particularly, no.” Ranboo replied. “…are you okay?”

Tommy laughed. It sounded stilted even to his ears, senses muddled as he was wrapped up in his own head, his own elated feelings, his heart nearly bursting at the seams. “I-I’m not alone.”

Tubbo stared, but then his eyes softened. He sighed, and his smile was immensely gentle, while looking at his friend. “Oh, Tommy…” Ranboo, beside him, wilted the same.

Michael, inbetween them, looked at all three of them silently.

“…Do you want a hug?” Tubbo quietly offered.

Tommy quickly nodded, slumping into Tubbo's side and burying his face in Tubbo's soft hair, not even caring for the way one of his horns poked into his cheek slightly. He held the other, and Tubbo held him. He felt the end of Ranboo's tail drape over his leg.

With a delicate tone and worn vocal chords, he quietly, and simply, admitted. “I'd love that. I'd really love that. Living with you three.”

Tubbo tightened his hold.

That night, Tommy fell asleep not alone, but with his two other closest people, his family. Safe, warm, with that insistent nagging at the back of his chest cavity, that told him he was alone, that he was wrong about himself, that he never even knew himself at all, finally silenced.

He had never felt more at home.

#dream smp #tommyinnit #fanfiction #aromantic #aro headcanons #tubbo #ranboo #clingy duo #bee duo #bench trio #allium duo #michael the zombie piglin #my writing #aspec #my own post #this is a whole chunk of projection here oh boy #it's..... yeah it's literally just projection #but it has been. nice. to kinda write it all out.... :') #oh! btw the songs that i included snipets of lyrics from are #don't ask me to explain by of montreal #and #it's all good by cavetown #so yeah #hope this is uh. satisfactory! pogs #please reblog i am starved

[drowningbydegrees]

For once this month, I actually wrote what I meant to.  Written for @whumptober2020 prompt 26. If you thought the head trauma was bad (Migraine, concussion, blindness). Pretty please mind the tags. <3

Read on AO3

In retrospect, they had had better days. They’d been all but run out of town, which, they were killing a monster for these ungrateful jerks, so rude. Said ungrateful jerks had also greatly understated the monster problem so that Geralt would agree to save the town they wouldn’t even let him sleep in for less money, so extra rude. And now, the monsters are dead, but the building that had served as a nest has pretty much come down around Geralt’s and Jaskier’s ears, which probably isn’t the villagers fault, but they’re summarily awful so the bard opts to blame them anyway.

Jaskier coughs as the dust and debris settle, but it still feels like he tried to breathe in a sandstorm. Blindly, he shakes the rubble from his hair with his hand, staring out into the darkness. There’s only the weakest light shining in from off to his right promising that a world continues to exist beyond their unexpected prison.

A prison that Jaskier hopes Geralt is investigating to find them a way out of. Geralt is quiet, but he’s always quiet, so that really doesn’t mean much. When he can’t hear the witcher, Jaskier squints at the dark room, wishing his friend didn’t absolutely insist on wearing black all the time. “I don’t suppose you can do that magicky thing you do and break us out of here?”

No answer comes.

“Geralt? You’re not on the other side of all these rocks are you? I really don’t fancy being stuck here alone,” Jaskier calls a little louder. He feels his way to where the crumbled stone blocked off the exit and finds it every bit as impassable as he feared. Jaskier thinks to try and free himself, but the first rock he grabs comes loose and the whole pile rumbles, sending the bard scrambling backward, tripping over something and landing in a heap on the floor. Alright, bad idea then.

He had initially assumed the something he tripped over was more rocks, except that it makes a wretched little whimpering sound that rocks are very definitely not capable of. Fuck.

Hampered by the fact that he can’t see, Jaskier feels his way across the floor until he finds the hard leather protecting Geralt’s torso. Geralt isn’t moving and he can’t see, so Jaskier curses under his breath as he maps his way up to the witcher’s face. “C’mon Geralt. Wake up. This is really not the time.”

A hand held in front of Geralt’s face confirms that at least he’s still breathing, but that’s no real comfort when he’s still so still and quiet. It’s as much reassurance as Jaskier thinks he’s going to get though, so he continues. Maybe if he could get Geralt to sit up…

Jaskier never gets that far. Blindly, he slides a hand behind Geralt’s head and his heart nearly stops in his chest. Geralt’s hair is matted with something warm and sort of viscous, and when Jaskier rubs his fingers together, they’re wet. The touch that just got what Jaskier assumes is blood on his hands is also the thing that finally pulls a sound from Geralt. That makes it even worse because it’s an agonized moan that Jaskier is pretty sure is going to haunt him every day for the rest of his life.

“Okay, don’t panic Jask. You can fix this,” he mumbles under his breath. If he just had some light. Jaskier glares at the little hole where the sun is still shining in like the wall did this just to harm him personally. If the window is mostly blocked, there have to be a lot of stones in the way, and no telling if he could lift them.

Except maybe he doesn’t have to. Frantically, Jaskier feels around for Geralt’s sword, breathing out a sigh of relief when he finally wraps his fingers around the hilt. If luck is on his side, maybe he can get enough leverage to knock something free.

“How do you use this thing?” Jaskier grumbles once he’s got it, supporting the weight of the sword against his shoulder. It’s not that it’s all that heavy to stand there and hold, but even the idea of swinging it around is exhausting. On the upside, it seems sturdy enough to pry a few rocks loose, and if it isn’t… well, a sword is replaceable. Geralt is decidedly less so.

Every second feels too long, like he’s moving in slow motion. Jaskier shuffles across the open space as briskly as he dares, shoves the sword into the first thing that feels like a gap in the rocks and shifts his weight downward against the hilt. There’s nothing. The rock is too heavy or he is too weak, or the sword isn’t stiff enough, or…

Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to give up like that. He yanks the sword free and tries again, a little off to one side. This time, the sword slips further in with the grating sound of stone on steel. Once again, he throws all his weight into pushing the sword down like a lever. There’s a creak, an echoing sort of groan as It moves a little and then all at once. Jaskier barely has time to jump out of the way as a sizable rock skids from its resting place along with a shower of pebbles.

It’s not really a big enough gap to get out, but it does let the light in quite a bit more. The room is dim and dusty, but it brings the periphery into focus, not that Jaskier cares a whit about that. He nearly stumbles over the rocks scattered across the floor in his hurry to get back to Geralt.

“Oh, no no no.” Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat when his gaze settles on the witcher. He has seen Geralt muddle through all manner of injury, has patched up a fair few of them himself. He’s stitched up angry, uneven gashes and set fractured bones, but none of those things prepares him for the way Geralt looks now. Blood spreads around the witcher’s head like some sort of macabre halo staining Geralt’s hair a disturbing shade of crimson and soaking into the dust and rock around him.

It’s not really a relief to find Geralt’s potions weren’t lost when the building came down around them. It’s more like a handful of sandbags in the face of a hurricane. He’s not a complete stranger to them though, and a rather distraught effort at rifling through the witcher’s bag turns up one Jaskier recognizes. It’s an orangey red, almost sparkling, and he’s seen it work before on things that should have killed Geralt. He’s got it in hand when he realizes he needs to back up a step. It can’t mend the witcher if he bleeds out first.

There are no bandages, because of course there aren’t. Jaskier shrugs out of his doublet. It’s not soft at all, so the chemise goes too, and that he can work with. Carefully as he can, Jaskier winds the cloth around Geralt’s head, tying it in place and hoping to whatever deity might be listening that it’s enough.

The potion comes next, and that’s somehow much worse. Geralt doesn’t stir when Jaskier brings the bottle to his lips. The only thing Jaskier can think to do is drip it in a little at a time, so agonizingly slowly that he worries it’ll be too late before he’s even finished. Afterwards, he stares at Geralt’s unnaturally still form, waiting to make sure he doesn’t choke on the stuff somehow.

Are you supposed to leave people where they are or something else entirely? Jaskier doesn’t have the foggiest idea, but he can’t bear the idea of leaving Geralt on the hard ground. Shivering in the chilly air, Jaskier ignores the blood seeping into his trousers and sits so that he can rest Geralt’s head in his lap. He won’t panic over the stain spreading too quickly across his chemise. He won’t. “You're not dying here. You don't get to leave me behind. Not like this.”

All that’s left to do is wait.

***

Geralt can’t remember ever opening his eyes to this before, the world having slid so violently out of focus. There’s a weight, or maybe it’s him that’s heavy. Even curling his fingers a monumental effort.

“Wh-” It’s all he manages before words fail him, and suddenly there is a hand squeezing his shoulder.

“Oh thank fuck,” someone says. Jaskier? Geralt thinks it’s probably Jaskier. It usually is. “How are you feeling?” Did something happen that suddenly granted him sleeping in Jaskier’s lap privileges? He doesn’t think so. That feels important in a way he can’t imagine being ambushed by, tied to a conversation he keeps not having, but here they are, his head very definitely in Jaskier’s lap. Only Jaskier looks horribly unhappy, so… so…

Jaskier had been asking him something. “What?”

“How’s your head? There was a lot of blood and I didn’t know if the potion would be enough, and…” Jaskier’s still talking. Geralt is distantly aware of this, but the words won’t stick.

“What happened?” he says, or hopes he does. His mouth feels as disjointed as the rest of him and it’s disconcertingly difficult to tell.

“The building came down on us. Don’t you remember?”

“Obviously not,” Geralt bites out. Wait. The building came down and as that sinks in, there’s a sharp pang of fear, but not for himself. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. But Jaskier is human and sometimes overwhelmingly fragile. Geralt's head is swimming and he's almost afraid to ask. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine.” There’s more, but the rest won’t stay put. That’s the important bit anyway. Jaskier is okay. The swell of fear dissipates like a puff of smoke as quickly as it had sprung up. The building is a problem, but he can figure that out. Somehow. It’ll come to him eventually. To Jaskier’s credit, he does seem fine, if oddly clothed. Rather not clothed, actually. “Where is your shirt?” “Ah yeah, that.” Jaskier’s knuckles brush gently across Geralt’s temple. Dizzily, Geralt leans into it before it occurs to him maybe he shouldn't. “You were bleeding a lot. It was all I had to work with.”

“Hmm.” There’s an itchy sort of feeling at the back of his mind suggesting he’s supposed to be alarmed by that, but the response itself never comes. Not the way it did for Jaskier. Which, there was a reason he was worried about Jaskier, he’s pretty sure. There might be a reason he’s lying here too, what whatever it is, it’s lost to him now. They’re somewhere dark and dusty, and they can’t stay here forever, so without much thought, Geralt rolls over, trying to get up. It’s a mistake.

That the room is spinning is the least terrible thing out of all the things that come of his attempt to get up. The shift in equilibrium feels like having nails driven into his skull from every angle, sharp and impossible to tune out. There’s a high, keening sound Geralt only belatedly realizes is him.

“Geralt. Fuck. Hang on.” There’s nothing to hang onto though, and Geralt all but collapses down to his forearms. For a second he’s very, very certain he’s going to retch, but the immediacy of the sensation passes, leaving him deeply nauseous instead.

Jaskier’s hand smooths up and down his arm in the places where hard leather doesn’t block out sensation. In another place he might call the touch affectionate, but what daydream could he be in where that’s true? “Where are we?”

“We just talked about this. We're in a building that collapsed.” Something has crept into the edges of Jaskier’s voice, fretful and shadowed. Geralt decides he doesn’t like it. He’d like to soothe it away, but does not know how.

“‘M fine,” he tries because Jaskier seems worried about him, but even in his own ears the words blur together. Geralt tries to lift his head enough to look at Jaskier and prove his point, but the awful needlepoint pressure only presses more deeply. The witcher drops his head, forehead resting against what he thinks might be Jaskier’s knee.

“You’re not fine, you dolt. I don't want to mess it up, but I don't know how to fix this one. Are you supposed to sleep it off? Should I make sure you don’t sleep?” Jaskier is saying things still, Geralt is distantly aware, but the words all drift like dandelion seeds. There’s only this thread of terror that Geralt cannot stomach hearing.

“It’s okay. We’re okay,” he mumbles, blindly reaching to lay his hand over Jaskier’s. He’s not dead and Jaskier is well enough to talk, so it can’t be that bad, can it? “Tell me what happened.”

“...Geralt?” Jaskier’s thumb is brushing against the back of Geralt’s neck. It’s sort of lovely in that it's one pleasant thing when everything else is awful. “What do you remember?”

That’s a trick question if Geralt ever heard one. His memory is fine. He can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be. Refusing to fall for it, Geralt aims to distract instead. “That feels nice.” 

 “Well, now I know you’re unwell. The Geralt I know barely tolerates my being around for more than a few weeks at a time, and would never own up to liking something I was doing.

Does Jaskier really think that? Maybe. Geralt can’t seem to hang onto where that line of reasoning was going, but Jaskier was talking and wrong. He needs to know he's wrong. “That’s not true. I miss you when you’re gone.”

“Ooooookay. That’s very sweet, but I think you’ll remember that’s not true when you’re better." It sounds sad, but Jaskier still has a hand on him, warm and welcome.

He’s staring very closely at a floor that was probably pretty once, but it’s cracked now. It’s a weird place to be, even for him, so Geralt tries to get up. Sort of. More precisely, he lifts his head an inch or two. It’s as far as he gets before his head feels like it’s splitting and he thinks he might be sick.

”Okay, that’s enough of that. You are, in fact, the worst patient. I would like to not be stuck here, and I imagine you would like to not be stuck here, so just let me help.” Stuck? Geralt doesn’t know where they’re stuck, but he knows there’s some reason he shouldn’t ask. Nodding is probably a terrible idea, so the witcher hums an agreement and listens to Jaskier sweep the worst of the debris from the floor next to them.

There are hands on him next, guiding him somewhere else with painstaking care. Geralt lets himself be moved. He ends up on his side before it feels very abruptly like Roach is stepping on his skull. It’s all he can do to bite off a low whimper.

“Alright, hey. Just get some rest. That swallow has to work eventually, right?” Jaskier doesn’t sound certain, but there's something soft under Geralt’s cheek and there’s a gentle hand cradling the side of his neck, a thumb carefully sweeping across his temple. If they weren’t lost, Geralt would call the gesture affectionate, but nothing makes any sense here. Are they lost?

Geralt thinks about the worried quiver in Jaskier’s voice. He'd fix it if he just knew how. It's quiet here, and Jaskier doesn't belong by himself in the quiet. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“You’re not.” There’s a change in pressure around his skull, something falling away, but it doesn’t hurt, and it comes with Jaskier’s fingers sliding through his hair. “Your head is looking better.”

That’s good, he thinks. Maybe it means the awful needling feeling will go away. Maybe it means this other ache, the one sprawling out behind his ribcage, will go away too. It means something, Geralt knows, but he can’t quite piece it together and his mouth runs away without the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

 “You’re not. I’m right here.” Jaskier’s short nails scritch tenderly at the base of Geralt’s skull, a welcome counterpoint to everything else. “You’re not alone.”

***

I don’t think I want to be alone. It’s a revelation if it means anything. Jaskier knows, of course, that the rambling of a witcher who couldn’t even remember how they got there for more than thirty seconds at a time might not mean anything at all. But if there’s nothing to it, at least Jaskier can know that there for a moment in time, he could be exactly what Geralt needed. For now, Geralt’s face is pressed into Jaskier’s thigh, his breathing the only sound in this dim place.

An hour in, Jaskier starts to wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. Maybe he was supposed to keep Geralt from sleeping. Two hours in, he worries that Geralt might wake up in just as bad of shape as before, that he’ll have failed them both. Three hours in, sitting so still has gotten to be agonizing as much as he’d like to stay.

He’s just about to try and see how carefully he can move out from under Geralt when the witcher stirs. There’s a low groan and one eerie golden eye slowly blinking open.

“Careful.” Jaskier carefully brushes his thumb along Geralt’s temple, trying to coax the witcher into staying put, even if it means his own continued discomfort.

“Fuck. That hurts,” Geralt grumbles, holding his hand over the upper half of his face, and some of Jaskier’s unease settles. The words are perfectly clear this time.

“Shockingly, Falling rocks will do that.” He should let go, Jaskier thinks, but he carefully threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair and the witcher stays like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. It's probably just that Geralt needs a little time to reorient himself, but for a moment, Jaskier lets himself believe it’s true.

Bit by bit, Geralt seems to recover. When he finally pushes himself to sit up, there’s a pained wince, but the witcher’s eyes remain focused. That’s… good. That’s probably good. Except if it’s not. “Should you be doing that?” 

 “I’m fine,” Geralt replies gruffly instead of bothering to answer the question. It’s considerably more normal than their last conversation, so that’s something.

 “Actually fine or ‘I can’t wrap my head around the fact that someone might care what happens to me’ fine?” Geralt ignores the question entirely, his gaze flicking over their surroundings before settling on Jaskier. “You were afraid.”

It's not a question, and Geralt is looking at him like a puzzle to solve. It would just figure, the one time the man is actually listening to him. It seems weird that Geralt couldn't keep ahold of where they even were, but that Jaskier being afraid for him would stick even now. Then again, Jaskier doesn't know anything about head injuries. Maybe that's just how it goes.

“Damn right I was. I thought you were dying and I was going to be trapped down here with your… your corpse or something. Then you woke up making no sense, and I don’t know what to do with a head injury, which it turns out is an awfully stressful thing to guess about. I wasn't even sure I'd done enough to fix it until, what, five minutes ago?” It's a lot, even for him, the words tripping over each other in their need to escape. Jaskier leans on theatrics because it’s all the armor he has. Anything else might give away how his heart broke with every attempt Geralt made to speak the last time around.

“Hmm.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing more. Typical.

Jaskier wants to be angry, but the feeling floats away as soon as he really looks at Geralt. There are dark, angry smudges under his eyes, and Geralt is so pale, more than usual even. He appears every bit the part of someone who was recently on death’s door and Jaskier just can’t hang onto any real bitterness. “How’re you feeling?”

Geralt gives him a sour look, the kind he gets when he thinks Jaskier is asking a dumb question. Much to Jaskier’s surprise, he does answer eventually. “Terrible… but not dying.”

“Sooooo, any thoughts on how we get out of here?” It’s abrupt, but Jaskier really can’t stomach thinking the state Geralt was in, and escape is the next most pressing thing. The sooner they steer away from what happened, the less likely he is to say something foolish.

There’s that look a second time, and this time Geralt doesn’t deign to answer. Which is okay really. They’ve been stuck here this long. A little longer probably won’t hurt anything.

“I was. Dying, I mean,” Geralt says quietly, startling Jaskier from his thoughts. The bard follows Geralt’s gaze to where there is still quite a lot of blood splattered across the floor. It's dry, but it stains the alabaster flooring and pale, crumbled stone.

“Oh, that. Well, see I-” Jaskier stumbles because he doesn't know what Geralt wants, and having nearly lost the witcher in this remnant of a room has left him raw and tender in places. It's almost a relief when Geralt’s hand slaps unceremoniously over Jaskier’s mouth, stifling any further reply, but not hard enough to hurt. When Jaskier looks at him in surprise, he’d swear there was something like affection in Geralt’s exasperated expression. It's probably just a trick of the light.

“Stop. Talking. You did well. I'm still here, aren't I?” With a grimace, Geralt pulls his hand from Jaskier’s mouth and wobbles to his feet. It’s an unsteady motion, and Jaskier isn’t sure it’s really wise this soon after nearly having his brains bashed in. Geralt seems to manage though, and holds out a hand to Jaskier like he’s the one who needs support.

“In this life, some days not dead is the best you can hope for." Jaskier can’t help but take Geralt’s hand, letting the witcher yank him to his feet. Jaskier thinks he catches a smile, but Geralt turns away too quickly to be sure. What he is sure of is that he's on his feet and Geralt's hand is still holding onto his. "Not dead... and not alone.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#whumptober2020 #no.26 #concussion #fic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher #My fic #geralt z rivii #head injury #blood #caretaking #Nothing quite like a near death experience to bring out the feelings #If only they were less allergic to saying what they mean #hurt comfort

[moonlights-inkwell]

“Be Good to Me.” I Whisper. (And you say, “What?” and I say, “Nothing Dear.”)

Summary: Jaskier’s different in Oxenfurt. It’s not a bad thing at all.

Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 5,406

A/N: This fic was going to be a super short and indulgent smut fic, but then it took on a life of it’s own and got to be like 5000 words before I even got to the porn, so now it’s gonna be a two parter. Oops. Also, Jaskier’s looking kinda rugged in this fic, mostly cause I was basing his appearence on how Joey looked during the Love Run era and I’m... weak. And yes I gave him glasses. Why? Who knows.

Title taken from That Unwanted Animal

Warnings (for Parts 1 and 2): Smut. cock warming. Oral (female and male receiving). Body worship. Female pronouns used/afab genitals described for the Reader. Light Praise Kink. Dom Jaskier. Professor/Lecturer Jaskier.  

You wake, slowly and without much intent, to the sound of singing.  

It’s not uncommon, these days at least, to be woken by music and laughter. It’s a welcome change of pace from your normal life of travel, fighting and pain, all the laughter and music. Oxenfurt is always so lively and full of music and laughter, even now in the coldest and darkest months of the year. You almost resent that it isn’t a permanent fixture of your life. You've never thought yourself a deeply domestic person, but now in Oxenfurt, you feel... content in a way you've never felt before. 

Not knowing, or caring about, the time, you decide it much too early to even consider opening your eyes, and remain beneath the sheets entangled about you. Fingers curling into the soft, treated furs that cover the mattress, you tug the duvet closer to you, and feel the blankets on top of them shift, weighted and soothing all the while. A lazy grin spreads across your face; it’s so warm, a luxury you know all too well you cannot afford to take for granted. Cracking open an eye ever so slightly, you catch sight of a fire, crackling and popping deep within the arch of the fireplace. Bless Oxenfurt, you think tiredly and close your eye once more. A fireplace in the bedchambers, and the living area. You could get used to luxuries like this.

You never considered that you’d ever spend any period of time in Oxenfurt, never mind be wintering there, and while it’s wonderful you cannot help but feel out of place. You’ve never been the sort of person to be wealthy or talented enough for a University of such high esteem; daughter of a seamstress, former barmaid, barely able to hold a tune or paintbrush. But along came Jaskier, wonderful, beautiful Jaskier. With Geralt returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter, your bard had asked you, soft and sweet, to join him at his old place of education. He only needed to ask you once.  

The campus is beautiful, warm and comfortable and full of lively, excited youths, so bewitched by their art and school. You understand it, it’s difficult not to be taken in by the beauty of it all, but one thing keeps you weary; the fact that it’s a place of such overwhelming privilege, the likes of which you’ve had next to no interaction with. You’ve always known Jaskier is a man of luxury: his accent, embroidered doublets and silk chemises advertise it in a way that is out of place on the road traveling with Geralt but are common as muck on campus. Everyone here is like him, rich but seemingly playing at slumming as students, as if they too will be traveling bohemian bards rather than what will undoubtedly actually happen, being taken in by whatever court will have them. He’s different in Oxenfurt, too. Not a bad sort of different, but... unusual. Jaskier, your bard, lover and traveling partner, is wonderful, a giddy and excitable fool, who spends much of your time together teasing and goading, is strangely absent. In his place is... someone else. A professor and an adult. It’s hard to believe your bard, a man who sings often of masturbation and hand-jobs with a smug grin, is a professor. A teacher. He’s smart, you’ve always known that, but it’s easy to forget how bloody intelligent he is.

He plays the fool all too well, well enough that it’s what you think of when you consider him. It’s strange to see him acting so maturely, planning lectures and grading compositions, walking about and advising students, talking about writing and singing techniques. They adore him, it’s written across their faces when you see them together, and the adoration and admiration of him is transferred onto you too. They gape and gawk at you, talking quietly and singing lines from songs that Jaskier had written about you. When you walk together around the halls and cobblestone roads, they rush to you both, mouths full of questions about travel and monsters as well as whatever the hell a cleft or bridge are. It’s so strange. You don’t know how you’re to feel about being watched by these aristocratic students, caught somewhere between hero worship and sideshow attraction. Even in tiny taverns and villages, people look at you as just a girl, aided usually by Geralt’s intimidating frame outshining the various knives you have adorning your figure. The only person who normally stares at you is Jaskier, always in this shocked sort of adoration, as if he can never quite believe that you are real and beside him. It’s sweet and never invasive, always looking but never prying.

You purr softly at the thought of Jaskier, in this delicate daze of being half-asleep, this is perfection, a comfortable, engulfing warmth and softness, resting on top of soft fur with the love of your life in bed beside you. But something isn’t quite right. Jaskier always touches you, something you silently think must come from a lack of human contact as a child, he always has a hand on your bare skin especially while in bed, on your hip, curled about you like you could be snatched away, forehead pressed into your back, or fingers threaded through your hair. But right now? There’s not any such contact, and it makes you roll over in bed, eyes suddenly wide with realisation. Empty.  

It’s expected, but disappointing none the less. During the week he has lectures in the morning, and leaves you to rest as long as you wish before doing whatever you want until his classes end, usually resulting in your traveling about the campus town, meandering by the market and bakery often. It feels childish, but you hate it, you’re too used to waking in his arms and turning about to kiss him awake. It’s horrible to wake without the comforting weight of his arms around you and the combination of warmth and tickling hair from his chest hair against your back.  

“What in the fuck... is that a scale? In the middle of... what is that?” An oh so familiar voice says loudly, which makes you grin. He’s here, even if not in bed with you, there’s no need to wait about for him to return. He sounds scandalised, you can see him in your head, hunched over a pile of papers, brows furrowed into a look of confusion and annoyance. Adorable. You shift up and attempt to get to your feet, faltering slightly at the comfortable warmth of your sex and the dried fluid on your thighs; eyes slide down to take in your naked form. Bed clothes have never been a necessity with someone as insatiable as Jaskier, hell, even normal clothes are barely necessary.  

“What the fuck?” He mutters, the sound of his voice draws you towards the door, but you stop as quickly as you start. There seems something overly presumptuous about walking to him nude, even if you have been in a relationship for years and have seen each other naked more times than you can remember. Stepping forward once more, your eyes slide across the sight of one of Jaskier’s shirts balled up on the floor where it had been tossed to last night. It’s scooped up without much of a second thought and tugged on before turning to look at a mirror; it’s beautiful, silk and embroidered with bluebells, with a high collar, and is left open to expose the inner curves of your breast, the expanse of your stomach and almost all of your legs. It, combined with the slight swell of your lips from relentless kissing last night and sleep tousled hair, makes you feel strangely beautiful. You don’t often feel beautiful, especially having just woken up, so when you rub your face gently with the fabric and breath in the smell of your lover, you feel your nipples stiffen slightly. Lavender and musk and something so entirely Jaskier fill your senses, and you walk out of the bed chambers, smiling softly as the material grazes your thighs as you do so.

Gods above, he’s beautiful. Always is, always has been, but still no matter how long you’ve known him he manages to take your breath away. He’s always had such a boyish face, handsome but soft, fitting easily with the childishness he exudes, but winter has seen that change. With him not performing for the season, and needing to look older than his students, his need to shave and keep up appearances has dissipated somewhat. He’s sitting there in an armchair in front of a desk, all curtains drawn and leaving him illuminated by the fire roaring across from him and the candles littered about the table in front of him, shirtless and resting his now stubbled chin on his hand while his hair, longer than you’ve ever known it, frames his face. You like it longer, and he seems too as well, letting you twist and braid it during the evenings while he strums at his lute in front of the fire and tells stories you don’t believe to be entirely true. He doesn’t look older, but instead more mature, like he had responsibilities that aren’t trying to earn as many coins as possible between stolen kisses and avoiding being swatted at by Geralt. His skin is almost glowing in the candlelight and reflects from the delicate spectacles that rest on the bridge of his nose. It’s alien and familiar all at once, and you smile to yourself at it. He had told you he was full of surprises the first night he kissed you, but this was a surprise you doubt even he could have ever anticipated. You’ve taken to referring to this more grown-up Jaskier as Julian in your mind, just to try and separate the two for your own peace of mind, but it doesn’t seem right now. It’s like looking at another side of a coin or hearing a song and finally paying attention to what the lyrics mean; it’s the same but not, and you worry that maybe you’ve spent your entire relationship with the man before you underestimating him. Reducing him down to beautiful fool and verbose romantic, when he’s always been mature, but felt no need to show it. You know from first-hand experience that being serious in the presence of Geralt always makes the air cold and uncomfortable, but now, away from the Witcher and his overwhelming stoicism, Jaskier can be as serious as he wants without souring anything. It’s refreshing. You never thought you could love him more than you already do; but right now? Bathed in golden light, relaxed and without pretention or any semblance of performance? You could marry him on the spot. You’re hardly a creative like he is, but you could write epics about him; verses about his eyes, sonnets about his cupid's bow, songs about the colour of his hair. He curses in what you assume is elder before pushing his hair away from his eyes, and you have to fight back the urge to run to him and tug it back with a ribbon to keep it from annoying him, and so you stay.

Leaning back against the door, you take him in as best you can and try to dedicate this image of him to memory. Him, soft and comfortable, looking like a real professor, surrounded by the warm brown of the furniture and the golden glow of fire that crackles and pops under the quiet music of him humming whatever is written on the pages, that’s the sort of Jaskier you want to remember. Content. It's a habit you have gotten into since you began courting, trying to keep the most delicate and domestic memories for nights when the traveling gets the most of you, and you wish you could just go home. It’s normally simple things, like when he sleeps in after you, hair haloing around him, long lashes fanning out on his cheeks, or the day when he took you to a field of wild flowers to unwind, and had laughed so loudly the skin about his eyes and bridge of his nose had crinkled like silk moved too quickly, a crown of dandelions and bluebells about his head. He’s so beautiful, and when you’re both old and grey you want to be able to remember just how gorgeous he is. He never truly believes it when you tell him it, as you never believe him when he says how much he believes you to be beautiful. Perhaps it’s why the two of you fit together so well. Insecure fools, finding security in the other’s arms. It takes him a moment or two to glance up from the papers, but as soon as he does, he gapes at you, lips parted and eyes raking across your frame and back up to your face once more. It’s quiet, but you clearly hear the soft gasp that comes from him, which makes you smile sweetly to him and tilt your head to the side.  

“Good Morning, Dandelion.” Your voice is low and scratchy with sleep, pet name rolling easily from your tongue. It feels like a foolish thing to say, but every other thing that had come to mind was hardly better. “What are you doing?” The bard says nothing but grins and pushes himself back into the seat, opening his arms wide gesturing you onto his lap. It’s all the encouragement you need to walk over and clamber onto his lap, his arms wrap about you and tugs you closer still, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Afternoon, Dear Heart. It’s mid-afternoon.” He murmurs into your skin. “You looked so peaceful; I couldn’t be responsible for waking you when you were so blissful. Besides, I had compositions to overlook.” Squirming, you try to turn to look at the sheet music, but Jaskier holds you tighter still, face burrowing even further into the curve where your throat meets shoulder, his words make his lips brush against the sensitive skin, like kisses aborted before truly meeting their destination. “This chemise looks awfully familiar-”

“It looks better on me, Dandelion. Don’t you think?”  

“Everything looks amazing on you, Darling Dear.” He says softly and presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth, and then one to the tip of your nose. “I’m quite sure you could wear rags and still be the most beautiful woman to have ever walked the earth.”  

“Flatterer.” You grin and rest your hands on the thick, downy fluff that covers his chest.

“I thought it sounded nicer than saying everything looks beautiful on you, but...”  

“But what?” You ask when his sentence dawdles to a stop without ending.  

“But I prefer you in nothing at all.” He grins, and despite all the ways his appearance has changed since the two of you arrive, you see your playful, boyish bard once more, all too proud of himself for having found a complimentary way of saying he wants you nude once more. It’s flattering, always will be flattering, that Jaskier loves your body in ways that you never have but you slap his arm playfully, more for your own sake than his; so you can pretend that you didn’t just consider stripping the shirt off to make his grin turn to the same flustered smile it always turns to when you exert any modicum of control over your bedroom activities. For all his experience, and your lack thereof, all it takes is you acting like you know what it is you’re doing to turn your Dandelion into a blushing, nervous mess of a man. The thought of his pink cheeks makes your own flush, and you try to distract yourself.

“What’s the time?”  

“Doesn’t matter in the slightest, Dear Heart. It’s a weekend, and you were so peaceful. I assumed after last night you would need all the rest you could possibly get.” The smug little grin that breaks across his face makes you blush harder. It had been a long night, and the thought of it sends a rush of heat to your sex.  

“O-oh.” You laugh weakly. Jaskier cups your cheek and pulls you into a soft, chaste kiss, the kind that makes your heart stop entirely for a second or two. His lips are softer here, not chapped and chafed by wind and travel, just plush and inviting. Just as you start to melt against him, and a hand travels up to grip his shoulder, he pulls back to glance back at the paper once more, “...Sorry. I must be distracting you-”  

“My favourite kind of distraction, My Love.” He squeezes your hips softly and tilts his head, “And I will never be too busy for you,” He pulls you closer still, chest pressed to chest, to rest his chin on your shoulder, looking to the papers once more. You’re sure it’s accidental, but he drags your bare cunt along his thigh, and you bite back a moan. “Especially seeing as you’re so bloody warm, like a little bed-warmer.”  

“A bed-warmer that you’re ignoring for music?” You tease, and one of his hands slips under the shirt to rest on the warm flesh of your waist as he shakes his head, sending chestnut hair brushing against your cheek, your own hand threading through the hair of his chest.  

“I’m not ignoring you. Gods, no one could ignore you if they tried. I just... I simply have to look over these compositions.” His voice is distant and distracted, he’s a thousand miles away, and you decide to try to be a good little bed-warmer, as he so eloquently put it, trying to stay still and keep him warm. You aren’t sure how long passes before you begin to shift, could be a second or an hour, but Jaskier’s thighs are not the most comfortable resting place you can imagine, so you shift up onto your knees for a second, using the added leverage of height to shift closer towards him, accidentally brushing your hips against his in your search for comfort, but instead only feel a familiar stiffness against your sex. The shock draws a soft gasp from you, and that makes Jaskier chuckle lowly.  

“Oh. I... You. You’re hard.” The words come out breathy and virginal, as if the idea of the man you’re sat atop of being attracted to you is some sort of strange impossibility rather than being obvious. He spends his nights with either his tongue or his cock buried inside you, but were someone to have heard that weak little statement, they would have assumed that You had never been so much as touched before in your life. Jaskier appreciates the absurdity if the chuckle he breathes out is anything to go by at all, you feel him turn his head and then the heat of open-mouthed kisses being pressed to the crook of your neck. Kisses there have always made you feel vulnerable, made worse by seeing what beasts could do if they got their teeth that close to your jugular, but Jaskier isn’t a beast. He’s barely like a man, more like a dream you’ve created for yourself, and he always kisses you there. He must like the vulnerability it makes you feel for the frequency he kisses it.  

“Have been since I saw you in my shirt.” He murmurs, quiet as though it’s a confession of sorts, head shifting slightly to brush his nose across the column of your throat. “It’s quite difficult to not be hard when you look so... Debauched.”  

“Debauched?”  

“As sin, My Love. Fucking... hair wild, neck bruised, tits barely covered... And in my clothes? Melitele, I cannot imagine anything more debauched.”  

“Your cum is dried on my thighs too.” You all but sing out. The reminder is all the encouragement he needs to reach down and trace lute-calloused fingers across the crust of spunk at the top of your legs. They don’t remain there for long, however, travelling up to trace across your slit.  

“And your soaked cunt too.” He says lightly, digits trailing across the seam and gathering as much of the wetness as he can, stopping just above the place where you need him most to bring up the fingers and slot them into his mouth, sucking on them with a purpose. The whine that escapes your mouth isn’t dignified in the slightest, but neither was the way he was dangling exactly what you want in front of you without letting you indulge.

“Don’t tease, Jask-”  

“I’d hardly call this teasing, especially compared to your coming out here in nothing but my shirt-”

“Julian~” You whine weakly. Using his birth name is so uncommon to you that you almost trip over the word, but it achieves some sort of reaction from him. He pulls back and stares at you, a hunger in his eyes as his pupils grow wider and trail down your body, lingering on your cunt for a second longer than the rest of you, then looking up to meet your gaze again. You know his usual lust filled gaze, light and flirtatious and appreciative but this is... hungry. Ravenous, as if he’s been denied you rather than staring at his own handiwork, littered across your body and encouraging his staring.

“No, Dear Heart. I have such a lot of music to review and grade. My students will be disappointed if I don’t do it quickly. So disappointed.” His voice is pointed but you know from the look on his face that he’s playing, with you and himself. A game to see who cracks first, one you have no interest in playing. You have absolutely no interest in making him beg for you, or begging for him, you just want to feel the blissful drag of his cock in and out of you. “Don’t be selfish. You get to have me all year, and these poor things only have my genius to consult for the winter.” Genius. You aren’t entirely sure about that, but watching him speak, all you can think of is him putting his clever mouth to work on you.  

He moves quickly, hands removing themselves from your skin to pick up the papers while his chin returns to your shoulder once more. It's infuriating, so you tug at his chest hair like a petulant child.  

“But you’re hard!” You whine out in utter indignation.  

“I know, Dear Heart. Your cunt is against my cock, of course I’m hard.” Jaskier says slowly, as if talking to a small child. “But, I’m also a professor who needs to overlook my student’s work.” He’s right, you know that he’s right, and it’s hardly as if Jaskier is some brute who leaves your needs ignored but, Gods, you’ve been wet since you saw him, and the thick ridge of his cock against you is hardly helping your situation. “You can feel how much I want to fuck you, Darling. Gods above and below, the things I want to do...” He sounds defeated, and you turn your head to gently peck his cheek. “But, truly, I do need to look at these.” You nod quickly and gnaw at your lip; you aren’t being fair, and you know it.

“Then look at them, Buttercup. I’ll just... keep you warm.” You smile sweetly and he nods then pecks your cheek.  

He’s busy. You know he’s busy, but he's still hard and it isn’t helping your situation. Memories of last night, specifically of how it had felt to sink down on him while his mouth worked about your nipple, comes to mind too which causes your hips to rut against his subconsciously, drawing a growl from the bard. It’s not a noise you know well, coming out when he feels slighted or is especially engrossed in a song, but it sends a rush of heat to your cunt once more and you desperately grind your hips into his again. This is not keeping him warm, your mind chides you, but the feeling of the lacing pressed upward by his tenting trousers rubbing against your clit is enough for you not to care about how you had promised to keep him warm. The only thing you care about right now is chasing the feeling of overwhelming pleasure.

“You... are toying with things beyond your control, Dear Heart.” He murmurs darkly, pulling back to stare at you once more and only serves to intensify the blush that is spread across your cheeks. Beyond your control? Jaskier? The thought makes you giggle.

“I am... I’m just trying to... warm you up.” The words come out stilted and gasped between each circling movement of your hips against his. “You. You said you... were cold. I’m trying to be a good... bed warmer.”  

A good bed warmer? Not at all. You want to be a good partner, a good woman-desperate to feel your lover's cock buried to the hilt inside of you; the blissful stretch that it causes, his hands guiding you gently in your ministrations. Even without his prick being free, you move against him as if it is, hips gyrating and tits bouncing with each movement, you try and pretend that the feeling of coarse lacing against your clitoris is all you need. In all honesty, it almost is, especially when Jaskier gives up all pretence of working and allows his hips to buck up and grips your hips tightly enough to bruise, guiding each circling motion that your hips make. You can almost feel the ridge of his cockhead through his undergarments, and sink down on it enough that the fabric covered tip almost sinks inside of you before you pull back and return to rubbing your sensitive nub against the fabric. All too soon, you feel yourself lifted onto the table and whine, trying to grab at him but stop when you see Jaskier scrabbling with the ties of his under clothes, finally pulling them loose and shoving them to just beneath the delicate curve of his bottom. It’s seldom you get to see him so desperate he can barely undress himself, but you don’t allow yourself to admire that for as long as you should like to, because of what catches your eye. His cock stands freely, the base framed by dark curls that creep up onto his stomach and into the thicket of hair across his chest, which makes your mouth water in a way you don’t understand and never want to. You just know that the thickness and slight curve of his member makes you want to sink to your knees to wrap your lips about the leaking, pink head and listen to the breathless moans that doing so always draws from him, prettier than any song that you’ve ever heard him sing. Without second thought, you try to push yourself off of the table to settle on the floor and take him in your mouth but are tugged unceremoniously back onto Jaskier's lap.  

“But-" You start, only to have Jaskier cut you off before you can voice your complaint.

“Hush.” The firmness of his voice silences you immediately, his hands guide you up to his member before one slides down to the puffy lips of your sex, spreading them before tugging you down onto him. The manoeuvre is hardly ceremonious, but it’s worth it to finally have that which it feels like you’ve been wanting for hours. The sensation of him splitting you open makes you moan loudly, hips returning to their frenzied bucking to try and reach climax, but your enjoyment is short lives seeing as your desperate canting is stopped by the tight grip on your thighs holding you in place.

“Jaskier?”  

“I thought you wanted to be a good bed warmer, Dear Heart.” His voice trills and you still. The way he says good is enough to make your breath hitch and heart falter.  

“I do-" You’d go to the end of the world for the slightest praise from the Bard, and the way you admit to it makes him grin, and cup your cheeks in both hands, trusting you enough not to move simply because you want to be good for him.

“Then be a good little darling and stay still for me, if you would.” All previous dark hunger that had edged his voice is gone, replaced with his usual childishness once more. You almost wouldn’t realise he was doing anything sexual at all were it not for him having just speared you onto himself. The strangeness of the situation makes you clench around him, drawing a moaned out curse from his lips.  

“But you're inside of me-"  

“You just said you wanted to keep me warm, Pet.” He says slowly, as if speaking to an untrained dog, and the newfound pet name is hardly doing much to dissuade that thought from your mind. “But we aren't in bed, and seeing as you made this mess, I suppose being a cock warmer rather than a bed warmer will have to do.” The candidacy with which he says the term makes you blink. Sometimes, you think, Jaskier forgets that he’s the only man you've ever been intimate with, so terms like... cock warmer, that he throws about like they’re nothing brings a nervousness about you. You don’t know what that even means, but it distracts you from the fact he had just implied that him being aroused by you is a ‘mess’.  

“A... cock... warmer.” You say, leaving a good few seconds gap between each word. The uncertainty in your voice is obvious, and the man inside you chuckles slightly and mumbles something to himself that you can’t quite make out, but sounds like ‘corrupting her’.  

“Sorry Darling. Look at me, throwing about terms you don’t know and acting as if you should.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, but there’s a level of something patronising to his words that you’re not sure he even knows is there, yet intrinsically sets off a need to argue within yourself that you’re barely capable of choking back. “I want you to sit here, looking as radiant as you always do... Debauched and in my clothes, my cum dried on you, with my cock inside of you. But. You cannot move.” He says it simply, as if it's a term people should already be acquainted with; factual, like he’s trying to teach you something new, and your core tightens around him. You wonder, dazed, if that is the tone of voice he uses when teaching his pupils about music.  

If so, you might have to sit in on a lecture. Or have him teach you about music in the privacy of your shared chambers, where you can shove a finger or two inside of yourself to alleviate the want that is developing between your thighs.  

“I can't move? But why?” You wanted it to sound inquisitive, but instead your voice comes out as a whine, and Jaskier grins at that.  

“Think of it as a game, Darling. To show who has more resilience to the other. Who will... fall victim to the carnality of being so close, but still not... fully intimate.” He's so confident that it is almost infuriating, made more angering still by the way he gently brushes his lips along yours as he speaks, refusing to fill the gaps and just kiss you. It’s already almost more than you can bare, hand slipping down to rub at the swollen bud not two inches from where his dick is resting inside of you, but feel it pinned to your thigh before you can so much as brush a finger across it.  

“No, no, no, Dear Heart. If this is a game, then that is cheating, no?” You want to slap the smug smile off of his face, or force your tongue into his mouth, either would please you. “You cum from me, or not at all.” And with that, his earlier predatory smile is back in full force, making you shiver. “If you can stay still for me while I mark these compositions then I'll fuck you the way you want me to. That seems a fair deal to me, don’t you think?” He grins, toothy and wide, and you nod wordlessly.  

“Good girl.”  

#fuck man how do i tag this shit #jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier x y/n #jaskier smut #dom jaskier

[the-broken-truth]

Darius Beneviento - Dinner With The Silverstreams [Part 4]

Broken Truth: Hello Everyone! If you remember from the drawing of Darius Beneviento - he is the formerly ill son of Donna Beneviento from an ask by my friend @k1ngm1nt. Last time, Darius told his mother he was interested in someone and now...it's time for the dinner between The Benevientos & The Silverstreams! Huge takes to @k1ngm1nt for helping me out with it. Now, let the words weave together!!

[House Beneviento - Kitchen]

Donna peeked around the threshold of the kitchen, watching her son as he prepared divine meals for the...interlopers...she means 'guests' that would be arriving soon. Donna groaned at the thought of other people coming to her house - but if anything bothered her more than people, it was the fact those people were coming about her son. Darius told her that he was interested in the Eldest Daughter of the Silverstream Family - Stella was her name if Donna remembered correctly - and the two of them had been talking for a while but the Father - Mr. Marcus Silverstream - and his 2 twin sons - Max and Strider - weren't too fond of their only daughter/sister talking to a boy who was - according to them - a bad seed. Darius went over to their house yesterday and asked them to come to Beneviento Manor for dinner and conversation to show that he wasn't as bad as they believed; he even asked their preferred meals so they could be prepared.

"I don't get why they have to come." Donna heard Angie said Darius as he placed the finishing touches on Mrs. Silverstreams Tomato Soup.

"I've explained it before, Ang, we're having them over for dinner so they could see I'm not a bad person and hopefully give their blessing for me to date Stella." Darius explained again as he carried to soup to its tray and placed the cover over it.

"I still don't see why you want to get some stupid human girl's attention. You have Donna and I, aren't we enough to keep you happy?" Angie asked as she jumped on Darius's shoulder, only for him to place her on her feet.

"Family-wise, you and Mom are the only ones I really need but I eventually want a family of my own. I want to fall in love, Angie." Darius said as he removed the apron and smoothed out any possible wrinkles in his suit. Angie was about to say something else when Darius's silver eyes widened when he realized he forgot his grandfather's brooch on the cushion on the pillow on the nightstand in his room. He excused himself and began to power walk, then jog up the stairs.

"I don't like this." Angie said as she walked closer to Donna's side.

"I don't like it either, Angie, but I couldn't deny him this; he's been through a lot and as his mother I want him to be happy. Maybe it will be over and we won't have to deal with those...people, then Darius can continue to be happy at home with us, where he belongs." Donna said as she looked at the set table - too many plates for Donna's liking.

It would be a few moments before a knock came at the door of House Beneviento and the Blood Heir came marching down the stairs with the brooch polished over his heart as he marched over to the door and pulled it open with a smile - meeting 3 collective glares, a nervous smile, and an embarrassed face.

"Mr. Silverstream and Family, Welcome to House Beneviento. Please, come in and takes your seats." Darius said as he gave a light bow and moved aside so the family could enter.

"Hmph, what a glorified doorman." Marcus huffed as he walked in, looking around the house with uninterested eyes. His sons followed behind him with the same scowls on their face, followed by their mother who gave the boy a 'Thank you, dear' before following her husband, and finally, Stella - the one who was stealing her son from her - walked and looked at Darius; Angie and Donna glared at her.

"Sorry about my dad and brothers, Darius; they still don't want to accept that I want my own life." Stella said as Darius lifted himself to smile at her - that smile made Donna's blood boil.

"It's not your fault, Starlight. Let's just hope the dinner will go well and we won't have to...ya know." Darius looked nervous as 'ya know'. What was 'ya know'? Did he mean to break up? Oh, the very thought made Donna and the Doll smile.

"Boy! Where are food and drinks?!" The roaring voice of Marcus Silverstream called from his seat.

"Yeah, we were promised food! Where is it?!" Max barked after his father.

"One moment, please." Darius said as he and Stella began walking over to the table. The Young Heir pulled out his girlfriend's chair before standing straight. "I have a collection of wines 0r acholic drinks for you to try or even ciders if you aren't the kind for acholic beverages." Darius said with a smile.

"What do you have so much booze? Are you a drunkard?" Strider asked with a smirk.

"I don't really drink but my aunt has a wine business while my uncle tends to come into whiskey, beers, and cigars a lot; he gives them to me think that I would like them so I act them to be polite but I don't use them." Darius explained.

"Tch, yeah right." Marcus said as he rolled his eyes.

"Dear, you know the boy doesn't drink - you can tell that just by looking at his skin. And judging by the pure white of his eyes, he doesn't smoke either." Mrs. Silverstream said.

"Shelia, you don't know that. He could be doing some kind of trick to make us think he doesn't smoke and drink, he could very well be an abuser." Marcus said.

"Excuse me, Mr. Silverstream, but my son is not an abuser. I would be grateful if you watched your mouth about my son." Donna said as she narrowed her eye at Marcus.

Broken Truth: Quick Note - Darius made Donna a special eye patch that covers her Cadou Scar so she doesn't always have to wear her veil.

"It's fine, Mother. I'll be back with the food and drinks." Darius said as he excused himself with a slight bow and walked into the kitchen.

"You guys are horrible, you told me that you would be kind to him. He's done nothing to you." Stella glared at her father and brothers.

"Dear, we're just trying to keep you safe." Marcus said.

"Bullcrap, you just don't wanna accept that I want my own life that doesn't involve you or the shop." Stella retorted.

After a while, Darius came with the rolling tray holding the food and gave each person the food they ordered. He once again asked for what everyone wanted to drink and retrieved it once he was given the answers. The table was silent for a while as everyone ate their food and consumed their drinks.

"This soup is perfect, Darius." Shelia said as she looked at the silver-eyed heir, "Tell me, did you make this yourself?" She asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I got my grandmother's recipe book and I thought it would be good to see if I had the Beneviento Touch when it came to food." Darius said.

"I have to say you do, dear. This is very delicious." Shelia said.

"Yeah, it's good enough." Marcus said as he wiped his mouth with the napkin, giving Darius hope...until he said, "Good enough to be a cook but not my daughter's boyfriend." He threw the napkin down on the empty plate.

"Yeah, and this booze tastes expensive as hell. Just where the fuck did you get this?" Strider asked.

"As I've said before, my aunt owns a wine business and she gives me bottles from time to time." Darius said.

"Just who is your aunt?" Max asked.

"Lady Alcina Dimitrescu." Darius answered, making everyone look at him wide-eyed.

"That big bitch is your aunt? I guess Lord Heisenberg is your uncle and Mother Miranda is your Grandmother?" Marcus said.

"You would be right but don't call my aunt a bitch, please, it's not polite." Darius said as he tried to keep himself calm.

"Must be nice, being related to the 4 Lords - all the money you could want and get anything without having to work hard for it." Max snarled at him.

"I'm not a spoiled rich kid and none of their money is my own, I don't go around with my hand out and ask my mother, aunt, uncles, or grandmother for anything. If I want something, I work for it and I won't do anything dishonorable; that's not who I am." Darius said.

"What do you do for a job, kid? How do you get your money?" Marcus asked.

"I do freelance work around the village, if people need something do that others don't want to do, I take care of it. When no one asks, I do runs for the Duke and he gives me 45% of whatever he makes at the end of the day." Darius answered without fail.

"What do you even like my sister? We don't have money and we have an antique and book shop." Max said.

"Stella is an amazing person, she's nice to talk to and she always has something wise to say. She listens to me and doesn't hound for my money like every other girl in this village does. She has a calm aura that draws me to her and it makes me happy just being around her; I don't even need to talk, just hearing her voice is enough." Darius said - Stella blushing behind her hand.

"Tell me something - you have the village lords and the high priestess as your family, what's that like?" Strider asked.

"I love my family, more than anything in this world; but there are even things your family can't give you. I want to fall in love and maybe have a family of my own, not now but somewhere in the future." Darius explained. There was a moment of silence before Marcus spoke again.

"Where is your father?" He asked.

Darius looked confused.

Donna looked horrified.

"Excuse me?" Darius asked.

"You heard me. Where is your father? Does he work aboard? Did he and your mother divorce, is that why he's not here? Was he an abusive piece of crap?" Marcus asked with force.

"I...I...I don't know." Darius whispered.

"What the hell you mean you don't know? How don't you know about your own father?!" Max yelled.

"Max, stop!" Shelia warned him.

"Are you just like him? Is that why you don't wanna tell us about him?!" Strider yelled in his brother's place.

"Strider!" Stella yelled to him.

"Why aren't you saying anything, kid?! Tell me about your father!" Marcus demanded.

"I...I can't tell you. I don't know anything about him." Darius stuttered.

"And why don't you?!" Marcus yelled. Donna had enough.

"He doesn't know his father because his father died when he was young! My son has been sick most of his life and came out of it a few years ago!" Donna yelled at the man.

"He never knew this father?! What makes this punk think he's worthy of my daughter when he ever had any parental guidance in his life?!" Marcus yelled at Donna.

"My son doesn't need parental guidance! I've been there for him since the day he was born and he came out fine!" She yelled back.

"Like hell he did! How can he call himself a man when he never had a male role model?! Your son is fucked up and I won't let him taint my daughter!" Marcus yelled.

"What makes you think that little homewrecker is good enough for my son! He is of noble blood and she would water down his gene pool!" Donna yelled.

"ENOUGH!!!" Darius and Stella yelled as they stood to their feet, their hands balled and shaking at their sides.

"We tried so hard to get you all to see that it doesn't matter what you think about us. Darius and I love each other and we care for what each other has to go through but if this is how you're going to act...we're breaking up..." Everyone smiled until "With all of you."

"What?" Marcus said.

"What do you mean 'break up with us'?" Max said.

"If you all can't get along and at least be tolerant of each other - Stella and I won't be a part of these toxic families anymore." Darius said as he took the Beneviento Brooch from his chest and Stella removed her family ring, both of them placed the objects on the table.

"What...Darling, you can't be serious..." Shelia began.

"Yeah, where will you even go?" Max asked.

"Darius built us a house away from here - where the 4 Lords territories meet but don't touch so the Lords have no say over us." Stella said as she walked over to Darius, who placed his hand around her waist and pulled her close.

"Until you all can at least get along on a proper level, don't excuse us to be the heirs of the Beneviento or Silverstreams. We're leaving and we won't be coming back for clothes, we went shopping for them last time." Darius said as he and Stella began walking to the door. Marcus shot up from his seat and tried to grab his daughter but Darius gave him a sharp uppercut and sent him to the ground. Donna and Angie followed behind them, begging, crying, for him to stay but their words were hollow as Darius and Stella left the house and mounted Darius's Horse, riding into the darkness.

Donna's heart felt colder than the Romanian Winter as she looked at the brooch in her hand...Her son had left her and she didn't know what to do.

[End]

#resident evil 8 #donna beneviento

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions

canon-divergent AU from ep. 24 (on ao3)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11 | part 12 | part 13 | part 14 | part 15 | part 16 | part 17 | part 18

He’s getting used to the throne these days. It still feels too big, too cold, polished wood unyielding to his new title — but he’s getting there. Sort of. He doesn’t flinch when people call him ‘sect leader’ anymore, even if it took a war and a few extra months to get used to it. There are still too few disciples, but they’ve started to build again. He’d recalled all the disciples out on night hunts or assisting villages back at the start of the war, and the survivors are still retained in Lotus Pier, training newcomers and repairing the damage that couldn’t be fixed while they were on the frontlines. In a few months, after the Phoenix Mountain Hunt, it’ll be time for the new round of juniors to join the ranks here. He’s already read through the letters from parents seeking admission — not many, not nearly what it used to be back when he was young and still stumbling through sword forms with the earliest classes — but it’s something. It’s a start to the future he always held in his mind. There’ll be fresh juniors and he’ll stand where his father once stood on the deck before Sword Hall while Wei Wuxian directs them through their forms. It won’t be perfect, won’t be exactly the way he always imagined, but it’s — it’s enough. He’ll have his sect and a-jie and Wei Wuxian, and he’ll finally get Wei Wuxian out of his weird funk and wielding Suibian again and it’ll be — right. They can finally push aside the shades of the war and figure out this future together. Or, he thinks bitterly as familiar steps approach, they can if his idiot brother ever gets his shit together.

Wei Wuxian saunters in, posture loose with wine and steps easy and swaying. Irritation flares up his spine first at his absentness and then at the wine he offers, as if that’s any consolation for his brother abandoning him all day. They’re supposed to be working together, rebuilding together. How’s Wei Wuxian supposed to be his right hand if he can’t even stick around?

“Why are you scrubbing your sword all day? How many times a day do you need to clean it?” Wei Wuxian teases, settling on the steps with that damned flute. “Where’s yours?” Jiang Cheng snaps. He found Suibian for him, carried it around for months for him and now? Now it’s like Wei Wuxian couldn’t care less for the sword he carried for years. “How long ago did you clean it?” Wei Wuxian drinks instead of answering immediately, and Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes, sheathing Sandu. Of course he’ll become reticent now, when he’s neglecting his own duties. “I left it in my room,” he says. “Once a month should do.” It wouldn’t be so bad if Jiang Cheng just understood. If he just knew why Wei Wuxian’s been acting so strangely, he could move on. But there’s no explanation except Wei Wuxian’s careless whims, and it grates against Jiang Cheng’s nerves like the fractured end of a bone. He still remembers how awed Wei Wuxian was when they first received their swords, how he clung to Suibian like it was the greatest treasure he’d ever see. He’d thrown himself into training, into outpacing their seniors, with Jiang Cheng chasing after him. Where’s that love now? Where’s that dedication?

“Not carrying a sword in public. Drinking in a tavern all day,” he snaps. “You must think Lotus Pier is the inn where you can rest when you’ve drunk enough.” He wants to leave. He wants to go to bed and wake up to a clear morning with his brother back at his side, ready to take up his responsibilities again. Instead, Wei Wuxian jogs forward and loops his arm around Jiang Cheng’s shoulders. “Ah! Jiang Cheng, don’t be so mad,” he says.

It’s an instinctive thing, the kind of reflexive jab they’ve been giving each other since Wei Wuxian came to Lotus Pier. It’s not like it ever hurts Wei Wuxian; even with a spark of Jiang Cheng’s qi behind it, Wei Wuxian has more than enough to flick the force off like a gnat. He falls. His brother falls from that absent jab, and Jiang Cheng stops short, staring. Surely he’s not that drunk. Even in Cloud Recesses, he’d managed to wrangle Lan Wangji himself after drinking all night. A spark of worry flickers in his chest. “Are you fine?” he asks. “Too drunk to manage your spiritual power? Look at yourself. Talking about reviving the Jiang clan with me.” Wei Wuxian doesn’t answer, stays on the floor where Jiang Cheng put him. Annoyed, Jiang Cheng steps forward to pull him up by the wrist. “Stay there,” Wei Wuxian snaps, arm thrust out with Chenqing in his fist. He doesn’t meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes, still braced with his hand pressed into the hall floor. “Wei Wuxian?” he asks and can’t spare a thought to hate how scared and small it comes out. He swallows, hand clenched so tight on Chenqing held like a bar between them, and doesn’t meet Jiang Cheng’s eyes. His face is ashy and drawn, the way it always is these days, but now Jiang Cheng’s seized with sudden, fierce fear. He’s accepted the ghostly edges to Wei Wuxian lately without question. He’d been missing and there was the war and who walked away without a few new shadows and nightmares nipping at their heels? But Wei Wuxian — Wei Wuxian looks like death has scrolled frostwork in lace curls over his bones. All Lan Wangji’s terse reprimands from the campaign now clamor in his ears: it will damage your body and temperament, your mind—

He leans down, grabbing Wei Wuxian’s wrist. “Wei Wuxian, come on,” he says. “Don’t—” Wei Wuxian says, jerking away too late. A whip of resentful energy lashes out, smacks Jiang Cheng hard enough to break his hold and knock him on his ass. The impact jars him, rattles up through his skull. Wei Wuxian stares at him, wide-eyed with horror. Jiang Cheng stares back. “Your core,” he blurts out. “Your core — what the fuck, Wei Wuxian?” His jaw tightens, eyes too-bright like an animal caught in a snare. Jiang Cheng stares at him, palms still flat on the wooden floor from breaking his fall. It’s impossible. How— When— He said he was caught by Wen Chao back in Yiling, before he disappeared. Understanding, horrible and toothed, digs out of his chest. “Wen Zhulio,” he snarls. “He died too quickly.” Jiang Cheng knows he’s not a good man. He’s too proud and too selfish and he would do horrible, unforgivable things for the people he loves. He wants, viciously, to summon Wen Zhulio’s spirit and break it. “But— Baoshan Sanren,” he starts, hope surging before memory — this is your one chance, Jiang Cheng — snaps its neck. “Wei Wuxian, you idiot. Why did you give me your favor? You could have gone to her, you didn’t—” “I don’t regret it,” Wei Wuxian interjects, strangely vehement. “Jiang Cheng, I won’t regret it.” “You don’t— Are you stupid, Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Cheng half-yells. “You—your core is gone! You fought— Gods, you fought a war with—” “I don’t need coddled, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian snarls. “I’m the one who took Nightless City, aren’t I? I’m not fragile—”

Anger surges, crackling, up through his grief, charging it like lightning through water. “I didn’t say— You could have died!” he shouts. “You could have died and you never told us? Were you ever going to tell us?” That silences Wei Wuxian, and he looks away sharply. A muscle jumps in the back of his jaw. Jiang Cheng’s lips part, shock and hurt trembling through him. “You weren’t,” he breathes. The realization hurts like a kick to the chest, a heel to the soft, unprotected spot right below his breastbone. “You were never going to tell us. Fuck you, Wei Wuxian. How fucking dare you. We’re your family. You’re supposed to talk to us. Don’t you trust us anymore?” Wei Wuxian’s gaze snaps to him, eyes wide. “No, Jiang Cheng,” he protests. “Of course I trust you and shijie. Of course, I— I just didn’t want you to worry.” He can feel his disbelief turn scathing even as he drags himself up to grab Wei Wuxian by the collar. This time, he goes without resistance, no flute or energy between them. “You didn’t want us to worry? What, did you think we weren’t worried when you showed up acting weird as hell and commanding corpses?” he spits. “Did you think we weren’t worried when you refused to carry Suibian or when you keep snapping at everyone within ten li?” His brother shakes in his hands, limp and too-light. Tears drip from his cheeks to break on the knuckles of Jiang Cheng’s thumbs. He’s not sure when he started crying, but they burn down his cheeks and choke in his throat, making it hard to breathe. “Why?” he sobs out. His hands are still fisted in Wei Wuxian’s collar, but he’s just clinging now, holding on. “I can’t be your right hand,” Wei Wuxian says, little more than a broken murmur. “I can’t — I can’t wield Suibian or train the disciples or — or do anything. I’m— Useless. I’m useless.” As he speaks, his voice shivers down into a whisper, into a horrified confession. Fear is no longer a flicker but a hand around Jiang Cheng’s throat. None of this can be happening. His brother has always been the one cheerful in the face of suffocating night, the one who has a plan, who sees impossibilities as a dare. It’s why Jiang Cheng distracted the Wen guards, why he gave up his core and life; as long as Wei Wuxian lived, he would be able to figure out a way to keep a-jie safe, to rebuild the sect, to avenge their parents. Jiang Cheng clings to him and doesn’t have any answer at all.

#mdzs #the untamed #untamed fic #yunmeng shuangjie #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #my writing #this is going to be my low-pressure cql project i've decided #probably going to post to ao3 like 2 parts at a time? #bc making it low pressure means i don't want to force myself to churn out 5k each time #but this way i can post the short bits to tumblr #and then compile on ao3 #anyway this is apparently the everyone-lives AU that i told myself i was not going to write #there's no plan here tbh

[welllpthisishappening]

Welllp These Are Books: the June 2021 Edition

I have read a lot of books this month. That should be stated upfront. Just an absolute metric ton of books. Some real good, some not-so good, some inadvertently hysterical. Also, I made that BINGO board. Because, like, you ever have a total crisis of writing-confidence and ignore that potential freakout and the tendency of your coworkers to miss deadlines by reading every free Amazon sports romance you can find? And several full YA series? In one month? No? My experiences are not universal, I understand. Anyway, there’s thoughts and opinions and spoilers under the cut. Everyone read the Once Upon a Con series, I’m begging you.

READ THIS SERIES! PLEASE! EVERY BOOK WAS SO CUTE! EVERYONE IN EVERY BOOK WAS SO CUTE! THE FANDOM STUFF DID NOT GIVE ME SECOND-HAND EMBARRASSMENT!

Geekerella by Ashley Poston Part romance, part love letter to nerd culture, and all totally adorbs, Geekerella is a fairy tale for anyone who believes in the magic of fandom. Geek girl Elle Wittimer lives and breathes Starfield, the classic sci-fi series she grew up watching with her late father. So when she sees a cosplay contest for a new Starfield movie, she has to enter. The prize? An invitation to the ExcelsiCon Cosplay Ball, and a meet-and-greet with the actor slated to play Federation Prince Carmindor in the reboot. With savings from her gig at the Magic Pumpkin food truck (and her dad’s old costume), Elle’s determined to win…unless her stepsisters get there first. Teen actor Darien Freeman used to live for cons—before he was famous. Now they’re nothing but autographs and awkward meet-and-greets. Playing Carmindor is all he’s ever wanted, but the Starfield fandom has written him off as just another dumb heartthrob. As ExcelsiCon draws near, Darien feels more and more like a fake—until he meets a girl who shows him otherwise. 

The Princess and the Fangirl by Ashley Poston Imogen Lovelace is an ordinary fangirl on an impossible mission: to save her favorite Starfield character, Princess Amara, from being killed off. On the other hand, the actress who plays Amara wouldn’t mind being axed. Jessica Stone doesn’t even like being part of the Starfield franchise—and she’s desperate to leave the intense scrutiny of fandom behind. Though Imogen and Jess have nothing in common, they do look strangely similar to one another—and a case of mistaken identity at ExcelsiCon sets off a chain of events that will change both of their lives. When the script for the Starfield sequel leaks, with all signs pointing to Jess, she and Imogen must trade places to find the person responsible. The deal: Imogen will play Jess at her signings and panels, and Jess will help Imogen’s best friend run their booth. But as these “princesses” race to find the script leaker—in each other’s shoes—they’re up against more than they bargained for. From the darker side of fandom to unexpected crushes, Imogen and Jess must find a way to rescue themselves from their own expectations...and redefine what it means to live happily ever after. 

Bookish and the Beast by Ashley Poston In this third book of the Once Upon a Con series, Rosie Thorne is feeling stuck—on her college application essays, in her small town, and on that mysterious General Sond cosplayer she met at ExcelsiCon. Most of all, she’s stuck in her grief over her mother’s death. Her only solace was her late mother’s library of rare Starfield novels, but even that disappeared when they sold it to pay off hospital bills. On the other hand, Vance Reigns has been Hollywood royalty for as long as he can remember—with all the privilege and scrutiny that entails. When a tabloid scandal catches up to him, he’s forced to hide out somewhere the paparazzi would never expect to find him: Small Town USA. At least there’s a library in the house. Too bad he doesn’t read. When Vance’s and Rosie’s paths collide, sparks do not fly. But as they begrudgingly get to know each other, their careful masks come off—and they may just find that there’s more risk in shutting each other out than in opening their hearts.

— I cannot possibly overstate what an absolute delight this series was. Cute and sweet and adorable. Like rot your teeth sweet with romances that my high-school self would have swooned over. (I would have been so in love with Darien Freeman as a 16 year old, it’s not even funny. Also, I would have been obsessed with Starfield.) Let’s be honest, my current self swooned quite a lot. Reading these books genuinely felt like a love letter to fandom. To the good and bad and trashy parts of it, and it made my heart swell thinking about these fictional kids and the community they found and how much they learned and then they FELL IN LOVE and, like, not to sound like an after-school special, but: THE REP IN THESE BOOKS?!?? HOLY S H I T. So good. So goddamn good. And not, like, shoved to the side. Like, Jess falls in love with a girl. And it gets its swoon-worthy moment as much as anyone else. Plus, bi-librarian dad who wears suspenders??? Sign. Me. Up. Twisting the fairy tales into the stories also worked really well in my opinion. Honestly my only gripe was that Darien found a cell phone number in the white pages, but, like, everything else was a joy. Please read these books. I promise they will make you smile.

IN WHICH I CAN NEVER TURN DOWN A BEAUTY AND THE BEAST ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

Cruel Beauty by Rosamund Hodge Betrothed to the evil ruler of her kingdom, Nyx has always known that her fate was to marry him, kill him, and free her people from his tyranny. But on her seventeenth birthday when she moves into his castle high on the kingdom's mountaintop, nothing is what she expected—particularly her charming and beguiling new husband. Nyx knows she must save her homeland at all costs, yet she can't resist the pull of her sworn enemy—who's gotten in her way by stealing her heart.

— Yo. YO. Everyone in this book was horrible! And it was wonderful! I figured out the twist approximately point two seconds after the potential for a twist was possibly introduced and it did not diminish my enjoyment of this book for one second. I am such a sucker for any Beauty and the Beast AU, but this was way different than anything I’d read before and Nyx was a blood-thirsty terror and I loved her. The magic and the world building was fascinating in that I really did not expect Greek gods and goddess, but it was also a welcome turn in a weird, huh, that’s interesting sort of way. And the banter was a-plus, top tier. Even when they were snarking at each other. Especially when they were snarking at each other. (Still a pretty quick turn from enemies to lovers, but I’m willing to overlook that based almost solely on the snark.) Plus, the castle was fascinating. And there were more twists aside from the main twist, none of which I figured out. All of which I gasped over. The end was like—chef’s kiss, fantastic. I would like a novel-length sequel to tell me how everything worked out.

...BUT THE LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD ONE WASN’T AS GOOD

Crimson Bound by Rosamund Hodge When Rachelle was fifteen she was good—apprenticed to her aunt and in training to protect her village from dark magic. But she was also reckless—straying from the forest path in search of a way to free her world from the threat of eternal darkness. After an illicit meeting goes dreadfully wrong, Rachelle is forced to make a terrible choice that binds her to the very evil she had hoped to defeat.Three years later, Rachelle has given her life to serving the realm, fighting deadly creatures in a vain effort to atone. When the king orders her to guard his son Armand—the man she hates most—Rachelle forces Armand to help her hunt for the legendary sword that might save their world. Together, they navigate the opulent world of the courtly elite, where beauty and power reign and no one can be trusted. And as the two become unexpected allies, they discover far-reaching conspiracies, hidden magic . . . and a love that may be their undoing. Within a palace built on unbelievable wealth and dangerous secrets, can Rachelle discover the truth and stop the fall of endless night?

— As much as I loved Cruel Beauty, I was like ehhhh on this one. Which is part Little Red Riding Hood (although that seems like a stretch, honestly) and part The Girl With No Hands, which is a fairy tale I have literally never heard of before. Rachelle was just—sorta whiny? Which, y’know, she was cursed and had fucked up her entire life, so fair, but also...annoying. I kept reading mostly to try and understand what the FUCK was going on with the magic. I like to consider myself a relatively intelligent person who can understand most YA novels, but this one was tough to keep track of. Like, sure, the imagery of the Dark Forest was cool, but also what is a Gladspring? I’m still not sure I know. Also, this kind of dragged in some places. Lots of patrolling the palace (whining about life) and not enough magic-fighting or establishing any sort of relationship between Rachelle and Armand. Which just sort of happened? Amidst, approximately, twenty-four different twists that were admittedly cool, but also felt like they came out of nowhere. Everything that happened in Cruel Beauty made sense. Most of what happened here felt like it was shoehorned in for shock value.

YOU WANT MORAL AMBIGUITY? BOY HAVE I GOT MORAL AMBIGUITY FOR YOU. IN GODDAMN SPADES.

The Firebird Series by Claudia Gray Marguerite Caine's physicist parents are known for their groundbreaking achievements. Their most astonishing invention, called the Firebird, allows users to jump into multiple universes—and promises to revolutionize science forever. But then Marguerite's father is murdered, and the killer—her parent's handsome, enigmatic assistant Paul— escapes into another dimension before the law can touch him.Marguerite refuses to let the man who destroyed her family go free. So she races after Paul through different universes, always leaping into another version of herself. But she also meets alternate versions of the people she knows—including Paul, whose life entangles with hers in increasingly familiar ways. Before long she begins to question Paul's guilt—as well as her own heart. And soon she discovers the truth behind her father's death is far more sinister than she expected.

— Guys. GUYS. These books, oh my G O D. Little known fact about me, but I am trash for cross-dimensional soulmates. The concept of “we’ll find each other anywhere” is one of my favorites, so I was so psyched about these books. And for awhile that’s what I thought I was going to get out of them. But. BUT! What I actually got was something, not totally different, but not entirely great, either. The problem here was that when anyone used one of the Firebird devices to jump dimensions they TOOK OVER THE BODY THEY JUMPED INTO. So, like, that consciousness got shoved to the side while whatever prime!person just took over. Living that body’s life. In a different dimension. And that’s kinda fucked up, right??? Brings in all sorts of questions about consent and morality and let me tell you, guys, this YA series DID NOT ADDRESS A SINGLE ONE OF THEM. Which is also super fucked up!! So, like, Marguerite is just bouncing around dimensions taking over people’s bodies and lives and leaving this, frankly, trail of destruction in her wake. And as if that wasn’t enough!!! In the second book Paul’s soul gets, like, split and she’s got to round up the pieces through dimensions, meeting all sorts of Pauls who are occasionally kind of shit people and he eventually just, like, CANNOT COPE. Seriously, I could not stop reading these. Partially for the moral ambiguity. Partially because I could not figure out why Paul loved Marguerite. Also, capitalism was the ultimate villain. AS IT SHOULD BE, REALLY.

CREEPY FAE WERE KIND OF CREEPY AND THAT’S NOT BAD, BUT LIKE MAYBE THIS WASN’T A GOOD BOOK?

An Enchantment of Ravens by Margaret Rogerson Isobel is an artistic prodigy with a dangerous set of clients: the sinister fair folk, immortal creatures who cannot bake bread or put a pen to paper without crumbling to dust. They crave human Craft with a terrible thirst, and Isobel’s paintings are highly prized. But when she receives her first royal patron—Rook, the autumn prince—she makes a terrible mistake. She paints mortal sorrow in his eyes—a weakness that could cost him his life. Furious, Rook spirits her away to his kingdom to stand trial for her crime. But something is seriously wrong in his world, and they are attacked from every side. With Isobel and Rook depending on each other for survival, their alliance blossoms into trust, then love—and that love violates the fair folks’ ruthless laws. Now both of their lives are forfeit, unless Isobel can use her skill as an artist to fight the fairy courts. Because secretly, her Craft represents a threat the fair folk have never faced in all the millennia of their unchanging lives: for the first time, her portraits have the power to make them feel.

— I’ve seen this book mentioned a lot. As good. And it wasn’t not good, but Isobel was pretty goddamn annoying and kind of dumb and a little self-important and I was mostly here for the creepy fae. That was fun. More fae should have antlers and stuff. Everything in this story happened ridiculously fast. I couldn’t believe it was over when it was over.

THE PROSE WAS VERY PRETTY. I’M NOT SURE WHY THE DRAGON HAD TO BE SUCH A MONUMENTAL DICK.

Uprooted  by Naomi Novik Agnieszka loves her valley home, her quiet village, the forests and the bright shining river. But the corrupted Wood stands on the border, full of malevolent power, and its shadow lies over her life. Her people rely on the cold, driven wizard known only as the Dragon to keep its powers at bay. But he demands a terrible price for his help: one young woman handed over to serve him for ten years, a fate almost as terrible as falling to the Wood. The next choosing is fast approaching, and Agnieszka is afraid. She knows—everyone knows—that the Dragon will take Kasia: beautiful, graceful, brave Kasia, all the things Agnieszka isn’t, and her dearest friend in the world. And there is no way to save her. But Agnieszka fears the wrong things. For when the Dragon comes, it is not Kasia he will choose.

— Let me just say first off, that this should have been two books. Everything happened so quickly, I swear I got whiplash. That being said, as a heroine, I liked Agnieszka a lot. She was understandably freaked by everything that happened, but once she kind of settled, she didn’t take The Dragon’s shit and that was good because The Dragon was kind of shitty. This is why it should have been two books. Because everything The Dragon did felt like it needed some kind of explanation. Or at least some sort of reasoning for why he was such a monumental bastard. Which is why I was a little confused that Agnieszka was in love with him? He was such a dick, honestly. The last third or so of this book was the best because Novik really does know how to write action and the magic itself was pretty fascinating. (I wish it went into more depth, but I think I’m spoiled by fic and that’s not actually how the publishing world works.) Kasia might have been the most interesting person in this story. Girl went through it and just became a total badass. I loved her.

MARAUDER FEELINGS! MARAUDER FEELINGS! SO! MANY! MARAUDER! FEELINGS!

The Raven King by Maggie Stiefvater All her life, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love's death. She doesn't believe in true love and never thought this would be a problem, but as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she's not so sure anymore.

— RICHARD GANSEY, MY BELOVED. What a dweeb. A self-sacrificing, sorta sad dweeb. When he wrapped his jacket around Blue, my heart exploded. I think I spent the last fifteen or so chapters with disconcertingly wide eyes and possibly my hand over my mouth. Still not entirely sure why a Welsh king was in Virginia, but I loved it. Was real glad he was there. As promised by that one book rec list I read months ago, the Marauders vibes of these books were off the charts. It was a weird story with lots of weird things and I hope Mr. Grey gets to be happy one day and that Ronan and Adam make out some more eventually. I think they’ll both feel a lot better if they do. Like, about the world as a whole. Has anyone read the Ronan spinoff series? Should I read the Ronan spinoff series?

OK, THIS WASN’T THAT BAD, ACTUALLY

To Love Jason Thorn by Ella Maise Jason Thorn... My brother's childhood friend. Oh, how stupidly in love with that boy I was. He was the first boy that made me blush, my first official crush. Sounds beautiful so far, right? That excitement that bubbles up inside you, those famous butterflies you feel for the very first time--he was the reason for them all. But, you only get to live in that fairytale world until they crush your hopes and dreams and then stomp on your heart for good measure. And boy did he crush my little heart into pieces. After the stomping part he became the boy I did my best to stay away from--and let me tell you, it was pretty hard to do when he slept in the room right across from mine. When tragedy struck his family and they moved away, I was ready to forget he ever existed. Now he is a movie star, the one who makes women of all ages go into a screaming frenzy, the one who makes everyone swoon with that dimpled smile of his. Do you think that's dreamy? I certainly don't think so. How about me coming face to face with him? Nope still not dreamy. Not when I can't even manage to look him in the eye. Me? I'm Olive, a new writer. Actually, I'm THE writer of the book that inspired the movie he is about to star in on the big screen. As of late, I am also referred to as the oh-so-very-lucky girl who is about to become the wife of Jason Thorn. Maybe you're thinking yet again that this is all so dreamy? Nope, nothing dreamy going on here. Not even close.

— Ignoring the fact that this was almost blatant self-insert, this was a mostly good, occasionally trashy book with brother’s best friend and the one who got away tropes. Which, as we know, are my life’s blood. (Plus, surprise, fake marriage that isn’t really fake?!? Ok. OK!) My only eeek moment was when Olive got super drunk and wanted Jason to like—consummate the marriage and he was like, No Olive, you’re drunk. And then they ended up doing everything except having full-on sex, which felt a little creep and a lot sketch and then it was never mentioned again. Also, Olive needs to find some better friends, God.

EMERSON COD VOICE: HE’S STAAAAAALKING YOU

Marriage For One by Ella Maise Jack and I, we did everything backward. The day he lured me into his office-which was also the first day we met-he proposed. You'd think a guy who looked like him-a bit cold maybe, but still striking and very unattainable-would only ask the love of his life to marry him, right? You'd think he must be madly in love. Nope. It was me he asked. A complete stranger who had never even heard of him. A stranger who had been dumped by her fiancé only weeks before. You'd think I'd laugh in his face, call him insane-and a few other names-then walk away as quickly as possible. Well…I did all those things except the walking away part. It took him only minutes to talk me into a business deal…erm, I mean marriage, and only days for us to officially tie the knot. Happiest day of my life. Magical. Pop the champagne… Not. It was the worst day. Jack Hawthorne was nothing like what I'd imagined for myself. I blamed him for my lapse in judgment. I blamed his eyes, the ocean blue eyes that looked straight into mine unapologetically, and that frown on his face I had no idea I would become so fascinated with in time. It wasn't long after he said I was the biggest mistake of his life that things started to change. No, he still didn't talk much, but anyone can string a few words together. His actions spoke the loudest to me. And day after day my heart started to get a mind of its own.

— Ok, ok, ok, so I enjoyed the Jason Thorn book, right? Was, like, how bad could this other book be? And it wasn’t bad, but it was patently ridiculous. Let me explain what happened. Not entirely sorry for the spoilers. Jack the lawyer sees that Rose is only going to get the space for her coffee shop from her uncle’s will if she marries someone. She WAS engaged, but the guy split. For reasons no one can understand, especially Rose. She’s sad. She’s spent so much money on espresso machines! Enter Jack the lawyer who one random afternoon is like: HEY ROSE, YOU’RE MOSTLY A STRANGER, BUT I ALSO NEED TO GET MARRIED FOR REASONS I’LL ONLY SORTA EXPLAIN, LETS DO THAT. So they do???? And Jack the lawyer continues to be kinda weird and a little shady, but Rose has got the coffee shop and things are going well. Until! She’s got a leaky brain!!! That’s not a joke. Not a typo. Out of goddamn LEFT FIELD, Rose has got some horrible medical condition, so thank God she got married because Jack the lawyer’s got great health insurance. (this is ROMANTIC) and she’s got to have an operation and he stays with her and sleeps in the hospital chair and her coffee shop is somehow still going strong??? On Madison Avenue??? What sit-down coffee shop on Madison Avenue do you guys know that would succeed? None because it’s not downtown. I digress. Anyway, Rose makes a miraculous recovery, she and Jack the lawyer are now almost in love? At least having a shit ton of sex. They’re mostly happily married. Until, part two! The ex-fiance shows up and is like JACK THE LAWYER PAID ME TO BREAK UP WITH YOU. To which Rose is understandably flabbergasted. She confronts Jack the lawyer who fesses that he’s been seriously crushing on her since they met at her uncle’s Christmas party. She doesn’t remember this. He does. BECAUSE HE’S A STALKER. So, he knew about the will stipulation with marriage BACK THEN, which is why he used FIRM RESOURCES to investigate the ex-fiance and found out he was a con man, using Rose with plans to basically steal all her money. This infuriated Jack the lawyer because he thought Rose deserved better and then proceeded to basically con her himself, just in a different way. With marriage! He told her he needed to get married to show he was a family man to make partner. THAT WAS A LIE. He didn’t need it at all. He just—wanted to marry her??? To help her??? What a psycho. She leaves. He continues to lurk outside the coffee shop. They make up. No one mentions the stalking. The end.

I KEEP GIVING HELENA SECOND CHANCES AND SHE KEEPS...NOT DESERVING THEM

All In Series by Helena Hunting Sometimes I need an escape from the demands, the puck bunnies, and the notoriety that come with being an NHL team captain. I just want to be a normal guy for a few weeks. So when I leave Chicago for some peace and quiet, the last thing I expect is for a gorgeous woman to literally fall into my lap on a flight to Alaska. Even better, she has absolutely no idea who I am.Lainey is the perfect escape from my life. My plan for seclusion becomes a monthlong sex fest punctuated with domestic bliss. But it ends just as abruptly as it began. When I’m called away on a family emergency, I realize too late that I have no way to contact Lainey.A year later, a chance encounter throws Lainey and me together again. But I still have a lie hanging over my head, and Lainey’s keeping secrets of her own. With more than lust at stake, the truth may be our game changer.

— Last year I read a hockey romance by Helena Hunting that was very cute and traditionally published and she’s got a bunch more free Amazon books that, for some reason, I keep downloading and reading and they continue to be absolutely ridiculous. That first one was a not-so-secret accidental pregnancy (as previously discussed ONE TIME without a condom mention and bam pregnant) but the second one with Rook’s sister was actually pretty cute. I’m not sure why they all called him Rook. Almost all these series have at least one book with someone recovering from an injury and they inevitably fall in love with their physical therapist. So, that one was pretty ok. None of these, however, were quite as entertaining as (wait for it) QUEENIE AND KINGSTON. WHOSE FRIENDS AND TEAMMATES ALL CALL HIM KING. QUEENIE. AND. KING. Gag. I read it anyway. At least 99% of that decision was based solely on the fact that the story started just after King found out his sister was actually his mom. How am I supposed to stop reading THAT?!? I ask you. Highlights of Queenie and King’s romance included: him calling his mom/sister MOMSTER, Queenie being secretly married this whole time, WITHOUT KNOWING IT, his strawberry allergy that flared up because she’d had a strawberry milkshake and then GAVE HIM A BLOWJOB, her dad finding out they were dating because he was the GM of the team and saw that his starting goalie was having a MASSIVE allergic reaction, Queenie’s eventual ex-husband getting engaged to someone who previously tried to self-inseminate to trap Rook into a relationship (I am not making this up, I swear) and then when he found out that his fiancee’s kid wasn’t actually his, he got into a massive fight and earned a 20-game suspension. THAT’S A QUARTER OF AN NHL SEASON. Tom Wilson got fined five thousand dollars for practically killing Artemi Panarin on the ice! I did not read the last book in this series because it was MORE ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY and because it was Queenie’s dad and King’s mom and that meant they’d share a sibling. Which is where I draw the line, guys.

THERE WERE SEVEN BOOKS IN THIS SERIES! EVERY SINGLE ONE HAD TO HAVE A SCENE WHERE THE DUDE UNDERSTOOD THAT PERIODS WERE A THING???? LIKE THAT WAS IMPRESSIVE SOMEHOW?!?!

Hot Jocks Series by Kendall Ryan I've never been so stupid in my entire life. My teammate's incredibly sweet and gorgeous younger sister should have been off-limits, but my hockey stick didn't get that memo. After our team won the championship, and plenty of alcohol, our flirting turned physical and I took her to bed. Shame sent her running the next morning from our catastrophic mistake. She thinks I don't remember that night—but every detail is burned into my brain so deeply, I’ll never forget. The feel of her in my arms, the soft whimpers of pleasure I coaxed from her perfect lips…And now I’ve spent three months trying to get her out of my head. Which has been futile, because I’m starting to understand she’s the only girl I’ll ever want. I have one shot to show her I can be exactly what she needs, but Elise won’t be easily convinced. That’s okay, because I’m good under pressure, and this time, I’m playing for keeps.

—I read all of these. All. Of. Them. They were exceptionally quick reads. Every single one had a copious amount of sex in it and a very weird, apparently required scene, where the dude had to be like I’M NOT SQUICKED OUT BY PERIODS AM I NOT THE ULTIMATE EXAMPLE OF MASCULINITY?? My favorite one was Grant and Ana’s, though, because it was so goddamn absurd I cannot believe someone wrote it. Basic gist was that Ana was dating someone on Grant’s team (he’s the captain, natch) but the guy was a dick and abusive and so one night Ana decides to leave, but she needs someone to help her and WHO DOES SHE TURN TO??? That’s right, reclusive captain Grant. Who’s spent the last few years watching his teammates marry-up and start families and he’s so jealous, but he can’t say anything because he’s a stoic MAN™. So he takes Ana and her dog (of course she’s got a dog) back to his super swanky bachelor pad and she just sort of...stays there? Video of the boyfriend accosting her at her job gets leaked and the boyfriend gets sent to the AHL which is not really how it would work, but fine. Naturally, Grant and Ana hook up. It’s emotional. Vaguely romantic. There’s no GODDAMN CONDOM. So, she gets pregnant. But, of course. Except! She doesn’t know if it’s dick boyfriend’s or Grant’s. Because he’s the male lead in a free sports romance on Amazon, Grant is the MOST understanding. He wants to help Ana. He would like to continue having sex with Ana. This is ready-made happily ever after. Only Ana’s like...eh?? She doesn’t want it to look like she bounced from one hockey player to the next, but also she sorta did and she kept telling Grant she just wanted to be friends, only to have sex, like, three chapters later. Then she just moved out! Just moved out. Seven months pregnant. Moving out. With her dog. Of course, this is a free sports romance on Amazon, so eventually she moved back in with Grant. Once she realized independence wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And because he left practice to be there when she had the baby. Oh! And she got a DNA test after. To see whose kid it was. Grant ripped that ‘ish up. Just ripped it up. Which is cool, I guess. But, like, you didn’t want to double check? What if that kid has to go to the hospital? Did she put Grant’s name on the birth certificate? What are his parental rights?? Anyway, they’re all set to live HEA when....THE DICK BOYFRIEND DIES. Straight up. No explanation. Nothing. Just Grant tells Ana he’s dead, she’s like, oh wow that’s sad, they send some flowers to the funeral and that’s THAT. I assume this was to close any potential plot holes on the father of this baby, but it was hysterical and I cannot stop thinking about it. Strangely enough, the one where the couple made a secret sex tape in college and then got back together because it got released may have been the healthiest relationship in this series.

#book recs #book rec #book reccs #laura reads books #welllp these are books #i will not apologize for that bingo board #i think this is a highlight of accomplishments #like for me personally

[silviiarts]

Butcher of Blaviken

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier/Dandelion) - not yet together. They’re just friends in this fic. Rating: T Words: 1.9 K Genre: hurt/comfort Trigger warning: none 

The lute's chords rattled like the tinder that fed their fire, clear and almost loud in the otherwise dead silence of the night.

After a long day of work, very much needed to earn some coin, the bard loved to put his hands and instruments to the test; check if they could come up with a nice melody.

Geralt didn't mind the music, nor the musician's soft voice humming the lyrics that came to his mind. It was amusing, even.

He rested his back against Roach's plump back quarters, eyes closed and arms under his head like a pillow. Resting was a luxury reserved for the early night, when Jaskier was still awake in case that any danger showed up.

He was resting, but he wasn't asleep. And Jaskier knew this, so it wasn't uncommon for him to ask the witcher for advice every now and then.

"Hey, Geralt?"

"Hm."

"Does 'adventure' rhyme well with 'together' here?"

"... Hm..."

"Eh, that's what I thought. Thanks!"

And so they would spend hours and hours every evening. The witcher would gladly listen to all of his friend's tunes, although he didn't seem like it, and the bard would be pleased to share all his doubts and progress with him.

"Geralt?"

"Hm..."

"What rhymes with 'Blaviken'?"

The witcher's eyes slowly opened. He shifted, sitting up against his horse to stare at Jaskier.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? I can't sing about the Butcher of Blaviken without it falling at the end of a verse at least once!"

But Geralt didn't reply this time; not even the slightest of growls.

Jaskier was waiting for an answer and Geralt refused to give it. But it made the air feel tense after a while.

"... Geralt?"

"Isn't a punch to the junk enough for you to learn?" He finally growled in the lowest tone, startling Jaskier.

Geralt could even wonder, even if it broke something inside, whether Jaskier was just doing that to test him, poke fun or, even worse, because he didn't care.

And those thoughts made his fierce, feline eyes glow like embers in the dim light, which sent chills down Jaskier's back.

"Oh God- What do you mean, Geralt?" He asked, scared yet concerned.

At least, he seemed so.

It took so much of Geralt's already scarce patience to calm down his own thoughts and realize that Jaskier was, indeed, confused.

That's why he decided to take a deep breath and spit some angry words to try and make him understand.

"The first time you called me... that," he growled, brows furrowed and jaws clenched. "I thought I had made it clear that I didn't want to hear it again."

"What, Butcher of Bla..."

"Yes. God fucking damn it, yes," Geralt growled, practically glaring at his companion now.

Jaskier seemed to start understanding that the nickname carried important memories for the witcher. Apparently, not very pleasant ones.

The bard was so used to the epithets used to write that he had paid no mind to what they meant. And, judging by Geralt's expression, it had been a grave mistake.

"Why do they call you that, Geralt?" He asked in the softest voice, after a rather long and uncomfortable silence. “I always assumed that it was… a compliment. For killing a lot of dangerous critters or… something.”

The bard had never seen his witcher so... distressed. Not even fighting the most terrifying of monsters in the Continent.

He wasn't even expecting an answer from his companion anymore, when he heard a grunt rasping out his throat.

"Long ago," Geralt muttered, narrow eyes fixed on the quivering flames, "I was offered a deal from one of the most powerful men in Blaviken, a sorcerer."

Jaskier listened, quiet. He wanted to shuffle closer to the other man's side, but he chose to sit opposite of him.

That way, he could watch the emotions -those he claimed to not have, cross his face and cast their own shadows on the tale.

He wasn’t used to hear the witcher speak for so long. The deep, harsh sound of his voice draped over him like a heavy blanket, reminding him of how serious that story was.

"I refused to kill a human. He wanted me to take the life of a runaway princess, born under a curse that turned her into a... mutant."

That last word had sounded almost painful to get out.

"He had tried to hunt her down all her life. He had had her chased, attacked and even raped. I had the chance to meet her, and ended up tangled in the affairs of men."

The snarl that contorted Geralt's expression was stiff, as he tried to keep his feelings to himself. He wasn't supposed to feel, after all, not even hurt in the soul.

"She wanted to kill the sorcerer, but I refused to help her. Her allies attacked me, and I... I killed them all. One by one, in cold blood. I broke so many skulls and ribs and families that day..."

Jaskier's blood ran cold at the strained pain that twisted the witcher's voice. He knew his kind’s potential, everyone did. But that was the first time he had heard about Geralt- his Geralt, killing a human.

Nonetheless, he understood his reasons. And when Geralt tried to pick up the fear or the horror in the bard's scent, he didn't sense any of it.

"We fought. I didn't want to kill her, but I also didn't want to die at the hands of someone who didn't care about living or dying anymore. Without her allies and without my help, she wouldn’t be able to get what she wanted anyway. She surrendered to my blade, and I... I did it."

Geralt's hands twitched into tight fists, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze didn't shift from the fire, as burning as the torment and regret in his voice.

"I had finished the sorcerer’s deed without even having a choice. He wanted to ravage her body, look into her flesh for the origin of the curse. I had killed her, I couldn't let him dishonor her like that, and I thought that, maybe, it could be my redemption...”

The witcher’s lip trembled ever so slightly at the memories that washed over him like a freezing tide. He growled under his breath, fighting his emotions down with all his might.

“I threatened him, but he wasn't afraid. He turned the whole village against me and twisted what had actually happened. They sent me away with stones."

Witchers could heal very well, and all that had happened too long ago for him to have scars from the stoning, other that the wounds that it left in his heart.

Although he had tried to turn Blaviken into a valuable lesson, ‘not to get involved with men, never pick a side between them’, all it had given him was a harmful nickname and terrible, awful remorse.

The Butcher of Blaviken, as if he had been the one to let all that blood spill on behalf of his own personal benefit.

"I made friends with a little girl in Blaviken, before anything happened," he rambled on for a little longer, in a strangled whisper. "She was held hostage by Renfri, and it was my fault. She begged me to leave Blaviken, she was so afraid of me..."

Such a story managed to make Jaskier, who always sought for the raw emotions in every tale to turn them into songs, go quiet.

That was no story to be told, to be celebrated. That was a mess of human ambitions and a helping hand that got bitten. The true, raw suffering of the man he loved, and was hated by anyone else.

"Oh, Geralt- my dear Geralt..." He mumbled, trying not to express his regret as pity.

Those words sent a shiver down the witcher’s spine. In all honesty, he expected his companion to get up and leave. To finally see that he was following a beast, turn on his heel and run to the safety and certainty of mankind.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did shuffle closer this time. He placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and let out a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, Geralt," he mumbled, in the thinnest of whispers. That was loud enough for him to hear.

Rage, fear, sorrow, regret, vengeance. Unable to tell them apart, there were many emotions that weighted on Geralt's heart on that moment. But, out of them, sadness was the heaviest one.

And he was just lucky that Jaskier could read him like an open book.

"People are so cruel, darling..." he muttered, gently stroking his hand up and down his friend's shoulderblade. "That... horrible name is all I had ever heard anyone call you."

The witcher grunted. Not that it surprised him.

"But no one had ever told me how fair you always try to be."

Jaskier's words definitely caught him off guard. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at him.

He was met by a warm smile, despite the tiredness of his usually bright blue eyes.

"Or how caringly you tend to Roach."

His whole body was burning against Jaskier's palm, and it was strangely soothing.

"Not even about the way your pupils grow when you're relaxed! Or what a good man you actually are!"

"Because I'm not."

"Of course you are! A bad person wouldn't regret anything, would they?"

This time, it was Geralt who had to shut up. Partly because he was exhausted, partly because he wasn't going to admit that Jaskier could be right.

Even the crackling if the fire was fainter, quieter; as if it were as touched by the story of the Butcher of Blaviken as Jaskier was.

The witcher's friend brushed his hand through pale locks, almost like petting a startled stray. Although it was that gesture what startled him.

Nonetheless, his gentle smile comforted him.

He wasn't leaving. He wasn't calling him any sort of names and running away in fear. Jaskier was right next to him, much closer than before, touching his hair like it was nothing.

"Hey, Geralt, don't worry..." He whispered, sweet as honey on the witcher's tongue. "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

After almost twenty years living with the weight of Blaviken on his shoulders, it was hard to believe Jaskier's soothing, albeit unbelievable words.

He replied with a soft growl, eyes shifting towards the bard. He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s forehead as soon as he turned, leaving him even more speechless.

"Don't worry too much about what happened... You gotta focus on the present now! I'll make sure to erase that hideous nickname from History. Just let me do my thing, darling~"

"Uh- I doubt you can do that," the witcher replied, barely hushing his words.

"Nu-uh! I already made a hit! The public's hungry for more stories about you. And I will make sure that no one ever calls you that again!"

It was futile to argue with Jaskier when it came to such things. He had already got into a fight with a drunkard that called Geralt a ‘mutant beast’ before.

The witcher exhaled a soft sigh and closed his eyes. When he noticed, his chest wasn't aching anymore.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #gerlion #the witcher #fan fic #ficlet #fan fiction #butcher of blaviken #hurt/comfort #angst #feels #i will never stop crying at the mention of blaviken #geralt z rivii

[blackicephantom]

The black dragon and the coward CH. 10

You won't believe this but it is done!

I have to say, covid is neither nice nor fun. It's ugly and exhausting as fuck. So please everyone, stay safe and healthy.

tagged: @patolemus - I hope you haven't given up on this *wink*

@runestarchild

- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . -

Tsuna closed the door behind himself slowly and gently. He had much to think about. But where to start? What was next?

So much to do and plan and just not enough time. With his eyes on the ground the boy didn't see the three others that were approaching him, at least until it was way too late.

The sound of multiple and heavy steps caught his attention but when he looked up he wished he didn't. His favorite tormentors were on their way towards him. And Tsuna knew that no one would help him. They would just get angry and ignore everything around them if he caused a scene now. And Nono wouldn't be fast enough to get to the door, or him for the matter. With a rather tired sigh the brunette surrendered to his very obvious fate. Hopefully they don't dump him in the forest, for their own sakes.

Just the next moment he was grabbed and everything went dark…

In the forest

Reborn and Fon had shared a small breakfast before the latter departed again. "I'll try finding two certain someones. Who knows? Maybe my dear nephew knows something." A dismissive snort was his answer and even the Stormdragon had to chuckle. His nephew was…… special, to say it simple. He knew almost everything but wasn't prone to share. With anyone…..

Well, almost. Sweet little Tsunayoshi got even the young and moody Clouddragon to trust him. He was the only one who would get straight answers from the youngling. It was truly fascinating.

It wasn't long after Fon had left that Reborn got a certain feeling of unease. He went to the entrance of his den and looked at the surrounding area. Sharp yellow eyes tracked the wildlife: spooked birds taking flight, scared bucks running through the underwood. Something wasn't right. That's when a familiar scent hit his nose. The smell of warmth and something sweet with vanilla….. 'Tsuna!'

Without a thought Reborn jumped down from his perch, right into the forest. He knew that his draconian form would be way too big and too noticeable. So he decided to stay human, at least for now. Just before hitting the treetops he opened his wings and took an easy glide down. Once on the ground he called for his most trusted and oldest companion, someone who was always at his side. His call was nothing more than a rumble, maybe a growl, but it was answered none the less.

A green chameleon crawled down from one of the trees, only to wander up the offered arm until he sat atop Reborn's fedora. "Keep your eyes open Leon. It seems we've got unwanted company. Again."

Blending with the shadows of the trees the dragon tried to follow the scent of his boy but it was more difficult than it should be. There was something else at play, he just couldn't explain it. It was like… like something was overriding Tsuna's smell. Something rather disgusting.

Rising his sensitive nose to scent the air again he almost gagged. Right there was foul magic in the air. Someone was trying to keep their presence a secret and doing a damn shit job.

A short tap on his hat made Reborn look up. It seems Leon found something interesting. There was a fresh trail on the ground. It looked like something was dragged around…. Or someone. A snarl ripped itself out of his throat. If this is what he thinks it is, then someone's gonna die today. "Please be my scout Leon. Try to find the intruders and give me their location."

Between one moment and the next the green chameleon turned into a sparrow and flew fast and agile through the forest. Reborn in the meantime hoped against hope that he's wrong. But what were the odds? With the last day still on his mind and the boys horrible luck it couldn't be anything else. 'Please be OK. For the love of god, please be alright!'

. -. -. -. -. -. -. -. -. -. -. -

Tsuna awoke with a terrible headache and to the feeling of being dragged somewhere. 'Ahhhhh, kidnapping my old friend. How I didn't miss you.'

Loud laughter caught his attention and he tried to listen, but whatever Mochida was saying was lost to the sound of the animals around them. Trying to look around as supple as possible the brunette tried to get a general location or position. But some of his memories still hadn't returned, to his utter dismay. Which means he has absolutely no idea where these idiots were taking him. They were in the forbidden forest, that he knew. But they had to be past the regular path, because the trees were bigger and still looked healthy, unlike the ones closer to the village.

How the fuck are they even pulling him along? His hands were tied, OK. But he could see. Also OK. His head hurt aaaand, jep, he was gagged. 'Better job than last time.' was one of his rather stray thoughts. Sad enough that this happens often enough that he even has something to compare….. 'Wait…… if we're in the forest, away from the path, then there are just a few places they could take me to.'

Tsuna thought and thought even harder, trying to recall the map he had memorized, while still being dragged through the dirt.

Another look around showed him the mountain to their far left. Which means they're taking him somewhere else than usual. 'Just where the heck are we going?'

A bump in the road caused the boy to wince, which alerted his captors to the fact that he was awake. There went his cover.

"Hey boss. Looks like Dame-Tsuna is finally with us again." That's the only warning he had before he hit the ground. Groaning Tsuna slowly turned around and got on all fours. But before he could get up one of the others kicked him in the rips and then again in his stomach. It looks like they had a bad day or something. It's not often that they hit the valuable spots right from the start. Sooooo. Well, nothing more.

While still protecting his poor belly, the younger was suddenly grabbed by his hair and pulled up, only to come face to face with Mochida and his grimace of a face. The raven haired looked him up and down only to sneer. “I have no fucking idea how you got that dragon to spare you. But one thing’s for sure: it won't happen again.”

Tsuna would have loved to say something, but right before he could Mochida let go of him. With one last kick he was ordered to finally get up and to walk on his own. `Not my fault they kidnapped me.´ groaned Tsunayoshi in his mind.

They walked for quite some time, without a break. And the brunette had to say that he started to get tired. His legs felt like lead and his headache was also still present. And let’s not even start with his poor ribs….

Just behind the slowly thinning treeline came a cave into view. It gave off a feeling of dread and gave the young heir more than just the chills. `I believe this is one of the places we were warned about. But some of the Arcobaleno made sure that no human should ever arrive here…..´ Out of the corner of his eyes Tsuna saw a small and rather strangely colored sparrow. Instead of it’s usual brown and gray feathers it had green ones. And it didn’t sing either, not even a little chirp or trill or something similar. It just sat there and watched them….

Then Tsuna's eyes widened. `Of cause, how could I forget! That’s not a bird, that’s definitely Leon!´

Relief flooded his whole system and he could have cried from joy. Where Leon is, Reborn is not far away. He learned that the hard way back then. But this joy was short lived. Not only did Leon take to the sky, hopefully returning to his partner's side, but his intuition started to ring all and every alarm bell inside his head. Whatever lived in this cave, it wanted not only him for dinner…… That’s when he heard the growl and a rather nasty sounding hiss. A feline then. Next thing that came into view were big and ugly paws, perfect for ripping prey apart and slicing through more than just flesh and bone.

`Oh shit.Oh shit.Oh shit.Oh shit.Oh shit.’ was all that came to mind. Tsuna didn’t need to see the redish looking fur or the big fangs to know what stood in front of them. It was a Subspecies of the sabretooth tiger, one native to their region and very VERY deadly.

There are very few who encountered one and got away safely, or at all.

`It won't happen again. I’ll make sure of it.´ Those were Mochidas exact words……

No. Nononononono. The madman wanted to feed him to the tiger, with no chance of defending himself. The closer they got to this cave the more he started to struggle. He tried to free his hands, but that caused much of a ruckus and his kidnappers noticed. The dumbass that most probably came up with that plan started to crackle until he was outright laughing. One of his goons came up to him, only to tie another rope around his hands which he uses to pull him along. But Tsuna leant in the opposite direction and tried to dig his heels in. No one and nothing would get him even close to this thing. Nope, No way. That was as much of a death sentence as being thrown into a dragons den.

The damn gag prevented him from screaming but he still tried. But that just earned him a slap to the face. The tiger started to salivate and didn't take his eyes off them.

Tsuna struggled again, harder than before. He pulled with all his might, always with sudden movements in the hopes that the one leading him would let go out of surprise. Hyper intuition and survival instincts kicked in, closely followed by a rush of panic. No teaching could keep this feeling away but they could suppress it. The rope started to rub his wrists raw and cut into his skin but Tsuna didn't care. He needed to leave, NOW! In a last minute effort to rip himself away he stumbled on purpose, crashing into the one walking in front of him. And then, when he finally let go of the makeshift leash, Tsuna turned around, grabbed the damned gag and ripped it out of his mouth and started running. The sabretooth tiger, scenting worthy prey, set off after him. The thud of the paws equaled the thundering of his heart. The young Vongola didn’t care what happened to the other three, he just wanted to get away.

Ducking around the trees Tsuna tried to lose the big predator but the beast was hot on his heels. Every once in a while the animal would try to sweep him off his feet, trying to take him down with his claws. But his intuition warned him just in time so that said claws hit nothing but thin air. The longer the chase went on, the more agitated the tiger got. With every hit that didn’t connect the beast growled louder, jumping farther, running even faster and Tsuna was reaching his limit. He tripped on a single root and the beast behind him took it’s chance. Jumping down right above him the poor boy just rolled away and struggled to his feet.

Then he remembered what Reborn told him just before leaving the village: ‘Should you ever get into trouble….’ He took a deep breath, his lungs struggling to comply due to the exercise ‘...... call out for me.’ and gave a shout. “REBORN!”

Just then his pursuer pounced and pinned the boy beneath it’s bulk. Sticky saliva dripped down its fangs and landed on his face. Still struggling writhing, winding anything to get away he couldn't hear the trilling of a sparrow, nor the growl of a predator way bigger then the fucking sabletooth tiger. The only thing soothing him were those familiar, gleaming scales.

With Reborn

Technically he knew that Leon traveled as fast as he could but somehow it was still too slow for him. Right that moment his friend darted through the trees, right towards him and flew frantic circles around him. It must be worse than anticipated. “Lead the way” was all he said and off they were. Upon noticing which way they were going, Reborn growled again. When he had Tsuna back he would fucking eat the idiots that dragged him here, no matter if he gets sick afterwards. He could hear a frantic heartbeat and the huffs of breath from the one chasing after the boy. Then there was a crash, the sound of someone falling and landing hard on the unforgiving ground. Next came something that would stay a long time in the dragon's mind. One yell, one call to him, his name screamed atop of exhausted lungs.

“REBORN!”

Changing while still running came naturally to him, crashing through the tree on all four was just as naturel. But when he saw that thing trying to bite the brunette's head off, he lost it. With a deep and mighty growl he lunged forward, catching the feline by surprise and throwing it off of the boy. When the tiger readied itself to jump again Reborn wound himself around his precious boy, his long neck and open maw just above the other, yellow flames flickering out between his fangs. Two predators, one on the hunt and one on the defense. The outcome of this was decided the moment the Sundragon arrived.

The sabertooth took its chance and tried to pounce again but Reborn had enough. He snatched it while it was still airborne, closing his maw around it, piercing though its skin and hide and then fucking incinerates it. Not even a small whine could be heard. The only thing that remained was the ashen corpse. Once sure that no other hunter was nearby, the dragon changed again and turned to Tsuna. Tsuna, who was still bound and struggling to breath properly. Tsuna, in whose eyes tears started welling up. Tsuna, who looked just like the little boy from so long ago. Without thinking about it Reborn cut through the rope with his sharp claw and then embraced the now crying boy as tight as he dared.

Tsuna was just so glad to be safe and to be held in the arms he had missed without knowing why.

_TBC_

I haven't beta read this, it's almost midnight and I'm tired. Please excuse me. I still hope you enjoy! *wave*

#'khr #'R27 #'dragon and coward #'fanfic

[whumpsideblog]

Previous Parts

Tag List: @im-not-rare-im-rarr @constellationwhump @justwhumpitwhumpitgood @maybeawhumpblog @lumpofwhump @whumpity--whump--whump @inky-whump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @ihaventwritteninsolong @stxckfxck

 This is the ending. Of Silas and Alastair specifically anyway. I have so much more planned with Silas because he’s fun to hurt. I will admit, this isn’t all that much whump at all, pretty much all aftermath, but it was necessary.

 Thank you so much to everyone who actually read this series, and to all the people who left nice things in the tags and replies and sent me asks about this series! I honestly never thought I would write more than three parts of this and here we are finishing on part fucking fifteen! I’m happy to finally end this though, and can’t wait to terrorize Silas some other way :)

***

 He wasn’t better, and he wasn’t okay. But he would be. 

 The first few days after they got home felt weird to him. Alastair was dead, and he was free from him and that mansion, but he couldn’t just forget it. Dahlia said he was grieving, and he wasn’t sure how long that would take, how long he would be kept up at night crying over what that vampire did to him. 

 After being home for a couple days he finally got out of bed due to a knock at the door. At first he didn’t move, but Dahlia wouldn’t stop yelling for him so he finally got up. He was surprised to see Elise at their door, looking happier than he ever saw her in that mansion. She wasn’t even wearing her maid uniform as she did before, dressed in normal clothes. The moment she saw Silas she grinned, rushing over and almost knocking him down with a hug. She quickly let go though, taking a step back. 

 “S-sorry, I know you don’t like being touched- I just… thank you.” She smiled at him. “I haven’t been home in years because of him… none of us have, actually… the whole mansion has cleared out by now, we… we can finally go home.” She grinned. 

 “Shouldn’t I be thanking you?” He smiled tiredly. “If you hadn’t gotten Dahlia I would have never gotten out of there.”

 “O-oh, no, I didn’t… I really didn’t do much, I mean…” She was getting all flustered trying to put her thoughts into words. Much to her surprise, and Dahlia’s for that matter, he stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, lifting her up easily. He couldn’t believe how small she was, he was almost worried that he would hurt her. 

 “Thank you, Elise, I mean it. You know I’m serious, because I’m hugging you.” He laughed softly. He could hardly remember the last time he actually laughed. He set her down after a moment though, even if he was willing to hug her he did have his limits. 

 Dahlia tried to get Elise to stay longer, but she did have a family of her own to get back to, and they certainly weren’t going to keep her from that. They had killed countless vampires, been hired by countless people to do so, but it was rare they ever got a thank you beyond the agreed upon payment. They didn’t need one, at least, Silas never thought it was necessary, but he did feel a little bit better after Elise came by. 

 He wasn’t the only one hurt by Alastair. Dahlia had been hurt, held captive just like he was, and Elise and the rest of the staff had been kept there for who knows how long. Their families probably thought they were dead by now, Elise herself said she’d been gone for years, forced to work under a horrible, abusive master. Not to mention the people who had died because of him, humans were disposable to him, just things to play with until he got bored. 

 Silas wondered why he didn’t get rid of him, why he wanted to keep him so bad that he turned him, but he also wondered if he would’ve gotten bored of him too. 

 ***

 It had been roughly a week home, he still had a hard time believing it. Dahlia seemed to have returned to her normal routine, she was still having trouble with a wrist that wouldn’t heal right but had yet to see a doctor for it. Silas tried to go back to normal, but it was hard.

 He couldn’t go out in the sun anymore, there was that obstacle. He tried to sleep during the day but felt guilty leaving Dahlia to tend to the house and run errands by herself, so he eventually went back to sleeping at night, just keeping the house closed off from sunlight during the day. He tried to spend some time outside once the sun went down, but still refused to go into town with her at night.

 He found that he was terrified of being around other people all of a sudden. He’d never been all that social to begin with, but the idea of anyone in the village finding out he was a vampire scared him. For most of them, their experience with vampires was limited to Alastair, a terrifying ever looming figure who stole their loved ones and killed them. They feared vampires, and Silas didn’t blame them, but he was still scared. He knew he was a monster, but he also knew he’d never hurt anyone. He’d only accepted blood from Dahlia, and even then he only didn’t refuse it because a starving vampire was the most dangerous kind. 

 He couldn’t hide the fact that he was a vampire. The red eyes were a dead give away, it was like a warning sign to humans to stay the fuck away from him and find a hunter. He didn’t know if the fact he was a hunter himself would be enough to make people trust him, especially since he’d never given them a reason to trust him as a human. He knew he’d have to face it someday, but for right now he was perfectly content confining himself to their house. 

 ***

 Two weeks had come and gone. Why was he still letting Alastair affect him?

 He had more or less grown used to the nightmares, the guilt that hit him every time he tried to go to sleep, the voice that told him he was the monster. They would go away over time, he didn’t have the ability to control them completely and will them away by force, but he would recover, someday. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling of Alastair’s hands all over him, constantly touching him, but more than once he’d joked that the vampire had become a ghost with the sole intent of harassing him for eternity. Joking about it did more to help than how he frantically scrubbed and scratched himself when he bathed, wishing he could wash away the vampire’s touch.

 As for his body though, he had complete control over that, over what he did, over how he dressed. So why was he still holding himself to Alastair’s standards? Two weeks had come and gone, and in that time he hadn’t once realized that he was still presenting himself the way Alastair demanded he did. Every day he got up, he dressed nicely and braided his hair, even shaved his face when he needed to and never even tried to take off that collar. He didn’t realize it until Dahlia pointed it out.

 “Why do you still braid your hair?” She asked, sitting on her bed and watching him.

 “What?” He frowned, looking to her as he finished up the braid. “I… don’t know. I guess I’m just used to it…” He never did braid his hair before Alastair, Dahlia tried sometimes but he always hated it, thought he looked stupid. Even though he was so dead set on keeping it long, he didn’t take care of it very well, and styling only went as far as a messy ponytail every day. He only brushed and braided it every day now because Alastair made him.

 “You know you don’t have to, right…? I mean, it’s fine if you want to but…”

 “I know I don’t have to, it’s just… it’s how he liked it and I worry that if I do it differently he’ll…” It sounded stupid when he said it out loud, and he didn’t like the look Dahlia was giving him.

 “He’s dead, Silas. He’s not here to like it or dislike it, he can’t do anything.”

 “I know, I know that, I just… fuck, I don’t know.” He started undoing his hair from the braid, messing it up all over again. “I know he’s dead, but I still… feel him? Like he’s always over my shoulder, ready to slap me or beat me or pull my hair because I’m not doing what he wants. I know he’s dead, but…”

 “But you’re still scared of him.” She sighed and got up, coming over to him. “We’ve been home for a while now, but I’ve never seen you even try to take that collar off. You don’t have to be afraid.” She said softly. “You don’t belong to him anymore.”

 “I… I don’t belong to him… you’re fucking right I don’t belong to him!” He was almost angry that he let this go on so long, that he never thought of the small things he was still letting the vampire control. He stormed out of the room and Dahlia followed him.

 “What are you doing?” She asked, sounding concerned, while Silas searched the house for something.

 “Getting rid of all this.” He motioned to his hair, finding a pair of scissors and going to stand in front of the bathroom mirror. She seemed concerned as she leaned against the door frame, but if she wanted to stop him she didn’t. He grabbed a fistful of his thick dark hair, holding it out and cutting it off. 

 All he could think of was that fucking vampire, pulling his hair, braiding his hair, brushing his hair from his face and running his fingers through it. He’d had some sort of fixation with his hair, almost ruining it for Silas now. When he was younger he’d wanted nothing more than to grow it out, most of the men he looked up to had long hair, and before that he’d been forced to keep it short, every few months he was held down while someone got uncomfortably close to his head with a pair of scissors. It wasn’t worth it though, Alastair would want him to keep his hair long and that was reason enough for him to cut it all off. 

 By the time he finished it was a messy job, his hair was naturally wavy and stuck out in odd places. It didn’t look great, but it was gone, and that was what mattered.

 “Do you feel better…?” Dahlia asked.

 “Kind of.” He laughed softly. He struggled for a moment to cut that collar off, before remembering he was a vampire and could easily snap it. He breathed a sigh of relief once it was off though, for the first time he didn’t feel the vampire’s grip around his throat.

 “It… looks good.” She said, causing him to laugh harder.

 “No it doesn’t!” He ran a hand through it, feeling relieved to have it all gone. She was laughing too now, coming over to mess with it. 

 “Here, I’ll fix it for you.” She gently took his arm, pulling him out of the bathroom. Cutting his hair wouldn’t get rid of the things Alastair did to him, it wouldn’t make all the hurt and trauma go away, and it wouldn’t make him human again. All that mattered, though, was that it made him feel better.

***

 He was better, but he wasn’t okay. He knew that he would be though.

 Alastair had hurt him. He had taken everything from him to make him exactly what he wanted. He had turned him into the worst possible thing, and had ruined him to the point that he couldn’t just ignore it and get over it. He was still plagued with nightmares, he still found himself wondering and worrying about what he would think of things, only to remind himself- He was dead.

 Alastair had hurt him, but he couldn’t anymore. Silas had made sure he knew that in his final moments, and he was going to stand by that. He had to if he wanted to actually live and not just wallow in his own misery for the rest of eternity. 

 He slowly got used to being a vampire, he adapted to his new abilities and limitations, and he slowly got used to drinking blood every day. He even started leaving the house again, always careful to hide his eyes when around other people. He started taking jobs with Dahlia again, in some ways being a vampire actually helped with work. He would never have his old life back, but there was no reason that he couldn’t learn to enjoy his new one.

 Silas was getting better, coping with what happened and recovering from the pain he suffered. He wasn’t okay, but he didn’t worry about it as much anymore, because he knew that someday, he would be.

#whump #aftermath of whump #my writing #my oc's #Silas #Dahlia #whump recovery #hair cutting #i don't know how to tag this #it really isn't whumpy #but it needed to exist to finish off the series

[codenamesazanka]

What are your feelings on Shigaraki getting a redemption? From your post comparing Gaara and Shiggy, I got the feeling you didn't care for Gaara becoming a good guy. Personally I would love for Shiggy to have a redemption arc!

Nah, I actually absolutely loved Gaara’s redemption arc!

tl;dr: Gaara’s redemption was done super well in my opinion. & I have no opinion on redemption for Shigaraki’s character, I’m waiting to see what happens! I wouldn’t mind it, should a few conditions be fulfilled. But I also don’t mind him not being redeemed. (Does he deserve to be? Sure.)

(Super, super long post because I love Gaara and I wasn’t smart enough to write meta about him when I was in the Naruto fandom so this is my 14-year-old self breaking out to do what was never but should’ve been done.)

I loved him being a homicidal 12-year-old, and I also I loved him having turned into the 15-year-old ninja leader who re-discovered love and bonded with his siblings (the sand sibs!!! I love them).

I love this brat and his post-goth self

What I hated was this guy:

Who the fuck is this. Who the fuck. Who the f—

So here’s the thing about Gaara!

He was literally created to be a monster, manipulated by his father into being one, on top of having a literal demon inside of him that would break his mind and take over. One can see how it led to him being the murderous, unstable 12-year-old he was. Yet.

A lot of the bad guy stuff he did was also by his choice. His father wanted a weapon; Gaara became something worse, one that became too much to handle; gone horribly right. He killed for pleasure, he threatened his siblings, he almost crippled an important side character because he could, he released the demon on purpose, outside of orders.

Gaara was traumatized by his upbringing and influenced by how others judged him; but he also eventually arrived at his philosophy by himself. The influencing words for him were “love only yourself and fight only for yourself [because no one else will, monster]” and he took that to heart. Then he turned it into “I exist to kill all humans other than myself, so for long as there are people for me to kill, I will not cease to exist; I will feel alive.” Damn.

I totally get it. His own father tried to kill him, again and again. Sent assassins after him. There was no one he could trust, and the only comfort came from relying on the demon inside of him, and killing others to feel alive. But—

From the way he interacted with others, he knew what he did was wrong. Not the self defending himself from assassins; but things like killing people who surrendered or treating his siblings like shit. There were a lot of fanfic that blamed all his monstrous acts on the demon inside of him, or like an insanity defense; but I never thought so. He had moments of demon possession, but for the most part, he retained his self, he reasoned, he made choices. If I wrote meta back then, man…

It was why when Gaara turned good, it was solely on questioning himself and reframing his perspective, and not like, extracting the demon from him. He reflected on himself, he reconsidered everything he thought, he listened to another person’s philosophy, and here’s the most important part: he made the choice to change.

Because when faced with that moment, it wasn’t because he was arrested or told a secret that changed everything or it was revealed he was actually loved all along or freed from external manipulations. He could’ve gone back to his old ways. He was still in the same situation as before; the only thing that changed were the choices he could make despite everything. So, quite immediately, he apologized to his siblings.

And so began the long process of atonement. He went back and saved the guy he almost crippled, he opened his heart and reached out to his siblings, he decided to become ninja leader despite the poor, poor relations between him and the village (which yeah, started because they treated him as a monster, but then he started killing for pleasure…). He worked hard.

That was a redemption story I really liked. It’s true that Gaara had a terrible childhood and a good reason for turning out the way he did; but eventually, there came a point where he couldn’t blame his actions on that. He was understandable, but not forgivable - yet. There were choices made on purpose, connections rejected out of hatred, and blood on his hands. I think ‘redemption’ is all about coming to that choice on your own, owning up to that and working to correct those wrongs - even if it’s impossible, even if it’s never ending.

Gaara’s story is really much like Shigaraki’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if Horikoshi was influenced by the character! Prototype Sazanka had his name written out as: 沙惨禍. “Sand Calamity”. Hehe.

But yeah, Gaara started out as a creepy character that showed up antagonistic and began murdering people outside of what was allowed in ninja society. He showed no mercy, he told his siblings he never thought of them as family, he tried to kill an unconscious hospital patient. Pretty unsympathetic except for very, very subtle hints; until bam! Backstory. Yeah, it made you want something better for him!

It was a matter of how.

*

I have no opinion on redemption for Shigaraki’s character. I’m waiting to see what happens. I would like it!

If! Shigaraki reaches that conclusion by himself. Not him realizing he was so manipulated by AFO none of his own actions were actually his actions. Not him being ‘unbrainwashed’, if that even was a thing. Not a secret revealed to him that changes everything, wow, if only I knew this, I would not have become a terrorist… Not him getting captured and All Might begging the courts to be lenient on him and dragging him kicking and screaming to rehabilitation.

I really like Shigaraki! What made him fun was that he’s a willful brat. “Before we leave, let’s kill a kid!”. “This asshole stabbed me so I’m releasing bioweapons onto the city.” “I’m going to hold this boy hostage in broad daylight and discuss morality.” He delighted in destruction, he looked for ways to hurt people most. All his chosen actions.

Does he deserve to be ‘redeemed’/recover/be allowed to atone for his actions/given the chance to change? Sure!

It’s just, Shigaraki’s gotta make that decision on his own.

*

One thing about Gaara’s redemption is that, yeah, he was ‘saved’ by the main character, Naruto. Talk-no-Jutsu, I think that was called, the main character’s habit of changing someone’s life/morality/philosophy/sinful ways simply by telling them his feelings.

But it made sense. Naruto and Gaara were proper foils. Both have demons inside of them, both were shunned by the village, both struggle with feelings of loneliness and hatred and finding a reason to live. Sure, Gaara had it worse since he was targeted for assassination; but Naruto related Gaara’s pain at a basic level. And Gaara recognized it too.

They understood each other, that they were mirror versions of each other, that they very well could’ve ended up like the other, the difference between them that one had someone who cared about him, and one didn’t. Naruto showed Gaara a different way to live - but he didn’t force it. Naruto simply told Gaara he empathizes with him, but if Gaara tries to hurt his friends, he’ll kill him. It’s thanks to Naruto, but Gaara realized his path to redemption on his own.

So excuse my lost of control here, but what the fuck kind of foil is between Deku and Shigaraki??? Deku getting Shigaraki redeemed is, currently, laughable.

One is quirkless and got bullied (I maintain my position that these things are overemphasized and made worse than it was by the fandom), but had a loving home and grew up as a normal kid…

for Shigaraki, being at home made him anxious, then he gets a truly dangerous, frightening quirk, and then he’s raised to be a a weapon by Japan’s Number One Villain.

Why are there so many AU fics of Deku having a deadly quirk? Or made him be so relentlessly bullied? Or kidnapped by Villains and forced to work for them? Overall, fics that make his situation/backstory worse? It’s cuz he’s boring. All these stories is just taking Shigaraki’s past and giving it to Deku to make him more ‘badass’ and then have the audacity to write Shigaraki as a dumb tamper-tantrum-throwing manchild. Don’t get me wrong, I actually love reading these fics cuz I’m a sucker for AUs, but honestly.

Talk-no-jutsu isn’t gonna work here.

Still! Should Horikoshi go for redemption, I wouldn’t mind! I just need to see exactly how he handles it. If he screws it up, I will also never forgive him.

#shigaraki tomura #shigaraki #Gaara #meta #redemption #nalslastworkingbraincell #in my idealistic optimistic opinion #everyone can be redeemable #someone wanting to do better be better is always a good thing #changing should always be encouraged #its a matter if self discipline will power and effort #also note that #forgiveness is a whole other matter #looooonnnnggg post #having your actions excused and not really blamed ln yourself #‘well i had an atrocious backstory and my actions were actually preprogrammed and so i honestly had no choice in the matter’ #isnt redemption #its rescuing and hand holding to improve #which! hey! if it makes them a better person #storywise - its bad and boring #Raccoon Boy Conspiracy

[im-the-punk-who]

I don’t know if I ever actually posted this but I can’t find it in the tags so here’s the epilogue I wrote for @thunderboltsortofapenny‘s Del Grant au, set roughly fifteen years after the end of it.

The sound of Del's phone makes him look away from the window of his apartment. He pauses in scratching Kronk's head to look at the screen. 

Hey loser, want to meet for coffee? That new store is opening and I want to try their muffins

He snorts, Kronk looks up at him in a mix of slight alarm and confusion. The blond tabby that's adopted his sixth floor apartment isn't used to the noises he makes yet. He'd only just managed to lure the stray in through his window last week. With pizza, of course. He is nothing if not just like his namesake. Del misses Clint. He makes a note to call him later, it's always easier to hear Clint's voice. For all everything else has changed, Clint's voice hasn't. 

Gimme half an hour. Have to convince the cat to move. 

Half a second later: You're a loser and that cat is taking advantage of your bad habits. See you in half an hour. First ave and tenth. <3

Groaning remorsefully, he slowly starts to detach the warm cat from his thigh and move from the windowsill. He's dressed well enough for a date with a friend - Natalie won't care anyway. As long as Del is smiling and sober Natalie doesn't ever give him too much shit. Del loves that about her. He zips his hoodie up the rest of the way and stuffs his wallet and phone into his jeans pockets, starts shuffling lazily out the door. He hasn't wanted the gloves sitting on the front table since winter, but it's still cool enough that a long sleeve shirt is plausible.

-

Twenty minutes later he steps off the subway out into the east village. For all he lives twenty minutes away he rarely comes here unless one of his friends invites him. He likes to stay in Brooklyn for the most part - or lose himself completely in a really crowded place like Times Square. He revels in the fact that crowds - for the most part - comfort him now instead of petrifying him. It's a small victory, but it's an important one. The new cafe Natalie wants to try is called Trees Bein' - "it's pronounced Tres Bien it's a pun, it's clever" Natalie had insisted, exasperated - and Del can't actually help the sound he makes at the name. His friends are such fucking dweebs. The place is crowded but not uncomfortably so and the nature vibe immediately puts him at ease. He spots Natalie waiting by the front door and waves. 

"You are such a dweeb I can't believe I'm friends with you," he says in lieu of an actual greeting and he gets a pinch to his right arm for the trouble.

"Delano Timothy Grant you are like a hundred and twelve years old and you're still hanging out in wannabe chic cafes with your expectant-mother friends. You have no room to judge in this scenario." The fact that doesn't hurt - and Natalie knows it won't - makes the smile on his face grow bigger.

He's better now. He really is. He's made his peace with Bucky - with the Soldier too - with every part of him, mostly. He still has bad days and nightmares sometimes, but mostly he's just a perpetual twelve year old who doesn't age like his friends do, who sometimes relapses into an accent that hasn't really been heard for more than a couple of decades. He has real memories of three very different lives. But he's okay. He is. (He remembers when he used to say those words and they were lies, but they aren't now. His three psychology degrees and his Masters in Cognition and Perception make him qualified to make this statement.)

"You are going to make a horrible mother. Your children will grow up traumatized and their only comfort in life will be their uncle Del."

They're at the front of the line and Natalie orders a hot mint tea and a chocolate chip muffin. Del looks undecidedly at the menu for a few seconds before ordering the largest mocha coffee they have and a banana nut muffin. He doesn't need the muffin to remind him of his mentor today, but he gets it anyway. Fond memories or something.

"If my children ever call you their uncle Del I'm deleting your number from my phone," Natalie continues as they wait for their orders, but she gives him a fond look anyway. "How's work?"

Del smiles when he thinks of his patients. He always does - if there is one thing he can unequivocally say he's done right since being given whatever number second chance he's on it was going into therapy. "It's going really well. I've got a new patient who is doing very well, considering what they've been through. I think I can really help them." He's thinking about his newest patient - a young child who'd been assaulted and tortured by her family until she started having dissociations to deal with the trauma. This case hits close to home, and he knows he's maybe more invested in this kid than he usually is even by his standards. But. He became a therapist to help people and he's good at it.

He's careful not to give away any specific information - even what he's said much is more than he would share with anyone who wasn't Natalie. He takes his work and his patient's confidentiality seriously, he can't imagine not doing so. Wielding someone else's secrets like that. Natalie smiles again at him because she knows.

"I'm really proud of you, Del." 

He flushes with pride at the statement but luckily their orders are called, so he's saved from saying something equally mushy back. Natalie has been his friend since he first came back to New York fifteen years ago, lost and alone and so suicidal he'd nearly walked in front of a train, except he hadn't been sure it would have killed him. She's almost forty now but she glows in a way that makes her looks years younger. She's Del's favorite person in the world hands down, possibly barring Clint.

They sit and chat for a while, catching up on their life in the two days since they've talked last and giving the new cafe a resounding thumbs up - "even though the name is still stupid who comes up with these things" "shut up Delano". 

"So have you made any new friends - besides your stray cat friend?" Del rolls his eyes. Natalie has been on hi for a while about finding someone to spend his time with romantically lately. Like she thinks he's becoming an old spinster or something. It's not that he doesn't want that it's just. Just he's still got some old doubts and he's comfortable alone, comfortable waiting for the right thing when it comes along. Until then he'll play the casual dating game and just as casually lose their numbers afterwards. 

He shakes his head and doesn't miss her eye roll, but she lets it drop. He's come a long way and they both know it. Natalie finishes her muffin and gets up, admitting reluctantly she really doesn't have time for a longer chat. She has to meet her husband Blake before she heads to yoga and if she didn't legitimately scare him sometimes Del would never let her live down what an aging hipster she is. "Give my regards to Blake," he tells her sincerely and hugs her close before they part. He sits in the cafe for a few more minutes, content and jesus christ he is happy isn't he? No matter how many times he realizes it, it's still a shock after all the time he's spent not happy. 

-

On his way back he makes a detour to a new grocery store, mostly because the one he usually goes to doesn't have any good cat food. He walks home along the pier instead of catching a bus. Brooklyn has and hasn't changed, he loves the commitment to keeping things green and making outdoor gardens everywhere. He's frustrated it comes at the expense of families who have been living there since he did...the first time. 

He and -

In retrospect, he's honestly flabbergasted they haven't run into each other before now, but he looks casually around the park running along the pier and sees Steve Rogers amongst a gaggle of kids with baseball mits and bats. He's not embarrassed he recognizes Steve without seeing his face, after fifteen years. He's still at least partly Bucky Barnes, after all. What he is surprised about is that there's not pain or hurt in his chest. No pain or bad memories or needles in his brain. It's another small check in his mental notebook of things that are good about today. 

He walks slowly to a bench and sits down - he can take the time and he can admit he's curious about what Steve has been up to when he's not Captain America. Del sometimes shakes his head that even after all this time Steve hasn't given up the mantle for more than a few years at a time. Addicted to being needed, that one, says a voice in the back of his head and Del has to agree.

He waits, watches fondly, until all but one of the kids has left. Steve sits with this one kid and talks with the scrawny munchkin for another fifteen minutes, until the kid hops up and grabs his pack, running off. Del gets up and walks over. He's not sure when he decided he wanted to talk to Steve but he's eager in a way he hasn't really been in a long time. 

"Well if it isn't Captain America." He has to struggle not to laugh when Steve whirls around and nearly trips over himself. The picture of grace. 

Steve's mouth forms a few words, none of which he vocalizes, before he regains his composure. Del is still trying not to laugh. "Uh. Jesus. Hey." Steve looks him up and down, unsure. "Wh-uhm. Hey." He's staring somewhat expectantly at Del for a few seconds before Del realizes with a flush of pleasure Steve is waiting for Del to tell him what he wants to be called. He's almost forgotten when he last saw Steve he'd told him to do that. Not to assume Steve knows anything about who he is.

"Del. It's Del." Steve smiles brightly and he looks genuinely happy. There's no sadness or regret that Del can find when he searches his expression.

"It's been. Christ it's been a long time. Are you - how are you?" It's that same genuine tone Del and Bucky both remember Steve always having. Del rolls his eyes, but it's a fond gesture.

"I'm good. I'm. Really good." He's still a little surprised he's talking to Steve and not in pain. That he can actually look at Steve and not feel hollow or inadequate. That he might actually have ridiculous butterflies in his stomach because Steve hasn't changed either. "I stopped at the grocery store on the corner because I have a new cat and the bodega near my house only has shitty cat food." Like he has to explain he wasn't just sitting on a park bench watching Steve teaching a bunch of kids baseball for the simple pleasure of it.

Steve's laugh is maybe another check on that list of good things. Which is weird, because he doesn't know Steve, not really, but he...wants to? "Trying to resurrect the Dodgers?" He doesn't know if that's too familiar. He isn't in pain, but there's a weird balance in his head. He isn't sure what's appropriate when talking to the guy you were in love with, then had wiped from your head, then hated, then, maybe...could have had a crush on again. Then didn't want to see for fifteen years.

"Nah. I've let that dream go." Their eyes meet for a second and there's more to those words and neither of them pretend there aren't. Steve doesn't let them hang though, just states them as simple fact. "I like teaching these kids. They're really great, and they love the game."

It's bright out and he's not hurting and Steve's still fucking gorgeous. That was never really the question, it's still not. "Hey, I've gotta get going or these will spoil-" he holds up the cans of cat food "but do you want to catch up sometime?" He can't hide how relieved he is, no matter how much he likes his life now, to see someone else who hasn't changed with the years that have passed. And he can admit that, maybe, he has actually been lonely. Not like Natalie thinks, but he has been. 

"Absolutely. I'll give you my number? Call me or whatever when you get a chance." Del gets his number, enters it in his phone and grins.

"Great. I will." He's turning away when Steve calls his name and he looks back. Steve's smiling and his face is so, so earnest Del does feel an ache in his chest, but it's not a bad one. It's because every part of him knows what's coming and he's maybe a little bit exasperated at how much Steve hasn't changed, even when he has.

"Thank you, Del. I'm glad we ran into each other." 

Del grins, lifts a hand in goodbye. "Me too, Steve. See you around." 

Definitely a check in the good things that happened today column.

#penny i really hope its okay im posting this like 6 years later #idk what you even did with this but like #i needed something happy and this is probably the happiest thing ive ever written lmao #del grant au #he stood for something #milo writes

[imnotcameraready]

chivalry is dead (4)

A/N: also can be titled “roman #1 get so valid that BS almost started crying while writing this” — roman gets valid and things are about to speed the h e c k up!!!! 

WARNINGS: Sympathetic Deceit, cursing, panic, yelling/arguing (things get Bad before they get Good), crying, self-hatred, self-deprecation, more mentions of being touch-starved (im returning to the story’s original idea YEET) — let me know if i missed anything!!! also i realize i stopped tagging sympathetic deceit? so im gonna go back and.,,.. fix that., ., . ., . .

Words: 3796

Pairings: in this one? Roman gets valid and loved, but nothing overt yet

Part 1 (chivalry is dead) — Part 2 (i’m wishing) — Part 3 (the bells of notre dame) — Part 4 (honor to us all)

AO3 link!

@starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda​ @askthesnake @k9cat

enjoy!! <3 <3 

“The….Playwright,” Deceit recoiled, nose scrunching up as the name rolled off his tongue. He didn’t like the confusion, of course, but he especially didn’t like how Roman was being honest about his name. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we don’t want to deal with your dramatics right now, Roman.”

“What’s the purpose of your outfit change?” Logan took a step closer, and Roman took a step back from Logan’s accusatory tone, “And all of these outfits? And the pseudonym? Where did your room go? Why have you been hiding for a week? What—”

“That’s all backstory, I can’t help you there. It’s not very fun to focus on,” Roman — the Playwright? — walked around the group, towards the table, “Roman and the Imagination are in a very important discussion, and you all interrupted us at the first climax.”

He leaned on the table, ignoring everyone by looking through some papers, mumbling to himself. It was unnerving. The energy of how the Playwright carried himself, just from seeing him, was distinctly Roman-like. But not. He seemed more orderly, hands holding the papers delicately, covered in handwriting that wasn’t nearly as loopy or rushed as Romans’ typically was. It was as though they’d entered an Uncanny Valley.

The group shared looks in a circle, Patton’s eyebrows pinched in worry, Deceit with a tense frown, Logan with an impatiently cocked eyebrow, Virgil and tired snarl. The room’s tension was heavy; it was a miracle that the Playwright was ignoring it.

To Deceit, it seemed that the other three didn’t understand the atmosphere change. “I’m really done with how often you all hide things from each other,” he said, “Look at him. That’s clearly not Roman.”

Patton caught Virgil’s eye. He was staring at the ground, hands shaking at his sides, shoulders hunched to make himself seem smaller. Patton extending a hand towards him, but Virgil pulled away. He marched away from the group and towards the Playwright, ignoring Patton’s hushed warning “Virgil!” and grabbing the Playwright by his sleeve with both his hands.

He spun him around to face him, holding the Playwright tight but trembling horribly.

“I don’t know what you and the Imagination’re on about, but you’ve been locked in here for a week and you got us all worried. And now you’re saying you’re not Roman? You’d better start explaining what the hell you’re doing in here, or we’re dragging you out into the common room,” his voice was deeper, doubled over with his Tempest Tongue, “I’m not fucking with this.”

The Playwright just stared at him, wearing a disgruntled frown. He leaned forward, putting his other hand on Virgil’s chest and pushing him away slow.  “If you all paid more attention to the foreshadowing, then you would have seen this coming,” he said.

“What foreshadowing?!” Logan all but shouted, startling them enough for Virgil to let go of the Playwright’s hand, “You cannot just speak in literary terms and expect everyone to understand you as though this’d been expected. This whole debacle has frankly been too obtrusive to our regular routine. You’ve been unnecessarily tense, causing the rest of US distractions in our work out of worry for you. And with Thomas’ new videos to think of, our production has been placed on a halt because of your gratuitous pity parties—”

“Logan!” Patton yanked him backwards and effectively shutting him up, “That’s enough!”

Logan looked back at Patton, who appeared angrier than ever, and then up at Deceit and Virgil. Both had similarly shocked and fearful expressions. “We know you’re worried, we’re all worried, but you can’t vent your anger out like that,” Patton hissed, out of the Playwright’s earshot.

Clearly the tension’d built up. Logan looked back up at the Playwright. His hands were gripping the table behind him, chest heaving as his breathing quietly picked up. Behind his glasses were tears growing in his eyes, face contorted into a hurt and disgusted unhinged-jaw scowl. What an outburst. Logan leaned back, withdrawing his hand from where he had been angrily pointing a finger just seconds before.

Immediately, he knew he had to apologize. “I...Roman, I—”

“No development,” the Playwright was venomously angry, “No-No awareness. From any of you. I already said I’m not Roman. Not….”

His voice cracked and he looked away. “Not all of him, anyway,” he turned back around, facing the table, shoulders hunched over.

Patton pulled Logan back, letting him quietly stand with Deceit and Virgil. He approached the Playwright slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. “Playwright, right?”

The Playwright swatted Patton’s hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

Patton’s brows pinched again, and the Playwright continued in a softer voice, “It-it feels weird. Sorry.”

Alright. Alright, that was okay. Patton leaned on the table besides him. “That’s okay. I’m sorry we interrupted you. Really. But we’re all really worried about you, and we miss you a lot, all of us. We didn’t know what was best to do, since you don’t like being interrupted, but we couldn’t just leave you alone. And, if there’s something we can do to help, we’d like to. We just wanna understand what’s going on.”

The Playwright looked up at him with a single eyebrow raised and fresh tear-tracks down his cheeks. It didn’t look like he was bought what Patton was selling.

Patton took a deep breath and kept going. “I’m sorry we didn’t check on you sooner. But we, um. We wanna help you finish, uh. Writing the story. Or play. You’re a Playwright,” he was rambling now, wasn’t he? He should wrap it up. “We just care about you, a lot.”

He searched Patton’s face for fault and, finding none, turned back to the group. Logan’s fists were balled as he stared hard at the carpet, and Virgil and Deceit were standing besides each other, both watching the Playwright with set jaws. Virgil gave a tiny nod. Yeah, they did care, and they sure as hell weren’t leaving without answers.

The Playwright looked at Patton again. “It’s alright, right, Playwright?” Patton asked, voice soft with a puckish edge.

His response was to snort quietly and punch Patton’s shoulder gently. “I appreciate the wordplay.”

Patton giggled. The Playwright chuckled, too, and wiped his face with the butt of his palm. “I’m sorry, you all,” he said, “I’m, um. This whole situation has been a headache and a half, incredibly stressful, so I must report that my emotional state is rather volatile.”

He cleared his throat, fixing his tie and vest, without looking at the group yet. “We–I–All of us didn’t think you’d care enough to be involved, but now it’s a little late for big changes. Thank you for checking, though.”

Again, nothing hidden. Deceit cast a sidelong look at Virgil. Virgil was fiddling with his zipper while watching the Playwright, tugging it open and zipping it shut. He seemed to be calming down himself as the but the lingering questions of what the heck was happening definitely weighed in everyone’s minds enough to keep him on edge. Deceit glanced at Logan, who was watching Patton with a blank look, before deciding to ask himself.

“So. Playwright,” he stepped closer, one careful step at a time, ignoring how the Playwright was refusing to look at him, “What’s happening? Care to explain?”

The Playwright just gazed around at Logan, Patton, Virgil, then Logan again before answering. “I’m sure you’re all wondering that. Sit, I guess. I’ll provide some exposition, for a change.”

He waved a hand, conjuring couches behind them. Slowly, each Side sat, though everyone leaned forward to an extent. The Playwright sat on a stool in front of them, cradling some papers he’d pulled from the table.

“Roman — the Roman you know, the Prince — had an epiphany. I believe he mentioned it on camera, actually, during the Sander Sides episode ‘Crofters: the Musical,’” the Playwright squinted at one of the papers. “‘I can’t help but wonder if we as a society are past the days of celebrating dashing princes and acts of bravery that are edging on stupidity,’ at timestamp 4:36.

“Despite the acknowledgement that there would be no heavy character development in that episode, that line stuck with him. Princes simply aren’t appreciated anymore, by the audience nor by you all. Thus, to continue maintaining a desired presence, Roman tried to imagine a new form that would be….wanted. But we came up with multiple possible forms. After all,” the Playwright sighed, flipping a page, “Anything is better than the Prince.”

That sat uncomfortably with everyone, though it was difficult to pinpoint why. “I, uh, kiddo?” Patton raised a hand slowly, but the Playwright waved his papers at him.

“Don’t interrupt! Anyway,” he adjusted his glasses, “Back to the source material, Logan is my point of comparison. Hence,” he indicated to himself, “Exhibit A. But I wasn’t the only ‘form’ produced, for lack of a better word. Because there were so many forms — seven, to be precise — we have been hosting a small battle-royale in the Prince’s favored setting. The other six are integrated into Prince Roman’s kingdom village. My themeing is less tied to a narrative and therefore I am backstage.”

“The Mind Palace’s considered backstage?” Deceit jerked his thumb backwards, at the hall of costumes.

The Playwright only glared at him over his glasses. He cleared his throat, looking over Logan and Virgil as though daring them to interrupt, before continuing through his notes.

“All of us theoretically have the common goal of capturing the others and killing them, in the hopes of replacing the late Prince—”

“Hang on, hang on,” Virgil put his hands up, “‘Late’? Roman’s dead?!”

The Playwright rolled his eyes. “Clearly not,” he said, earning an exasperated glare from Virgil, “Roman has simply been dissolved into seven facets, each displaying different characteristics that he possessed. The same could be done to all of you but, well, enacting it in the actual Mindscape without the help of an imagined scenario would likely be painful. Example given, we could probably divide you into impulse, self-deprecation, overthinking, et cetera. Though I can’t declare myself an expert on the Mindscape’s lore, so don’t quote me on that.”

“Thanks for the fucking call out,” Virgil grumbled, pulling his hood up and yanking the strings down.

The Playwright’s brow pinched, not understanding what he’d done wrong. He turned to the other three Sides, lip pursed, and motioned for the conversation to continue.

“So, and correct me if I’m misunderstanding,” Logan said, “But you are one of the seven forms that the Imagination created?”

“Indeed. Like I said prior, I’m the Playwright. The things I represent are more in-line with the creative features of Creativity, though I must admit a little bit of egoism and dramatic flare are definitely written into my character,” he flipped to the last page of his notes, “Much of my inspiration was drawn from you, as I implied earlier. And, to be frank, my goal is simply to maintain order while the other aspects of Roman deal with whatever they believe is correct.”

“I understand. I do enjoy the necktie,” Deceit rolled his eyes at Logan’s self-flattery, sharing a tired look with Virgil. “Focusing on something else, does that mean the other six forms bear different resemblances to Roman as well?”

“Of course. One of the only commonalities I’ve noticed thus far is everyone’s affinity for Disney, but that can be attributed to Roman falling back on a strong creative inspiration base, thus dividing Roman’s representation across multiple character tropes to find one suitable.”

“I don’t—okay, I’m not following,” Patton raised a hand again, “You’re using Roman’s name kinda….without talking about him as a person.”

The Playwright smiled thinly, fingers drumming against his papers. “Yes. I’m discussing ‘Roman’ more as a concept than an individual. Consider it as though myself and the other six are presently different pieces of the whole ‘Roman.’”

“Yet the Roman we know, the Prince as you call him,” Logan felt Virgil squeeze his arm, “He is somewhere in the Imagination. In whatever projected battle you have all created or not, but he still exists.”

“Well, like I said, I cannot declare myself an expert over the Mindscape. We may be able to create and bend reality here, but there are even things that we don’t know,” the Playwright pulled the pen from his hair and scribbled something onto his notes, “That is an interesting point to research, though. I can think of one form that bears a striking resemblance to the Prince, but if they were the Prince before, they certainly aren’t now. Should the Prince be somewhere in the world, we might be able to erase him finally, because I don’t think—”

“Erase? No, no, we need him back,” Virgil stood up at the same time as Deceit, who said “We’re here to GET Roman back.”

The Playwright blinked up at them, pen still pressed hard against his notes. He looked at Patton and Logan, still sitting, and saw them just as shocked. Maybe a little distrusting. He hadn’t been gifted with a sense of emotional atmosphere, so he didn’t fully understand everyone’s reactions to the news he deposited.

“.....Why?” he turned back to Virgil, setting his notes back on the table behind him, “Any of our other forms are more prefered. The fans don’t enjoy the Prince, none of you like the Prince. It could be argued that you just don’t like Roman, but, well. I don’t—”

“We love him!” Patton stood up now. “Roman — the Prince, he’s one of our best friends! And the Imagination can’t just take him away!”

“Yeah, now — yeah. Yeah, no, we need Roman back. I don’t like this whole,” Virgil stood up, too, gesturing to the Playwright, “Roleplay stuff. Give us back our idiot Prince and we’ll get outta here.”

Logan cut in, though stayed sitting. “As much as I’ve enjoyed our discussion here, Playwright, I’m inclined to agree with Patton and Virgil. We would prefer to have the Prince back.”

Deceit just squinted at the Playwright. He was trying to dissect the battle royale situation that’d been described.

“Like I said. He is gone. I don’t know where, I don’t know where the Imagination brought his being or what form he’s taken, but he’s not here,” the Playwright put his hands up, sliding the pen back behind his ear as he did so. “Why are you all so attached to the Prince? Hasn’t he failed you all enough?”

What was the purpose of the battle royale? What were the possible implications?

“Well, we’ve all failed each other a bunch, haven’t we? We want Roman here, flaws and all,” Patton said.

“But the less flaws Roman has, the more desirable he becomes. He’s annoying, not smart, not practical, quick-tempered, loud, dramatic—”

The Playwright understood what they were saying, Deceit realized. He just didn’t understand the why.

“You don’t need to list his flaws, we know. But despite that, Roman is also intelligent, ingenuitive, pensive, reflective, and,” Logan drew in a breath, voice steadying. “And is loved.”

“Well, that’s a great sentiment, but you can’t mean it. That’s—”

“He is ridiculous at times, but he does his best,” Deceit finally stood as well. “You’re unable to weigh his virtues.”

“Oh, he’s got virtues now?” the Playwright’s voice grew shrill. “No one’s demonstrated that line of thinking!”

“Yes, of course he does. He is thoughtful, spontaneous,” Logan was counting on his hand, “Kind, endearing, chivalrous—”

“Haven’t you heard? Chivalry is dead!” the Playwright’s voice increased, suddenly screaming. “No one wants the stupid, annoying, needy Prince Roman! You don’t want ME!”

His back immediately straightened, hands shooting to his mouth as his words echoed around the darkened costume room.

Everyone froze as well, staring at him with incredulity. The Playwright leaned back onto the table and looked down, hands still gripping his mouth.

Silence fell as a blanket over the group, dampening the growing tension with an uneasy reality, as the four Sides looked between each other. Virgil opened his mouth, but Logan held up a hand, opened his, and then Patton held up a hand and made a shushing sound. Virgil put his hand over Patton’s, an eyebrow raised.

Deceit wished he understood what the hell they were all saying to each other, with their eyebrow raising and quiet gestures. Maybe it came with them being so intertwined within the Mind Palace. Wow, Deceit, focus on the task at hand before you think of your own solitude.

He cleared his throat, and the other three glanced up. “Of course we want you, Roman,” Deceit’s voice was quiet, gentle even.

“You….I guess that’s an interesting plot twist, if you all truly want him back,” the Playwright whispered into his hands, rubbing them together in front of his mouth, “But you’ll have to convince him. Roman, not….not just the Prince form.”

“Convince you?” Deceit whispered.

The Playwright shook his head. “Him. Roman. All seven of us. And–And not all of us are friendly or docile. And not all of us are forthright, or understood, or easily interpreted.”

Truly an endeavor, if they couldn’t even get into the imaginary kingdom. Deceit stepped back, pursing his lips. He looked back at the rest of the group and, for once, they were all on the same page. “Alright, then.”

Virgil approached the Playwright first. His hands were balled at his sides but he seemed more level-headed than before. “Hey,” he said, leaning on the table besides the Playwright, “If it’s for Roman? Sign me up.”

“Me, too,” Patton said, determination lacing through his voice. He leaned on the other side of the table, meeting the Playwright’s skeptical eyes with a small shrug. “We need him.”

“As much as I am confounded by the Imagination, I agree that we need Prince Roman back. His absence leaves much to be desired,” Logan stood in front of the Playwright, arms resting behind his back.

The Playwright watched Deceit, eyes wide behind his glasses. He slowly gazed over each of the Sides, once again stopping on Deceit, who simply nodded.

This was real.

He sniffed, and he laughed, lifting his glasses again to wipe his eyes. “That was so cliche,” he murmured, “And you’re all fucking saps. You’ve….well, I can’t say I’m difficult to handle, compared to everyone else. I’ll help you into the Imagination and see what I can do to help you find the other forms, but that’s all the deus ex machina I can perform.”

“You’re wonderful, Playwright,” Logan smiled at him, and the Playwright chuckled quietly.

“Rich, coming from you.”

“Um,” the Playwright turned to Patton, whose arms were open. “Can I? I know you said it felt weird, but, uh, I know Roman likes hugs when he’s feeling down, and I like hugs a lot, too.”

The Playwright blinked once, slowly, before leaning into the hold. Patton’s arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

It felt.

Heavier than a cloud.

He shivered, snuggling his body more into the hold. His hands grasped at the back of Patton’s polo, tugging him closer, if possible. The staticy and burning feeling of Patton’s arms pressing against him was more bearable than he’d thought it’d be. It was nice. Grounding, even, for a desperate piece.

“Thank you, Patton,” the Playwright mumbled into his chest.

Patton laughed, squeezing him again. “Any time, kiddo.”

Left unattended, the Playwright probably could have stood there for hours. The lights in the room, ominously glowing from no direct source, seemed to glow brighter. With a sniff, though, the Playwright leaned back and rubbed his face, then clapped.

“Alright! First, you all need to look through some of those,” he gestured to the left wall of costumes, “Because I refuse letting you go out and ruining the setting. Period dress only.”

“And it’ll give me some time to write in a mechanism for you to find the other forms,” he moved back over to the table, shuffling through his papers with an increased fervor as the other four sides followed. “Perhaps even the Prince, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“Period clothing? Doesn’t this count?” Deceit gestured to himself, “Don’t I look period enough?”

The Playwright stopped and shot him a deadpan look. “No. That hat, in a medieval fantasy setting? The cape, maybe, but you can definitely find something more….functional,” His lip cocked up just a little when Deceit let out a dramatically offended gasp, “Go look, I’m sure there are some hats that’ll fit your fancy.”

Deceit turned back around, grumbling to himself but following the other three Sides in flitting through the clothes. As they found outfits that they enjoyed, they brought them to the Playwright, who conjured them into new colors and perfect tailoring without much comment on the outfits. All the while, he was to be scribbling something in a book, black ink flowing from the golden pen, muttering quietly to himself when the others weren’t near. After what seemed like hours, trying on outfits, discussing presentation with the Playwright, the four sat on the couch.

Ready, supposedly, for what was to come. The concern and nervousness of earlier had mixed together, with a new spark of understanding and determination. They were going to get Roman back.

The lights grew brighter.

The Playwright approached them, holding the book in his crossed arms. It looked like a simple leather-bound book, but the front was adorned with a pressing of the same ribbon-esque decal that was on the back of the Playwright’s vest. “This should help,” he said, holding the book out to the trio, “It….As you win over the other forms, the cover will update, and the inside will update with more about them and the world.”

Logan took the book and flipped it open. Sure enough, most of the pages were blank, but the first had a “Table of Contents” with one entry available: “the Playwright.”

“Thank you, Playwright,” Patton said, reaching up and taking his hands, “I’m sure we’re gonna do great! After all, I can’t imagine what’d go wrong.”

Deceit groaned, and Virgil snickered. The Playwright just smiled a tiny bit more.

“I couldn’t dream of anything happening,” Deceit shot back, and Patton laughed.

The Playwright felt a twinge of something, in his chest. Something he couldn’t identify. Maybe another form would figure it out.

“I wish you all the best of luck,” he said.

“Wait,” Logan looked up from the book, “Are you coming with us?”

The Playwright’s smile widened.

“Uh, Playwright?”

He lifted a hand and snapped his fingers.

The couch and the ground beneath them all disappeared. They all let out shouts and screams as they fell through the floor, into the pit, watching the Playwright and the costume room fade upwards into the distance.

#roman #ts roman #roman sanders #virgil #ts virgil #virgil sanders #deceit #ts deceit #deceit sanders #logan #ts logan #logan sanders #patton #ts patton #patton sanders #fic #my fic #thomas sanders #sander sides #ts fanfic #i realize i have no idea if i should be tagging this as sympathetic deceit #should i ??? #sympathetic deceit #i guess? ? ? ? ? like #hm should it go earlier? #im so excited y'all im introducing like 3 more romans in the next chapter #they're all wonderful

[inrainprose]

I wish you would write a fic where... it sorta takes place in your Flip the Coin AU (Sasuke’s fam is alive, Naruto’s very broody, etc.) except on one mission Team 7 goes on they stumble upon one of Orochimaru’s many hideouts and discover a captured Suigetsu. They decide to bring him to Konoha and on the way back there he starts getting along with the gang :)

They carried him back like a sack of potato and the bonding happened then. Hope you’ll enjoy! Still taking those prompts too ^^

cross-posted on ao3

When he came back to himself, Suigetsu was careful not to move, or make a sound, or open his eyes. He had no idea where he was, with whom, and he could hear voices nearby – it was best to remain still for now.

“Is it going to be a thing from now on? Just so I know if I need to invest in a mansion or something,” a man said. Young, by the sound of it, and not nearly as angry as his words suggested.

“Don’t look at me. It was the kids’ idea,“ another one answered. Slightly older, slightly slurring his words, like he couldn’t be more done with this conversation. In fact, after a hasty farewell, he opted out of the entire situation in the characteristic puff of a shunshin.

“Sorry our wish to rescue people is an inconvenience to you,” came a third voice.

This one was closer to Suigetsu’s age. Sulking, displeased. The first man sighed.

“Don’t get dramatic on me, Naruto. I’m just saying, I need to know if I’m going to be housing any more strays. My house is not that big you know.”

“We can leave if you want,” the boy, Naruto, spat out. There was a lull – Suigestu imagined they communicated by glare and face alone.

“We can leave,” the boy said again, slower. “If you want.”

It didn’t hold any defiance and provocation this time. In fact, the boy sounded shy, unsure in the suggestion, like he didn’t want to voice it and yet fully expected it to be agreed upon. Another heavy sigh answered.

“Stop spurting nonsense and go get some food for our guest. He’s awake.”

Suigetsu spluttered, but tried to keep a dignified front when he rose from the futon he had been laid upon. Facing him were a man with dark hair and a friendly smile, and a blonde boy with whiskers and an impressive frown on his face.

“Who the fuck are you people,” Suigestu asked, tone hard enough, he hoped, to hide the hint of panic creeping into it as he realized how clueless he was about this new situation. The last thing he remembered was the cave trembling around his tank – he had thought an earthquake was bringing him the most pointless end imaginable. He had heard some people, seen some shapes… but then the cave had come crashing down indeed, knocking him out probably.

One thing was sure, he wasn’t in Orochimaru’s den anymore.

“I’m Uchiha Shisui, and this sulking brat here is Uzumaki Naruto. His team rescued you from some lair a couple of days ago, and brought you back here.”

“Here?”

Suigetsu could see trees, hear birds and the bustling of a village. The sky was blue, cloudless.

He didn’t like this one bit.

“You’re in Konoha.”

Great.

.

“Just sit still dammit!”

“Why! Why are you doing this? I didn’t ask you for anything!”

“And I asked you to stand still and shut the fuck up, so do it!”

The girl punctuated the order with a mean stab of her acupuncture needle right between Suigestu’s shoulder blades, paralyzing his whole upper body. He flopped down on the futon with an undignified yelp, and she didn’t even have the good taste to look apologetic as she proceeded to stab him some more, humming under her breath on top of everything.

It had been more than a week since he had woken up, and he should have been far, far away from that horrible place already, if not for the small but significant fact that his body was apparently very displeased at having to be moving and doing things again. Basically his muscles had been melted to goo by months of inactive floating in his tank, and now he had to suffer Sakura or whatever her name was and her mean needles.

Suigestu’s life sucked.

He was still living at First Uchiha’s place – there were many of those and he wasn’t about tor remember their name, so he had numbered them by order of meeting. Second Uchiha was the girl’s teammate, who also partook in needle stabbing when he wasn’t busy arguing with Naruto over one thing or another – so, not that often. A shame, because he was actually more delicate about it than Sakura and her lumberjack hands – who would have thought such a girly girl with hair so pink would be such a brute?

As if reading his thoughts, she stabbed a needle at the back of his knee with way more force than necessary.

“Why are you even doing this,” he mumbled again, growing groggy under her ministrations but stubbornly refusing to give in to sleep. It was bad enough that he shared a room with Naruto – although at least the disgust seemed metal, and they did their best to avoid sleeping in each other’s presence – he wasn’t going to take a nap while the girl was playing long and sharp needles at his exposed skin.

“You need to gain back strength,” she sighed for the umpteenth time.

“No, I mean… Why are you doing this.”

It was maybe the acupuncture relaxing all muscles in his body, and it was maybe the warm air and the quiet day, and maybe he was more tired than usual and she was less tightly coiled. In a corner of the room, Naruto and Second Uchiha were arguing over a sealing scroll, pretending quite badly not to be eavesdropping, but they too seemed calmer today, at ease.

Whatever it was, he actually voiced the question, and she actually answered.

“People shouldn’t be caged,” she said.

There were a million words lodged in the silence that followed, a thousand things Suigestu wasn’t aware of, couldn’t begin to understand. From what he had gathered, Naruto had lost it that day, stumbling upon the rows of cells in Orochimaru’s hideout, hence the place collapsing on top of Suigetsu’s head. He had no idea why Naruto was always so defensive and angry, why people looked down upon him in the streets – they glared harder at Naruto than Suigetsu, and wasn’t that saying something – and why it made his two friends glare in turn, almost protective. He didin’tknow no idea what had passed between the three genin, what was their story, but their bond was plain as day, deeper and more meaningful than Suigetsu believed team bonds to be.

Or maybe he just never had seen a real team before.

.

“Do you want me to remove it now?” Naruto asked, although he looked perfectly fine with not doing that at all. Suigetsu almost flipped him off, but he was getting antsy and restless, and he really wanted it off indeed. So he sucked it up and nodded curtly.

A hand seal and a good shove on his chest – unnecessarily forceful – and the sealing chakra tag Third Uchiha had slapped on him earlier during training came loose, unfreezing his chakra system at last. Third Uchiha was the older brother of Second Uchiha, and undoubtedly the worst of them so far. He had been tasked to supervise Suigetsu during training, a condition for him to be allowed to practice fighting again. And yeah, Suigetsu didn’t have to go that hard on Sakura and Second Uchiha, and he didn’t have to try to drown him and stab her with her own sword – they wouldn’t even give him one, he had to make do. But what was the big deal? They were training, weren’t they? They were supposed to get a little hurt.

Third Uchiha disagreed. He had sealed Suigetsu’s chakra, and sent him off, back to Shisui’s place, with a cold stare but impassive face.

What a bunch of losers. Unable to stand a real fight. Suigetsu didn’t hurt any of them on purpose. It was just how it was. He used to break skin and bones all the time when he trained in his village, used to beat his fellow shinobi into unconsciousness, the only way to prevent from being the one ending in the hospital or passed out in a ditch for three days. What was the big deal?

But it was, apparently, because in Konoha people had to be nice to each other or something, and now they were all mad and sulking. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe they were finally going to kick him off for good.

He could have left days ago really, but why the rush? It’s not like he had anywhere to be, and if they wanted to house and feed him free of charge for now, he wasn’t going to just pass it up. But maybe it was time to move on now. He needed to get on finding the seven swords, not to waste time in this terrible, dry place.

He looked around the room. Packing would be quick, at least.

Of course that’s when fucking Naruto decided now was a good time to hang out in their room.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said as soon as he entered. Suigetsu wasn’t even doing anything.

“What?”

“They’re not going to let you go.”

Suigetsu frowned, fists tightening.

“I thought this was no cage,” he spat. He was still itching for a fight, and Naruto was a decent opponent at least – he could walk off most injuries somehow.

“That’s not what I meant,” the other boy sighed. He seemed to debate whether or not to even continue this conversation, and settled on a yes, for he went on.

“They’re not going to give up on you. To let it go. No matter what you do.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Believe me,” he retorted, full of undisclosed emotions. “I do.”

It made no sense to Suigetsu, none at all. What was he even doing here still, why had they taken him in in the first place and why were they keeping him around now. It made no sense at all.

“I could leave, if I wanted to,” he said, stubborn, just because he could. He had to.

For a split second, Naruto looked almost bitter.

“You could.”

He could. He really could. He could just walk away right now. Any time.

Sakura kicked down the door, startling them both.

“We’re having dinner,” she announced. “Get your asses down.”

First, Second and Third Uchiha were already sitting at the small kitchen tables, and it was a tight fit with all the six of them, but they didn’t seem to mind. No one said a word to him, commented about the afternoon events in anyway, so Suigetsu just sat down in front of his bowl and let the conversation wash over him, Sakura berating Naruto to eat properly, Naruto kicking Sasuke under the table over one comment or another, Shisui and Itachi watching over them, looking amused.

He could leave anytime. And he would.

Just. Not right now.

#Anonymous #my fics #naruto #suigetsu #set in the flip the coin verse #kinda

[scaryscarecrows]

Little Town (It's a Nosy Village)

Note: they're both babies (well, y'know, KIND OF) so Kitty's a little more reckless and Jonathan's accent is still very much a thing.

Jonathan privately considers Arlen to be the birthplace of every ‘small southern town’ stereotype. They’re spread out, but everybody knows everybody’s business, you go to church or else, and outsiders are welcomed in with wide smiles and gossiped about with wide eyes.

Well. Mostly. To a point. They’ve got their black side, and it’s larger than one would suppose, given the size of the place. Lobotomies happen-the last one he’s aware of took place when he was twelve. Too much of an outsider? You’ll be run out. Nothing so blatant as burning crosses or anything, just…social ostracization is a funny thing.

Why in the world the Richardsons moved here, of all places, is a mystery. They’re not churchgoers (Granny was horrified that her nearest neighbors were heathens), they’re not here for the farming opportunities (such as they are)…why.

He asked, once, out of genuine curiosity. It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s so…small-town…it has no attraction whatsoever. Apparently Mr. Richardson was writing a book set in the area and wanted the peace. Jonathan doubts that-he was a government worker, for crying out loud-but he let it go. Selfishly, he’s glad. Their presence has granted him with what he hesitantly has dubbed a friend.

Kitty Richardson is five foot nothing of big eyes and freckles and giggling that he doesn’t try to understand. She is also, he has decided, fueled by sugar and Short Person Rage. Seriously, it’s the easiest thing in the world to tick her off. All one has to do is use her as an armrest.

Not that he would do that sort of thing, of course.

He’s read a couple of books involving multi-gendered friendships, and apart from the ridiculousness of ‘everybody decides to date at the end’, they also make the error of ‘good girl, idiot boy’.

This is a complete lie, and if he ever writes a book like that, he’s pointing that out. Kitty is always the one getting them into things. ‘Haunted bridge? Come on, let’s sneak out.’ ‘The fuck did you say about my chest, football player twice my height?’

No one believes him, because she’s tiny and because she’s very, very good at looking innocent and what-do-you-mean-I-didn’t-break-his-nose. Maybe he’s biased, but he thinks she could get away with murder, if she tried hard enough.

“Jonathan?” He blinks and looks down. “You okay?”

FINE FINE EVERYTHING’S FINE NO REASON TO DO SOMETHING STUPID.

“Just tired. Rain kept me up.” She doesn’t look convinced and he’s quick to run damage control. “I don’t think it’s rained like that since y’all moved in.”

He inwardly curses at the slip, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Good.

“Oh, good, so it doesn’t always rain like that.”

“We do get tornadoes.”

“What?” That was a squeak, and that was hilarious. “Tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you’re trying to see how much I’ll believe you.”

“No, we really do get tornadoes sometimes. Nothing awful, but…”

She stares at him in horror.

“I’m going to die.”

He nudges that mental image aside and crams the last of his books into his backpack. There. All set for the weekend, with a bit of light reading to do besides. If he gets any time, and if Granny doesn’t rifle through his backpack again.

He really, really hopes he doesn’t have to spend another night out There.

“Yeah, they might have to get you out of a tree.”

“I hate heights!”

“I really doubt you’d be conscious for that bit.” Or alive and he’d like to change the subject now, thanks. “Come on, a tree blew down last night, we have to take the long way home.”

The ground is squishy under their shoes, even after a whole day of sunshine. He wasn’t so lucky as to have the chapel catch fire, but the Higginson’s barn did-they barely managed to save the horse. Jonathan’s glad, on the horse’s behalf-it’s not her fault the owners are idiots.

And burning to death sounds like a horrible way to go.

They have to pass by the property on this route, and he can see the truck’s gone-probably into town proper for nails or somethin’. It could have been worse, as far as he can tell-the roof’s had, but the walls are still standing.

Kitty draws a sucker from her backpack, unwraps it, and waves it in front of him.

“Lick?”

“No, thank you.”

“Scared of cooties*?”

“Cooties are for children.” He leans back, spine cracking. “So are those, for that matter.”

“Only if you go to church.” she says innocently, pursing her lips around one side of it. It takes him a minute to realize what she’s implying and that mental image is going to be a bitch to get rid of. Thanks a lot.

“Kitty-!”

She cackles and promptly chokes. Serves her right.

The horse trots up to the fence. She looks none the worse for wear and she doesn’t shy back when he puts his hand out.

“Are you allowed to do that?”

“Probably not.” he says absently, letting her blow on his palm before leaning over to pat her neck. “Hey there, big girl, you have a rough night?”

She snorts and shifts obligingly so she’s parallel to the fence. Kitty takes a step back.

“Does she bite?”

“Not if you’re careful. Want to pet her?”

She eyes the horse, clearly a little nervous, and finally nods before rewrapping her sucker and sticking it in her back pocket.

“If she bites me, I’m blaming you.”

He grins-this old nag hardly snaps at flies, in all reality-and motions her over. The horse turns her head, mildly interested in the new small creature in the road.

“Put your hand up like this, nice and flat…easy there, big girl, we’re not gonna hurt you…”

The horse bends her head down and nudges Kitty’s palm. Kitty giggles, more of a surprised sound than anything.

“That tickles!”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s, uh…really big.”

“You’re very small.” he points out. She shoots him a dirty look. “I’m just saying.”

The mare finally draws her head back and bends down, cropping the grass at the base of the fence. Kitty pops her sucker back in her mouth and looks at her.

“Does she have a name?”

“No idea.” He shifts his backpack to his other shoulder and leans over to pat her neck again. “Good girl.” There’s the sound of the Higginson’s truck-a rattling thing that’s held together through duct tape and prayer-and he steps back. “We should go. They’re…they don’t like me too much.”

“Does anyone?”

“No.”

She loops her arm through his and he wonders why.

“That’s not true.”

“Mm.” No, seriously, why are they now connected. “If you say so.”

“My mum likes you. She says you’re a good influence.” That’s a first, and he’ll be smug about it once he solves the riddle of Why Is She Touching Him. “And I like you, even if you are a goddamn telephone pole.”

Well, that’s nice-wait what he’s very confused.

Also, she’s still touching him and yes it’s nice but there’s no logical reason for it. Books did not prepare him for this. Help.

“Wait. How does she like me? I haven’t met her yet.”

“I’ve told her things.”

Oh god. Like what? What sort of things do normal people tell their guardians about their friends?

He’s doomed.

* * *

He’s not doomed, as it turns out. Mrs. Richardson is a plump woman, a little taller than Kitty (not hard), who practically wrestles him to the dining room table and informs him that he will eat something of his own violation or she will bring out the feeding tube.

“Mu-um-”

“You didn’t tell me this!”

“I did, stop scaring him!”

This has never happened to him before. It’s confusing and he’s starting to wonder if he hit his head or something.

“Oh, Kitty, don’t be dramatic. What do you want to drink, sweetie?”

“Uh, just water, I think-”

“You’re sure? It’s no trouble-”

No. He needs control over this situation.

“No, water’d be fine. Please.” She eyes him as though he might sprout an extra head, but brings him a glass of ice water all the same. “Th-thank you, Ma’am.”

“Don’t you Ma’am me. Mary is fine.”

That goes against everything he knows and it’s just not going to work out. Sorry, Ma’am.

“Mu-um…”

“All right, all right. Behave.”

And with that, she leaves the room and he’s left to wonder what just happened. He thinks he might have just been Mothered, and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

“Mum’s…used to getting her own way.”

Well. He can see where she gets it, then.

He nods, a little overwhelmed, and takes a sip of his water. It’s…nice…in here. Warm. Things aren’t falling apart and his usual where’s Granny and how mad do her footsteps sound senses are quiet.

“Are you eating anything?”

“Motherrrr!”

“I don’t hear chewing!”

Kitty buries her face in her hands and groans, “My god, she’s embarrassing.”

Lest she really have a feeding tube tucked away somewhere, he takes a cookie from the plate. It looks okay. It’s still a little warm between his fingers, even.

Kitty hooks an ankle around a free chair and drags it over to use as a footrest.

“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have a feeding tube.”

“Pretty sure?” The cookie’s not bad, and he’s relieved to find that it is indeed chocolate chip rather than deceitful bastard, raisin. “That’s…alarming.”

“She was a nurse. We may or may not have some things she borrowed from the hospital upstairs. In case of emergencies.”

“Feeding tube?”

“I’ve never seen one.”

Better be safe than sorry. He reaches for another cookie.

“I expect those cookies gone!” comes a shout from the other room. “Is that clear?”

“Watch your crap telly and stop trying to force-feed him from the living room!”

“Don’t make me come in there!”

That’s it. He knows what’s happened. Either he’s dead, or he’s dying and this is some strange dream.

“We’re eating, Mrs. Richardson.” There. Maybe that’ll placate her.

“Mary!”

Kitty plunks her head onto the table and reaches blindly for the plate.

“Kill me now.”

 *Kitty would more likely use the term dreaded lurgi, but we’ll say she picked up the ‘cooties’ term recently (because the comedic flow would be jarred otherwise, so sue me).

#eyes unable to dream #Jonathan Crane #Kitty Richardson #they're so cute my god #look at them #Kitty's mother is really nice #but REALLY embarrassing #Jonathan's never really been Mommed before and he's confused

[nikkicross22]

The Lives Worth Saving

Present Day

Several hours after apologizing to Shikamaru (Chapter 6)

“If you didn’t show up at four in the goddamn morning my seals wouldn’t have burned you in the first place!” Haruki accused the cowering jounin. “Seals are for protection, and if you didn’t want to get hurt, you could have waited at least until ‘slightly before it’s socially acceptable to knock.’ What did you think would happen when you tried to sneak in through my window like a less than incompetent academy student?”

Cradling his admittedly not very injured hand to his chest, Kakashi over dramatically whined, “Haruki, you said the seals would only activate if I came with the intent to harm. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t been kidnapped in your sleep.”

“Kidnapped in my-” the angry jounin cut himself off. “Didn’t you have the Yondaime as your sensei? He’s a sealing master! How on Earth would you not know to never mess with seals?” Haruki accused. “Also, I said the seals I put on Naruto’s door would hurt people with the intent to harm; I never said a thing about my own. What self respecting jounin wouldn’t have their windows trapped? Honestly, you’re impossible.”

Spinning on his heel, Haruki turned back to the direction of the bedroom and began to abandon Kakashi in the front room.

“Where are you going?” Kakashi questioned.

“Back to bed.”

Not that he had been sleeping before that anyway. Haruki knew that as soon as he fell asleep, all that would greet him would be Shikamaru. His Shikamaru. Organs spilled on the ground, half his face missing. Ready to greet death with a smile. And blood. So much blood. Too much. His life fading rapidly and red painting every available surface around him. There was no point in trying to save him, he was already too far gone.

They all were. Everyone was gone. Gone, and they had left him behind alone. So alone. They were never coming back; not Sasuke, nor Shikamaru, or Sakura. Kakashi, too. All of them were gone, and none of this was real. It didn’t belong to him and it never would. Haruki was going to disappear and he was never going to come back. He would be gone, too. He could go back, and see his friends again. He wouldn’t have to hurt anymore, wouldn’t have to see them all massacred and eviscerated in his mind every time Haruki closed his eyes.

He was so close. Just a little more. Just one more push and then-

Stop.

“Feel free to see yourself out. They won’t hurt you from the inside,” Haruki tossed over his shoulder feeling decidedly empty inside. 

“Ma, Haruki. Don’t you have training Asuma in a little while?” Kakashi asked. “It would be rude to show up late.”

Freezing in place, Haruki felt something sharp rise up inside of him. God, he knew Kakashi wasn’t here for whatever stupid reason he had dropped. It irritated Haruki to no end thinking about the Kakashi in his past (future?) that he had known so well. He may had been damaged, but at least he respected his friends enough not to bullshit them. The jounin wasn’t quite sure if it was directed at himself or at the stupid front Kakashi always had up, but the sheer amount of hatred made him nearly snarl at the person behind him.

“What do you want, Kakashi? What could have possibly driven your lazy ass to to break into my apartment in the middle of the night when you could very well be at home avoiding your issues with your disgusting excuse for a novel?” Haruki slowly turned around and regarded the other jounin with fire in his eyes.

Well, he’d accomplished it. Kakashi’s mask fell and shattered into a million pieces.

“That expression you made when you saw Shikamaru earlier; that wasn’t normal,” the silver haired shinobi said with a blank expression. “You looked like you were about to vomit or worse, and I couldn’t get it out of my head that I might have to walk in and find you just like my father. You claim to know everything, so you should know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s why this is so frustrating. Tell me; why should I have to be so fixated on a shinobi I just met? Why should it matter what you do with yourself? Why should I care?”

Kakashi finished his small tirade with slightly trembling hands before he curled them into fists to avoid giving himself away. Haruki felt unnerved at the uncharacteristic display of emotion from the other man. He may have gone a little too far. Kakashi had dropped his aloof front, but his eyes were still unreadable, and the red head knew this situation had quickly elevated to something somewhat uncontrollable. 

Kakashi was scared for him, which only meant one thing; he was attached. 

“For what it’s worth, I have no plans to kill myself,” The paradox would take care of it anyway. “To answer your question though, you shouldn’t. I’m nearly a perfect stranger, and for all you know, I could just be out to hurt you and your students. So why should you care? You shouldn’t.” 

Haruki inwardly winced as realized he probably just made the situation worse.

Eyes now blazing, Kakashi aggressively rebuked, “If there is one thing I have learned about you in all the times we have interacted, it’s that you would rather die than watch any harm come to those students. Not only that, you have the explicit trust of the Hokage himself, and the only other person I’ve ever seen him trust so much to was Minato himself. You’re not going to hurt the village, and you’re not going to hurt me,” Kakashi snarled. “I know that, but what I still don’t understand is why you refuse to acknowledge that there are people out there that want to help you. People care about you, and somehow, you managed to rope me into that as well, so you better make damn sure to take responsibility for doing this. You talk like you dying wouldn’t affect anyone. You may not say it, but I can hear it, and I don’t want to have to be the one to help you with your inferiority complex. 

“There is more to being a shinobi than just fulfilling orders and carrying out a mission. Isn’t that what you helped teach my students? What do you think it would do to Naruto? To Sasuke? Our team would be in shambles if it wasn’t for you, so for the love of God take a moment and remember that you’re not on some infiltration mission any more. You’re home, and you don’t have to worry about being attached anymore. It’s okay to have friends. It’s okay to have a family again.”

Kakashi seemed to suddenly realize that he had been carrying on, and quickly proceeded to shut himself up. Really this was unlike him, but he could see so many parallels between himself an Minato right now it was terrifying. Raising his eyes up to look at the other man, the silver haired jounin felt like he’d been stabbed at the look that was being leveled his way. Kakashi had seen glimpses of the depression that seemed to hang around the weary shinobi, but he had never seen something like this before. Haruki’s brilliant blue eyes were acting like windows to his soul, and Kakashi witnessed something he could never wish on anyone; not even on the people who had killed Obito.

Oh, he’d fucked up.

The sheer amount of devastating sadness, self hatred, and all consuming depression was on clear display at that moment, and despite Kakashi only knowing Haruki for a short while, all he wanted to do was help the man in any way he could, no matter what it would take. Kakashi had promised himself to do better after Sarutobi had pulled him out of his suicidal Anbu missions, swearing to fix the holes he had left with his friends. And he’d mostly accomplished it too, now able to freely converse and work with all the jounin he worked with on multiple occasions, and he even indulged Gai on occasion. Sure, he had been angry at Haruki’s cold display and seemingly careless disregard for his life, but the sliver haired man had never wanted to cause the man this much pain. He was trying to emulate what Minato would say, not destroy the man. Kakashi had been told before that he was sometimes a little too callus and intense when it came to looking underneath the underneath, but he never imagined it could have this kind of impact on someone.

“Go home, Kakashi,” Haruki whispered in a broken voice. “Just go home. There’s nothing more for you to do here.”

Turning once again, Haruki slowly started to walk back towards his bedroom, not even realizing that his whole body was shaking. He had pushed far too hard, and now he would suffer for it.

Kakashi’s eyes widened and he instantly called after the red head. “No, wait! I didn’t- I didn’t mean it like that,” he took a step forward. “Haruki please, I’m sorry.”

Reaching for him, Kakashi clamped his hand around Haruki’s bicep and felt his entire body go rock stiff. He’d messed up. Again.

“Kakashi,” Haruki said without and inflection. “Let go of me. Now.”

Dropping him like he was on fire, the silver haired shinobi immediately froze, before carefully relaxing himself.

“Haruki?” he whispered. “Please turn around.”

The mentioned shinobi full body shuddered before slowly facing the man behind him. Taking a second, Haruki slowly raised his eyes up to meet Kakashi’s, and was enveloped in deep charcoal full of regret and terror, presumably at his own actions. Haruki sighed, taking a moment to reflect on the fact that Kakashi was still horribly emotionally stunted and probably had no idea how to deal with the situation he had created.

There’s no way Kakashi could know. He couldn’t understand just how bad the words had affected the red head. And that was okay, Haruki didn’t want him to. It was just, Kakashi had read the situation perfectly, lack of social grace or not, and he had voiced the worst of Haruki’s demons. He didn’t have a home, not any longer. That was the truth of the matter; he was just an outside force giving interference on the natural course of this world, and no matter what he did, what connections he made or deeds he carried out, he would still disappear within the year. 

But still, he couldn’t just leave Kakashi like this. The man would never forgive himself for destroying yet another bond, and Haruki knew Kakashi didn’t need any more emotional scarring. Hesitating, the red head took half a step forward, directly into the other shinobi’s space, before allowing his forehead to drop onto Kakashi’s shoulder. God, he hoped this wouldn’t scare him off. Haruki felt him stiffen underneath his head before relaxing. Kakashi moved an uncertain hand towards the younger shinobi’s head before aborting the motion halfway and dropping it back down to his side.

It was something Minato used to do, but Kakashi had no idea whether or not it would be appropriate at a time like this. All the Copy-nin knew was that Haruki needed some sort of reassurance after being so brutally called out on his insecurities, but the man himself beat Kakashi to it.

“It’s okay. I pushed you too far. I know you didn’t mean it to be harmful, I just don’t know what to do with that information. I forgive you. Please don’t beat yourself up over it,” Haruki breathed against his shoulder.

What the hell was wrong with him? Kakashi had just torn the other shinobi apart and he was just standing here listening to Haruki reassure him? 

Once again, the silver haired man brought his hand up towards the other man’s head, and this time successfully buried his hand in it, gently petting Haruki’s scalp. Kakashi felt him shudder slightly, but this time he could tell it was not from revulsion. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, calmly basking in each others’ presence while attempting to heal old scars, but the next time Kakashi opened his eyes, it was beginning to become light outside and he could sense people starting to wake up around the complex.

Haruki stepped backwards out of the hold and Kakashi’s hand fell from his head leaving the red head startlingly cold. That was okay though; he had taken advantage of the Copy-nin’s awkward kindness for far too long. 

Shooting Kakashi a said smile, he gently spoke. “You should get going. You’re not going to have any time to procrastinate and make the team wait at this rate.”

The silver haired man cleared his throat and shifted before pulling out his trusted Icha Icha. If there was one way to get back in character after such a heart wrenching experience, it was with his usual cover. 

“Ma, you’re right Haruki-san,” he drawled slightly uncertainly. “Miki-chan and I didn’t get to see each other all night. I should really go catch up.”

Haruki let out a startled chuckle before waving him away. Maybe he could catch an hour of sleep before he had to meet up with team ten. Haruki watched as Kakashi excused himself and began walking towards the door.

Just as he the older jounin touched the doorknob, Haruki grabbed his attention once more.

“Oh and Kakashi?” he asked. “Drop the ‘san.’ It makes me feel old.”

Kakashi genuinely smiled under his mask before quietly replying, “Sure thing, jiji.”

Then he was gone.

Oof. That one hurt. Anyway, this one absolutely wasn’t cannon for the story. This is just the way I would have done it had I been in charge of that chapter, and good practice for me in learning how I want to make both of them react to different situations. Also, they don’t quite get each other as well as they think, so I thought I would explore it a little bit. Haruki is a very damaged person, but he really does want to understand Kakashi. He’s had a lot of time with his former sensei in the reality he comes from, and he’s using that to his advantage right now. They’re closer than Haruki is comfortable with, and even with his best intentions in mind, Haruki is never going to be able to break that bond.

Also, sorry for any spelling errors. I really only glanced over it as I was writing it.

Anyways, if you haven’t checked it out already, go ahead and give “The Lives Worth Saving” over on Ao3 a glance!

#thelivesworthsaving #tumblrdrabbles