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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

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Dreams, Chapter 5

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

GET. READY. This is a bigger chunk but I really think it’s worth it.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 5

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 5343

Summary: Dean’s birthday proves easier than expected in some ways and harder in others.

Warnings: angst, fluff, swearing, alcohol, s l o w b u r n

Sam pulled back from you, opening one eye drowsily. “Are you okay?” he says, voice gritty with sleep.

“Yeah, I…he didn’t die,” you breathed, confused.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“He always dies. He fell off of Bobby’s roof, but he just broke his ankle, he, he didn’t die.”

Sam rubbed his face with his free arm, trying to wake up more in earnest. It was still dark, so it couldn’t have been later than 7:30. You hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours but suddenly felt beyond alert. “That’s good, right?”

“I—yeah, it’s good. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The reflex was to say no, usher Sam back to sleep. But your reflexes had already been wrong once today. “Can we?”

The way Sam kept the surprise off his face was admirable. It was the first time you’d agreed to talk about the nightmares that plagued you since losing Dean. He propped himself up on his elbows and flicked on the small lamp beside the bed. “What happened?”

You told Sam all about the dream, sparing only the details you couldn’t really remember or only made dream-sense, like the way you knew it was 4th of July weekend without having been told. He listened thoughtfully, the focus obvious in his expression. He waited a long beat when you were done, sure not to step on your moment of vulnerability.

“What do you think it means?” he asked gently.

You thunked back onto your pillow to gaze up at the popcorn ceiling. “I don’t care, to be honest.” The almost-dark made fuzzy static pulse in your vision. “I think I’m going to write about it, actually,” you said, and startled yourself.

“Oh, uh, okay,” Sam said encouragingly. “Do you want me to—” he asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder.

“No, no. I’ll be back in a little bit, see if you can go back to sleep.”

Sam nodded with more than a little concern and you climbed over him, yanking an old sweatshirt out to throw over your wilted tee and scampering off to the kitchen table.

The house was ice cold and dark aside from the ever-present Christmas lights and you could feel the needles that had begun to drop from the tree under your bare feet, rapidly cooling on the cheap flooring. You picked up the notebook and pens Sam had gotten you and sat down at the kitchen counter to write.

In the days that followed, the constant and varied nightmares of Dean’s deaths returned. When you woke up, more and more often making it to the morning, you kept writing to Dean about them and sometimes your day as a way of processing. You never ‘told him’ about exactly what happened and tried to focus on the sweet things you remembered that made the worst dreams a tease, moving them to your daytime memory and trying to wash away the despair the nightmares left you clawing through.

By the middle of January, you and Sam had fallen mostly back into old patterns. The Christmas lights were still up, a sort of night light against the long Midwestern nights, and you couldn’t help feeling a small sense of despair sweeping up loose pine needles when Sam was in the shower every day. You didn’t want the winter to end, as weird as that sounded with the ice and chill and fingertips that never warmed all the way. It felt like if you moved into spring that you were leaving the time-out that you’d created and would have to figure out a longer-term solution than this rented cabin, all thin drywall and poorly insulated ceilings. Even your jobs didn’t feel permanent, the summer vacationers sure to come back and reclaim their spots in the town as it came back to life with the plants.

The ‘mostly’ was that the boundary you broke with Sam never truly came uncrossed. When you were washing dishes he would come stand behind you, the heat of his lips seeping into the shoulder of your old sweatshirts. You’d intertwine your fingers with his while he drove, realizing only when you went to open the car door and found yourself tangled, or running your hands through his hair while he read next to you on the sofa. You never met Sam’s eyes in these moments—somehow it felt like a secret, private thing that would collapse into dust if gazed upon, some sweet, small creature you were protecting. Neither one of you talked about it in the time since that tequila-soaked night.

As much as you’d needed to be close to him before, you began craving Sam in a way that scared you. You’d always found him beautiful in the way you admire someone you love, but you caught yourself taking notice of the pillars of muscles along his back when he broke down stock boxes and the dark swoop of his eyelashes. The comments about how lucky you were to have him that used to make you nervous your cover was about to be blown started to make you ache a little with fear and something you couldn’t place. You felt a bizarre flick of jealousy when some twenty somethings drinking White Claw dragged their eyes over him at the bar before leaving on their snowmobiles, like he really was yours to claim. It seemed like a manifestation of your fierce attachment and unresolved grief not only for Dean but your old life with the Winchesters, when they sort of were: your teammates and no one else’s. You resolved it had to be and explained it away without inspection, even when these ‘isolated’ moments became less and less isolated.

Before you knew it, you were hurtling toward Dean’s birthday.

“What should we do on Sunday?” you asked early on a Thursday afternoon, trying to keep your voice light and easy while you and Sam got ready for your last day of work for the week.

“I don’t, uh, I don’t know.”

“Did you guys ever do anything when you were little?”

“I mean, not really. Sometimes like a cake or whatever I guess, but Dean was always better at that stuff. By the time we were in our 20s, he only wanted to go meet girls and play up the ‘kiss for the birthday boy’ schtick.” Sam grinned sheepishly as though you didn’t know who Dean had been.

You couldn’t help but smile, remembering the cocksure half-boy you’d met all those years ago. “Okay, well, if you didn’t have anything in mind, I have a couple ideas.”

“Oh, yeah, I had only really come up with a cherry pie and a bottle of whiskey.”

You stood up from the kitchen table and grabbed Sam’s empty plate, leaning into his drying hair for long enough to inhale the minty earthiness of his shampoo. “I mean, that’s a given.”

In Sunday’s late morning you slipped out of the house while Sam was in the shower, leaving a note behind that said you’d be back in a few minutes. You careened down the road to the quaint main street, running through the list in your head. The grocery store was first for the only bottle of scotch they kept in a tiny plastic container and the fixings for bacon cheeseburgers, then the coffee shop had a cherry pie that looked better to you than whatever pseudo-Entemann’s they had in the limited grocery bakery section. The hardware store had everything else you needed and some extras; you praised the cold climate necessity of having multiple places in town to get gloves and thick woolen socks as you threw a couple on the checkout with the rest of the haul. It was awkward to get everything in the trunk, and you were thankful in this moment that you weren’t trying to drive the little sedan you’d had years ago when it was just you, even as annoying as it was to park the Impala sometimes.

Back at the cabin Sam was solemnly cleaning up, his eyes red as he wrung out a mop. You took the pie and whiskey out of the bag and put the other groceries away without removing your coat. In truth you only took off the boots you were wearing as a concession to Sam’s mopping, feeling itchy to get back outside and let the complexity of your emotions explode into fresh air unencumbered.

You tossed a pair of new woolen socks to Sam, who caught them against his chest. “You’re going to want these.”

“What? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I think Dean would’ve liked. Put on some layers, too.”

Sam obeyed with a crooked eyebrow, coming out of the bedroom a few minutes later looking like a lumberjack catalogue model. You didn’t say anything when you realized the hoodie he was wearing used to be his brother’s.

“Ready?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t know where we’re going,” Sam answered honestly.

You gestured toward the door and he followed you out to the car. Thankfully it had snowed that morning, and tiny billows of powdery snowflakes blew up around each car that you passed on the way.

The hill was massive. It was a little surprising considering the flatness of the majority of the Midwest, and you’d had to remind yourself that there were some small skiing outfits in the upper half of the state when you’d found it, sure that it was a garbage dump that had been covered lazily in grass seed and left to its own devices. Less impressive surrounding slopes reassured you when you’d scoped it out a few days earlier, and the fresh glittering snow made it look even more spectacular now than you’d remembered. You decided not to push it taking the Impala onto the snow, instead parking at the dead-end you thought was closest.

“We’re here?” Sam asked, obviously still confused.

“Yep. Come on,” you said, enjoying the surprise more than you’d thought you would.

Popping the trunk made it obvious when the bright plastic sleds were wedged in alongside the miscellaneous weapons whose permanent home it was. You watched Sam’s face as recognition dawned, closely followed by a smirk you knew was in large part to humor you. Yanking them out in one big pull, you handed Sam the green one and one of the pair of gloves you’d gotten that morning.

“These are huge, where did you even find them?” he chuckled, popping the plastic tie between the gloves and sliding his hands into them.

“You’re huge, it’s not like I can put you on a kid’s one. Besides they must be pretty serious about their sledding up here, these were just from the hardware store.”

Sam shook his head and waited for you to put your gloves on. They were comically big on you, but you knew you’d regret not wearing any and tried your best to grip the sides of the plastic sled through them as you took off toward the hill. After a few steps, Sam took the sled from you without a word, able to hold it easily with both his well-fitting gloves and the many extra inches between his arms and the ground.

The walk up the hill was somewhat of a trudge but the way the crisp air sliced through your lungs was a welcome distraction. Snow dampened the ambient noise so all you could hear was Sam’s rhythmic breathing like a mantra, and with one foot in front of the other, by the time you got to the top you felt like you’d been meditating. The view was amazing from the top, a painting or old illustration with its tiny homes and cottages over meandering fields, the snow washing everything out as if you were watching someone else’s dream.

“Should we race?” Sam asked, the swirled pigment of his irises lit up by the reflection off the snow.

The next thing you heard was Sam’s laugh behind you as you took a few big strides and jumped onto the sled. Careening down the hill, your hair snapped around, tiny whips cracking into your wind-tenderized cheeks as you tried in vain to steer the sled in slices across the straight pass. Sam’s cackle was distant but comforting over your shoulder. You closed your eyes to feel the speed underneath you and the wind across your face; listen to that laugh that you’d heard so little recently, an old favorite song to be put on repeat. On January 24th of all days it felt like you were being baptized in the clear crystal sound of it.

When you came to a stop, Sam was only a half second behind you. You fell over in a fit of giggles listening to him play-whine about cheating and “Totally not fair, after I carry your sled all the way up for you!”

“I’ll beat you again with no head start! Unless you’re chicken,” you taunted, brushing snow off your legs to start back up the hill again. Sam scrambled to his feet, passing you up quickly with his huge strides as you started to run after him. Gasping with laughter and exertion, you and Sam half-wrestled and chased each other to the top, collapsing to your backs like snow angels. After catching your breath, you propped yourself up on your elbows to look over at him.

“Rematch?”

Sam’s smile, all straight pearl teeth and cold-flushed cheeks, was as breathtaking as the icy wind as you tore down the run, this time on your stomach with your head low like a bullet, trying in earnest to win again. The front lip of the sled in your fingertips rumbled against little imperfections in the snow. You glanced to check how much of a lead you had on Sam and had barely turned your head before you realized you were also dipping your shoulder, tilting the sled on its greased-lightning path and therefore you with it. Sam was right on your tail and narrowly missed crushing you when you fell off the sled by bailing out of his, your legs tangling together with misplaced velocity. You tried to hold still so you wouldn’t catch his face with a flailing limb, only moving after a beat when it seemed like the collision was over. Sam’s fall seemed to have been more graceful than yours, as he still had a hand on his sled and only a left arm and hair full of snow that he shook loose like a puppy.

“Are you okay?” he said, getting to his knees to reach out to you.

You could feel the scrape on your cheek before you got up, but Sam’s wince was only minor when he saw it which was reassuring. He snatched off his glove and brushed snow off your face gently, barely grazing the broken skin. The warmth felt so nice and you would’ve curled up in his palm like Thumbelina if you could. “What’s the damage?” you asked, trying to think about the way your breath puffed up in clouds around you rather than the snowflakes caught in Sam’s eyelashes.

He was analytical as he took it in, tilting your head carefully in the light. “Doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?”

“Nah. Did you think I’d get soft that fast? I used to get stabbed like once a month.”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Do you want to go home?”

It didn’t feel as odd as it should’ve, knowing exactly what home meant in this context. “And let you think I only won by cheating? Fat chance!”

“You don’t even have a sled anymore!”

You glanced around you and saw your sled sitting smugly an easy 30 yards past the base of the hill. “Gimme a ride?”

It was a little awkward until Sam sat down on the sled with each heel straddled and digging into the snow, allowing you to crawl between his legs without unintentionally sliding down the rest of the slope. He seemed unsure of himself as he wrapped his arms around your torso, and you hooked your hands around each of his legs to do your part to hang onto him. “Ready?” he asked, his breath warm on your neck.

When you nodded, he unstuck his heels and you shot like a racehorse down the hill. Sam’s chest was solid as a rock behind you, cushioned with his layers and fastened with his seatbelt arms. You could feel the muscles in his legs moving against your hands, trying to balance the weight of the two of you on the flimsy material. Despite your fall only moments ago, it was safe in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. The ride came to a stop only a few steps away from your cast off sled.

You turned into Sam to get to your knees before standing up and slipped on a wet patch on the plastic, the melted snow turning the surface impossibly slick. It made you fall forward into Sam, his seated position not giving him enough stability to stay on balance—the sled shifted back underneath the both of you and brushed your lips across his as you ended up with your scraped cheek against the rough canvas of his jacket.

“I—oh my god I’m sorry,” you stammered, springing back gracelessly.

Sam looked somewhat like a little kid or a doll, sitting wide eyed with his legs still spread out around you. You stayed back on your knees feeling like you should move slowly, that maybe you could back away unscathed yet. Sam reached his hands out and you thought it was okay, he understood you wouldn’t cross yet another line with him, that it was a simple mistake and he was going to move past it or ask for your help up, and then his heavily gloved hand slid into your hair and he was leaning toward you, the breath that had felt so comforting on the back of your neck as you flew down the hill now on your bottom lip. Your needle-sharp inhale drew that air from him, and you started to feel dizzy. He waited for a moment, searching between your eyes for you to pull back, to turn it into a joke, but you couldn’t. Something in the light pressure of his hand was an anchor and you found yourself glancing at Sam’s lips and slowly, agonizingly, Sam closed the distance between you.

His lips were so soft and gentle that it made you feel like you were going to cry and then you were crying, just one hot salty tear that stung the fresh abrasion on your cheek as you moved against him, this foreign and scary part of the person you knew the best on this earth. Somehow kissing Sam was exactly how you would’ve guessed it would be—tender and sweet and reverent. The sound dampening of the snow amplified your other senses: the feeling of the cheap Gore-Tex catching one or two hairs as Sam supported your weight, the small brush of Sam’s breath through his nose, the tight flick of the wind against your coats. It was over as quickly as it started, leaving you and Sam staring at each other bewildered while your hair tangled around you.

You could feel that your eyes were as wide as Sam’s. Completely unable to formulate a thought or feeling, much less something to say, you silently extricated yourself from the sled. Sam did too, staring at it like it was some complicated spell, even turning away from you as you crossed over to your own store-bought chariot. You could read his tension even in his back, the tight stretch of his shoulders as he clutched at the scruff of his neck, and just wanted to make it better.

“Okay, rematch for real this time? I would say I won’t fall again but, no promises.”

Sam looked scared when he turned back to you, his voice gruff when he choked out a halfhearted, “yeah, sure” and followed you up the hill. He was far enough behind you that you couldn’t hear his breathing anymore and it took him a little bit to reach you at the peak. His body seemed like it was cracking around him, aging in moments as he shakily got into his sled beside yours. You wanted so badly to tell him it’s okay, it’s just some dumb mistake, we were just goofing off but you knew it wasn’t true and you didn’t want to lie.

The only thing you could fix your mouth to say was, “Count us down so you can’t say I’m cheating again,” and hope he heard the apology and forgiveness in it.

Sam obeyed dutifully and you kicked off down the hill, trying to use the speed you gathered and the clarity in the way it split open your lungs to try to understand what had just happened. The same trip that had felt like glorious ages before was over in a second and you were up out of your sled before you remembered you were supposed to be measuring whether you or Sam had gotten down faster.

“Tie, we’re going again!” you yelled over your shoulder as you did your best to bound through the deep snow up the side of the hill, not waiting to see if he was following you.

Once again at the top, ragged and out of breath and only a few steps ahead of him, you took a second to collect yourself before putting your sled back in the snow and holding it in place with one foot.

“I’m sor—” Sam started before you cut him off.

“Okay, third time’s the charm!” you said with panicked cheerfulness that you knew instantly was too much, but Sam stopped talking and dejectedly sat on his sled next to you.

You and Sam spent probably an hour more sledding, your legs turning to jello underneath you as you ran up the hill over and over again and your cheeks getting more and more wind chapped, before Sam finally smiled, exasperated at some joke about still beating him up the hill with legs that were half as long. It was all the fuel you needed to keep chipping away at him until the sun started dropping and the chill broke through all your layers.

The two of you plodded through the snow back to the car together. Gloves and sleds in the trunk, you flopped into the passenger seat with that sudden too-hot feeling of getting out of the wind and tore at your coat to desperately strip some layers. Sam threw his own jacket in the back. Without giving him a chance to protest or hook up his phone, you turned on the tape deck and Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here pounded out like rocky silk.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you murmured. You looked over at Sam, who burst into a kind of frantic laughter that you completely understood. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing either, because of course this was playing during the tense peace on Dean’s birthday in Dean’s car, and then you and Sam were cry-laughing in the rapidly humidifying air of the Impala while Syd Barrett waxed poetic. By the time the second chunks of Shine On You Crazy Diamond started, you were gasping for air and clutching at your sides.

You drove home after that in relative silence, the fatigue of fresh air and running all afternoon catching up with you. Sam took a shower while you put together burgers, switching spots with you to cook them while you washed up. They were pretty good due in large part to how seriously Wisconsinites take their cheese, bacon, and beef, and you wolfed yours long before your hair had stopped dripping onto the collar of the threadbare sweatshirt you’d changed into.

The first shot of scotch burned like it always did, offsetting the sweet tang of the cherry pie and reminding you of the way Dean used to taste when you kissed him at the end of a long night. You looked out the window at the last purple glow of the sunset as it turned the evening into deep, endless inky blue.

“I’ve gotta—I’m so sorry,” Sam spat out like the words were beating their way out of his mouth.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmured, unable to immediately meet his gaze and looking down at your pie.

“I just—I can’t—I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” he stammered.

You couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the whole thing. “Join the club.”

Sam smirked but it was mirthless. “No, I know, but it’s just…I don’t know. I’m sorry.” He stabbed a deflated cherry with pursed lips, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. The fork clattered to his plate. “It’s not getting any easier. Every day I wake up and I’m so mad. It’s so fucking unfair that I have to stay here without him because I know that’s what he fucking wanted, and I feel like there’s no point in trying to have anything like good or normal because I’m just running out the clock. And then today’s Dean’s fucking birthday and I kiss his girlfriend—what is wrong with me?”

The outburst hung in the air, a toxic smoke that excluded everything else. You slammed the rest of your glass of scotch, relishing the way it scalded. “So I’m just Dean’s girlfriend?”

“No, that’s not what I—I mean I guess—it’s not like you aren’t—I don’t know, it just seems like you’ll always be his girlfriend.”

“Are you still Jess’s boyfriend?”

It was the absolute most cruel and wrong thing to say and you regretted the words as soon as they left your tongue and crashed into Sam, not even really knowing why you’d thought them. They distorted his face in incredulity and betrayal but you didn’t back down, maintaining eye contact until he snatched the bottle and refilled both glasses. When he spoke again his voice was gravelly and broken.

“I guess I deserved that.”

“Sam, this is fucking weird. It always has been, us being alive without Dean, and if you’re just now getting that then you’re not as smart as I thought you were. I don’t—I don’t really know what’s going on either, but I know that you’re the only thing that’s keeping me from ending up with a bullet in my skull or in a locked ward, so if you’re waiting for me to forgive you for something, for anything you’ve ever said or done, it’s already forgiven. But we’re too tied up together for every tiny redrawing of the boundaries to send us over the edge. Please.”

“Tiny redrawing of boundaries? I kissed you!”

“And I kissed you back, Sam! What do you want to do about it? What’s the absolution here? If you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you. Take the Impala and I’ll find some other car, I’ll borrow the Kaisers’ other one or something. Or maybe you want me to go and I’ll go; I’ll do anything you want me to. I’ll leave right now, you never have to see me again if that’s what you want but I know Dean loved you and loved me and I don’t think he would’ve wanted you to torture yourself all the time so what is it that you want?”

“I want us to be fucking normal and I don’t want to feel like I’m cheating with my brother’s girlfriend! I don’t want to have a cover story and I don’t want to keep running away!”

“Then fucking stop! Stop feeling guilty and talk to me about this stuff!”

Sam laughed, hard and bitter and choked off.

“I’m serious. We can’t keep doing this shit, at least I can’t. We need to start talking—about Dean, about everything. It’s like this lump of decay and we’re just spraying Febreze and not dealing with it.”

Sam’s mouth popped open as he tongued his molars. He bit his lip in frustration before crumpling up his napkin and threw it on top of his half-eaten pie. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

You weren’t expecting that. For all the ways it had seemed like Dean had been the more emotionally closed off, he was always much easier for you to read than Sam, who managed somehow to talk about things without actually communicating how he felt. It was good if you needed to be supported but made it extremely hard to be there for him. Refilling your glasses a bit more conservatively, you offered up an open palm to let Sam go first. His jaw tensed and he swallowed hard.

“No bullshit?” he asked.

“No bullshit. What’s the point of bullshitting anymore? After everything?”

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 6

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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destiniesfic · 3 years

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i hate everybody (but maybe i don’t) 1/3

This is my @jurdannet & @jurdannetrevels Secret Snusband gift for @sevenfreckles-for-sevenloves! You tapped into a story I’d been wanting to write for ages, so you get three parts and three POVs (Vivi, Cardan, and Jude). Happy Holidays, I hope you like it. ♥ Thanks to @xdarkofthemoon for betaing!

This fic is rated E. Content warnings this chapter for excessive alcohol consumption, references to alcoholism, and (prescribed) antidepressant use.

Read on AO3 or read below:

Bars in Barcelona are not especially different from bars in the US. It’s a discovery Vivi has made over the course of her study abroad tenure: everything is different on the outside, but on the inside, not so much. She does like the outsides, though. She likes the tidy streets, the way the buildings don’t rise to blot out the sun as they have a habit of doing in American downtowns. She likes the cozy sameness of the facades, broken by the whimsical surprise of the odd Gaudí contribution. Like a lot of the European cities she’s visited there seems to be some unifying design principle, some common understanding. At home it’s anyone’s guess what the next office building or apartment complex might look like, a mishmash of styles as the cities clamor to reinvent themselves, modernist or postmodernist or deconstructionist or whatever.

Heather could name them all, if Heather were here.

But Heather isn’t here. Tonight, Vivi is out on the town with her two younger half-sisters, Jude and Taryn. Her twin baby sisters, although they hate it when she calls them that. The twins’ spring breaks overlapped by happy accident, so their adoptive dad, Vivi’s biological father, had sent them off on an all-expenses-paid Barcelona trip for a mini family reunion.

Taryn had been thrilled to go out. “I’m so excited that we can drink here,” she’d exclaimed, as she touched up her makeup in the AirBnB’s living room mirror. It’s a two-bed, two-bath apartment with an updated kitchen and certainly beats the dorms. Vivi was forced to give a silent, resentful thanks, Dad, but not out loud.

“You drink at home,” Jude reminded her from the bathroom, where she was trying to wrangle her hair into some style Taryn had sent her from Pinterest. “We have fake IDs.”

“It’s not the same,” Taryn had huffed, applying another coat of mascara. Vivi got that. It had not been the same when they came to Europe before, either, because they had been with Madoc, Oriana, and little Oak. Somehow parents at the table makes the glass of wine with dinner much less daring.

Jude had eventually settled on a high ponytail, and off they went.

Now they’re out at a bar not far from the AirBnB, with each of the twins perched on stools and Vivi leaning against the bar between them. Maybe it’s because she hasn’t seen them for so long except over FaceTime, but Vivi is shocked to notice that her little sisters aren’t kids anymore. They haven’t been little for a while, not since they overtook Vivi in height when they were twelve, but it’s one thing to not be little and another to be an adult. Taryn, who’s been yearning for adulthood since her tweens, finally looks more at home in the role. And Vivi doesn’t know how Taryn got Jude into that dark purple halter dress, which dips low in the front and lower in the back, but the way she wears that and her lipstick is a stark reminder that Vivi’s sisters are in fact nineteen, and no longer chubby, soft-faced children. It’s weird, and Vivi doesn’t like it.

Vivi gets hit on sometimes—with her undercut and piercings, mostly by “alternative” men and curious women—but the novelty of good-looking twins means Jude and Taryn shouldn’t need to pay for their own drinks. And they wouldn’t, except anytime a guy gets too close to Jude or Taryn, Jude adopts a laser-eyed glare and says, “No,” which is thankfully the same in both languages. Otherwise she might start speaking with fists.

“I don’t know why you won’t let us get free drinks,” Taryn pouts.

“The drinks are on Madoc,” Jude points out, nodding to the credit card Vivi puts back in her pocket. “They’re basically free.”

Taryn mutters, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“You guys are such sisters,” Vivi says, taking a swig of beer.

��What does that mean?” they demand in unison.

Vivi grins and closes her eyes, shaking her head. For a second she just stands there, between the twins, and lets everything wash over her: the sibling bickering, the pungent smell of beer and whatever syrup is in Jude’s cocktail, and the music. Music is a strange experience in bars here. First there’s a Spanish song Vivi’s never heard, and then there’s Halsey, crooning over a Chainsmokers beat, and then back to Spanish with perennial favorite “Despacito.” It’s total whiplash. Vivi loves it.

It’s only because she’s listening so hard that she hears Taryn give a tiny gasp.

Vivi opens her eyes. Jude has gone very, very still. Her shoulders, which had been hunched up around her ears as she leaned over the bar, roll down her back, and the muscles there tense. Vivi is not sure Jude is remembering to breathe. She and Taryn are both staring at some fixed point across the bar, so Vivi looks too.

“Oh, hell,” she says.

On the other side of the bar—of the small space they are all crammed into—are four familiar figures. Three boys, one girl. Vivi has to blink to place them, because it seems absurd that four kids they went to high school with would show up in Spain while they, the Duarte sisters, are also in Spain, and also because they weren’t in Vivi’s grade. She knows them, though. Everyone knows Cardan Greenbriar and his trio of hot, mean friends, but Vivi knows them particularly well because of how her sisters have tangled with them over the years.

Taryn whispers, “What are they doing here?”

“I can go ask,” Vivi sighs. That group of kids has no quarrel with her. She and Cardan were friendly back in the day, meaning “ten years ago when Vivi would go hang out with Cardan’s older sister.”

“No,” Jude says, voice firm. Without taking her eyes off the interlopers, she picks up her cocktail and downs the rest of it.

Vivi doesn’t know exactly what happened, but Jude shed her fight-or-flight response sometime in high school. Now, she only has a fight response. Maybe Vivi took her flight response, because it was Vivi who was the terror until she turned eighteen, when she got the hell out of dodge. Taryn has always been in the middle, trying to keep the peace.

“We can go somewhere else,” Taryn suggests.

“No,” Jude repeats, setting her glass down on the bar a little too hard. “I’m not going to let those jerks keep me from having a good time.”

“Which I respect, and more power to you, but also, like, there are plenty of bars in Barcelona,” Vivi points out.

Jude glares. “I’m fine.” And then she holds up one finger in the bartender’s direction.

“You know those are really alcoholic, right?” Taryn says. Worry begins to seep into her voice like melting snow through cracks in a sidewalk.

“I know my limits.”

Vivi and Taryn exchange a wary glance. Jude might know her limits, but she has no problem blowing past them. Jude may not think Vivi remembers the tae kwon do tournament she sat through when Jude was eleven and Vivi was thirteen, but oh, Vivi does. Vivi remembers how her sister volunteered to spar until she had tired herself out to the point where she could no longer stand. Vivi also remembers Jude driving to school on a single hour of sleep after staying up to finish an extra credit essay in a class where she already had an A. Jude somehow didn’t crash her car, but she had been unbearable the entire day. Jude is a danger to herself and very occasionally a menace to society.

But Jude is also an adult and it’s not Vivi’s business.

“Suit yourself,” Vivi says, with a shrug. “It’s dear old Dad’s money.”

A few minutes later, Jude is nursing her second cocktail, and Vivi and Taryn are trying to carry on a conversation as though everything is fine. Any normal person would be well loosened up by now, but Jude retains that unnatural stillness like a dog who’s noticed a squirrel on the other side of a yard. Or, more accurately, maybe like a deer who’s spotted a human hunter approaching over the ridge.

Jude is no defenseless herbivore, but Vivi knows half a lifetime of being bullied has made her feel like a target.

“Hey,” Vivi says, jostling Jude with her elbow.

“What?”

“Tell me about your freshman year misadventures. Taryn won’t open up.”

Jude snorts. “What misadventures?”

“You have to have a few,” Vivi says. “I didn’t raise my sisters to be boring.”

“You didn’t raise us at all,” Jude mutters at her cocktail.

Vivi has never seen her sister anywhere near drunk before and is not sure she likes her like this. “What about boys?” she asks, gently elbowing Jude again. Then she raises her eyebrows. “Girls?”

“No. Nobody.” Jude finishes her second drink and, glaring across the bar, apparently makes the decision to switch to shots. “Vivi, is vodka still ‘vodka’ in Spanish?”

“I’m not answering that.” Vivi sighs. “What about you, Taryn? Anybody?”

“Huh? Um, no.” Taryn had been looking at their erstwhile schoolmates too. One of the boys, the redhead, is looking back. Locke. Vivi exhales. Bad news. There’s history there, the kind of history that shouldn’t repeat.

“Reeeeally?” she asks. “Nobody? Not one boy?”

Taryn blinks back to herself. “Vivi, I go to school for fashion design. They’re all gay.”

“Well, that can be fun.” Vivi gestures at herself. God, she wishes her sisters had brought Heather along. The hot lady bartender with the gorgeous tattoo sleeve keeps trying to catch her eye, and Vivi and Heather had established a “what happens in Barcelona stays in Barcelona” policy before she left, but Vivi doesn’t want a hot lady bartender. She wants her girlfriend.

“Yeah, they’re cool.” Taryn glances back across the bar. Now the blue-haired girl—Nicasia, Vivi recalls—is looking back, along with Locke. Not good.

Since Jude is negotiating for a shot of vodka with hot lady bartender in competent enough Spanish, Vivi lowers her voice and asks Taryn, “Are you feeling especially homesick?”

“We’ve kept in touch.” Taryn doesn’t meet her eyes.

Vivi would hold more of a grudge if someone had tried to sleep with her and her sister, but that’s very much not her circus or her monkeys. She asks, “Did you know he’d be here?”

Taryn shakes her head. “He said they were doing a European tour for spring break, but, like, it’s a big continent.”

“Good news,” says Jude, holding up a shot glass. “It’s vodka in both languages. Cheers.”

“You are going to be sick,” Taryn says.

Jude gives her a sarcastic shrug and then downs the shot. She coughs a little, which somewhat ruins the impression she’s trying to make, but swallows it all down.

“Jude,” Vivi says, beginning to worry, “we really can just leave.”

But Jude is looking at her old high school nemeses again. Cardan had been a particular thorn in her side, or he in hers; Vivi never made sense of that conflict, of who had started what. What she does know is that they’ve definitely been spotted now. The blond boy—Vivi doesn’t quite remember his name—seems to make a move to walk over to them, but Cardan reaches out and grabs his arm, shaking his head. Valentine? Valentino? looks sour, but doesn’t approach. Jude stares them both down.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Taryn announces. “El baño.” Taryn had taken French in high school.

“But—” Vivi begins.

Taryn has already vanished into the crowd. Vivi puts her elbows on the bar and cradles her head in her hands. “This is all going great.”

“Not how you pictured our night out on the town?” asks Jude, who has obtained another shot of vodka from God knows where.

“Yeah, not really.”

“Well, I can fix it.” Jude drinks her second shot and does not cough this time. “I’m going to go talk to them.”

Vivi picks up her head. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“So what?”

“Dad’s going to hold me responsible if anything happens to you.”

Jude fixes a level stare on her. “Dad never holds you responsible for anything,” she says. She slips a little when she gets up off her stool. Vivi wonders if she’s really thinking about fighting someone in those heels.

“You’re mean drunk,” Vivi tells her, trying to grab her arm. “Don’t go.”

“I’m mean sober, but nobody notices,” says Jude, which doesn’t make any sense. She shakes Vivi off. “Besides, I have a few things I want to say.”

And for the second time that night, Vivi watches as one of her sisters pushes her way into the crowd of people, unsure if she should follow or not. Maybe it’ll be good for Jude, in the end, to get some of this out of her system.

The guys across the room are watching Jude approach. Cardan especially. The blond guy is sneering, but Cardan watches Jude with the same strange stillness with which she’d watched him. Like he’s holding his breath until she gets there. Unlike Jude, he doesn’t seem that drunk at all, which Vivi notices because, well, it’s a rare day that Cardan Greenbriar isn’t drunk.

But he is too busy watching her and not his blond friend, who decides that he’s going to intercept Jude before she can even reach Cardan. He pushes over to her first and bars her way, and although Vivi is too far away to hear what’s said between them, she notices the squaring of Jude’s shoulders and the widening of the blond guy’s sneer. Because she is watching closely, she sees that Valerian is the one who shoves Jude first.

Valerian. That’s his name.

It clicks right before Jude punches him in the face.

The bar erupts. Cardan springs to his feet and tries to pull his friend away from Jude. A couple of nearby patrons try to save Jude from herself—Vivi could have told them it was a fool’s errand—by holding her back, not knowing Jude has sharp elbows. Valerian struggles hard and manages to break away from Cardan, only to find himself being grabbed by more pairs of hands. There is shouting in Spanish. Even the hot lady bartender is drawn away, trying to signal her coworkers.

The most Vivi-like thing to do would be to leave Jude to it and keep her nose clean. But Vivi remembers asking Madoc on the day of that fateful tae kwon do tournament, while they revived Jude with sips of Gatorade, why Madoc hadn’t stopped Jude when it became clear she was flagging. “Your sister needs to learn for herself when to stop fighting,” he’d said. “If I make those calls for her, she never will.”

Vivi has a lot of qualms with Madoc’s parenting style, and Taryn is nowhere to be found.

“Oh, hell,” Vivi says again, and she dives into the knot of drunk brawlers to pull her sister from the fray.

---

“I can’t believe you got us kicked out,” Vivi says.

Jude, drunk, hapless Jude, is sitting on the curb with her head between her knees, presumably trying not to barf. There’s still enough anger left in her to flip Vivi off.

“Unbelievable.” Vivi folds her arms and looks left, then right. It seems like a good quarter of the bar spilled out onto the sidewalk with them, a crowd of people chattering about what just happened. Forget kicked out, Jude’s lucky she wasn’t arrested. “Do you see Taryn anywhere?”

“What do you think?”

Vivi pinches the bridge of her nose. Taryn will be fine. She has the AirBnB address and a phone she can use on WiFi. Besides, as far as Vivi knows, she ran off with Locke. Vivi hasn’t seen the two of them come out of the bar yet, and she would not be surprised. She knows a bad decision when she sees one.

“You keep sitting down,” Vivi tells Jude. “I’m going to figure out a ride home.”

“Your face should keep sitting down,” Jude mumbles spitefully.

“Hey, guys? Vivi?”

Vivi cringes as soon as she hears the voice, because she knows the voice, and because in this situation the owner of that voice will only make things worse. Vivi doesn’t have any personal grudge against Cardan Greenbriar—they’ve even sometimes been friends—except for how her sister feels about him. Taryn’s always said he was kind of a dick, but Taryn doesn’t hate him like Jude does. Nobody hates anybody the way Jude hates Cardan. Vivi wonders if Jude has something to prove.

Sure enough, Jude’s head swivels at the sound of his voice like the kid’s head turning around in The Exorcist. “You,” she snarls, and then stumbles to her feet.

“Jude,” Vivi says, trying to catch her sister’s dress to pull her back, but Jude is already out of reach. With another sigh, Vivi stands too.

“What are you doing here?” Jude demands of Cardan, openly hostile. It would be funny, because Jude is a full head shorter than him, if Jude was anybody else’s sister. “We were all having a great time until you showed up.”

“It’s anybody’s city,” Cardan says, but he doesn’t seem to be mocking her. He holds up his hands to show her they are empty.

“Go the fuck home!” Jude yells, and shoves him, sending him back a couple of steps.

Vivi shouts, “Woah!”

“It’s okay,” Cardan tells Vivi over Jude’s head. “She’s not hurting me. Let her get it out.”

With a little cry, Jude pushes him again, and this time he only stumbles back a half-step, but he keeps his hands up and his stance somewhat grounded. The next time Jude shoves him he doesn’t budge at all, and Jude lets out a grunt of frustration, fisting her hands in his jacket.

And then she bursts into tears.

“Oh,” says Vivi, but Cardan doesn’t seem that surprised. She wonders if he’s used to people behaving badly while drunk or just being drunk himself.

“You’re so a-awful,” Jude says between sobs. “Everything’s awful all the time.”

“I know, Jude,” Cardan replies. He gently pries the jacket out of her fists so he can remove it and drape it over her bare shoulders. Jude grabs onto his shirt instead.

“Why do you hate me so much?” she asks, with a small hiccup.

“I don’t,” Cardan replies. His hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades. “But I hope you’re too drunk to remember that.” He looks up at Vivi, and Vivi feels a brief flash of embarrassment, like she’s intruded on something intimate, before she remembers that they’re in public and, also, she has no shame. “Were you going to get a taxi? I can keep an eye on her while you do. I don’t think she should walk back.”

“Oh.” Vivi blinks. “Yeah. I’ve got it. Where’s your ‘friend?’”

“Sent him packing. He’s back at the hotel, or he should be.”

“Well… good.”

But Cardan isn’t listening. He’s already looking down at Jude again.

It turns out Vivi has, carelessly, let her phone die. She isn’t anal about things like that. Taryn’s the one who keeps a charger in her purse at all times, but Taryn has vanished, and Jude’s phone only works on WiFi outside of the States.

So they hail one of Barcelona's bumblebee-like taxis the old-fashioned way, and Vivi is the one who climbs into the passenger’s seat and tells the driver where to go in Spanish that’s fluent, if definitely not Spain-Spanish. It is deeply ironic that Vivi, the only sister without a drop of Duarte blood in her veins, is the one who speaks Spanish the best. But Jude and Taryn were only seven when their parents died. Vivi had been nine. Two years makes a big difference with these things, especially because memories are shaping and re-shaping themselves in the minds of children that young. As far as the twins’ brains are concerned, they only had their parents for a short time.

Vivi remembers more. She remembers sitting on the counter in the old kitchen, legs swinging, as her dad cooked on Fridays—the special day, the end of the week day—and pointing at things in the kitchen so Justin could tell her their names in Spanish and she could echo them back. Cebolla, onion. Queso, cheese, of course. Cuchara, spoon. The words had a favor of their own, different from the English words she learned in kindergarten. She remembers the smell of toasting coriander seeds, the bright songs her dad would hum, the vibrant melodies bursting from the CD player Vivi leaned her elbow on. When she got far enough along in school, she threw herself into Spanish, hoping the words would pave a road that would lead her back to the man who shaped her.

Sometimes Jude gets in a sulk about their awful twist of fate, or Taryn gets weepy, and Vivi just wants to yell Justin Duarte was my dad, too! She feels like her throat is raw from screaming it her entire adolescence. It was easier in the end to just move away for college.

She ended up in Spain because Madoc and Oriana weren’t keen on her going to Mexico. Oh, sure, they’d been before on vacation no problemo, but as soon as Vivi wanted to go alone it was game over. No matter how much Vivi told them it was very racist of them and a total double standard. Apparently Oriana didn’t want her getting kidnapped. Vivi, who has in fact seen the movie Taken, knows she can get kidnapped in Europe just as easily, thanks very much. That had not been a persuasive argument with Madoc.

So here she is, in Barcelona, where familiar words can have entirely different flavors, and that’s even before getting to Catalan, which she can now speak a little but not well. Most of the time, she’ll be honest, she does love it here. At this moment she’s not feeling charitable toward anything.

Cardan helps load Jude into the backseat of the taxi. The driver, looking in the rearview mirror, asks, “¿Su novio?”

“¿Qué?” Vivi asks reflexively. She cranes her head around to see Cardan sliding in next to Jude, his arm around her shoulder. She switches to English. “What the hell, dude?”

“She won’t let go,” Cardan says simply. It’s true; Jude is clinging to him like a very weepy barnacle, her shoulders still shaking.

“Alright, well.” Vivi turns back around. It’s good to have the extra pair of hands. She wishes again that Heather was here. “You’re the official Jude wrangler now.”

“Copy that. I just—” He sighs, and in the rearview, Vivi sees him rub his face with his free hand. “It’s my fault.”

“Sure is.” The taxi begins to pull away from the curb, and Vivi checks her anger. She amends, “Actually, no, it’s not your fault that my sister’s a lightweight and an angry drunk. But from what I hear, the years of prior psychological damage are totally your fault. So, credit where credit is due.”

Cardan nods. Jude sniffles forlornly. Vivi is intrigued by how gentle he’s being with her, how tolerant. His shirt looks like a regular cotton tee, but knowing him it probably costs about the same as a single night in their very nice AirBnB. He doesn’t seem to mind that Jude’s getting snot and tears all over it.

“Hate you,” Jude mutters, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Hate this.”

“I know.” He pushes a lock of hair that’s escaped from her ponytail. “What are you on?”

“Huh?” There’s a pause. Vivi is watching the road now, but she can imagine Jude’s confused blinking. “I don’t… drugs.”

“Meds.”

“Oh, um, fuck.” Another pause. “Zoloft. I switched this year.”

“You’re not supposed to drink on that stuff,” Cardan says, but it almost sounds like he’s teasing. “It messes you up. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

Jude sniffs. “It’s not like I’m operating heavy machinery,” she says, slurring slightly.

Cardan chuckles. “I did the Zoloft thing, too. I’m not on it anymore, though.”

“‘Cause you couldn’t drink?”

“Like anything would stop me.” He pauses, and Vivi looks into the rearview mirror to find him biting his lower lip in an exaggerated way, so drunk Jude is sure to get the joke. “No, there were... personal reasons.”

Jude is utterly nonplussed. “What?”

“Ah, you know…” He leans over and whispers something to her. Her eyes widen, and then she lets out a small, nervous chuckle. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I was like ‘If I can’t have sex, won’t that just make me more depressed?’”

To Vivi’s great surprise, Jude giggles. A totally surreal sound. She hasn’t giggled like that in years, if ever.

“There we go,” says Cardan, weirdly indulgent. “No more crying. Or, well—oh, okay,” he adds, as Jude turns her head and begins quietly sobbing into the sleeve of his shirt. “I guess some more crying.”

“You seem very sober,” Vivi remarks.

“Yeah, I’m trying it on. Just club soda for me tonight.” He leans over to rest his head on top of Jude’s. “It, cómo se dice, sucks.”

“Like your accent.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Vivi is beginning to get vaguely suspicious. She says, “But you are handling this well. Just used to dealing with a lot of drunks?”

“Huh? Oh.” Cardan’s dark eyes flick up to meet Vivi’s in the mirror. “This isn’t the first time. Jude got wasted at prom, after the stuff with Locke and Taryn came to light. Completely trashed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You were finishing up sophomore year, right? In like, Massachusetts? And it’s not like she would have told you. If she’s lucky, she doesn’t remember it. I loaded her into the Uber that took her home.”

Vivi’s stomach twists, but she channels the newfound sister guilt into suspicion and narrows her eyes. “Decent of you.”

“Yeah, I was trying that out, too. Got puked on for the trouble.” Cardan leans his head back against the headrest now. Jude’s sobs have quieted down. “But I still remember the Four Phases of Drunk Jude Duarte.”

“I’m glad somebody does,” Vivi admits. “What are they?”

“Angry, weepy, horny, sick.”

She snorts. “Basically Snow White’s shittiest dwarves.”

“Basically,” Cardan agrees. “But you’re not in danger of her getting sick yet, because we haven’t hit—ah. Um. Well.” He clears his throat. “Never mind.”

Vivi looks up into the mirror again to see Cardan plucking Jude’s hand off of him and returning it to her. “Did we just hit horny?”

“We just hit horny,” he says, his voice strained. Jude has her face buried in his neck again, but this time for entirely different reasons. The hand he had returned to Jude is already sliding back down his shirt. “Okay, hands above the waist. No, above—”

“Oh my God.” Vivi covers her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Great. Very helpful, Vivienne,” Cardan says, grabbing Jude’s wrist and holding it still. It speaks to their relationship as nearly family friends that he can use her full name without invoking her wrath. “Your sister is outright molesting me and you can’t even tell her to knock it off?”

He doesn’t sound totally panicked, though. “I think you might want my sister to molest you,” Vivi guesses, turning around in her seat to look at him. Somehow, Jude has managed to thoroughly drape herself across him, but Cardan is showing admirable and frankly uncharacteristic self-restraint by keeping her from doing anything that can’t be undone. “Just a little.”

“When she’s sober. Jude, don’t bite my ear. Jude—”

Vivi snickers. The rest of the short ride passes like that, with Cardan deflecting Jude’s advances and Vivi deflecting the taxi driver’s questions about what exactly is happening back there and whether Jude is going to be sick all over his floor mats. They are lucky enough to not hit “sick” until Jude is out of the car and walking up the five stairs to the door of the apartment building. With Cardan’s warning in mind, Vivi is able to jump back in time.

Cardan, who is nearer to Jude, is not so lucky. She leans against the railing and doubles over it, but his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans are still caught in the splash zone. “Okay, great,” he says, gathering her back up. He does not sound entirely tolerant now, but he also doesn’t sound as angry as Vivi might expect. “That’s over. Feel any better?”

“No,” Jude mutters.

“You might in the morning.” He moves them both so Vivi can pass and open the door. “Man, is this really only the second time this has ever happened to you? I have to say, I’m jealous. Not of you in this moment, of course. Just in general.”

“We can’t all be charming teenage alcoholics,” Vivi says, propping the door open so Cardan can help her through.

“You hear that, Jude?” Cardan asks. “Your sister thinks I’m charming.”

“Uh-huh,” says Jude.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Vivi warns. “She’s almost out. Let’s get her upstairs.”

Jude doesn’t make it into the bedroom she and Taryn are sharing. They put her to bed on the couch, on her side, with Cardan’s jacket draped over her. There’s no laundry machine in the AirBnB, but Vivi finds some detergent in the cabinet and they fill the bathroom sink with lukewarm water so Cardan can wash his jeans. Vivi is not sure the right time for the conversation she should have is now, when Cardan is standing in his boxer briefs and Jude is passed out in the next room, but on the bright side, there probably isn’t a worse time.

“You know, I didn’t think we had this level of friendship,” Cardan remarks, dunking his jeans in the sudsy water. “Dealing with your sister must really be a bonding experience. You always liked Rhyia best.”

“Well, Rhyia’s cool.” Vivi folds her arms and leans in the doorway. She kicked off her boots when they got in the door, so Cardan now looks even taller, although certainly not very intimidating in his underwear. “Calvin Klein. Nice. You always struck me as more of a boxers guy, I have to say.”

“Sometimes. These jeans are pretty tight, though.” He looks over at her. “Do you need something?”

She shakes her head. “Oh, nothing. I just can’t believe you’re trying to fuck my sister.”

“I’m not trying to fuck your sister,” Cardan says, massaging his jeans in the sink in such a way that Vivi is forced to wonder whether he’s ever done his own laundry. “She’s wasted. And she hates me.”

Vivi frowns deeply.

Cardan asks, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Vivienne Leigh—”

“Don’t you pull out my full name for this. You’re playing some game here and I will figure out what it—oh.”

“What now?”

Vivi squints at him. “Are you in love with my sister?”

Cardan lets out an exhausted sigh. “Taryn isn’t really my type.”

They both know they aren’t talking about Taryn. “What the fuck. How long?”

“Like a year. Or maybe my whole life. I’m not sure.”

“Does she know?”

“I really hope not.” Cardan grimaces at his reflection in the mirror, and then looks past himself to see where Jude sleeps on the couch. “She’d never let me live it down.”

“Okay, well…” Vivi pauses. This is more older sibling responsibility than she signed up for. “What are your… intentions?”

“I don’t have any.” Vivi purses her lips, and he adds, “I really don’t. I wasn’t expecting to see her tonight. I kind of thought I’d never see her again after we graduated.” He pauses and looks down at the sink. “I think, someday, I’d like to be a person she likes. That she’s capable of liking.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Huh.” He has it really, really bad. Vivi can’t imagine what Jude said or did to make him feel that way about her. Maybe it was her total lack of regard for him? “Is this why you bullied her for years?”

“I hope not!” Cardan exclaims, in a way that suggests this thought has occurred to him before, and moreover, that it actually bothers him. “I don’t know! I don’t want to be that fucking cliché, Vivi.”

“We’re all cliché in our own special ways,” Vivi says, glancing back at Jude. A vague plot is beginning to take shape in her brain. Jude is the plotter, Taryn the planner—there is a difference—and Vivi the pantser, normally. But there is something here that she thinks she can exploit. “Seeing as you have no pants, you should probably stay over. I don’t think any of our clothes will fit you.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You can have one of the twin beds.” After a beat, she adds, “I’m not telling you which one is Jude’s.”

“Darn,” Cardan deadpans. “Now I don’t know which one to jerk off in.”

Vivi pulls a face. “That’s the idea.” And then, because Cardan is hopeless, she reaches forward and yanks the plug from the drain. “Rinse off your jeans in clean water. Otherwise they’ll dry all stiff and soapy.”

“Thank you for the advice, oh wise one.”

She rolls her eyes and leaves him to it. After checking on Jude, whose coloring and breathing are both normal, she heads back to her room and looks at her phone. Nothing from Taryn, even though it’s later than Vivi thought, but Vivi isn’t worried. Taryn’s kind of like a cat in that, somehow, she always manages to land on her feet. Vivi fires off a quick text to her, then stares at the glowing screen, thinking about the way Cardan had rested his head on top of Jude’s in the back of the taxi.

She texts Heather: sisters are a lot of work

And:

i wish you were here

It’s much earlier in New England. When the three dots pop up to indicate that Heather is typing a reply, Vivi smiles.

#jurdan #judecardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jurdannet #jurdan fanfic #the folk of the air #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the cruel prince #mine: fic #fic: i hate everybody

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tsukishumai · 2 years

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The project went really well, thank you!! Big success, and now more work but less strict than before. :)

Pfffttt you'll make my head big, I am merely observing something that is already cool. But seriously, I really enjoyed the chapter, and Bokuto being Kuroo's foil was literally like an epiphany at the end of the chap. there I was sitting on my couch and BAM Kuroo's "I know. It's okay." hit me in the face. I was like damn.

Damn.

DAMN. Like...this cemented the success of Kuroo in every way (Not that he didn't have it before but like EVERYTHING is out in the open now) and it's only made more poignant by the crippling shame Bokuto is going through.

You framed two distinct types of pain SO. WELL.

Kuroo's pain of being accused at a party and those mixed emotions. He's worried about Y/N and all she's going through but also he's probably worried about BOKUTO as well. Kuroo's problems are way more complex but he's obviously mature enough to handle them.

But I know he's worried about Bokuto a little because sometimes your best friend makes a huge mistake that you KNOW is not who they are. Like he's mad and hurt but also just worried because like Bokuto, dude, are you okay?

That pain is complex but manageable if you are mature enough and Kuroo is so so selfless (but NOT in a self-sacrificing way which is key). It's like I saw him as a literal knight in shining armor, noble, and just and AHHH 😭😭😭😭 Then my beloved Bokuto, my sweet stupid stupid stupid boy. He feels like that one quote from "My Best Friend's Wedding" -

"I'm pond scum. Well, lower actually. I'm like the fungus that feeds on pond scum. Lower. The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum."

And then to have Kuroo forgive him?

My most humbling experiences have been when people have given me kindness that I did not deserve. That pain is severe but you learn, my God do you learn.

I hope he finds some kind of redemption but I also know it'd be completely understandable if he didn't. I can not wait to see where you go with this.

Maya, if you are reeling from writing the pure EMOTION in this story just know I am down in those trenches with you. Just know I always look forward to your writing. I did not mean for this to be this long I am so sorry 😂 but I'll leave you with this.

MINI!!!! Oh my fucking god your asks always leave me FLOORED LITERALLY FLABBERGASTED MY JAW IS SCRAPING DOWN ON THE GROUND!!!!!!

honestly thank you, i can’t even begin to describe my gratitude, because reading all your thoughts and comments about LG fills me up with so much joy, my heart is overflowing with your kindness thank youuuu. I read everything you sent me over and over and over again and I can’t believe someone can understand my story as well as you do

And god, yes. There’s so many layers to Kuroo’s and Bokuto’s pain. Just a tangled web of love and guilt, neither able to discern right from wrong, constantly questioning the morality of their emotions.

Bokuto is repentance

Kuroo is forgiveness

Both opposite forces that always seem to come hand in hand

Love Galore

#miniatureinternetcollector #mini!#lovely moots #love galore

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wisteria-lodge · 3 years

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tentatively, double lion + bird secondary model

Hello hello! A small ask for you, because I like the way you words about sorting hat chats. You make lots of sense!

Thanks, @aqueenvictorious. I really like “words” used as a verb.

I've been trying to sort myself for years at this point, and my only conclusion so far is that though I adore my family and would cause destruction on their behalf if necessary, and though I feel vaguely protective of humanity as a whole... a loyalist I am not. But am I a bird or a lion?? I care passionately about some things (I just spent an hour crying because birds are starving to death because of profligate use of pesticides and I CAN'T FIX IT grargh) and I'm usually quick with a response or opinion... but I don't know that they come from me, internally, specifically?

So far I’m leaning Lion - having a response or opinion that you’re very sure of quickly is very Lion, and so is using your emotions to process issues.

I read a lot. All the time, about lots of things. It's not like I'm just deciding, not like it's an impulse, I just spend so much time flooding myself with data that of course I have and/or can formulate opinions quickly. But then... it doesn't feel like something I construct. I do, sometimes, as a conscious choice, seek out specific info so as to create an opinion about a specific topic, but I don't feel like I have an actively constructed morality.

@paint-the-ravenclaw is a Bird (I’m a Lion) who writes very, very well about what Bird Primary processing feels like from the inside. I love this post, and this other post. But I’m copy-pasting my absolute favorite comparison of these two modes of thinking here, because I think it might help you:

“A Lion’s moral compass is forged from their experiences. They process information in a much more organic, subconscious kind of way than Birds do. It’s sort of like… you know how machine learning algorithms work? You kind of just throw a bunch of data into a computer, give it some algebra to work with, and stir everything up until it spits out a conclusion and you don’t really know what happened in between. It doesn’t give you a step by step analysis. But the conclusions it shows up with can be scarily accurate.

Birds are more like… say, the Sorting Hat Chats quiz. I doubt it uses a machine learning algorithm; more likely it’s a points scoring system. If you had access to the code, you could see the underlying flowchart and the weight and values assigned to different questions and answers. You’d be able to tell what it was doing at each step. This kind of algorithm is less susceptible to random bias, but you have to be really confident in the way you’ve constructed the algorithm because you’re doing everything manually, and that gets WAY harder the more complex the issue is.”

I have a similar tangle with my secondaries, but I thiiiiink that boils down to "lion with strong bird model and a passionate jealousy of and longing to be a snake." Cause when the chips are down, I'm usually moving before I even have a chance to think, and flinging myself into the chaos. I have a bad habit of stopping problems with my body. Or getting tired of listening to people wrangle and just decide "fuck it im the smallest person in the room but I will just move the entire conference table MYSELF so this is OVER WITH."

I do see the Bird secondary model, for sure. But I must say, this is a very Lion-flavored ask. You hit me with a lot of emotion, a lot of intuition, like you just sat down and wrote whatever came to mind. No attempting to explain your logic, or your worldview, or giving me lists... which are things that I am coming to expect from my Bird asks.

Also, you give me very Revolutionary vibes, and that’s what I call the Double Lion archetype... that I suspect you are.

#sortinghatchats #sort me #wisteria sorts #double lion #lion primary #lion secondary #bird secondary model #bird primary vs lion primary

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decayandfanfics · 3 years

Text

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen. ________________________________________________________

Chapter 9 / Chapter 10

It takes two to Tango.

It’s always like this after using it, but of course a quirk like this would come with some dangerous side effects.

You watch your reflection in the mirror, all dark eyebags and bloodshot eyes. At least the bleeding has finally stopped, but the sink is a bloody mess, and the trash can is full of paper soaking in blood.

It feels awful, really. Physically and emotionally.

You could still feel Dabi’s bones bending under your quirk. His muscles and tendons stiffen like hard rock as the blood stooped its flowing inside of him.

As always, you let the anger get the best of you. It’s your worst defect, and now it will cost you dearly because there is no way the league lets you live after what you’ve done to Dabi. Shigaraki will decay you and that will be all, and if you weren’t as exhausted after all the crying and the bleeding, you would be fucking losing it.

A soft knock in the door forces you to clear your face from the tears before opening, shoving down the nausea at the idea of facing your imminent death.

“can we talk?” Toga asks, her soft face adorned with a little frown.

You let her in and close the door again, sitting over the toilet.

“I’m very sorry for what I did, Himiko-chan.” You sob quietly.

“I know. Hey…hey, don’t cry. I’m not mad.”

“I hurt you, I didn’t think clearly, I was so mad...”

“hey, it’s fine.” She states, her little hand touching your shoulder, trying to calm you. “I mean, when I first came to the league, Tomura, Dabi and I almost killed each other, so…I understand.”

“it’s not the same, Toga. My quirk is…I almost killed Dabi and I didn’t even touched him. I just…I, I’m supposed to help people, try to keep it down, but when I get angry…I’m a monster and now Shigaraki is going to kill me…”

“No, don’t say that. That’s not true.” Her voice is soft when she clutches in front of you. “look at me, hey. Look at me. We are friends. You just got angry. And you didn’t hurt me, and Tomura and Compress are fine. It didn’t hurt. It was weird but didn’t hurt. And Tomura-kun is not going to kill you.”

“really?”

“If Tomura-kun wanted you dead, you would’ve been an hour ago.” She answers, rolling her eyes. “can you tell me about what just happen? What is with your quirk?”

“it’s pretty simple, actually. It is call Torment. Is the ability to manipulate living tissue, tensing nerves, contracting muscle and bending bone. It’s a useless variation of a healing quirk, but I cannot grow new tissue, only manipulate it. I can keep wounds closed, I can relax your nerves, I can break your bones and stop your blood from flowing. I can stop your heart just by moving a finger and torture you by contracting all your muscles and nerves, but it’s dangerous for me. It’s too much effort to control a whole body, less alone four of them. I bleed, and I ache.”

“wow. That’s why you look so terrible.”

“yeah” you laugh cleaning your tears. “I guess I do.”

“how do you feel now?”

“a little better. Still like shit, but I’ll be fine.”

“Compress and I will be going to the store. Do you want something?”

“To the store? With what money?”

“A girl has her ways.” She teases softly “want some sweets?”

“Yes. I need to eat something. It’s…Dabi there?”

“no, he went out. Tomura-kun told him to go chill outside.”

“Okay. I’m going to get out now...”

“don’t be scared. You’ll be fine. Dabi asked for it anyway and…he sometimes can get very nasty with Tomura. He deserved it.”

“Himiko…thank you.”

You gather your courage and step out of the bath, finding your apartment as messy as you left it an hour ago, but this time is empty.

Thank god.

You give yourself to the task of collecting your destroyed laptop and removing the broken table from the view, looking for a way to repair the detached leg, trying to clean and erase any trace of the fight, enjoying your solitude for the first time in more than a week.

“this is going to cost me.” you say to no one, preparing yourself to the idea of buying a new computer as you move to your room. “I don’t have any extra money to-”

“I always knew you were hiding something.”

“FUCK!” You scream letting the pieces of your laptop fall again, covering your face with your hands when you notice Shigaraki’s arm crossed figure leaning against the wall besides your door. “dammit, Shigaraki. You cannot just…appear behind other people’s doors.”

“that’s debatable.” He remarks, an amused grin plastered in his face.

He watches you and something inside of you twist between excited and scared as his eyes scan you head to toe, the gears of his brain turning inside his head.

“What.”

“C’mon. I’m curious about it.”

“I bet you are.” You spit annoyed.

“Careful now. Look where that bickering mouth of yours got you an hour ago.” He warns you entertained.

“Don’t you dare to patronize me.” You warn already tired, a hand rubbing against your temple.

“I’m just asking about that funny little quirk you have. That and the little display of rage, who would have thought!”

You stare at him, weighting your options to no avail.”

“I can manipulate living tissue. Muscle, bone, nerves, blood. That’s all.

“That’s a pretty boring answer to such a memorable show.”

“This is stupid. What did you expect me to do, huh?” you snap.

“What makes you think I expect you to do anything?” He asks cunningly.

“You know what I mean.”

“no, I don’t.” he laughs.

“It’s just…I hate bullys. And he’s been trying his best to get on my nerves since day one and I could…I mean, i…I just…”

“you what.”

“I cannot stay there and let him berate people like it’s not important!” You can feel the verbal vomit gathering inside your throat, if you keep like this, you are going to say something you will regret.

“but it’s not.” He states rolling his eyes. “I didn’t care about what he said. You didn’t have to say anything.”

“but I care!”

"About what he does? or is about wh-"

"it's about what he said of you!"

"It doesn't matter wh-"

"Yes, it does!"

“why d-”

“because I like you!”

The moment those words are out, you smack your palm against your mouth, fully convinced you made a horrible mistake, so honoring your sense of self-preservation and improvisation, you oblige yourself to make some verbal stunt just to get out of this one, because you have a horrible scary feeling about the hungry look he’s giving you.

“I mean, I thought we could get along…all of us. Despite everything, I think highly of you, and I know you are a villain- villains who wants to destroy everything, but I thought we could be…”

“Friends? are you hearing yourself?” He spits; his mouth twitched in a hateful grimace.

Fear shoots through you in less than a second. Suddenly he looks more taller and menacing, as his steps makes you retrieve, until your back hits the wall on the corner of your room.

Yeah, you may not be afraid of Dabi, but Shigaraki Tomura is a completely different story.

“What are you doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Get away from me.” you bark scared, as your eyes ignite in clear warning. The dark feeling pooling at the pit of your stomach send shivers through your spine, lifting the hairs of your neck in terror.

“Make me.” Shigaraki growls lowly the moment one of his hands trap your chin roughly, his pinky safely curled against his palm, but even like that you can almost feel how close you are from certain death.

He is pissed out of the blue, your brain failing at finding the exact moment shit went down before he decides to finally kill you, yet you don’t get it, all you did was…

Oh…

He winces scanning your face searching for something, and the moment his eyes stops over your lips, you recognize the feeling.

He snarls like a wolf, looming over you, looking like he’s ready to kill you.

Or eat you.

“Are you done playing dumb?” he asks darkly, and you can feel the warm of his breath against your own lips and something far more complex and exciting than plain fear roaring inside your chest, begging you to push forward, begging you to kiss him.

“I said…are you done playing-“

“WE ARE BACK!” You both snap your heads to the door the moment Toga enters, screaming cheerfully while leaving a bag with candy over the counter, and before you know, Shigaraki is at the other side of the room, staring at you like you transfixed, digging his nails deeply in his neck, before storming out of the apartment, leaving you there, rooted in your room, finally remembering how to breathe.

“What’s wrong with him?” Compress asks as he handles you a pack of gummy bears.

You can still feel the warmth of his hand against your face, your lips still tingling with longing.

“I have no idea.” You lie.

Chapter 11

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kinetic-elaboration · 3 years

Text

100 Days of Writing: Day Sixty-Three

I decided to catch up on The 100 Days of Writing and then I... accidentally wrote a large number of words. In my defense, this is like 2 weeks’ worth of questions. Also I skipped the ones I didn’t have anything to say about so actually this could be worse.

(I’m not even kidding, this is really long. I talk about writing rituals, tools for plotting, my thoughts on opening with dialogue and why I don’t like it, my favorite topics, the weather, and what length of fic I like to write.)

I’m tagging, and apologizing to, @the-wip-project and fellow participants @she-who-the-river-could-not-hold, @thelittlefanpire, @hopskipaway, @easilydistractedbyfanfic, @dylanobrienisbatman, and @fontainebleau22.

Day 49: How do you get yourself in the mood to write? Do you have a ritual?

Every time I tell myself I’m going to get back into doing these questions, I see this one in my bookmarks and go nope! and turn around. It’s not a hard question; I’ve just been having trouble consistently getting into the mood to write, so I feel like any answer I try to give to it will be, in some sense, a lie. Like do I ever get “in the mood” to write? Really?? Also, I feel like I’m relying too much on ‘ritual,’ building up ‘the perfect writing situation’ in my head, which at the end of the day is less important than just saying ‘I’m going to do this now’ and then doing it.

I do have some things I always do when I sit down to a writing session. I write on my couch. Almost always (unless I’m on an event deadline where I just have to write in bits and pieces whenever possible), I write in sprints—I use write or die to keep me actually typing and not staring into space. I write in order, and I often write a whole scene at a time. So before I start I need to have at least a couple solid opening sentences in mind, plus some kind of idea about what happens/needs to happen in the scene. In order to get in the right headspace, I usually spend some time just thinking before I actually get to writing. I reread my outline or notes, and skim whatever I might have already written on the project. Sometimes I look at images that help me get in the right mood. Sometimes I just imagine or daydream for a bit. The difficulty, especially recently, is in making sure I do this just enough and not too much, because then I get too caught up in my head and I can no longer translate what I’m seeing into words.

In a broader sense, I also have a building up to writing ritual—again, I think this is part of my problem, that I don’t know how to balance this build up with actual writing. In the hours/days before writing something, I turn it over in my head a lot. I practice different versions of those critical opening sentences. I play it out like a fantasy just to see if there’s a possible flow, even if the final version is different. Basically, I try to turn it into something that just needs to be written, that just needs to get out. But again—this can lead to overthinking and frustration.

The best way I can describe writing for me is that, when it goes well, I find a rhythm, or enter into a zone, where I can describe the images in my head in a way that’s both accurate and pleasant to read. But entering that zone or finding that rhythm is like jumping into a game of jump rope. If you don’t do it right, you’re just going to trip over your feet and get tangled in the rope. But if you do it correctly, it’s fun and exhilarating and you can keep jumping for a long time. Sometimes it takes me some false starts to jump in. And recently I’ve been having days where I just can’t at all, where I tangle the rope up so much I can’t unknot it. Those are the days I just have the same sentences repeating over and over in my head, sounding wrong, and I can’t do anything about it. On the other hand, I write in much longer sprints than I did a couple years ago. I used to only write partial scenes, maybe a few hundred words. Now I can write whole scenes without stopping, and on a few occasions, I’ve written multiple scenes or even whole stories without stopping. So in other words, when it works, it really works. But it doesn’t always, and there’s not a lot of in between.

Day 50 What fic/story made you?

Um… honestly I’ve been writing, in general and fic specifically, for such a long time that I didn’t have a ‘maybe I can do this’ moment. I mean one problem I’ve never had is thinking I can’t do this. I had positive reinforcement for my school and academic writing, and for a long time my fictional stories were just for me, and I knew what I liked. Even just thinking about my fic writing… I’ve been posting fic online since 2006, and I’ve been in multiple fandoms. I don’t really have much connection to a lot of those early stories anymore. They feel like they were written by someone else, a little. I’ve also moved on from most of the fandoms I wrote for in my early fic days so I don’t feel like I can really judge them anymore.

That said… there is kinda an obvious answer for my Star Trek fic lol. I also have favorite stories, and stories that stick out even years after I wrote them, in all (or at least most) of the fandoms I’ve been in. But I’m not sure if that’s the same.

Also, I had two teachers who were really encouraging of me and who I still think about often. One was my seventh grade English teacher, who had us do a lot of writing exercises of various types, both large and small, including keeping writing journals we wrote in every day at the start of class. He once told my mom that I wrote well, not for a seventh grader, but in general, and to be honest I still think of that with some regularity and take a lot of pride and comfort in it. The other was my creative writing professor in college. I don’t think I did my best work for that class, but she was very encouraging and seemed to like what I did. At the end of the semester, as I was preparing my portfolio, she told me that if I didn’t want to do much editing, I didn’t have to, because my unedited work would stand on its own. Again, especially considering all the problems that I saw with my writing for that class even then, I really took that comment to heart. When I’m feeling very self-critical, I remind myself that even my raw scribblings have, perhaps, something to them, and it helps ease the excessive and unwarranted pressure I put on myself. These aren’t really stories about specific writing pieces that ‘made’ me but I do think they speak to that ‘maybe I can do this’ feeling.

Day 51: Do you use tools for plotting and what are they?

So, generally, no. Sometimes I’ll look at various writing/plotting/organizational tools as a method of distraction, but my actual process is very simple. I use plain old notebooks and pens, and word documents on my computer, to plan all my fics, from the one-shots to the multi-chapters. I start by writing down general thoughts and brainstorming, then I build a scene list and/or outline, and then, if necessary, I separate the scenes lists into chapters. Sometimes I break down the scenes even more, if I have additional ideas I don’t wan to forget or if I know I need to hit certain points in a specific scene. The process varies a little bit from project to project, but that’s basically all I do.

I did use Evernote to plan the (still unwritten….) Ark AU. I don’t know if that was the best program choice or if something else exists that would have more precisely met my needs. But that’s what I used and that’s how it is. It’s a little annoying that every time I open it, it’s been updated, and the interface looks totally different and I have to relearn where everything is. But the tagging system has worked decently to allow me to see the big picture of this complex, multi-strand, multi-character, multi-ship disaster epic of a story. I struggled to plot it for a long time because I didn’t know how to balance all of the different parts. In Evernote, I made one ‘note’ for each character, and one for each scene (in addition to miscellaneous notes about sub plots, relationships, questions, etc.). Then I tagged each of them, including tagging the scenes by chapter. So now I can look at a list of all the characters, or all the scenes, or all of the scenes in chapter 8, or whatever, but I can also look at just one particular note at a time, and not be distracted by anything else. That said, I do also have one note that is just a total scene list for the whole fic, which is pretty reminiscent of my usual outlining process.

So… somehow this helped me plot (tentatively) the whole thing, but as I’ve written almost none of it—I finished outlining this in February 2020 so in my defense… I think you can see why it stalled—I’m not yet sure if it was a successful experiment in a ‘plotting tool.’

Day 60: How do you start your chapters? Do you start with dialogue? Why or why not?

While I am definitely against prescriptive “writing rues” generally, as my own personal rule, I try not to start with dialogue unless I have a very good reason.

To be quite honest, I think it’s lazy. I do think that dialogue openings can be used well, if the writer acknowledges that they are intensely stylistic and, from a reader’s perspective, quite difficult. Even within fanfiction, where a line of dialogue (especially if accompanied by a dialogue tag or swiftly followed by a reference to the speaker) gives a lot more information to the reader than in original fiction, opening with dialogue still shoves the reader directly into the deep end of the scene, with very little to orient her. WHERE is the speaker? WHO is being addressed in the dialogue? WHAT is the context of the conversation? Who ELSE might be present in the scene?

There are reasons you might want to throw the reader in the aforementioned deep-end. Maybe it’s an in media res situation and you want to emphasize the overwhelming nature of the action—starting a scene with “Get down!” for example. Or maybe the overall mood is one of disorientation or floating or uncertainty, and you want to create the same effect in the reader.

But I think if you’re starting a scene with dialogue because that’s the first thing that comes to mind for you—the person who conveniently already has the setting, character list, and even future plot already in mind—and it’s just simplest and easiest to start that way, you’re doing a disservice to the reader.

For example, I actually am planning to start the next chapter of the Sleeping Beauty AU with dialogue. My POV character is in a room with multiple other characters, and she’s examining something meaningful to her and not fully listening to the conversation around her. So I want the dialogue to float around in the background, to feel unmoored, and to stand in contrast to the very precise, detailed thoughts and memories that she’s experiencing, which are grounded in physical sensations like touch.

I haven’t quite gotten it to work yet, though, in part because opening with dialogue and doing it well is, in my opinion, quite hard. The difficulty lies in alleviating the challenges the reader is experiencing and making the text fluid and easy to picture. You need to get all of that scene-setting information—the who, what, when, where, and why—in very quickly, but without being jarring. In this scene in particular, I have multiple characters, all in a comparatively unusual location, and I need to establish where they are, who exactly is there, how they’ve come to meet my POV character (which happens ‘off screen’ between the end of Ch5 and the beginning of Ch6), all on top of the character’s thoughts and feelings.

I know all of this very well. To picture the scene in my own head takes only a moment. I just think about it and I see all seven of the characters, where they’re sitting, how they’re positioned, what their facial expressions are, and I also know roughly what each of them is thinking and feeling. To describe all of this in words would take several sentences. Do I put all those sentences on the front end? Do I weave them in among other description and dialogue? Is all of it even necessary—maybe we don’t need to know who’s sitting in what order on the couch, for example.

I’ve gone over a couple of different ways to do this in my head, and I’m sure it is possible, but I’m struggling to get it all down in a coherent way. (Admittedly, I’ve only made one solid attempt. As I was describing above, I’m probably going to jump in with several false starts, and then it will suddenly click.)

My initial attempt to set up the scene relied heavily on dialogue, but when I read it over, what sounded snappy and interesting in my head just fell completely flat—because it lacked context and thus, any meaning. I think the gulf between how dialogue openings feel to the writer and how they feel to the reader is large. To the writer, they feel easy and natural. To the reader, they can feel forced and, contrary to the writer’s intention, serve as an additional reminder that this is a constructed narrative rather than an immersive experience—the opposite of natural. In other words, as I said, they’re a highly stylized form of writing.

To illustrate, this was my first try at the Chapter 6 intro:

"I still can't believe it," a lightly awed voice says from somewhere behind Clarke. "The Princess of Alpha Station really used to live in our quarters.”

She pictures Miller, sunk into the couch cushions, slowly shaking his head, the expression on his face equal parts satisfied and amused.

"Really? That's what you think is the oddest part of all this?"

"Yeah, Bry, I do. Would you prefer I gloat? About being right this whole time? Who says she's just a legend now?"

My current idea is to still start with dialogue, but to move back into a significant amount of description pretty immediately afterward, and only then add more dialogue. Even this is a little hazy, since I haven’t thought much about this fic in a while. But I do think it’s quite clear this won’t work.

As for how I DO start chapters/scenes/stories… I like to start with a strong image that sets the scene and mood of the story, and hopefully leaves the reader wanting to know more. Here are some examples of story openings I’ve written recently, which I like a lot:

When Bellamy is angered, deafening bouts of thunder shake the heavens.

The cawing of the crows—high, sharp, angry shots of sound. The buzzing of the telephone wires.

Marcus Kane's body shows up again in June, skeletal and rotting, six months after his disappearance at the turn of the year.

The sky has turned a bruised yellow, like the inside of a plum, by the time Bellamy starts seeing the robots in the fields.

At noon on the third-to-last day before Christmas, Murphy leaves the cafe, with a single peppermint mocha and a small paper bag, and heads right, walking parallel to the ocean.

The last one doesn’t seem as interesting but consider: you get the who, what, when, and where, the mystery of the paper bag and where he might be going, and also the immediate understanding that this is probably going to be a Fluffy Beach Christmas story—which is correct, that’s exactly what it is.

I’m not saying that I’m always creative or unique. I often start stories off with descriptions of the weather. And I have committed the ~~cardinal sin~~ of starting with a character waking up, heaven forbid. I don’t have any hard and fast rules for myself other than that I try to avoid dialogue, or at least, be careful about its use (another example: I use dialogue to start off Mad Women—but it reads like narration, until it’s rudely interrupted, a sort of in-joke/reference/twist). I try to match the mood of the story and, as I said, include something that will create a question for the reader, some version of why, that the rest of the story will answer.

Day 61: Do you describe the weather? Try changing a scene you wrote by adding weather effects.

After writing a book for the last question, here’s an easy one! Yes, I describe the weather. A lot. Often. In detail.

(Though if we’re talking about the Sleeping Beauty AU as my “current wip,” I actually don’t do much weather describing there, because 4 of the 6 chapters take place in a location with no weather.)

Day 62: What is your favorite thing to write about?

Honestly I like to write about people being dramatic about their emotions. That’s what I’ve discovered while writing my surprisingly self-indulgent Troped fic: I want to describe people acting as if Everything was the Most Ever. It’s fun. Part of this is getting into the usual romantic tropes—longing, pining, exaggerated touches and glances and the like—but why stop at romance when you also have stuff like The Weather and Random Feelings to contemplate?

I also like setting scenes that I find soothing, which is part of why I like Seasonal Stories.

Day 63: Are you more of a drabble/flash or a longfic/novel kind of writer?

I’m in the middle. I mostly write one-shots, and I’ve noticed that a lot of them fall in the 4-6k range. Long one-shots can get all the way to 10-12k but I feel like most of those are, semi-objectively speaking, too long, and would probably have been stronger if they were pruned down to 6k, or, better yet, never made it past 6k in the first place.

I have written some multi-chapters, or, uh, started multi-chapters, but I’m VERY bad at it. The only thing that makes me slightly less bad is being stubborn. Hence the existence of a WIP that I’ve had going for over 10 years now and refuse to call abandoned. Hence this year’s extended angst about the Sleeping Beauty AU, which is only 6 chapters but has taken me literally years to write. I don’t honestly know if I’ve ever finished a multi-chapter WIP, like, properly speaking. I’ve done some short multi-chapters that I wrote as if they were one-shots and then split up for ease of reading or, I dunno, just because. I wrote a Big Bang once, but it’s not very good. Nor very long, if I remember correctly. Generally speaking I probably shouldn’t be allowed to write novels lol—I have a lot of them in my ‘I should write this one day’ idea list—but as it so happens, no one can stop me, so here we are. I definitely have wild fantasies of writing multi-chapters with ease but I’m just a very slow writer and my ideas can’t keep up with my actual-writing. Thus one shots are much easier than multi-chaps, and one-shots on a deadline are much easier than ‘I’ll finish this whenever’ one-shots. One-shots written for events or exchanges also tend to be shorter (and, imo, better) because of the deadlines they’re written on, and are thus more likely to hit that sweet 4-6k spot than stories where I’m allowed to ramble at will.

All that said, I ALSO write a good number of drabbles/writing exercises. I used to write them more often than I do now, but still over the last five years I’ve produced 110,000+ words in free-standing scenes so like… that’s also a thing I guess.

#100 days of writing #my 100 days of writing #100daysofwriting

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gamergirl929 · 4 years

Text

Our Time (Rosa Diaz x Reader)

Anonymous Request: Omg more Rosa fics please. I don’t know if you take prompts but can you please write one about her time after prison and the reader taking care of her?

Ever the Rosa, tough, hard-nosed, incredibly violent, Diaz, she acted as if nothing had bothered her, acted as if she was fine after her time behind bars, but you knew it wasn’t that simple.

She just broken up with Pimento, saying it’s the first time she felt any semblance of normal in a long while. She acted like it didn’t bother her, but you knew it did.

So, you decided to take matters into your own hands, you were going to help Rosa, even if she wouldn’t admit anything was bothering her.

“Hey.” You approach her with a smile, Rosa turning to you with the smallest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Hey.” She says simply eyes narrowed and you smirk.

“You doing anything tonight?” You ask and Rosa hums.

“Not really.” She shrugs and you nod.

“Want to go to Shaw's with me?” You offer and Rosa hums, eyeing you curiously for a moment.

The two of you had a pretty good relationship, nearly on the same level of her and Amy, the woman smiling more around you than she did with anyone else.

“Cool. As long as you’re buying.” She says simply and you laugh.

“Alright, cool.”

***

Luckily for you, the day went by rather quickly and soon, you were slipping into Shaw’s behind Rosa, the two of you ordering drinks before hiding in a back corner.

You catch Rosa’s brown orbs on you and your brows knit together in confusion.

“Something wrong?” You ask and Rosa hums.

“Why did you bring me here?” She asks and you shrug, smiling.

“Hey, we could all use a drink now and then.” You shrug and Rosa hums.

“It’s more than that.” She pries and you sigh, glancing away.

“Look...” You start, swallowing hard. “I know you act like a bad ass, and you act like what happened to you and Jake doesn’t bother you, but it does. I can tell.” You start and Rosa stiffens, brown orbs not leaving your Y/E/C ones.

You surprise the woman by gently resting your hand over hers.

“I just want you to know you aren’t alone and I’m here for you... I...” You swallow hard, glancing away, cheeks flushed.

“I care about you.” You whisper under your breath, staring down at the table.

If you’d been looking at the detective in front of you, you’d have seen the tint of pink on her cheeks and the small smile stretched across her face.

Your breath hitches when Rosa flips her hand over, her fingers tangling with yours.

You pick your head up, wide Y/E/C orbs locking with Rosa’s brown ones.

“I care about you too.” She whispers and you flush, biting your bottom lip to stave off a grin.

Eventually, you get your drinks and Rosa gives you a toothy grin, something you aren’t used to, one you immediately return.

“You’re still paying right?” She teases and you snicker, knocking your glass against hers.

“Yep.”

***

The relationship between the two of you changed for the better after that, so much so that you were currently on your way to Rosa’s apartment, the woman promising she wouldn’t move when you found out where she lived.

“You’re sure about this?” You ask as Rosa parks her bike and the woman tugs her helmet off with a smile.

“I’m sure. Stop asking.” She nudges you and you grin.

Rosa gently, takes your helmet off your head, smiling when your hair falls haphazardly down all in your face.

She snickers and you scoff, blowing it out of your face.

“Yeah laugh it up.” You grumble cheeks flushing pink when Rosa gently tucks your hair behind your ears.

“Better?” She asks and you clear your throat, cheeks darkening.

“Better.”

Rosa gives you a grin before nodding behind her.

“This way.”

You follow behind the woman, happy that she’s not looking your way so you have a moment to compose yourself.

Eventually, you make it to Rosa’s apartment, the woman holding the door open for you so you can slip inside.

“Be careful there’s a creature on the floor.” She comments and you turn to her eyes wide in worry and fear.

“Ummmmm-

You’re cut off by the sound of a yip and you beam, glancing down at the tiny puppy that’s currently jumping on your shoes.

“Oh my god.” You whisper under your breath, missing the way Rosa rolls her eyes, biting back a smile as you hug the puppy close.

“Want a beer?” She asks and you shrug.

“Water?” You ask and Rosa scoffs.

“From the tap.” She nods towards the sink and you shrug.

“Okay.”

Rosa snorts, jerking her fridge door open and producing a cold bottle of water along with a beer.

“I’m kidding you dope.” She smiles and you roll your eyes.

You swipe both bottles and Rosa’s eyes narrow, sending you a glare that doesn’t have the desired effect considering you just grin in return.

“We allowed to drink in the living room? I’m dying to see what’s so great about Nancy Meyers.” You teaser and Rosa rolls her eyes.

“Yes, and everything. Everything about Nancy Myers is great.” She says intensely and you smirk, a brow arched.

“Well? Come on, show me Diaz.”

***

You sniffle, tears sliding down your cheeks.

“You’re crying, why are you crying?” Rosa asks confused and you turn to her with a pout.

“Because they still love each other and they won’t admit it.” You point at the screen where The Parent Trap is currently playing.

Rosa sighs deeply, shaking her head.

You jump when her hand settles on top of yours, her fingers spreading so you can intertwine them.

“Sometimes it’s just not the right time.” She whispers and you turn to her, shrugging.

“It doesn’t make it any less sad.” You mumble and Rosa nods, smiling softly.

“But the right time comes, or it’s already here and we just don’t realize it.”

Your eyes widen and you turn towards her, swallowing hard when you realize just how close she is to you.

You open your mouth to speak but are suddenly caught off by a loud knock on the door.

Rosa sighs, moving to her feet, Arlo barking as he jumps off the couch and runs to the door.

“Pizza.” She says simply and you nod, swallowing hard.

“Pizza.”

***

The pizza box goes empty, the two of you lounging on the couch as the Parent Trap ends.

“See...” Rosa whispers. “It was the right time, just not then and there.” She turns to you, eyes widening when she realizes you’re fast asleep, Arlo in your lap.

Rosa rolls her eyes, but at the soft smile on your face, she can’t help but smile, shuffling closer.

“Maybe a nap isn’t a bad idea.” She mumbles to herself, kicking her feet up onto the table before gently guiding you back, your head resting in her lap, Arlo still curled up in your own.

Rosa does something she’s always thought about doing, but never had the courage to do, and that’s tangle her fingers in your hair, her nails digging into your scalp.

You hum, surprising her by taking her hand and hugging it to your chest.

Rosa shakes her head, leaning back with a lengthy yawn, her own eyes fluttering shut and soon, she’s fast asleep like the woman in her lap and the dog in yours.

***

You wake sometime later, the sun low in the sky as your eyes flutter open, your brows knitted together.

“Rosa?” You mumble in confusion and hear a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah?”

You blink your eyes rapidly, clearing your vision, just now realizing your head is indeed in Rosa’s lap.

“I fell asleep?” You ask and the detective snorts.

“Yeah, yeah you did.”

You sit up, letting out a lengthy yawn, just now realizing the puppy in your lap is gone and is instead, resting beside Rosa.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble and Rosa grins, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’s okay, you’ve been busy with the case.” She smiles softly and you blush, glancing down at your lap.

“Yeah, yeah I have.” You mutter and Rosa grins, moving to her feet.

“Come on, let me take you home.”

***

The ride home feels different somehow, your arms snugly around Rosa as you nuzzle into the back of her neck, the woman grinning widely beneath her helmet.

Eventually though, you reach your apartment, Rosa pulling to a stop before the two of you slide off of her bike.

“Let me walk you inside.” She smiles and you grin pulling your helmet off.

“So chivalrous Detective Diaz.” You tease, the woman rolling her brown orbs.

“Yeah, yeah just get up there.” She nods to your apartment complex’s door and you snort.

“You’re a real charmer.” You wink and Rosa snorts, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I try to be.”

The two of you make your way up to the top floor, both stopping at the door that leads into your apartment.

“This is me.” You nod to the door and Rosa nods, swallowing hard.

“Th-Thanks... For coming over. For being there for me when I needed it.” She whispers and you grin, biting your bottom lip.

“You don’t need to thank me for that.” You smile. “I wanted to spend time with you.” You whisper, cheeks flushed.

“Maybe our time is now too?” Rosa says and you glance up, eyes widen when you realize she’s taken a step closer.

You gravitate closer, your arms slipping around the woman’s neck.

Rosa gently holds your waist, her fingers slipping into your belt loops.

“Do you think it’s our time?” She asks and you grin, cheeks dusted pink as you lean forwards.

Rosa meets you halfway, her lips pressing against your own, the kiss knocking the air not only out of your lungs but hers as well.

The two of you part only to lean back in for another, even softer kiss. You pull back, not going far as you rest your forehead against hers.

“I do.”

Rosa’s eyes flutter open, her small smile splitting into a wide grin.

“I think it is too.”

#b99 #b99 imagine #rosa diaz #rosa diaz x reader #rosa diaz imagine

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botwstoriesandsuch · 4 years

Text

Where Time Takes Us

Destination - Part 2

- - - - - - - - - -

The public opinion of the Royal Family had dwindled compared to previous years, though that wasn’t to say everyone was against them. In fact, the establishment of divine right and intervention was very much intact in the years prior, and most folk were supportive of the projects and developments that would supposedly protect the kingdom. However, there was a stemming internal conflict between the “solemn” princess and her would-be associates and advisors. Understand, for this time period, that faith towards leaders and figureheads was a combination of their apparent strength and confidence in their duty and labour, coupled with a bit of humanity and relatability. From first hand diary documents, we can already piece together that first half of that story. As for the latter, well...

They say the Princess hadn’t even once visited the Queen’s grave.

I think that’s when they started to lose hope.

— Excerpt from Clocks and Passages, Gerudo historian, Kemisie Patel, 14 years Pre-Awakening

- - - - - - - - - -

Her mother used to do her hair, before special ceremonies like these.

Her father, well, he would always remind her of the importance of appearances, for royalty should always look dignified and strong. Even before she could walk, he would commission thousands of dresses. Tailors would customize the cloth to her every measure, with stitches etched with gold that only a king like him could afford. Then, when it was done, he would kiss her forehead and tell her she looked stunning. Stunning. The same word for every occasion. A stunning white dress. A stunning pair of boots. A stunning blue coat. For a party. A meeting. A ball. Every time, it was stunning, stunning, stunning.

Yet her mother, she would always choose her words carefully. She would take her hand and sit her down on the bed. No matter what her dress or coat, or whatever pre-prepared style she was already in, her mother would smooth out the cloth on her back, and part the hair behind her neck. She would brush and brush and brush, then braid and braid and braid. The queen would talk of simple fairy tales, or of intriguing conversations she had that day, or of interesting new facts, or of new embarrassing anecdotes that would never cease to make her daughter laugh. The princess’ hair would transform from an elaborate mess of self-inflicted ribbons and tangles to a simple, yet elegant, crown braid.

Then her mother would ask, “Do you like it?” and every time she would say yes. Of course she liked it, because her dear mother had done it, and no one else could do it better. No bun, or tie, or ribbon, or crown would compare to the touch of her mother’s fingers, weaving together her golden hair. The two of them would get up and look in the mirror. The princess’ outfit might change, but she was never surprised by her hair. Her mother would squeeze her shoulders, and rest her chin upon her head, her only concerning being the smile on her daughter’s face. Her mother would sing more words. Lovely, charming, enchanting, beguiling. Perhaps beautiful, magnificent, exquisite, or cute.

She wasn’t talking about the dress or the hair. Her words were meant for her daughter alone.

The queen would take her daughter’s hand and they would walk towards the door. Before the princess could take a step outside the room, her mother would squeeze her hand. Her sentence would start the same. “My little bird,” she would begin, her voice as sweet as honey. The queen would hold her daughter’s hand, and whisper to her little bird. Perhaps a joke to calm the nerves, or one last assurance before a ceremony. Sometimes the words were simple, and sometimes they were complex. Nonetheless, the princess would listen to her voice and smile, before finally stepping out the door.

Her mother, she would do her hair, and sing, and speak, and whisper one last thing to her little bird, before watching the princess leave. Her mother, the Queen of Hyrule, would always speak of little things.

And then she died.

And Zelda had long forgotten all the words.

The princess stood in front of the mirror, watching the woman tend to her dress. Zelda didn’t bother to look at her reflection, it would be the same as any other time. A royal blue dress, atop a snow white blouse, and all lined with gold trim, so as to match her own golden hair. She had gotten over the initial beauty of the dress a long time ago.

So instead, she looked out the window. The day had risen, its light passing through glass panes, dousing the princess’ room with its warm, yellow light. The outline of the window’s frame and design cast shadows onto the floor, capturing Zelda’s shadow in a web of thin lines.

Outside, the view was as it was yesterday: the aged grey walls of the castle exterior, pressed against a beautiful horizon of grassy fields and weathered silver peaks. From where she stood, the window was less of a view, and more of a small painting, a tiny portal of the world affixed to a sorry stack of stone bricks. With the way the sunlight hit the glass pane, the shapes of Hyrule faded into simple colors, blurred by the walls of the bedroom and her own reflection staring back at her.

There was the Princess of Hyrule, right where she belonged.

Her emerald eyes gazed back at her. They were tired.

Suddenly, the woman finished working on something at the hem of Zelda’s dress. She stood and patted her shoulder with a smile.

“All done, Your Highness. You look stunning!”

Zelda turned to look at her through the mirror. She put on a smile and said, “Thank you, Evelyn.” The princess stepped away, walking around the room.

The woman gave a little curtsy. “Can I do anything else for you while I’m here, miss?”

Zelda started to sit on her bed, resting her legs after an hour or so of standing. She shook her head.

“It’s alright, thank you. You may go.” She gave one last soft smile, for assurances. The tailor, Evelyn, gave a curtsey, and started to pack up her sewing kit, humming to herself.

Zelda turned to the nightstand beside her bed. It was a clutter of papers, notes, and ink, although it was nothing compared to her desk on the other end of the room. Brushing them into a neat pile, the princess opened the drawer under it.

It held two things. One was a soft, velvet pillow, holding a golden diadem, woven like vines. The detailed indentations in the metal were crafted with care and precision, and the perfectly symmetrical gold bands wove towards the front, where it cradled three ruby gemstones. The diadem was meant to be an elegant headpiece, displaying the grace and power of the Hyrulean Family.

The second thing in the drawer was a stuffed horse.

Mr. Roberts was flopped on his side, his crudely made glasses askew on his snout. The horse was fluffy, a solid tan brown, with white socks and a pink nose. The yarn that made his flowing, blond mane was splayed out against the plain oak wood of the drawer.

Zelda propped him up, fixing his glasses, before patting him on his head. Mr. Roberts, afterall, was a respected keeper of the quills, who was paid with nightly cuddles. He had been in his position for nearly 16 years, a life-time partner with the princess herself. This was why he had the honor of being kept by the nightstand whenever visitors came, instead of shoved hurriedly under the bed, like all her other stuffed animals.

Her smile came and went like a breeze. Zelda sighed. She patted Mr. Roberts once more, then pushed him a bit further to the back of the drawer. The princess then took out the diadem, placing it snuggly on her head to push back her golden locks.

No braids today, as was father’s request.

At the thought of this, Zelda got to her feet.

He only said 20 minutes, right?

Let’s see… the guardian is just in the courtyard downstairs. Later, I could probably use the Champions as an excuse… they’ve been here a few hours, maybe? The ceremony is just a bit past noon… and if I use the stairs unconventionally...

Zelda’s eyes lit up for the first time all morning. Still standing by her bed, she cleared her throat and spoke swifty.

“Actually, Evelyn? Sorry, but there is one more thing.” As she spoke, she started to walk across the room towards her desk, about to begin a daring search amongst the avalanche of papers, books, fancy pens, and quills.

The woman had just about finished up packing her needles, fabric, and other tools into her small kit. She held it in one hand as she tilted her head curiously at the princess.

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“If you see my father, or anyone else due to the Champion Ceremony, just pass along a reminder that I’m not coming to the rehearsal beforehand.”

“Of course.” Evelyn observed the princess continue to hopelessly tumble through the mess of papers and books on her desk. “A busy day for you, miss?”

“Of sorts...”

Finally, she found it. Feeling the familiar brush of old leather at her fingertips, Zelda pulled out one of her journals from the wreckage of notes and ink. She really needed to find a better way to organize these things. Flipping through the pages, she found that this was indeed research journal number 27, with half of the pages still blank and ripe for the writing.

She turned to the tailor once more, clutching the journal to her chest. “If my father asks anymore questions about my whereabouts, just tell him I was delivering the Champion’s gifts myself. Otherwise, you can be sure I’ll still be at the sanctum at least 20 minutes early, just as he asked!”

The tailor hesitantly started the motion of a nod in agreement, but the princess didn’t stick around to see it finish. Zelda gave Evelyn an honest smile, before rushing out the door. The woman was left there, scratching the back of her head in concern.

Pushing open the double doors, the princess started to run through the hallway. Well, it was more of a half run, half walk. A jog if you will. It was difficult enough to walk around in heels, much less sprint across the carpet floor.

Curses, I should have brought a change of boots.

Zelda continued her journey through the corridors, hastily passing by the guards who wore slightly confused expressions under their thick helms.

Even though Zelda had left her room in a rush, as soon as she saw the drifting shadows of other Hylians at the end of the hallway, she slowed her pace. Guards were one thing, but other influential people, who might not know how to hold their tongue, was another. Turning the corner, she allowed the voice of her father and other nobility from her life to amplify.

Keep your head high. Don’t slouch. Look straight ahead. Don’t adjust your hair. Don’t attend to an itch. Don’t run. Hands folded, not crossed. Stride and be dignified. Look straight ahead. Look straight ahead.

She looked at their faces, walking through the hallway, she couldn’t help but notice the sudden quieting volume as people turned to look at her. Zelda didn’t know exactly who they were. Sons, daughters, brothers, or mothers of some nobles serving her father? It didn’t matter, she could already feel the pit in her stomach telling her that they saw right through her.

This specific corridor was basked in light, with open archways allowing the sunlight to drip through, and cast soft shadows onto the opposing wall. It was a small group of people, their clothing varying from large, simple gowns to sleek, suave coats. From the looks of it, they were just chatting amongst themselves as they enjoyed the morning breeze.

At least, they had been chatting, but now those conversations were reduced to faint whispers amongst a fragile silence.

Look straight ahead. Focus. Look straight ahead. Focus. Just...move forward.

Zelda began to walk calmly through the corridor, the noblemen and women giving curt bows and curtseys before turning back to their companions. Some continued to stare at her with blank, neutral faces, their expressions giving no indication of their emotions or opinions, which only fed Zelda’s growing anxiety.

Look straight ahead. Pay no mind. Look ahead.

The princess continued to walk. Her destination was so close, but the muttering and whispers seemed to tangle and trip her thoughts, making the journey towards the end of the hall seem like an eternity. It was as if the moment Zelda passed by them, these people took it as their cue to continue their not-so-silent conversations.

“...yeah, that’s the…...too young for…...but sixteen is a long time…”

“...spends all day with those…...His Majesty doesn’t like that…...no powers….”

“...can’t even do…..her duty…..a shame...”

Zelda took a deep breath, trying to drown out the whispers. Look ahead. Focus. Look ahead. Focus.

She snuck a quick glance at a man with curly brown hair, he seemed to tower above her when she passed him by. He cocked an eyebrow, before turning back to his partner.

Ahead. Focus. Ahead. Posture. Dignified. Strong...

“...expects us to…...and respect…...what throne will she even…”

“...inherits…...downfall…...nothing…”

“..…..she doesn’t even….so spoiled…”

“...running away…...even from simple things…”

They were just words. Simple words. Little words. Forget it forget it forget it.

Zelda finally reached the end and turned the corner, practically sprinting towards the staircase once she was alone. She didn’t even care if they could hear her echoing footsteps, she just didn’t want to be close enough to hear any laughter.

The princess pushed open a wooden door, leading her to the stairwell. Hearing it close behind her, Zelda finally allowed herself to breathe. Her shaky breaths slowly returning to normal with each passing moment.

Alone at the top of a stairwell, the princess’ short breaths echoed, and over time, they finally melded into a final, deep sigh.

“And…” Zelda clasped her hands together taking in the room, “...we’re good.”

Regaining her composure, Zelda looked down through the spiral staircase. The carefully chiseled stone walls housed intricate designs, but the railing of the stairwell was thick and smooth.

It was perfect for… “being punctual.”

An unconscious smile made its way onto Zelda’s lips, as she propped herself up onto the railing. Then, clutching the excess of her dress in her fist, the princess allowed her momentum to fall to the side, as she slid down the spiral staircase.

The faintest sound of a laugh escaped her, even though she tried to hold her tongue. The last time she did this, a guard had heard her and berated the princess for doing something so reckless. Her father would later agree, bringing up the fact that doing such an act had caused dust and grime to accumulate on the “not so pleasant area” of her dress.

Holy Hylia, just say “butt,” Father.

Yet by that point, she had become too addicted to the childlike amusement and wonder that filled her. So here she was, a few years later after that incident, doing one of the few disobedient things in her life. It was thrilling in some sense, yet on the other hand… a bit pathetic. However in those precious, precious few moments, the princess didn’t really care.

A couple dozen steps later, Zelda’s feet landed in front of the door of paradise. It was her paradise, anyhow. The wooden door had a glass pane window, housing three golden triangles that cast splashes of color onto the stone floor as the sunlight drizzled through.

Quickly attempting to brush off any dust on her dress, Zelda took another breath and walked out into her world.

It was noisy, and chaotic, and bustling, and wonderful. The playful breeze seemed to be tugging her towards the scene.

She finally let her smile show.

The bright blue sky was pierced with metal and wood, the thin brown lines of scaffolding, ladders, and ropes held Guardians and other Sheikah technology in the air. There were glows of orange and blue, blurs of grey and silver, and of course the dazzle of a familiar Sheikah red eye, painted on some of the hanging banners and on the clothing of various Sheikah.

Someone must have been burning coal again, the scent of smoke whirling towards Zelda. As the princess started walking around, she looked around, admiring the progress that the workers were making.

There was a strange charge in the air, something that mixed the feelings of lightning and excitement, and the feeling wasn’t just from her. Bustling by her, men and women alike rushed passed with beaming faces, arms full of paper and ink.

No one was whispering or standing still—serenity and silence were in the realm of myth. The air echoed with the whirr of machinery, and the occasional shouts of conversation between Sheikah kneeling under Guardians and atop the tallest scaffolding. Zelda saw how nonchalantly one man lay next to a Guardian head, seemingly ignorant to the fact that it could vaporize him at any second. She would have judged him for his recklessness, before the thought came to her that she had probably done the exact same thing several times. She snorted to herself.

Suddenly, a girl with white hair bumped into the princess’ shoulder, causing her to drop her journal. The Sheikah girl and Zelda started to exchange apologies, but not before the girl hastily grabbed onto her box of screws and metal scrapes, the contents a few half-seconds away from spilling onto the grass. Luckily, her reflexes avoided such a fate, and the girl let out a sigh of relief.

“Apologies, Princess.” The Sheikah girl attempted to give a little curtsey, but was more concerned with the well being of her materials than the quality of her manners.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have stood in the middle of the path, should I?” Zelda gestured to the other scurrying Sheikah around them, before moving off to the side.

“Well, nonetheless, Your Highness, it didn’t help on my end to have my vision be impaired.” The girl used a free hand to readjust her grip on the stack of supplies that piled up past her nose.

Zelda let out an easy smile. Picking up her journal from the ground, Zelda took this opportunity to get some info without bothering any of the other busy researchers.

“Do you happen to know where they relocated that Skywatcher Guardian? The one Robbie was working on?”

“Ah right, Dr. Robbie’s latest monstrosity... The one that collapsed last night, correct? It’s by the Southeast—no wait, Southwest Waterfall. For safety reasons, I believe.” With one free hand, she made an explosion gesture with her fingers

“Kaboom!”

Zelda shook her head with a chuckle. “It’s not gonna blow up. We haven’t even installed the propellor motors, much less the power core.”

The girl raised an eyebrow, before turning back around to continue to her destination. “Oh? Well tell that to the guards.”

“What? Did someone work on it?”

The Sheikah shrugged. “I don’t know, I was working my other job in Castle Town. All I know is that the workload for the Skywatcher thing has been greatly lifted. Supposedly someone was able to give it a new surge of power. So the typical guards have been assigned, you know, to keep the potential fires in check and all that…”

Another heave of her box of supplies, and the girl started back on her path.

“Be seeing ya, Princess!” said the Sheikah girl. As she walked, she started humming some faintly familiar tavern tune.

Zelda thought to herself, gears turning in her head, as she truly started getting into a ‘researcher’s mindset,’ as her father had called it.

What did she say? Southwest Waterfall? Well, no better place to prevent fires and explosions.

With new vigor, Princess Zelda walked deeper into the realm of ancient metal.

A blur of gold and blue made its way through the courtyards. Occasionally, a wandering Sheikah would turn and greet the princess, but for the most part, they would leave the girl to her devices, literally and figuratively, as they were used to Her Highness tinkering away at the various machinery. It wasn’t like any of them cared, so long as nothing got in the way of their own work.

In a sense, it was this very mindset that truly made Zelda feel at ease. There was no beating around a sacred bush, no dance or choreography to learn, no rules to conversation, or guidelines for the way to blink. The Sheikah here just...were. They did their jobs, worked towards their task, and would generally just act like normal people.

Of course, on occasion when Zelda stopped to ask a question, their tones would change from casual to professional. A simple question like, “Is everything running smoothly?” would get responses that typically ended with, “But of course, Your Highness,” accompanied by a deep and humble bow. However, the exhausting formalities were more an issue of Sheikah attempting not to embarrass themselves, rather than something along the lines of them sucking up, or wearing a polite mask just to whisper behind her back. It was this breath of fresh air that would make the princess forever grateful for their company.

Eventually, Zelda made her way to the Skywatcher Guardian. It was easy enough to identify, given that it was a lot more...intact than usual.

Above, a sparkling waterfall rushed against stone walls, before it crashed into a large lake, where the water stilled, shimmering quietly. Surrounding the waterfall, the courtyard's green grass melded with a brick path, atop which different types of Guardians stood. Large, rotating Sentries; clambering, scurrying Stalkers; and, most notable, a single Skywatcher, laid out on its side beside the pond.

These types were still new. Robbie supposedly only got it to fly for an hour before its power began to dwindle. Yet now, the Skywatcher was humming with life. Even laid on its side, with the propellers detached, the Guardian’s head swiveled in search of an absent enemy.

It was incredible really. Just last night, it was a heap of metal and screws. Compared to then, the Guardian was not only repaired, but its functionality was restored beyond that of which Zelda and Robbie had left it.

That’s funny...that nobleman wouldn’t stop talking my ears off about how his son got a bruise when the Guardian collapsed into bits and pieces.

She shook her head, cringing at the memory of having to apologize to someone after their kid broke one of the machines essential to the protection of Hyrule.

But, at least you’re all good now. Zelda thought to herself, moving to pat the Skywatcher’s hull with a smile. Oh, you’re a beautiful one, huh? Look at all your glowing lights and chiseled design! And is that a new lens I see? Oooo and your propellers here are all polished! Wouldn’t want grime and gunk in the gears, would you? No, no you wouldn’t... You sure are a fancy little guy aren’t y—

“...Your Highness?”

Zelda jumped, her mind snapping back to reality. Whipping around, she turned to face a Hylian guard, her helm tucked under one arm. She was stoically holding a spear, but the look on her face was of thinly veiled confusion.

The princess cleared her throat, slightly sheepish. “Yes? What is it?”

The guard shifted her weight, her blonde braid falling to the side. “Well…I’ve been ordered to keep unauthorized people from touching the Guardians. We haven’t had an explosion yet, here in the Activation Zone, and I’m sure we would all like to keep it that way—”

The princess quickly held up a hand, irritation starting to form in place of the embarrassment she felt moments ago. “Wait, are you saying I’m an unauthorized person?”

“Your father said....especially and specifically for today…”

Ah. Right… Of course he would say that.

Zelda finally sighed, compliant. “Alright, I understand. Thank you. But could you tell me why exactly this one was moved here to Activation?” She took out her journal, beginning to jot down observations and notes on the Skywatcher. “Just last night, I had people complain to me for hours about its collapse, and now all of the sudden it's already being actively tested? What happened to the ‘only authorized people’ rule?”

The guard suddenly looked away, not that Zelda noticed. “Uhhh...it was worked on sometime last night and super early morning.” She played with her blonde braid, brushing it against her metal gauntlet. “That Dr. Kimura? Sh—HE was one of the head scientist guys, so it was under jurisdiction.”

Zelda nodded her head in understanding, still jotting away at the paper. Then, the princess suddenly closed her journal with a snap, clutching it to her chest. She moved a bit closer to the Guardian, angling herself to be just in front of the opening at its top, where all the mechanism and components lie.

Then, she bent her legs and started jumping up and down.

The guard’s face was full of concern and confusion. “Um...Princess…?”

“I’m not touching it! I’m just—” her eyes started to widened, as she got a better peak inside, “Ooo, that’s a new feature, what kind of properties does—” But the guard couldn’t quite hear the rest of her sentence, given that it was continuously cut off with each hop she took.

Zelda finally finished jumping, although it was from her curiosity being satisfied, and not from the guard’s efforts to stop her. The princess started again to write down notes in her journal.

“A giant ancient core! I didn’t know we had unearthed more of those. It does transfer the needed energy to the propellers faster than a standard core.” She continued hurriedly scratching away at the pages of her journal. “Smart! I honestly should have thought of it sooner. I’ll have to thank Robbie later.”

“Right…”

For the better part of an hour, Zelda continued to sit by the lake and continue her research. As irritating as it was to not be allowed to touch things, Zelda was content with the opportunity to focus on writing down her theories and thoughts. Personally, she’d have preferred some music, but, well...he wasn’t here right now. Probably off trying to keep Robbie and Purah from wreaking too much havoc.

Music aside, the princess was still much at comfort, here beside the looming Skywatcher. The rushing of the waterfall, the ambience of distant conversation, and the patter of Sheikah metal, it all culminated in a setting that made her feel right at home. Despite the entirety of the castle technically being hers, the feeling was actually something that couldn’t come often enough…

But, like seemingly every enjoyable thing in her life, it ended far too soon.

Behind her, the guard suddenly moved closer to lean down. “Your Highness.”

“Mmm?” Zelda didn’t bother to look up at her, still flipping through her pages.

“You...have a guest.”

Zelda scoffed to herself, already forming a prediction of who it might be as she got on her feet.

Father said twenty minutes early. The ceremony doesn’t start for another 38, I’m fine. If I could just show him my progress here so far, then he’ll have to—

As the princess turned to face the person in question, the words she was about to let out of her mouth suddenly caught in her throat.

Oh.

He wasn’t actually looking at her at that moment. His eyes were distant, caught up with the view of the Sanctum at the apex of the castle. His blue eyes were bright and cold, while his stupidly perfect blond hair flowed with the New Year's wind. Winter hadn’t hadn’t yet fully surrendered to the Spring, but the air was still crisp enough to warrant her to wear the long sleeve dress. Yet, the boy stood with nothing but his leather boots, pants, and a beige and grey tunic. The fact that he never shivered was just another infuriatingly perfect thing about him.

That, and the fact that he seemed to take every waking moment to show off that sword, an imposing reminder that he was better than her in every way.

Zelda cleared her throat, getting his attention. “What can I do for you, knight?” She said the last word with a tone equal to that of how one might talk to the squished remains of a spider.

The boy turned to face her, the tips of his ears slightly pink. He put up his hands in front of his chest, the sword on his back shifting with the movement. The boy gave a look towards the princess, as if asking for permission.

Ah, right. No words…

The princess couldn’t quite understand it. Five years ago, when a twelve year old Link had first found the sword, he spoke with ease. No oath of silence had stopped him from chatting it up with her and her father. He was awfully loud, especially when exclaiming to his father, Captain Leon of the royal guard, his excitement about the “cool sword” he found. In those days, Link would pester her, about the epic battle they were fated to, about the legends and Beasts and prophecy. And it was his excitement and determination that had earned her the reputation.

The lazy one. The distracted one. The powerless one, doomed to a throne of nothing. The perfect knight, and the failing heir. The gleeful boy and the silent princess.

Well, at least she wasn’t the silent one anymore.

So now those five years had passed, they had barely spoken since those days. Of course, that boy, the wielder of the Sword That Seals The Darkness, of course he would find a way to ruin her day even without opening his mouth. Finally, Zelda let out a huff, acknowledging Link.

“Hylian Sign… yes, well. I’m a bit rusty, but so long as you don’t start telling me your entire life story I should be fine. Go on.”

He nodded, his expression painfully neutral. The knight began to move his hands, bending his fingers in different motions.

‘Your father asked me to look after you, before the ceremony began. Then I could escort you there. Practice for next week when I actually…’ he paused, thinking of his next gesture, ‘when I actually start accompanying you.”’

The princess couldn’t hide her scoff. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own way to the Sanctum, thank you very much.” She crossed her arms. “You can head there on your own, and tell the king that I’m fine. Frankly, I’m trying to enjoy my last few days of personal space.”

Zelda started the motion of spinning around and sitting back on the ground, but out of the corner of her eye she caught Link moving his hands once again.

‘I can wait here, until you’re finished, if you wish.’

She sighed, shaking her head. The princess gave a sort of halfhearted nod, as if to say “Fine, do whatever you want.” Although her distaste for the situation was made clear, given she sat back on the ground in a loud and stern demeanour.

Zelda started flipping through her journal again, trying to find where she left off. Yet, she hadn’t been writing for a full minute before she could feel it. She could feel him looking at her.

The guard was one thing, she was doing her job, and if they had something to say they would speak their mind at the princess’ command. Link, on the other hand, his stare was different. It was more similar to something like the stare she had felt in the corridor that day, although ten times worse given his eyes were guaranteed to be stoic and neutral.

Zelda wouldn’t stare him back, instead, she looked at the reflection of the lake. The water rippled slightly, the waterfall crashing in the distance. She could see the reflection of Link standing tall, and looking in the direction she was sitting. In the water, she could see his eyes. His gaze didn’t see her in the water, but the look was enough to get Zelda’s mind turning.

He thinks I’m pathetic.

Granted, he wouldn’t be the first.

Link had taken off his sword, propping it on the ground, sheath and all, as a sort of armrest. He set his elbows on the handle and continued to wait and watch. It was like some parent watching their toddler, making sure they didn’t hurt themselves. He probably thinks I’m a brat, how rich...

Although, Zelda was slightly hesitant at this theory, given that the way he was looking at her direction was so… soft. More warm than his typically glassy gaze.

Ah...

Pity.

Zelda laughed to herself. He pities the poor princess, the stupid girl who can’t figure out her destiny. The pathetic heir wasting her time with Guardians.

It all came so easy for him, it took him no time at all. What am I to him, some strange anomaly? An injured calf in the field? His destiny is held back by my struggles, and now he pities me for it. I’d like to see how he would act if he felt as useless as I.

Zelda continued to furiously scribble in her journal, but her thoughts continued to flow, one after another.

He doesn’t just pity me.

He hates me.

But on the bright side, the feelings he has for me are mutual.

Barely a minute passed, before the anxiety in Zelda’s head grew too much to bear. Was this really going to happen everyday now?

Finally, she let out a groan. In one swift motion she got to her feet, snapped her journal shut, and started marching towards the nearest entrance. Passing Link, she mumbled under her breath something slightly graphic concerning Guardians, skewers, and eyes.

Her mutters continued as she trudged towards the castle interior. She was about halfway there when she realized the only footsteps she heard were her own. Zelda turned around, finding that Link was still where he was moments ago, standing timidly, his stance hesitant to move.

“Well, are you coming?”

Link scratched the back of his head, then blinked. He picked up his sword, slung it back around him, and started to jog towards her. He was like a puppy, bounding up to their owner, only the analogy truly merged with reality given that Link seemed to be the type to only move when following orders. Spirits above, this was gonna be annoying. Zelda let out another sigh.

The two of them made their way back inside the castle. Weaving through the hallways, Zelda led the two of them up closer and closer to their destination. However, Link seemed to prefer walking five steps behind her. She tried to busy her hands, smoothing out her hair and her dress, but she couldn’t shake the swarm of thoughts in her head every time she saw the edge of Link’s shadow behind her.

Suddenly, Zelda stopped in the middle of the hall, speaking bluntly.

“If you’re really trying to live up to the knightly protection schtick, at the very least walk next to me so I don’t feel as creeped out.”

The knight blinked, then gave a nod. Once again, no reaction whatsoever. He awkwardly shuffled beside her, still with some distance between then, so that they stood at opposite ends of the width of the hall.

Zelda slumped her shoulders, but was ultimately satisfied with the situation. She continued down the hallways.

Minutes passed, then moments, then eternities. The end of each corridor couldn’t come fast enough. Although she had purposely chosen the route that ran into as little people as possible, there was a weird charge in the air given the dense silence between them.

Occasionally, she would mention something out of politeness, the typical dance of conversation. “How was your day?” and “The weather’s been weird,” and all that garbage. It didn’t help that he wasn’t much for conversation. The most he contributed to the conversation was asking why they were taking this route, as it wasn’t the quickest way to the Sanctum. Zelda gave him a blunt answer, as if to give him his own medicine, “I have an errand beforehand.”

More minutes passed, then moments, then centuries. Zelda continued to fidget with the edge of her sleeve, while Link continued his perfect silence.

The princess snuck a glance in his direction. He walked with purpose, matching her speed, but not daring to lead the way. He was watching the cycle of his steps on the floor. His face… his eyes.... It wasn't boredom. It wasn’t tiredness. He was just, blank.

She could still remember that young boy, excitedly asking her about the powers of Hylia, and glowing swords. Had he really grown out of that so quickly? Had he already managed to push down his childish ways for the sake of his duty?

Next to him, Zelda was an utter failure.

“Let me ask you something, hero. What are they going to remember you by?”

The words escaped her before she could register the noise, and the sudden sound made the boy’s posture stiffen in an instant. Link tilted his head askew in a quizzical nature.

“Me, I’ve worked my entire life to try to be something worthwhile. Today alone, I’ve worked to make my research impactful and worthwhile. I’ve had my speech for the Champion’s ceremony handcrafted to portray a desired image. My father had my dress tailor-made to something he approved of, and I work every damn day to live up to the role as the wielder of the Sealing power.”

She let out a sad sigh. “Even if it isn’t exactly the positive legacy I wanted, there is still something that people know me for.

“The solemn heir. The tired princess. Don’t you agree?”

Zelda looked at his face, trying to see some sort of reaction in his eyes.

Nothing.

She pushed further.

“Would you like another example? Well, everyone knows this tale. A young knight wanders into the woods, woods that sap your spirit and carry corpses into creeks. But instead of a fate of death, the boy found his fate in a sword, ‘for his heart was too pure to yield to the forces of evil.’ Sound about right?”

He didn’t react. The rate in which they walked slowed just barely.

“But that is just the start. The fairytale, if you will. Now, the knight becomes a truly talented and masterful swordsman. The image he gives off is of perfection and grace.” She waved her hand in an exaggerated manner. “Supposedly, that would be the end of it. That’s all we need to know.”

Then, Zelda stopped in the corridor, looking out one of the stained glass windows.

“Yet once—” she chuckled, although the laugh didn’t meet her eyes, “Once upon a time, I met a boy. He liked swords and chocolate, horses and fruit. He liked the woods, and talking, and dogs, and stories. I know because one day he and I talked, just the two of us. It was nice, but he told me something strange.”

She turned to face Link directly. “He told me he was confused. He told me he didn’t understand some of the new changes in his life. He told me he was...something along the lines of nervous.

“I told him I felt the same, for you see, the person in my life who was supposed to guide me, they were gone. This boy and I, we were in the same boat, which didn’t often happen in my life.”

She stepped closer to him, her shadows growing along the opposite wall. “I told him that if I ever found out how to stop being confused, how to figure out everything, I would tell him. And he told me the same.

“But then that boy vanished, and instead I met a knight. The perfect, dashing knight from the fairy tales…”

Zelda was less than a foot away from him now, looking at his eyes.

“...and I never spoke to that boy again. Although in a sense, I’m glad. I never found the answer he was looking for.” As she said this, she looked away, breaking her gaze.

The princess looked out the window again, while the hero continued to stare at her, unmoving. After a moment, she spoke again.

“So I ask, how should I remember you then? Who are you going to be, the knight, or the boy? I’d like to at least know that before you once again start shoving your way into my life.”

A pause, a tension in the air that could form storms, but for now it was as still as the surface of a pond. Both of them waited for an answer to appear. She could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

Finally, he raised his arms, meeting her eyes with a strange new light.

‘I plan to be whatever is needed of me.’

Another silence, but more fragile than the last. Finally, the thoughts in her head crashed together like the end of a waterfall. Zelda let out a deep sigh, before storming off down the rest of the hallway.

Perfect answer from the perfect hero. What else did I expect?

Still storming off, Zelda’s thoughts fluttered through her head. No, not just thoughts. Words. They echoed and bounced around in her head. Her words, her father’s, Link’s...words? Expressions? What do you even call them—

In her haste, Zelda nearly bumped into a large, basil green Zora. He looked down at her, puzzled, while she mumbled out apologies.

Moving past him, Zelda took in the room around her.

They had reached the main hall.

It was draped with velvet and gold, along with bright blue banners, and stained glass ceilings. More decorated that usual given today’s events. Unlike in times past, different races other than Hylians bustled across the floor. Sheikah, Rito, Zora, Gorons, Gerudo, they moved with purpose, and intent. They all knew where they were going, and where everyone else was going, up, up to the Sanctum.

Behind her, Link finally caught up. Zelda slumped her shoulders, but was ultimately glad she wouldn’t have to chase him down later. She eyed one of the ornate doors beside one of the windows, before gesturing to Link with a hand. “Well, come on then. Let’s go meet the others.”

The Sanctum is just upstairs, I’ve got 30 minutes, so 10 minutes to talk with the rest of the Champions. We’re good, we’re good...I don’t need to pay the people here any mind...

The figure of Link out of the corner of her eye pierced through her thoughts. Seeing the raised eyebrow on Link’s face as they walked, Zelda spoke in a lowly tone.

“Whatever your stance on knights and stories are, the rest of the world prefers the fairytales. They want links between the storybooks and reality, some symbol of perfection to ease their minds, to tell them that it won’t all end in failure. So come.”

Zelda paused, turning to face him directly. She looked up and down at Link’s outfit, a typical beige and grey knight’s tunic, with dark pants and boots. Then, she continued towards her destination with new vigor.

“There is something I need to give you all.”

#reblogs appreciated!#botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda botw #loz botw #where time takes us #botw fanfiction #link #link botw #zelda #zelda botw #zelink

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inforapound · 4 years

Text

Emboîté Part 6

A/N - This is the final chapter. It’s a bit of a ride. As @youbloodymadgenius doesn’t love angst, I softened it with sickly sweet suckie fluff. I do have an epilogue in mind which I may or may not write. We’ll see.

Pairing – Ivar and Sarah (Aethelswith)

Words – 3,900 approx

We fell in love, blinding love, totally consumed by the other. Dance was the single and only part of my life that prevented me from being swallowed entirely by Ivar’s passion. I was his obsession and I loved it. Within a month we spent every moment outside of rehearsals and weekend performances together and when the seasonal break came, I taught ballet and we were glued at the hip for the rest of the time. Exploring the city like visitors, going to movies, countless suppers out, being that couple who couldn't sit without tangling in each other’s arms on the same side of the table.

Mornings, evenings, stolen moments in the day were spent making love. Our bodies moving as if in some race to absorb the other. Within a few months, there wasn’t a part of me, not an inch, not a speck of flesh, he hadn’t claimed and worshipped. Not a single thing two bodies could possibly do, that we hadn’t. His hands on my skin, my face, my tummy, everywhere, felt as familiar as my own. Always, always the moment he pushed inside me, his words of devotion would flow, how beautiful I was, how perfect I felt around him, how much he needed me, how lucky he was to have me, that I was his baby, his woman, his princess. It was fiercely intense and dangerously addictive without a moment to catch my breath. His relentless lips inhaling me, tasting me, gulping up every whimper and cry of his name.

Within half a year our bodies new the other so intimately, our love making could stretch hours or just a minute if that’s all that time would allow. Never parting without him reminding me that he was mine and I was his and that we fit together. It was true, we did. Was it healthy? Probably not but I didn’t care. He was unlike anyone I could have dreamt of. Not an easy man but a remarkable one. A man of extremes and complexities with an immense ability to feel. His brilliance and passion as vast and powerful as his fear of being without me. There was a pain inside him, it had been there long before me but somehow, he felt it less when we were together.

His moods, oh my god. They were overwhelming with his immediate reaction always being hurt or rejection. Our fights at times were brutal. Arguments that would start the same way each time with my desire to return home for a night or two. Heading back into season, I wanted to rest and refocus, get used to waking up in my own space in anticipation of the opening season.

Without fail, it would catapult him into a tailspin of anger, even despair. He refused to understand my desire for space or time alone, particularly after the man had purchased me everything I could ever want to keep at his place. Pajamas, clothing, toiletries, goddamn matching sweatsuits to his.

In truth, I didn’t really want to be away from but I felt I should. Should as an exercise in maintaining some shred of independence.

Opening night at the theatre was just over a month away and we were already fighting about my upcoming rehearsal schedule.

On those nights when I would simply walk out, leaving him to sit alone in the dark and brood or smash something against his concrete floors, I still lay awake on my crummy pull out couch and ache for him. Sometimes even cry for him. My body feeling adrift without his arm over me or his chest against my back anchoring me down. I’d wake in the morning to sometimes a dozen texts, the last few always sounding defeated. Was I like a drug to him? Possibly.

When I would return, he’d just embrace me, not allowing me to sit anywhere but in his lap, the hurt immediately forgotten. Always making me laugh by being a dork, doing something stupid like shoving his head up my shirt, pretending he was lost or someone had turned out the lights.

Ivar Lothbrok was the love of my life. My partner and my very best friend and I couldn’t imagine life without him. And one day, in an instant, with a single phone call, everything changed.

----

“Hello.”

“Sarah!” Wynne’s urgent tone pulled me from the haze of sleep. Ivar’s heavy arm over my side.

“Wake up.”

“I’m awake.” Pushing down on the mattress, I forced myself up, leaning back against the headboard. Scooting toward me, Ivar again draped his arm across my outstretched legs. “What’s up?” I asked knowing by her rushed voice that this was not a call about scheduling.

“It’s Giovanna. She’s been tapped.”

“What?” my eyes shot wide. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Paris baby. And guess what else?”

“What?”

“You’re up girl. You’re in. You got lead. Board decided this morning. This is your official call.”

Mouth gaping, I couldn’t say a word.

“Sarah! You’re our new principal starting opening night. 4 weeks today.”

“Oh my god,” I replied in a whisper, looking down to Ivar’s face, half-buried in his soft pillow. As if feeling my eyes on him, his armed squeezed my legs.

“Right!?”

“Wow.”

“Yep, get in here so we can talk about your contract. Practice for you starts, like now.”

“Yeah, okay. Oh my god. Ok. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Dropping my phone onto the duvet, I exhaled loudly, closing my eyes. The thoughts were entering my brains so quickly, I felt as if I couldn’t hold on to a single one of them. I needed to get to the theatre.

“Ivar, I’m dancing lead.”

Looking up, he withdrew his arm, turning onto his side.

“I gathered, congratulations.”

“Giovanna…. she’s going. I learned so much from her. Now, I have to be her?”

“No, baby, be you. You’ve earned this. We should celebrate,” shifting closer, he lifted his head, extending his arms and yanked me by the waist down beside him.

“No,” I smiled, pushing meekly on his chest as he leaned in kissing the side of my face. “They are expecting me.”

“I’m expecting you,” he smirked rolling onto his back, heaving me over to straddle his waist.

“Come on. Let me just slip it in really quick before you go.”

“Ivar! Really romantic,” I laughed, looking down, pushing my legs further apart as his hands slid up my thighs, grabbing my hips and grinding up against me.

“I’ll make it the most romantic 3 minutes of your life.”

“Okay,” I laughed again, pulling off my camisole, bending down to get my morning kiss.

----

The first week, I rehearsed full days often staying into the evening. Declining Ivar’s offers of picking me up or bringing me supper at the theatre. Hyper focussed, I did not want any interruption or distraction, not a single break in the pace I had set. At first, Ivar was understanding but within days, I could sense his hurt.

When I would arrive to his place late in the evening, he would go through the motions of being the supportive boyfriend, rubbing my feet, offering food, a hot bath but I could feel the resentment. His love making was needier, demanding, even pushy. Or, perhaps, I was beginning to detach. My mind, previously filled with thoughts of him and us, was consumed with preparation and the expectations of the following day’s practice. That and my body needed sleep, terribly. Not two hours of sex when I was already facing a short night with an early morning start.

Around and around we went the first week, the more I withdrew, the more desperate he became for my affection. Constantly needing reassurance. By the second week, I just couldn’t return to his place after rehearsal. I walked into my apartment, looking around as if I had never lived there. Texting him that night, I lied. My first ever lie to him. To my best friend and the love of my life. Said there was a problem with the water lines and the building manager had called. Explained that since I was already there, I was just going to head to bed.

The following night, I again returned to my apartment, and the night after that, my excuses sounding weaker and weaker and his frustration only growing. I started leaving out the back door of the theatre like some woman in hiding avoiding her abuser who may or may not be waiting in an SUV out front. My Poor Ivar. His only crime was loving me fiercely, compulsively. But I just couldn’t deal with it.

He called and called and texted. I began hitting the DECLINE button as I had no idea what to say and no extra energy to diffuse his upset. I was exhausted and it was make or break time. Do or die. I didn’t want us to be over. Not at all. Hitting that red ignore button on my phone was me wanting a pause. A pause on us - our relationship until after opening night, after the first couple of weeks when I had proven myself worthy of replacing Giovanna and beating out Nicole the other second. New steps, a new role, the pressure of representing the theatre, not to mention, the ticking clock counting down the dwindling timeline for my career. My life! Twenty-two years of ballet and in a matter of weeks, it would all be put to the test.

Ivar was an intelligent man, he loved me and wanted me to succeed but he had never known hunger. Couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be a woman fighting in a world filled with talent for a chance. With no money, no family to fall back on. His circumstance and mine weren’t his fault but in the back of my mind, I worried his need for me overpowered his ability to support my success.

The truth was I loved him. I wanted to spend my life with him, but I couldn’t deal with him now. After two weeks of this cat and mouse game, a switch flipped, and I stopped all communication. No more excuses. Nothing.

Asleep one night on my pull-out couch in my studio apartment, a knock on my front door woke me at 2am. Like a cold-hearted coward, I froze, laying in my bed, pretending I wasn’t there. The knocking turned into banging and I literally pulled the covers up and cried. Cried because I needed him to leave me alone. The noise stopped and at some point, he left. When I opened the door in the morning, there was a bouquet of pink tulips thrown on the dirty carpet of the hallway. My poor Ivar. He was hurting and I kept shutting him out.

My phone blew up with texts for days and days, angry and demanding and I deserved it. Every word. How does a person cut another from their life like that? The last I read before turning off my phone was a plea for us to meet at Piccolo's to talk. I couldn’t. It would not be just supper. He would want more, everything, and I would give it to him. I needed to stay away. By the third week, his texts stopped. No more calls or long voicemails.

As much as I kept my mind on the steps, on the music, on my breath, my heart ached for him. Physically hurt as I sensed his rejection and pain. I was torturing him and at the same time, I had to dance like I was as free as a bird.

----

The black SUV should have stood out to me but it didn’t. My mind was on the morning ahead as I raced down the sidewalk at 7am with a paper cup of coffee and my gym bag slung over my shoulder. The door of the vehicle opened, and my steps slowed as I noticed the familiar sight of Ivar’s cane hitting the sidewalk and him stepping out from behind the door. Nearing dropping my coffee, my eyes widened, shocked at how broken he looked. Pained, angry, pale, his blue eyes watery as if he hadn’t seen sleep in days.

My reaction? I glanced at the door of the theatre to calculate whether I could make it inside before he could stop me. Who had I turned into? I wasn’t afraid of him so why was I doing this? Had I subconsciously, or even conscientiously decided that being with him would cost me my career? Like I had cost my mother’s when she was left pregnant.

“Sarah.”

Sounding like a ghost his voice pulled me out of my thoughts, my focus returning to his hardened face.

Sarah?” he repeated again, frustration flaring in his tone. “You can’t be bothered to pick up my calls or even make excuses anymore? I have to come here, and catch you off guard like an insane person? Baby,” he pleaded, his face contorting with emotion, “I, I can’t believe this. Any of this. That you can just drop us.”

“Ivar, I can’t do this right now.” My brows pulled together, and I knew I looked like I was begging.

“You are going to blow me off when I am right in front of you? Sarah! If I’m awake, I‘m missing you. Fuck! I can barely…” looking down, he shook his head, shuffling his cane and I could tell he was working hard at controlling himself.

“I will call you later. Tonight. Ok?”

“But you won't,” he shook his head again,” looking up.

Breaking from his intense glare, I dropped my eyes to the pavement, holding back the wisps of loose hair flying around my face. I didn’t know what to say. I just needed to get inside.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I whispered, stepping forward and heading for the front door.

“Wait,” he cried, and I felt a tug on my gym bag and shoulder. Snapping my head to look, his hand was gripping the side of my bag.

I must have looked panicked as when I pulled away, he quickly let go, sending me tumbling sideways, and down flat on the sidewalk

“Baby!” he yelled, shuffling over me, his hands grabbing trying to pull me up. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Fuck, are you alright? It was an accident. I’m so sorry,” he rushed, looking horrified.

Awkwardly he pulled me up onto my feet, spilled coffee all over the pavement. “Are you okay?” he reached forward and I stepped back, blocking his embrace.

As if I had kicked him in the groin, he gasped at my rejection.

“Baby, I didn’t mean for you to fall.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“I know!” I shot back impatiently, straightening my clothes. “I know it was an accident.” Looking back up to his sad eyes. “I have to go.”

“Sarah, are you alright?” a man’s voice came from the theatre door. Turning I saw the guy who did our lighting, standing in the doorway, holding the glass door open.

“Is she alright?” Ivar’s head shot back. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend, thanks,”

“Doesn’t look like she wants to talk to you.” He yelled back, matching Ivar’s volume.

“It’s none of your goddamn business.” Ivar barked over my head.

“That’s enough,” I muttered, turning back to the theatre.

“Todd, it's okay. Thank you. It's fine. Really. I’m coming right in.”

Nodding, Todd flashed Ivar a poignant look before letting the door close.

“What kind of fucking name is Todd? Is he some teen lifeguard?”

“Ivar, please,” I kept my voice soft, turning to look at him, embarrassed by the seen we were creating. “Just go. I know it was an accident. Please,” my voice cracked, and tears began to fill my eyes. “I can’t do this right now. I’m….” shaking my head, I felt everything inside me shatter, all the pressure of opening night less than a week away. “I can’t do this Ivar,” I repeated, throwing my hands up frantically, my voice wavering.

Frowning his eyes bore into mine, “Can’t do what? Us?”

“Yeah.” I choked out the word feeling no relief. “I can’t do us…anymore.”

“Baby...” his eye narrowed, his mouth falling open in disbelief, “don’t do this. Please,” slowly he shook his head, uncertainty, fear, devastation in his startling blue eyes. His hands hung heavily at his sides, his fingers twitching like all he wanted was to reach for me and wrap me in his arms.

“I’m sorry Ivar,” I whispered, taking a step back. I had to put him out of this misery. “It’s over.”

His eyes flashed wide with the final blow and I turned toward the theatre, making my way through the front doors without looking back to the man I had felt was my forever.

----

It was time. Opening night. The steps ingrained in my mind as if I had choreographed the ballet myself. I could dance them without music, without cues, in the pitch black, prepared as anyone could be.

Sitting on my chair in a dressing room, I stared into the mirror. My eyes and brows heavily lined, the border of bright lights reflecting in my eyes and I felt...numb. No, not numb, I felt sad. Empty. There was a dull hum inside my head dampening any sense of nervousness or excitement. I glanced at the screen on my phone for the hundredth time in an hour but it was still black. No messages.

Leaning forward, toward the mirror, I inspected my make-up again, turning my head side to side, the harsh rouge on my cheeks stretching up to my temples. I felt ugly. Hideous. Like a monster who could eat her own young. Placing my arms across the table, I lowered my head, resting my forehead on the edge.

A knock on the door startled me and I lifted my head peering into the mirror at the reflection of the door behind.

Wynne poked her head in, “Knock, knock,” her black bob framing her round face. Opening the door wider, she stepped in holding a vase of pink tulips.

“We usually have to wait until the end of the show to get flowers,” I said.

“Not you miss. Not when you have your own cheerleading section.”

“Hmm?” I squinted, the pressed powder on my face feeling as if it might crack.

“Ivar,” she lifted the vase slightly, frowning as if I should know what she was talking about.

“What?”

“You guys are still not talking? He's in the balcony with his family.”

“What!” I spun in the chair, turning to look at her. “How do you know?”

Entering, she kicked the door closed behind and walked over, placing the glass vase on my make-up table, quickly taking a seat at the next station.

“A group of gorgeous men, two of whom have women with them, and all have the last name Lothbrok.”

“Oh my god. I’ve never even met them.” My eyes shot wide. “Ivar never wanted to because of family tension...” shaking my head, “the oldest two are married. It must be…” my voice fell silent. Saying nothing, I looked down, fiddling with the sheer material of my costume. “Wynne,” I whimpered, “I’ve been so terrible to him.”

“Awe don’t worry. You have all season to make it better.”

“What do you mean?” lifting my chin, I looked back up to her.

“He’s reserved the balcony every Saturday until the new year.”

“What!”

“Yes, he must be loaded.” She jerked her head toward the huge bouquet. “There’s a card there.”

Reaching for the vase, I spun it, grabbing the white envelope with gold trim tucked inside the rim.

“Shit, do you think I should read it before I go on.”

“Up to you but....yes. You are obviously thinking about him and he’s here so he’s obviously thinking about you.”

Blowing air out between my lips, I tore open the envelope, pulling out the card.

“Stay though, okay? While I read it?”

“Yep.”

Looking down I was hit with a surge of excitement as I saw that the card was completely filled with Ivar’s perfectly symmetrical writing.

Sarah,

I know that I acted horribly and was out of line the other day. I am not sure anyone will ever understand what having you in my life means to me. It’s no excuse though.

I am so proud of you and how hard you have worked to get here. You are such a strong person and I hope you are not upset that I had to come tonight and watch this incredible moment in your life.

I fell for you the second you got into my car that night at the auction. Hopelessly and completely and I acknowledge how smothering and controlling I’ve been since. I have never felt this way before and was terrified that if I loosened my grip, you’d slip away. It left you feeling divided and I know I put you in the position where you felt you couldn’t have it all. I should have been championing you toward your dreams from the start. You deserve everything.

I accept your decision to focus on your dancing and I will support you from afar. I wish I could have been there with you tonight, taking your photo, kissing you good luck before you went on but here we are.

My brother asked why I was so broken and why I was convinced I had to be with you. I know in my heart, in my bones, that it just won't ever be anyone else. What I’m saying is that I love you, Sarah. I love you. I know that I have never said those actual words. God, I should have. A thousand times. They just never felt big enough and I have seen what people do to each other who use them. But I love you.

Lastly, I’m sorry I didn’t know how to do this better.

Enjoy every second of tonight. You will be amazing.

Yours,

Ivar.

Pressing the card to my chest, I slouched against the back of the chair, closing my eyes, willing away the tears.

Emboîté, emboîté, the voice of my first ballet teacher rang through my head. Emboîté, she would call out to us little girls floundering like ducklings across the vast wooden floor.

Turning to Wynne, I smiled, sniffling through my tears. “Do you have a pen, and can you take something to Ivar? Right away?”

----

Dear Ivar,

There are things to talk about but most importantly, I am so incredibly sorry and I love you too. So much. I want us to be together, in fact, I want to move in. Formally move in, if you’ll still have me, of course.

No matter how crazy life gets, let us have the comfort of each other every night and together learn how to do this properly. I will see you after the show and I am so glad you are here. It would not be the same without you.

Yours always,

Sarah

----

When I landed and lifted my head listening to the eruption of applause, I took my bow and for the first time looked into the light. Tipping my face up, I focussed on the balcony and smiled with all my heart at Ivar who, up from his chair, stood staring down, pounding his hands together, clapping. The white envelope was tucked under his arm and his beautiful smile was lit with the brightness of our future.

@youbloodymadgenius @naaladareia @funmadnessandbadassvikings @redama @mdredwine @didiintheblog @yourpurplequeen @londongal2810 @fields-and-fields-of-poppies @hexqueensupreme @littlecarolina94 @oddsnendsfanfics @youbelongeverywhere @blonddnamedhandz @waiting4inspiration @zuxiezendler @heavenly1927 @jzr201 @hecohansen31

#ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar fanfic #ivar smut #modern ivar #ivar love #ivar romance #vikings ivar #vikings fanfic #ivar and sarah #alex hogh andersen

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eremiss · 4 years

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I do have another, unprompted question that keeps coming to mind whenever I read Gwencred: What happens when she learns he's been swiping and reading her journal all this time? Does she know already and "allows it"? It upsets me whenever he does it, as it's such a perfect not-so-great habit for him (and one of those "wish I'd thought of that" things).

This answer is best described as, “A collection of thoughts interspersed with writings”. It got pretty long, oof haha

Gwen becomes a bit suspicious that Thancred is occasionally a little too insightful around the time of Heroes of the Hour and Litany Of Peace MSQ in Dragonsong War/Post-HVW through a combination of little slips of the tongue on his part and catching him in her room once, which he was able to play off…mostly.

I haven’t hammered out the exact moments of her suspicion and gradual realization, or any sort of confrontation about it, direct or otherwise, but I do have a relatively solid handle on Gwen’s line of thought– where it begins, where she goes while overthinking it, and where it ends up. And I also have roughly written out a point where she’s presented with proof that he was most definitely stealing her saved pages and reading her journal right at the end of StB.

—

Her initial reaction was to kind of try and brush it off. “What? No, no he wouldn’t…” But then she thought about it for a little bit and… “…except yeah, he juuust might.”

She had bigger things on her mind then and half-wanted to think she’d imagined it or, if she hadn’t, that it was a one-off situation. She stewed on it for a little bit and, though she never caught him trying to read over her shoulder or going through her saved pages, found herself torn between ‘yes, he did’ and ‘no, he didn’t’ and not entirely sure how she felt about it.

Rather than accuse him or try to confront him about it, she decided to simply keep her journal close or on her person rather than leaving it in her desk or in her room, and was also a bit more sparing about what she wrote in it. She covered the change of behavior by claiming she had a lot on her mind and was frequently busy, so she needed to be able to take any opportunity she could get to write.

In the following few weeks it seemed like Thancred wasn’t quite so insightful or on-the-ball in trying to get her talking about what was on her mind, or picking at it in ways that offered new perspectives.

But then, strangely, everything seemed to go back to normal. Odd. Perhaps it had been her imagination the whole time. Or maybe he’d gotten sneakier. (it was the latter)

Which left her feeling a bit…paranoid. Still, she avoided confronting him. Partially because she simply didn’t want to, and partially because she still hadn’t fully sorted out her feelings yet. She didn’t want to be wrong and, more subconsciously, she didn’t want it to be necessary/didn’t want it to be true, in a way.

Nothing much seemed to change on his end, as he didn’t act differently or treat her differently, nor draw any conclusions about how she was keeping her journal close aside from one teasing inquiry as to why she was suddenly carrying it around like a teddy bear.

He’d been fairly aware, as usual, of when to seek her out and provide a bit of company, and that hadn’t stopped during her ‘trial period’ either. And he barely missed a beat in terms of talking with her and giving advice, so…?

But the more she thought about it, the more she came to think that brief period sort of was, and sort of wasn’t, proof. They were both apart for a portion of that time, meaning he would need time to catch up to her current situation, snooping or not. Whereas before, when she’d begun to be suspicious, they’d been in relatively constant contact. It’s a lot easier to be insightful about things you know about, isn’t it? And even then, when she thought he’d snooped, he didn’t always have the right answer or good advice anyway; and he didn’t always say or do the right thing. He wasn’t perfect, and he had his own life and his own problems and responsibilities to worry about. So was this even really all that odd? Or was she just reading into it because of her own suspicions?

She talked herself in circles like this for quite a while, torn about whether or not she was being paranoid and what she should actually try to do about it. Confronting him would be the simplest plan, but she really needed to have her feelings on the matter sorted out first, right? and what if she was wrong? Then what?

And then he had all gone back to normal, even though she’d been more protective of a journal… But perhaps he was just a bit more clever than her and had managed to read it again. While that wasn’t ideal, if it was the case, being able to lean on his insight and his advice again had been a relief…

…Oh.

So… If he was snooping, which she couldn’t fully bring herself to admit, then it….was helpful. Kinda.

She didn’t like that he might have been reading her journal or prying, but at the same time, if it helped him talk to her, and thus helped her…? They were still close, they still talked, they still leaned on each other…

Hm…

After a bit of debate, and rather at a loss for what to make of the whole thing or what she should do about it, Gwen stopped being quite so protective of her journal. In part, she was simply tired of it, it was another thing to have to think about all the time, and partially she wanted to see what would happen, or if she’d catch him again. Then, she told herself, they’d have to have a talk. After seeing that nothing she wrote ever really came back to bite her –unless she counted Thancred being more aware of her mood or the increased likelihood of efforts to assist with whatever problem she was tied up in as ‘biting’– she gradually went back to writing as she always had, with a few exceptions, such as her suspicions or venting about friends (which she never did much of anyway).

Her feelings about the whole thing were, are, and will continue to be rather complicated. But they’ve simplified somewhat since the beginning.

She lowkey wants to write something like ‘so are you gonna fess up or do I actually have to catch you red-handed’ in her journal and wait for him to find it. But then she’d have to, you know, deal with the results, and she isn’t entirely sure what would happen, so she’s held off so far.

By late-StB and into ShB, after sort of settling with the whole idea, her mindset is hovering around something like:

– A little bit still annoyed for violating her privacy, and a little bit… nervous and hurt, in a sense, that he hasn’t come clean about it and seems to have no plan to. At the same time as she understands why that’s a rather intimidating proposition, she wishes he’d trust her a bit more and not feel like he had to keep it secret.

– Being more mindful about her phrasing but not censoring herself entirely, which usually results in a lot more writing, marking out and then re-writing to reword and rephrase things. Annoying as it is, and as little as she likes the bit of paranoia and worry (worse at sometimes than others) that inspires it, the rewording and rephrasing does actually help her think about things a bit more thoroughly and carefully than she would otherwise.

– Over time she came to appreciate that he doesn’t share her secrets with anyone (or maybe he does on certain occasions, because sometimes Y’shtola is far too aware of her health) and he hasn’t used anything he’s read against her, at least not so directly as using it as justification to dismiss or discredit her opinions and concerns, nor does it ever seem to affect or change his view of her–negatively and/or outwardly, at least.

(((That’s not to say he hasn’t ever been less-than-happy with something he’s read, particularly about himself, but he’s the type to brood and stew on things rather than immediately go running to confront her over it. Eventually he remembers that he has his own opinions, gripes and flaws, and just because he can work them out in his head while she needs to write them out on paper doesn’t make hers any more intentionally hurtful or antagonizing than his.)))

– She tries to look out for the Scions’ mental health, mostly through making sure they rest and getting them talking about their problems even as she tends to bottle up her own, and reading her journal seems to be Thancred’s way to look after her. He uses her journal like a guide for when and how she needs a hand talking out a problem, or when someone needs to make her step away and breathe for a minute. He offers his opinion and advice and helps her work through hard topics, but he doesn’t tell her what to think. He presses on certain issues when he thinks he needs to, sometimes a little too hard, but in the end the questions and pushing serve to make Gwen reevaluate and reaffirm her reasoning for her decision, and thus lead to her holding to it more strongly. Once she’s proved her convictions he doesn’t try overly hard to change her mind, even when it isn’t necessarily a decision he agrees with. (“I was really hoping you’d change your mind about fighting two primals at once. This did not go as planned. But you’ve made up your mind, so…”)

– It is a Struggle for Gwen to fully explain and vocalize her concerns and worries, particularly when it comes to more tangled or complex issues and things she blames herself for. Most because she’s self-conscious about rambling or ‘word vomiting’, which tends to happen when one is in the midst of trying to process their thoughts and feelings on a situation, and also when one feels they need to justify why their thoughts are what they are; and, going along with that, she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing or give the wrong impression of a situation. Writing things down gives her the chance to work stuff out herself and get all of the pieces in order and in the right place, even though it doesn’t grant much opportunity for outside perspective or trying to view things from a new/different angle.

And once it’s written down and in order, then she’s ok talking about it. But, ah, well, you know… it’s all worked out and in order, so nevermind, don’t worry about it.

How much she really needs someone to be able to fill in the gaps and ‘see the end picture so they can help sort the pieces’ in order to properly discuss or address whatever is bothering her is really brought to light during Stormblood when she and Thancred spend moons apart. Gwen finds that, even after she’s sisterly-levels of close with Alisaie and Lyse and even after they prove how well they know her and how she tends to think/act, she can’t really talk with them quite the same way as she can with Thancred. They don’t mind her rambling, but they both tended to try and stop her and address each little thing as they came up, rather than going along and letting her train of thought keep going forward, either giving minor fixes along the way or waiting till the end and addressing all at once like Thancred tended to.

Why, though? Other than personality, anyway.

Well, it’s easier to reach the finish line when he already knew where it was, which meant he used her rambling to fill in a few holes and adjust the route, rather than trying to blindly follow the winding path she was making.

By reading her journal Thancred can much more easily ‘meet her halfway’ or jump straight to the end or the important parts of a problem because he already has a general understanding of the situation and her mindset. Already being aware of what she was thinking let him more easily straighten out crooked ideas or misconceptions and redirect lost trains of thought, which helped her clear up questions or finally reach a resolution. Talking with someone else also offers a chance for different perspectives, and helps her get better about reevaluating situations and problems.

In particular, being able to reliably talk to Thancred got her in the habit of seeking advice for a current/upcoming problem, rather than asking for an opinion after the fact.

((Her time in Doma in StB, aside from making her realize how bad she is about talking to others about her problems in general, also served to make her reassess how she goes about explaining whatever is on her mind, as well as explaining why she’s feeling or thinking that way. She learns that a bit of word vomit while she gets her thoughts together isn’t bad so long as she doesn’t start talking in circles, and she both gets quicker at organizing her thoughts and better and maintaining a steady, if not straight, stream of consciousness/line of thought in a sense, as opposed to jumping around topics or cutting herself off. She was more open with Alisaie pre-ShB. At the end of 5.0, when she realizes why she’s been so off and what the light is doing to her, she works harder to be more open with everyone –and particularly Y’shtola where it concerns her health– and rely less on her journal in general))

tl;dr: she’s come to view it as sort of a good-but-not-great thing, though she wouldn’t go so far as to call it a ‘necessary evil’. She still isn’t entirely happy with it, but she appreciates the results and the motives/thought behind it, so she has sort of decided to just leave it be for now. She still hopes Thancred will fess up on his own one day. The longer that doesn’t happen, the more tempted she is to try and find a way to bring it up.

—

Post-”The Call” I loosely headcannon’d that Urianger came to Ala Mhigo to both check on Thancred and support the other Scions. While Thancred is being transported back to Mor Dhona, Urianger reluctantly approaches Gwen and gives her some papers he found in Thancred’s possession (probably his pocket). He claims he didn’t read much, just enough to recognize the handwriting and realize that they were writings rather than correspondence or some missive that Thancred had intended to deliver. He doesn’t really sugarcoat it, “They were in his possession, though I cannot claim to know why. You must needs ask him once he hath awakened.”

Feeling particularly out of sorts for a variety of reasons, Gwen admits that she’s suspected it for a while, “But I didn’t try to find out for sure.” There has always been a nasty little question poking around about how much Thancred truly knew her or just what she wrote, which was most of the reason she never tried to confront him or catch him in the act. She more or less knew, but sorta-kinda didn’t want to know, and she honestly was able to ignore that poking little question more often than not.

I actually had written out a bit of her talking it out with him, so I’ll put it here as I’m pretty sure I’m never actually gonna write that particular scenario out in full. Somewhere before this particular dialogue, Gwen mention that her writings in her journal are ‘rambling bits and pieces’:

“If thou wouldst allow me a presumption.”

Gwen glanced curiously at him and nodded.

“To mine eyes it doth appear as though he used those ‘rambling bits and pieces’ of thine thoughts, as thou so phrased it, to try and provide a solution for thine ills.”

“I–” Gwen paused, her mind all but stopping for a moment while she considered that. The idea had occurred to her a while back now, though she’d wondered if it had merely been an excuse. “That– Well…”

“I will not claim to know his mind, but I do know him, and through that mayhap thou mightest find insight. I have no answers, only speculations, but I would share them, if thou art willing to listen?”

Gwen nodded, the motion helping to get her brain working again.

The Elezen took a slow breath, the expression on his face speaking of intense focus dedicated to choosing his words. Eventually he spoke, “Tis my understanding that you oft sought him for comfort and to confide thy troubles, even outside of thine writing, yes?”

Gwen nodded slowly.

“Why?”

“Well, he…” She paused. Her mouth turned down in a slight frown, descriptions and explanations slipping through her fingers like fine sand. ‘Part of his charm, back before the Banquet when he cared more about that sort of thing, had been being approachable and easy to talk to’ seemed insubstantial, not to mention it was so far in the past now; ‘he always had sound advice, or he could at least put stuff in perspective or say it some way that made me consider it differently’ felt off because she didn’t know how big of a hand her journal had had in that, so…

“He offered assurance, counsel and a steady hand in equal measure when thou wert in need of them?” Urianger offered.

That was basically what she was thinking, yes. Gwen nodded slowly.

“While his words may not have been entirely his own, I should think there was more to his reassurances than merely parroting thine tumultuous writings back to thee, correct?”

Gwen’s lingering frown pulled slightly to one side. She hadn’t really thought about that, but… it was accurate. Her eyes wandered and she dipped her chin in another nod.

“He did not merely read and repeat thine own troubled words in an effort to be the answer to thine problems. Rather he gathered and deciphered thine scattered thoughts and made of them tools that thou couldst use to craft thine own solution.”

Well… Well, that was rather accurate, too, if a bit overly-poetic. Thancred had always given guidance, advice and his own opinion, but he’d never explicitly given her instructions or answers–at least not directly. She’d had to settle her doubts and fears herself, he’d just… offered a steadying hand and a little push.

Urianger let that hang for a moment before quietly offering, “I should think a man who knew thee naught would struggle with such a task, even with thine journal; a map is only so much help to a traveler in unknown surroundings, particularly when they know not how to read it.”

Gwen adjusted her gloves with little tugs and twisted her bracelets, burning a little energy in an attempt to keep her thoughts from running off without her while she considered that. It was an interesting point. Hm. No wonder Thancred could read my botany notes so quickly. He had practice. “That’s,” she admitted slowly, voice soft and withdrawn, “not inaccurate, I guess. But that doesn’t change the fact he hid it from me.”

“Nay, it doth not.” Urianger said with a long-suffering sigh that wasn’t aimed at her. “Nor doth it excuse his disregard for thine privacy. Know that I do not condone his methods, well-intentioned as they may have been.”

Well-intentioned. She hadn’t really let intentions weigh in on her consideration very much. Somewhere in her mind she’d told herself he meant well, but the idea hadn’t held a lot of weight until just then. Intentions matter, do they not? Sometimes? At least a little?

After the silence had stretched and settled comfortably, Urianger spoke again, “I cannot speak for him, nor any other, but if thou wouldst allow me one more presumption?”

His perspective had been a bit uplifting so far, and it had certainly gotten her thoughts moving again. Plus, his voice was a welcome alternative to the silence and the chattering worries and questions filling up her thoughts. “Please.”

Urianger huffed softly and nodded, folding his arms with a look of serious consideration. “Our dear friend is a fool, as we all know, but he is not foolish. I am sure he knew the fine line he walked every time he stole into thy mind and with every occasion that he put his discoveries to use. To blunder or slip would have aroused suspicion, just as would being too brazen. Thus doth he live in hypocrisy with his decision: believing his actions, if not righteous, sufficiently judicious to merit repetition, even as he maketh every effort to hide them from thy sight that he might not be made to throw himself upon thy mercy or beg clemency, nor face thy retribution should he be denied.

“Whatever his reasons, he knowingly risked thine trust for the sake of insight, even as the ramifications for his actions hung heavier with every repetition and each day he chose continued secrecy over transparency.”

“And soon it was too big to even hope to get out from underneath,” Gwen mumbled.

Urianger nodded. “He is not so naïve as to believe that, should his well-intentioned subterfuge be brought to light, thou wouldst merely take umbrage with the moment at hand and dig no deeper. Thou wouldst likely not assume the revelatory act to be the initial occurrence, nor a singular one, which would surely lead thee to ponder prior instances. To wit, his every act, every conversation and moment of insight, would be called into question and scrutinized under a lense of doubt, hindsight and damaged trust. Thus he found yet another justification for his secrecy.” He gestured vaguely between the both of them with a sardonic arch of one brow, “In that, at least, it appears he was right to worry.”

Gwen rocked back and then forward, mouth twisting in a grimace. At the same time as it sounded a little paranoid and ‘worst case scenario’, that line of thinking was perfectly reasonable. Even if she hadn’t been somewhat aware of his prying, Urianger presenting her with solid proof that Thancred had stolen her private thoughts even once would be enough to make her wonder, at least briefly, if it had happened before.

Her suspicion, and her reaction to finding out what he’d been doing, were reasonable things to worry about. Maybe Thancred didn’t quite follow the lines of thought Urianger presented, but she doubted the Elezen was too off the mark.

Gwen wanted to think Thancred didn’t need to worry so much. It would be rough, but surely they would be able to work it out–after trust was damaged, after uncomfortable questions, after time and a lot of work. And even then, once the dust had settled, they wouldn’t really be the same.

Or would they, maybe? ‘They’ hadn’t changed overmuch since she began to suspect he’d been reading her journal, after all.

But ‘not overmuch’ isn’t ‘at all’, and suspicions weren’t the same as proof or a confession.

Whatever happened, and however it turned out, ‘they’ would not be the same if he ever came clean or was caught in the act. What would change and how much, and what would recover, was near-impossible to guess.

Right to worry indeed…

Gwen huffed softly, realizing her expression had started to tighten into a cringe.

Seeing that she’d had enough time to let that sink in, Urianger continued, “And for his perilous duplicity Thancred was rewarded with the means to better understand thee, and thus did he learn how to grant thee and thy troubled mind a modicum of succor. He gave thee clarity when thine thoughts grew clouded, and crafted stability and from thine tremulous doubts.”

That was a more poetic and metaphoric way to describe it than Gwen could have ever come up with, but that didn’t make it any less accurate. She shifted in her seat, glancing down at her hands and her nails, chipped and picked down to nubs.

“Pray consider: of what value would that be to one who cared naught for thee?”

Urianger is best wingman ha.

Best wingman who, notably, does not tell Thancred that Gwen had not only already been suspicious (for quite a while) that he’d been reading her journal, but now knows it for a fact. His reasons basically boil down to:

1) Plain and simple, it’s just not his business. It isn’t Urianger’s place to bring up the matter for Gwen, regardless of the fact she’d had her own suspicions before he approached her on the Source. He has no right to try and force the issue in her place, directly or via hints/subtlety, especially when she both didn’t express any desire for him to do so and hadn’t made any attempts to bring up her concerns or confront Thancred herself. This whole thing is their problem that they have to solve themselves in their own way, and he can’t just insert himself into it–at least not more than he already has. Him revealing (but in actuality confirming) Thancred’s snooping to Gwen was an entirely different situation than telling Thancred that he done been found out. And, after the fact, he’s a little torn whether or not he even should have told Gwen what he’d discovered in the first place.

2) Gwen continued writing in her journal despite knowing her thoughts weren’t private, and seemingly didn’t make any efforts to make her journal or saved pages more difficult to access (in the long run), or at least she didn’t do anything obvious that might have alerted Thancred that he’d been found out. Why? How much did the whole thing even bother her, anyway? He couldn’t really tell–partially because even Gwen didn’t know how she felt about it, even after being suspicious for so long. She wasn’t very outwardly upset at his revelation, but the whole thing happened shortly after Thancred lost his soul, so she had much bigger concerns at the time. How much did that influence her feelings on the matter? Probably a lot. When the dust settles and they’re reunited again, what will happen? Urianger has no idea. It’s Gwen’s issue to confront and resolve, and attempting to speak for her just runs the risk of giving the wrong impression, creating false expectations, putting words in mouths and making the whole thing a mess.

3) It wouldn’t have done any good, either right then or over the long-term. Thancred was clearly already in some shit by the time Urianger arrived on the First, what with dealing with being stranded on his own on a strange world, raising little Minfilia and trying to get his own thoughts and emotions in order. He already had enough going on that he wasn’t handling well, and telling him, “Hey that thing you were doing to try and be helpful even though it would probably utterly ruin your relationship with Gwen if she found out about it? Gwen found out about it. Because of me. I’m the one who told her.” would do nothing but give him more problems. It would be another burden for him to carry and be angry, stressed and worried about. He already had situations that he couldn’t resolve or ‘deal with’ himself in the form of being stuck on the First, Minfilia and Mini-filia, and then the revelation of Urianger’s prophetic vision of the Scions and Gwen dying; telling him he’d been found out would just be another thing simply beyond his ability to resolve, which would mean another thing for him to agonize over and stew on until Gwen arrived… whenever that finally happened. Not to mention that, if Urianger chose not to come clean himself, Thancred would probably quickly figure out he had been the one to tell her, and that would only make a bigger, more complicated mess and more hurt feelings, which neither of them needed.

————-

Thanks to the ever wonderful @evangeline-cross and @rhymingteelookatme for beta-reading and helping with Urianger’s dialogue XDDD

TUMBLR WHY DO YOU LET ME PUT A READMORE IN THE ASK RESPONSE AND THEN DELETE IT EVERY TIME FFS

#Thancred Waters #Guinevere Ashe #Gwencred-ish #This took a while XD #Was definitely more of a nebulous 'yeah hmmmm' sort of secenario #rather than anything concrete #my writing #asks #so I had to actually stop and sort some stuff out #this is actually shorter thanit usedt ob e rofl #long answer is long #I'm so proud of the Urianger dialogue tho ngl #Thancred got CAUGHT #when you're expecting to just go about your day like normal #and then your fucking soul is stolen #and it throws of your plans lol #Thanks for the ask!!!#Answered

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thatonebirbnerd · 4 years

Text

all of this is loveliness

Word count: 1869

Trigger warnings: PTSD/flashbacks (of canon and canon-typical violence), nudity, discussion of sex, several types of intimacy (but not the big one)

My body falls off the side of her bed And now I know what love feels like Don't let me turn into pain All of this is loveliness (source: AURORA - Soft Universe)

Eirwen and Lyri spend an intimate afternoon together while preparing for their wedding. Because the Commander and her lover both need a break. And a hug.

First time writing this kind of stuff, with no relevant life experience... here goes! Yes, the word count is intentionally nice lol.

AO3 link

“Hey! Get back here!”

Lyri chases after me, following the light only she can see like a flitting moth, as we run giddily along the winding paths of the lower Grove. I can only hope that to everyone else around us, we look like an ordinary pair of saplings having fun, naked as the day we stepped out of our pods. I had to let my crystal wings shatter for a while to make the illusion complete… but considering I haven’t been swarmed by adoring fans, maybe that was what I needed.

At last Lyri catches up to me, nearly bowling me over with excitement even though she’s much smaller than me. I let her have what she wants, and fall onto my back as she tackles me and rolls us both over and over. We laugh until we’re out of breath. It’s hard to believe someone loves me this much, for the first time since the Dream… since the moment I thought I’d never see her again. I wish our tumble across the grass could last forever, but alas, we come to a stop. Lyri is on top of me, her arms now wrapped around my neck.

“You wanna go inside?” Lyri’s voice is suddenly quieter. She’s trying to be sultry. It’s adorable.

“Sure.” I respond in a whisper. She giggles as she realizes I’m making fun of her. “Uhh… get on my back!”

I’m not sure where I got that idea, but I guess I said it anyway. I stand up, and carry her into our cozy neighborhood of Dreamer’s Terrace as she whoops and hollers. “Oh, the pool!” she squeals. “Let’s do a double cannonball!”

There’s a pool of water just outside the spiraling, organic apartment complex we call home. It’s small but deep, and hidden quite well from the city around it. Just have to walk through the mercifully empty atrium, and to the left…

“You’re getting heavy,” I joke. “Careful!”

I let my wings reform over Lyri, for just a split second, and carry us up in the highest leap I can muster. We both scream with delight as we splash down from the height. The noise we’re making must be tremendous. As we swim to the surface, I’m distracted for a bit by the thought that some enterprising gossip might find us here. We can’t attract too much attention…

“What’s wrong, dearheart?” I don’t know how Lyri senses that I’m distracted. Can she see the distant look in my eyes, or can she just tell?

“Nothing. Just… we might need to keep it down while we're here. I’m worried someone might barge in, looking for either of us."

“Then let’s just be quiet, and we'll stay for as long as we want.”

You know how I said I wanted that moment, just minutes ago, where we were rolling on the ground in each other’s arms, to last forever?

Honestly, I’d rather have this. Just the two of us, treading water. No words in the stillness, and no worry in our minds: no Bangar, no Jormag.

It’s cool and humid here, on the shaded lower level of the Grove. There are thick, tangled trees around the pool we’re in, and I can see street lamps poking through the gaps. The pathway leading past us, on the other side of the makeshift wall, is rarely traveled - and if someone were to pass by, now that we’re not making a ruckus, all they’d be able to see would be our heads. There’s a bath house to my right, next to the entrance leading back into the atrium - a good place to wash off the debris of a hard day’s work.

Lyri puts her hand on my neck, slowly guiding it down my back. It’s not often that she can see every detail, so she relies on touch to truly know me. Her hand comes to a sudden halt at the base of my spine, and her mouth makes a surprised little O. There is a sprout there, on both of our growth sockets, ready to burst into branches and petals that will twist around our bodies and become our wedding gowns. And these buds are why we’ve come home, free of the burden of armor, to see each other as we are. For now they itch, the wonderful itch of growth, and of a beautiful thing to come. But in a few weeks, she’ll be as gorgeous as ever, and I’ll just be… me in a dress.

The sites of my old scars are a little rough on Lyri’s fingers, even compared to her woody green bark. In seven years, I’d taken hits from blades, blasts, Brand crystals… the list was endless. I can’t help but think that if I were human, made of fragile flesh rather than sturdy wood, I would be dead many times over. Even if I don’t count the time I actually died.

Speaking of which, Lyri ducks below the surface and plants a kiss between my breasts, a bit too close to the remnants of Balthazar’s killing blow. I grimace a bit and recoil with a splash, even though the wound is long-healed. “Ow… careful!” The pain is more mental than physical; I’m trying to push back the memories of two and a half years ago. Now is not the time.

As the waters calm, I swim back toward Lyri and press my palm to her stomach, on her own scar, a dimple in the bark. This one is fresh, barely a month old. From the arrow. I feel her breaths get quicker as she gazes at what little she can see of me, like a terrified puppy. She hugs me in a way she hasn’t before, holding on tight, begging for love and protection.

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Lyri. I’m so sorry.” She shouldn’t have had to suffer so much, shouldn’t have nearly died for me a second time. I don’t know how else to help, other than to return her embrace, tickling the buds in the small of her back. She ruffles my leafy hair, and her smile returns, a worried smile.

I stroke Lyri’s arm, and she giggles a little and relaxes again. Her limbs are just the slightest bit thinner than they should be, and she doesn’t have the endurance nor the strength of most sylvari. But there is no point in cursing a long-dead dragon for forcing her into the world early, too early to let her experience it with all five senses. I’d rather say the best words I can. “You’re still perfect, dearheart.”

Lyri lets out a contented sigh. “Eirwen?”

“Yeah?”

“What do humans call their loves?”

“Oh my goodness, you wouldn’t believe the names. “Cutie pie,” “sweetie pie.” Can’t blame them; pie is good. “Baby,” for another one, but what is a baby but a tiny helpless crying human? I heard something about “mommy” and “daddy” once, but that just sounded strange. Oh, and there was “honey.” I liked that one.”

“I like it too. Honey’s sweet. Fits you.”

“That’s funny; I was going to say the same thing about you.”

“Oh, and… what’s that other thing that humans do? The one in be-”

“Lyri!” My laughter is more of a cackle at that one. “I haven’t seen it! Wasp-stings if I know what it’s like! ”

“I’m pretty sure they use something down…” Lyri points between her legs. “…here?”

“Lyri, you’re killing me!” It’s a bit hard, I admit, to double over laughing while in the water.

“You know I ask stupid sapling questions sometimes. Learning more about the world makes me want to try new things, now that I have you.”

“What do you mean, “new things?””

“Maybe just… getting to know each other more, while we have peace and quiet. Would that be okay?”

“I suppose so. Just… don’t hurt us both, promise?”

“I promise.”

And then Lyri pulls me under.

But rather than take the lead, she lets herself sink into my arms. She caresses me, and I find myself exploring her in ways I couldn’t with my eyes alone, below the leaves that preserve some semblance of modesty to the folk around us. Hidden petals slip slowly through Lyri’s fingers. She offers less for my touch to savor, but there is enough; even nothing would be enough. We revel in each other, and it shows on our faces, in the gasps of pleasure and embarrassed laughs that come out only as bubbles.

Yet something nags at me. It’s not easy for a sylvari to drown. But… I’m thinking about everyone else. This time, I’m taken back to seven years ago, fighting in the foul waters of Orr. So many who shouldn’t have fallen. For a moment, Lyri’s face is the face of the only other woman I dared fall for, dragged into the deep by a Risen fiend -

No. Stop that. I sink to the bottom and open myself to Lyri’s kisses, or whatever she wants to do. But rather than oblige, she stops and leads me to the surface to breathe. She can tell I’m worried again. “Eirwen, what’s wrong?”

“I wish it were nothing. I was just… thinking about Orr. There was someone I… tried to move on with, after I lost you. I had to… leave her behind. But you’re here, so I shouldn’t be thinking about this -”

“You couldn’t save her. I can hear it in your voice. It’s okay, my light,” she tells me. “It took so long to find you but… now I’ll always be here. You’re safe.” I have to repeat those final words to myself before I can believe Lyri’s reassurance. “And I forgive you.”

---

The unbridled ecstasy and lingering fear gradually wear off, and I lead Lyri toward the water’s edge and into the bath house. I gently move her arm toward one of the streams tumbling from crevices in the walls, and the water dances over her palm. She jumps back a bit and turns to face me with a smile, before walking toward the waterfall again to rinse the muck out of the vines that adorn her head. I join her, and we frolic for just a bit longer, splashing each other playfully and slinging the silliest of flattery back and forth.

“Mordremoth must have been terrified of allowing you to see how beautiful you are.”

“Good thing that damned dragon couldn’t handle your biceps!”

At last, Lyri yawns. “I’m tired.”

“Me too.” For a moment I hear a whisper in the back of my mind: rest. No, it’s safe to do that here, so far away from Jormag. “Want to lie down on the shore?”

“With you, yeah.”

I hold Lyri’s hand and guide her over to the pool. It’s dusk now, and her faint golden bioluminescence is beginning to peek through as we watch fireflies dance across the pond. She curls up on the damp, mossy soil, her head on one dainty arm. “Love you, you big glowy thing,” she says sleepily.

“Love you too… honey.”

As she nods off and I lie awake next to her, my bark against hers, I realize that maybe this is the moment that I want to last forever.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 fanfiction #tyriaslibrary #fanfic #sylvari #kestrel writes #valiant eirwen #lyri twiceborn #ptsd //#nudity //#romance #intimacy #not *quite* smut?#ask to tag

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exalok · 4 years

Note

44 with Corvo/Daud please?

(sorry about the wait!!!! and i outdid myself againit might not follow the prompt very accurately though, and there is a whole lot of sad incoming; i will attempt to write happy things nextwarnings: canon-typical violence, nsfw, Daud for worst fuckin relationship management skills)

—

Kaldwin’s Bridge was…

For months, Corvo had struggled to put into words what, exactly, he felt when he looked down.

Once, he had been reminded of hiking to a mountainous ledge above Karnaca. Seeing the city, the parts he knew to be his and he was chased from as a child, spread like a tiered slope below him… but no. Kaldwin Bridge was no mountain—at most, it was like the edge of a cliff, though colder, perhaps. Grayer. Sometimes, the grand structure swayed under him with a hollow, groaning ripple of sound.

The wind, at least, was familiar.

It had been even grander than everyone had told him, the first time he saw it—and exactly as lonely as he needed, after his mother died. The knot of that loss still stung when he breathed.

The metal stung his palms as he climbed, and the breeze tugged at his coat, damp and chill, carrying the smell of the river; he was getting used to the difference between the smell of the Grand Serkonan Canal and that of the Wrenhaven, thick and oily.

His eyes were fixed at the top to map his way. He noted, most of his focus on not falling, that the Bridge’s heights were less unoccupied than usual.

The other man didn’t turn when Corvo stepped up onto the last platform. His hand, however, was conspicuously tucked inside the front of his jacket. The hair prickling at Corvo’s nape told him it wasn’t just for the cold.

“Hey,” he said, friendly as he could make the word when the wind snuffed out most sounds, and sat at a careful distance overlooking the edge. Gangs were mundane to someone who’d grown in Batista, and Gristol gangs couldn’t be all that different; nothing would happen if he kept polite. “I don’t often see anyone else up here.” He glanced over.

Gray eyes—the man’s head had tilted just enough to shoot him a look. The sharp line of his cheekbone cut against the clouded sky. Corvo observed that he’d withdrawn his hand, that he had on an Academic’s robes under the jacket, and that he was, under the wary hunch and the thick break in his nose, confusingly pretty.

Corvo was staring. Polite. He went back to watching the long, winding rush of the river far below.

“Likewise,” the other man said, and Corvo perked immediately at his accent.

“You’re Serkonan?”

He squinted, suspicious, but still he said, “Yeah. Cullero.”

“Karnaca. I’ve never been to Cullero.”

A twist of his mouth, his eyes drifting back to the void and the city stretching out.

“… There’s a lot of vineyards,” he said, deadpan. Corvo snorted.

They lapsed into silence. Corvo didn’t mind—silence was what he came up here for, silence and distance. It wasn’t so much that he had less free time—being a guard had kept him well-occupied—but spending much of his workday bumping elbows with the Court, its side-eyes, its nagging whispers, left him desperate for anything but eyes on him. Six months now, and he was nowhere nearer making himself a place among them, even with the title of Royal Protector under his belt.

His jaw clenched. He had an inkling no amount of time would make a difference.

“You’re at the Academy, right?” Corvo asked to distract himself from the thought. He had leaned back on his hands, his feet dangling out over empty space, entirely unconcerned with appearances. If there was anywhere he needn’t care about upholding the image of a Royal Protector, it was here. When he glanced over again, the other man was looking back—gray eyes steady, measuring. “What is it like?”

“Busy,” he said, biting and concise.

Corvo huffed. “I’ve heard you keep creatures from all over the Isles—Pandyssia, even—and that you study magic. Is that true? Or do the Overseers reach even there?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” The words were precise, cutting, but Corvo wouldn’t have gotten this far if he let a little intimidation work on him. Still, when he reached for his reasons—my mother used to tell me stories—he found himself keeping the words back.

His teeth clicked together. He shrugged. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Mm.” The other man watched him a moment longer; as the suspicion left his face, his eyes grew no softer, but went dark with a strange curiosity. He curled forward, his chin propped on his fist, contemplating the gray expanse of the city. “The animals are all hunting trophies; mounted, donated, and left to gather dust in the Great Hall. No magic that I’ve seen.” His lips pursed in thought. “We dissected a corpse yesterday, though.”

“A corpse.” What did the Academy have need of a corpse for? The man spoke with a vague detachment, beyond the dispassion of someone who had already seen his fair share of dead bodies.

“Murder victim. I think the lecturer has an arrangement with the Watch,” he added, giving no further explanation. The corner of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a second, the motion reaching the corner of his eye—then he turned to Corvo, all business again. “And you? Taking a winter vacation? It doesn’t even snow here.”

Corvo shook his head, and paused, considering his answer. There had been no drawings of his face printed in the paper when it was announced who had been chosen as the heir’s Royal Protector, and if this man didn’t know, then Corvo wasn’t keen on finding out how much his attitude would change on finding out.

“… I’m here for work. Got a contract as a personal bodyguard.”

The other man regarded him a short moment. “Condolences.” When Corvo turned to him, confused, he smirked. “In my experience, no one who can afford a personal bodyguard is pleasant to be around.”

Corvo’s smile twitched open with a laugh.

When they parted, Corvo asked his name, and by the time Corvo reached the ground climbing down after him Daud was already gone.

There was no sign of him the rest of the week: Kaldwin’s Bridge stood empty, a high whistle of wind Corvo’s only company.

Those few evenings off were odd, and instead of steadying him, they left him feeling off-balance. It was entirely different, somehow, from when he found himself thinking too deep of his district in Karnaca, or his mother’s face through the window, bent over her sewing work. Once, he spent an hour staring down into the growing dark, and realized when the brightest stars sparked overhead that he’d been waiting, and watching for a drab jacket and short-cropped hair.

His hands had been stiff with cold. The climb down was a harrowing one. Back at the Tower, he decided he would forget about it.

The week after, on the same day, there came a voice below his feet as he stood at the bridge’s highest accessible spire. “Hey! Bodyguard.”

He looked down. The man in the Academy robes waved from the lower platform. Corvo smiled.

Daud kept to a tight schedule, and the dorms were often strictly regulated; this was one of the few days he could make his way up here. He liked the heights, he said. It reminded him of home.

“Yeah,” Corvo answered, and tried to remember whether there were mountains around Cullero.

There was a shiny new scar on the back of Daud’s hand, slick and red like a burn.

“Krust acid,” he said when Corvo asked. They’d been studying the chemical properties of the stuff, and he hadn’t been careful enough tipping it into the beaker. “Chemistry isn’t my specialty.”

“You have specialties?”

“Sure. The Masters generally have one, sometimes two. That’s how sponsorships work.”

“What’s yours then?”

“Nothing,” Daud said, and grinned dark and narrow. “I’m a disappointment.”

Corvo laughed, a little uneasy, but Daud didn’t seem to hold it against him. He only stared back out across the river. The sinking sun, reflecting off the river in great colored splashes of light, edged his eyelashes and the line of his nose in ochre.

If he had been a painter, Corvo thought, he might have known how to… keep it, some small piece, more solid than a memory—but memory would have to do.

They happened across each other again, of course. Every time, Corvo pretended it was a pleasant surprise, and that he hadn’t entirely expected Daud to be there. (Sometimes it was, and he hadn't—but it wasn’t often.) The other man would look at him a little askance, and quiet, like he knew. Like he didn’t mind. Hope tangled with perception and Corvo was never really sure how much he believed what he wanted to see.

The days grew colder, and Corvo climbed.

“And your work?” Daud asked once, having detailed the procedure for extracting whale oil. Strange and complex words swum around Corvo’s head, sounds detached from meaning. He had been tentatively imagining moving closer, so there might be less than a foot of space between them.

“My work?”

“Your charge. Any assassination attempts recently?”

Corvo felt the sharp ratcheting of tension in his own chest like an electric shock—had Daud guessed? Corvo still hadn’t told him the truth of his position, and though he no longer believed it might inspire violence it seemed so awkward to mention it now, and he had seen too many turn fawning after his appointment to entirely trust it would change nothing between them—

He let his caught breath go, forcing himself to relax. Something had flashed across the man’s face, maybe at Corvo’s telling pause, but there was no accusation in the words.

Corvo could tell him, maybe. He would undoubtedly find out, anyway; the heir’s Protector would be as familiar a face as the Emperor’s in due time—but his reluctance held. This place, this man—they were far from the life he’d been dropped into. He didn’t want that distance to close.

“Smooth sailing for now,” he said; then, thinking of the Parliamentary hearings and the council meetings and the endless amount of dignitaries he’d been introduced to and told to stoically receive, he added, “A lot of posturing, mostly.”

“Isn’t it always.” Corvo shot him a glance, uncertain what he meant. Daud gestured vaguely at the district below them. “High society.”

Corvo shrugged. “More because of her father than her. She’s only thirteen.” But learning fast. She kept to the sidelines less and less, though the Emperor didn’t tolerate any interruptions. They were mirror images when they stood side by side: backs straight, heads high with a noble tilt, not the military stiffness he knew—but in terms of ideas, even he could see the friction in their difference. He let himself smile a little.

When he glanced over at Daud he caught only the tail end of a fixed and searching stare.

“Corvo,” Daud said, and Corvo almost startled. Since Daud had only given him one name, he’d done the same, but the using of it was rare enough he still found it a surprise. “How long until your contract ends?”

“… A while,” Corvo decided. It took effort to tell himself this wasn’t entirely an untruth.

Daud turned back to him. His eyes were the exact same color as the overcast day. “I’m leaving at the end of winter. Thought I might go on a tour of the Isles.”

For a moment, Corvo only watched him. He had switched the jacket to a short, scuffed blue coat sometime in the last week. It was getting too cold for anything else.

“I might not understand much of what you tell me, about what you do in the Academy,” he said, picking the words out slow, “But I don’t think you’re doing badly enough they’ll kick you out after one season.”

“You can come with if you’re interested,” Daud continued, staunchly ignoring him.

“I’m serious. That last exam, the one you said—you told me it was the only one you failed, why would they—”

“There are wolves if you go deep enough into the Tyvian steppes. We could see a pack if we get there during the thaw—”

“Daud—”

“You like this city as much as that?” he sneered, gaze flat and dismissive, and Corvo looked at him helpless and lost.

“My job isn’t one I can exactly walk away from,” he said finally. Daud snorted.

“You climbed up here. What can anyone do to stop you?”

Corvo didn’t answer. For a while, silence rolled between them like morning fog on the Wrenhaven, thick and weighted. A hiss as Daud breathed through his teeth.

“I’m bored of the Academy,” he said. “At the end of Ice, I’m catching a boat to Dabovka.”

The sky fell slowly into dark.

A couple more evenings passed, their conversations careful, passed between them like something too heavy, too delicate. Some days Corvo didn’t even try climbing up; the end of Ice loomed, and he imagined it liked a butcher’s knife poised over the cutting block, ready to cut them apart. He knew it was foolish, knew that his mother being an ocean and an island away had made no difference to the sickness of her leaving—and still, he wanted distance to cushion the blow.

But then—the Empress—

His charge was distraught. He hadn’t seen her crying, and she didn’t walk the Tower with reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks.; at most, her voice was a little weaker—but he hadn’t gone through months of the same without being able to recognize grief in someone else’s face.

The girl refused to speak of it, and so when evenings came there was nothing he could do but escape.

On the last day of Ice, he climbed the bridge and found Daud there, sitting at the edge of the platform, still in his coat though the weather was warming. Corvo waited, a hanging second, for him to turn and either glare for the weeks-long absence or invite him closer with one of those quiet looks.

Daud did neither. Corvo should have expected it; he sat anyway, a long meter between them.

Below, the Wrenhaven was high with meltwater from inland. Every hour for the past four days the bells of the clocktower had tolled the death of the Empress, and they did so again now, clear and ringing. Perhaps the city didn’t mourn—the Empress had never been a popular one, mostly absent from the front of the scene, dwarfed by her husband—but it wasn’t about to forget that it was meant to.

Corvo didn’t look over at the sound of shifting. If Daud left, he would only be back in his old loneliness, exactly as far from the world as he needed.

“You look like a sick dog,” Daud said, and Corvo almost laughed. The blunt edge of his words might have hurt more if Corvo didn’t welcome them. “What happened?”

“You dissect many sick dogs, in your Academy?” he asked, and curled his own lip at himself. Too acerbic. Too— Too much. His breath formed a ball in his throat, hard to breathe around and unpleasantly familiar, reminding him of times he had bubbled with something unnameable and the pressure had forced tears from his eyes.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He didn’t want to have to explain his stupid not-secrets. He wanted—

He wanted, strangely, to speak of his mother.

Why now? Because someone else’s had died? Four days the bells had rung for this one, and he hardly knew whether his had a grave, or if he’d visit it someday. Below him, gray and opaque, the river. He imagined speaking her name, and it falling from his mouth like a krust-pearl into the river.

(He remembered the Duke saying, How would you like to work in Dunwall, Lieutenant? and didn’t know what he had looked like but it must’ve been a right fool when he said, Your— Your Grace, I’d be honored, and his mother had wrung her hands and pinched his between them and she’d kissed his cheek on the dock before he left. He hadn’t looked back. His eyes had been on the horizon.)

Words crowded his tongue and he clenched his teeth around them. Daud was leaving, he thought with a sour surge of anger that dulled just as quick. He didn’t need any of this to weigh him down. Corvo held himself still, hunched, his hands clenched together, until his stiffness turned to trembling with the cold.

Daud said nothing more, and left first, as the mist curled along the Wrenhaven.

He doesn’t think he’s seeing things.

By which he means he doesn’t think he dreamed the figure he has been seeing in the corner of his eye, perched on chimneys or, when night falls, the dark tops of lampposts, since he first caught sight of it in the high struts of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He just isn’t sure where it disappears to when he turns. If he’s right, it followed him until he passed the gates of Dunwall Tower once. He’s been on guard since.

It’s always the politics. Jessamine may mock his distaste for it, but he understands enough: strange furtive figures around the seat of power mean bad news for the royal family. Whoever it is might be after Euhorn, or after Corvo’s charge—there was all that trouble around rights to the throne the year before, and an opponent might get rid of his heir now that Euhorn had lost the Empress and was making no moves to remarry— Or maybe it even has to do with those two, Roseburrow and Sokolov, and the whale oil—

Corvo shrugs it off. He understands, for the most part, but he can’t stand any of it. Euhorn’s Protector and the Tower Guard are aware of the problem, and he’s staying alert. That’s as much as he can do.

He still isn’t ready for it when, sitting at the corner table in his favorite pub and looking out the window, he hears the chair opposite him dragged out for someone to sit in. The reflection in the glass gives him a long red smear, dark-topped, and two pale lumps that must be hands lying on the tabletop. Unarmed.

He turns with his hand on his sword, just in case, and his breath catches hard.

He knows that face. Those eyes. They’re still that overcast gray. The break in his nose is even worse, though.

“Did you get in a bar brawl in Tyvia?” he asks, eyeing the still-angry scar bisecting Daud’s face from brow to collar. It’s knotted and swollen, no more than a few months old, but the eye underneath still sparks when Daud smirks. Undamaged.

“A couple,” Daud says, thumbing the scar. “But this is from the steppes.”

The movement highlights the bandages wrapped around his left hand, and Corvo follows it back down to the table. “What, did a wolf try to bite your face off?”

The smirk widens, shows teeth.

Corvo, in a fit of uncharitable impatience, wants to call what he feels an unpleasant discomfort. He’s had two years to settle in his own loneliness, to get used to this gray and colorless city, to its rain and its spitting wind, its wary isolation. This is— Daud, shouldering in, imposing himself like he had imposed his quiet and his presence in that short winter two years ago—

Corvo snorts, and leans back in his chair. He wants to be angry; but the truth is, seeing him grin like that, harsh, but more freely than he’s ever seen before—it hurts in places Corvo has grown used to finding numb. Stings. It reminds him he’s here, like the soreness after sparring.

And in any case, Daud had never been a great imposition.

“It took you two years to travel the islands, then.”

Daud settles, and some of the wildness sloughs off. The steady measure of his gaze is familiar in an aching way. “Almost reached Pandyssia.”

“Almost?”

“Ran across a storm. The captain thought the Outsider must have sent it, and decided to turn back.” He’s itching the back of his hand, the one covered in bandages. Corvo jerks his chin at it.

“What happened?”

“Climbing accident,” Daud answers, too light. Corvo narrows his eyes. So he has been following him. Daud meets the suspicion with a level and unreadable look, and for a long minute says nothing more, like he’s waiting for Corvo to pin him with the accusation.Then: “I had an inkling, back then, but I wouldn’t have guessed you were guarding the Emperor.” Still that same tone, weightless, off-hand, like they’re discussing the rain outside, or the watered-down quality of the spirits in Corvo’s half-full glass. “Or his daughter. Wasn’t it a girl? Thirteen? Fifteen now.”

Corvo says nothing. He’s not sure what he could say. That he hadn’t been used to being so watched by the public eye? That he’d wanted something, anything that wouldn’t remind him of the turn his life had taken, for better or worse? Something only his own. It’s hard to come by, in a place like Dunwall Tower, and with that title tied to his ankle, dragging around behind him.

“Is there a point to this?” Corvo asks instead, because this is his day off, and even if his heart flip-flopped unfairly in his chest at the sight of that face, this sounds too much like it’s edging on a threat for him to ignore.

Daud makes a noncommital noise. His eyes have drifted off to the well-lit room beyond them, where people are starting to stream in as the evening stretches into night. The bandages go tight across his knuckles as his injured hand clenches.

“Walk with me,” he says, and in one movement he is out of his chair—then he pauses, eyes flicking back, like he’s waiting.

Corvo looks at what’s left in his glass, and looks at him. There’s no expectation in his stillness; only an abiding calm.Corvo follows.

Outside, the sky hasn’t yet decided to rain, but the fog makes certain the air is unpleasantly damp anyway. The thin puddles Daud strides through will have frozen over by the end of the night. They walk side by side, and Daud can only be considered to lead by the fact that Corvo can just barely recognize the turns they’re taking.

“Where are we going?” Corvo asks after they pass a street name he doesn’t recall and Daud still hasn’t said anything.

The look he gets is less focused than he’s used to seeing, and that more than anything lets him believe it when Daud says, “Nowhere. Just walking.”

The fog is a muffling shroud. They can see each side of the street, but that’s it; both ends are thick with white. Sounds come through soft and muted. Sometimes, heavy steps echo down from branching streets, and Daud deftly leads them off into another passage. He makes hardly a noise when he walks.

“Never seen fog this thick anywhere but here,” Daud eventually says, voice low.

“People say the Outsider calls it up from the river,” Corvo adds. “That you can get lost in it, and end up in the Void.”

“Ghost stories for children,” Daud sneers, but his mouth is quirked up like he’s telling a joke. “The Void looks nothing like this.”

Corvo watches him, careful and curious. “Did you learn that in the Academy?”

“In a fishing village off the West coast, actually.” The smirk hitches higher, then vanishes, and his mouth is again cool marble. “I don’t even remember the name.”

They continue in silence, and though Corvo doesn’t pry he wonders. Late-night wanderers pass them by in layered jackets and coats pulled up against the damp. The street names are familiar again. Far off, the clock rings the tenth hour, and Daud jerks like he’s come out of a dream.

“I should go,” he says. He turns—Corvo grabs the sleeve of his coat.

He wants to say something and doesn’t know what, so when their eyes catch he can only grit his teeth—twist his hand, release, ungraceful with a reluctance he doesn’t fully understand. Daud catches his wrist.

He says nothing, for a moment, then: “I know where to find you.”

When the sound of someone approaching startles Corvo into turning, the hand on his wrist lets go, and as he reaches back Daud is gone. The street is gray and fog-lined and empty.

Two City Watch men come slowly by on the cobblestones; Corvo greets them with a wave of his hand, and goes home.

“You’re getting soft,” Daud says the next time he shows up at Corvo’s pub table. “Complacent.” He’s still wearing the red coat. Corvo, knowing it’s hopeless, can’t help but notice how much more solid Daud looks under it—the broad square of his shoulders, the depth of his chest. He swallows it down with his drink and raises his eyebrows.

“And where is this coming from?”

It’s unsurprising when Daud doesn’t answer, instead baring some of his teeth in a half-snarl and looking away, to the busy center of the pub. Corvo calls for a beer and slides it across to him. That gets a sharp little glance, edging on suspicious.

“It’s good,” he shrugs, and as he reaches for his own glass Daud snatches it from the table. Sniffs it. Drinks. The beer is unceremoniously pushed back into his open hand.

“You never climb anymore,” Daud says, watching him over the rim of the glass.

Corvo doesn’t release the sigh he can feel building in his chest and takes a sip of the beer. It is good. He, at least, will appreciate it.

Daud’s eyes narrow. “I guess you’re comfortable, serving the highest of high society. Soft bed? Food to your liking?”

This is a little too much. Corvo rolls his eyes. “I don’t like the talking and lies and secrets,” he says, pointed, “But yeah, Dunwall Tower has a great cook, and the oxblood steak is to die for.” He meets the glare head-on, refuses to look away. After a minute, Daud seems to settle, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, heavy breath.

It’s getting loud in the pub. Usually, Corvo lets the noise wash over him, tucked as he is into this corner, a little ways away—but the tension is sliding back into Daud, stiffening his neck as he hunches over the table again.

“Come climb with me,” Daud says, only just avoiding urgent.

“It’s raining.”

“Is that going to stop you?”

Corvo levels him with a look that brooks no argument. “We can walk. But I’m not climbing.”

So they walk. Corvo pulls his waxcloth over his head; his official outfit has no hood, and he’s had to make do on evenings like this. Umbrellas are inconvenient if he wants to keep his hands free. Daud’s coat has no hood either, but he seems to pull one from the jacket underneath, and it covers him just as well.

For a time, they move forward, directionless beyond Daud ducking into long alleyways for no reason Corvo can see, guiding him through passages he’s hardly paid attention to into parts of the city he isn’t sure, even after two years, he has ever seen—then back to the streets he has come to know, never lost or misplaced. Rain falls in sheets over their heads, onto the road, swelling the gutters with grimy water. It stings where it lands on his face and hands.

It’s unseasonably warm for the month of Darkness. Still, he feels himself grow dull and stiff with cold—dull enough that he barely reacts when a sure grip closes on his arm and drags him, forceful, into the dark of an alleyway.

“What's—” he starts, before a bandaged hand comes across his mouth.

Daud’s gaze is fixed on the end of the alley, gold with the light of the lampposts. “Quiet.” His voice can barely be heard over the sound of the rain.

They stand, still, rainwater dripping down Daud’s nose where he doesn’t care to wipe it if it means he must move, until three Watchmen pass coming up the thoroughfare. They remain unnoticed. After a handful of minutes, Daud seems to sweep his eyes around and relax, and they step back out into the street.

Daud pulls his hood down lower and wipes the rain away. Corvo glances up to where the three Watchmen are disappearing into the night—and if he doesn’t ask, he does wonder.

“Your disappearing trick,” Corvo says as they follow the incline of a boulevard down to the river. Daud bumps into him on accident when he turns. They’ve been walking close, so they can hear each other over the rain. “How did you do it?”

“What trick?” Daud asks, but instead of questioning his voice is harsh and dismissive.

“I turned and you were gone.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Corvo knows that isn’t it, and finds himself warming as anger starts to stir in his chest. “I looked away for a second. You’re not a card someone can hide up their sleeve.”

Daud’s jaw goes stiff, his mouth a thin, taut wire.

“I had—help,” he bites out.

Corvo makes a derisive sound. “You had help.”

“I can’t tell you,” he snaps, and his shape goes rigid under the coat. “Stop asking.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Daud whirls on him, blocking his way, says: “What difference does it make?”

His gray eyes are edged, like glass, or the sheen of a razor.

Corvo stops. He knows there is a sword, hidden inside Daud’s coat; he has seen the shape of it as Daud walked. He also knows there is more, out of sight. Daud has that impression about him: there is always more. He braces himself like he might for a fight, and sees Daud answering it, stance for stance.

“Are we friends, Daud?” he asks.

He can see the confusion flicker, bright and momentary, before it’s snuffed out. Daud’s breaths are strangely heavy. Corvo doubts it could be fear—yet it isn’t quite like anticipation.

“No,” he says, finally. “We’re not friends.”

It’s strange. There is nothing to suggest that Daud isn’t sure of himself: he’s straightened his back, and his eyes meet Corvo’s without flinching. The words sound like they should be the end of something.

Corvo loosens, and reaches out, slow; he sees Daud stop himself from jerking away, and sees, too, how some kind of tension drains out of him when Corvo’s hand closes on the high point of his arm, though Daud reflexively seizes his wrist.

“I work for the Kaldwins,” Corvo says, and neither of them has looked away. “I know how to keep a secret.”

There is a long stillness. Corvo realizes, distantly, that the rain has stopped.

Daud pushes Corvo’s hand off him.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, and Corvo lets him walk away.

It’s on the way from the Tower to the pub, in a deserted road, that a hand presses firm into the small of his back. The elbow he throws is caught in an iron grip.

“Walk with me,” Daud says, and Corvo huffs out his exasperation but lets go of his sword.

“That was a dangerous thing to do,” he mutters as he is lead—this is far from the aimless wandering he’s used to, Daud catching street names with sharp eyes and directing him, steady, in a direction that’s becoming more and more obvious by the minute.

“I’m sure,” Daud answers, and the hand drops from Corvo’s back. His skin rings with the memory of pressure. Almost absently, as Daud brushes past into an alley just slightly wider than his shoulders, Corvo notes the darker spatter across his lapel. It’s new, a darkish brown. It slots into the rest of the picture Corvo has been building with a distressingly simple click.

He remembers, distinctly, his first impression: how certain he had been that Daud was part of a gang. Daud always had an uncomplicated opinion on corpses and their usefulness.

Corvo stops in his tracks, and it takes Daud a moment to notice and turn back, a question in the curve of his frown. He gestures for Corvo to follow. Corvo doesn’t.

“You missed a spot,” he says instead, pulling on his own coat. Daud looks down at the bloodstain, then back up at him. Corvo doesn’t know what that look in his eyes means, or how to interpret the way he tucks his chin into his chest, just a moment, before straightening.

“We don’t have all night,” he says, but doesn’t keep going. Corvo takes a few slow steps forward. Daud turns. Corvo follows.

“Where are we going,” Corvo asks, and Daud glances back as though to make sure he hasn’t stopped again.

“You know where we’re going.”

“Tell me.”

“We’re nearly there,” Daud says instead, and yes, Corvo can see it: Kaldwin’s Bridge, its high metal peaks, sprouting from between the buildings ahead like dark bones. Daud ducks into an alcove, the shadowed pit of a building’s doorway, just out of sight of the one guard standing at the foot of the bridge. He tugs Corvo in after him. The space is close, and their knees bump together when Daud shoots a look out then back up, at him. His face is grim.

“Climb with me.”

Corvo looks at him and feels heavy, slow; a heartless kind of tired.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks, and the weakness in him shows even through the half-smile he forces. Daud stares. His absolute stillness, strangely, seems to say what kind of idiot are you more than I’ve been found out.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it on the way,” he says, low but clear, unmoving except for his mouth and the flick of his eyes across Corvo’s face.

Corvo lets his expression go neutral. “I could take you in a fight.”

“Then I wouldn’t fight you,” Daud answers, unhesitating. He pulls up the thick sleeve of his coat; strapped to his arm is a compact machine, like a small folded crossbow. “I’d shoot you from a rooftop. You barely react to seeing me anymore.”

Of course he could, Corvo thinks, looking into Daud’s gray eyes, of course this Serkonan man with his unpracticed smile and his rough hands would be the one who held his death most surely—

Corvo takes his wrist, turns it to look at the mechanism in full. It’s well-made. Perhaps not very powerful at long distances, but accurate, he thinks, enough to hit somewhere bad. “You won’t deny it then.”

“No,” Daud says, like he knows exactly what Corvo is talking about. He must. There aren’t many ways to misunderstand this conversation. “But I’m not going to kill you. I meant to ask—” And there he stops, as though the next words are harder to admit to than being a killer. He glances out at the guard again, or the bridge. A short, irritated hiss. “This would be easier up there.”

“No one else is listening,” Corvo says, and it’s true: the sky has been dark for some time, and though windows are lit there is no sign of anything, or anyone, but them in the lee of this street—and still, Daud hacks a laugh, like he’s in on a joke Corvo can’t see.

He pulls his sleeve back down, and Corvo lets go.

“I could be…” Daud starts; he’s evasive, darting looks between the pools of gold where light reflects in the road. “I could be useful,” he decides, and his eyes fix back onto Corvo’s. “To your employers. The royal family.”

It’s a bold move, Corvo supposes; bold enough Euhorn might even appreciate the guts it took to make the offer. He doesn’t know what, exactly, motivates his answer.

“They don’t believe in those kinds of methods.”

Principle, or selfishness? They’ve never given him cause to think they would call on a hired killer—but perhaps some small part of him simply doesn’t want to know whether they might.

(Perhaps— Perhaps another, smaller part of him—

He has so missed having something the Kaldwins didn’t know about.)

“None of my clients had a problem with them,” Daud says, wry, and Corvo tries not to read disappointment in the shift of his shoulders, “However noble their blood.”

Then his eyes narrow, and he adds, as though he’d seen the thought written clear on Corvo’s face, “I’m not giving you names.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Corvo answers, and relaxes against the inside of the doorway.

The space is growing warm around them despite the chill. Daud is still looking at him.

“Climb with me,” he says, and Corvo breathes in deep.

“Alright.”

It’s been two years since he last went up there. He isn’t worried about being up to the task—sword practice keeps him well in shape, and he doesn’t doubt his own strength—but that old ease he’d had as a child facing the tiered rooftops of Karnaca has dulled, and navigating the struts of the bridge isn’t the thoughtless exercise he remembers it being. In the privacy of his own head, he might even admit it’s daunting.

Still, they make their way up, Daud at the head, and when they reach the highest platform—so familiar, even now—the shrieking wind freezes the sweat under Corvo’s coat. Daud sits at the edge, exactly where he always had, and waits until Corvo takes his own spot before he speaks.

“I thought it was worth a shot,” he says, looking out to the river.

Corvo takes out his cigar box. It’s a small comfort, but he thinks he needs it. “You took that shot. What now?”

He expects there to be a pause, or simply a growing silence, but Daud says, “Now I keep going.” The curl in his lip could be a sneer or a smile. It’s a little bitter, a little tired. He glances over at Corvo’s hands. “We can’t all be Royal Protector to the fucking Kaldwins.”

Corvo holds out the box, open to show the neat row of rolls, but Daud gives a short jerk of his head. Corvo lights his with a match from another pocket.

“You never smoke?” He knows he sounds surprised—the rasp in Daud’s voice sounds exactly like that of the dockworkers Corvo remembers crossing in Karnaca, rubbed raw with smoke, sometimes acheful to hear. Daud eyes him, quiet, chin propped on his fist. His eyes are pricked silver with the city lights.

Before Corvo can react, Daud has pinched the cigar between two fingers and brought it to his own mouth. He’s staring at the glowing tip, the curve of his lips unsure around the end—and then he takes a drag that trickles back out from the corners of his mouth in thin, fast-blown wisps. A noise rumbles up from deep in his chest.

“I did,” Daud says, the rest of the smoke gusting away on the wind. “Used to be in a gang. Everybody smoked.” When he sucks on the end again it’s almost delicate, his brow furrowing as though in focus. “I didn’t like the taste.”

Corvo doesn’t know what he looks like right now—his organs feel like they’re trying to climb up where his lungs are meant to be, and he has to swallow, certain otherwise that his voice might break. His throat clicks.

“So you changed your mind since?”

Daud’s eyes meet his. The pinpricks of the city lights are gone; all Corvo can see is the hot glow of the cigar, flaring as Daud breathes in, then reaches out, the movement calm and telegraphed, until his hand wraps itself in the front of Corvo’s coat and pulls him forward, implacable, merciless. Corvo catches himself on one hand, the platform ringing with it.

There is the brush of lips on his, faltering. The brief taste of cigar smoke as his mouth opens.

He can see entirely too much of Daud’s face—his eyes, somehow dark, and the painful line of his scar, and another over his left eyebrow, and the precise displacement of the break in his nose—when Daud says,

“Maybe I’ll get used to it,”

and pushes him back until he’s sitting, again, in the same spot—now cold—as though nothing happened at all.

Daud takes another drag, frowns and works his jaw, and hands the cigar back.

Corvo takes it. Wants, in an unhinged, desperate way, to grab Daud by the bloodstained lapel of his coat and finish what he just started—but to be here, holding this, the taste of more than smoke on his lips, he must have misread all that has lead up to it, and he thinks—the thought is so clear, like the moon through still water—he thinks that anything and everything he does, right at this moment, will be bloated with a meaning he can’t even begin to understand.

He finishes the cigar, and throws the stub out over the edge to fall somewhere in the river.

They don’t speak for a long time. Corvo has stopped paying attention to the ringing of the clocktower. At some point, Daud gets up.

“Are you leaving?” Corvo asks, unable to keep it down, and Daud looks back to him.

“Even I need to sleep, Corvo,” he says, and Corvo decides it will have to make do for a promise.

He spends the week scanning rooftops, and catches sight of Daud only once: on the first day, perched on a high chimney like a misplaced gargoyle. As soon as Corvo turned to look he darted out along the eaves and disappeared.

When he goes out to the pub, nothing happens on the way. No one comes to sit at his corner table. The woman at the bar smiles, and says he was missed last week, and when Corvo asks about a man in a red coat her face goes blank and she shrugs and shakes her head. He leaves his drink half-finished, and goes back out into the cold.

Footsteps behind him. He doesn’t stop to consider them.

“Running from something?” says Daud, and then Corvo has him flattened against a wall, fists in the shoulders of his coat, hauling him up on tiptoe with the bricks probably digging into his shoulders. Daud has a vise grip on his arms, panting in what must be surprise, while Corvo’s breaths heave around the weight of every action he’s considering. He loosens his hands, and Daud slides back to his feet. His fingers ache.

“Jumpy,” Daud says, but rather than amused his tone is careful, checking him over like he’s expecting to find marks. Corvo drags a hand through his hair with a huff, doesn’t even try to explain himself. Fingers brush, cautious, against his back; and when he doesn’t jump away, the palm presses in. He must be imagining its warmth through the layers of his clothes. “Come on.”

It’s the only difference, that hand, steady on him, and the more it settles there the more unsettled he becomes. He knows last week happened. He repeats it to himself: He knows. He knows. He thinks he mostly controls the tremble when he pulls the cigar case out and takes one, brings it to his mouth, lights it. It tastes the same as it had then. He glances at Daud.

Daud is looking back. Corvo breathes out a cloud.

In one movement the cigar is plucked from his hand, and Daud is taking a drag, something like a challenge in his eyes.

The street is empty. Sometimes Corvo remembers Daud telling him he knew what the Void looked like, and wonders if he went there; if that’s where they go, on these walks, when the entire city seems drained of its people. Corvo pinches the cigar between two fingers as Daud breathes in again, lifts it away, and throws it aside. His fingertips burn from being so near Daud’s mouth.

His lips are cold, though, when Corvo takes him by the arm and drags him somewhere dark. Cold, then not; warm, red with biting, damp with the steam of their close breaths. Corvo cups the raw angles of his face and dips into his mouth again, just pressing lips at first, then his tongue, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. He tastes of cigar smoke, bitter and hot.

Corvo doesn’t take more than one step back before Daud has him flipped and pinned in the dark of the doorway, arms boxing him in.

“We’re not done here,” he rasps.

Corvo chokes on his own breath as a solid thigh pushes up between his legs.

They use their hands—callused, numb with the cold, but tender enough when they grip side or bicep or thigh, or slide over skin, mapping the hollows of muscle and bone—and sometimes, though rarely, their mouths. Corvo has kissed the acrid taste of his own come from Daud’s tongue. Daud has made him writhe, uncontrolled, with only deft fingers and the bite of his teeth, Corvo’s howling muffled by the leather of his glove.

The city’s mass wraps around them in those moments like a shell: closed off, protected. Nothing can touch them but their bodies. Corvo feels himself swallowed by shadows, and even the light glances off of them.

In the month of Ice, as Dunwall prepares for the old Empress’s memorial, Corvo warms his hands in Daud’s pockets while they trade damp breaths in the lee of a building. Daud rolls his hips; Corvo’s fingers clench, digging into the meat of him, and there is a stuttered gasp in the crook of Corvo’s neck, the weight of a well-used body pushed up along his.

“Come with me,” he says, and pulls away, though his hand remains curled around Corvo’s wrist.

Corvo follows after. The night curves over their heads.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come with me.”

Daud had said, himself, that he needed sleep, and Corvo can only suppose that this would be done on a bed, in a room, somewhere tucked away. It still manages to be a surprise that Daud has a pair of keys, and that these keys fit into a pair of locks, and that the door they open gives way to a tiny two-room apartment in the middle of a seedy district.

The kitchen looks largely unused. The bedroom is dark, its only window shuttered. He can still see the bed, a lumpy shape barely lit through the open doorway, over Daud’s shoulder when he is backed up against the bedroom wall.

“Corvo,” Daud says, hands splayed on the wallpaper, and his eyes are a little too wide, his breaths a little too short, and Corvo grabs him by the side of his belt and the back of his head and drags him close, taking all that he wants from Daud’s mouth.

“I want you to fuck me in that bed,” he says, brute words sweet on his own tongue, and Daud snarls and bites his lip.

The mattress is stiff and sagging under his back—his coat, his vest thrown to the floor, his boots kicked off the end of the bed as Daud advances on him in shirtsleeves and breeches—but comfort matters little when Daud’s hands close on his ankles and pin them to the sheets. His shape is huge in the thrown light of the doorway. He crouches there, between Corvo’s bent knees, and undoes Corvo’s belt.

“Get on with it,” Corvo grunts, catching an ankle in the back of Daud’s leg and tugging, and the breath rushes out from him when Daud looms, one arm braced on his chest, and kisses Corvo’s impatient mouth.

“Let me take my time,” he says, and slings the belt out into the dark.

When Corvo is naked, gangly and shivering on top of the blankets and his cock half-hard in anticipation, Daud slides his palms up the concave of his stomach, lines his fingers up with the ripples of Corvo’s ribs and kisses his sternum.

“Skinny bastard,” he mutters there. His breath is a hot, damp wash, and jolts a fresh wave of shaking out of Corvo, who yanks on the back of Daud’s shirt. There is no restraint left in him. He wants Daud’s whole body on him without delay.

“Tell me you have oil,” he growls, and it’s in Daud’s hand, not oil but a metal tin of thick grease he spreads on his fingers, slick and shining in the dregs of hallway light.

“Turn over,” Daud says, and Corvo answers,

“No,” tilting his hips up, bracing with his legs, Daud’s free hand coming up to steady him. “No, like this.” Daud’s eyes in the light: gold-touched, less metal than water. He wants it like this.

He touches himself through it, his own heavy breathing loud in his ears. The first breach is a strange and foreign pressure, but even if it’s been some time he has done this before; soon he’s up to two fingers, breaths wheezing from him at every firm push, propped up on one elbow so he can watch the way Daud’s shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt. He makes no sound when he works. Corvo wonders, half-delirious, whether he’s this quiet when he kills.

“Now,” he says, dropping back to the mattress and fisting his hands in the sheets by his head, “Daud—” He pushes back on Daud’s pressing fingers, but it’s clear what he wants.

“One more,” Daud says, pulling back, and Corvo almost snarls, slinging a leg around Daud’s hips, jerking him closer.

“Now.”

Daud obliges. Everything but his shirt is discarded, and his cock hangs thick and red between his thighs, wet at the tip. Corvo glances to it and back up, and he can see Daud’s face is red, too, flushed from his chest up to his ears, the tilt of his head nearly demure. Their eyes meet in the dark. Very deliberately, Corvo cants his hips.

Daud fits just right in the spread of his legs, broad shoulders but narrow hips, and the stretch when he presses slowly in makes Corvo want to keen.

He doesn’t. Daud does: the first noise he’s made beyond words, thin and warbling and glorious. The rush, victory or adrenaline or helpless crushing want makes him clench hard and Daud bends his forehead to Corvo’s stomach, hissing muffled curses into his skin.

Winter is like a fever—he’s too hot inside for how cold his skin is—Corvo grabs at Daud’s thighs, fingers digging in, and his body flexes like he can force a rhythm. Rough hands close on his waist. The drag of Daud’s cock out of him, the gradual thrust back in—he huffs a weak breath, pushing into it, and his cock leaves a wet trail on his belly when the next thrust rocks him.

“Faster,” he gasps—fuck, he wants all of it, the heat and the friction and that strength keeping him still as it needs but that killing focus is staring down at the meeting of their bodies, the steady too-shallow slide, rather than applying itself to fucking him out of his mind—

He knocks his heel against Daud’s tailbone, wriggles and strains closer, “Come on—” and Daud pushes him flat with a hand on his chest but it isn’t enough—

His body moves for him—Daud grunts when his back hits the mattress and shouts, reedy and desperate, when Corvo finally sinks down onto him, full, sweaty and buzzing, and takes himself in hand. The arch of Daud’s throat, his head near hanging off the bed, is a gorgeous thing. Corvo fucks himself with hungry jerks of his hips, hissing through his teeth at the burn, and Daud makes high shocked sounds that thrum through Corvo’s fingertips when he lays his hands there, at the dip in his shoulders, just below his neck. Daud’s hands scrabble for purchase on the spread of Corvo’s thighs. It’s all he can do to hold on.

When he comes, the sounds cut off sharp, and his nails rake red lines down Corvo’s sides.

Corvo rolls his hips again and bears down, but all that does is make Daud wince, his panting breaths catching for a second. Fingers press, light, at the red lines; the touch stings, but he doesn’t mind.

“Get up for a second,” Daud says, and when Corvo moves off him he shifts fully onto the bed, sprawled flat and languid.

Corvo’s still hard and not a little envious. When he palms himself, Daud has the gall to smirk.

“Come up here,” he says, and Corvo begrudgingly lies down next to him to bite the smirk away, but Daud shakes his head. He worms an arm under Corvo’s side and gets a hand on the meat of his ass. “Up here,” he says, eyes bright.

Corvo hesitates—then he’s on his knees, Daud’s head between his thighs, one hand curled tight around the base of his cock because, just for a moment, he’s certain he’ll come just from the sight. Daud takes hold of his hips, thumbs stroking. He’s eyeing the lines he left there.

Then he looks up, into Corvo’s face. He says, “Well?” His chin tips up like an invitation.

Corvo fists a hand in his sweat-tousled hair, pulls just enough to draw up his head, and feeds his cock to Daud’s open mouth.

At first he rocks in shallow, breaths short as he watches Daud’s tongue flick out to follow when he withdraws, and he can’t help the low whine when he sinks back in, soft and wet, sucking pressure, a bare hint of teeth when Daud swallows and his tongue pushes up. His heart beating wild, Corvo tucks the thumb of his free hand in alongside his cock and watches, Daud’s lip pulled aside, as he thrusts red and heavy into his pink and glistening mouth. Daud gasps something through his nose, swallows again.

Corvo grabs his hair with both hands, pins him to the mattress and lets himself fuck in deeper, until Daud’s eyes water and his throat clenches and he makes soft choking noises, his nails cutting into Corvo’s skin, pulling him still closer. Corvo braces an arm against the wall and spends with a feeble little cry.

Daud’s throat keeps tightening in small, convulsive motions around him; he shivers through it, grinds his hips into Daud’s face until pleasure turns to discomfort and he withdraws. Daud has gone a deep, precious red, gasping ragged breaths. Corvo crawls down the solid shape of his body so he can kiss his wide-open mouth.

“I taste disgusting,” Daud warns, crushing him closer with an arm across his back, one hand around the back of Corvo’s neck.

“You should know—by now—” Corvo says between searching kisses, “I really couldn’t care less—” and Daud relaxes under him wholly, limp and pliant, eyes closed and stroking down Corvo’s back like he needs to be gentled. Neither of them moves to turn off the light in the hall. There, faintly silhouetted, they share lips and tongues, a strange hesitation in every rough press of Daud’s mouth.

Corvo tangles their legs, pulls the blanket over them both. Daud lets him. He’s a little bony in places, but radiates heat, and the hollow of the blanket warms up fast.

On the cusp of sleeping, Daud shifts under him.

“Won’t they miss you at the Tower?” he asks, his voice still rough. A thrill makes Corvo shiver to know he is the cause.

“I sleep in the barracks still,” he says, burrowing in the crook of Daud’s neck. “I’ll have rooms when Jessamine is Empress.” Daud scratches fingers through his hair, and cradled as he is he quickly falls back into sleep.

Sometime in the night, he wakes to Daud pulling himself away, and grabs for his wrist on reflex.

“I need to piss,” Daud says low, pulling him off not ungently. “Go back to sleep.”

Corvo curls in the warm spot he’s left, huddled in the covers, and does.

In the morning, the bed is empty.

Bells ring. A year ago, Beatrix Kaldwin died in childbirth. They call the city to mourning.

Corvo had left unbothered, and in too much of a hurry to return to wonder that Daud was gone with no warning; impulse was in his nature, as was a certain disregard for other people’s worry. The memory of that night kept him up for days. More than once, he waited for the rest of the guards to fall quiet and brought himself off in his hand, the images sharp-edged in his mind.

On his next evening off, he sauntered off to the usual place and waited, sipping on whiskey, at the corner table. When he finished, he called for a Potterstead ale. Then he lingered outside in the drizzle for half an hour, glaring at the rooftops. Waiting.

Daud didn’t show. The evening left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

When the same happened a week later, Corvo started to wonder whether something had gone wrong, asking himself: Did killers for hire take travel contracts? Had he gotten injured? He spent hours staring at the bunk over his, listening to the guards shift in their untroubled sleep.

The third time, Corvo went out into the city. He thought he remembered where Daud had lead him—could only hope he hadn’t been waiting on a dead man, some wound too serious to heal striking him down— Would Corvo find him there, an old body in a corner, forgotten? Had he made it back at all? —and after getting lost twice he found himself in front of the battered old door.

He knocked. There was no answering sound. When he tried the handle, the door swung open, unlocked.

Inside, the floor was covered in dust, and his boots left great dark streaks in it where the floorboards showed through. The kitchen was much the same, no more used than when he had first stepped foot in the place. The bedroom window was still shuttered. He even thought the blankets were the exact same shape he had left them in upon leaving, three weeks ago.

Grief was a familiar creature—yet it did not touch him here. First he wondered if Daud had really been so petty as to abandon his home just so Corvo wouldn’t find him there. Then it hit him that it was just as likely Daud had taken the keys off one of his fresh corpses, and found the place well-kept enough to invite Corvo in. The thought flayed him with rage.

He didn’t cry. He did, however, tear the mattress apart.

It’s not a time he remembers fondly. Two winters, two heartbreaks. The realization that grief can come in many shapes. Many of his decisions in the years that followed were questionable at best, but he is glad enough for how some of them turned out.

Emily will be three years old in a week. The look on Jessamine’s face when she looks down upon her daughter is softness and joy and the fierce, protective light of decision. He only regrets, when he lets himself, that she had to be born into politics.

It’s as they’re taking the avenues back from a social function at the Boyle sisters’ that he sees it. He hardly knows how he noticed: it’s a speck, small and indistinct, black on gray.

As the tall spires pass in the carriage window, his eyes go straight up and catch on the figure perched at the very top of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He knows who it is. There is nothing in his sight or his past to convince him it waves when he looks, but he is just as certain it does.

When they return to the Tower, he tells Jessamine there’s an errand he needs to run; makes sure there are guards posted on the roof and at every exit in case this is a trick. Then he goes out into the streets, to a pub he hasn’t visited in years.

The woman at the bar is a different one. He asks for Old Dunwall. His table, tucked in the corner, is already occupied, though the man in the seat is positioned to be as far out of sight of the room as he can.

Corvo sits opposite. Notoriety isn’t something he needs to worry about.

The coat is worn now, the color faded to something like old blood—it’s been ten years, after all—and the sword is no longer hidden. No one he let see him would dare call him into question. His eyes, though—

(There is still a pang of loss when Corvo meets them, but it’s weak. Just an echo, really.)

His eyes are unchanged. Flat gray, serrated. The scar running jagged down his face is faded with age, and there are bags under his eyes, not yet dark with lack of sleep. Corvo’s mouth twitches at the uncharitable thought that there probably isn’t enough in the man to feel regret.

“You look—alright,” Daud says, and the knowledge that he’d meant to say ‘good’ is as violent as a blow to the face. Corvo can feel his teeth grating, but lets the tension go with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t answer. The narrow line of Daud’s mouth twists, crooked. “I had a question.”

“Then ask,” Corvo says, not quite snappish.

The look Daud levels him with is a measured, considering thing.

“Do the royal family’s principles still hold?”

Some part of him wants to be furious. Corvo’s hand drifts to his sword, pointed but unthreatening. “I’m the wrong man to ask for a job.”

Yet rather than offer that long-forgotten, sardonic little smirk, Daud nods, his eyes darting to the room and the street outside the window. “Don’t need to ask any more,” he says, off-handed. “Kill enough people, the offers come to you.”

That’s a wanted criminal, sitting across from you, Corvo reminds himself. He should be arrested. If Corvo draws his sword fast enough, he could stab him in the space between ribcage and clavicle, or the soft meat of his stomach—pin him to the chair.

He drinks his whiskey, his weapon heavy on his hip.

After a silence, inordinately cold in the warmth of the pub, Daud rises. His fingers linger a moment at the edge of the table.

“Keep an eye on your new Spymaster,” he says. This close, Corvo can smell it: Daud smells of cigar smoke. He might even know the brand.

When Daud leaves through the front door, no one looks up to see him go.

Corvo finishes his glass and returns to the Tower. It’s late; Jessamine is already asleep. His own bed is cold.

The rest, as they say, is Void.

#dishonored #corvodaud #there's boning in this one #writins

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andrea-lyn · 4 years

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Okay, if you still have room for prompts, anything you'd like to write (maybe a couple of years in the future) for Maribel in Dr. Isobel Evans and the Fountain of Youth universe?

Every year on Maria’s birthday, Isobel gives her twopresents.Isobel’s finishing up the first present (with her tongue working very hard tomake sure it’s the best birthday present ever) when Maria tugs on her hair andbrings Isobel up towards her lips for a messy kiss. “I know what I want thisyear,” Maria says, a sparkle in her eyes, “for my special birthday present.”Every year after Isobel devotes hours to worshiping her girlfriend’s body, sheoffers one adventure into an old myth or artifact – Maria’s choice – which theygo chasing down after. Isobel’s had to put some restrictions on it because sheneeds to be able to actually find it, which is why she’s taken to giving Mariaher book of half-finished cases for Maria to slide through and pick.“Oh?” Isobel murmurs against the kiss, straddling her girlfriend so she canteasingly slide her fingers over her abdomen, toying and gently advancingtowards her breasts. “And what adventure are you dragging me on this year?”“Medusa,” Maria says, tugging Isobel down for another kiss.

Isobel drags herself away from the kiss reluctantly, but she needs to make sureMaria’s serious about this one. “You’re sure?”It’s not that she can’t deliver (she actually thinks she’s very close on thisone, to the point that she knows the exact location of where they need to go,even though when they get there is where the adventure truly starts). It’s thepart where it’s a dangerous case if the legends are to be believed. If Mariaand Isobel have learned anything over the years, it’s that most of the legendsthat they hear about are simply real things that got twisted into myths.Isobel has to wonder if there aren’t a few tall tales about her out there.(Privately, she hopes there are)“I’m so sure,” Maria promises, her breath hitching as Isobel’s long hands splayover her rib cage and those deep breaths send Isobel’s palms rising and falling.“Scorned woman who gets revenge on men?” She gives Isobel a confident littlegrin. “Sounds right up our alley.”She’s right about that.“Then we’re on the case,” Isobel makes her promise. “I’ll call in and give theschool my notice, book the tickets tonight. Hand me my phone?” “Really? You want your phone right now?” Maria tips her head to the side andflips them so that Isobel’s the one on her back. Maria begins to slowly inchher way gracefully lower, pressing slow kisses over Isobel’s skin as she goes.“There’s nothing I can do to convince you to hold that thought for tomorrowmorning?”Isobel’s back arches as Maria pushes her thighs apart and her curls tickle thesensitive skin there as she begins to be very distracting. Letting out ayelp and a pleading cry, Isobel tangles her hands in Maria’s hair, breathingraggedly as she decides that sure, tomorrow sounds like the perfect time to dothe work.“Fuck, Maria,” she gets out, her voice low and thick with need.“That’s next,” is Maria’s guarantee, but Isobel wants less talking and moreattention paid to her, so she uses her fingers to dig into Maria’s hair andguide her back to what she wants. It might be Maria’s birthday, but that’s no excuse for Isobel to go completelywithout pleasure tonight.And tomorrow, she’ll start planning a trip to go and search for the mythicalMedusa. *A week later, Isobel’s got their bags packed and is in her summer best – alinen white pantsuit and a large-brimmed hat. She hands Maria the planetickets, taking smug delight in seeing Maria’s face light up. “Greece?”“Sometimes, the myth’s not completely wrong,” Isobel says, wrapping herarm around Maria’s waist to guide her to the hired car that’s waiting. “I haveher tracked down to a small village in Greece. There are stories right up untila few months ago about lifelike statues of certain objects, including men,” shesays. “Whatever Medusa might have been once upon a time is still happening now.From my research, I think they’re aliens who pass their powers down to the nextgeneration,” Isobel shares as she helps Maria into the car.“So she’s real? Medusa is real?” Maria asks dubiously. “You’re the one who picked this case!”“I thought maybe it would be some kind of artifact that might touch you tostone. Maybe, I don’t know, a vase or a hairbrush.” Maria’s eyes are growingwider and Isobel recognizes that look. They’re not leaving Greece until theyfind this woman, so Isobel has to hope this isn’t a dead end. “It’s a woman, a poor woman.” Her gaze growssteely and she turns on her seat to look at Isobel. “We’re going to rescueher.”“Yes, we are,” Isobel guarantees.The rewarding kiss that Isobel gets for her staunch determination is a niceincentive, even though it’s one she wouldn’t have needed. Maria has a habit ofpicking the most amazing cases for them to look into, and now that they’vedeveloped a routine, Isobel feels safe bringing Maria into the field with her. It's an easy trip to Greece, seeing as Isobel’s booked them in first class thewhole way there, which means that when they arrive, she’s feeling refreshed andready to go. She settles her satchel over her shoulder, sable fedora on her head, and linksarms with Maria as she brings them to the small coastal town where the trailhad gone cold. It’s a beautiful seaside town with mountains nearby, a placethat Isobel thinks could have been a romantic getaway even without theadventuring side-trip aspect.Isobel will focus on the beautiful sights around them later. Right now, she’s ready to go, eager, and they have a trail to pick up. “What doyou say we go talk to some locals?” Isobel suggests, once they’ve unpacked intheir hotel penthouse suite (because Isobel only travels in style and she lovessplurging on Maria). “I was thinking ouzo at the bar,” Maria agrees, with a flirty little smileIsobel’s way. She adjusts her wide-brimmed sun hat, leading the way in a shortlittle sundress that’s definitely going to get Isobel plenty thirsty soon. They’ve got work to do before they get to their celebrations. “Sounds like a plan.”It's a plan that gets them exactly where they need to be, as it turns out.Because the moment they enter the tavern, Isobel hears it. It’s a mournful wailing that can’t be ignored, something that only other alienswould be able to do. Isobel feels completely vindicated and despite theheadache she’s going to have, she’s smiling smugly. “What?” Maria asks, knowing her girlfriend well.“I hear her,” Isobel says, doubling back on the tavern to search for where thatcry is coming from. When she turns towards the mountains, it seems to amplify.“There,” she says, and tugs on Maria’s hand to get them moving that way. The ouzo is going to have to wait. Isobel follows the distressed psychic call in her mind, knowing with immenseclarity that Medusa isn’t just a real woman, but she’s an alien. She tugs onMaria’s hand to bring her along, towards the cavernous mountain complex. Asthey move, it begins to get louder, more like a scream than a piercingalarm, and she stops near a large mansion that sits on the mountainside.“Iz,” Maria murmurs, when Isobel stops in her tracks. “What is it? Is it here?”Isobel tries to sort through the screaming in her head, because it’s not comingfrom the house. She looks to the side, where there’s a grotto-like entrancenearby in the garden. Wordlessly, she begins to pull Maria with her, knowingthat the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end and she should becautious, but she knows that this is the right way to go. Whatever is waiting for them is inside that cave structure. “Isobel,” Maria hisses, more worried now. “No, it’s okay,” Isobel promises, because the screaming is gone. She’s closedher eyes to send out a peaceful signal, that they’re here to rescue the woman,that they’re friends, and it’s going to be okay. “I promise, it’s okay,” sheguarantees, and advances towards the cave. It’s a deep structure, with limestone and labyrinthine twists and turns, but agentle slope downwards. Isobel creeps further into the cave, passing a manfrozen in time in stone form. She can hear breathing a little further and whenshe glances up, she sees a beautiful woman behind bars. There are no snakes inher hair, but it’s clearly matted. Not for one moment does Isobel fear avertingher gaze.Whatever happened to this man had been done purposefully, and Isobel trusts thesame won’t happen to them.“Oh, thank the heavens,” the woman sobs. “It’s been four days since I got soangry and turned him to stone and the last of my food ran out this morning. Ithought I was doomed, I thought I was done for.”That psychic resonance from earlier makes sense now. It had been a last-ditchattempt – a desperate wail to try and get another alien’s attention.Cautiously, she steps aside to gesture for Maria to come into the cave, stillwary, but trusting that they’re not going to be turned to stone.“I’m Isobel Evans and this is my girlfriend, Maria. We’re not here to hurtyou,” she says bluntly, wanting to make sure they’re all on the same page whenit comes to that.“I’m Marianna Méduse,” she introduces herself, but her smile turns wry andbrittle. “I think you already know what it is my family can do.”“How long have you been here?” Maria asks, her brow furrowed and her tonedripping with sympathy. Isobel almost tells her to roll it back, because pityisn’t something that a prisoner is probably after. Marianna doesn’t seem to mind, but she likely has other things that she’sworried about. “Only a few weeks,” she says, exhaling with dismay. “I’m normally so good atkeeping my powers contained. When I get so angry that they activate, it’s onlyanimals that I turned or inanimate objects. Then, a month ago in the local bar,some man grabbed by arm too tightly. I turned on him and it was instantaneous,like I didn’t even think about it. They locked me up here in this torture caveafter.”“Men,” Isobel says derisively, with all the proper hatred in her voice. Shefocuses on the lock, using powers that Michael’s been teaching her to unlockit, watching the door swing open. “The good news is that we’re here to rescueyou,” she says brightly. “And you can do whatever you want.”“You’re like me? An alien?” Marianna says, staring at Isobel.“I heard you,” Isobel says, which should give her the answer she’s looking for.“I’m like you, and if you want to come with us, we’d like to take you away fromhere, give you some security.” Isobel can only imagine that the town is nolonger a home for her. She can only imagine the spectacle of what must havehappened in the bar and the witch hunt that had followed to get Marianna lockedup like this.She lets her gaze slide between the two of them, clearly still nervous aboutthem, and unsteady about whatever decision she’s about to make.“Isobel means what she says,” Maria adds, stepping forward to hold out bothhands to her. It’s an invitation and an opening, showing that they’re allowingthemselves to be vulnerable to her. “We’ll take care of you, we promise. Thereare others like you back where we live. People like you, and you can beyourself.”Marianna glances to Isobel, like she’s waiting for her advice.“It’s your choice,” she says. “But I think Maria’s right. There’s a whole otherworld waiting for you and I’d like to show you that you can be an alien in thisworld and not be afraid.”Marianna steps forward, takes Maria’s hands, and sags forward with a relievedsob. Well, at least bringing a woman back home with them is going to be much easierto clear through customs than a cursed vase or statue. The logistics of whatthey’re going to do once she gets there is a little trickier, but Isobeldoesn’t care at the moment. They’ve rescued an imprisoned woman and are givingan alien a new chance at life.She’ll call that a successful mission any day.*“I still can’t believe you did that,” Michael mutters as he drinks his secondof the night, care of Mimi’s soft spot for him. Maria would never give him twoin a row so quickly (or for free), but Mimi’s been out of the hospital for afew days now and every time Michael smiles sweetly at her and reminds her thatAlex married him, she melts and pours him a new one.One day, that’s going to stop working.And one day, Isobel will stop being jealous that she doesn’t get the same eventhough she’s dating Mimi’s daughter (though maybe if she got off her ass andproposed, she’d get all the free drinks she wants).Isobel pries her gaze away from the booth at the back of the bar, even if it’snearly impossible to take her eyes off Maria when she’s wearing that gorgeous bluedress. “What?”Michael rolls his eyes. “Earth to Isobel,” he quips, snapping his fingers infront of her face. He gestures heatedly to the booth. “That!”Isobel looks back to try and understand why Michael’s so annoyed. Maria andAlex have got Marianna there with them, getting her acclimatized to life backin society. They’re starting with Roswell instead of a bigger city because theywant to make sure that she’s comfortable before she goes back out into theworld fully.Kyle’s also there, because Maria and Isobel had conspired to introduce Mariannato a few decent men.Oh.Well, that explains Michael’s annoyance. “He’s not the same asshole he used tobe, you know. Maria and I thought it’d be nice if Marianna met a decent guy.”Michael opens his mouth and Isobel rolls her eyes. “Alex is married and doesn’tcount,” she cuts him off, already knowing exactly what he was going to say.“I still think there are better men out there,” Michael grumbles, picking upthe beers so they can head back to that table. “You married the one you think is best,” Isobel counters. “Of course you do.”“Speaking of marriage…”Isobel’s on her feet, because she doesn’t need this grief from Michael, either.“Maria!” she says brightly, walking fast enough to get in front of Michael sohe can’t push a topic that she’s planning (she just needs more time).“How’s everything over here?” she asks, settling back into Maria’s arms. “Marianna and Kyle were just talking about how they both want to go on a roadtrip and how she’s always wanted to see California.” Isobel recognizes thatsmug note in Maria’s voice. She loves the thrill of the hunt, but she alsoenjoys meddling in the love lives of their friends (which is partially why sheand Michael get along, because neither of them can stop pestering the otherabout their relationships). “I was giving them some tips.”Michael puts the beer in front of Alex before he slides in beside him. “And if he turns out to snore in his sleep,” he jokes, “then none of us wouldmind a stone Valenti.”“It would immortalize his abs,” Alex says absently, sipping at his beer. “Giveus a chance to touch them more.”Kyle flushes furiously red, Michael lets out a jealous cry, and Isobel can’thelp laughing until she cries, loving how badly that’s backfired on him. Shecan tell Marianna is still slightly out of her depth here, but Maria’s betterthan all of them, because she’s the one who leans over and murmurs, “Take theroad trip,” in an encouraging tone, “and definitely get to see the abs.”“They’re an attraction of their own,” Isobel agrees, getting comfortable atMaria’s side as all hell breaks loose. She doesn’t care in the slightest. It’s been another amazing adventure andanother great year with her girlfriend. Better than that, Isobel’s alreadyconcocting a plan to make Maria’s birthday next year the best yet, because whatcould be better than a proposal and a honeymoon adventure?Nothing in the world, as far as Isobel’s concerned.

#maribel #isobel evans is indiana jones au #maria/isobel #au #tiny malex at the end #adventuring #medusa is an alien #and is gonna have a fling with kyle #chamblerstara

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