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whatsnewalycat · 7 months

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Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto.

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish.

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front.

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office.

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.”

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements.

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him.

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.”

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs.

“What brings y’all to town?”

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.”

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.”

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.”

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?”

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.”

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.”

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?”

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.”

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?”

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.”

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you.

The room smells of bleach and water damage.

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.”

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval.

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person.

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes.

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home.

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.”

A smile spreads across your face.

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you.

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome.

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you.

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him.

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter.

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?”

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.”

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom.

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed.

“Can I at least shower?”

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?”

“There’s a window in the bathroom.”

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window.

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.”

He just stares at you, unmoved.

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground.

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?”

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.”

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?”

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.”

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.”

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again.

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it?

I am not a good man.

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little.

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin.

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it.

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?”

“Yeah.”

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.”

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.”

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?”

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.”

“So?”

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?”

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle.

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.”

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine.

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.”

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention.

“Hello handsome boy!”

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub.

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?”

He barks.

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.”

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot.

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!”

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?”

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.”

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack.

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?”

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.”

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser.

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!”

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom.

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell.

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other.

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom.

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze.

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out.

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?”

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you.

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?”

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes.

“Finding anything fun?”

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?”

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.”

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape.

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed.

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?”

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?”

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?”

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to.

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position.

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?”

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin.

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.”

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?”

You look at his black leather boots.

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now.

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be.

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow. An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really.

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them.

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio?

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele.

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless.

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful.

Goddamnit.

“You stay right next to me the whole time.”

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge.

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.”

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.”

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world.

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere.

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it.

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.”

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“What’s that?”

You glance over at him.

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.”

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?”

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort.

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?”

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually.

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.”

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle.

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed.

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves.

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.”

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door.

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation.

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.”

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back.

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response.

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless.

Something happens inside you.

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart.

RULE #9: Do not get attached.

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t.

Need it, that is.

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore.

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.”

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.”

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.”

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine.

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything.

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing.

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it.

Your face heats even more.

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him.

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?”

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile.

She nods, then looks at Din.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.”

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?”

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin.

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options.

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon.

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood.

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way.

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue.

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon.

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly.

“Who says I’m not?”

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?”

“I am.”

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent.

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?”

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.”

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?”

“I take it I do not get a treat?”

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music.

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between.

For that, he’s grateful.

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling.

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm.

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune.

Heat wells up in his chest.

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately.

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol.

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.”

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard.

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?”

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob.

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.”

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?”

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that.

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.”

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?”

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.”

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion.

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.”

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him.

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it?

Live in the now.

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left.

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable.

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier.

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second.

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.”

He wants to take it back.

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary.

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk.

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him.

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless.

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you?

Of course you were.

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say.

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs.

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm.

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care?

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it.

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?”

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod.

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut.

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough?

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you.

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.”

“Is this an apology?”

“No, it’s chocolate.”

You blink at him and cross your arms.

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him.

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off.

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.”

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing.

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud.

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?”

“Are you?”

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?”

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.”

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.”

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes.

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds.

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him.

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free.

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath.

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand.

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly.

RULE #2: Listen to your gut.

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.”

#din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin x ofc #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #passenger

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halfratsalready · 2 months

Text

Some silly little ideas regarding a silly little AU I’ve been brainstorming

I’ve had this funky little idea in my head for a little bit now, but I haven’t published fanfic in a good 6 or 7 years, so the idea is kind of scary.

Includes spoilers for Lose Yourself and kinda for Sweet Dreams (though hopefully we’re getting that soon 👀)!

Some of the things in this little headcanon/AU:

Night Swan’s real name is Leda Swan, and Leda Nox was a stage name that she abandoned when her dreams failed.

Jack ran away from home as a teenager and lived under the alias Rose (I haven’t quite decided on why he would choose that name, but the storytelling of it is so ✨poetic✨). He kept a low profile and did a lot of graffiti over Night Swan propaganda.

Wanderlust met Jack when they were teenagers, but he never knew his true identity or that he was Night Swan’s son (Wanderlust was supposed to stay away from Eternyx because Night Swan wanted his head on a silver platter, but he couldn’t fight his need for adventure and exploration - it’s his name, after all).

When Night Swan finally got hold of Jack again, she decided to let him live out his childhood dreams of being a performer, but with the intention of making his face recognizable so he could never escape and get by on the streets again.

Night Swan chose the stage name Jack Rose so that the name he had chosen for himself was no longer representative of his freedom from her.

She also made his connection to her extremely public so that nobody would be able to see him as anything but her son. It also served to make any of his artistic acts of rebellion seem insincere, since he was working with her even after all he did to protest her reign.

If I did write it, it would probably be in three parts, a couple of chapters each. Part one would be their time as teenagers, part two would be a little bit of the aftermath for Jack, and part three would align with Enter the Danceverses! I think I want to try my hand at writing at least the first part and see where it goes from there :D

#just dance #just dance 2023 #just dance 2024 #Jack rose #wanderlust just dance #night swan just dance #jacklust #wanderrose #jack rose x wanderlust #just dance lore

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occasionallyprosie · 2 months

Text

"A Song On Repeat"

Chapter 2

Legend may have passed out, but he was also now accustomed to staying awake for three days straight. He didn't stay down long, and he wasn't going to sleep until he knew for certain that the loop was over.

Febuwhump 2024 | Alt Prompt 7: Last Words

<<Previous

Event Masterlist

Read On AO3 Warnings: Panic attacks

----

Legend couldn't sleep the night after he woke up. The magical exhaustion had knocked him out to start with, but once he could wake up he did and falling back asleep was a hard no.

The others didn't question him immediately, clearly he looked worse than he thought if they were all shooting him concerned looks.

They made camp in the same place as the night prior, and Legend ended up staying vigil the whole night despite the clear reservations and opposition.

"You need rest, vet," Sky told him softly. "You passed out, we don’t know what's going on but we know that something happened... at some point, and the Old Man knows what, even he says you need to rest."

"I'm fine," he said in an equally low voice. "I just... I need to make sure."

What if the moldrum wasn't the answer? What if that horde was a distraction? What if--

He startled as a weight settled around his shoulders and another presence took up the place on his left, opposite of Sky.

"Then let us keep you company," Warriors said, Legend realized it was his scarf that was settled over his shoulders and he couldn't help but stare before huffing softly.

He redirected his attention to the wider area, letting out a steady breath and just waiting, watching.

He knew it wouldn't prove anything to himself, this was a defendable camp, there was a reason why he never had to fend off the ambush within the first six hours of the seventy-two.

He'd stay up tonight, and he'd let them get to the original second night camp, the original scene of the slaughter. He'd stay up then too, none of them could or would stop him.

Nayru may have released her hold on him, Farore may have promised that it was over, but Legend wasn't going to let his guard down until these three days were up.

He wasn't sure if he'd dare explain anything beforehand, he wasn't sure he could share it multiple times.

Warriors stayed by his side, Sky too, Sky got up and woke Twilight and Time before he returned to his side and slipped into a half sleep. Warriors did well at staying up, settling in a restful state that wasn't quite sleeping. Twilight shot Legend worried looks but Time was the one to approach.

"Veteran," Time crouched down in front of him, drawing his attention, "is it over?"

Legend gave a bitter smile, he felt Warriors shift at bit at his side. "We'll find out, won't we?"

"What can I expect?"

"We'll find out," he repeated because he didn't know. He slaughtered the horde, they killed the moldrum, but was that enough? Did the Shadow have more up in the wings to drop on them through a portal? Would another battle begin that didn't count for the three days? He didn't know what would happen.

All he knew was that he had to make sure they all survived the next 54 hours.

"Will you rest?" Time asked this time.

"When it's over," he promised. "When it's done, I'll rest and then I'll explain, I promise."

"Alright," he agreed quietly. "I'm sorry--"

"If you say you're sorry for cursing me with this terrible fate, I'm going to stab you."

Time startled, he stared at him in surprise before he laughed weakly. "Why am I not surprised."

Legend glared. "I don’t think you realize how many "terrible fates" I've been apologized to about. I've experienced worse, even if this is up there."

Koholint and it's un-reality would continue to be the worst experience of his life, the ideality of it, he would've loved that life. Koholint and Marin, living on a quiet island but maybe having a ship to go and explore with, an ever-changing and ever dangerous ocean to traverse, a lover who would voyage with him, who had just as much wanderlust as he did. Koholint had been perfect, but what made it the worst thing he'd ever experienced was the fact that he experienced it and it wasn't real.

He had been given what he wanted only to have it stolen from him. Even then, this time loop thing also didn't compare to the people who he had lost and couldn't save.

The second day, Time spoke to everyone individually, quietly, and nobody demanded answers from Legend, they only pestered him about his health.

He let that slide, he ate the food Wild shoved into his hands every hour of the day, he let Hyrule cast diagnostic spells and Sky hover. Twilight would appear often and Wind hadn't left his side, but he was chattering on about various stories that Legend always enjoyed listening to.

Warriors hadn't taken back his scarf, and Legend wasn't going to give it back at the moment. He'd seen the captain get strangled and killed for it more than once that he didn't mind seeing it absent from his shoulders... it was also extremely soft, comfortable, and warm, he found he couldn't fault the Captain for always wearing it.

The day went by smoothly, as Legend was used to at this point, and they made camp in the questionably defendable grotto.

Legend took up vigil again, much to the dismay of his companions but Time somehow had stopped them from bothering him.

The night went by the same way the previous had, quickly, quietly, and surrounded by the other heroes.

The day repeated and Sky told him he needed to rest when they stopped for lunch.

He didn't have the energy to argue, he just shook his head. Twelve more hours, only twelve more.

Legend found himself beside Warriors and Time that night during second watch. Time seemed a bit anxious but as nothing happened. He counted down to midnight.

"How long, old man?" He muttered, head dropping against Warriors shoulder.

"It's midnight now, veteran," Time reported. "Is that it?"

His body said yes, that it stayed awake the whole time like he'd asked of it. It begged for reprieve, to finally rest.

"It better be," he huffed. "I don' think I can stave off the rebound of cutting off how much rest I got after getting magical exhaustion much longer."

"You can get some rest then," Time told him. "Time's up, you’re done."

Legend hoped it was, because he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. He passed out on Warriors.

Legend woke up to being carried. He tried to move only for whoever was holding him to tighten their grip.

"It's alright--I got you vet, it's okay. You can sleep."

He was frankly too tired to actually make a coherent response, much less be coherent, and just hoped his curl tighter into the warm arms and chest translated to: I'm trying.

The chest rumbled as they laughed. "Alright--hold on then, we're headed through a portal."

He didn't get the chance to process that before he was hit by the dizzying slam of a portal and its magical drain.

The next time Legend woke up, he was someplace soft and warm and listening to murmuring and chatter.

They turned out to have arrived at Time's Lon Lon Ranch by noon after Legend passed out.

Malon all but force fed him a meal that he willingly ate, although a bit reluctantly considering how much meat filled the plate. He held back the usual nausea that came with that and just sat back as she went to let the others know he was up... and that dinner would be ready soon so they better clean up.

Soon enough, everyone cleaned up and fed, Legend sat perched by the warm hearth and waited until they settled.

They did so quicker than usual, which wasn't too surprising to be honest.

"So, do we get an explanation now?" Wild asked. "Because I really want to know about the giant worm in the ground and why you jumped into it."

Legend blinked and realized... did they even know about the horde inside the moldrum?

"Yes," he said before anyone could comment on Wild's choice of focus. "It's... simple, honestly. Temporal magic is very powerful and provides a lot of options. Certain items are good focuses for temporal magic, I have a harp that is one, and I used an item that allowed me to travel back in time and retry after... after things went wrong. I did it to such an extent that it set a loop, seventy-two hours from midnight to midnight, that would remain until I achieved what I aimed for."

"Which was?" Warriors asked.

Legend faced the fire, the burning hearth and its warmth was welcomed, it also let him hide his face from the others.

"Making sure everyone survived."

Someone made a strangled noise, Wild--Twilight too, Legend was fairly sure. Sky inhaled sharply.

"How many times?" Time asked.

Legend hummed. He pulled out the three journals, flicked through the one of everyone's last words.

"I... I'm not sure. I lost count at some point, and... And I never tried to track how many."

He worried that if he knew how many, then he would lose hope of it ever ending.

"What's that?" Wind asked, he had moved the closest of everyone.

Legend glanced at him, then the page in front of him.

"I promised Aryll I'd teach her how to fight with a sword. I'm sorry..." -Sailor, axe in side pierced spine.

Legend let out a shaky breath. "I... I don’t know if you want to see this one, Sailor."

Wind frowned, more confusion than indigence. "Why?"

"Because..." Legend tried to take in a steadying breath but all it did was hitch and make him shudder. "Because it's your last words. I... I wrote them down."

It let him cling to sanity, keeping track of their unfinished promises, their wishes, making note of things asked of him, of goodbyes to make...

Of people to take care of if it happened to end without everyone surviving.

"Oh," Wind breathed. "I... Can I see mine?"

"I don’t think that's a good idea," Warriors intervened.

"No, it's not," Wind agreed, but he met Legend's eyes. "But I know you, and I know you'd feel responsible for anyone and anything we said. So I want to know what I said, even if it might be a bad idea, because I don’t want you thinking you can take my responsibilities from me."

Warriors faltered from pulling Wind back.

Legend stared at him, then he let out a laugh. "You’re not supposed to call me out like that, Ocean."

"It's my job dumbass. Now tell me."

Legend shook his head. "I can't. It's not just your words."

"Does anyone have a problem with anyone else reading theirs?" Four spoke up, eyes flashing blue.

Legend was quick to speak before anyone else could. "I-I didn't include secrets in that one."

They all looked at him, confused.

He moved his hand to one of the other journals. "I kept things separate... just in case. This... This one is more carefully partitioned and I was going to share it with everyone individually, but--This is of secrets, information, that I didn't previously know but that got revealed at some point. I... I figured you'd want to know exactly what I do, but it's also sectioned off so nobody else might read yours when reading their own. T-The last words doesn't really include much of that kind of information aside from names and vague references... goodbyes and the like."

They stared at him, all of them, varying degrees of surprise, concern, and some guarded wariness.

Sky was the only one with pity, somehow that made it worse.

"We'll do that one later," Sky said gently. "Individually, like you said. How about we all work through the other one together?"

"What for?" Hyrule asked.

"Trust, and so we aren't sitting here for ages just reading the same things over and over. It saves time, and then we can all address anything that needs to be addressed with everyone."

"Of course you're willing," Wild breathed shakily. "You don't have any secrets."

Sky didn't react but Legend snorted.

"Throw whatever idea you have about everyone here and how many secrets they have out the window, Champion. I promise you it's inaccurate. Everyone surprises you, in quantity and quality. There's no ranking."

Wind promptly burst into laughter. "Why did three people look at me?!"

Legend snorted while Hyrule, Four, and Twilight all startled.

"You're always telling us stories! I figured you'd run out of stuff to tell us!" Four protested.

"Well if that's how this will go," Time spoke up, "then I am fine with it."

"Me too," Hyrule agreed. "I... I have a feeling I know what mine are."

Legend bit his tongue. He moved over to the coffee table and dropped the journal onto it. Everyone shifted to gather while Sky took the book.

Legend moved back to the fire, other two journals tucked close and away.

""You better fix it this time," from the Smithy," Sky read. ""Please save them next time?" also the Smithy... "Please burn my body, please.""

Hyrule flinched.

"That one was the Traveler, and there's a tally underneath it... five--ten--seventeen sets of five."

Legend watched them, Hyrule looked at him and he just looked guilty.

"I'm sorry," Hyrule said softly.

"Everyone has a right to a final request, and to dictate what happens to their body after they die," Legend responded. "Keep going, Chosen. We'll be here all night at the rate you’re going."

He did, Legend noted he adjusted his position and everyone was leaning to read with him as he spoke one from everyone every now and then.

Legend could vividly remember every single moment.

"I don’t want to die." Spoken by Wild, a blade impaled in his chest and blood filling Legend's vision.

"Take care of the Champ for me?" Spoken by Twilight, he was the first down. Wild survived that time.

"I'm sorry, Malon... I'm so sorry." Time, he didn't know Legend was there, he was already too far gone.

"I'm sorry, Zelda." Wild again, thirty-seven times.

"If you keep going, tell my Grandma I'm sorry. And tell Aryll that I'll watch her." Wind, his whole arm cut off and legs mangled, the blood loss had take him.

"I've cursed you with a terrible fate, haven't I?" Time, eighty-eight times.

"My world isn't your fault." Hyrule, fifty-three times.

"Tell Zelda I'm sorry." Sky, one-hundred fourteen times.

"One more. Just one more, come on Link." Warriors, three arrows in his back and one in his chest. He took out seven more before an arrow to the throat took him down.

"I'm not done yet!" Twilight, a deep cut in his side and his guts threatening to spill out. He did manage to take out a few more before he was decapitated.

"Come and get me!" Hyrule, he charged the horde... Legend didn't see how he died.

"Fucking try me you sons of bitches!" Wind, he took out fourteen more before he was overwhelmed... and screamed when he was killed. A lot of Wind's last words were spoken with a lot of profanity.

Voices and scenes echoed in Legend's mind, Sky reading the ones that Legend had actually written down faded to the back of his awareness while the ones he never wrote down came to the forefront.

"Please--Vet please, I can't."

"Sailor no!"

"CUB! NO--GET AWAY FROM HIM!"

"I can't die--I can't--I can't leave Malon alone with this."

"H-Hey, Scholar? I-I don’t think... I don’t..."

"Mi...Mipha?"

"I-I promised Ilia I'd come back, I promised, vet." A bitter laugh. "I should've known better."

"Shit... Linkle's gonna kill me." Blood fall from his mouth. "Well... She might not have to."

"Link! No! Don’t--" an arrow through the skull.

"S-Sprite?"

"Hey--Hey no, don’t cry. It'll be okay, you did so well just now. You've done it before, right? You're our veteran, I... I'm sorry... I'm sorry we had to... leave you to finish the job. But... But I know... I know... you... you can do it."

"No, no, why are you crying? I'm fine. It's okay--O-Oh... I-I guess it... I guess it isn't okay, is it Vet? Huh... adrenaline's pretty insane, isn't it? I didn't... I didn't... even..."

"GET OUT OF THERE!"

"No--SMITHY MOVE--"

"There's a Hinox! Look--"

"You’re repeating... That sounds like hell. Have we really not survived? ...Not even once? Oh Hylia..."

"Linebeck? What are... oh..."

"Link! Captain, no, no, no-- where's my-- ...Vet?"

"VETERAN MOVE!"

"Look--Look, you g--you go back and... and you... You kick their asses, you hear me?"

"Make sure you win this one."

"N-Navi?"

"YOU WANNA FUCKING GO?!"

"Alright... Alright. One more time, let's go."

"Please, for once in my life I'm begging you... make it stop."

"Th...Thank you."

"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, please--Please, I don’t--I'm sorry."

A thousand apologies.

A thousand battle cries.

A thousand names whispered with last breaths.

A thousand last words left unwritten because it explicitly revealed a secret.

Suddenly, something was touching him and his mind snapped into gear.

He jerked back, knife in his hand and he moved blindly, on instinct--

"Gah!" That voice--

Legend dropped his knife, horror shooting through him as he realized it was Warriors who'd touched him, it was Warriors who now had blood dripping from his cheek from Legend's blade. He had drawn blood from his brother.

He tried to move back but painful heat shot up his palm, his hand hitting the heated stone of the hearth and burning him. He yelped and jerked away.

"Oh s--Scholar no!"

He hit his head against the stone fireplace, and against everything, tears welled in his eyes. A damned head bump just made it all boil over, voices in his head growing loud but at least the visions to accompany them only flickered.

"No, no, hey." Warriors took his hand from the heat and wrapped a hand around the back of his head. "No, it's okay. You’re alright--ohhh, Sky? Hey, he burned his--Scholar, it's okay, just breathe, you’re alright."

"I'm sorry--I-I--"

"No, it's okay. I'm fine, I swear. I shouldn't have touched you, I'm sorry." Warriors stopped him from trying to pull away again, instead gently moving him away from the fireplace and making him give his hand to Sky, who'd appeared with a cold rag in seconds.

He was shaking, why was he so shaky? What was wrong? Why was he wrong? Why did he break from a touch? Why--

"Link," Warriors said firmly and he looked up fast. "Breathe... Do you need to take a break?"

Break--No.

"No, sorry," he forced out, struggling to wrangle his emotions back. His hand hurt. He hated burns. "I'm fine. I'm sorry, I just--zoned out."

"We noticed," Sky said, a note of softness to his tone. "But that's alright, we don’t mind. How about we all just head in for bed now? We can pick up the secrets tomorrow. I don't think we need to read the rest of that book."

"So many names," Four muttered in a voice that Legend barely heard. "I hadn't even thought of half those people in years..."

"You were about to die," Time said in equal volume. "Being so close to death puts things into perspective."

Legend nodded shakily. "Tomorrow, yeah--If that's what you want, okay."

Sky gave him a soft smile, Legend was distantly aware of the worry behind it but that wasn't what was keeping his attention as he stared at the two older heroes trying to help him.

He was more focused on the blood trickling down Warriors' cheek. If he blinked, the blood was coming from eyes that had been gruesomely carved out by keese.

If he listened, the screams of his brothers still plagued his thoughts. Their last words echoing in his mind.

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aeliagioia · 1 month

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Uploaded the last chapter of Wanderlust: B90 last night. Wrote this just now, anybody interested in the rest?

When you marry a Milkovich, you marry the whole family, Ian knew that going in.

That meant a few things.

It meant random three AM phone calls that pulled his husband out of bed and out the door with nothing more than a kiss and an "I'll be back." Whenever that happened, it meant not asking where he's going or asking where he'd been when he returned. It meant occasionally hiding what can generally be described as contraband, which also meant not acknowledging said contraband is present in the apartment from the day it arrives, until the day it disappears. It meant having a stash of cash available so when (not if) somebody needed bail money, they could contribute a portion of it with no expectation of being repaid.

Ian also knew that it meant eventually, someone was going to turn up dead.

#gallavich #mickey milkovich #shameless #ian gallagher #fanfic #ian and mickey #opening lines #writers writing #free writing

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conditionaljewel · 9 months

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An Aria for Imogen - Chapter 3

(Chapter 1)

(Chapter 2)

Laudna trembled only slightly with the envelope from Whitestone in her hands, an odd feeling washing over her. Although much of her wounds and memories of Whitestone had now been erased or replaced with newer, brighter and happier memories, it was still a strained relationship that Laudna held with her original hometown in Tal’Dorei, and the DeRolo’s in particular. Yes, Pate was technically named after them, but what’s in a name anyway? She was also eternally grateful for the effort that Vex’ahlia and select others had put into helping the rest of her friends and Imogen bring her back,

However, the glaring truth of the matter was that the girls had not been to Whitestone since those days. After setting back off on their mission at the time and trying to do what they could to help stop Ludinus, they never found their way back to Whitestone, and by now it had been some time. Truth be told the girls, Laudna especially, were happy here in Marquet, in the Heartmoor in particular. They had no desire or wanderlust to visit Whitestone, no wish to move there, nothing. This was their home.

On a much deeper level however, at least just in Laudna’s own mind, she long held a suspicion that for as long as Percy was alive, he was always going to have his doubts about her, and about whether Delilah was well and truly gone for good or not. Laudna was afraid Percy would never be able to trust her, feeling as though if she were to move back there permanently she would not be comfortable while he was around, as well-meaning as he may have been. She knew she could trust Vex’ahlia, at least she felt she could, but that wasn’t nearly enough.

Laudna snapped back to reality and turned her focused onto the large sealed envelope. She felt a bit of weight to it as she broke the seals on the back and proceeded to open up the flap, moving lifting and peeling it back to reveal its contents. Inside there were two letter-sized paper-thin envelopes, a smaller paper-thin envelope that didn’t look like it had much in it at all at first glance, and one thicker envelope that seemed to be padded. This one contained most of the aforementioned heft.

She plucked the paper envelopes out first, both letter-sized packets along with the smaller individual packet, and grabbed the topmost of the two presumed letter-holding sleeves. She set the others down at her side and flipped this first one over to reveal writing indicating its’ intended recipient: Ms Aria Temult. Below that was written (care of Imogen and Laudna). Laudna flipped the envelope around to show the others before turning it back over to open it. Inside was a letter on simple parchment, no obvious letterhead or markings on the sheet, but just a simple now scrawled on the inside. A personal, handwritten note, from the hand of Vex’ahlia DeRolo herself.

Laudna skipped the contents of the letter and jumped straight to the by-line at the bottom, and shuddered upon reading it. “Vex’ahlia sent something for Aria,” she declared with surprise as she proceeded back to the top of the letter and began reading.

The letter read:

Dearest Aria, daughter of Laudna and Imogen Temult,

Welcome to the world, darling. As a token of appreciation of your mothers’ places in my life and their place in our world, and now yours, I have enclosed a few pieces of jewelry that I felt were befitting of you and your mothers. May they serve you in your life as they have once served me and my family. I wish you good health and tidings for many years to come, dear Aria. I look forward to meeting you and seeing your mothers whenever you next visit Whitestone, where you three are always welcome.

Hold firm to your mothers, little one; they are without a doubt two women whom I am most proud to know.

Yours in kindness, Vex’ahlia DeRolo

Laudna wiped a tear from her eye as she passed the letter over to Imogen. There were no additional seals or official use of her name, Imogen noted as she looked over the letter with one hand, the other still supporting Aria as she fed. As that was happening, Laudna had opened the envelope that had the weight to it, presuming these to be the jewels that Vex’ahlia had referenced.

Upon spilling open the padded envelope’s contents onto the table before them, they were surprised to see a small assortment of rings, earrings, and necklaces. Each of them were beset with various gems and jewels amongst them. One particular ring stuck out in particular, that caught Laudna and Imogen’s eyes nearly immediately: a Ruby ring comprised of two snakes, not unlike one that was already present in the room.

The girls both flashed a look at one another, before glancing down quickly at Laudna’s left hand, where the Ruby ring Imogen had given her in Bassuras sat proudly on her ring finger. They both lit up with smiles, as Laudna reached down and inspected the ring closely.

“It looks very similar,” Laudna said as she took the Ruby ring off her finger and compared them side by side. “How peculiar. I wonder if there’s something to it,” she said as she replaced her ring back on her finger, while passing the new one off to Imogen. Imogen took it in her hand and looked at it closely for a moment, before handing it off to Dorian as the chain continued.

As they shared that around the circle, Laudna felt there was still something inside the padded envelope, wedged at the very bottom. Pulling it open wide revealed a small velvet sack had been stuffed at the very bottom, prompting Laudna to reach her hand in and pull it free. Dropping the envelope to her lap, she fondled the sack in her hand and pulled on its draw string to loosen the cinch. The sack opened as she held it in her palm and poured its contents out: a tiny stone with runes carved into it, with a piece of parchment attached that read two words: “to Whitestone.”

“There it is,” Laudna heard Orym say as she looked up at him with a confused look on her face. “That one will reach out to the DeRolo’s, just in case.” He smiled as he said this, seemingly trying to extend an olive branch between the two families. “They do care about y’all, Delilah or no. They just wanted to share a token of their gratitude and congratulations regardless.”

Laudna pulled the stone close to her chest as she turned to Imogen, who had taken the new Ruby ring back from Dorian. The stone began to glow a light pulsating blue. Orym continued, “we talked before I came here, they knew I was coming to visit. They just wanted you to know that they would be there if you ever needed them again.” Imogen leaned forward and placed the ring down on the table beside the rest of the jewelry.

Laudna nodded and said “thank you” to Orym, all while still holding the stone in her hand. As this happened, the stone warmed slightly in her palm and the blue glow pulsed one last time. The warmth then dissipated, and it returned back to its dull coloration and temperature; Laudna did not seem to have noticed this.

She set the stone down and picked up the second envelope, the last remained sealed procurement of this delivery from Whitestone. She flipped it over to see the addressed recipients on this, to find another surprise:

To Mrs. Imogen and Mrs. Laudna Temult

Laudna still wasn’t used to seeing her name followed by Imogen’s last name, even though they’d been married for quite a while now. It was something she was always surprised by, and it would never get old to her, she felt. She smiled warmly as she flipped the envelope over and popped the two seals that were present on this particular parcel off.

She slid the paper out of its container and unfolded it, and began to read it:

Mrs’s Imogen and Laudna Temult,

We write to you on equal behalf of the Chamber of Whitestone as well as the group known as Vox Machina to wish you a hearty congratulations on your recent wedding, as well as the birth of your baby daughter, Aria.

In honor of these wonderful events, in celebration of our realm’s continued perseverance as a result of your direct action, and in honor of the new beginnings all across Exandria thanks to you and your companions known as Bell’s Hells, the Chamber of Whitestone and the members of Vox Machina would like impart upon you and your family this gift: an offering of seeds from the Sun Tree.

Please plant these seeds wherever you best believe will serve you and your family in the years to come; we believe you will find that the tree will grow with baby Aria, and hope that it will bring you all many happy memories, and a reminder that you are never too far away from Whitestone, if you would ever like to come back and visit - we all would love to see you again.

Wishing a long and happy marriage to you, Imogen and Laudna, and a beautiful, healthy life to your baby Aria.

All the best,

Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski DeRolo III, Lord of Whitestone Lady Vex'ahlia DeRolo, Baroness of the First House of Whitestone, Grand Mistress of the Grey Hunt, Coinmistress of the Council of Tal'Dorei.

Keyleth of the Air Ashari, Voice of the Tempest, Vox Machina Pike Trickfoot, of the Slayer’s Cake, Vox Machina

Laudna finished reading the letter aloud before passing it over to Orym to hold. Imogen stood up, having noticed that Aria had finished feeding and was now dozing silently in her arms, and moved over to the bassinet only to find Pate still laying there from earlier. “Ugh, Pate,” she said as she bumped the bassinet gently to get him to stir. “Go on, get.”

Just as he did, springing to life and jumping up out of the bassinet quietly, Dorian let out a startled yelp. In the midst of all this, they had forgotten that Dorian had yet properly met Pate.

Laudna exclaimed as much loudly, running over to where Pate was as Orym continued to read over the letter. “Pate, come here!” She shouted at him as she snagged him out of the air mid-flight, dragging him over to Dorian. She plunked down on the floor in front of him, shoving Pate clumsily and forcefully in his face. “Look, it’s Dorian! Say hi!”

Pate extended one of his curled rat paws out toward Dorian who took it apprehensively. “‘Ello!” Pate shouted from a few inches away from Dorian’s face, as Laudna let him go so he may float there on his own. Orym looked up to take in this sight now, and said with much delay, “oh yeah, I forgot to warn you the rat is alive now, I’m sorry honey.”

Imogen’s head swirled on a dime at hearing Orym say “honey” to Dorian. She hadn’t ever heard him be affectionate to anyone that openly before, but it was refreshing to see and hear coming from him, especially toward Dorian. She took a moment and smiled to herself, getting the sense that perhaps something more was at stake on this trip than she or Dorian even knew.

Dorian took Pate’s hand in and gave him a greeting, introducing himself in turn. “It’s nice to meet you, Pate.” Dorian was still in a bit of shock and wasn’t quite sure what to say or do. He said as much. “I’m quite taken aback right now, I’m sorry. I— um—”

Laudna retracted Pate a bit from Dorian’s space, giving him the opportunity to relax and acclimate properly. “I had completely forgotten you two hadn’t met, my goodness, that was a bit overenthusiastic of me Dorian, I'm sorry.” She said to Dorian, before turning her eye onto Pate. “Come Pate, we’ll reintroduce you later,” she said as she pet his head comfortingly and got up from the ground. She tossed Pate into the air, and as she said “go do something productive,” he disappeared in a poof.

“Laudna, I am sorry if I—“

Laudna cut Dorian off. “Oh, no need to apologize! It’s quite alright, honest, that’s on me. No harm no foul. He can be a bit much anyway, so its best to try again later,” she said demurely but not untruthfully. Pate could be a bit much, this is true, but he’d only seen Pate as whatever part of Laudna’s psyche that she chose to portray him as, not as he is now. He would surely be in for a real treat.

Imogen, in the midst of all of this, had wandered into the kitchen to check on dinner. She poked her head out into the lounge after just another minute and announced finally done, inviting the others into the dining room to take a seat.

Dinner was served and a warm meal was enjoyed by all four of them. Several rounds of wine were further consumed, which helped Dorian loosen up and relax enough to the point that, with the added help of a proper explanation, he was able to finally meet and have a brief conversation with Pate. They hit it off as well as one would expect, though Dorian still felt a little weird after their talk. Orym reassured him, however, that he’d get used to him. “You kind of have to, anyway,” he reminded Dorian. Dorian nodded in understanding, knowing that it would take him a minute, but that he’d continue to put in the effort. Next time he’d be better prepared.

It was also during this time that Orym finally got to hold baby Aria as he long anticipated. Imogen motioned for him to go sit in the lounge as Pate and Dorian met, while she snuck away and picked up Aria from her sleeping place. Imogen sat down next to Orym on the couch, allowing him to get comfortable for a moment, before handing her over to him. As soon as he had her all to himself, he let out a hearty laugh as the size comparison became quite evident. “She’s gonna be as big as me in about three years, I think,” she said as he smiled down on her.

“Maybe a little sooner,” Imogen replied, now thinking that she very well may be. Orym laughed.

“Hi Aria, I’m your Uncle Orym.” Orym sat there holding her for a few minutes in silence with Imogen beside him, as Aria reached out to him, still only lightly squirming just as she always had. “She’s remarkably calm,” he whispered to Imogen not wanting to jinx it. “Is this normal for her, or did I just get lucky?”

Imogen smiled and chuckled. “A little of both, honestly. She’s been really good, really calm and easy going, just a few hiccups but… no, she’s been wonderful. We’ve both been so lucky.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye, but she brushed it away while Orym wasn’t looking.

Another moment passed. “She is beautiful, Imogen,” he said to her as he looked over and up at her, taking in the comparison and similarities between her and her child, as a warm smile appeared on Imogen’s face. She closed her eyes and nodded, and leaned into his side with a playful bump as a thank-you gesture. She looked across the house and saw Laudna and Dorian still sat at in the dining room conversing with one another, Pate having been sent away at this point. Imogen nudged Orym gently this time, and motioned subtly into the dining room at Dorian. Upon catching her indication, he looked back at her, and then up at the ceiling. Imogen nodded, and opened her telepathic bond to him.

“Are you gonna do it?”

“Tonight, once we’re back at the inn.”

Imogen smiled big and now said out loud, but in a hushed tone, “I’m really happy for you. Let me know how it goes.” She smiled and slunk down in the couch slightly, allowing her to put her arm around Orym more comfortably and give him a side-hug.

“I’ll tell ya tomorrow,” he replied. He leaned back into her as Aria began to coo once more, seemingly also in approval. Both Orym and Imogen laughed at this, which caught Laudna and Dorian’s attention together. They both broke from their discussion, seemingly to be about which cheese would go great with a bottle of Whitestone’s finest wine, and returned to the lounge to rejoin Imogen and Orym for a bit more friendly conversation and an impromptu game of cards.

As the night wore on, Imogen went to put Aria to bed, which caused Dorian alarm as he suddenly remembered that he had not presented them with the gift he had brought for the baby earlier in the night as he had wanted. “I was so startled by Pate that I was completely distracted and forgot, please, forgive me” he said as he reached out to Orym, motioning for the satchel that they had brought with them. After a moment’s hesitation to recognize the request for what it was, Orym grabbed and handed off the satchel to Dorian. “I’ll wait until you’re back to unveil it,” he said as Imogen walked off to the hall and up the stairs.

It wasn’t long before Imogen returned to hear discussion of the Museum that brought the Bells Hells to the Heartmoor in the first place, and what Dorian could expect to see tomorrow when he and Orym go by. “I wonder if he’ll remember you, Orym,” Laudna was heard saying to him as Imogen re-entered the room, prompting the others to wave as she wandered to the couch.

Laudna was sat to one side of the couch at this point, and had her legs curled up next to her, her feet poking out from the bottom of her dress but tucked under a blanket for warmth. Imogen sat down immediately beside her, but not before lifting the blanket and her legs all in one and sliding underneath them, placing them back down on her lap and resting her arm across Laudna’s leg. Laudna reached up and grabbed Imogen’s hand and held it in hers. All the while, Orym and Dorian both sat across from them, already holding one another’s hands as Imogen was settling into her resting spot, as they continued their conversation. Imogen clocked Orym rubbing Dorian’s ring finger, an empty spot where a ring sure would look lovely, she thought to herself.

They finished discussing the Museum when their attention turned back to Dorian’s gift, as the satchel was still sat resting against his thigh. He moved the bag to between him and Orym, so as to not have to let go of Orym’s hand, and reached inside with the free hand. “So, as soon as Orym told me her name was Aria, that night, I had a dream and I knew just what to get her. I really hope you all like it.” He was arm-deep just as Orym had been earlier while he was looking for his own gifts, and in just a split second after that sentence left his lips, he pulled his arm out with a child-sized harp. It was painted off-white in color with prismatic glitter scattered throughout, causing light to sparkle all throughout the room.

He placed it out on the table and spun it in place slowly, now letting go of Orym’s hand so only to provide added care to his touch of this beautiful gift to their musical witchy friends. “I’ve always thought harps were beautiful instruments, and it just resonated with me as soon as I heard her name.” Imogen sat forward and grabbed the harp from the table and took it in close to admire it. The craftsmanship that went into its creation was second to none, and she and Laudna were both in awe of the consideration and work that went into it.

“Dorian, thank you so much,” they both said in equal but different measures, the full breadth of their appreciation unable to be expressed. They were very clearly touched, both of them getting a bit misty-eyed by the gesture, as Imogen passed it over to Laudna to see for herself.

“It’s nothing, I am happy to share this with you all, with her,” as he motioned with his hand up to the ceiling where he presumed she was asleep somewhere upstairs. He sat back into his spot on the couch, his hand falling back to his side only to find Orym’s waiting for it still. He took it back into his hand, as Orym crossed his other hand over his body and grasped onto Dorian’s arm comfortingly, giving him a caring look as he did so.

Laudna continued to inspect and examine the harp herself, she too in awe of its construction and creation, considering it a work of art in itself. She plucked one of the strings, then another, and another, the notes all sounding perfectly in tune as she moved along a bit discordantly. She wasn’t trained, but the sounds made were still beautiful nonetheless.

“I think she’ll love it, and honestly I always wanted to learn myself,” she admitted as she handed it back out to Imogen, who took it in hand and set it back down on the table. “Thank you so much again Dorian, this was very thoughtful.”

Imogen repeated her thanks, and raised her glass of wine to them both. “Thank you both, you’re wonderful friends and we’re very glad to have you in ours and her life. Cheers,” she said, as she paused for the others to grab and raise their glasses. In unison, the others proclaimed “cheers!” And took a swig of their respective drinks.

As the evening wound down and midnight approach, and with plans made for to grab breakfast in the morning in between some of what the boys had otherwise planned while going about their day being tourists in town, the girls offered to send Pate with them on their journey back to their inn. “It’s not that it’s dangerous — it’s really not, we promise — we just didn’t want you to get lost,” Laudna offered them, but Orym reassured them that they knew where they were going, adding that he didn’t mind if they got lost. He gave Laudna a wink, but she didn’t seem to pick up on it.

The time had came for them to leave, and the boys began to gather with their things in the entryway by the base of the staircase. Double checking that they were not forgetting anything, they all hugged and cheek-kissed across the respective couples as the boys hitched up their jackets and left the Temult estate.

As they reached the bottom of the two steps from their door, Dorian reached out and grabbed Orym’s hand. Imogen nudged Laudna’s elbow as it happened, both of them bouncing against one another playfully as they watched the two men walk down the short path to the gate, and out into the cool night air of the streets of the Heartmoor. Laudna and Imogen watched from their door as the silhouettes of their friends walked down the block, offering one last unseen wave as they disappeared from eyeshot around the corner.

Imogen turned out the front porch lantern before closing and locking the door tight, as Laudna headed upstairs ahead of her, going toward the nursery where Aria lay. She poked her head in and seeing that she was still asleep, Laudna waved her fingers in the air and snapped quietly, summoning Pate into place, and quickly grabbing him as he appeared.

“‘El—“ was all he was able to utter out loud before Laudna’s hands snapped around his mouth, muffling him and rendering him silent.

“Sssssh, you can’t do that,” Laudna said in a hushed, stern whisper. “We’ve been over this, you’re to just appear; the baby is sleeping.” Laudna turned her hands around so Pate could now see that Aria was indeed asleep in the crib.

Pate nodded in understanding. Laudna released her grip on his mouth and let him speak. “I‘m sorry,” he pushed out in as hushed of a whisper as his voice would otherwise allow.

“Just watch over her, come get me if she wakes; Imogen and I are going out to the garden for a while,” Laudna said to her little rat-raven as she tossed him lightly back into the air, in the direction of where Aria was resting. He floated with his ribcage wings across the room and perched himself on the corner post of the crib that was nearest the window and settled in comfortably, keeping a close watch. His head turned as he looked over at Laudna, the blank eye sockets with only that light purple flame burning in them blinking in and out as he gave her a nod, “I got her, ma’am,” he said in the same hushed tone, still so loud anyway.

Laudna sighed and waved at Pate a reluctant thank you, hoping against hope that he didn’t just wake Aria. She closed the door, and turned to find Imogen emerging from their bedroom having changed into a long flowing dusty pink night top with thick shoulder straps and a hem that fell down to just above her ankles. She waved Imogen over as Imogen was already walking down the hall towards her, as she lingered by the door for a moment.

Pate’s noise did not seem to stir Aria, as they did not hear any immediate signs of crying while they stood outside Aria’s room. Laudna sighed of relief as Imogen rubbed her on the back and asked what that was about, having heard Pate herself from their bedroom. After Laudna explained what happened, Imogen too let a similar sigh out. “We really gotta talk to him tomorrow,” she said as she made for the staircase.

Laudna whisper-shouted after her as Imogen began to descend the staircase, “I’ll be down in a moment.” Imogen proceeded down the rest of the stairs as Laudna quickly but stealthily made her way down the hall and to their bedroom to change into more comfortable clothing herself.

Meanwhile, Imogen had made it downstairs and headed to the washroom for a moment. She stepped in and splashed another handful of water onto her face. She was feeling so warm and fuzzy from all the wine, not quite drunk but just buzzing, and was excited about the developments between Dorian and Orym that she was trying so hard to keep inside as a surprise for Laudna for tomorrow, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to keep it to herself all night.

By the same token, she was swimming in the ecstasy that was her little family, and all their friends who had now met their child - their collective niece, them her collective aunts and uncles. Imogen couldn’t contain her happiness over the lives that they had cultivated with one another, much like the garden that they had grown in the backyard. The garden, Imogen thought.That’s when Imogen’s attention returned to the envelope from the DeRolo’s.

She splashed another offering of water up against her face, the coolness feeling so refreshing against the warmth that her emotions and the wine were presenting her. Imogen felt great. She dried her face after a moment and then exited the washroom. Navigating back through the kitchen and dining room, Imogen headed into the lounge where the gifts still remain spread out on the table. She shuffled through the various envelopes and letters that were still strewn about the table until she found the seeds, and grabbed them.

Clutching the packet of seeds in one hand, she then reached for the envelope that the jewelry originally had been in. She started to collect all of the pieces gifted to them by Vex’ahlia and collected them up into her palm, all except for one. Imogen left the Ruby ring, the one that looked very similar to the one she presented to Laudna as a symbol of their love, out on the table as she slid everything else back the envelope whence they came.

Placing the envelope back down onto the table, she then turned her attention to the ring. Imogen picked it up and looked it over again up close, admiring the snakes that twirled around one another, coming to a head at the face where they both, mouths open, held the ruby together. Imogen took the ring between her quite nimble and dexterous fingers, toying with it for a moment, and slid it onto her ring finger beside the wedding band Laudna had given her during their marriage ceremony.

Imogen was about to stand and turn when she paused for another second. Instead of proceeding back to the kitchen, she lingered there for a minute, her gaze transfixed on the two letters that accompanied the seeds that she held so firmly in her hand: First, at the letter to her daughter that was signed only by Vex’ahlia, and then to the letter from Vex and Percy, as well as Pike and Keyleth. She eyed the official-looking letter with a weird feeling in the back of her mind, but in this late hour and amidst the buzz of the wine, she was unable to determine what the bug of it all was. She let it go, leaving the letters all where they lie for the morning when she’d clean them up. Mission accomplished, seeds still tucked away in her hand, she walked back through the lounge and dining room to the kitchen.

In the time it took for Imogen to do that, Laudna hastily changed into her own nightgown and emerged out of her bedroom within a matter of minutes. Now wearing a long black slinky gown with elbow-length sleeves, and a patterned boa neckline and hem that barely cleared the floor when she stood up tall, she scurried down the hallway and quickly checked in on Aria once more, only to find she was still sound asleep with Pate perched on the same post as he left her. She smiled and closed the door gently and headed towards the stairs, descending them with grace as she called out to her love. “Oh, Imogen~,” her voice echoed out softly through the hallway as she reached the bottom step and turned around the banister to the landing. Calling out for Imogen once more by name, Laudna skipped down the hallway to the kitchen where she found her having just arrived there not a second prior.

As Laudna entered the room, a look of intrigue still lingered on Imogen’s face from the letter, but she shook it off quickly. Not quickly enough, as Laudna asked “are you alright, darling?”

Imogen gave a quick head shake to play it off and looked up at Laudna with an elated smile. “Oh, I’m just fine, Laud’,” she said with an elongated drawl on her most of words for emphasis as she took a step toward her and slung her arms around her. She may not have been drunk, no, but Imogen was still feeling better than she normally felt when she chose to drink.

She got up on her tiptoes and gave her a kiss. “C’mon, let’s go,” she said as she just as quickly fell back down to her heels and, after grabbing another bottle of wine (and only a bottle of wine) from the counter, headed back out into the garden.

Laudna was about to follow her when she paused and doubled back to the counters and grabbed two more wine-glasses. Much to her chagrin, upon opening the cabinet door where they were stored however, she noticed that the remaining glasses had been placed rim-side down. “Hmm,” Laudna thought to herself bemusedly. She looked and didn’t see any others whose rims weren’t currently on the shelves, and sighed. “I supposed they’ll have to do,” she said with a knowing chuckle as she closed the cabinet door and hustled to catch up with her loving, beautiful, "can-do-no-wrong except this one little thing” wife.

They walked barefoot through grassy maze that surrounded their soil beds, all neatly arranged and housing all of the various plants and crops that they’d been cultivating for several months. They wound through the garden to the top of the hill that separated their homestead from the woods and steadily, carefully quarter-stepped down the hill to a small fire pit that was at the base, just at the forest line.

They collected kindling and branches to start a fire as they trekked down the hill. Upon arrival, they arranged all they had gathered in a manner that would be most efficient for an open fire, and began to bring it to life. While Laudna worked the flint and created the spark, eventually leading into her stoking the flames and getting the fire really burning, Imogen began to rearrange the space surrounding the fire. She pulled a log that they had typically sat on and moved it about a foot back and away from the fire, and instead sat down in front of it, leaning up against it’s bark-hewn exterior.

Laudna got the fire to a place where she was satisfied with its existence and condition, and allowed herself to step back and admire it for a moment. Imogen had just finished pouring them both a fresh glass of wine as Laudna took in her creation, and reached a glass out to her as she walked around examining it from all sides. Laudna took the glass as she passed and continued her inspection, taking a sip as she tossed one final branch underneath the biggest log on the far side opposite of where Imogen sat.

Imogen patted the spot next to her, inviting Laudna to come and sit as she closed in on completing another lap around. “The fire is good enough, darlin’,” she said as Laudna made her approach. Satisfied that her wife was satisfied, Laudna nodded and joined her wife along the old tree trunk. She squat down and planted her butt firmly on the ground, extending her legs and crossing them at her ankles, right over left.

Laudna made herself comfortable, putting her left arm out and over Imogen and pulling her into an embrace at her side. Imogen handed her a glass of wine and then scooted over a few inches to close the gap to her beloved. She crossed her legs at her ankles, left over right, and nudged them into Laudna’s as they rest immediately alongside hers just in front of the warm fire.

To this, Laudna giggled as she responded by tilting her head to the left and giving Imogen a loving, gentle bump much like cats are often wont to do. Imogen breathed hard out of her nose in a sign of amusement. She raised her wine glass to within view of them both and waited for Laudna to bring hers up, before clinking them together. “To our darling Aria,” she said. Laudna smiled and blinked away a heartfelt tear, and each of them took a sip.

They sat there in the quiet stillness that the Heartmoor presented at night. Where once they both would have felt frightened, anxiety, nerves, now they could finally enjoy the peace and quiet of the night around a campfire in the privacy and tranquility of their own home. Their home. With their daughter.

After a short while, the fire still burning bright, Imogen looked up at the house from where they sat. Laudna had her gaze fixed on the fire as Imogen broke the silence with a question, that nagging feeling from the letter finally catching up to her.

“Laud,” she said softly at first, waiting to hear if Laudna would respond before continuing.

Hearing a gentle “hmm” from Laudna, she proceeded. She took Laudna’s left hand into her left hand from overtop, each of their left ring fingers now wearing matching Ruby rings.

“Do you think they were for real? The DeRolos?”

Laudna’s gaze was broken upon hearing the name again this evening. She blinked twice and snapped back into a more grounded state, processing the question once more. “Why do you ask, darling? What does your intuition say?”

Imogen looked down between them where she had tucked the seeds away initially, and grabbed them in her right hand. She pulled them up and placed them on her lap so she and Laudna could both see the packet. She wasn’t having trouble articulating her thoughts, she just wanted to be wrong about them, but she shared it anyway. “I just have a feeling that this wasn’t as sincere as we think. I don’t know. I just don’t trust Percy, not as much as I trust Vex at least.”

Laudna reached out and took the packet into her hand, and examined it closely. She held it up to the light of the fire and counted the seeds that could be seen through the silhouettes created, and saw at least a dozen. Maybe a few more.

“I trust you, darling. If you don’t think we should plant them, we don’t have to.”

“What do you want, Laud?” Imogen asked with a high level of compassion in her voice. She turned to look up at her Lady of Whitestone, who returned her loving gazing for a moment, just looking into one another’s eyes with a passion that burned far brighter than the fire just a few feet away.

Laudna took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a second, before opening them back up to Imogen. She crumpled up the packet of seeds and tossed them behind her shoulder. For a moment, Imogen was afraid that they were being tossed in the direction of the fire, her heart skipping a beat, but was relieved when she saw them fly the opposite direction, away from the flames. Imogen wouldn't have questioned it even if Laudna had thrown them in and set them ablaze, but she was glad that she didn’t completely close that door.

“Whitestone isn’t home for me, it hasn’t been for a very long time. I’ve learned that home is what you make of it,” Laudna said as she took Imogen’s right hand into hers, both their hands now intertwined together in this moment. “Home is who you make of it,” she corrected herself, “and you and Aria are my home now.”

Imogen looked up at Laudna and leaned her head in her direction, prompting Laudna to lean forward to meet her lips for a kiss. They lingered in the kiss for a moment, smacking lips once, twice, three times before parting.

“I’m glad Whitestone is in better hands now, but I don’t need to go back there. I don’t want to go back there, at least not right now. Maybe someday.” She squeezed Imogen’s hands, both of them, and added “but I’m happy with our life here.”

“I am too,” Imogen said as she leaned in and kissed Laudna, embracing her cool purple lips onto hers, allowing the electricity to jolt through her just like they were kissing for the first time, for the 9000th time. They each let go of their hold on one another to pick up their glasses of wine. With a clink, they both took another sip as they continued to enjoy the warmth and light of the fire for a little while.

After almost two hours by the fire, and with the fire at its lowest but not out completely, the girls poured a bucket of water over the remnants that lingered, extinguishing it completely. The smoke dissipated quickly with the light breeze that blew through here at the foot of the forest, but they lingered for just a couple of minutes more to ensure that nothing was going to spark a new fire.

“Wouldn’t want to upset Smokey,” Laudna said with a chuckle.

“Who,” Imogen asked as the two each began to help one another to their feet, stumbling and struggling in their efforts.

“Smokey the Bear? You didn’t have him growing up?” Laudna looked at Imogen like she had just grown a second head.

Imogen, for her part, returned the look. “No?”

Laudna laughed and took her pride and joy by the hand as they walked back up the hill. “So, we had this bear called Smokey the Bear — he was really just this Druid named Smo’quay — who would come into town and give the children little PSAs about preventing forest fires, it was a big deal back home in my youth.”

Imogen was so puzzled to hear about this, but let Laudna continue on her explanation as they worked their way to the crest of the hill and back through the garden patches. Imogen couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but still believed every word that Laudna was telling her, validating her by promising her that she would be vigilant about campfires more often moving forward.

Laudna smiled at her loving, adoring wife and kissed her on the cheek as they walked inside the house. Laudna closed and locked the back door behind her and turned out the light in the kitchen as she followed Imogen’s footsteps down the hall. She tiptoed hastily down the hall and rejoined Imogen as she ascended the staircase. Laudna peered around the corner to make sure the fire in the hearth was fully extinguished and all the other lanterns were turned down, and satisfied that they were, made her own way up the steps as well.

She finally rejoined Imogen for good as she was peering into Aria’s room to check on her one last time. Still sound asleep, she took a few creeping steps in and saw Pate asleep just next to her in the crib. Imogen wasn’t sure if she should feel creeped out or comforted by this, but chose to find it endearing that Pate was taking to her so well; she just hoped that Aria would like Pate just as much, and wouldn’t be scared of her. While everything so far seemed to point to things going okay, she never could quite tell with Pate.

Imogen kissed her fingertips and placed them to Aria’s head as she slept, and then silently tiptoed back out of the room. She closed the door behind her, leaving it cracked just the slightest bit, as they jointly walked down the hall to their bedroom.

It was nearly 2 o’clock in the morning as the girls slipped into their own bed and turned the lights out on their evening. The two witches snuggled into their blankets and into each other as they wished one another goodnight, Imogen laying in Laudna’s arms like always. While Laudna fell asleep relatively quickly, Imogen laid away for a few minutes enjoying the embrace, and specifically the odd warmth that Laudna’s body didn’t bring, as she laid so closely beside her. Imogen squeezed the hand of Laudna’s that rested just over her boob as they lay there, and closed her eyes, wondering if it had happened yet.

In her last moments of waking consciousness of the evening, Imogen let her mind open once more. The sounds of Laudna and Aria’s thoughts both slowly permeated into her head. The softest, calmest, quietest melody played as her girls slept peacefully in their little home, and she smiled to herself as she listened to the music for a moment, her heart full and nearly bursting. As Imogen drifted off to sleep, the last thing she felt as she listened to her girls mentally was Laudna pulling her closer in her sleep, and nuzzling Imogen’s neck as she lay behind her.

With that, the girls — along with Pate — all slept quietly through the night, a beautiful evening having come to a close.

—

About a mile across town on the second floor of the Sodden Grange Inn in a little corner room, two men fell asleep holding onto one another comfortingly, with one man sporting a ring on a finger that had previously been absent any adornment or decoration.

A smile was permanently etched onto Orym’s face as he fell asleep in Dorian’s arms, but not before opening his eye one last time to see the ring resting there on Dorian’s finger as his hand lie there on Orym’s side, embracing him as he slept. Orym pat his free hand on top of Dorian’s, whispering “good night honey,” as he closed his eyes.

Orym felt one last feint squeeze of Dorian’s hand on his side, and a whisper in his ear from behind, “I love you.”

—

Somewhere else further away, halfway around the world in a castle on top of a hill in Whitestone to be precise, in a private office connected to a hidden hallway underneath the Castle, a grown man with a head of white hair sat at his desk seeming to be working with one of his creations.

Percy was here in his private chambers working on one of his long-cared-after creations, looking out through the private window hole in his underground bunker as he did so. He had the device in one hand and a rag in the other as he was in the middle of polishing the long barreled weapon, a firearm upon closer glance. As he continued to rub the cloth on one end of the device, he paused when he noticed a glowing green light begin to emanate from a smooth, thin stone sitting off to one side of the desk in a pulsating pattern.

Setting the device down on top of the long narrow box that he had originally been keeping the item in, Percy picked up the stone and sat back in his chair. After he adjusted his glasses as they rest on the bridge of his nose having been slightly askew, he peered out the squat rectangular window that his desk was situated in front of, the only window here in this small underground office. This is where he always sat and worked on his so-called “classified” projects. He gazed out into the mid-morning sky and just stared for a moment. A few birds were flying overhead and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. It was a perfect day.

He held the stone up to his ear, and heard the words “thank you” come through in a vaguely familiar woman’s voice. He grinned. The glow it had presented changed as he held it in his hand, turning from the greenish tint it featured originally now to a bright blue color. The pulsating pattern continued in this color as Percy held the stone in his hand, but did not say anything.

He continued to sit there and look back up to the sky once more, just observing. Watching. After a beat, Percy sat back up and hunched over the desk once more, placing the stone back down where it first was a moment ago. The blue glow diminished entirely as it came to rest there on the desk.

He picked the device back up from where it laid on top of the closed box, revealing a label on it that read “Bad News.” He looked the device over from atop his wire-frame spectacles, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose once more as he continued his inspection. He turned it over in his hands and took the polishing cloth to the end of the elongated barrel, satisfied that an an itch in the back of his mind was now scratched for the time being.

#critical role #laudna #imogen #southern gothic #imogen x laudna #imodna #imodna fanfic #critical role fanfic #fan fic #fanfic #fan fiction #critical role fan fiction #cr fan fic #imogen temult

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thxrnking · 1 year

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Imperfect - Chapter 1: Belong

Summary - High expectations rest on the shoulders of Jack Rose and Wanderlust, two sides of the same coin. One heralded the Prince of the Dancerverse, the other destined to serve in his Mother’s sinister shadow. Majesty was not the first time they met, having known each other for years, but can their friendship survive in such an Imperfect world.

Content warning: implied/referenced child abuse

[Imperfect Masterlist]

Author’s Note - Jack is approximately 13 and mute/nonverbal, Wanderlust is around 13/14.

----

It’s a small room, maybe 8 feet by 6. Jack’s never been any good with measurements. It’s large enough that he can lie down on the floor and not hit either wall but small enough that it feels like the punishment it’s meant to. Near enough every damn day now, his Mother has him thrown in here and Jack learned years ago it doesn’t matter if he’s even done anything wrong. Mother says he’s wrong, so he’s wrong.

The door is locked, though it doesn’t need to be. Jack knows better than to try and get out before Mother lets him. Hopefully she’ll let him out soon. He didn’t go to breakfast and it’s been a few hours. Faint pangs of hunger are starting to roll in his stomach but he’s no stranger to them. Once, Mother kept him from food for three days. He doesn’t remember why.

Jack picks mindlessly at the carpet as he stares at a spot on the opposite wall. He’s sat on the floor, his back against the wall to one side of the door. One leg is bent, while the other is laid flat. A bead of sweat trails uncomfortably down his back and Jack shifts, trying to catch it with the creases of his shirt.

He had been trying to dance when Mother threw him in here, that’s why he missed breakfast. Mother has plans and Jack must learn the moves and perform for the people. Jack had spun, caught his foot, stumbled and nearly fell. Big mistake.

Nothing but perfect is good enough for Mother.

Suddenly, there’s a mighty crack as a blue line sparks and fizzes through the air. It starts about 5 feet up, drawing a haphazard line to the floor before bursting open wide to reveal another world.

Jack leaps to his feet, fists raised ready to fight. He’s seen enough of his Mother’s magic to know that good things do not come through doorways to other worlds. He can’t make out any of the details through it, like there’s a dirty glass window in the way. An indistinctive grey figure steps towards him and Jack braces himself.

Through the doorway steps a boy, not much taller than Jack is, with vibrant blue skin and dark hair down to his shoulder blades. Deep purple shorts are held up by a golden belt with a triangle buckle and look somewhat at odds with the bright pink shirt.

The boy glances at Jack before looking around the small room

“I don’t think I got this right.” He turns just as the doorway sparks and collapses in on itself.

“Shit.” his hands fly up to the wall, uselessly trying to find the door but it’s gone. “Father is going to be pissed.”

Jack steps back, pressing his back against the door, his fists still raised and a determined look on his face. When the boy spins back to look at him, he’s smiling and Jack doesn’t trust it.

“Wanderlust.” he steps forward offering his hand

Jack stares at it, raising an eyebrow. He’d never seen anyone near his age before. His Mother despises children and won’t let them anywhere near the tower. It’s a miracle he’s even allowed to stay there.

Jack says nothing staring at the hand like it might bite him.

“It’s fine,” Wanderlust turns his hand over to show he’s not hiding anything, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another step forward. Jack panics, slapping the hand away and shoving him in the chest with all his might. Luckily Wanderlust wasn’t too close, only being pushed back onto his ass.

“Oof, hey!”

Jack draws back again, fists raised. He doesn’t like this.

Wanderlust pulls himself to his feet, dusting himself down and holding his hands up. “I get it. I got too close. That’s on me. Can you at least tell me where I am?”

Jack shakes his head. Not even if he wanted to.

“I like your emblem.” The blue boy points to the golden feather that hangs from the golden chain around Jack’s neck. It was a gift from his Mother, one of the few things she’d ever given him.

There’s another crack and a blue line, this time starting several feet in the air before drawing a much more controlled line to the floor. It bursts open to reveal another world and immediately a man walks through.

A black beanie over blue hair, a blue shirt with gold detailing, black pants, black boots and a vast cloak with gold patterning on the outside and what looks like the universe shimmering inside.

Jack flattens himself against the door, hands bracing him against it.

The Traveler.

Mother’s told him stories of the Traveler. A man with the power of a god who walks wherever he wants in the Dancerverse. Who created a new world for the woman he loved. Self-proclaimed hero who wouldn’t hesitate to take Jack away from her.

As he enters, the room seems to shrink, his presence filling every inch leaving barely any room for Jack to breathe. Those dark eyes clock him quickly and Jack immediately drops his head, staring at the floor as his heart races.

The Traveler turns to his son, dropping to one knee as he takes the boy by the shoulders.

“What do you think you were doing? I told you, you aren’t ready to portal on your own. You could have ended up anywhere.”

Wanderlust looks a little sheepish but otherwise unaffected. “I know Father. I got excited.”

The doorway behind the Traveler hasn’t collapsed, strong and sturdy as he stands about to guide his son through it, though Wanderlust doesn’t move. He turns to Jack, that smile on his face again as he reaches out his hand toward him.

“Come with us.”

Jack doesn’t move, but looks up in time to see the Traveler’s stern look above the boy as he takes his son’s outstretched hand and turns him away.

Wanderlust looks at him in confusion.

“Father?”

The Traveler’s hand is firm against his son’s back, guiding him towards the doorway.

“This is where he belongs.” is all he says.

Wanderlust tries to look over his shoulder, the boys catching each other’s eyes as he walks through the portal, the vibrant blue turning a dull grey and within seconds the portal has sewn itself shut, disappearing without a trace.

It’s quiet. The room somehow seems darker. Jack’s heart is pounding in his ears and his chest feels tight.

The room around him blurs and tears begin to track a trail down both his cheeks.

Where he belongs.

Slowly, he slides down the door, wrapping his arms around his knees and burying his face in them as his chest heaves and aches.

This is where he belongs.

Silent sobs wrack his body as he fights desperately to stop. Tears will get him nowhere. They never do.

There’s no sound.

There hasn’t been for years.

It doesn’t matter if they’re coming to let him out.

He belongs here.

#Just Dance 2023 #Jack Rose #Wanderlust #The Traveler #Jacklust #slow burn #Legacy of the Thorn King #LotTK: Imperfect

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romerona · 1 year

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Chapter 1: September 1

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɪᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʏᴏᴜ. ꜰᴏʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴇᴍᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ, ɪᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ… ʟɪᴛᴇʀᴀʟʟʏ.

Harry James Potter x OC

Masterlist.

--------------------

"This is not the way, you daft shit." Yelled Kiara from the back seat at Ezra, the one behind the wheel.

"Oh god, we're all gonna die." Shouted Ezra tensing up, his eyes big as a plate and his hands turning white as the grip of the wheel tightened. "Help!!"

"You're stressing him out, Kiara." Tara glances back, glaring at her sister. "Shut up."

"I'm seeing it as it is." Kiara shrugged nonchalantly, looking out the window.

Tara sighs tiredly, turning back to Ezra. "You're doing well, Ez. Just take the next left."

Ezra nods, letting out a breath, his finger loosening. "Okay, okay."

"...I'm going to be late." Love stressed out, popping her head in between seats to look at her older sister and brother.

Ezra groaned again, head falling back. "You'll miss your train, and it's gonna be my fault."

"She won't, it's only 10:20," Tara said in exasperation, pushing Love's head back. "You'll be fine, Love."

Kiara rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "If it weren't for someone who decided to pass to Bloody KFC for chicken —"

"Kiara, I'm a man in growing and I need my daily dose of fast food, you know that." Whines Ezra, glancing at her through the mirror.

"Boy, more like and It's ten in the morning." She huffed, glancing back at him. "How did you expect to find KFC open at ten in the morning?"

"There was a chicken place back in Singapore that opened early." Ezra points out, trying to turn his head to look at Kiara. "My hopes were crushed, bloody western culture."

Tara moved his head to the front. "Eyes on the road."

"Bottom line is you should've let me drive," Kiara muttered.

"He needs to practice," Tara tells her calmly.

"Yeah, well, he's going to kill us all," Kiara said, using her finger to flick the back of Ezra's ears who grunted in annoyance, moving his hand to the back of his head to try and slap her hand off, although her hand wasn't there anymore. "I can see the headlines in the paper; the lovely daughters of the entrepreneur Evangeline Emerson and famous neurosurgeon Amani Emerson died in a car crash all thanks to their daft son, Ezra Emerson who lacked some sense of direction."

"Stop." The other three Emerson's snapped back at her, all in different tones, Tara sounded like her mum when she scolds them, Ezra sounded like he was about to cry and Love was just tired of her sister's antics.

Love slumped back on the leather seat turning her head to look at the passing urban scenery, ignoring her siblings' argument and silently wondering to herself if she was actually going to make it to Hogwarts this year.

Her fingers tapping on the seat, her heart unwillingly bumping harder while her mind rises.

She was on her brother's new car, a brand new red convertible BMW— a car wasn't even on the market yet— it was a gift from their mothers for passing his driver's test, although Love often wonders how was that possible since as Kiara stated Ezra lacked any sense of direction and only thought with his stomach.

Her feet began tapping the moulded carpet, her breathing coming in quickly as worry settled in her brain.

What if she doesn't actually make it? What is she going to do? Go to a muggle school? It doesn't seem bad, but starting from zero in a new school, stressing over meeting new people, having to study the new material, and being the new girl made Love's stomach turn upside down.

No, no you're overthinking, she reminds herself. That's not going to happen. Everything will be fine.

Breathe in and out.

Love, to distract herself, looked through her satchel and grabbed her journal, the wanderlust as she likes to call it. In that journal Love wrote about everything and anything, like the swot that she was, from vacation to her feelings; her worries, fears and joys, sometimes she uses it to draw but the drawings were awful.

Writing calmed her, it felt as if writing down her thoughts and experiences kept trouble off her chest and lightened her stress levels down.

Her eyes moved to the last thing she wrote, about her vacation in Singapore. Her mothers finally got some time off of work and decided to spend it in Singapore. Love thought it was an amazing idea as she had never been to that part of Asia before, Bali, Hong Kong, Goa, Kuala Lumpur and a few others but never Singapore.

It was a beautiful city, with beautiful culture and lovely people. They usually spend the day biking to places, the markets, botanic gardens, but mostly beaches or in their mum's yacht, sealing to distant islands, unless her siblings wanted to do something different; Tara wanted to visit museums, Kiara wanted to shop and Ezra wanted to go desperately to the food centre, Love usually just like to follow her older siblings around or just stay with her mums or cuddle up with a book and snacks.

That was how most of her summer went, family time... until her mum found a great business deal with some old Japanese man about a massive building he wants a to build, causing her vacation to be cut short as her mum had to leave early.

Fortunately, her Ma didn't, so they decided to spend the last of summer with their grandparents, Abuelito Alberto and Abuelita Maria, they lived in Cuetzalan, a town in southwest Mexico, in the rocky mountains of Puebla.

The town and house her grandparents live in are completely different from what the Emerson children are accustomed to, the town is surrounded by beautiful coffee plantations, caves, grottoes, and movie-worthy forest landscapes covered in fog and their small house, made out of terra cotta, with only three rooms and a single bathroom, (which to get the hot water you'll need to get a bucket of water and heat the water up in the oven) is completely opposed to the urban scenery of London and their multi-room chateau house.

Sadly, once there she didn't get to spend much time with her Ma either as she liked to volunteer at the local hospital and they usually needed the extra help so she spend most of the day there, it didn't bother Love, as she knows her mother is helping people, it was a little disappointing she didn't spend a longer time with her children but what made it better was that they get to stay with their grandparents all day.

Regardless of the differences, Love adores visiting her grandparents, her Abuelita Maria, she was a small woman, her skin was olive coloured which was always soft, she usually wore her white hair in a tight bun which reminded her of McGonagall and always wore flower print clothes. Whenever they come to visit she makes them wake up at the earliest hours of the day to clean the house while listening to old tunes of hers or to stroll down the town's cobblestone streets, which resemble a storybook scene to the markets. The latter has always been Love's favourite activity because of the restaurant at the end of the market, Lolitas, they sell the best tacos which she usually eats with a cold bottle of coca-cola, that combination after a humid, busy day of shopping is heavenly.

Her Abuelo Alberto or Abuelo Beto as Love likes to call him, was a lot taller than her grandmother, his skin was more tan than hers too, and his white hair was always covered by his sombrero charro. Abuelo Beto is the cook of the house, he makes the best Pozole, Chiles en nogada, Elotes and a lot more, he usually recruits Love or one of her siblings to help him in the kitchen while sending the others to grab cilantro or bottles of jarritos from the market, but normally, she would volunteer to help him in the kitchen, she learned a lot about him that way.

When Abuelo Beto cooks he likes to listen to old tunes, his favourites were Vicente Fernandez or UB40, he likes to sway and sing with them trying to mimic the singer's high notes, he also often enjoys telling stories of his youth as he gives her a taste of whatever he's cooking, like about his first job in a bakery, or his first girlfriend, or how he used to wish to have finished his education to give a better life to her mamá and abuelitos back then or how he and his friend used to ride wild bull's whilst being drunk off their ass — thought he warned her that she should never do that.

It was all great but her favourite part of her visit is the weekends, when they visit Abuelo Beto's ranch where she could ride her horse, Peggy short for Pegasus, he was an Appaloosa horse with gorgeous colours. Love would ride Peggy all day with her siblings each with their own horses, and then, at night, they build a bonfire and her abuelito would cook carnitas for all the farm staff and his family before getting too drunk, bring out his guitar and start singing his rancheras to abuela maria at the top of his lungs.

Ultimately she wasn't that disappointed that her time in Singapore ended since she got to spend time with her grandparent but she was disappointed she didn't get to spend much time with her mothers.

"Love." Kiara's annoyed voice snapped her out of her daydream. "If this overgrown fish touches me even the slightest I'm throwing it out the window."

Love gasps before looking down, in between them there was her toad, Hopper Hoopalong Lollihops Emerson, or just Hoppy. A Greenish, fat amphibian with dry skin, warts, and crests behind his yellow eyes. In other words Love's adored pet.

"Don't you dare, Kiara." She said, picking the toad up and placing it on her lap. "He's doing nothing to you."

Kiara scoffs, sending Hoppy a disdainful look."His mere existence is an offence to me, honestly why did you even want a slimy frog? Does everyone in that school of yours have one too?"

Love rolled her eyes, she runs a finger over hoppy's back causing him to croak. "Not all of them, some students have cats or owls or rats."

"And you happen to pick the most disgusting pet of them all."

"Hoopster's not disgusting." Huff's Ezra, in offense, sends Kiara a look from the mirror. "He's one cool ass toad."

"Only he's not." Argue Kiara with an eye roll.

"He's too." Said both, Love and Ezra.

"Not"

"Is too."

"Not"

"Is too."

"Not–

"Enough," Tara warns from the front seat, making them all shut up, she sighs loudly, before turning to the boy behind the wheel. "Ezra, turn on the next right."

"Yeah, yeah... and Right is—" Ezra mumbled, confused.

Tara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "The direction of the hand you write with."

Ezra's eyes light up in realization. "Oh yes, yes."

"God, how dumb can you be, Ezra," Kiara murmurs with a huff.

"Oh, shut up Kiara, no one's talking to you," Ezra yelled angrily.

Ezra started to yell at Kiara and she yells back whilst Tara shouted things at both of them.

Love sighs vexingly, looking at her watch and then through the window to the familiar streets of London. "Rowena please, let me be on time or at least in one piece."

🤍

"Bye, baby lolo." Ezra hugged her, lifting her up. "I'm going to miss you, baby sis,"

They finally arrived at King Cross, only they didn't enter the station as Ezra parked in a no-parking zone and they couldn't leave the car alone.

Love grunted, trying to pry off her brother's hug. "I have to go, Ezra."

"I already miss you so much," Ezra whined, not letting her go.

Love loves her brother to death as she did with all of her siblings, he's always been her partner in crime, they always got each other back but he can be a little dramatic and over the top which is one of the reasons she adores him but since she started going to Hogwarts, it was an issue.

Love sends Tara a pleading look, she smiles and taps Ezra on the shoulder. "Ezra let her go, we have to say our goodbyes too."

Finally, he lets her go but not before squeezing the breath out of her one last time. Once free, Love hugged Tara who hugged her back tightly. "I'll miss you, baby Lolo."

"You need to stop calling me that." Love mumbled on her sister's shoulder. "It's embarrassing, only mum calls me that."

There was a sad tone lacing her voice, making Tara hug her harder.

"Listen, I know you wanted Mum and Ma here but–"

"They are working, again." Sighs Love, letting go of her sister, not bothering to hide the disappointment in her tone. "I know."

Tara sends her a tight smile as Love turned to Kiara and smiles at her who smiled back. Kiara was not big on physical touch, she much rather shows affection in actions rather than words or hugs.

"Truth to be told." Kiara pinches Love's cheek. "I'm not going to miss you that much, Baby Lolo."

"Kiara, that's your sister and she's leaving." Ezra sniffles, sending Kiara a teary look.

Kiara rolled her eyes letting go of Love's cheeks. "Not forever, we'll have this little rat shit back by Christmas."

"Hey–"

"Now go on and be great, with your lil blue dress."

"I..." Love frowns, looking down at herself. "what's wrong with my dress?"

"Nothing," said Tara, sending an annoyed look at Kiara who shrugged. "Now go or you'll really be late. Oh, send Padma and Emma our greetings."

"Yeah, okay." Love mumbled, grabbing her trolley, and placing her journal under her arm. "Bye, see you on holiday."

"Bye, baby Lolo." They all yelled after her rather loudly, making Love send a glare over her shoulder as several muggles stared at her. "We'll miss you."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." Love mumbles to herself but a soft smile made its way to her face. She did love her siblings, regardless of how embarrassing they are.

The station was buzzing with life, witches and wizards were seeing their children onto the train as the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform. Unfortunately, Love didn't appreciate it as she usually does because her mind was occupied with her sister's words.

Love knows Kiara didn't mean it with evil intentions, she says things like that all the time with no real meaning but she was the one with more style in the family, hence why she was making Love overthink her choice of wardrobe.

She liked the dress and it was probably the last time she'll wear it in a while since the Autumn season was about to start meaning the weather is going to be chilly, not for a dress. Looking down at her clothes, Love sighed, thinking she should have to wear something else, anything else, she probably looks awful.

"Love." Someone called cutting her train of thoughts. "Love."

Looking ahead, she found Padma Patil between the many people, waving and smiling at her. Love mirrors her actions, smiling back before making a beeline toward her while Padma was waving her hand, mouthing her to be quick.

Change is something Love disliked, although she knows change is constant and inevitable, she dislike the thought of the unknowing outcomes of it, coming to Hogwarts and learning about magic was great, amazing even but it was a sudden change, her life went from coming home from school to her family every afternoon to going to Scotland for a year, to an unknown castle, with people she didn't know, to learn from zero about the magic world not knowing if she was actually cut for it, it was nerve-racking and if that was not enough, she was alone, and if there's something Love hated was being alone.

The first night at Hogwarts Love got terribly homesick, enough for a few tears to fall from her eyes and a runny nose as she thought about her family but fortunately, her roommate heard her from her own bed, Padma Patil.

She opened the curtains of Love's bed shamelessly and ask if she was alright.

Love was quick to reassure her that she was okay but Padma was stubborn, so Love give in and told her she missed her family, that made Padma sit next to Love and shared that she also missed her home as she always shared rooms with her twin sister, Parvati Patil who was sorted into Gryffindor unlike them. Knowing that she wasn't the only one feeling homesick made Love at ease and both girls spent most of the night talking about each other and their families. After that night, the two girls were attached to the hip.

Amidst lost in her thoughts, Love didn't notice the boy in her way until they collide.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Love said, quickly glancing at who she had bumped into, she only notice emerald green eyes before looking away and continuing making her way towards Padma.

"Love." Padma hugged her once she was within arm's length, forcing Love to hug back.

"I missed you." Love said once they parted."Where's Parvati?"

"She already left to find Lavander." Padma rolled her eyes as she grabbed Love's trunk and helped her load it on the train. "Ugh, don't make me talk about her, she's wearing my favourite shirt even though I told her I wanted to wear it today, now she's going to stretch it."

"You're identical twins, I don't think she'll stretch it that much." Love told her with a laugh.

"Can you be on my side, please?" Huffs Padma, making Love hold her hand up innocently. "And regardless of that, she's wearing my shirt as if she didn't have her owns."

"Well, that's how sisters are, annoying." Love shrugged as the train whistled one last time alerting them that it was time to go, "Have you seen Emma?"

Padma shook her head. "No, but he's probably already in one compartment, shooing everyone away."

Love laughs, shaking her head, knowing Emmanuel Salazar had the tendency of not letting people he didn't know to sit with him, which was just about the entire Hogwarts population with the exception of Padma and herself. "Yeah, let's go find him."

🤍

Gryffindors are supposed to be daring, bold, have nerves of steel, and ready to take anything thrown at them. To be a Gryffindor is to be brave at heart... but whenever his eyes found her, Harry Potter's heart was anything but brave.

"Mum, please stop." Harry mumbled quietly, cheeks a little pink as his mother, Lily, was yet again trying to 'brush' his unruly dark locks, which were short and just barely falling over his forehead.

"Sorry sorry. I'm just a little nervous, that's all." She said, smiling down at him warmly, looking slightly concerned. "Are you sure you don't want to stay home this year?"

Harry sighed softly, tired of discussing this situation with her. He knows she's worried for him, she always does, maybe more often than a regular mother would but given their history it is to expect and he doesn't blame her for it but it's slightly tiring.

He opened his mouth to tell her the same answer he had told her every time she asked if he wanted to stay for the year but before he could his father, James, did it for him.

"He'll be fine, Lilypad." He said grinning, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a comforting squeeze. "Won't you, Harry?"

He nodded while also grinning at his mother. "I reckon last year was more dangerous—"

His father squeezed his shoulder again, looking down at him with big eyes. "Let's not give your mother another reason to worry, son."

Lily gives James a long, warning look. "This year is different, I don't want him out there by himself, not when he's on the loose."

James purses his lips, frowning, he's also worried for his son, of course he is and knowing how Harry usually goes head first into danger, much like himself, he should also want him to stay back with them, which deep down he does, but he didn't want his son to miss Hogwarts, to be robbed of the best years of his life for situations he couldn't control, for situations no one could control.

"It's Hogwarts darling, the safest place." He gave her a soft smile, hoping to put her worries at ease or settle them enough for Harry to get inside the train. "Albus and Minnie will be there with him and if that's not enough our Moony would be there too."

"And Ron and Hermione," Harry added.

"Fine, alright..." Lily sighs, she looks between them, she knew arguing with them,��who share the same hot-headed and recklessness, was futile, not to mention, Harry shared her same stubbornness, although she will never admit it he got it from her out loud. "But you better owl us if anything happens, and I meant it, Harry."

"If he won't Remus will, darling," James said, smiling triumphantly at his son who was smiling back.

"I know." Lily sighs, running a hand over harry's hair affectionately. "Just make sure to listen to what we've told you."

"I will, I promise."

"Okay, time for a family hug," James said, he nudged Harry towards his mother while also wrapping his arm around her waist and squeezing them all together.

"We'll miss you, son," James mutters, kissing his son's hair.

Lily's arms tightened around him. "Too much."

"Yeah, yeah..." Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but tighten his hold on them. "'l'll miss you too."

"Where's Sirius?" Lily asked once they let go of each other.

"He's with Moony, saying his goodbyes," James told her, but his eyes also roamed the station to try and spot his best friends, although he knows it's useless because they usually sneak off to snog, like a couple of teenagers in love.

"Of course— Oh, there's Molly," Lily smiled at something from behind Harry's shoulder, making him turn.

It was easy to spot the Weasley family, as all seven of them had fiery redheads and were naturally loud, something the Potters usually find amusing.

"Harry." Ron greeted him as if they hadn't seen each other the day before.

"Hey Harry." Said Hermione Granger, who had spent the night at the burrow with Ginny who was also smiling at him. "Hi."

"Hey." He tells them, smiling back while his parents talk with Molly and Arthur Weasley in hush tones.

"Have you been here for a while?" Asked Hermione, carrying her new cat, Crookshanks, an orange Kneazle.

"Not really."

"We would have been early if it wasn't for Ron, who surprise surprise, wouldn't wake up." Ginny rolled her eyes making Ron glare at her.

"Fred and George woke up later than I did, they always do, tell them, Harry."

Harry went to answer but a familiar shade of honey blonde hair caught his eyes, making his heart skip a beat as it usually did whenever they were in the same room.

There she was, Love Emerson, the bane of Harry's bravery.

He would be lying if he said he didn't thought about her during the summer holidays. The memory of her was constant in his mind, like, whenever he was unable to sleep, he liked to recall the way her hair fall over her face when she was writing something down or when he had caught himself thinking of her smile whenever she talked to Padma or her other friend whose name he doesn't know, it would be a rabbit hole for him one thing would make him think of another, and then another and then another for only to be brought back to reality when his father called his name in the middle of a 1v1 Quidditch game on the fields on the back of his house.

But now, looking at her in present time, his fleeting memories couldn't be compared to the real Love.

She was wearing a pretty blue flowery summer dress, a muggle jacket, like the ones Hermione uses sometimes, and white trainers. Her hair longer than he remembered, shinier, but it looked good on her, especially by the way the dim light of the sun was hitting it, you could see some golden strands on them, her skin was sun kissed and had a constellation of freckles dotting the skin below her pretty blue eyes.

And her smile, Merlin her smile... that's when Harry he came to the surprising realization that Love Emerson was smiling at him, she was waving at him, coming his way.

His hand subconsciously went to his hair, running a hand over his black hair, quickly yet nervously, a smile stretching on his face as he mirrored her actions all the while his heart was pumping madly.

And then, she bumps into him.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She said, with a quick glance and an apologetic smile before walking past him.

It was embarrassing, he was crushing on a girl who barely acknowledged his existence.

He was bewitched by her, no pun intended, absolutely infatuated and the worst part is that he had never actually spoken to her before.

"Harry." Ron called him, snapping him out of his train of thought.

"Yes, sorry." He clears his throat, looking at his friends. "What were you saying?"

"Are you alright?" Ginny asks, concerned. "You seemed a bit out of it."

"Yeah I'm fine." He quickly said, giving her a smile.

"Who were you waving at?" Asked Hermione, looking at where Harry was just smiling and waving a few moments ago. "Was it that girl?"

"Uh..." he shared a look with Ron who was giving him a knowing look, as the only one who knew about his crush on the Ravenclaw.

"She left this book behind, reckon it fell of her bag or something." Ginny said, picking up the odd looking book that was on the ground.

She didn't waste a minute before opening it and reading it;

August 23, 1992

The Maldives are truly gorgeous, the beaches are wonderful, the mountains and volcanoes are a sweet view and although it was raining a bit that didn't stop us from spending our best time here.

Today I got to ride a jet ski, I thought i would look wicked cool on it, but I was soon to realized that I'm not made for it. Broken dreams. I fell like five times in the first three minutes, mum had to ride it with me, it was proper embarrassing, even more so when after I cling into mum for my dear life I realized that the handsome tour guide was there too (whom had an obvious crush on Tara but we don't talk about that per her request.) On the bright side I got a pretty nice tan from the day at the beach.

My head is slightly pounding because Ezra and Kiara won't stop fighting over who gets the hammock, and it it's not like there's just one hammock there are plenty but the one they are fighting for is the one with the batter view and—- oh, Ma just took claim over it, yes, finally a few moments of peace u too they figured about to what fight next.

Mum is thinking about buying an island here and build a villa for the family, I think she should. The Maldives are like heaven on earth.

"What is the Maldives?" Askes Ron, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

Hermione grabbed the book out of Ginny's hands and looked at the pictures of the views of the island. "It's a tropical place near India."

"Oh."

"Pretty pictures." Harry said, also looking at the book in Hermione's hands. His eyes settled on a picture of her and a boy, she was smiling and the boy was sticking his tongue out.

"Who's she?" Ginny asks, pointing at the picture Harry was staring at.

"I've seen her before." Hermione tells them, "I think she's a Ravenclaw."

"Love Emerson." Harry mumbles to himself but loud enough for the other to hear.

Ginny frowns, looking at Harry. "Do you know her?"

"He doesn't." Ron sniffles as laugh, ignoring the glare Harry was sending him. "He just fancies her."

"What?" Hermione and Ginny exclaimed, surprise.

The train whistle interrupted their conversation much to Harry's delight.

"Harry." Lily called, moving towards him. "It's time for you all to board the train— what have you done to your hair?"

But just as she started to brush his hair again, James appeared grabbing his wife's hand softly. "He's looking handsome already, Lily, he shares my genes, after all."

He winked at Harry.

Lily huffed vexingly but didn't move her hand out if James's hold before looking down at Harry with softer eyes. "Be good, alright son."

"But not that good." Sirius made himself known, as he wraps an arm around his god son's shoulders giving it a comforting squeeze. "Just don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"So, I should do what you'd do?"

Sirius smirked down at him with pride. "A brill, you are."

"Where's Moony?" James asks, looking around for his friend.

"Already on the train—"

The train started to blow steam, alerting the family that it was about to start moving.

"As should you, Harry, go on now, look for your uncle."

With his last goodbyes, Harry ran to the compartment door and Ron threw it open and stood back to let him on. They leaned out of the window and waved at their families until the train turned a corner and blocked them from view.

Lily sighs, staring at the retrieving train, leaning against James who holds her tightly as if afraid she'll run after the moving vehicle.

"Nothing will happen to him." James mumbles on her red hair.

"We also thought the same for the past two years... look at what happened."

James also sighs, because as much as he puts a happy face in front of his son he couldn't help but feel his stomach twist awfully whenever he leaves to Hogwarts but there's really nothing he could do about it.

"If something does happen darling, Sirius and I will be there the next minute."

"We got a free ticket." Sirius nodded solemnly, hands behind his back. "We can show up whenever we want, for security."

"See Lily, it'll be fine, I'm sure."

Lily sighs, glancing at her husband's hazel eyes before nodding, trying her best to believe in his words. "He'll be fine."

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 11 days

Text

Love Me Bitterly [Chapter Three] Fate [Adam]

A/n: This is a shorter chapter with unfortunately no Adam, but it's setting up some things. Also, the song Marcella is singing here is 'The Fighter' by In This Moment. Please enjoy.

Warning(s): Foreshadowing, OC, Adam being Adam (briefly), sexual jokes, short chapter.

Tag list: @lala-1516

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

No Minors Allowed!!

The soft click of footsteps filled the stairwell as Marcella ascended to the library. Her work uniform hugged her body like a warm blanket, feeling stifling in the heat of the day. Once she reached the top, she took in a deep uneasy breath and walked to her desk; the scent of aged paper and weathered leather binds permeated the air.

It was peaceful, but Marcella would rather be in the field. Earth was a magical and wondrous place if one knew where to look. Yes, her job could be quite irritating if an evil-hearted person began to abuse their power, but most days it was serene. Her wanderlust knew no bounds.

Awake and restless, she sauntered over to the drop-off box and began to sort through the few books that were returned. There weren't many, but Marcella figured that it would be better to get her work done than wait. She would go insane if she sat down now.

As she registered the returns in a thick organized book by her desk, she sang, hearing her low husky voice echo off the walls.

“I will fall and rise above. And in your hate I find love. ‘Cause I'm a survivor. Yeah, I am a fighter.”

Humans had such captivating lyrics. They sang of heartache, addiction, and death; all things angels never experienced. She reckoned some Virtuous remembered the experiences of their human lives, but none of them spoke about it. Don't dwell on the past.

Marcella hummed the haunting tune as she flew to the bridge above and put the books in their designated areas. Once she was done, she used her wings to give herself a slight boost and stood on the railing. If Imelda caught her, she would be in a world of trouble. She stared down at the wooden floor cast in an array of vivid colors from the stained window overhead, then leaped off the edge, spreading her wings.

“I will not hide my face. I will not fall from grace. I'll walk into the fire baby,” she sang as she slowly floated toward the ground.

The heels of her boots gently clacked as she landed; a wide smile graced her face. Perhaps the artists of Earth knew their subjects well, inspired and awed by bored angels who were caught descending from Heaven, their voices carried by the wind.

Marcella sighed and walked over to her desk. Her fun was done. As she sat down, she noticed something that she must have overlooked earlier. It was a folded note with a yellow flower resting on it. Upon further investigation, she realized the flower was a Creeping cinquefoil, a common weed.

She was grateful for the gesture, despite the misunderstanding. If not for her aunt and her love of flowers, she wouldn't have known the difference.

The note, however, had her befuddled.

For your lame flower thing.

Marcella raised a brow. What did that mean? Flower thing. Then it hit her like a bucket of ice water, or a cup of iced coffee. Adam. She paled. Was he the one sending her the lewd notes?

–

Around the afternoon, the heat of the day grew warmer. Marcella opted to take her lunch break in the shade of a light yellow umbrella at Sweetly, a little café within walking distance of the historical library.

To join her, she called up her gossip-loving coworker, Rilea, who was thankfully not in the field today. Marcella ordered a green tea and a salad with two chocolate chip cookies to go as she waited.

“I'm here,” Rilea announced as she hurried to the patio table from the street. She greeted Marcella with a smile.

“I'm glad you could make it,” the blonde stated.

Rilea was too. She had a lot of business at headquarters to attend to, but thankfully she saved her break. Imelda was urging her to take it. Giving her order to a waiter, she waited until her dessert was brought to the table before she brought up the matter at hand.

“You sounded urgent on the phone. Are you OK?”

Marcella opted not to beat around the bush.

“Is Adam my admirer?”

“Why would you think that?” Rilea asked. She tried to hide a smile.

Was she serious? Marcella took an uneasy breath.

“I had a run-in with him yesterday - literally - and I made mention of a hobby I currently got into. This morning I found a flower and another note on my desk.”

Rilea squeaked. Her wings rose in excitement.

“That's so romantic.”

No, it wasn't.

“Have you met Adam?” Marcella asked, narrowing her eyes.

“No, but Nera said he's a bad boy who loves music. That's right up your alley,” Rilea explained.

As much as she wanted to disagree, she was right. Marcella did like music and bad boys - Azrael was her crush forever - but Adam was on another level.

“It wouldn't work. Trust me.”

Rilea frowned.

“You don't know that. It's not fair to write him off without giving him a chance.”

The blonde's wings sank. Did she have to? She was right, but it seemed like such a waste of effort.

“But he's so full of himself,” Marcella whined.

“You could be full of him too,” Rilea pointed out.

The blonde nearly choked. Did she seriously just imply that Marcella should have sex with him?

“I'm gonna ignore that you said that.” She took a drink of her tea and opted to change the topic of the conversation. “How is work?”

“Hectic,” Rilea admitted. Her smile faded. “But you know how it is before the festival.”

Festival. Was she referring to the Celebration of Lights?

“Is it already that time?” Marcella asked.

Rilea shook her head.

The festival takes place every year in Seraphim Square, a celebration to honor the Seraphim who govern Heaven. It was a fun event.

“Well, that's something to look forward to.”

Rilea agreed, grinning again.

“Perhaps Adam will go with you.”

Marcella narrowed her eyes. There was no way she was going to attend the festival with Adam. To be honest, she was going to avoid him at all costs.

If I can manage it.

Unbeknownst to her, he had already pulled the strings that would again bring them together.

#hazbin hotel fanfiction #adam x oc #hazbin hotel fandom #adam hazbin hotel #oc

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tragicromanceisland · 1 year

Text

What Happens in Wonderland, Remains

Character x female reader

Chapter Five

8:30pm

O'Connor’s Pub

The atmosphere in the restaurant was lively, a murmur of noise as the four of you sat at the table eating pub food and drinking. You couldn’t help but laugh and smile as Ace and Deuce were still competitive as ever with each other, and Jack was still the same abide by the rules. Well, that was obvious by his career.

Your cheeks rosy as you were slowly becoming more intoxicated. Jack was talking about his day of excitement, his tail wagging with each mention of justice he served. You giggled as you leaned in closer and touched his ears. Jack froze, his eyes wide as you beamed.

“Such a good boy!” You exclaimed.

Jack felt his face burn, but his tail was being a traitor as he happily wagged at your praise and patted his head as you rubbed his ears. Ace and Deuce began cracking up.

“Shut up…” Jack retorted.

He couldn’t help it, you were so close to him and smelled so good. Not to mention giving him praise on top of it all well he was happy. More than happy, actually he was…

Jack grabbed your hands to stop you from rubbing his ears and pressed his cheek against yours. “Enough, unless you want to take responsibility for how you’re making me feel.”

“Hey what are you two lover birds whispering about over there?” Ace grinned with a snicker.

“Shut up Ace, it’s not funny.” Deuce pouted as he finished off his pint of beer.

You went silent as you pulled away enough to study Jack’s expression.

No way…

He shifted his eyes to the side as his ears flatted. You grinned. Well, you suppose you could stop messing with him. You turned your attention to Ace and Deuce and began asking them about what they had been up to as of late and if they had been dating. While the two were responding to you, Jack kept stealing glances at you.

9:45 pm

Wanderlust Nightclub

The four of you took several shots before taking to the dance floor. You took turns dancing with the three of them. Because the four of you were inebriated, you were all very touchy feel and not to mention becoming aroused the more, they laid hands on you. At one point – you were pretty wasted at this point - you could have sworn Jack was growling at Ace and Deuce to keep them from touching you.

You kept grinding against them, and their hands kept feeling you up. That was until Jack had enough of them doing that to you and took you for himself. He realized he probably shouldn’t have done that, but he couldn’t stand the idea of you dancing so provocatively with those two. He didn’t quite understand it himself either.

He found himself in an awkward situation as your back was pressed up against his body as you moved against him. He hesitantly placed his hands on your hips. He was already hot, but you were making him sweat. He was so nervous and then flinched when you placed your hands over his as you moved his hands up to your waist and to your breasts. His tail was stiff as he was succumbing to his desire for you.

His predatory instinct took over, and his hands had a mind of their own as you continued to grind against him. Ace and Deuce had gone back to the bar to take a few more shots, and he was left alone with you. It was dangerous. He had to leave with you right now.

He wanted you.

11:50 pm

Jack's House

Jack had taken you to his house since he was unsure of where to leave you, and he refused to leave you with Ace or Deuce. Knowing those two, they would heavily take advantage of your brazen intoxicated behavior. Even the things you were saying.

How could you utter such provocative words?

At least he had self-control. Or so he believed.

Jack helped you inside his house, closing the door behind him and locking it. Even though he lived in a safe neighborhood, there was always the possibility of a break-in. He reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Then again, so did you. He wouldn't make you shower, though.

“Alright, this way.” He sighed and grabbed your hand.

You giggled and clung to him, nuzzling into his muscular bicep. Jack flits his eyes toward you, his tail swishing a few times. You were adorable but also trashed. He felt a pleasant high. You were wasted. The important thing was settling you into his guest bedroom and bringing you some water.

“Wherrreee are we going, my sexy wolfy boy?” You grinned.

Jack tensed at what you said. He had to look away, his tail was wagging again.

Such a fuckin’ traitor tail!!!

His face was hot.

“My guest room.”

He opened the door, and you gasped at how nice the room was. There were some cactus plants on shelves, and it was very bohemian-chic décor the color scheme was very Savanaclaw. A queen-sized bed, with a lamp and nightstand as well as a chair and a bookshelf, fit in the room. You hadn’t really seen much of the rest of his house; you hadn’t been paying attention. You were hyper-focused on the man right beside you, and he was hot. You decided to see if you could make him bend as Ace and Deuce had.

You released your hold on his arm and ran your palms along his muscular torso.

“You feel really tense, is there something I can do for you?”

He was tense because you were touching him, didn’t you know what you were doing to him? No, that was a dumb thought. This was the alcohol talking. There was no way you had become this bold over time. Or maybe you had? In which case should he be concerned? Not that he minded, but was this really okay? You were drunk. You couldn’t form cohesive thoughts.

He cleared his throat; he hadn’t been this bothered since - well, since he first found out you had been a female disguised as a male at NRC.

You placed your hands on his checks. “Jack, look at me.”

Not only was your chest against his body, but your whole body also formed to his. The wolf side of him was whimpering and salivating while the rational part of him was short-circuiting. His golden eyes narrowed as he looked at you.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

He grits his teeth. He is getting nowhere with you. So he would just have to show you. You squealed as he had you beneath him on the guest bed in a matter of a few seconds. You both were flushed, his knee in between your legs.

“Is this what you wanted?” He glared.

You wrapped your arms around him as you pulled him down to your level, your lips crashed against his. His ears were flat against his head as his tail swished in excitement. His lips moved back against yours. Jack groaned into the kiss. He was already aroused from your relentless touching and teasing him. He felt like a horny teenager all over again.

When you pulled away, eyes filled with lust, but you were also tired.

“This is what I want.”

You struggled as you removed your top. Jack wasn’t sure if you really wanted this, but at the same time, his pants were uncomfortably tight. He removed his shirt. Your hands palmed his muscular form as he laid on his side next to you. His own hands touch your exposed skin. He bit his bottom lip as he felt how soft and smooth your skin was. You grinned as your hand moved down to the bulge in his pants. You giggled at how hard he was. He whimpered at the friction. He needed release.

“(Y/n)…please.”

You unbuckled his belt, unfastening his pants as you released his erection from the confines of his pants.

“Impressive.”

You palmed his length through his underwear. He released a breathless sigh as he couldn’t hold back how nice it felt for you to be touching him in such a way.

“Now touch me…” you whispered as your eyes locked with his golden irises.

Next Morning…

You slowly blinked awake. You felt a little hazy, and you could feel a headache coming on. You groaned as you looked over and noticed that someone had been next to you. You blinked before you became more aware of your surroundings. You shot up immediately and looked around.

Where…? What did I do last night? Oh no… oh no… who did I go home with?

You half panicked. Your top was off, but the rest of your clothes were on.

Oh no, what did I do??

The memories were broken from last night. You remember enjoying your dinner and drinking with Ace, Deuce, and Jack. It was hazy, but you remember going to a nightclub as well and dancing. You covered your hands with your face. He dragged your hands down your face and decided to brave whoever you were going to see. You felt the grime from last night’s events. You pulled your shirt back on and walked out of the bedroom. You took notice - briefly recalling seeing this part of this someone’s house. You immediately knew who it was as soon as you spotted a photo of you with Jack when you had attended NRC.

You groaned. You prayed you didn’t do anything inappropriate. The final year at NRC, you had become a little wild and went off drinking with Cater, Lilia, Ace, Floyd, Ruggie, and Kamil often. Only to be berated by Crewel when he had discovered you left campus without permission. Which resulted in extra homework.

You shook the memories. Something smelled good in the kitchen. You peeked around the wall and saw Jack cooking breakfast; you could smell coffee had been brewed as well. You couldn’t help but marvel at the muscular beast man in the kitchen.

“Good mornin’.” His voice was gruff.

You flinched he hadn’t even turned around, and he already knew you were there. He turned and smirked at you.

“I don’t know what you like, so I made a little bit of everything.”

Your eyes widened as you noticed the spread on the table. Everything from fruits, vegetables, meat, and the eggs he was now placing into a serving bowl.

“Jack, you didn’t have to do this.”

His ears folded back as he averted your gaze. “I know I didn’t. Breakfast is important, especially after a night of drinkin’. I even made a smoothie if you want it.”

“That sounds great.”

He set the skillet in the sink, his tail swishing a few times. You smiled.

Cute.

Jack cleaned up the little mess he had made before he washed his hands and brought the smoothies he had in the fridge to the already set table. You were hesitant.

“I won’t bite.” He spoke as he pulled out the chair for you.

You thanked him as you sat down, and he pushed you in. You were a bit surprised he did such a thing. Then again, Jack was always the polite gentleman type. You both kept quiet as you filled your plates. You then stood up and walked over to the coffee pot, realizing you did want coffee.

“Do you want some Jack?”

“I can do it.”

“No it’s alright, let me. How do you like your coffee?”

He felt his cheeks warm. “Black.”

“Gotcha. Do you have any cream or sugar?” You questioned.

“No sugar, but cream is in the fridge.”

You pondered, well, you weren’t opposed to drinking coffee as is. You grabbed the mugs sitting on the counter and poured two cups. You brought the hot beverage over to the table and sat Jack’s cup in front of him.

“Thank you.”

You smiled as you took your seat. “It’s the least I can do since you allowed me to stay here.”

Jack didn’t say anything. You noticed he seemed rather embarrassed about something. You took a sip of coffee before sitting the cup down. Picking up your utensil, you began to eat. It remained silent for less than 30 seconds.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Did anything happen last night?”

You both spoke at the same time.

“You, first Jack.”

He sighed as his golden hues met your studious gaze.

“Alright, you have to know you were completely wasted last night.”

You were concerned, is he as embarrassed as I am?

“I am aware of that much.”

“We may or may not have. No…I mean we did, but it wasn’t like you think. And I asked you to make sure it was okay. I swear I didn’t want to do anything. I only did as you wanted.” His ears were flat against his head as he fumbled with his words.

“Did we have sex?”

“WHAT? No - I mean, can it be considered? IT was just touching, but we both - “

You laughed at how flustered he was. “Foreplay then, got it.”

He wanted to die. Why am I so tongue-tied with her? Normally, he had no problem speaking about this stuff. But it was you, and he had never dreamed something like this would have happened. It wasn’t likely, especially since he knew about you and Leona being a thing.

“I know you don’t feel that way toward me since you had always had a thing for Leona.”

You placed your hand on Jack’s.

“Jack, It’s okay.”

Jack arched his brows, his tail wagging. You were touching him of your own free will, and you were sober.

“Its been years. I don’t believe Leona would wait that long just for someone like me.”

Jack stopped wagging, his ears flattened against his head as your gaze left his and fell to your plate. He saw the exposed pain within them.

“(Y/n), he would be a fool if he didn’t wait for someone like you.”

Wait…what did I just say? Jack instantly regretted it and removed his hand out from under yours. As much as she liked your touch. No, he loved your touch.

You smiled. “I appreciate that, Jack. Hey, do you think you could get me in touch with Grim? I haven’t seen him since I returned, and if Grim was with anyone, I would have assumed it to be with Ace and Deuce.”

Jack wasn’t surprised you brought up Grim. After all, Grim was like your precious pet. I could be your pet. He mentally cursed himself for a stupid thought he grabbed his tail to stop wagging at that pathetic degrading idea. He was a wolf, an honorable, law-abiding citizen, and yet you turned him into a mere dog that would bend over backward for you.

“Grim is with Malleus.”

You spit out the drink of coffee you just took.

“WHAT?!”

At that moment a knock at the door.

“Just a minute.” Jack said as he pushed back his chair and jogged to the door.

You were stunned for a second before you began to clean up your mess and wipe your mouth with some napkins.

Why would Grim be with Malleus? Malleus Draconia? The king of Briar Valley? One of THE most powerful mages in this realm? Did Grim upset Malleus?

You had so many thoughts racing through your head. You heard Jack and someone speaking, and it seemed like the visitor was becoming rather intrigued by what Jack said.

Jack glanced out the side window of his door and noticed it was Vil.

What the heck is he doing here?

Jack opened the door and saw a distraught looking Vil.

“Hey, what brings you by?”

“Can I come in? You’re the only one I can talk to about this. Rook won’t answer my calls, and I do not wish to discuss this with my assistant.”

“Oh? But you know Aster likes you.”

“I don’t care, I specifically don’t address her by name for that reason. Half the time, she acts like I kicked her puppy.” He remarked.

Jack finally noticed Vil’s bandaged hand.

“Dude, what did you do to your hand?”

Vil averted Jack’s gaze. “It’s nothing… so will you let me in?”

“I uh…well you see…” Jack rubbed the back of his neck.

Vil’s eyes widened. “Do you have someone over? Oh, this is a new development for you, Jack. Let me see who has caught your eye.”

Vil made his way in past Jack.

“No wait!”

Jack was panicking on the inside he knew Vil still had feelings for you, but no was NOT the best time for him to encounter you. He was having such a nice time with you. Vil made a beeline for the kitchen as he heard some clattering of dishes. Jack caught up to him and blocked his path.

“Jack…move.” Vil narrowed his eyes.

“No.”

Vil tried to go past, but Jack just got in his way.

You noticed the commotion just outside the kitchen and gasped when you saw him. Jack turned, and that’s when Vil’s gaze locked on you. Vil froze.

“(Y/n) …is it really you?”

#twisted wonderland #jack howl #ace trappola #deuce spade #vil schoenheit #x female reader #《🦋writes 》

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kiara-ish · 1 year

Text

The Guy on the Floor Downstairs

Part 1

Word count: 5k+

Genre: Slice of Life | Romance

Pairing: Idol Neighbour!Yoongi x Reader

Multi chapter: (1/?)

Warnings: angst, loneliness, fluff.

Summary: Life gets lonely for you even in the crowds of Seoul. Just when the silence of your shabby apartment building begins to get a bit more than overwhelming you discover the joy of being neighbours with someone you used to dream of.

Idea of the chapter: Dreams do come true as long as you remain grounded. The sky can be an easy place to get lost.

m.list | series navigation

Sasha Alex Sloan played like a low hum on my speakers, the sound floating to my ears with the wind breezing through my open balcony door. The dark room was illuminated by the soft blurry citylights. The dark void of the sky was glowing afar by the luminous aura of the tall skyscrapers in the distance that looked so untouchable, so far from me.

Dancing With Your Ghost ended and the soft hum changed to Welcome to Wonderland making a soft laugh bubble in my throat — of course, when love leaves you alone in this huge lonely world, you move to Wonderland. My minimalistic one bedroom apartment was shrouded in darkness like the void sky had invaded my living space and I lay on my small creaky bed with crumpled sheets like the victim of an apocalypse.

It was hard to deny that it wasn't really an apocalypse; end of the world for me and me only it seemed. Moving to Seoul was a dream come true for a wanderlust starved, self isolating, complicated individual like me. People in Seoul kept to themselves and were neither unwelcoming nor welcoming to outsiders. The teaching job with part time translating seemed promising and it truly was. Going above the jetlag and minimum language barrier that still persisted, settling in wasn't difficult. A tiny apartment that would be suffocating for two far from the city sufficed the residence with a little compromise from my sleep schedule.

Life was full of enthusiasm for the first month and video calling back home was a regular notification. I was so full of joy that I even smiled and bowed at the people I saw in the streets, not recognising the compulsion they felt to bow back at someone who looked like a complete lunatic desperately trying to fit in. Keeping extra focus on pronounciation on the first day at work, losing my way back home later and finally speaking to my three best friends for two hours straight, laughing at all the nostalgia we were hit by my moving to Seoul. What became my reality was a teenage fangirling dream for us who couldn't resist the glorious living of Seoul and k-pop idols.

What I should have recognised was that my social batteries haven't changed much through the years — the few hours that it was before was stretched to a few days. Unfortunately the recharging took equal parts of time and there I was, head hanging out of the bed to stare at the lights from the open balcony door, lying on the bed that begged to change sheets. But I was too lazy. The buzzing of the city in the distance reached my ears, reminding that weekend meant hanging out with friends and just living a good life without alarms for a day for some people and the fact that I was alone in darkness just staring at the skyline only made me lazier.

The songs had changed on my speakers and it was playing one that I wasn't familiar with. A gentle strum of guitar with a soft humming caressed my ears and my eyes fluttered close as the words began to flow with the melody from a rough voice that felt like it wasn't used to singing. The voice felt very familiar – so much that my heart fluttered and butterflies erupted in my stomach for the first time in what felt like ages. The unmistakable sensation of comfort serenaded the loud silence in my head and I was suddenly on my feet to check what was playing.

Light to my Darkness - AgustD

I was ready to cry my heart out when I saw that. Of course, it was him. The one who swayed my stony heart at sixteen, the one who made me cry when I realised he was like the stars in the sky to me at seventeen, the one who I looked up to at eighteen, nineteen and twenty and the one who began to slowly fade in my head at twenty one. Of course, it was him. It was funny that I once dreamed of being in Seoul because of him and when I finally arrived, he was the last thing on my mind. I knew BTS was still making music, more solos than together but they stayed like a notification on the cracked screen of my mobile until I swiped it away when the continuous work emails were annoying me.

The melody reached its chorus and my eyes stung in the corners but before tears could be shed, probably making me feel better, a loud bang made me flinch on my spot followed by a string of Korean curses that I happen to know by heart. I realised that it was coming in with the sounds of the city from the balcony. Leaving the melody softly playing again, I moved to my balcony.

Winter was slowly settling in and my baggy clothes let in too much of the cold air making my skin erupt in goosebumps. Another bang was heard and I realised it was coming from the balcony of the apartment directly downstairs. It was like the sound of a tough metal hitting on hollow wood. The loud sound made me flinch each time but the silence that followed gently coveted by the melody playing from my room soothed the harsh blow.

I wasn't aware of having a downstairs neighbour, which was not too strange since I only knew the man who lived opposite me. The loud band interrupted my train of thoughts each time it drifted away, slowly coaxing me into the rhythm of its harshness and the soothing balm of the gentle music playing. I listened to the sound for a moment more before making a split decision of running in to grab my blanket and coming back out again.

Laying flat on the cushiony couch that had exhausted the lasts of my savings, I pulled the blanket to my chin, finally closing my eyes. The harsh sounds had softened as if the person downstairs knew that someone above him was unexpectedly falling asleep to the sounds of him fixing his furniture. I, on the other hand, suddenly felt way too comfortable than I should sleeping in my balcony, knowing I would wake up tomorrow with a headache from the cold.

It was a strange sense of domesticity, hearing the small sighs in the silence as the night grew quieter with the heavy shuffling of things downstairs and that song by Agust D playing on loop even though I did not remember putting it on repeat. It felt like I was not alone — it felt like I was home again and I couldn't be more grateful.

The rice cakes were put in neatly in the box with a small greeting card attached on it. I wondered for a while if the rest of my neighbours would be salty that I was only meeting the neighbour downstairs. But I couldn't help the wish to meet them. When I woke up on the couch, I distinctly remember a soft humming breezing up to me from the downstairs balcony and my thinning out sleep fell deeper into the state of slumber. But the humming stayed with me, even in my dreams and when I woke up. It felt so familiar and beyond the tune it was the voice that sounded a little broken like it only sang in secrecy.

I did not bother dressing up in impressive clothes. The apartment was in the more humble side of the town than the rich ones, so as prejudiced as it might sound, I believed that they would not really be bothered about my lazy dressing. So without further contemplation, I picked up the rice cakes and made my way out with anxiety building up in my stomach like I was going for a life-changing interview.

When I rang the doorbell, the anxiety in me was ready to steam a dumpling but years of containing it, I knew to breathe slowly and deeply as I awaited my neighbour. There wasn't any remote hints of sounds or footsteps inside the apartment that would hint that my neighbour knew I awaited him at the door. Aware of the possibility that they weren't home, I was ready to place the small box of rice cakes beside his door with the greeting card but my overwhelming gut feeling made me want to ring the doorbell once more.

I have always been a follower of instincts and gut feeling so almost unknowingly I had already rang the bell again. What I did not expect at all was a heavy voice speaking gruffly against the door on the other side, "who is it?"

My palms were sweaty and I was prepared with a practiced monologue that would comprise of my introduction and my purpose of visit. Yet when the cue was set, I was left gaping like a fish because that voice was eerily familiar and it would be quite awkward to meet an old friend like this. Knowing that there was probably an eye set on me from the padlock cam, I cleared my throat and spoke to the best of my limits without a stutter, "Hi, I'm your upstairs neighbour. I've brought rice cakes."

There was a moment of silence and I was left more confused than awkward before his voice reached me again, "Thanks but I don't really consume gluten. It was nice to meet you."

"Wha-"

There was a sound of footsteps and I knew for sure that my neighbour had just rejected my introduction and walked away. All expectations that I had of him just blew out of the window and all that was left was disappointment and anger. Needless to say, I would not be ever trying to interact with him anymore and I was never more confident of my decision of labelling him as a bad neighbour.

Weekend passed in a flash and the new week dragged on. The only relief was my newfound loop of BTS songs – the old ones for nostalgia and the new ones for that taste of unfamiliarity that you get from someone you have grown apart with. Especially on my loop was Agust D. His voice brought back a tinge of those butterflies I used to get back then but more importantly, it refreshed my unfaltering respect for the man and his art. What I also came to know about him was that he was aloof for a few months for some 'healthy time alone' and he was camouflaged so well in the crowds that even the worst stalkers were unaware of where he was. It made me wonder if he was taking good care of himself alongside drowning himself in work and the possibility seemed faint.

I never saw my downstairs neighbour. It was like he did not even exist during the day but I knew he was home when I returned from work later in the evenings. There were different bits of music floating in occasionally, unfamiliar tunes that sometimes made my ears perk up and other times made my nose scrunch up, unintentionally. Work was keeping me busy and the social life that I was procrastinating was slowly catching up to me. So I too, began to come home later and later.

It was difficult to remain sober when everyone else was completely wasted but that was what office parties looked like and I knew it too. But I was quite a persistent person myself, so as I entered the apartment building completely sober but exhausted, the pride that I was beaming with was dimmed down. I stared at the stairs as if it would turn into an elevator taking me to my floor but when it didn't, I begrudgingly made my way up slowly.

By the time I was only one floor down, I was heaving more than normal so I stood quietly for a breather. But when my eyes fell on stairs in front of me, I almost stumbled all the way back down again.

There, sitting on the topmost stair was Min Yoongi, in a hoodie but the hood was down. I knew I wasn't drunk at all but I still had to grip the railing tight enough that it would hurt to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I wasn't. He was really there just sitting quietly not even looking at me as I heaved like a donkey after a long travel.

He was looking straight at the wall and his face looked flushed, it almost looked like he was sleeping with eyes open. So I gently climbed a step, trying not to alert him or scare him away. When he did not move, I climbed another and then watched his reaction.

"What do you think I am? The last Dodo?"

My third step froze mid air and I was on the verge of stumbling down again. Barely balancing myself, I stared at him like a drunk baboon. His voice was a little coarse as if he spoke out of the blue.

That's when it hit me. The coarse humming, the random tunes, the late night shuffling around and the complete social distancing of my downstairs neighbour – it was Min Yoongi! But how? Why was he living in the shabbiest apartment in the area? Why was he sitting on the stair?

"I know you live upstairs. Just go up, already."

"No."

"No?"

Min Yoongi's eyes were finally on me and I was internally hyperventilating. It felt like I was back to my sweet and dumb sixteens staring at him up close on my phone screen as if he was staring back at me. But only this time, he was actually staring at me and talking to me because I blurted out a complete random declination that did not even make sense to me.

"I- why are you here?"

"I live here," he motioned his head towards the door behind him, "if you are going to fangirl, then do it and leave. Take a picture or something and post somewhere-"

"What are you even talking about?"

Only then I took notice of his sleepy eyes and flushed face and I realised that he was drunk, very drunk.

"I'm telling you how to make a good scandal, in case you need a tutorial."

"You are wasted, aren't you?"

He started laughing at that, like a full blown grin that I used to swoon at but it felt different staring at him up close, as if it was a sarcastic laugh that somehow evolved from a coerced grimace.

"You can add that too then."

He was still talking about me posting about him and I couldn't help but wonder if someone actually had done that to him – leaving him scandalised during a clearly vulnerable moment.

So putting all the tumultuous tides in my stomach aside, I took another step up and told him as gently as I could, "Just go in. Take some rest, sleep."

He stopped laughing at that but the intensity of his stare almost made my knees week, reminding I was standing on a stair case and it was quite late into the night.

"Are you ARMY?"

"I used to be a very active ARMY. I haven't listened to much of your songs until very recently. I am almost catching up again though."

"Of course. Why would you still be an ARMY. Nobody is, these days."

I was left gaping like a confused fish while his face soured into a scowl.

"No no, you did not hear me. I am catching up. I am ARMY still and by the looks of it, I always will be."

"That's what you think," he suddenly stood up making me take a step down when I realised how close I had unintentionally been standing to him. Not that I did not want to, I just did not want him to feel that his space was being invaded. He, however, did not look fazed, "you will find another charming boyband and BTS will be forgotten like all other older artists."

I couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at his insistence. He knew nothing about me and my choices yet he was generalising me.

"It is an obvious phenomena, the older generations take a step back so that new ones can come up but that does not mean that they cease to exist all of a sudden. Your true fans will always listen to you, as long as you make music and even if you don't, they'll play the same songs over and over again because that's just what being a fan truly means. So what if some people have left the fandom? Do the rest of us that stayed do not matter to you? Does our history not faze you at all?"

His eyes widened and then he started looking around to avoid my own accusing glare. His scowl was gone and instead there was a small pout forming on his lips as he quietly spoke, "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

My voice was louder than his and in hindsight, I couldn't believe I was shouting at Min Yoongi but for me then, it was provoked anger. He was throwing jabs at me even if I had done nothing.

"You matter to me," I knew he was talking about ARMY as a whole but all anger just evaporated from my heart when he spoke in that cute pout, "you have made me what I am. How can I be ungrateful? I'm sorry, I just- I don't really-"

"It's fine," years of seeing him on screen and hearing and reading about him off screen, I knew he wasn't a talker about his feelings, "just go in and rest. I'll not reveal anything about you. I can sign an NDA if you want."

He nodded before moving towards his door, still not looking at me and I couldn't decide if I should be thankful because his stare made me nervous or if I should be disappointed because he was my bias after all.

Crossing his door, I kept my eyes forward towards the stairs even though my heart whined to get a glimpse of his apartment but I have always been a persistent person. It was only when I was on the first step of the stairs to my floor, his voice reached me.

"I've heard you listen to my songs."

Of course he has. I have always been loud about my bias and it spoke through my loops of Agust D songs that my speakers almost always played.

"Yeah," and I decided that it was okay to accept my inner fangirl for just a second, "you're my bias."

When I stared back at him from my place on the stairs, he was leaning on his closed door with a small grin on his face and I somehow knew that it was real. He really was grinning at me with the cutest flush on his face wearing the comfiest looking hoodie and I realised why I never fell in love. I was already neck deep in love with him and to save myself the suffocation of completely drowning, I bowed quickly and sprinted up the stairs with my heart thudding in my chest as if it wanted to leave my body and go to him. I couldn't really blame my heart.

I did not sleep the entire night as the surrealism of the situation hit me. Min Yoongi was living just downstairs from me in this shabby apartment building and I just saw him and I talked to him and I-

Okay, breathe.

It felt like I was back at sixteen when there would be silly videos of him making that intense eye contact with the camera and I would be blushing mess, lying on my bed with uncountable pimples on my face.

Somewhere during the course of the night, I must have fallen asleep because when my eyes fluttered open, sunlight was lighting up my room. It was the weekend and I had the day off but I couldn't bring myself to sleep some more. There was no exhaustion in me, only excitement and a thrill that I knew I had to keep to myself.

When I was done making my morning cup of coffee, I decided to stand in my balcony for some fresh morning air for the first time since I began staying here. It was quiet and the rush of the city was fainter than night. Birds chirped around like the background theme to a fairytale and the occasional sounds of cars passing by or people walking by was the only perceivable ones.

Knowing the air quality was far from being healthy, I still took a deep breathe of the air simultaneously hearing a loud bang from downstairs, followed by a familiar string of Korean curses. My attention was square and centre on my neighbour downstairs again as I stood in complete silence to hear even the smallest sounds from downstairs. In hindsight, my behaviour was peak creepy but I couldn't help it.

Aside from the loud beating of my heart, I heard heavy footsteps shuffling just below me and I knew he was at the balcony. From afar I probably looked like a weirdo standing silently like a statue on my balcony but I was so thankful that I did that because I heard an unmistakable, "Are you there?"

I knew there was a hundred percent chance he was speaking on his phone but chanceless me had to be petty so I hit the leg of my couch as loud as I could to alert him that I was standing right above him too.

A moment or two passed in silence and I began to realise how stupid I was being but before I could go back in to hide with my embarassment, I heard again, this time louder, "Hey neighbour, you up there?"

I was at the very edge of my balcony in a breathe but I knew I had to contain my inner fangirl with him. So I spoke in a calm and collected voice, "why are you talking from your balcony?"

When I try to contain my hyper excited feelings, I always end up being rude and the silence that passed felt way too heavy and I almost teared up when his voice reached me again, "You are answering from your balcony too, aren't you?"

I would have jumped of joy had I not been in my balcony knowing he could hear me easily.

"That's true. What's up?"

I bit my tongue at my own words. I was talking to Min Yoongi. I could have kept my casual self aside. But then I heard him chuckle quite loudly, "Do you have coffee?"

"Yes," my answer was out in a heartbeat.

"Can you bring me some, please?"

"Why don't you come up?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

There was silence after that and I was disappointed that he would just dismiss the idea of taking coffee from me but I heard his gruffly voice saying, "I just can't. Come down."

A thought suddenly hit me and it was out of my mouth even before I could think it through, "You shouldn't come out to your balcony. What if people recognise you?"

"You're not very smart, are you?"

I clearly wasn't because it took me some more time to realise what he was talking about. There was the back of a house, that reached till his floor to his balcony, without windows facing the balcony. Obviously no one could see him from ahead.

Keeping my embarassment to myself, without further adieu, I heated up the coffee left in the machine and poured it on my biggest cup before making my way downstairs. When I reached his floor with shaky hands and a nervous face, I realised why he couldn't come up. The door to his floor neighbour's apartment was wide open and some kind of house party was going on and loud BTS music was playing. There could be possible fans who might recognise him so I stealthily crept to his door and before I could knock, he opened his door.

He was still in the same hoodie except his hair was ruffled even more. Before I could stare at him more like a fool, we heard footsteps and loud voices coming up the stairs and beyond my instincts, a warm hand had gripped my arm and I was pulled inside.

I was so thankful that my body was not betraying me by clinging to his touch but I wasn't sure if my face was on the same page. My cheeks were warming up and I knew I was blushing. So to distract his attention, if it falls on my face I handed him the coffee.

"Thank you, neighbour. What's your name, by the way?"

He just asked my name and went inside like I wasn't completely on the verge of subliming away. I told him my name with a shaky voice looking at him kicking away a blanket from the floor. That's when I noticed the insides of his apartment. The floor plan of his place was identical to mine but his entire apartment was a mess. There were dishes piled up on the table with random wrappers and bowls of instant ramen scattered almost everywhere. There were bottles of alcohol in every corner, glasses empty and some even filled just lying around.

I did not know what came over me as I saw him trying to push everything out of sight when I actually shouted at him, "Is this how you've been living?"

He flinched and stared at me with wide eyes, like a kid caught in the act.

"No, I-"

"Oh, so you've been living worse?"

He looked guilty as charged as he stared at his place like he was seeing the mess for the first time too. I couldn't believe a global celebrity was living in a dilapidated apartment building that too like his place was invaded by sewer rats.

"Why are you always shouting at me?"

His voice was quiet as he complained picking up the empty ramen cups and I would have laughed had I not been so angry. Unknowingly, I began picking up wrappers too while grumbling about the mess while he stood there staring wide eyed and open mouthed at me.

When my hands were full I searched for the trash bin only to find it full to the brim.

"Did you not even take out the trash, Min Yoongi?"

"I did, I swear, it's just-"

"Save it. Where are your trash bags?"

He was beside me in a moment, fumbling around the kitchen drawers before taking out unused trash bags handing them to me, watching me stuff the trash in it.

"You don't have to. I'll just-"

Realisation punched me in my stomach. I was in Min Yoongi's apartment for real, not in one of my dreams and I was completely invading his space, albeit cleaning his mess.

"I'm sorry," I placed the trash bag aside before bowing to him, "I was just a bit provoked at the mess. I always thought I have OCD because it really bothers me to- I just, I mean, I'm sorry I did not even think I was invading your space randomly out of nowhere, I'll leave-"

"Hey, hey. It's okay."

It was a warm hand on my shoulder that stopped me from hyperventilating and completely losing it. He was standing close to me, smiling with unmistakable adoration in his eyes.

"I don't mind. In fact, if anything you showed me that I was living like a sloth. I really need to clean up and I would really appreciate your help too."

By the time his space was neat and tidy, my cheeks ached at how much I had laughed just seeing him goof around. It felt like I was watching one of those Run BTS episodes live. I slowly got over my star struck episode and started feeling comfortable with him. I knew it was partly because he wasn't a stranger to me, heck he was far from it. But I was a stranger to him so I was glad that he was not making me feel like one.

"Coffee?"

"It must have gone cold long now."

"I'll heat it up, you've brought a lot."

"Then yes please."

I leaned on the counter beside him as he heated up the beverage after assuring me that he did not need help in heating up coffee with a smile that clearly said that even the thought of it seemed ridiculous to him.

My eyes stayed on him even if I wanted to leave him be and it seemed that he was aware of that because his ears were red and he avoided my eyes. It felt strangely domestic to watch him move around the tiny kitchen looking for a second cup to pour the coffee.

"Aren't you curious?"

His question caught me off guard. But I knew what he was talking about.

"It would be a lie to say that I am not. But I'm sure if you wanted the world to know, you wouldn't be just keeping to yourself."

"But it's not the world," he handed me the coffee cup but not moving from his position in front of me. His eyes bore into mine and I pushed myself more and more into the counter as if it could swallow me whole and save me from those eyes that burned my skin, "it's just you. Don't you want to know?"

The temperature felt warmer than ever and my palms were sweaty again. The steam from the coffee was the only barrier that hid my face from him.

"Do you want to tell me?"

He slightly tilted his head at me, a small smile on his lips as he stared at me, eyes searching for mine but like hell would I meet his eyes. I would evaporate on the spot.

"I would tell you anything if you ask."

I could swear that my heart wasn't beating and my head felt faint, vision blurry. How could he even say that to me so nonchalantly? My brain wasn't working straight but apparently my mouth was because it acted independently.

"Is that right? Then how about your bank details?"

"Try asking."

His reply was instant and now the blood was rushing to my head so fast that I felt like a puddle of warmth.

"I am curious. But not about why you are here. I am curious to know if the members and your company knows that you are here."

He smiled so fondly at me that I almost fell on my knees. This was the man I loved since I was sixteen and he was smiling at me like he adored me. I could die in peace with just that.

"They don't. All they received was a letter and a 'leave me alone' card. The members too, or they would have been already knocking on my door."

I couldn't help but laugh at that and he chuckled too except his chuckle made my knees weak.

"Wouldn't they be worried?"

"They would," his smile dimmed down a little, "years gone and they have remained closer to me than my own family. They would definitely be worried."

Watching his eyes dim down the spark in them, I quickly tried to make it better, "well then, you have to take good care of yourself. For them, if not for yourself."

"Of course. I must. But I'm not too worried," he took another step closer and my breath hitched, "I have you now."

The guy from the floor downstairs would be the death of me.

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nothinghereisworking · 1 year

Text

Finrod Appreciation

Wanderlust

Rated: T Words: 22,217

Felagund spent much of his time in exile exploring, documenting, and experiencing life in Beleriand's many regions and realms. He kept a journal and scrapbook into which he wrote and drew and collected a great many mementoes of his life.

Through his eyes, the First Age comes to life on the pages of his book, capturing both the joys and the sorrows of the Eldar in exile.

Moonlight In His Cave (in progress)

Rated: M Chapters: 4/? Words: 13,162

The Dagor Bragollach has broken the Noldorin siege and scattered the Sons of Fëanor across Beleriand. Celegorm and Curufin are at last overrun and forced to flee, ending up in the last place they had ever expected: Nargothrond. This is the account of their years there, and how it all came crashing down again.

Finrod: 30-Day Character Study

Rated: G Words: 14,411

For the Silmarillion Writers' Guild 30-Day Character Study prompt: During this challenge, you will choose one character whom you want to study deeply and complete prompts and activities designed around developing a deeper understanding of that character.

I got in a mood and did all 30! Prompt type will be noted in chapter title (i.e. study, writing, art), and any chapter-specific warnings will be noted in chapter descriptions.

While I attempted to stay as close to canon in this study as possible, in some things canon is simply silent, or I folded some personal theories into the prompts.

The reason this 30-day character study is longer than 30 chapters is some days involved both 'study' elements and 'writing' elements and I wanted to break them apart for those who were interested more in one or the other, to make them easier to find.

On Sands of Pearls

Rated: G Words: 5,500

Finrod Felagund returns from the halls of Mandos. Though his body has been restored, he remembers little, and the traumas of his first life and death lie just beneath the surface.

With Lights and Holly and Songs of Good Cheer

Rated: G Words: ~1,200

In Post-First Age Valinor, Finrod and Elwing create a new custom to share with one another, to keep them connected to their past and kin.

The Children of Eru

Bëor/Finrod Rated: G Words: 188

A poetic glimpse into Finrod's feelings as the end of Bëor's life draws near.

All Shall Fade

Rated: G Words: 823 Character Death

Finrod sits with Bëor at the end of his life.

---

The years of the Edain were lengthened, according to the reckoning of Men, after their coming to Beleriand; but at last Bëor the Old died when he had lived three and ninety years, for four and forty of which he had served King Felagund. And when he lay dead, of no wound or grief, but stricken by age, the Eldar saw for the first time the swift waning of the life of Men, and the death of weariness which they knew not in themselves; and they grieved greatly for the loss of their friends. But Bëor at the last had relinquished his life willingly and passed in peace; and the Eldar wondered much at the strange fate of Men, for in all their lore there was no account of it, and its end was hidden from them. The Silmarillion - JRR Tolkien

The Hunt

Amarië/Finrod Rated: T Words: 1,430

Now King Finrod Felagund had no wife, and Galadriel asked him why this should be; ...for indeed she whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she went not with him into exile.

The Silmarillion - JRR Tolkien

---

I thought about why Galadriel, of all people, would not have known about Amarië, the one her brother loved in Valinor. I decided to explore this seeming contradiction and why Finrod would not have told her (or possibly anyone) about Amarië.

Wrought In Secret

Rated: G Words: 1,500

Nolofin and Arafin disagree on the need for weapons, and their sons grapple with questions on the nature of swords.

The Gifts

Rated: G

Collection of pictures featuring FinrodBear in his finest.

#author: cuarthol #tolkien fanfiction #finrod #finrod appreciation

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whatsnewalycat · 10 months

Text

Passenger / Chapter 3

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Three: IL -> WY

[ Previous Chapter ][ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Chapter Summary: Charlie graduates to the front seat. Din reluctantly buys donuts. They both continue to think they're way smarter than the other.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 4.2k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, drug mention, being held captive, swearing, lack of privacy and autonomy, animal neglect mention, tip-toeing around having to take a dump, food mention, death threat, knife mention, gun mention, police mention, playing guitar and singing, targeted extermination (crimes against humanity??) mention, deathwish

Notes: You look cute today. Hope you like it, thanks for reading!

For almost half his life, Din woke up in his rig alone each morning. The bray of his alarm started at 7:00am, saws against his bones jolting him conscious.

Since the dog has joined him on the road, Din’s alarm has been preceded by whines for attention, sometimes even before the sun rises. If he tries to ignore the noise, it escalates to wet laps against his face, which serves as a pretty effective snooze button.

Today it’s not the alarm or the dog that wakes him, but the mellow resonance of an acoustic guitar. It creeps at the edge of his sleeping state and gently nudges him out of dreamland, back into the driver’s seat of his truck. His eyes blink open to find the world outside still steeped in blue left over from nighttime. It suits the melancholic chords you strum from behind him.

You start to sing in a voice so quiet, he’s not sure whether you’re singing actual words or just vocalizing. Either way, his chest sinks. He lays there, heavy-limbed and fuzzy-headed, watching wispy, dreamsicle clouds suspended in the atmosphere.

The dog joins in with a drawn out, dramatic groan, which you react to with bubbling laughter, asking, “Are you trying to sing, too?”

“Boof.”

“What a lovely singing voice you have, little pup,” you coo. The strumming ceases and there’s a hollow thunk as you set the guitar aside to give all your attention to the dog.

Din looks at the tablet on his dash and reads the time as 6:12am. He sits up straight in his seat, stretching his frustrated spine before sliding on his sunglasses and turning to the sleeper cab.

The dog is nestled into the cradle of your crossed legs, happily accepting belly scratches. Your glowing, rosy-cheeked smile falters a little when you glance up and see Din rising to his feet, and you remark, “Look at that, we made it through the night with no bloodshed.”

He nods in response, unsure what to say.

The dog notices his presence and starts flopping around until he successfully makes it onto all fours, then jumps onto the floor and starts pawing at Din’s boots. When he crouches down to pet him, the dog jumps up and starts licking his face.

“Hey now, four on the floor,” Din grumbles, pushing him back until he resigns to a sitting position with a huff. He rewards the dog by scratching between his big ears, “There we go. Good boy.”

“Where we headed today?” you pick your guitar back up and absentmindedly play a gentle melody, “My certain fate?”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you just keep talking.

“How long does it take to get to Portland? That’s where you’re taking me, right?”

This time, you stare at him and wait for an answer. He meets your gaze, then drops it to your guitar, reading a few of the sharpied signatures on its face as he says, “Nebraska to deliver this load. Then head West, see where we end up. We won’t get to Portland until tomorrow or the next day.”

“Ah,” you wince down at your guitar, then sigh, “Well, rule number five.”

“Rule number five?”

“Live in the now.”

Din stands there, expecting you to say more, almost wishing you would say more about what you mean by rules and your certain fate. But you don’t.

So he shifts forward onto his knees and reaches under the bed, typing the key code into the safe while you twist the little knobs at the head of your guitar and give each string a few test plucks.

You start a new song, and a dim sense of nostalgia creeps up his neck.

He pictures the apartment he lived in as a kid. Windows cracked open to release the lemon-scented cleaning solution fumes. This song broadcasting out from a record player, his mom singing along from the kitchen as she scrubbed the floor, the same lyrics you sing now:

“Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door—”

“That’s enough,” he snips.

The music stops abruptly.

“Not a big Guns ‘n’ Roses fan?”

He grabs his keychain from the safe and slams it closed, “Bob Dylan.”

“Touché,” you watch him as he stands and turns to unlock the ratchet strap, “You know, that’s actually the version I was playing, but I figured you’d think—“

“Look, I just want some quiet, ok?”

A few moments go by before you scoff and mutter under your breath, “Not a morning person. Noted.”

Well.

There’s good news and bad news.

The good news is your captor let you keep your notebook and pen. You were also able to play your guitar and sleep in a bed. And while this man’s mattress is not a luxury by any means, it sure as hell beats sleeping strapped into an adult-sized booster seat.

Which brings you to the bad news.

You’re strapped into the aforementioned adult-sized booster seat again. Also, the man has reverted to ignoring every single thing you say. And, of course, there’s the looming threat of Portland…

But you think you might have a way out.

Your captor doesn’t seem to be as horrible a person as you thought. Which is to say that he hasn’t tried to sexually assault or murder you yet. A very low bar, but still.

While it’s clear to you that his only goal is to complete the job he took by turning you in, he didn’t have to let you keep your switchblade. He didn’t have to let you sleep in his bed. In fact, you suspect he did those things because he felt bad for you being in this shitty situation.

Which tells you one crucial thing about him: He has a heart.

This is your way out.

Getting strangers to trust you is a song and dance you have to perform frequently. The unbroken overnight truce between you and the man may only be a small building block of trust, but you think you can work with it. And you’re not sure where, or how, but you believe that if you can get him to trust you, even a little, the opportunity to escape will present itself.

RULE #7: Keep your options open.

So this time, when he backs up to the receiving warehouse to offload the trailer, you pull the switchblade from your bra and toss it into the open space between the driver and passenger’s seat. You show him you understand the rules and you’re willing to comply.

The man gives you a nod of thanks before grabbing the blade and tucking it in his pocket.

Pen to paper, you pass the time while he’s gone scribbling about your journey these past few days. The dog whines and ping-pongs from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s seat, his flat snout fogging up the windows. You try to soothe his worry by cooing reassurances to him and giving him scratchies when he comes within your reach, but he mostly ignores you.

When the man returns from offloading the trailer, he shoos his excited friend over to the passenger’s seat and swings the door closed with a thunk.

“How’d it go?” you ask.

“Fine.”

He pulls off his aviators and scrubs his gloved hands over his face. The dog jumps onto his lap and starts licking his mouth. The man grimaces and blocks the ambush, but laughs, “Ugh, yeah, hello.”

This is the first time you’ve witnessed a smile across his face. It digs out dimples in his cheeks and brightens his features tenfold. And, as a result, you find yourself smiling, too.

“He was nervous when you were gone,” you tell him, “Just ran back and forth between the windows trying to see where you were.”

The man nods, dimming his smile a tad, but scratches the dog’s head and rubs his big bat-like ears.

“Ok, that’s enough,” he declares, then plucks the dog off his lap and drops him in the passenger’s seat.

Certain things are inevitable in life.

Included among these are: Death, change, failure… and, unfortunately for you, bodily functions.

After lunch, while your captor pours dog food into a bowl for the pup, then starts to prepare the cabin for the next leg of its journey, your guts clench and twist. Heat floods your cheeks as its meaning dawns on you.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Give me a moment,” he says, not looking up from the tablet mounted from his dash, “Then I can leave.”

“I, umm… I don’t wanna go in here.“

Your voice comes out uncharacteristically timid, getting all high-pitched at the end. He glances over his shoulder and furrows his brow, while you just plead with your eyes for him not to ask more questions. It takes a moment before the lightbulb goes on over his head.

“If you let me use the bathroom inside, I promise I won’t talk to anyone or try to take off—”

The man looks around the cabin, then sighs, “If you try anything—”

“Yeah yeah yeah, you’ll kill me,” you wave him off and tug on your harness, “I get it, can we go?”

“Fine,” he concedes, “You’re not to leave my side except when in the bathroom, understand?”

Din walks at your side, hand grounded between your shoulder blades as he guides you through the gas station’s brightly lit aisles.

“Do you like donuts?”

He ignores you.

“That’s a silly question. Everyone likes donuts, right? We should get some.”

The women’s restroom draws near and you rush ahead of him to push through the door. He calls after you, “Be quick,” as it swings shut, then leans against the wall opposite the bathroom, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Doubt nibbles away at his nerves with each passing second.

When you emerge, wiping your damp hands on your pants, he straightens and resumes his position at your side, palm pressed against your back, and starts walking.

“Did I do good?”

He glances over to see you looking up at him, a bright smile dawning your face. Words get tangled in his throat for a moment, but he regains his footing and nods, “Yes.”

“Good enough to get a donut?”

He doesn’t respond, but as the two of you pass a donut display, you halt, “Please?”

His jaw clenches. He looks between you, your big brown almond-shaped eyes all sparkling with hope, and the clear cabinet stocked with a variety of donuts, then sighs, “Fine.”

“Yessss,” you clap your hands together and practically bounce over to the display, yanking a parchment paper bag from the counter before clicking the tongs a few times, “Which one do you want?”

“I don’t want one,” Din props his hands on his hips.

You pull the display’s clear plastic door open and raise an eyebrow at him, “I find that hard to believe. Look, they have long johns, cake donuts, apple turnovers, jelly-filled donuts, bear claws—”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” you roll your eyes, “If you don’t tell me which one, I’m gonna pick it for you.”

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, trying to figure out why the hell he agreed to this as you nab a glossy, o-shaped donut.

“These are my favorite: glazed. Sweet ‘n’ gooey on the outside, soft and fluffy on the inside,” you drop it into the parchment paper bag and click the tongs at Din, “What’ll it be? Wait—Can I guess?”

Din throws his arms out at his sides, “Just pick one.”

“Let’s see,” you narrow your eyes and tilt your head at him, “You seem like a ‘just the basics' kind of guy. No frills. Maybe a little repressed. And for that reason, I guess that you favor… an old-fashioned donut?”

You grin as you wait for his confirmation. He shakes his head and snatches the tongs from your hand, plucking a raspberry bismarck from the lineup.

“Interesting choice,” you nod as if you’re impressed, “Huh. I had you pegged all wrong, big guy, my apologies.”

Din smirks and drops the donut into a bag, “Let’s go.”

After he pays, the two of you exit the gas station and start towards the rig. Din returns his hand to the space between your shoulder blades, watching for the telltale signs that you’re about to bolt. A frantic glance around, or a stutter in your pace.

Sure, you’re being cooperative, but he’s not naïve.

Considering how scrappy you obviously are, he has no doubt you’re still plotting to escape before he delivers you to Portland. Your temporary compliance means nothing. In the end, you’re going to fight tooth and nail against him, and you will fail. This is how it goes every time, and you are not an exception.

You tear off a piece of the donut and pop it in your mouth, groaning as the pastry melts against your tongue, “Fuck, that’s good.”

Something primal pulses inside him.

Din shakes it from his head and stares up at the idling truck, pulling the door open for you to hop inside. You do so without protest. He buckles and locks you into the sleeper cab’s harnessed seat, then goes about finding a new work order.

While your captor is hooking up the trailer and all that entails, you hum to yourself and doodle french bulldogs into the margins of your notebook.

Your muse whines at the driver’s side window, then jumps down off the seat, onto the bed beside you. He stomps a few loops, then throws himself to the mattress with a, “Humph.”

“Preaching to the choir, pupperoni,” you mutter, “I can’t believe driving for over 10 hours a day isn’t the most boring part of trucking.”

The dog blinks at you, which you consider an agreement on his part.

“I wish I knew your name,” you pout, rubbing his velvety ear between your fingers, then sigh, “Well. Maybe it’s better I don’t know. Rule number nine: Don’t get attached.”

It’s quiet for a while as you pet the dog, soothing his agitation.

“Can you keep a secret?”

His eyes start to drift closed. He releases a deep breath.

“I am terrified of what will happen when they take me,” you whisper, then scratch the top of his noggin and sigh to yourself, “Fuck.”

The dire reality of your situation finally begins to sink down onto your shoulders. A dark blue ache pools in your diaphragm. For a split second, you think about the switchblade in your captor’s pocket and wonder how sharp it really is.

The driver’s door swings open, and for once, you’re actually glad to see it.

Beside you, the dog perks up, waiting until the black baseball cap and shiny aviators of your captor come into view before hurdling himself towards the front of the truck. The man pulls the door closed with a loud thunk and drops onto the driver’s seat.

He tugs the gloves off his fingers with his teeth and tosses them on the dash, glancing between a packet of papers on his lap and the tablet, tapping the screen a few times before turning to the sleeper cabin.

You follow his movements and ask, “On the road again?”

The man grunts in response, kneeling down beside the bed to access his safe.

Six little beeps ring out as you tap your fingers against your thigh, “Where to now?”

“Utah,” he yanks the safe open, stowing his papers inside, then slams it shut.

“Portland tomorrow?”

He leans back on his haunches, digs in his pocket, and hands you your knife, “Yes.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking it from him. While he rises to his feet and dusts off his knees, you frown in contemplation, then ask, “Can I sit up there?”

The man stills.

You look up and meet your reflection in his sunglasses with a shrug, “I just wanna see the world a little more before… you know. I can’t.”

His shoulders seem to slump the tiniest bit when you say this, but he corrects it quickly and says, “I’m still turning you in.”

“Of course.”

He studies you, jaw working from side to side, then sighs and crouches down again to unlock your harness.

Din regrets the decision almost the second your seatbelt clicks into place beside him.

All your little noises and attempts at conversation were subdued when you were in the sleeper cab. With you just two feet away, he can hear every hum, every question, every pointless observation, every single godforsaken tap tap tap of your pen keeping time on your thigh.

He has considered throwing it out the window more times than he can count, but knows you would just resume the motion with your fingertips against all of your surroundings: notebook, window, legs, face, seat, door, anything, everything.

Tap tap tap tap tap

Worse yet, he can see you in the corner of his eye, always moving. Always. Fiddling with your hair, twisting it into braids, undoing them, redoing them. Jotting things down in your notebook. Wiggling in your seat. Bouncing your leg. Every ten minutes he has to scold you to get your feet off the dash, and each time you scoff and roll your eyes like he’s the one being unreasonable.

Your presence eats away at his nerve endings, leaving them frayed and hot.

Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

“Does your dog have a name?” you ask somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, where it seems like all that exists are cornfields. Dried out stalks, golden and ready to harvest, line the highway for miles on each side. Every once in a while, he spots monstrous combines, eating up rows at a time, spitting out beige clouds behind them.

“Not sure.”

The answer flees his mouth before he has time to consider the consequences. They are immediate.

“How are you not sure, what does that mean?”

Din sighs and keeps his eyes on the road as he tries to forge an explanation. You take his pause as him dropping the subject.

“You can’t just say that,” you scoff, staring at him, “What, did you find him abandoned or something?”

He shakes his head and parts his lips, but you push onward before he can get out a word.

“Did you steal him?”

His mouth snaps shut and his traitorous throat gulps, thick with guilt.

“You stole him?!” You gasp, “You hypocrite. Wow. Why would you steal someone’s dog?”

He glares at you, “They didn’t take care of him.”

“How do you even know that? Did you just assume you can do a better job—”

“They had him crated alone for at least a day before I got there to load their furniture—”

“What, is this thing a moving service too?”

“Christ, will you just shut up and let me explain?” he snaps.

Your head jerks back and face pinches into a scowl. But you do as he asked, rolling your wrist away from your body as if to say: Proceed.

“I do all kinds of jobs. Mostly this, long hauling freight for manufacturers and distribution centers, but sometimes, yes, I take moving jobs.”

“And bounty hunting on the side?”

He shoots a sharp glance your way, and you mutter, “Sorry, go on.”

“His owners hired me to move their belongings from Pittsburgh to Albany. The work order didn’t say anything about a dog, but when I got there, he was alone and scared. No food or water,” Din pauses and watches in the side mirror as a pickup truck swings out from behind him and speeds to get ahead, then he continues, “When I got to Albany, they weren’t too happy about my refusal to hand him over. I didn’t get paid, but I couldn’t leave him there.”

You nod and stare out at the road, “So you’ll do that for dogs but not people?”

The question jolts him. He swallows hard and shrugs, “Dogs are put in their circumstances and unable to escape. People have a choice.”

“I disagree,” you look over at him and study his profile, “What are people supposed to do when the only circumstances that allow for their escape lead to something like this? Is that supposed to be a choice?”

He wants to ask you to explain, but he knows the less information he has, the better. And he already knows too much. So he says nothing.

You release a deep sigh and lean back in your seat, rolling your head to look at the passing cornfields.

Your captor decides to stop for the night at a rest stop between sleepy Wyoming towns along I-80.

As he did the night before, he locks the rig down like it’s Fort fucking Knox.

There’s this whole system he has worked out, with straps and locks and keys and his little safe under the bed.

His vigilance seems to be the only thing he keeps in excess. Which you could relate to more if you weren’t the “asset” he’s so vehemently trying to secure.

An asset.

Your stomach churns as you realize that’s what you are to this man. Not a human, but a pawn to trade for cash. You hoped to garner his sympathy throughout the day, but seem to have gotten nowhere in that respect, while each mile brings you closer to Portland.

After completing his nighttime routine and tapping around on his tablet a little, the man shuts off his overhead lamp and reclines the driver’s seat all the way back.

The only light comes from a streetlamp outside, casting a green fluorescent glow across the empty passenger’s seat. You roll on your side and make way for the dog, who jumps up and curls into a ball against you. He lets out a content sigh when your nails rake the short, white fur along his ribcage.

“Can I tell you about where you’re taking me?”

No response.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” you say, “Don’t pretend.”

“I would rather not know.”

“Yeah, well that makes two of us,” you mutter, then shake your head, “But I can’t let this be buried with me. I need someone to know.”

Nothing.

“Please.”

A brief silence follows, but you wait, and eventually he says, “Ok.”

“I was staying with my friend, Joey, in Portland for a few weeks while I did temporary work there. One night, he was biking back to the apartment and saw these cops stop and talk to an unhoused man, then put him in the back of the cop car. No lights or anything. Joey thought this was weird, so he followed the cruiser. It went into this warehouse, not back to the police station. They brought the guy in but left without him.

“The next day, Joey talked to a friend, who looked into property records of the warehouse and told us it belonged to an LLC. We traced back to this guy named Tom Boucheron. Do you recognize that name?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, he owns all these property companies out there. I thought it would have been him that put out the bounty for me.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway,” you frown at the now abstract green glow of the passenger’s seat, “We should have figured we were in over our heads. But, whatever was happening seemed shady and we wanted to check it out. A few of us broke into the warehouse. The place had a few security guards posted and, I don’t know, it got out of hand. Some of us—me, I—held them at gunpoint while the others looked around. They found pharmaceuticals and street drugs, large quantities of them.”

You pause for a moment and listen to the hum of the truck, then ask, “Are you still listening?”

“Yes.”

“Ok,” you take a deep breath, then say, “The cops showed up quick. They caught our lookout and arrested him, but the rest of us were able to get out. And…”

The words catch in your throat for a second. You shake your head, “And one of my friends… I mean, I didn’t see it myself, but… she said she saw people in cages. All fucked up and strung out, barely able to move. She thought some of them might’ve been dead.

“I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t even believe her at first, but a few days later, our friend who was arrested turned up dead from an apparent overdose. He didn’t use hard drugs. That was enough for me to get back on the road, but the others… Portland is their home, you know, they were insistent on staying to find out more.”

A heaviness falls over you. It surrounds you on all sides, suffocating the flame of hope that kept you going all day. Your eyes burn like hell but you can’t seem to bring yourself to blink. The vague glow of the streetlamp holds you in a trance.

When you speak again, you try your hardest to keep your voice steady.

“So I just need you to know… that is what’s ahead of me. I will go missing. They will keep me in a cage like a fucking animal, drugging me and god knows what else, until I’m fucking dead. My grandma and brother, if they ever discover my death, will think I overdosed and died on the streets of Portland. They will think I died with no dignity,” you pause here and let out a sad, watery chuckle, “And they will be right.”

Silence.

You swallow the thickness of your throat and muster every ounce of courage in your body as you tell him, “If you have any mercy at all, you will kill me in my sleep tonight and hand them my dead body tomorrow.”

More silence.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” you breathe, “Well… goodnight, then.”

#passenger #din djarin x ofc #din djarin x you #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal characters

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wren-of-the-woods · 1 year

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Thank you for tagging me @flowercrown-bard! This was very fun.

Rules: post the top 5 works you’re most proud of that you released in 2022 (not necessarily your most popular), your top 4 current WIPs that you’re excited to release in the new year, your top 3 biggest improvements in your writing over the past year, your top 2 resolutions (ways you wish to improve your writing/blog) for the new year, and your number 1 favorite line you’ve written this year!

Top 5 works:

Spectre's Soul (A modern Jaskier meets a cursed ghost Geralt. this became much longer than anticipated and was very difficult to get finished and edited on time, but I did it! It was the first fic longer than 8k that I'd finished in nearly two years and I'm extremely proud of it.)

Sometimes it Takes a Prison Cell (Jaskier and Yennefer meet when they're imprisoned in a dungeon together. This one also became longer than expected, I had a wonderful time writing it, and I really like how it turned out!)

Happy Birthday, Here's a Bard (Geralt finds his daughter's favorite musician, Jaskier, on the side of the road. I had a lot of mixed feelings about this one while editing it, which made it even more satisfying when I got it out in the world and so many people liked it!)

Home (Geralt and Yennefer comfort Jaskier after season two. Retrospectively, I think this one influenced my writing style a fair bit and I'm fond of it!)

Grow Me A Garden (Forget Me Not) (My first and probably only MCD fic in this fandom. I'm fond of the writing style and it was my first Witcher fic to feature lyrics I wrote!)

Honerable mentions go to Rest My Head At Night Content and Publicity Pandemonium!

Top 4 current wips:

Sometimes it Takes a Prison Cell again (it's mostly done, but there is still some editing to be done and maybe a scene to write in the later chapters)

It doesn't have a title yet, but I have an AU brewing where Jaskier is cursed to be a sandpiper and Geralt has to care for him while they figure out how to break it. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I got the prompt, so it'll probably be my next project after the prison AU!

Sandpiper's Song -- a fic about Jaskier as the Sandpiper that's been sitting in my drafts for ages, but that I'm a bit more motivated to work on after Blood Origin

An assortment of other plot bunnies that have been floating around my head but not yet written down (a movie star AU, a winged!Jaskier AU, and a silly modern meet-cute, to name a few)

Top 3 biggest improvements:

Re-learning how to write longer fics

Gaining general confidence (and practice -- I managed to achieve my New Years' resolution of posting something every month!)

Experimenting with poetry/lyrics

Top 2 resolutions:

Write a proper novel (something over 40-50k), maybe?

See how many of my WIPs and ideas I can finish before season three comes out

Top 1 favourite line:

I honestly have no idea, but I am very fond of this stanza from a song Jaskier sings in Spectre's Soul!

You’ve been alone so long A ship that’s lost at sea I want to be your landfall I want to set you free

I'm not sure who's already been tagged, but I'll try @dreamofbecoming @wanderlust-t @karolincki @dama-art @elder-flower @linzod @penandinkprincess @theheirofashandfire @samstree @ghostinthelibrarywrites @rebrandedbard and anyone else who's interested!

#somehow i managed to post over 100k in fic this year and i'm extremely proud of that #it's been a good writing year!#thank you again for tagging me <3 #wren talks #flowercrown-bard #tag games

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dhwty-writes · 1 year

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whatever a sun will always sing - chapter 2

Written for the @witcher-bows-and-arrows event.

Read on AO3

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Jaskier, travelling minstrel of the Continent, bard of the White Wolf, troubadour extraordinaire and the greatest poet of all time, disliked second chances on principle.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

Jaskier, travelling minstrel of the Continent, bard of the White Wolf, troubadour extraordinaire and the greatest poet of all time, had no problem with second chances at all. It was third chances he disliked on principle and the kind of people that came begging for a fourth, a fifth, a sixth – the sort of people that just couldn’t take a hint.

Like Valdo fucking Marx.

He couldn’t deny that there was a certain something between the both of them, he had come back more than once, after all, but in the end, their separation was inevitable. Usually, Jaskier liked to try and make a quiet exit — ’like a thief in the night’, Valdo liked to hiss disdainfully — no use in making more of a fuss than it was going to be anyways.

This time, he was afforded no such courtesy. No, this time, his exit was nothing short of a spectacle, for Valdo Marx accosted him in the middle of the Academy courtyard while he was bidding some old friends farewell.

“Leaving again, Pankratz?” a voice that raised the hairs on Jaskier’s neck taunted far too loudly and Jaskier gripped Priscilla’s hand tighter on instinct, his smile growing cold and insincere.

“Just ignore him,” his friend said with a smile no less frozen than his.

He should. He knew he really should.

Jaskier turned around. “Yes,” he answered as pleasantly as he could, “as I already told you yesterday. Alas, adventure is calling and true heroics are among the few things that cannot be found within the ancient and venerable walls of this honoured establishment.” In his head he added, ‘As you are indubitably about to demonstrate.’

“Ah, yes. The prodigious prodigal progeny of this school has to satisfy his wanderlust again, hm?” The troubadour sauntered closer and Jaskier knew they were beginning to draw stares of nearby students.

He smiled. Who was he to deny a willing audience? “How kind of you to recognise my talent, which we all know to be far superior to yours.”

Marx snorted, apparently ignorant to the small crowd gathering around them. “What we all know, is that you are a talentless wastrel who panders to the tastes of the massed.”

A couple of the spectators oohed and ahhed at that and Jaskier glared at them. Such a paltry comment was hardly deserving of any praise.

“Wastrel or no, I can hardly be talentless. At least people are singing my songs when I perform, instead of booing me off the stage,” Jaskier retorted. “Say Valdo, how did your performance in the Three Little Bells go?”

That elicited some quiet sniggers. The Three Little Bells had been packed three nights ago and he did not doubt that at least a couple of the onlookers had been present to witness Valdo’s pretentious performance at the end of which Jaskier had been asked to provide the audience with some real music.

He sneered at his companion with derision while Valdo was gasping for breath indignantly. “This has all been very droll, but I’m afraid, I really have to go. Thank you for your attention. The day is not getting any younger and I would like to cross the Pontar and be well on my way towards Cidaris before sunset.” He bowed with a flourish and turned back to his friends.

Priscilla hugged him tightly and wished him well, while their other friends pat him on the shoulder and told him to write a new masterpiece before he returned. Distantly, Jaskier heard Valdo grumbling, but did his best to pay him no mind as he extricated himself from his fellow bards and started towards the gate, where his new horse Pegasus was waiting.

Of course, he didn’t manage to get quite so far without Valdo offering unsolicited advice one last time: “You know, you had a good thing here,” he called after him and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes. ‘One would think even someone as thick as him could learn a lesson.’ But still, the bard went prattling on: “One day you’ll regret this, Julek. One day you’ll leave someone and they won’t welcome you back.”

“Has that day yet arrived for you? I know I’ll rejoice the rejection that rids me of you and you know what I’ll say to that? Good riddance. Stay within these walls if you please, I am not like to return. I think I’d rather grow beyond their scope. Hard for you to imagine, I know, since you can’t seem to see beyond the tip of your own nose. I’d recommend investing in a pair of spectacles, I hear they’re quite helpful.”

—

The farewell Valdo had given him irked Jaskier until he reached Gors Velen. Yes, he was leaving, yes, it had happened more than once. But he had never been anything but upfront about it. If anything, it was Valdo’s fault for continuing to allow him to return to his bed while erroneously assuming time and again that would entitle him to Jaskier’s heart. He had made it more than clear on multiple occasions that he had no interest in romantic entanglements whatsoever.

It was something that kept happening, not just with Valdo. A lot of people just assumed that a few kisses, a ballad about their lovely looks, and a roll in the hay meant that Jaskier would profess his undying love on the morrow and they all were bitterly disappointed when he sooner bid them farewell. He tried to laugh it up as perpetuating the image of bards, but he couldn’t deny that it stung sometimes, especially when it came from someone with whom he shared a deeper connection than just an acquaintance of a night or two.

It wasn’t that Jaskier was disloyal — though most people in his life, including his parents and a vast array of lovers would beg to differ — as much as that he liked to roam. ‘You’re a songbird,’ Priscilla had told him once, laughing, ‘piping and preening to follow a pretty mate to their nest, but sooner or later you have to spread your wings and fly away.’ She wasn’t so wrong about that. And their friendship should be proof enough that Jaskier wasn’t disloyal at heart.

He had reached the Adalette when he realised, he didn’t really know where he was flying towards. There was a bardic festival in Cintra that he had thought about attending, but Valdo had threatened entering as well, so the taste of that idea soured in his mouth. Instead, he turned his horsed north on a whim.

—

He was performing in a tavern in Zavada and had just finished his third reprise of Toss a Coin to your Witcher to sit down at the bar and enjoy an ale and meal on the house. It was a good meal, a hearty stew, dark and thick, with carrots, leeks and onion, chunks of beef swimming within that melted as soon as he touched his tongue to them. The innkeep served it with two slices of black bread with butter almost as thick as the slices themselves. Jaskier was just sucking the last of the grease from his fingers and washed it down with a swig of brown ale when a grizzled looking blacksmith with a beard as black and coarse as wires sat down beside him.

“Good evening,” Jaskier greeted amiably and hurried to swallow the mouthful of ale.

“Evening,” the man replied and looked him over sceptically. Just as Jaskier was about to ask what this was about, the man asked: “You really know the witcher? The White Wolf, I mean?”

“I do,” he replied enthusiastically and gifted him a dazzling smile. “As a matter of fact, I am the very bard to bestow that name upon him. Why do you ask, my good sir?”

“Don’t know,” the man seemed amused. “You just seem a wee bit young, I s’ppose.”

“Young I may be, though let me assure you that that in no way lessens my talents and qualifications. You may count yourself as living proof for my proficiency, seeing as even you have heard of the moniker I crafted. And let it be known that ordinarily I aspire to at least know the names of my critics before subjecting myself to their judgement.”

The blacksmith snorted a laugh. In a way, he reminded him very much of Geralt. “Stevo,” he replied and shook his hand. “You know my sister’s been to Maribor not two days past. Claims to have seen the White Wolf with her own eyes.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up. “Does she now?”

Jaskier played another set that night and then followed Stevo back to his smithy, where he made sure to thank him thoroughly for his information. The next morning saw him leading Pegasus on the road northwards to Maribor before the sun was up.

It had been close to three years since he and the witcher had last parted ways in Kovir. That time, it had been Jaskier who had abandoned his friend instead of the other way around, in favour of a lucrative position at a duke’s court, that kept him well-fed, well-clothed, and well-paid for close to ten months. He would have stayed longer still, had he not been kicked out for sleeping with the duke’s younger sister.

Afterwards, he had travelled Cintra for a while. He had hoped to maybe cross paths with his witcher there but had not been so lucky. On the other hand, he hadn’t been actively looking for him either.

Oxenfurt had seduced him with the promise of a relatively stable position at the Academy. Nothing too extravagant, he just taught one course about 9th century elven poetry to mostly disinterested students. In such close proximity to each other, it had been only a matter of time before Valdo and him fell into bed with each other again. He sighed. With the kind of farewell, he had received it might be best to shun the city of a year or two. At least.

Not that Jaskier was in such a hurry to return. He had missed travelling the Continent and performing in a different venue each night, although much had changed since he had last done so. For one, he was better equipped now, with Pegasus and boots that were both sturdy as well as stylish. For another, people recognised him from time to time. He was far from the only bard who had taken up Toss a Coin and sometimes even his lesser songs were familiar to the audience that would hum along. He no longer contended with bread in his pants; instead innkeeps more often than not offered him bed and board for his performances now. Sometimes, they even paid to hear him sing.

Briefly, Jaskier wondered how Geralt would react to him returning. ‘Maybe he won’t even recognise me,’ he mused. He had grown another inch since they had last seen each other and he had begun to keep the fashion of a delicate goatee, as was popular in Oxenfurt.

For his part, he was excited to see his witcher again. For all his grunting and pointed glares, he suspected Geralt did enjoy his company. Else he surely would have left him in Posada and not indulged his presence up until Hagge. And he definitely wouldn’t have allowed to travel with him through Kovir. It would be nice to travel with a friend and perhaps the witcher would even take up an interesting contract or two that inspired him to a new ballad.

The ride from Zavada to Maribor wasn’t far and Jaskier had left early, he reached the city gates right as the sun was about to set. He dismounted and led his horse through the dwindling bustle of the masses in the search of an inn and stable. Stevo had told him his sister had seen Geralt right when he was about to set out on some dangerous contract, so it was more than possible that he hadn’t yet returned.

If it truly was an important contract, it was very possible that the duke himself had employed the witcher, but the hour was late and he was but a bard, so Jaskier did not have any hopes to be admitted to the castle before the morrow. Despite his lucrative performances during the past months, the fares in the inns close to the castle were too rich even for his tastes, so he turned towards a more modest part of town instead. He had stayed in the Ugly Goose before and knew it to be frequented by travelling merchants and traders that always enjoyed some entertainment with their supper.

He would begin the search for his witcher once the sun was up.

Jaskier entrusted Pegasus to a young stableboy, after he had convinced himself of the quality of his horse’s accommodations, and gave the boy two apples for his troubles, one for the gelding and one for himself. On his way to the door, he was startled by a snort closer to his ear than he expected.

With a yelp he leapt away and stared quizzically at the horse that had snorted right into his face and it took him a moment to recognize— “Roach!” Jaskier exclaimed excitedly. “Oh, what a sight for sore eyes you are, my good girl. Say, you wouldn’t know where your master is, would you?” Carefully, he extended a hand to her, to pet her head.

“Still wouldn’t do that,” a voice behind him growled.

Jaskier was very proud to say of himself that this time, he didn’t startle. Instead, he spun around with a wide smile and even wider arms to hug his witcher with. “Geralt! I was just looking for you, this is a fortunate day, indeed. I hope you didn’t think you’d seen the last of me, my friend.”

Awkwardly, Geralt pat him on his back. Jaskier saw that as an improvement to the last hug, which the witcher had endured silently and stiff as a board. When Jaskier pulled back to look at him, he was satisfied with the sight before him: Geralt wasn’t quite as bony as before, his hair seemed clean and well-cared for, as far as he could see, and no new scars adorned his face. The scowl was the same, but Jaskier took the improvements he got; he couldn’t expect miracles, could he?

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asked gruffly.

“Why, I crossed the Continent in hopes of seeing your handsome face again.” The scowl deepened. “I was in Zavada when I heard you were in Maribor and came as fast as I could, for I hoped my muse might bless me with a new, exciting tale about his adventures.”

“Hmm,” he replied, verbose as always. ‘One of these days I’ll figure out what he means by that,’ Jaskier vowed. “The beard is new.”

“It is indeed! You are astute as always, my dear, I am glad your eyes are not waning with your age.” The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched upward at that, which in Geralt-speak was as good as uproarious laughter. “Do you like it?”

“Hmm,” he replied again.

Jaskier chose to ignore that: “Well, anyways, do you have a room already or might I ply you with the promise of a bed and a drink for some tales of your exploits?”

“I do. My treat this time.” Well, Jaskier wasn’t about to say no to a free meal and room in an inn.

Together, they found a secluded table at the Ugly Goose and shared a meal while Jaskier shared his account of what had happened to him since they had last seen each other. He left out his last conversation with Valdo; there was no need to bring that up quite now. After the bard had bought a round of ale, he even pried the story of Geralt’s latest contract out of him. As the hour grew late, Jaskier grew too drunk to get his own room key, much less to object to sharing a bed with. The bed was big enough, after all, and he might be drunk but not blind and not fool enough to turn down a night in those well-muscled arms.

The last of his hopes was ultimately disappointed, but it made no matter to him; Geralt’s company was pleasant enough as it was. After they ate breakfast — well, Geralt ate breakfast, Jaskier was miserably nursing a cup of tea — they stood awkwardly in front of the stables, reins of their respective horses in hand.

“So,” Jaskier drawled, right as Geralt blurted: “Where are you going next?”

He laughed at that, in part because he was relieved, in part because he was still feeling nervous. “Actually, I was about to ask the very same thing. If you would not mind a travelling companion, that is.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He interpreted it as I don’t.

“In that case, where are you headed to?”

The witcher shrugged and looked away, down the road that led southwards out of the city. “Where do you- Hm. Any preferences?”

Jaskier followed his gaze. The summer had barely begun, there was still enough time to reach most any place on the continent. He would not say no to following that road, however. Perhaps he could even winter in the south and evade the cold entirely. Smiling, he turned back to his witcher. “How about Toussaint? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

Geralt hummed and tugged Roach’s reins down that road and Jaskier thought, ‘Perhaps third chances aren’t so bad after all.’

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fanfiction #witcher bows and arrows #whatever a sun will always sing #my writing #geralt/jaskier #waswas #valdo marx #priscilla

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