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couchpotatoaniki · 3 years

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Our Fruitless Tree

As children, the three of you were inseparable. To show this, you planted a mulberry tree together--a symbol of your love and ever-lasting friendship that would withstand the test of time. But would it really?

Pairing: Servant!Hongjoong x Royal!Reader x Nobleman!Seonghwa Genre: Royal AU, Arranged marriage AU, Love triangle, heavy angst, fluff, childhood friends to lovers (?), Fantasy AU, Warnings: swearing, mentions of conception, blood, death (unknown terminal illness; tree), unrequited love, extremely poor story-telling, magic torture, Word Count: 5.8k+

@atozfic IT MAY BE SHIT, BUT THIS ONE’S FOR YOU /g

A/N: the bridal bouquet in this is inspired by Princess Diana’s. I dunno, I just really liked it.

“Y/N! Come look over here!” Seonghwa yelled at you, hand waving in the air to beckon you over where Hongjoong and he stood. Even as children, the two were taller than you, as if their bodies had not cared you were of a higher status.

You were the only child of the Kingdom’s royal family, meaning that you had little in the way of friends. Especially when the future crown stuck to you, intimidating any future playmates. Luckily Seonghwa was the son of a family friend--a nobleman with immense power, who’s faithful lineage dated back to the creation of the kingdom.

Hongjoong was similar, the only difference being that he came from that of a servant family than of one of power, a debt made by his ancestors that had sold his life to serve the royal family. But being your servant had taught him from a young age that, unlike what everyone had tried to make you believe, you were pretty much a normal human with feelings, the weight of an entire empire on your shoulders from the day you were born.

“Coming!” you yelled back, hurriedly making your way towards your only two friends, the younger holding something behind his back while the older was practically bouncing with excitement. “What are you hiding from me?”

Grinning, Seonghwa’s hands pulled into sight, unfurling to show off the sapling in his hand. “It’s a mulberry tree! You love mulberries, don’t you?”

You believe that was the first time your heart skipped a beat--at the young age of 11--but you wouldn’t realise until a quite few years later, when life was much different, though the relationship between the three of you had not changed all that much.

That day was a precious memory, where the three of you had planted the young mulberry sapling in a secret garden that your father had built just for you, but you had opened it to Seonghwa and Hongjoong; a place where none of you had to bare the titles hovering over your heads.

Even the Earth was indiscriminate when it came to dirtying your clothes as you all kneeled to plant the young sapling easily becoming the most important thing in your friendship.

Had the three of you acting as if it was your shared child, arguing who would water the roots, talking to it as if it could respond.

As the years went on, life was much different than when you were all naïve children, but the care and love you had never weakened, even during the occasional arguments that burst between you all.

With age, Hongjoong’s untameable burnt-chocolate hair lightened to a gentle chestnut, long enough that he had to tie it back into a little bun. Seonghwa’s hair, on the other hand, had changed from a soft platinum to a dirty blonde, messy strands now pulled down into a neat style.

The two were lean. Both still taller than you, though Hongjoong was only a few inches from you.

The three of you truly believed you could withstand the test of time. That your relationship would never change no matter how long it had been.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” you whispered, hand clamped to the stone railing of your balcony. “It’s your last chance to back out, Seonghwa.”

You could hear chuckling beside you, deeper than what you used to hear as a kid, though you dared not to look at the boy--the man beside you. “You know very well I can’t do that, Y/N. Would rather it be me that’s marrying you than some officious fool who knows nothing of your happiness.”

Sighing, you leaned over, letting your necklace dangling slightly in the air from around your neck. “Doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your own happiness.”

You felt two colder hands wrap around your exposed arms, feeling nice against the humid summer night. Seonghwa’s chin rested down on your shoulder, as he looked on the same scene you were. Soft breaths against your skin had it erupting with goosebumps, and you prayed your friend had not noticed.

He did, but didn’t pay much heed to it--as per usual. If only he would put a little more though into the strange quirks you developed over time--developed around him and him only--maybe he would have realised that you loved him.

More than a friend.

Both of you were too lost in the moment to realise someone had entered your room. The final person to complete your trio. Hongjoong, dressed in his crisp cream and gold uniform, overlooked the scene of you two.

He didn’t know why his heart hurt so badly.

Clearing his throat certainly got your attention, ripping away from each other in fear that someone had caught you two a night before the wedding doing something you shouldn’t have. Was nothing like that, but people--especially those in the castle--tended to blow things out of proportion.

Upon seeing that it was only Hongjoong, you two had released a breath of relief. “For heaven’s sake, Hongjoong! You almost gave me a heart attack,” you said. Seonghwa had his eyes averted to the polished marble floor, unable to meet his friend’s, cheeks flushed.

You thought it was because of embarrassment that someone had caught the two of you so late at night.

It wasn’t.

“I think it would be best for you to return to your room, Seonghwa. Before someone actually does come looking for you. Don’t want someone to see you too,” Hongjoong laughed, now an expert at making a light-hearted aura around him with years of practice.

“Alright then. Good night,” the nobleman smiled, finally bringing his sight up to see his best friend, heart beating feverishly when he saw the gentle smile pulling at his lips. Couldn’t tell it wasn’t real, not even as he left the room.

Now it was just you and Hongjoong.

“Come, let’s take a walk.”

For as long as you could remember, the boy had been attentive to your needs (despite his occasional silly behaviour), long before he was told that it was his job. You’d like to think of it as his sixth sense; knowing how you were, what you needed, when you needed him.

Maybe that’s why he could tell that you had pre-wedding jitters, feeling so sick you barely had the life in you--skin looking more dreary than usual. You needed time away, even for a few minutes, to take a breather from all the commotion.

The two of you walked in silence in the sleeping halls, like two thieves in the night, careful not to wake anyone up.

Hongjoong was aware you liked Seonghwa, but he knew it was unrequited. Why, he could not his finger on. You were prefect, a person who deserved all the love in the world--in the universe.

You knew better than to ask where he was taking you; after all, you trusted him. And maybe because you also knew him well enough to know where he was taking you.

To the secret garden.

“She’s withstood all the storms and droughts the earth has threatened her with. No wonder her bark is so thick and her roots so tough.” His voice was tender as the tips of his fingers brushed against the rough bark, the trunk appearing darker under the absence of the sun. “Gotten so big, hasn’t she?”

As if his actions were a trigger, your hand reached out to stroke the mulberry tree too. “She has...” Tender look in your expression had his breath caught in his throat. Your eyes shifted to meet his, which were already gazing at you. “Do you think she’ll bare fruit this time?”

“The frost has long passed, so not this year, I believe.” Hongjoong couldn’t bare the instant hollow look in your eyes, saddened to his core until the light reignited in your irises--almost glowing in the dark like the fireflies surrounding them.

“But she will next year, right?”

“And she will bare the tastiest fruit. Better than those sold on the markets,” he reassured, though he had an inkling of suspicion that this fruit would not come any time soon. Not after all these years. But that spark in your eyes was the only thing he could not bare to extinguish, so he kept his lips pursed.

“I was reading up on the symbolism of the mulberry trees across cultures,” you said, moving to sit on the wooden swing that hung from one of the stronger branches; the rope had rose vines growing around it, which Hongjoong made sure to maintain so it was safe for you whenever you came. This was your favourite spot, after all.

He raised a brow, moving behind you as his hands rested on your back momentarily before pushing you slightly. “Is that so? Mind telling me?” He already knew from his extensive research to look after the tree, but there was no harm in hearing it again.

Excitedly, you let a wide grin play against your lips as he gradually pushed you higher and higher. “So, in Xiqen, it’s seen as a link between Heaven and Earth, and in Mika, it represents a support, nurturing and self-sacrifice.”

“Is that all?”

“Uh...yes.”

“Strange... I could’ve sworn there was some significance of the mulberry tree in Zepheth.” He began to slow down when he saw your back slump over slightly. Probably because he knew that it wasn’t a happy story.

“There is,” you mumbled, eyes downcast to the evergreen grass rather than meet his soft chocolate ones. “Just... it’s very sad.”

He held your hands in his larger ones, both of you loving the warmth it provided despite the slight heat of the night. “Not all stories are happy. Need to hear the sad ones too, to truly understand the picture.”

Words were a bit cryptic, even for him. Regardless, you had continued. “In Zepheth, there were these two lovers who were forbidden to wed, so they secretly arranged to meet under the mulberry tree. However, they were found out, and killed under the tree, staining the white berries red... It symbolises star-crossed lover and the final union of death.”

The air seemed to be still, despite the rustling of the leaves and chirping of the hidden crickets. Hongjoong kneeled down, pressing a hand onto your cheek to soothe even the slightest bit the grief in your face. “Good thing the other two have nice symbols. Cancels the bad things out.”

Chuckling slightly, you rested your own hand on his, nuzzling into his palm as your eyes shut. Stark contrast between your skins, yours being softer than silk while his were calloused and rough. But it felt nice against the supple flesh of your cheek.

You both thought so.

But with the moon so high and hair beginning to stick to your necks from the humidity and heat, you thought it best to return. “Escort me to my chambers? After all, it is a very big day tomorrow and we both have to rise early for the final preparations.”

As if he needed reminding of that. “Very well then.”

Your servant wasn’t happy with the proceedings--not when he knew that Seonghwa’s eyes did not meet the passion you had in yours, despite your many years of friendship. But he had to agree with him on one thing.

Seonghwa was the best and safest choice you (and the kingdom) had in this moment of time.

So Hongjoong didn’t protest when you walked down the isle in the most breath-taking attire, adorned with pearls and jewels, and a gorgeous bouquet of green and white; gardenias, lily of the valley, earl mountbatten roses, freesia, and ivy--and most importantly, white mulberries.

He didn’t challenge when the vows were spoken and Seonghwa promised to love you and only you forever.

He didn’t object when the Priestess gave the crowd one last chance to speak or forever hold their peace before the deal was sealed with a kiss.

Despite his gut and every other fibre in his being screaming at him otherwise.

Another two decades passed, and now strands of white hairs were peeking through, but unlike before, much had changed. You were now a parent of three--triplets, conceived within the first few tries.

Yunho, San, and Wooyoung. The mulberries of your eyes.

You suppose that’s when the rose-tint on your married life began to fade. Though he was extremely affectionate in the beginning, Seonghwa never touched you like that again after the birth of your children. Though the three kids never really noticed it much as it was all they had known, you could see it clearly.

How he would spend more and more time in his office. How he would climb in bed and talk about your day, but doing nothing more. It was if you two had reverted back to friends--that very thought breaking your heart when you had loved him so dearly.

Felt as if he looked at your feelings as if it were a trinket in a shop before putting it back, not finding it suitable enough for him.

But for Seonghwa, that wasn’t the case at all.

He tried--he really did--to love you.

By now, time had made him wise enough to know of your compassion for him and he begged himself to return your feelings. Spent many nights while you were asleep praying to the entities residing in the Heavens, crying on the hard floor of the palace’s temple until his arms grew sore and his legs went numb.

But he could not look at any other. Seonghwa could not stop his heart knocking against his chest, his cheeks pooling with heat, whenever he saw Hongjoong smile, or laugh, or do the most menial of tasks.

Could not stop the thoughts of him being by his side rather than you--and it killed him to think that, especially when you have been nothing but kind and loving to the both of them--never giving your personal servant too much work or being too stubborn in wanting your husband’s affection. Instead of pressing too much, you worked on the kids and kingdom.

You were kind, selfless.

Maybe Seonghwa should have let someone else marry you. Maybe they could love you back for all those times he couldn’t.

But he supposes that the best thing out of this marriage was his children. Despite Yunho’s hyperactivity, San’s clinginess, and Wooyoung’s mischievousness, he loved the three to the moon and back.

Helped you in raising them over the last two decades into great people.

It was the only thing he couldn’t bring himself to regret.

That, and how it had given him the excuse to be closer with Hongjoong too, the two of them learning how to look after the triplets (one already proved to be a handful, but three was a nightmare) while you were unwell or busy with other business.

There were times where he glanced at his childhood friend, playing games with the young kids or feeding them or changing them, and had completely forgotten about you. All that swirled in his head was if this is what it would look like if Hongjoong and he had a family together.

Then Seonghwa would snap out of it a spilt second later, cold shame eating away at the warmth in his chest because how could he ever think of such a thing about the mother of his kids?

Meanwhile, Hongjoong--your intelligent and faithful servant--had figured this out too. Figured out the reason why he felt so sick to his stomach when he saw you be so loving towards a man who doesn’t love you back, and why said man could not reciprocate your feelings.

If Seonghwa felt guilty, then Hongjoong felt a million times worse.

Felt as if he was the reason you were in so much pain--and he could tell you were, because he was the one you came running to in the beginning, when your husband kept his wall up around you and you became so frustrated and upset that you spilled waterfalls of salty tears onto his jacket, mumbling words of pain and heartbreak that stayed within the walls of the secret garden.

It stayed safe there, as Seonghwa no longer visited.

Not even you had visited less, despite being consumed with your children and the work of the kingdom. The tree was a sign of your love for each other, it was your very first child.

Hongjoong, too, had stayed. Continued to care for it, to keep it company on his breaks, to talk about his problems since he certainly could not tell you or Seonghwa. His own tears often landed on the roots of the tree, nurturing it with his pain.

Perhaps that’s why the tree had not bore any mulberries, from the saltiness of the water or the anguish it carried.

But he kept whispering the same thing to you whenever you asked, that the mulberries would definitely come, and they would be tastiest you would ever have. Better than those from the markets.

Five more years had passed and you grew ill. Hid it well, so well that no one except the royal physician knew of your condition. Not even Hongjoong knew, so you took that as an achievement. Rarely anything got by him, especially when it came to you.

Dr Yeosang had looked at you with dreary eyes, putting his equipment away which had signalled the end of your appointment. “Anything?” you inquired, coughing into a blood-stained napkin.

“I’m afraid there is still no diagnosis. None of the symptoms match up to any known illnesses and it appears that it is not spread by people since everyone else in the palace is as fit as a fiddle.”

Your smile was small as you chuckled. “Everyone except me, it seems,” you joked in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Yeosang simply sighed. “I believe it’s time. Tell your family before it gets even worse--which it has been doing since the first appointment. At least Hongjoong.”

“You know very well I can’t do that. We’re in the middle of a drought and there’s raids going on in the North--”

“Every kingdom faces those, and yours has already dealt with such situations in the past very well.”

You looked away, cheeks now starting to sink in from the lack of appetite. “I know,” you whispered, ”but I can’t bring myself to say it.”

He licked his lips in contemplation, understanding why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone. A monarch is as strong as the kingdom--any instability in the family will cause instability for the nation. And the same goes for a parent and their family.

“I suppose I can try to hide it a little longer... but a month is all I can do--from the rate your illness is progressing.”

Lips tightening in a thin line, you nodded. There was never going to be enough time. Would go greedy, wishing for a month, then another, then another. But your timer was non-negotiable.

So the first thing you did when you left the royal physicians was go see your sons. If there were anyone who needed your attention, they would be your boys.

Short on breath, you tried to travel swiftly through the hallways--bones, now weary with age and sickness, no longer moving the same way as you used to. As you made your way to the royal family’s private wing, you overheard wisps of conversation through a nearby door.

Slowing to a halt, you listened closer, recognising the voices but not seeming to put names to them--brain too muddled to think straight.

“--know.”

“You can’t do that, Seonghwa. Not to her.”

“I can’t force myself to stop caring about you, Hongjoong!”

Your heart stopped mid-beat.

“Keep your voice down!” There was a pause while the floorboards of Seonghwa’s private office creaked, most likely Hongjoong’s habit of pacing while he was thinking. “You need to. I care about you as a friend, but nothing more.”

“You think if I could, I would’ve done so already?” your husband’s voice was seething. “Heavens know how hard I have tried to love her, b-but I just can’t!”

“Well I can’t love you back, if that’s what you’re asking for.”

Another stretch of silence passed, and you could almost imagine the two glaring at each other as they normally did in a fight. “Because you love her. Am I correct?”

A soft sigh came from who you assumed was Hongjoong, quiet but still loud enough for your ears to capture (greatly timed to cover your own gasp at the revelation).

“I don’t know...”

“What do you mean by that?”

“...Nothing.”

“Hongjoong, you know you can tell me anything. Regardless of our positions before or after this conversation, we will always be friends.”

“This is better kept between me and the Heavens.” He sighed once more. “All you need to know is that we can’t be together because I don’t love you and I have my loyalty. End of discussion.”

Had it been anyone else, Seonghwa would’ve had them arrested for speaking that way to their king. But neither of you could ever so that to him. He was your rock, your old friend--his loyalty shining bright even after all these years of serving you.

Before Hongjoong could open the door, you had fled the scene, not wanted to be caught eavesdropping on such a private conversation--even if the topic had concerned you.

Just before entering the Princes’ linked chambers, you caught your breath, willing your pounding heart to stop beating so feverishly.

There was too much going on. Too much, and your brain can’t seem to wrap itself around it all.

“So that’s why,” you whispered, lacking breath in your lungs. “His heart belongs to another...” Then a fit of coughs burst once more and your hands scrambled to retrieve a fresh napkin tucked beneath your sleeve to catch the blood.

Upon hindsight, it was a bad idea to stop in front of your son’s private room, because your extreme coughing had caught his attention. Yunho’s confused eyes melted away to concern, especially after seeing the dark red liquid tainting the pure white cloth.

“Mother!”

His cry had attracted the attention of your other two sons, who swarmed around you as Yunho cradled his arms around you, guiding you to his bed.

San brushed the strands of hair that had escaped from your tight bun away from your face while Wooyoung rubbed your back in attempt to sooth your violent coughing. “What’s wrong, Mum?”

“We need to tell Papa!”

“We need Dr Yeosang--”

“He knows,” you tried to say, doing your breath to bring your breathing back to normal. “The doctor. He’s known... for a long time.”

“What do you mean ‘a long time’?” San asked, his hands clasped around yours, a desperate look in his eyes begging for an explanation. “What’s going on, Mama?”

Not right now. You were supposed to have a month extra. They weren’t supposed to find out so soon. “I...” you throat felt tight and dry, “I’m very unwell. The doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong because he’s never seen anything like it before.”

“Then we get a new doctor!” Yunho piped in, voice raised and slightly frantic. You really didn’t need them panicking.

“If Yeosang doesn’t know, then no one will.”

“What about Dad?” Wooyoung asked. “Does he know? Uncle Hongjoong has to know, right? Uncle Hongjoong always kn--”

“Neither of them know. We must keep it that way. So you need to pretend that I’m healthy and well for just one more month. That’s all I ask for. One month.”

You looked between all your children, trying to memorise their faces because Heavens know how long you have left.

As promised, the boys kept your secret for as long as they could--caring and tending to you as much as they could without arousing suspicion from Hongjoong or Seonghwa.

But before your month was up, you had collapsed just after a dinner--slipping in and out of consciousness while your old friend carried you up to Yeosang’s office, the rest of your family in tow, beyond worried.

Yeosang later explained, when you were fully awake, that whatever illness you had was growing at a much faster rate than he anticipated, and you had a few weeks at most.

Now, you were bedridden in your chambers, limbs too heavy and painful to move, lungs feeling like they were being pressed down from the gravity and it got harder and harder to keep your eyes open.

Not a day went by where your sons or husband visited you, and Hongjoong had rarely ever left your side. As strong as they all tried to be, their puffy crimson eyes and sniffling noses were all too obvious.

“Seonghwa? Hongjoong?” you said, voice faint and dry. “Could you go out... for a few minutes. I need to... talk to the boys.”

They exchanged glances, before following your quiet word. “What is it, Mama?” San said, crouched beside you as he held your hand once again.

Even as a man in his mid-twenties, your little baby still called you ‘Mama’ and refused to let go of his mother’s hand. Found you as the most comforting thing in the world.

“Remember... the mulberry tree? The one I showed you?”

“Yeah, Ma,” Wooyoung said leaning against the wall that faced you. Despite his playful and nonchalant nature, you knew he was the most emotional one out of the three. Which was why you were very concerned over his silence for the past few days until he finally spoke now.

“I want you three... to look after it once I’m gone.”

“You’re not going, Mother,” Yunho sniffled, tears in his eyes threatening to drop. He was the oldest (by a few minutes) and was still the most respectful. But even then, he was still a kind and soft-hearted boy, much like his brothers.

“But promise me... regardless. That you’ll look after her. And when she finally bares fruit...”

“It’ll be the tastiest fruit,” your sons recited in unison, eyes glossy with unshed tears, “better than any other on the markets.”

With the little strength you had left, you mustered a weak smile. “My good boys... You will become... fine kings one day. I have no doubt.” You let go of San’s hand, hand instantly being consumed by the cold from the lack of insulation and warm blood pumping through your veins. “Now... call in your Father and Uncle.”

And they did so, leaving the room to leave the three of you alone. “What is it, my dear?” Seonghwa caressed your cheek lovingly, but you both knew that it was more of a platonic gesture than a romantic one--more for you than it was for him.

“I know...about your love for Hongjoong.”

You could feel the tension in the air thicken to such a degree that you could slice it with the letter opener that resided on your bedside table. It was Hongjoong who spoke up. “Y/N, you need to know that we never--”

“Did anything... I know.” You look to him, that same weak smile plastering on your face. “Such a loyal friend. Never did deserve you, did I?”

He shook his head as he came down to hold your hand. “No--don’t say that. If anything, I didn’t deserve you as a friend.”

You chuckled softly, careful not to trigger another one of your coughing fits. “If I can’t say things like that... then neither can you. But I would like you both to do two final things for me.”

“Anything,” his voice was still strong, unwavering, but you knew Hongjoong long enough to see the stormy ocean behind his calm gaze, the turmoil he must be feeling right now from losing his closest and oldest friend.

“First thing is.. be happy,” you shifted your gaze over to your husband, “and you too. If you can’t with me... then at least with each other.”

For the first time, your servant let go of your hands, denying your request. “I can’t be happy without you.”

“Then learn to do so. After all, you have... the rest of your life.”

He couldn’t verbally agree to that, not when what he said was true. Not when his own heart lay in your possession--and would to until the day he passed as well. So Seonghwa took the painful step in asking what your second wish was.

You recalled the Zepheth’s symbol of your most beloved possession. Star-crossed lovers and the final union of death. Though the three of you were stuck in a sick triangle of unrequited love by the Heavens, it felt fitting for your story.

And perhaps, with your permanent presence, the fruit would finally grow.

“Bury me under the mulberry tree.”

Extra, alternative ending below If you’re not a fan of fantasy or torturous spirits or man-eating trees, just stop here.

Two young travellers searched around the ruins of a lost palace, greenery overflowing, filling every nook and cranny of the battered stone walls--a rather beautiful sight of Mother Nature reclaiming her lands.

“Where even are we, Mingi?” the shorter, more muscular one of the pair said, stumbling over vines and rubble as he followed the much taller man.

“Not where we’re meant to be, I think,” he quipped, looking at the architecture to find some clues of their whereabouts.

The other rolled his eyes. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you didn’t drop the map in the river.”

“Hey! In my defence, it was really windy and the rain made the ground slippery. Leave me alone, Jongho.”

“Not until you give me a damn map.”

Like the archaeology student he was, Mingi studied the tattered tapestry and engravings on the walls until it had hit him. “Holy mother of fresh, sweet hell.”

“What?”

Without answering his best friend’s question, the man too off running, as if he already knew the layout of the place. Jongho ran after him, screaming and almost tripping over the vegetation in the way of his heavy boots.

Once Mingi stopped, his friend held his knees, heaving to catch his breath. “What... the hell... was that for?”

Swivelling on his heel, the tall explorer had sparkles in his eyes. “This is it! The Lost Kingdom! The thing we’ve been looking for!”

Jongho’s head snapped up. “You mean you’ve been looking for? I was just dragged along by your antics as usual.” He narrowed his eyes when he finally saw where his friend took him. “A tree? You took me to see a goddamn TREE?!”

Mingi got closer the enormous mulberry tree, gazing at it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. “Not just any tree. It’s the Queen Y/N’s tree!”

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Jongho sighed, feeling the rage burn within him like a furnace, “you took me to see a dead woman’s tree?”

“Yes, but--”

“WE ALMOST DIED, MINGI! TWICE!” He held up two fingers, expressing his point further. “AND ALL THAT FOR A GODDMAN TREE?!”

“The lore surrounding it was well worth the trip,” a voice said, the two boys’ head spinning to see a person dressed in old, fancy clothing, perched upon the swing--now completely covered with vines and moss. Both of them swore they hadn’t noticed them there. Yet, they brushed it off anyways, thinking that they just had silent movement.

“Who are you?” Mingi asked, head cocked to the side as he became familiar with the sight of them.

“The protector of this tree,” they replied. “Who are you?”

“Some travellers...sightseeing,” Jongho piped in, sceptical of this person who looked like they were in their twenties, just like them.

“You were talking about lore?” The older of the two inquired, already greatly invested in the whole place. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Why, I must be. After all, I look after her,” they said, lovingly stroking the trunk of the tree. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes, please!” Mingi sat down, like a child excited for story time despite knowing the book by-heart, while Jongho stayed stood up beside him.

“Well, once upon a time, there was a very strong and powerful Kingdom--”

“The Lost Kingdom!” the child-like man shot out, too giddy to hold back.

The person giggled, his antics reminding them of someone they used to know. “Yes, I believe that’s what you call it. Well, there were three children that lived here; one was of royalty, one of nobility, and the third was a servant--but they were the best of friends, despite their status.”

The muscular boy narrowed his eyes at the childish tone the person was using, not liking how it sounded--how it started to make him feel weary.

“They planted this tree,” they tapped the trunk with their hand, “right here, and nurtured it for as long as they could. As they grew older, the royal and nobleman got married and had children together, while the servant dedicated his life to helping them.”

Jongho sat down, feeling more dreary than normal, coughing a little, while Mingi did the same, not feeling so well either.

“They were all still close, regardless of personal disputes between them, but their love for each other began to weaken only once the tree remained barren of fruit. But they kept up hope, saying that it will the next year.”

The travellers had found it hard to breath, as if there was a pressure on their lungs, squeezing them flat.

“But then, the royal found out they were dying, so they asked to buried under the mulberry tree. In their mind, their body would give the tree the nutrients it needed to finally bare the mulberries they so desperately craved. But no fruit had bore, making the spirit of the royal restless.”

Jongho coughed violently, thick red liquid dribbling down his chin, looking over to Mingi who was hunched over in pain. "But... that’s a fruitless... mulberry tree.”

It appeared to be the wrong thing to say, as their brows furrowed, scowl pulling at their lips, the swing stopped swinging. “And who are you to say that?”

“Because I study... goddamn plants.”

Then it clicked in Mingi’s head--what was going on. “Jongho... shut up--” His chest squeezed harder, a yelp escaping his lips as he toppled to the side.

“Carrying on from that rude interruption,” the person glared at the younger of the two, who was now lying on his side, curled into the foetal position, “the nobleman and servant then died a while after, and were buried side-by-side with the royal.”

Overgrown roots of the tree began to soften, becoming more flexible like snakes as they began to slither their way to the two young boys.

“But even their bodies weren’t enough. So the royal’s spirit swore to use whatever they could to make the tree finally bare fruit.”

The roots wrapped around each boys ankle, spiralling up until it wrapped the two of them in a cocoon. And neither of them could do anything, too tired to yell or move around, succumbing to the sweet release of sleep.

Getting up off the swing, the person rested their forehead on the trunk of the tree.

“And it will be the tastiest fruit. Better than any other on the markets.”

A/N: If you didn’t get it, the tree not growing any fruit was a metaphor of unrequited love. I feel like I didn’t really explain that properly, but there you go.

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Note

My dearest bouncey! I have a prompt for you if you like: Witchers as a 90s/2000s boyband 😂🤷‍♀️💖💖💖

Ellie, darling, this started as 500 words and turned into like 3.2k words and also a piece of art so... thank you so much. also shout out to my amazing art pal @mawbwehownets for the little comic!!

this contains lots of 90′s/early 2000′s nostalgia so there is also that

tw: hornyish, smooching, perilous music video situations (corny)

---

“Do I have to?” Geralt groans, letting his forehead thud down against the linoleum surface of their tour bus’s shitty dining table.

“Yes,” Vesemir says. His tone leaves no room for argument or whining. “But what if I let you pick the winner personally?”

“There have to be like fifteen thousand letters to go through! How will I manage that in less than two days?”

“There were a few more than fifteen thousand applications, Geralt. There were probably closer to five hundred thousand.”

Lambert wolf whistles and Aiden claps.

Geralt grimaces and keeps his face hidden against the table, releasing a slightly muffled: “Fuck.”

“Language,” Vesemir frowns. He tugs gently at Geralt’s loose ponytail and the singer lifts his head up from the table again, looking at his manager with beseeching eyes. “Anyway, we’ve narrowed it down to about fifty. You can go through those and choose whichever person you’d like to play your love interest. But you have to give me an answer by Friday. The shoot is in three weeks and whoever wins this stupid competition will need time to make arrangements.”

“I thought we were footing the bill for their food and their hotel room,” Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What would they need to arrange?”

“Not everyone can board their pets at the flick of a wrist, dude,” Lambert scoffs from his seat on the couch. Aiden lies draped across his lap, as usual, and the two of them are halfheartedly watching The Lion King. They can only watch movies when the bus is stationary, otherwise the VHS player might move too much while running and damage the film inside the cassette. Even taking advantage of such a rare opportunity, Lambert and Aiden still seem more interested in each other than Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s voice acting.

“Lambert has a point,” Vesemir sighs. He scrubs his hand over his lightly whiskered face like a tired grandparent and sighs again, more heavily. “It’ll be good for you boys to have a normal person around for a few days. Maybe they’ll be able to put some things into perspective.”

Geralt can only roll his eyes a little bit and thank his manager regardless of his own feelings; he and the rest of TW5 owe the seasoned musical expert their entire careers. Without Vesemir’s help and mentorship they would never have made it past their first disastrous record deal. They certainly wouldn’t have reached the heights they’re at now, enjoying international fame and recognition.

The begrudging frontman accepts a heavy plastic bin of file folders from Vesemir and sets them down next to his bunk. “Are these organized in any particular way?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.”

Geralt digs his hand into the pile and pulls out a piece of pale-pink stationary, eager to get started and, by extension, get finished. He can already tell that it’s going to be a long couple of days.

---

“I want this one, please, Ves.”

“Huh?” Vesemir looks up from his palm-pilot. Geralt is standing in front of him and trying to hand him something.

“I want this guy to be in the music video with me.” Geralt holds out the letter again, fingers trapping the accompanying polaroid headshot with great care. A pair of bright blue eyes stares up from the photo, highlighting the subject’s bright smile and unruly mop of messy brown hair. Vesemir tries to hide his amusement; totally Geralt’s type, if the big oaf could admit to having one.

“Alright. I’ll get everything in order. We start shooting in two and a half weeks so get your asses to the gym, please.”

“Yes, Ves,” all five young men chorus.

“Tomorrow,” Coen mutters a moment later than everyone else, not glancing up from his composition notebook. Vesemir nods in understanding. Coen is the best lyricist of the lot and it’s easier to let him work when inspiration strikes than beg him to focus when he can’t get a solitary idea to stick.

“So why’d you pick that one, Ger-bear?” Lambert drawls. Aiden nods and leans against Lambert’s side. Geralt can’t help the mild jealousy that overtakes him every time he sees his bandmates touch each other with such casual affection. He wants that intimacy, that softness behind the veneer of famous indifference. He wants someone to hold.

“Yeah. What drew your attention to that poor unfortunate soul. Was it the floppy hair, the big blue eyes, or the dopey grin?” Aiden smirks.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck you,” Eskel sighs, looking between the two troublemakers with the tired gaze of an eldest sibling, “Fuck you for even asking in the first place and expecting a straight answer.”

“Straight is the furthest thing from his answer,” Lambert chuckles. He is promptly smacked in the head with one of the couch’s hideous throw pillows. The youngest member of the band rubs the side of his face and chuckles, “Alright, I deserved that one.”

---

“Holy shit!” Jaskier practically screams. “Holy motherfucking shit!”

“What!?” Yennefer comes flying around the corner. “What’s wrong!?”

“Nothing is wrong, Yenna! Everything is awesome! Everything absolutely fucking rocks!”

“Did you get hit on the head by a falling branch between here and the mailbox or what? You were whining about your finals work not five min-”

“Look at this!” Jaskier shoves an open envelope into her hands and cuts her off. Yennefer reads the watermarked documents once. Twice. Her eyes almost pop out of her head when the words and their meanings finally sink in.

“Are you fucking with me right now?”

“No, I am absolutely not!” her giddy roommate cheers, bouncing up and down in place. “I did it! I won!”

“Holy shit.”

“I know! I get to kiss Geralt deRiv!” he practically cackles. Then freezes. “Holy fuck I get to kiss Geralt deRiv.”

“You said that already,” Yen teases. She shoves the paperwork back into his hands and grabs a takeout menu from the junk drawer near her hip. “Since you won the makeout lottery, you get to buy lunch. Lucky bastard.”

---

“So this will be your dressing room,” someone’s underpaid PA says, ushering Jaskier into a small, bright room. “Priscilla will be here shortly to get you into hair and makeup.”

“Oh, uh- thanks!”

“Yup.”

And with that, the young man disappears back down the hallway toward the sound stage. Jaskier jogs his leg anxiously as he waits for Priscilla to arrive, nervous and otherwise totally alone in the huge grey building. As the minutes tick by and his heart rate rises, Jaskier’s intrusive thoughts make an unwanted appearance: What if they forget about me being here? What if there’s been a mistake and they accidentally hired two love interests and I just sit in here for hours all alone while-

“Hi!” a bright, peppy blonde woman flies through the door and startles him back to reality. “Nice to meet you, I’m Priscilla! You can call me Priss; I’ll be doing your hair and makeup for the video this week!”

“Oh… hi. I’m Julian, but I prefer Jaskier.”

“Lovely! Well, Jaskier, is your hair naturally this color?”

“Y-Yes?”

“Perfect! I don’t want to mess with such a lovely shade of natural brown, but do you mind if I give it a bit of a trim? I have a few ideas for styles right here in my book- How do you feel about some feathering back here? I think-” she fluffs a few of the hairs around the nape of Jaskier’s neck “-I could really bring out the curls if I adjusted the length a bit and used some product.”

“Just, uhm, go for it, then! Feel free to make me as pretty as possible!” Jaskier declares. He’s committing to this experience wholeheartedly, determined to allow himself every opportunity for positive change. He wants to really let himself enjoy it, and he needs a haircut anyway. Priscilla spends an hour washing, cutting, drying, and styling his hair into a lovely fringed sweep across his forehead. It ends just above his brows, giving his face a slightly softer shape than usual. He grins over his shoulder, “I love it! I’m going to miss you when I’m back at Oxenfurt. Good stylists are so hard to find.”

Priss blushes and nudges against his shoulder, “Oh, you little charmer.”

“I mean it,” he says, examining himself in the mirror. “I look like I could really be worthy of a heroic rescue! This is going to be such a fantastic memory, and I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

Priss bites back a genuine tear and smiles, “Now that your natural prettiness has been mildly enhanced, let’s get you over to wardrobe, shall we?”

“Wardrobe? Do I have, like, a costume? What’s the music video even about?”

“They didn’t tell you any of this when you got here?”

“Not… not really.”

“Well, my darling, I think you’re really going to like it; they’ve got you in Versace for the first scene.”

“Versace!?”

Then Jaskier is being ushered into a bright, colorful room full to bursting with grim-faced, middle-aged women and he loses track of his only braincell for the rest of the morning.

---

“You must be Julian!” Lambert declares, bounding up to him and grinning. It’s a feral, animalistic grin and Jaskier resists the sudden urge to take a step back.

“I prefer Jaskier, if you don’t mind too much,” Jaskier corrects him quietly. Lambert rolls his eyes in a long-suffering kind of way and throws a meaty arm around the shorter man’s shoulders, completely ignoring the wardrobe technician’s wincing as he wrinkles the expensive silk jacket.

“No need to be quiet and polite around here, my dude. We’re just a bunch of rowdy idiots, aren’t we, guys?”

“Hell yeah!” Aiden calls back. Eskel sighs like the put-upon nanny in a Victorian Redanian comedy.

“Speak for yourself,” Coen barely lifts his frosted tips up from his book long enough to speak. Geralt is-

Holy motherfucking Britney Spears on toast.

Geralt is the hottest thing Jaskier has ever seen in his short, unfulfilled-until-right-now life. Forget Ralph Macchio. Forget Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet and Winona Ryder. This man is… Geralt deRiv is… he’s the picture of perfection. And he’s right there, standing in front of an elaborate party set with his thick, beautiful arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trained on the floor, as if willing it to swallow him whole. Jaskier realizes that he probably didn’t have any choice in the matter; maybe this was just as awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt as it was for Jaskier.

“Ger-bear!” Lambert whoops, yanking Jaskier closer to the brooding frontman. If only he were brave enough to struggle for escape; alas. “This is your boy-toy for the week. Goes by Jaskier, apparently.”

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt manages to grunt. “How did you like the script?”

“I haven’t uh- I haven’t actually seen it?”

“Shit. Fuck. One second,” Geralt huffs, disappearing into the crowd of technicians and machinery operators and PAs. Jaskier loves him already, for real. Sure, he was pretty in the music videos and promo material, but the way he said fuck like it was the noblest word he could think of… Geralt interrupts his train of thought by coming back with a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. He shuffle-shoves them into Jaskier’s arms immediately. “There you go.”

“Thank you!” Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine and shy, more tenuous than his usual goofy grin. He flips through the pages, glancing between the script to his expensive suit, “So I’m guessing we’re at a party for this scene? Or something?”

“This is… where we meet. This is where… you and I uh…”

Jaskier’s eyes scan the page as Geralt’s ability to speak slowly leaves him.

Lover ENTERS LEFT, dressed to the nines. Lover adjusts their tie/boa and takes a look around the room. S/He looks sad and a little hopeful. PULL BACK to Geralt, who approaches slowly. Their eyes meet. HOLD SHOT. PULL BACK as they move towards each other. Geralt pulls Lover into his arms and they begin to dance.

“Oh, wow.”

“I hope it’s okay! If you’re not comfortable with that kind of thing we can-”

“I’ll be alright, thank you. I came here to put my acting chops to the test. Well, that and meet my favorite band, of course. Thank you again, by the way. It’s been wonderful so far and I really appreciate you allowing me to be here.”

“Allowing? Psh. Geralt ha-” Lambert is cut off by Aiden, who elbows him sharply in the side. “Ow! What the fuck, babe?”

“I knew it!” Jaskier crows, distracted. “I knew you two were an item!”

“They’re not exactly subtle.”

“They never confirm anything either,” Jaskier retorts. Geralt shrugs his acknowledgement and moves back towards the set. Jaskier follows after the taller man like a lost puppy, eyes flicking from one thing to the next, hungry for detail even in his anxiety ridden state. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience and he doesn’t want to waste a solitary second of it. “This is incredible, really just...wow. You guys do this all the time? You get to make tiny little movies for already great songs that you get to perform for millions of adoring fans? And you get paid!?”

Geralt hadn’t ever really thought about it like that. He’d been raised in the industry. He’d signed to Kaer Morhen Records as an early teen because his mother was a member of the Board of Directors and he’d been making music ever since; an outsider’s perspective to things was… new. A little strange. “Yeah, I guess that is pretty much what we do.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not that exciting, I promise.”

“Have you ever written a fifteen page paper about the history of lute-string design and manufacturing?”

“No.”

“Then kindly shut the fuck up about what I should consider exciting,” Jaskier grins. Geralt is immediately and irrevocably smitten. Fuck. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes! “So, which door am I entering from?”

“Left,” Geralt points. Jaskier skips over and begins to introduce himself to the sound and lights crew. His smile seems to be as infectious as his cheer and soon the entire set crew is smiling at one another. There’s been a literal shift in the atmosphere; if he didn’t know any better, the TW5 frontman thinks Jaskier might be some kind of magical creature, because he can’t just be human. Geralt is well and truly fucked, and everyone in the band already knows.

---

“What do you think?” Jaskier asks, slipping anxiously from behind the changing screen. The Versace is gone and in its place are a pair of tight, high-waisted blue pleather pants and a billowing white shirt, which has been strategically ripped in several places to reveal slivers of the lightly tanned skin that lies beneath. He looks like he’s in desperate need of rescuing. He looks like every fantasy Geralt has ever had about the perfect guy. He looks like a fucking dream.

“Nice,” he says.

Lambert and Aiden wolf-whistle and cheer as they approach. Aiden claps twice, loudly, and shoots Jaskier a set of finger guns, “Hot damn, baby. You single? You lookin’ to mingle? Because I am bi and spoon like a Pringle.”

“First of all, babe, I love you but that was the most horrific combination of words yet known to man. Second of all, yeah, I’d dump Aiden for you for sure,” Lambert adds. Jaskier is at a total loss for words. His mouth hangs open and his breath comes in uneven little gasps for a moment.

“Uh… I- Thank you?”

“Oh god, Eskel! Eskel, he’s short circuiting, do something.”

“You absolute-” Eskel groans and makes his way over to the gathered group. He tugs Jaskier away and over to the other end of the set, where a comically huge rocket/bomb (Jaskier can’t tell) is standing at the center of a vaguely science-themed room. A laboratory, maybe? Or like, a really weird spacecraft? A hospital run by rocket scientists? It doesn’t matter, it’s the Evil Lair of the Villain and that’s where Jaskier is being held captive. “Here, Cameron and Elise will help you get set up for the next scene. I’m sorry about the boys they’re... gay?”

“I understand,” Jaskier nods sagely and Eskel relaxes. Then for comedy’s sake he adds an equally dramatic, “I too am... gay.”

The set dresser, an electrician, and a few specialists (likely a rope rigger among them) come over and tie Jaskier to the bomb/rocket/villainous mechanism, ending his conversation with Eskel, who is now in a much better mood than he was before.

Jaskier is told to make sure his hands are crossed behind the small of his back and the director instructs him to wiggle back and forth “as convincingly as possible without actually getting loose or moving the ropes too much”. Which is manageable, he supposes.

“Then, when the chorus comes up, we’ll get a few shots of the boys dancing in front of you,” the director continues to explain. That’s… kind weird, but okay. I’ve seen weirder. “Then we’ll do the action shots, with Geralt rescuing you. Are you okay to do the kiss, or would you rather not? We have dynamic shots with or without, so it’s totally up to you.”

“I’m fine with that,” Jaskier smiles shyly. “I consent to be smooched.”

“Adorable,” Lambert calls. Jaskier blushes and the director shoots Lambert a glare.

“He’s already pink enough, don’t make me change my gels you little shithead!”

“Sorry, Pierre!”

“Fucking sorry my ass,” Pierre grumbles beneath his breath. Then he smiles at Jaskier. “Do something nasty to him for me, will you? Not too nasty but… just a little?”

“I’ve got your back,” Jaskier winks.

“No plotting! Not fair!” Aiden whines.

“You have a team,” Pierre retorts. “Now I have a team.”

“Rules are rules,” Eskel sighs. “Now can we please shoot this damn video?”

“Right,” Pierre claps, getting everyone’s attention. “Places!”

---

Geralt races up the stairs, trying to keep the long sleeves of his black mesh shirt from catching on any of the set pieces. The solid black t-shirt he’s wearing underneath makes his arms and back look bulkier than normal; it’s a visual technique to make him look larger than Jaskier, whose billowing white shirt will hide how wide his shoulders actually are. Fuck, those are some nice shoulders. And the smattering of dark chest hair that peeks from the front of the college student’s shirt? Geralt wants to bury his face in it.

Okay, focus.

He reaches the top of the set and rushes towards Jaskier, ripping the ropes from around his torso and pulling him close. He cups the back of Jaskier’s head with his upstage hand, framing the slightly smaller man for the camera and making him seem even shorter, another trick of angles and body posturing. Geralt plays Jaskier like an instrument, bending him back by placing his downstage arm around Jaskier’s waist, pressing their mouths together and holding them still for as long as it takes the director to yell, “Cut!” with a satisfied tone of voice.

Geralt’s suspicions are confirmed when Pierre laughs and claps some more and cries, “Print it, lads! That was a one-take wonder!”

He tries to ignore the way Jaskier’s shoulders slump as if disappointed. “Good job,” he manages to say.

“You, too.” Geralt wishes he could keep a picture of Jaskier smiling in his back pocket forever. No other sight could light up the world so effortlessly. “Thanks for being gentle.”

“I’m trying to sweep you off your feet,” the singer shrugs. Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows and follows Geralt down the narrow set stairs.

“Are you, really?”

“Is it working?” Geralt asks, turning to look up at Jaskier. The student pauses to look at him and his foot catches on an uneven board. He topples forward with a short cry of surprise and seems surprised when Geralt reaches out to catch him. “Jaskier!”

“Oh my god!” Lambert races over, Aiden hot on his heels. “Are you okay, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Jaskier laughs, a little breathless. “Just a little shocked.”

“You should take him to get a snack or something,” Eskel says, nudging his shoulder against Geralt’s. “He’s been busy all day and hasn’t even been to craft services.”

“You haven’t eaten?” Geralt asks, honestly baffled. Jaskier shakes his head, face heating once again. He wishes he could stop blushing, but Geralt’s presence seems to make it impossible. He wraps one arm around the younger man’s temptingly slender waist and leads him towards the food carts. He shoves a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of punch into Jaskier’s hands, not giving him a chance to argue. “Here, I’ll have something, too.”

“Thanks,” Jaskier smiles, understanding that he is, in turn, being understood. They sit comfortable folding chairs off to the side, food spread across their laps. Jaskier laughs and chats around his mouthfuls, pulling things from Geralt like his favorite color and his least favorite nicknames. Songs he liked and dances he disliked.

“You made it fun again, today,” the singer smiles. “Thank you for that. I wish you could be here for every video shoot.”

“Looking for another member of the band?” Jaskier jokes, doing some half-hearted jazz hands. Geralt shakes his head and laughs.

“I wish we were,” he sighs. “But I guess five is the magic number.”

“Makes the dances look cooler,” Jaskier nods. “I agree with whoever made that decision. I wouldn’t dare ruin the aesthetic.”

Geralt laughs again and Vesemir turns to look, honestly shocked at the volume of the sound.

“Plus, you can’t be the frontman if there’s no front.”

“Shut up,” Geralt chuckles, still grinning broadly.

Vesemir makes a phone call.

---

2 Weeks Later, Backstage in Kaedwen

---

“He’s been sulking like this ever since Jaskier went back to Oxenfurt,” Lambert whines. “C’mon Vesemir, do something.”

“What do you want me to do, make Geralt’s boyfriend appear out of thin air?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Geralt growls, stomping past his bandmates and manager. He can’t help but feel grumpy. Jaskier had been like the sun, bringing light and wonder to everything he touched, and without that joy around it doesn’t seem worth the extra effort to smile. So he’s been moping.

“Fucking hell,” Vesemir sighs. “Thank goodness I thought ahead.”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asks, joining the little group in the hallway outside the dressing room. “What did you think of?”

“Three,” Vesemir smiles, glancing at his watch. “Two… One…”

“Boooooys,” echoes a high tenor. “Where’s my welcome wagon, Vesemir?”

“Jaskier!” Aiden practically screams, leaping out of the dressing room and flying down the hall. Lambert follows at a sprint and Vesemir hears the resounding oof oh fuck of both giddy musicians hitting their mark.

Geralt comes back down the hall at a jog, eyes searching frantically. “I thought I heard-”

“Geralt!”

Vesemir’s heart clenches in his chest at the way Geralt’s face lights up. At the end of the hallway, surrounded by spilled luggage and apologetic boyband members, is Jaskier. Geralt floats to him, it seems, like he’s dreaming the whole thing. Jaskier takes his hands and then releases them and wraps his arms low around Geralt’s hips instead.

“I missed you the most,” he whispers, just for Geralt to hear. “Couldn’t sleep without listening to your CD. I know it’s silly but I really like you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers reverently into his shaggy brown hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to do my thesis on pop culture’s relation to music history,” he says. “And then the manager of TW5 called Oxenfurt and offered me the opportunity to do some… first hand research while I worked on finishing the paper.”

“R-Really? You’re going to be here… every day?”

“Do you… do you not want me he-”

Geralt kisses him before he can even finish the question. It’s a stupid question anyway, of course Geralt wants him here. Wants him right here, kissing him silly. The singer presses his lips desperately, crushingly against Jaskier’s; he never wants to part from this man again. He never wants to be without that glorious laughter and contagious liveliness. Who knew that life could be so full of delight and happiness if he only let it?

He kisses Jaskier for all he’s worth and more, pouring his heart and soul into it. When they pull apart, both gasping for air, Geralt asks, “Stay with me, Jaskier? You don’t have to do anything I just-”

“I’d love to be the big spoon,” Jaskier winks, whispering again. “Thank you, Geralt, for the rescue.”

#geraskier #bouncey's buddies #prompt fill #geraskier fic #geraskier ficlet #geraskier fluff #getting together #boyband au #geraskier boyband au #the witcher five and their hit song 'please lambert stop farting on the bus'#ellie has the braincell #thirsty jaskier #thirsty geralt #soft geralt #protective geralt #clumsy jaskier #soft boys content #bouncey's endless au collection #bouncey's endless getting together fics

244 notes · View notes

someillplanetreigns · 3 years

Text

Hardest of Hearts

Post-Canon Sylki

Pairings: Loki/Sylvie

Rating: T

Summary: “It was all I had,” she said softly. Was she – no, she couldn’t be. Was she? She was crying. Another trick? He could hear her fighting the tears.

“Revenge. I couldn’t give up the only thing I had.”

“You had me!”He stopped himself saying But I wasn’t enough, was I?

She raised her head. Tears were streaming down her face. She looked snotty and blotchy and so soul-wrenchingly beautiful. “Revenge was all that I deserved.”

Additional tags: fix-it; angst with a happy ending; love confessions; self-esteem issues; Sylvie has issues; but she really is trying; inexperienced Sylvie; post-canon; post episode 6; happy ending

With huge thanks to @violetvapours for betaing this!

You can also read on Ao3

Here he was again, then. Another timeline, another TVA, another interrogation, another ugly little room. They’d left him alone, probably because they were off panicking somewhere over what to do with him. Who would interrogate him? Mobius again? Would that be better or worse, to have that familiar face that no longer saw him as familiar?

They wouldn’t need to play him the tape this time. He could play it all back in his own mind in perfect, agonising detail.

There was someone in the room. He felt the presence, though he hadn’t heard the door. Had he merely missed it? He didn’t look up immediately, prolonging the not knowing for that moment longer. And then slowly, so slowly, he turned his head.

She looked worse even than she had on Lamentis, when they’d been sure they were going to die. She looked like something had broken inside of her. And she looked – so unlike herself – hesitant.

He said nothing. They stared at one another, the room stretching between them like a chasm.

After what felt like eternity, she broke the silence.

“I fucked up.”

“Oh, really?” He lacked the energy for the full force of the sardonic tone.

“I didn’t mean to send you here. I thought I was sending you back to where you’d be safe, with Mobius and B-15.” She made her way further into the room slowly, cautious, like she was approaching a wild animal. Or like she was a wild animal. “I didn’t realise how the branch worked. I’ve been hunting the timelines for you.”

“Well perhaps if you hadn’t felt the need to make your rejection quite so dramatic...”

“It wasn’t –” she burst out, then caught herself. She lowered her eyes.

“Was it satisfying?” he asked, hating himself for it. “Killing him?”

Slowly, so slowly, she shook her head. The knowledge did not make him feel any better.

“It was all I had,” she said softly. Was she – no, she couldn’t be. Was she? She was crying. Another trick? He could hear her fighting the tears. “Revenge. I couldn’t give up the only thing I had.”

“You had me!”

He stopped himself saying But I wasn’t enough, was I?

She raised her head. Tears were streaming down her face. She looked snotty and blotchy and so soul-wrenchingly beautiful. “Revenge was all that I deserved.”

“What?”

She scrubbed her sleeve over her face ineffectually. “You’re so much better than me. That’s it, that’s you, you’re the superior Loki.” Her weak attempt at a joke brought on a fresh sob. “You were the one who cared about saving the universe and innocent lives – I only ever cared about getting back at whoever did this to me. I’m not like you. I’m not good.”

Before he could find words, she ranted on, “His dreamland, where we run the TVA, don’t you see what would have happened? You would have realised. You would have realised that I’m no good, that you deserve so much better, and you would have –”

“Sylvie...”

He was on his feet without even realising he’d stood up.

“I know, I know,” she said, “you’ll say you wouldn’t, but...” She swallowed. “That was my first kiss.”

“That...? Your distraction tactic? That was your first kiss? How?”

“It was not a distraction tactic! I wanted... But I – This is exactly what I mean.”

He moved towards her. Norns knew she could be lying. But... But Loki knew lying. And this...

“I told you, I spent my life running from the end of one world to the end of another. I spent my life alone and angry and scared, and I didn’t have... anyone. How, in all of that, could I trust anyone enough to...” She made a nondescript gesture with her hands. “Whereas you, you’re a prince saving the universe. However much I want you, I can’t have you. I was so wrong that they pruned me as a child. They robbed me of any chance I had to be happy.” A beat. “Or I did.”

He cupped her shoulders gently in his hands, steadied her.

“I know you can’t forgive me. But I don’t know how to stop this mess with the timelines on my own. So if you can just... be the superior Loki and put aside how much you hate me to help me fix it...”

“Sylvie. Stop.”

She looked at him, eyes wide. He could see without feeling that her pulse was hammering.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Not what you think you have to want, or what you are projecting that I should want, or anything else. Just. What do you want?”

She was shaking beneath his hands. “I want to be able go back and not push you away. I want to go back and for us to find another option, not time fascism or time war, something else, some other way.”

“Which is to say?”

“Which is to say... I want... you.”

He slid his hand into her hair and tipped her mouth to his. He tasted the salt of her tears. He suckled on her lip gently, trying to soothe her even as he encouraged her. Tentatively, she pressed closer. He deepened the kiss, drawing her in, parting just for an instant to whisper her name before surging back in as though he needed her to breathe.

“There,” he husked when they finally parted, not going far. “That’s two now.”

She looked at him with such raw vulnerability that he couldn’t stop himself leaning in once more to just brush her lips with his.

“I knew,” he said, finally pulling back to look at her, “I knew that in that moment, what you needed was for me to back you up. For me to say, ‘Have at him!’ and cheer for you when you killed him. The reason I didn’t do that isn’t that I’m better than you. It’s because I haven’t been through what you’ve been through. And it’s because, on the other side of that gambit, I wanted you. Sylvie, you’re... incredible. And it’s not just that you’re beautiful and talented and witty and determined and that you defy all expectations, although you are and do all of those things –”

“So you’re saying I’m you, basically?” It was a teary version of her usual tone, and it made his heart soar.

“Sssh. You are all of those things, but at the end of the day... Sylvie, it’s real. With you, it’s... it’s real. I don’t know if you believe me, or if you feel...”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered to him. “I love you, and I know what I did was... that I...”

“I love you too.”

She clung to him for a long moment, her breathing slowly evening out. She smelt of ozone and smoke and frost and magic.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry that I... How do I unfuck it?”

He moved her so he could look at her again, but kept his arms round her. “You need to trust me. If I trust that you aren’t going to push me through another time door, that you are choosing me, will you trust that I am choosing you? That I am choosing you, and I am the one who gets to make that choice, and I am making it because you are everything?”

She sniffed and nodded slowly. She reached up to wrap herself round him again. “I trust you. I trust you.”

She was fumbling in her pocket, and in spite of himself he had a wild moment of panic. Then she pressed the TemPad into his hand.

“I trust you,” she said again.

Taking the TemPad, he took her other hand in his. He kissed her again, deep and adoring, trying to pour everything he felt into it, and finding she was giving the same.

“Let’s go,” he said. He opened a door.

“We do have a universe to save,” she said, her voice still rough from the crying.

“Yes. Although I believe you have some catching up to do first – that’s only four, and there are so many other –”

She elbowed him, but her smile was radiant. He smiled back. Hand in hand, they stepped through the door.

@dianamolloy @winterisakiller you both expressed interest (thank you!)

If anyone else would like to be tagged in this or anything else, please let me know! I don’t currently have a tag list

#this is my writing tag #hardest of hearts fic #sylki #loki x sylvie #the loki show #loki series spoilers

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rideordieforpride · 3 years

Text

Under The Cherry Blossoms

SPOILER WARNING FOR THE DEVILGRAM

Here is a little reimagining of Lucifer’s cherry blossom devilgram I wrote as part of a collaboration for his birthday. You can find all the collaboration pieces over @/luciferbirthday on Twitter. Enjoy ♡ (GN Reader, Length: 2.8k)

Sakura.

A beautiful word, perfectly suited for the flower.

The cherry blossom trees were plentiful and in bloom, creating a lovely blush canopy overhead. The petals, translucent, allowed soft sunlight to come through, creating a glow about the forest. It was… oddly quiet. The brothers’ continuous chatter was nowhere to be found, as you and Lucifer stole away once their bickering had begun. Of course, they were only bickering over a game, but it became tumultuous nonetheless.

The two of you had walked in silence for some time, after agreeing the trees were best observed that way. The breeze would rustle through the brush, creating gentle white noise and casting petals in every direction. After a slight gust, one of the petals flew past right by your cheek and you turned to see where it may land, but Lucifer’s eyes caught yours as you did, having been watching the same petal. You turned your eyes back in front of you quickly, deciding not to comment as you felt your cheeks warm, but heard the quiet chuckle he did not suppress.

Once a ways away, Lucifer surprised you by producing a sizable grey bag, unassuming but still chic.

“What’s that?” You asked, eyes lighting with wonder. “Where was it??” Surely you would have seen it had he been carrying it all along.

A small smile already tugged at the corner of his lips. “Oh, this? I’ve had it with me the whole time. You hadn’t noticed?” A playfulness in his eyes suggested otherwise, and your brow furrowed in response, but you allowed him to play his game.

Lucifer unzipped the bag, slipping his hand inside to pull out a folded sheet. “Here we are. This spot will do.”

He passed off the bag to you and motioned for you to take a step back. Taking a corner in each hand, he effortlessly whipped the sheet to full size, kneeling as it fell flat onto the ground. The slight breeze kicked up one of the corners and you moved, finding a rock with some heft to it to weigh down the sheet. Lucifer repeated your actions, weighing down the two corners he was beside while you covered the last.

“I didn’t know it’d be windy today,” you commented, filling the silence as you offered the bag back to him.

Lucifer accepted the bag, leaning to place it on the middle of the sheet. “It wasn’t mentioned in the forecast,” he acknowledged, kneeling to reach back into the bag, “but it is a pleasant surprise. Paired with the sun, it is the perfect weather for spring in the human world. We don’t have days like this in the Devildom.”

You hummed your agreement, knowing all too well the bleak Devildom sky. You watched as he pulled a bottle of Demonus and two glasses from the bag. The bottle, and even the glasses themselves, began to frost over when exposed to the air, revealing their chill. Lucifer finally sat, placing the glasses on the sheet, unbothered that one may tip, as he had chosen fairly flat earth.

“Sit.” He gestured beside himself, “Have a drink with me.”

And so you did, moving carefully to sit beside him without wrinkling the sheet or disturbing the glasses. Glancing at the bag, you wondered if Lucifer brought anything else, but he caught your attention again by uncorking the bottle. He poured the Demonus into one of the glasses before handing it off to you and pouring himself a glass as well.

“Thank you,” you smiled at him sweetly then looked at your glass, noticing the coolness of it against your fingers. You took a sip, always finding yourself a bit surprised by the taste. No human world drinks could compare. There was a pang from the hellish alcohol, somehow ineffective towards humans, yet forgiving notes of fruit.

The wind picked up again, throwing petals and leaves off the branches and around, almost seemingly with no direction, as they had nearly no weight. You found yourself taking a breath, about to comment on their beauty, but released it, remembering Lucifer’s words that the flowers were best enjoyed in silence. But then, his voice surprised you.

“Cherry blossoms are a truly exquisite flower,” he began and you turned to look at him, though he continued to look out at the forest. “Not only are they beautiful, but they also have a transient quality to them.” Lucifer seemed to watch one petal specifically again and an odd softness came over his features as a sadness reached his eyes. You wondered what he was thinking of and looked out to see if you had missed something, but the scene was the same as it was.

“Whenever I see the petals scatter in the wind, I can’t help but feel a pang of melancholy…” Lucifer’s voice trailed off slightly, causing you to look at him again, only this time to be met with him facing you, smiling. He continued, seemingly content after his moment of thought, “Not to mention that the magic this flower possesses feels pleasant.”

His ease caught you off guard. A genuine smile given freely was not often heard of from the Avatar of Pride, and you wondered for a moment if it was a distraction from the sadness you had just seen. You decided to tread carefully.

“You look peaceful,” you commented, returning a small smile before sipping your demonus.

“I would think so. It’s strange, but I’ve never felt this at peace before.” Lucifer’s smile lingered as he looked away again and noticed a petal dancing close to the glass he held. He did not move, simply watching it, as it teetered over the edge and into the liquid. To your surprise, he was only amused, “Look. One of the flower petals has fallen into my glass of Demonus… How delightful.”

You eyed the drink before looking at him, quizzically, “Are you going to drink it?”

Lucifer’s brow furrowed slightly for a moment, “Don’t look at me like that. There’s no harm in eating cherry blossoms, after all.” But then, his eyebrow quirked up, as if having just thought of something. He carefully set his glass on the picnic sheet and pulled the grey bag closer to him. “Besides...I found something interesting.” You watched as he reached into the bag but then he looked at you, serious for a moment, “Don’t let Beel find out about this.”

Out of the bag, he pulled a small plastic container with what looked like a miniature pink sphere inside. You leaned in for a closer look and Lucifer opened the container, revealing the treat.

“I bought this for you,” he said, smiling again as he passed the container to you. “This is called sakura mochi.”

“I see…” you smiled back and carefully placed your glass beside his before studying the mochi closer. It was a pale pink, dusted over with flour, and wrapped in a cherry blossom leaf.

“I thought you might like it,” he added, awaiting a proper reaction.

You looked back to him, catching his eyes and seeing their expectancy. “It’s pretty.” Carefully, you picked up the mochi and placed the container aside. You held a hand under it to catch any flour that may fall off as you lifted it to your lips for a bite. It was soft and sweet, a bit chewy, and as you swallowed you noticed a hint of a floral accent as well.

“How is it?” Lucifer asked, already seeming pleased with himself as he studied your reaction, convinced you were enjoying his gift.

Not sure how to describe it, you made a simple comment, “It tastes great.” You smiled at him, thankfully. He hummed then, satisfied with your response.

“I’m glad I got to see that smile on your face,” he said, allowing another gentle smile of his own.

Again, you felt a flush sweep across your cheeks and you looked away, back to the treat. Despite being certain that Lucifer knew of your fluster, you didn’t address it and went to take another bite.

“I’m curious to know just how good it tastes,” he suddenly added, causing you to freeze before you bit it again. A hand rose to his chest as he tilted his head slightly, a sincerity. “Let me have a bite,” he requested, though it felt less like a request to you, as you both knew you’d say yes.

Still, you thought about it for a moment before being struck with an idea. You shifted your seating slightly to face him more and held out the mochi, your free hand still under it. “Open wide,” your voice was sweet, as intended, but the playful undertone was not well hidden.

For a moment, Lucifer’s eyes widened, a striking vermillion, before settling back, recomposing himself. “You want to feed me?” He asked, eyebrow quirking up slightly with inquisition. You only nodded in response to which he huffed and you weren’t sure if it was in amusement or defeat. “All right, I’ll allow it just for today.”

Your eyebrows raised then, surprised he went along with your request, but you leaned forward and held the mochi up to his mouth. Leaning in as well, Lucifer took a bite, allowing your hand to catch the flour that fell. You swore you caught him smirking as he pulled away, but his face shifted to one of thought as he chewed.

He hummed lightly and swallowed as his brows began to furrow. “What a peculiar taste… I’ve never had anything like it before.” But then his face softened again and his smile returned as he decided, “I quite like it though.”

Oddly, you felt the urge to chuckle at him, as his actions continued to surprise you, but you withheld it. Popping the last piece of mochi into your mouth, you noticed Lucifer looking back out into the forest. This time, with an air of tranquility.

“I’m starting to feel even calmer than I already was,” he began before closing his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief. “Drowsy, even… I have a feeling that nothing could possibly anger me now.”

Lucifer’s claim piqued your interest and noticing his eyes were still closed, a wicked idea came to you. You felt your smile grow as you began to lean in closer to him again.

“Well… maybe I’ll tickle you then.” You stated simply, so as to not alarm him, and by the time he had processed your words, you had already reached for his sides, pinching and swiftly moving your fingers over the cotton of his turtleneck. You waited for him to snatch your wrists or move away, but for a moment… he just laughed.

A hearty yet melodic laugh as he tried to speak, “Hey, stop!” But his laughing spurred you on, again pinching at his side, except this time you were met with him abruptly leaning back, escaping your touch. “Cut it out!” Lucifer demanded and you pulled back immediately. You held your hands up slightly, signaling he was safe, but he only shook his head. “Don’t get too carried away, or I’ll get you back for this tenfold.” His words carried a promise and his face was stern to match, but he couldn’t hide his reddening cheeks, so you knew it wasn’t so bad. You chuckled lightly and gave an apology before resting your hands back in your lap.

Then, it was quiet for a moment. You began to wonder if you truly had upset him, but his expression turned curious as a full cherry blossom fell quickly in front of him. He reached out, cupping his hand, just in time for it to fall into his palm.

“Hm… I managed to catch one.” Lifting his hand to study the blossom further, Lucifer gave a nod of approval. “Look,” He began, extending his hand towards you, “the petals on this one are all perfectly aligned.” You leaned in but before you could comment, he continued, “Stay still for a bit. I’ll put it in your hair.”

Eyes widening in surprise, you held still as Lucifer reached towards you. He placed a finger under your chin, keeping you steady as his other hand tucked the flower behind your ear.

Withdrawing his hands, his eyes flit across your face and back to the blossom. “Just as I thought,” he said, sitting back, admiring his work with a smile. “It looks good on you.”

His praise touched your heart and you thought you even felt butterflies. “Thank you…” You said quietly, reaching up to touch the flower, but he shook his head to stop you.

“It’s mere coincidence that it fell… but perhaps it fell because it wanted to be in your hair.” Lucifer’s smile turned slightly playful then as his eyes narrowed. “Although we’re on a picnic sheet, you must be tired of sitting on the ground for so long.” He began to lean back, propping himself on his elbow and again rested his hand on his chest, inviting. “Come here, you can lean against me.”

Seeing Lucifer so lax, you couldn’t but feel a bit at peace yourself, despite it surprising you. You glanced over your shoulder towards where you came, but no one was in sight. As you looked back to him, he tapped his chest once and you smiled. “I’ll gladly take you up on that.”

You moved cautiously, trying not to shift the sheet too much as you leaned down, half-laying as you rested your head on his shoulder.

“There’s no need to hold back,” Lucifer reassured, moving his hand from his chest to wrap around you, pulling you in closer and holding your weight. He chuckled slightly as you settled, beginning to blush once more. “You should feel a lot better now.”

You looked up at him, expecting him to be looking at you teasingly, but the wind had picked up again and he looked out. His hold on you tightened for a moment, a short squeeze, before relaxing again and he drew a breath, pausing before he spoke. You thought he may not say what he was thinking after all, but he did.

“Fleeting, graceful, beautiful, delicate, and soothing to the soul…” Lucifer spoke gently and turned his attention back to you, his crimson gaze holding yours in a way that you felt you couldn’t look away. “You and cherry blossoms might have a few things in common.”

Your heart jumped at his praise and you weren’t sure how to respond. What could you say? You took a breath then and his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“...Can I kiss you?” Your words surprised yourself and you swallowed, questioning your boldness, but the return of his flush with his softening expression soothed your worries.

“As if I’d refuse.” His voice came quiet and though you knew he would allow it, you couldn’t move first.

Seeing this, Lucifer took the lead, taking back his hand from holding you to cup your cheek and you closed your eyes. A moment later, his lips touched yours, gently, testing the waters, until you kissed back. Then, he was certain and kissed you assuredly, soft and sweet, but passionate still. All too soon, he pulled away and your eyes fluttered open. Your cheeks burned and you felt your heart beating, faster than usual, and you knew he was pleased, seeing your reaction as he smiled with content.

“You taste slightly sweet from the sakura mochi,” Lucifer commented and you looked away from him quickly, resting your head back on his chest as you felt the burn on your face rise. And you knew that he knew it, as he silently chuckled.

He did not call for your attention again though, allowing you to relax. Looking out once more at the forest, he proposed a thought, “Maybe we should try planting some cherry blossom trees at the House of Lamentation.”

You thought about it for a moment, liking the idea, but then Lucifer sighed and you felt him shaking his head. “On second thought, scratch that. Mammon would try to hide valuables there, and Satan might try to place a curse on them.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. He made a good point and you might have been upset about it before he made another. “Perhaps these things are more beautiful where they belong. Hm?” Deciding that Lucifer was right, you nodded, and his arm wrapped around you again, holding you as he continued to watch the scenery.

With your head on his chest, you could still see the trees to the side and watched as the petals drifted about. You thought he may continue the conversation, but he remained quiet. In the silence, you noticed you could hear Lucifer’s heart thrumming slowly in his chest and it lulled you gently. You closed your eyes in the peace and before you knew it… you had drifted into sleep.

#obey me #obey me Lucifer #obey me shall we date #the biggest thank you to my friends who encouraged me to write this #I had fun #and it’s my first work I’m sharing!#I hope you like it #happy birthday Lucifer #me posting #my writing

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owlespresso · 3 years

Note

Glad your requests are open again! Could I get some Astarion with an s/o that is into biting?

Ask and ye shall receive! If you like this work and would like to support me and what I do, consider taking a peek at my ko-fi, which can be found here: https://ko-fi.com/owlespresso

The grass is dulled with the first touches of winter. It’s only a week into the lifeless season, yet the temperatures have taken a nose dive. Which is why you count your blessings now, staring up at the grey skies, back nestled against the dying foliage.

It’s going to snow, soon. The eerie swarm of clouds that hangs above the forest tells you as much, but you remain where you are, taking comfort in knowing shelter is only a few steps away.

It would be a shame to move when Astarion is seated right next to you, having plopped himself down of his own accord. You like to think it’s significant progress, given the open disdain he didn’t hesitate to show you during the first days of your travels.

He’s been rattling on about the last battle you found yourselves in, complaining at the sudden change in weather, and theorizing the parasite that’s nestled snuggly within your brains. Just jumping from one topic to the next as though he’s been bottling all these thoughts up, waiting to dump them on the first person he can trust to listen.

You have to wonder if you’re the closest person to him among your little group. Does he seek you out more than he seeks the others, or are you just imagining it? Just hoping for it?

You wrinkle your nose and try not to think about it, feel a flush of relief when he at last quiets.

Not that you ever want him to stop speaking, not with that velvety voice of his. But you try to keep your thoughts distinctly away from your looming, seemingly inevitable fate. You try to preserve and fan the flames of your hope.

“Do you… have you ever gotten tired of it, yet?” you ask him, staring up at the harsh, grey skies. Winter’s bitter tinge has long crept across your skin and hooked its claws into your bones, even through your thick sleeves. “All of the traveling? And relying on our companions?

Astarion gives a small huff. His gaze remains stuck on the forest that stands on the other side of the brook. Its branches have been picked clean by the changing seasons. He’s thinking, you realize, about his next meal. About the next forest creature he will descend upon with teeth and daggers, about the next unsuspecting morsel he’ll prey upon.

The thought makes you swallow. Not out out fear, but something distinctly different. A warm, gooey feeling you don’t want to think about.

“Please. This is the freest I’ve been in the last two hundred years. I will gladly take the wretched swamps and mile long treks over Cazador’s dingy dungeons. Any day. In a heartbeat—someone else’s, of course, given the state of mine.”

His gaze sweeps from the cluttered horizon to sweep up and down your lounged body, lingering on the swell of your hips, the round of your chest. He studies with an open fascination that makes you want to curl up and away from him. It’s a keen intrigue, something deep-seated and predatory. Even after traveling with him for two weeks, you’re still defenseless against his low, crooning voice and hooded, sultry gazes.

“Mm,” you hum in acknowledgement, because you’re not sure what else to say to that.

“As for our merry little band of miscreants… you depend on me as much as I depend on you. It’s an even trade, as far as I’m concerned,” he waves off your concerns with little to no concern, bringing a knee to his chest whilst the other leg remains stretched out in front of him. “And if you’re worried about my personal opinion on you all as individuals... well, let’s just say I have my favorites.”

“And where do I fall on your list?” you can’t help but ask, genuinely curious rather than teasing. You can see your breath in the air, your words coming out as a frosty plume. They come out without thinking, and for a brief moment you nearly panic. Heat rises to your cheeks as you struggle for the words to walk it back.

“Oh, you? Well, you’re my favorite,” he replies with smooth ease, his voice dipping down to a sultry purr. The grass shifts and crunches underneath him as he shifts to lean over you, fixing you with a wry smile. All too soon, you’re reminded of a few nights ago, him hunched over your neck, eyes alight like a predator’s. The now nearly faded marks on your throb with the memory. His handsome profile, lit softly by firelight.

“Really?”

“Of course. No one else in our merry little band has offered themselves up on a silver platter. I’m quite sure they would balk at the idea of feeding a vampire. I can think of a few who would come at me with a stake as soon as I revealed my true nature,” he sighs languidly, a hand reaching down to cup your cheek. His palm is cold against your skin, but your breath hitches and you shut your eyes, allowing him to nudge your face to the side, revealing the stretch of your neck to him. “So pliant, too. Though I would prefer to think this aspect of your personality is reserved for me and me alone.”

“Well, I’m not going to roll over for just anyone,” you assure him with a roll of your eyes. There’s no bite in your voice, but you feel a roll of warm anticipation hit your gut when he fixes you with a keen gaze.

“Consider me flattered. And most grateful. Might I encroach upon your kindness just a tad more this afternoon?” His eyes are hooded, his smile widening because he knows you’ll agree. You exhale shakily.

“Go ahead,” you shut your eyes, brace yourself for the hook of his teeth into your waiting flesh.

“You are a delight,” he flatters shamelessly. His breath brushes against your skin, prompting goosebumps to raise along your arms. Your heart thump, thump, thumps against your ribs like a bird’s wings against the bars of its gilded cage.

He can hear it, his eyelids lowering, smile widening as he ghosts lips across your neck. He explores slowly, drifting slow kisses from the crook of your shoulder to the curve of your jaw. Each osculation is more tender than the last, but you still sigh and shudder, shutting your eyes because you cannot bear to see his smug expression.

As cool as his skin is, it’s still warmer than the wintry air that surrounds you. One of your hands tentatively rests on his shoulder, the other rests at your side. He’s incorrigibly good with both hands and lips, fingers of his unoccupied hand giving your right breast a faint squeeze, earning a surprised splutter.

You don’t realize your flustered expression has tinged with fear until he begins to croon at you.

“Shh, shh. It’s alright, darling,” he soothes, and voice curling with mock sympathy. “You’re doing so well, so good for me.”

Oh, fuck. That only makes it worse. Your cunt throbs, your clothes suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy. The mere anticipation of the bite is enough to make you wet, panties sticking to the plush give of your folds. The renewed shame of it mixes with heady arousal, creating a cocktail of sensations that leaves you squirming underneath him before he’s even taken a bite.

“You know, I’m beginning to think these little whines and trembles of your are from more than just trepidation. Am I correct in that assumption?” Goddamn him and his blabbering mouth. Your eyes snap open to fix him with a glare, but he only smiles wider.

All you can do is concentrate on keeping breathing even as the very tips of his fangs drag over your skin. Each tender kiss and caress feels like it stretches beyond the span of mere moments, slipping into minutes and maybe hours. Your palms sweat, your eyes stare up at the dulled sky.

Slowly, he journeys from the line of your jaw to the middle of your neck. Once, twice, three times he grazes his sharp fangs over the same spot. Your fingers curl tight into the fabric of his jacket, thighs pressing together—

He bites. Your fingers twitch and your grip tightens, helplessly curled in the fabric of his stupid fancy shirt. The sheer cold of his fangs presses deep into the flesh of your throat, his efforts rewarded with a gush of fresh, sweet blood. This is the part you like the most, you think. The rush of the ambrosia connects the two of you in a way you’ve never experienced with another person before. He drinks deep, enjoys your very being, your very essence—

If you were less drunk off the pleasure of being torn into so intimately, perhaps you’d wonder if this is the only reason why he claims to enjoy your company so much.

But a second squeeze to your breast robs you of that coherency. Black spots are already beginning to swim at the edges of your vision, consciousness growing hazy as he continues to indulge, gorging himself on you entirely.

“Astarion,” you find it in yourself to rasp, feebly tugging on his shirt as you feel yourself beginning to drift away, into an inky, vast blankness. You’re not sure if he’s going to stop, you realize, but what frightens you more is that you don’t entirely mind.

The thought is shoved to the very recesses of your mind as he blessedly pulls away with a gasp. His lips are stained red, and your gaze glues to his tongue as it peeks out and swipes over them. Slowly. As though he’s savoring your flavor as much as he can before he gulps the final droplets down.

“Delectable,” he sighs, hair tousled, pupils dilated. “Are you alright, darling?”

“Feel a little funny. Nothing a snack and a nap can’t fix,” you mumble. Your arms feel like jelly as you press them to the frosted earth, feebly attempting to lift yourself off the ground.

“Ah, ah. There’s no need to push yourself,” he tuts, pushing himself to his feet with nimble ease. A stray beam of sun dips through the clouds. It casts his hair and pale skin in a light most vibrant. Looking up at him like this allows you to admire the strong cut of his jaw, the fine arch of his nose. You’re so dazed by both fatigue and his beauty that you almost forget to take the hand he offers you.

You take it. His fingers are cold, but warmer than the chilled air around you. A harsh contrast to the warm, near fervent gaze he fixes on you as you stand beside him.

#astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #writing #Anonymous

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comradelup · 3 years

Note

64 Lucretia and taako?

Taako’s angry. And he’s angry at that. When he’s angry— when he’s stressed in general, he bakes. Everyone likes cupcakes, right?

He forces himself to unclench his jaw as he’s frosting, focusing on the repetitive motion of swirling it around each one over and over. He blinks and raises his eyebrows, moving his face in order to stretch and relax the muscles.

“What are yo—”

Taako jumps, letting out an involuntary yelp. One of the cupcakes is smudged and imperfect now, and he scowls at it before turning to scowl at the source of the distraction.

Lucretia looks like a deer in headlights. “I-I’m sorry I was just seeing what you were up to I didn’t mean to—”

Taako presses a finger to the tip of her nose, effectively silencing her. Her eyes go crossed as she stares at it.

“It’s all good,” he says simply. He drops his hand and goes back to work, ignoring the messed up one as if it wasn’t even there.

“…Oh,” Lucretia says, “Okay. Is… is everything okay?”

“Yes?” Taako says, hackles rising. He doesn’t need anyone prying, certainly not this nerdy human who barely saw the world before this mission.

Okay edgelord, calm down, Taako tells himself, Luce isn’t the guilty party here.

“I just… you only bake this much when there’s something going on,” Lucretia says, unaware of Taako’s internal monologue. “Usually it’s a party or something, but I remember that giant cake you made when Lup died one cycle.”

It’s been… about five decades now. Taako’s much older than that, but he’s never spent five decades with a person— besides Lup, that is. Still, it’s a long time. He should’ve guessed that in that time these people would get to know him.

“Yeah. Yeah okay,” Taako says, putting down his tube of frosting and bracing his hands on the countertop. “I’m… kinda goin’ through it right now.”

Lucretia finally moves to sit down in one of the island chairs. She eyes the cupcakes before her but doesn’t take one without permission from him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Taako says. No way. “I just need to get over it. …This stupid— this is stupid! I don’t need to be jealous, she’s my sister! She’s not gonna fuckin’ drop me because she’s got a boyfriend. I’m being stupid!”

Whoops. Making a promise in one breath and breaking it in the next, way to go Taako. He glares at the counter, at his frosting covered fingers, then up at Lucretia.

“I won’t tell anyone, promise,” she says, which Taako didn’t know he needed to hear. “But I think you should talk to her about it.” That, less so.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll just take advice from you, Only Child,” he says.

“I may have been born an only child but I’ve lived with Magnus for fifty years, I get what having siblings is like,” Lucretia says, with that gently joking tone of hers, “My Cain Instinct has never been better.”

When Taako doesn’t respond, she says, “Do you want coffee? I could go for some.”

He sees the olive branch, in all its caffeinated glory. Usually he’d push it away, snap it in half, even. But this time, he sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

Lucretia smiles as she stands, and Taako manages a small smile back.

<><><>

Raven’s Roost is in a constant state of sunrise. The early morning feel of being awake when no one else is yet defines Magnus’ house, and it’s a strangely good look on him. He’s grown up, with his memory of the century tied with his memory of Julia; Taako’s kind of pissed that she made him mature in a few short years when the six of them couldn’t do that in ten decades. “I guess that proves she’s one hell of a woman,” he said to Magnus, who agreed with a loving look in his eye.

Taako’s been couch surfing. A nomadic childhood plus a career in running away made him permanently restless. He’s long since worked through his jealousy of Barry and Lup’s relationship, but he’s now jealous of their work. Lup gets restless like him, but she can just go out, kick bad guy ass with her husband, and be back in time for dinner.

The reapers can teleport, so Taako’s traveling hasn’t impacted the four of them much. Whenever Taako misses one of them (or all of them…) he just picks up his stone and a portal (or three…) is carved into the air.

Right now, he’s staying at Raven’s Roost. After Wonderland, his legs have been slowly getting better, and he’s finding that he doesn’t need his wheelchair as often as usual. So Magnus is cooking him up a personalized pair of crutches that should get him back on his feet, literally.

There’s just one complication: Lucretia. (At some point she stopped being a sister and started being a complication and Taako’s getting used to it, even if it makes him want to break whatever he’s holding at the moment.) She’s staying in Raven’s Roost too, apparently this is her second home. Whenever she takes a break from her job of rebuilding the world they broke, she comes to be protected by her brother, and Magnus welcomes her with open arms. And of course he takes in Taako at the same time. Magnus is a man with a heart full of love, but a head empty of subtlety.

Taako watches the coffee pot do its thing, the smell of caffeine and drowsiness a perfect accompaniment to the dozens of windows letting in the morning light. Everything is still, and Taako’s too aware, so he notices when footsteps creep quietly into the room.

“Good morning,” she says, voice low. She’s careful not to be loud, but even her tendency to silence speaks volumes.

“Morning,” he says, much less careful. His tired voice cuts through air and stabs ears. His own twitch in annoyance at himself, but not everyone can carry themselves with as much gravitas as her.

He hears Lucretia take in a breath, about to speak, and she sighs. “Taako, I’m sorry.”

She’s said that a lot. They’ve fallen into a pattern of her trying to talk about it (it: an unspoken thing wafting between them like the smell of rotten garbage) and him ignoring her; she still hasn’t stopped trying every so often, but he still hasn’t stopped refusing her.

At his silence, she continues, rambling, “I don’t even know what to say, I know I shouldn’t have done it and I know I was cruel and I’m not asking you to forgive me or even like me but please I just want to talk.”

He doesn’t have to turn to see what she’s doing. Even when she looks and acts different, he can pick up her habits; he knows her too well. She’s probably holding up a hand, trying to hold onto a staff that isn’t there. He perfectly times his mental image of her dropping it in frustration with the sound of her hand colliding with the fabric of her clothes.

When he’s still silent, she says, “Please?”

“Do you want coffee? I could go for some,” he says. He’s already rising up in his floating chair to pull out two mugs, setting them on the counter.

“…I’d love some. Thank you.”

He looks over his shoulder at her as she sits at the island. The kitchen is similar to the one on the Starblaster; seeing as Magnus built the house himself, Taako guesses it isn’t coincidence. She offers him an uneasy smile and he manages a small smile back, unable to make eye contact.

“It’s two sugars, right?” he asks, as if he doesn’t have it memorized.

“Yes,” she says, as if she doesn’t know he has it memorized.

#🎶 this got out of haaaaand 🎶 and ended up 1300 words loooong 🎶#1300 exactly actually. fun!#taz #taz balance #taz fic #balance #taako #lucretia #loner squad #writing #ask #anon #this was cathartic! ty for requesting

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saiilorstars · 3 years

Text

Planning is Everything

***One-Shot*** // Masterlist to other stories

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Spencer x OFC

Summary: With the holidays around the corner, everyone starts making their plans to celebrate with their loved ones. Spencer has trouble making those plans when the one person he wants to plan with doesn't really know about his feelings. Maybe things can change when Penelope unexpectedly brings him to Aitana's house for a full day of Christmas decorations.

Taglist: @ocfairygodmother @maaaaarveeeeel @anotherunreadblog @stareyedplanet

[If you would like to be added to this OC’s taglist please let me know!]

Pronunciation of the OC’s name sounds like “eye-ta-na”

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The holidays were thought to be the best time of the year. Spencer supposed it was true if you had everybody around for the period. He heard countless plans that everyone at work were making. JJ of course was planning everything around her boys—she and Will were taking them out God knew where but it would be amazing. Emily and Luke had a few of those holiday-themed dates around the city. Matt was the same as JJ: it was all about the kids. Rossi differed in that he only had his wife to worry about. Tara and Penelope seemed to love the Christmas events in the city, they were out together whenever they could.

He...he couldn't find the energy to partake in any of those plans. He would like to but he had other places he would rather be, places he would really rather be.

No one was surprised when it one day slipped from him. They knew exactly who he wanted to spend all these Christmas days with. She was the only one who hadn't figured it out.

Aitana Serrano could be one of their best profilers but when it came to their own Dr. Spencer Reid, she was quite clueless. She really couldn't see it. And it wasn't like Spencer was a master at hiding it either. His skills at hiding his expressions and watching his body language took a dive when she was around. The good thing is that she was always around him anyways. She liked being around him and the reason for that wasn't that hard to figure out. Thankfully, the two had a very good set of friends watching out for them. They were always looking for ways to nudge them a little closer to each other.

And what better time than the holidays?

"Hey," Penelope tapped the back of Spencer's head, startling him out of his thoughts. He had paperwork set in front of him and he thought he would be able to finish them before going home. "I'm stopping by Aitana's tomorrow morning. She's getting her Christmas tree tomorrow and we're going to decorate it."

"Sounds like fun," Spencer smiled at her.

Penelope almost snorted at the little sad puppy smile that it was. "Don't be dumb, Wonder Boy, and come with me."

"What? No, no, Aitana invited you and..." He didn't want to just invite himself over if Aitana didn't even want him there. "It's your plans."

"Please, I doubt she would mind my plus one if it's little ole you," Penelope winked. "We leave by 10!" She wiggled her fingers goodbye as she headed out. Knowing him, he would need the whole night to get into the idea.

Maybe he did.

Spencer knew that Aitana wouldn't be angry, per say, if he dropped by with Penelope but comiing unannounced wasn't his favorite way to do things. In a perfect world, he would've had enough courage, enough creativity, to plan something out for just the two of them. She was a huge Christmas lover and would give anything to be the one who surprised her with the best Christmas-themed date. But those were just wishes. Reality was a whole other thing and he would have to stick with what he had.

And what he had with Aitana was only friendship.

~0~

Aitana was pulling out the branches of her Christmas tree when she heard the expected knocks on her door. "Come in!" she yelled, rather strained as she pulled apart two branches. She was working on the last part of the tree, the very top, and for some reason it was the hardest.

"We're here, we're here!" Penelope bustled into the living room with Spencer, both carrying bags in their hands. "Sorry, bit the snow makes everything and everyone go slower! And I brought a plus one, hope that's okay!" She cast a smirk at Spencer. Even with that confidence she boasted that it would really be alright with Aitana, Spencer still held his breath until Aitana gave the confirmation.

Aitana was standing on a step stool when they met her in the living room. Spencer couldn't think of a better way to start his day when he spotted her. She was entirely focused on a pesky branch. The snowy day outside hadn't interrupted her one bit. Her short curly hair was braided with a green ribbon to adorn it. Her blouse was a bit disheveled from her work but Spencer could still see the adorable little reindeer print it had. He was sure that her pants were only black because she couldn't find a matching set. She always pulled the best things out of her closet. She had good taste for everything.

Aitana beamed when she saw the pair but Penelope thought she was a very smart cookie who knew that said beam was mostly because of her plus one.

"Spencer!" she exclaimed. "Of course it's alright!"

Penelope's smirk on Spencer turned smug in record time. "Thought so."

He flushed. "R-really?"

Aitana was grinning ear to ear. "Yeah! I would have called you but I wasn't sure if you want to come over and decorate a tree...I didn't know if you thought it would be kind of boring."

"No," he said quickly. "Definitely not."

"Perfect! Oh, and I brought the stuff," Penelope gestured to the bags in their hands.

"Oh thanks," Aitana hopped off the steps and came to take them. "I would have gotten them myself but I had to wait for the Christmas tree to be delivered."

"No problem," Penelope said as she handed the bags over. Spencer did the same but it ultimately was too much and they had to bring the bags to the couch instead. Afterwards, both Penelope and Spencer were able to get rid of their heavy jackets. Aitana had her living room as warm and comfy as possible.

"So I set up the branches already," Aitana pulled back a few steps to motion towards the tree. "What do you guys think? I went with an artificial one. It's just easier and saves me a lot of money for years to come." She'd gotten a decent sized frosted tree with pine-cones and berries. "I mean, I know it's still fake but it looks real, doesn't it? The branches and all...?" She stuck the tip of her index nail between her teeth while she waited for the verdict.

"You know back when artificial trees were developed, they were made out of goose feathers dyed green?" Spencer said, figuring it would help her see that her tree looked much better.

On his other side, Penelope was looking at him like he'd lost it. Why would he say that?

Fortunately, Aitana just laughed. "Really?"

He nodded. "And then when they were made in America, the company actually used the same machinery they used to make toilet brushes but they were dyed green too."

Penelope wanted to smack her forehead. He just kept going and going...

Aitana's fingernail came back to her teeth in her nervous antic. "So...is my tree better then?"

Spencer smiled at her. "It's beautiful."

She beamed and clapped her hands together. "Great! So we can start!" She grabbed one of the bags and headed for the tree. She set the bag down on the floor and took a seat in front of it. "I went with the nude colors this year. I thought it would look nice with the whole frost thing I got going on here."

"It'll look wonderful, darling!" Penelope exclaimed then shoved another bag to Spencer, motioning with her head (in a manner that Spencer wondered if it pained her bones) to go to Aitana. She was already busy pulling out all the ornament boxes and mesh ribbons on the floor. When he finally took the bag and went to where Aitana was, Penelope dilly-dallied by the remaining bag. "Oh shoot!"

Aitana looked up from a box she'd been about to open. "What's wrong?"

Penelope was looking at her phone. "Plumbing problem in the apartment. I have to...I have to go, I'm so sorry."

Spencer raised an eyebrow at her. "It was fine when I picked you up..."

Penelope's smile was tight, almost snapping at him not to go poking holes into her fabulous explanation. "I can't plan these sort of things, can I?" Spencer's expression said she definitely could and would. "Aitana, I'm sorry—"

"No, no, it's alright," Aitana stood up from the floor. "Do you want us to take you back—"

"No! I'm good. I would rather see your marvelous tree picture when it's all done! I'm sure Spencer wouldn't mind helping you, right?"

Spencer wouldn't even bother getting upset for this trick. It was on him for not seeing it coming sooner. "Of course not..." But he would definitely have a talk with her for this later.

Penelope was pretty happy when she left, barely making it seem like she had that plumbing problem.

"Just you and me," Aitana said to Spencer when they heard the door close. "You sure you want to spend your day with me?"

"Yeah," Spencer said wholeheartedly. "Unless...unless you don't want to...?"

Aitana cocked her head to the side, her expression incredulous. "Of course I do! Let's do the ribbons, yeah?" She picked up a shiny dark brown mesh ribbon. "I was thinking I'd put it on the tree and sort of twist them around the branches. Makes it really nice afterwards."

"Yeah, of course," Spencer motioned her to start so he could see exactly how she wanted it.

She had to come up the step stool to show him how to start from the top. They carefully wrapped the ribbon around the tree until Aitana felt like it was secured properly. She then surprised Spencer with another mesh ribbon. It was cream colored with white sparkles. She giggled with his reaction. "It's just two of them, I promise."

Shortly afterwards, they opened up the boxes of ornaments. There were glittery dark browns, cream colors, and dazzling whites inside. Some baubles were larger than others, some seemed a little excessive. Spencer shyly pointed that out but Aitana assured him that it would all come together on the tree.

"I like things to show," she said as started putting some of the baubles on the bottom. "I don't mean excessive but, you know, I want it to be seen. What do you usually do for your tree?"

Spencer had started on the other side of the tree but still stood where he was able to see her. He was being as gentle as he could with her glass baubles. They had little things inside like autumn leaves and stems. It was something truly Aitana. "I don't really put one up."

"What!?" Aitana sounded as if she'd heard blasphemy. "What do you mean!?"

Spencer shrugged. "I live alone and...I don't really have a lot of room for one. Especially one this big," he made a gesture at hers.

Aitana chuckled for a moment. "Yeah, okay, your bookshelves do take up a lot of space...but not even one mini tree? You know they make small ones but not like the 3ft ones."

"I don't know..." Spencer didn't know how to put 'I don't know what to be festive about' in a sentence that didn't make him sound gloomy.

"Don't go Grinch on me, Spencer Reid," Aitana came up to his side. "Maybe after this, we can look for a small tree for you."

The idea of them spending yet another moment together left him with a warm face, especially when he realized it would a moment together where it was about him. Aitana smiled at his pensive face—at least that's what she thought it was—and wondered what type of tree he would like. She would do her best to find one that matched his apartment's style. They spent the rest of the time putting the ornaments around the tree and discussing what type of tree he would like.

"And you can pick out the color scheme for your baubles!" Aitana exclaimed. "It's my favorite part of the whole process: choosing what colors you want for the baubles. There's just so many, you know?"

"Mhm," Spencer nodded. "Did you know that the first baubles are thought to have originated from the idea of blown egg shells?"

Aitana's eyes widened. "Don't kid with me..."

"I'm not," Spencer raised his hands in front of him.

She shook her head with a laugh. "Do not stand there and tell me that my baubles came from egg shells!"

"Well, it's thought to be!"

Aitana set her hands on her hips, raising her head to meet his gaze. "Egg shells?"

"Yes."

"Blown egg shells?"

"Aha."

Aitana wanted to stay serious but her lips were quirking into a smile and before she knew it, she lost against another laugh. "Spencer, I just can't believe half the things you say sometimes!"

"I wouldn't lie to you," Spencer said, meaning it entirely.

Aitana went for one of the last baubles, a large one, and came up beside him. "Yeah?" She looked at him while her fingers tried leaving the hook of her bauble hanging on a branch. "So you would tell me if my decorations were bad?" She meant it as a joke but Spencer still nodded with his most serious face.

"But I wouldn't have to because you always have a good eye for decorating. You'd never decorate something badly."

She smiled at his kind words. Doing so and getting lost with his own smile, her fingers slipped over the bauble's hook. "Oh no!" She dove to catch it at the same time that Spencer did. They ended up grabbing it with their hands over each other's. "Nice catch!" Aitana exclaimed when they straightened up on their feet.

"Yeah, uh, I never had those..." Spencer flushed with the realization their hands hadn't moved apart. He was never a handsy person but right now he couldn't find anything better than this. Her hands were like soft feathers cushioning his skin. Aitana was smiling at him, albeit shyly if he'd paid a little more attention. In his defense, he was trying to make sure his hands weren't as clammy as he thought they were.

"Should we, uh, put the bauble on the tree?" Aitana timidly asked him. She knew he wasn't that thrilled with closeness so, as reluctant as she was, she pulled her hands from the bauble.

"Where did you, uh...?" Spencer looked back at the three.

"Right there," she pointed to the branch she'd been working on. She watched him fondly as he set the bauble right where she wanted it and on the first try. "You're pretty good at this," she said afterwards. "Might ask you to do this with me every year." Wouldn't that be nice? It would be very nice. She had luck this year that Penelope had taken him with her this year because she would've never had the courage to ask Spencer herself. She was afraid she'd bore him to death with this nonsense of hers.

"I'd like that," Spencer surprised her with his words. He was very aware of what he'd said for that he found it hard to look at her for a few seconds.

"You wouldn't get bored?" she asked, pretending to work with a bauble that most certainly did not need work on. "Because I know my decorations take a long time. I take it very serious, as you can see. My brothers always did the tree really quickly when we were younger. Thought they were the fastest decorators too."

"The world record for the fastest tree decorating was 36.89 seconds," Spencer said, "Sharon Juantuah in Essex, UK had a 100 lights, 2 lengths of tinsel and 15 baubles when she was done."

"Really?" Aitana raised an eyebrow. "Only 15 baubles?"

Spencer nodded. "Yup."

"Mm, I like having more..."

"And it looks wonderful."

Aitana brought her fingernail to her teeth, cheeks once again threatening to turn pink. "You're too sweet, you know that?"

It was Spencer's turn to blush. She thought he was sweet. He was actually saying the right things to her. It gave him a sense of hope that maybe one day he might actually say the right thing to get a date with her.

When all the baubles were set accordingly and after Aitana did a quick check to make sure that no two colors were right next to each other, she went back to the bags. She soon realized that Penelope had left her own additions in the bag. She should've known with that woman. "Penelope left me a couple things," she pulled out a box of pine sticks. "It may be an artificial tree but it's going to smell like a real one. You want to put those in?"

"Yeah," Spencer came to take the box and returned to the tree.

"Oh my God, Pen," he heard her say afterwards with a soft laugh to follow. He looked back to see Aitana taking out a mistletoe from the bag. She was shaking her head. "What does she think I'm going to be doing these days?"

Spencer preferred not to voice those thoughts. He cleared his throat and offered her an awkward shrug before he put all of his focus on the pine cone sticks.

"If I don't put this up, I won't hear the end of it," Aitana decided it was best to just go with it. She found the first spot to hang it from which turned out to be the living room's threshold. "I'm going to laugh when she has to give Luke a kiss."

At that, Spencer freely laughed. Aitana looked back to see him having to pause with the pine sticks in order to laugh. It was rare to see him like that. Aitana wished it wasn't like that but given their line of work, it was typical.

Before she returned to the bags, she decided to start up a some music for the background. "Do you mind?" she asked when Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy started from her phone.

"Course not." Spencer watched her sway back to the bags on the couch. He was smiling at her but when Aitana happened to look his way and caught him, he was immediately flustered.

She laughed when he dove his gaze to the branches in front of him. "I'm a whole show, huh?" She may have been embarrassed, her cheeks were a pink tinge. Anyone else would've said she was crazy but that would never leave Spencer Reid's mouth. He wasn't like that.

"It's okay," Spencer said quietly while he waited for his face to calm down with the heat.

Eventually, she returned to dig through the bags. There weren't many things left anymore besides the little ornaments that would go around the house and the tree topper. She started pulling out the tree topper when she noticed something different amongst the remaining ornaments. It was a small box with an adorable little red ribbon over it. She left the tree topper to take the box up instead.

"What's this?" she pulled the lid off and found one more ornament tucked inside. It was wooden crafted with 'A. D. T.' carved in the middle. There was a smaller carving of what seemed like a wrapped candy on the bottom right. A red and white plaid ribbon was attached to its top. "Oh, now this is nice!" She turned around to Spencer and showed him the ornament. "Did Penelope get this?"

Spencer was shifting on his feet for some reason. "Um, no, not...not really. I did." Aitana froze for a second. He now had undivided attention. "I was going to...to give it to you at work but then Penelope invited me here so I thought...I thought it would be—be better here."

Aitana looked at the ornament again with a new sentiment. "This is beautiful, Spencer. Is it hand-carved?" That was a stupid question to ask when she could see it plain as day but right now, her vocabulary wasn't at its strongest. Her heart speedy heartbeats were certainly a sign of that.

"Y-yeah," Spencer nodded. "Your initials. Aitana Dulce Serrano."

"And the piece of candy on the bottom..." Aitana chuckled at the carving. "Dulce means..."

"Candy," Spencer finished, though a better translation for him was 'sweet' because that's exactly what she was. "It's like a signature for your tree, cos...cos it's all made by you."

Aitana felt her entire face warm up. She had no idea what to do with herself at that moment. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She did have an idea of what she wanted to do but she didn't want to invade Spencer's personal space. "You are..." She couldn't even that sentence.

Spencer smiled in what he was sure was awkwardly. He didn't have anything better than that. "Do you like it?" His entire happiness may be depending on it.

Aitana almost laughed incredulously. "Spencer, I love it! The only reason I'm not over there hugging you to death is because I'm not sure if you'd want me up in your personal space!"

Spencer straightened up with a clearing of his throat. "I wouldn't...mind..." He was actually proud of himself for being able to say that in one go, even more when Aitana ran up to him to give him that hug. She was so warm and, ironically, smelled sweet. He had no idea how long the hug would last so he would soak up every second he had.

"I have to find something amazing to give you now," Aitana said, her arms still tightly wrapped around his neck. "I don't know what it is but rest assured that it will be amazing!"

Spencer laughed. "You don't have to. I just know that you love your decorations so I figured having a personalized one would fit perfectly with your themes."

Aitana felt a rush of butterflies thinking about the fact he thought of her and her decorating nonsense. She was really lucky to have him in her life. She may have snugged to him without even noticing.

Spencer noticed. He noticed straightaway. He swallowed hard and had to put every last bit of his focus on making sure he didn't make this awkward. He didn't really know what to do but he was sure the main thing was not to make it uncomfortable. This was the closest he'd ever been to Aitana and he wanted to do it right. "

"I'm going to put this right up front," Aitana eventually pulled away but her eager smile was enough to ward off any of Spencer's doubts. She was enthralled with his gift. "Can you get the tree topper for me?"

"Yeah," he nodded and went for the bag on the couch. By the time he had the tree topper, Aitana had already placed the ornament right at the center. It was one of the first things anyone would notice. He couldn't help his swell of pride seeing it there. Maybe some part of him hoped that Aitana would think of him every time she saw the ornament.

"Looks perfect!" She stepped back beside him.

"Tree topper?" He held it for her. She gingerly took it into her hands and pulled out part of the ribbon. It was a huge ribbon bow in a dark brown and cream color, just like the rest of her tree.

"I want to put it," she said with a giggle. "At home, I always got to put the star. It was easy to do that when you're the only girl in your family."

"You were sneaky, then," Spencer smirked.

"Yup!" She headed for the step stool with Spencer right behind her. "You tell me if it's crooked, alright?"

Spencer stepped back to instruct her what side she needed to tilt the topper should it need to be. It was bemusing to watch her strain to pull it after he asked her if she wanted him to do it. She wasn't as tall but she was going to get the job done one way or another. To her credit, ten minutes later she did it.

"It looks good?" Aitana called. She was giggling as Spencer held his hands out in a frame motion. "What's the doctor's verdict?"

"Perfect!" He dropped his arms to his sides.

Aitana clapped happily. "Then I think we are done!" Spencer agreed and walked over to her. "With the tree because my house still needs a little Christmas upgrade!"

"I know for a fact that Penelope brought a whole lot of stuff for that," Spencer said.

"Yeah, but we can take a break," Aitana shrugged. She went down the step stool only to trip on the last one.

"Woah!" Spencer's reflexes were shockingly good because he caught her on time. "Did you get a little too excited there?"

"M-maybe..." Aitana was flat-out embarrassed and it showed in her cut-up laugh. Her hands rested on his shoulders, gripping them from the fall. "I just really love Christmas, if you haven't noticed." She raised her head and found they were incredibly close this time.

"I noticed," Spencer smiled softly at her. "And I think it's nice that our work hasn't tainted your holidays."

Aitana's eyebrows knitted together. "Is that why you don't put up a Christmas tree? Because of everything that we see?"

Spencer didn't immediately answer but his expression was doing it for him. There were images that just didn't fade so quickly. "It's not the entire reason but...kind of..."

"Oh, and me trying to force you into buying a tree and decorations doesn't help."

"No!" Spencer was quick to say and at the same time pulled his hands off her body. "You being in the holiday spirit is so nice to see! It makes me so happy knowing that your happiness hasn't been spoiled by work. And I would definitely like to put up a tree in my house, if it's with you. I like spending time with you. You make everything better, you make everything...sweet."

Aitana fiddled with her fingers in front of her. "You really think that?"

Spencer panicked for a moment when he realized that he had said all that. His first reaction—his instinctive reaction—was to make up something to downplay his words but Aitana seemed hopeful. She was hopeful for something and that something had to be about his words. He didn't want to be the reason her hope dwindled.

"Well yeah," he shrugged. "You're fun to be around with. Everyone always has plans for this time of the year and...it makes me wish I could plan things with you."

Aitana felt the air leave her for a second there. Her fingers pulled apart from each other and her right hand seemed to want to point at herself but her nerves were too much to do it. She glanced over her shoulder to her Christmas tree then back to Spencer. "So...you'd want to...keep doing this?"

By this point, Spencer saw no more reason to hide. He already said what he wanted to. "Yeah, and-and maybe go out to see, uh, the Christmas festivals. Get some hot chocolate maybe? I-I know there's a mini-concert happening this weekend. All the classics will be sang..."

Aitana chuckled while Spencer slowly trailed off. "Last Christmas?"

"Yeah, I-I'm sure that'd be one of them..."

Aitana folded her arms over her chest and stayed quiet for a few seconds (which seemed agonizingly long for Spencer). Panicking came easy to him thinking she was deciding how to reject him. "Could you...could you take like 10 steps back?"

"What?" Spencer looked down at the floor as if he'd find something there.

"Scratch that, 12 steps." Aitana motioned him to do it.

Though he was completely lost, he went ahead and took the 12 steps back. "...nine...ten...eleven...twelve." He looked around to figure out what was so special about the spot. When he met Aitana's gaze, she was biting her index fingernail again. What was she nervous about? "I'm not sure what to do now..."

"That's a first." She dropped her hand to her side then rushed up to him.

He caught her in his arms just as she threw hers around his neck and kissed him. Once more, the instinct came back and this time it was telling Spencer to hold Aitana tightly and kiss her back. He pressed her body against him and followed her sweet lips in whatever way they went. He knew it was impossible but he was sure that she tasted like actual sugar. He would've laughed if it didn't threaten to end their moment. He didn't want anything to ruin it. Aitana's hands were at the nape of his neck toying with his hair. Her touch was soft like he knew it would be. They'd touched before but nothing like this which meant everything he felt was new and better.

When they pulled apart, only slightly though, Aitana smiled up at him. "That was better than I thought it'd be," she admitted. She giggled with the clear blush on Spencer's face. She pointed a finger up and when Spencer followed it he found the mistletoe that she'd hung earlier.

"Ooh..." That's why he'd taken the steps backwards. "Clever girl."

Aitana shrugged proudly. "First kiss under a mistletoe...how could I let the opportunity pass us by?"

"About what I said..." Spencer stopped when she placed a finger over his lips.

"I'd love to go wherever you want. Anywhere. A walk, a festival, putting up a tree at your place..." She pulled her finger from his lips and fixed his cardigan. "Just tell me when."

"Tomorrow?" Spencer tried his luck. "Uh, there's a live reading for Christmas books. You said you like—"

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas!" Aitana practically bounced on her feet. She was an utter child for these things and yet he still wanted to give her more events like those? She was really lucky. "Oh Spencer, you have no idea what you started."

"I think I have a pretty good idea," he said, smiling softly at her. "I promise I won't be a Grinch."

Aitana laughed. "You could never be," she cupped his face. "I'm just over-the-top for the holidays."

"I love it. I really do. I want to make those plans that everyone always makes. But, just with you."

"Well, we can take a break here and make some hot chocolate in the kitchen...I have marshmallows. And the sugar."

"Dulce," he enunciated her middle name in a way that left her puddy in his arms.

She leaned on him with the biggest grin on her face. "Hot chocolate?"

"Absolutely," he nodded.

"And then we can start making those plans," she promised him.

Spencer already had at least a dozen plans lined up in his head. His arms wrapped around her again. He could finally do that and more. "I love the sound of that." They met for another kiss that delayed their hot chocolate for at least another five minutes.

#ocappreciation #criminal minds #spencer reid #cm #fd: criminal minds #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid fics #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds fics #cm fics #cm imagines #oc: aitana serrano

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mosylufanfic · 3 years

Note

“If we’re going to keep ending up in life-or-death situations, trust that I will save you every single time.” killervibe

I know how much you HATE angst, my friend, but . . . ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Also Caitlin has a house now. Because I say so.

Promise Kept

The rain pattered on her umbrella. Caitlin focused on the sound, which was not at all like the rain option on the white-noise machine in her bedroom. She wished she were there, listening to her white-noise machine, wrapped in her blankets, alone in the dark.

Not here, at the cemetery, listening to the last words of the funeral service.

The rain started coming down harder, and she focused on the water running off the polished wooden surface of the casket as it waited to be lowered into the ground. She remembered standing like this at another funeral, the wind cutting cold through her thin dress coat, Cisco's warm bulk next to her under the umbrella.

Now she was alone under the umbrella, and Cisco was in the casket. Which was now being lowered into the ground. She found her breath strangled in her throat. Cisco would hate that. Hate being buried, where he couldn't move, couldn't breathe . . .

Someone nudged her. She focused with a jolt, and Iris held out a rose, dripping rainwater.

Right.

Right. They were supposed to . . .

She took it and a thorn that the florist had missed jabbed her thumb, a bright spark of pain in the middle of the grey numbness. She almost dropped it, but managed to fling it instead, vaguely in the direction of the casket. It hit the edge of the open grave and tumbled onto the wooden top with a splat.

She let out a breath that was almost a sob. She wanted the flower back. She wanted to do it over again. Better.

She wanted to do so many things over again, better.

People were starting to leave. The funeral was done, and they were turning and leaving Cisco there, in the casket, in the soggy ground, alone.

If the funeral had been bad, the reception afterward was worse. Caitlin sat on a hard chair in the corner of the room, holding a sandwich and a cookie for the sake of having something to do with her hands. She wasn't hungry. She hadn't been hungry since -

"How did it happen?"

"Some kind of accident. Nobody's really clear."

"God, how awful. He was so young."

"His whole life ahead of him."

"His poor mother. She had two healthy sons and lost them both."

Caitlin looked up, across the room. Cisco's mom was weeping again, another woman holding her. A sister, maybe. One of Cisco's aunts.

She lurched up from her chair and grabbed her coat. She couldn't stay here, listening to people speculating on what had happened, when she knew it was all her fault.

She was out the door and heading to her car when someone called out, "Caitlin, wait."

She stopped and turned. Cecile came up to her, eyes kind. "Are you going?"

She nodded jerkily.

The other woman took her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Nobody blames you."

She twisted out of her comforting grasp. "They should."

He'd told her once, “If we’re going to keep ending up in life-or-death situations, trust that I will save you every single time.”

SHe couldn't remember the occasion. It had been a couple of years ago after they started helping Barry with the Flash, and she'd gotten into some kind of danger, and Cisco had gotten her out of it.

She remembered his expression, though, smiling but serious. A promise.

At the time, she'd smiled back and hugged him. She should have stopped him. Should have told him, If rescuing me would mean your death, don't do it. Promise me. Don't ever do it.

But she hadn't, and he had, and now . . .

She went through the motions of getting showered and changed for bed as if she were a robot. The rain still drummed on the roof, occasionally punctuated by a sulky roll of thunder. Huddled under her blankets, she shivered. She'd been cold since the cemetery, although she rarely got cold anymore.

She picked up a book and tried to read herself to sleep, but the words slid and twisted out of her mind. After three attempts at the same page of a book she'd read at least ten times before, she gave up and switched off the light.

After Ronnie had died, all she'd wanted to do was sleep. But now, the comfort of unconsciousness eluded her. She lay curled under her weighted blanket, staring into the dark, grief throbbing inside her like a broken tooth.

The rain was coming down harder now. She focused on the storm, on counting the seconds between the flickers of brightness and the roll of thunder. They were getting closer. The teeth of the storm must be right over -

KER-CRASH

For an instant, her whole bedroom lit up white and simultaneously, a crack of thunder rattled her bones.

In the next instant, light and noise were both gone and she was lying in the dark again, listening to the rain, eyes wide.

Then a huge creaking crash just outside her window brought her upright. "What - " she said aloud, reaching for her reading lamp. But the room remained dark, even when she twisted the switch again and then a third time.

Dammit. She must have lost power.

She fumbled around for her phone, unhooking it from the dead charger, and kicked her blankets aside. Making her way to the window, she leaned on the glass and squinted out into the storm.

"Dammit," she said aloud. She couldn't make out anything clearly through the rain.

She stuffed her bare feet into a pair of rain boots and grabbed her raincoat from its hook by the side door. Taking the strong flashlight that Cisco had given her when she'd moved in, she opened the back door and peered out, squinting through the rain.

Oh, no, it was the whole tree.

The lightning had split it down the middle, both sides tipping away from each other, a small fire among its leaves getting rapidly doused by the rain. She swore for the third time and started to step off the porch to get a closer look.

A hand clamped around her upper arm and a voice shouted in her ear Stop!

She dropped the flashlight and froze. Had she heard -

No.

It wasn't possible.

Somehow, her flashlight hadn't gone out when she dropped it, and the beam of light speared across the yard, rain glinting as it fell through.

It rested cockeyed on the steps at her feet, but as she watched, it rolled. Just a little. Just enough to make the beam sweep slowly across her yard, finally coming to rest in the branches of the tree -

And the thick, broken power line tangled in them, deadly as a black mamba.

She stared at it for ten seconds, heart beating in her throat. She looked down at the flashlight.

No. Too much of it was metal, and her fingers might brush the ground when she picked it up. Best not to risk it.

Very, very carefully, she shuffled backward into her house, calculating the distance from her door to the downed power line. Thirty feet? Maybe forty? She shuffled backward a few more steps just to be safe and collapsed into a kitchen chair.

She reached in the pockets of her raincoat and fumbled out her phone, looking up a number on the internet before dialing.

"Central City Gas and Power," said the voice on the other end. "How can I help you tonight?"

"Hello," she said, her voice very level. "My name is Caitlin Snow, I live at 648 Bonneville Way, and one of my trees was struck by lightning about five minutes ago. When it went down, it took a power line with it."

"Did you touch it, ma'am?"

"No. No, I didn't."

"Okay. Is the tree or the power line in the road?"

"I don't - I'm not sure. Mostly in my yard, I think. My power is out, though."

"Yes, I'm seeing an outage in that whole area. Do you have children or pets?"

"No."

"Okay. Due to safety regulations, we won't be able to get somebody out there until this storm passes. Might be tomorrow morning. Are you going to be okay overnight?"

"Yes. I have emergency candles."

"Stay at least thirty-five feet away from the power line and the tree. in fact, I'd stay out of your yard completely. Even seemingly dead power lines can deliver lethal doses of electricity, and you don't even have to be touching it."

"Yes, yes. I know. I have - I had a friend who worked with electricity a lot and he always made sure I knew all that. I'll stay inside."

She hung up and texted her neighbors about the tree. Then she set her phone face down on the table and stared into the darkness.

Without all the various lights and indicators, and no street lights beaming in from outside, the dark was velvety and all-encompassing. But after a few moments, her eyes adjusted enough to register variations in the depth that resolved into washed-out shades of her kitchen. The white of her microwave, the paleness of her counter, the darkness of the other chairs around the table.

She registered motion out of the corner of her eye, but when she turned her head, it was just the curtains at her kitchen window. Fluttering.

But the air conditioning had gone out with the rest of the power.

She breathed in and out. "Who's there?"

Frost shifted under her skin, but for some reason, she pushed her powered side down. There had been something about that hand, that voice . . .

She swallowed twice and on the second time, managed to say, "Who's there? Why did you stop me?"

For a moment, the dappled shadows by the kitchen window could have been a human form. An achingly familiar human form . . .

I made a promise, remember?

FINIS

#Caitlin Snow #Cisco Ramon #killervibe #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #celebration prompt party #cw death #angst #grief #the flash #hedgiwithapen

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missmonkeymode · 3 years

Text

You sit on a root of the willow tree guarding your mother’s grave, weeping into the rags that should’ve been beautiful. This was your only day to live, to forget about your terrible life as you dance the night, but of course the world would deny you of such a privilege. You’re Cinderella after all, too dirty to be presentable, too callused to be held, and too miserable to do anything but cry.

You sniffle as you stare down, watching the grass be watered by your tears. What a terrible life you live. You sigh as your curl your arms around your legs. “Maybe this is a dream,” You hopelessly mutter to yourself. “I-I’ll wake up any minute, and I’ll be in my bed, and my dress will be fine, and Margret wouldn’t have given me impossible chores, and my sisters wouldn’t have been in my room and-.” You feel a wave of despair crash over you as your voice cracks. “And- Today would’ve only been a nightmare.”

“Dreams are a fickle thing, are you sure you want that?”

You whip your head around and spy the source of the voice. WIthin the dangling branches, you see a figure flitting between them, slow enough to spot, but fast enough to be indistinguishable.

“P… Pardon?” You say, wiping the tears from your face.

“Dreams aren’t as grand as people think they are. All form and no substance. All frosting and no cake.” The figure parts the curtain of sticks, revealing themself. They’re small, about 3 feet tall if you had to guess. They have long and delicate limbs, swaying in time with the breeze. Their skin is as dark as the tree they were hiding in, you’re sure if they were to stay quiet you wouldn’t have even noticed them. “I’m sure if you had your wish, nothing would have changed.”

You frown. “That’s not a nice thing to say to someone who’s sad.”

“I wasn’t trying to comfort you, my dear.” The figure emerges, their beetle-like wings humming behind them. They’re smiling from ear to ear, though it never reaches their fly-like eyes. They tilt their head, their antenna twitching to and fro.

“Why are you here?”

“I asked you first.”

“And I asked you second. I don’t see why order has to do with answers.”

You sigh. “That’s…. Fair. I’m here because I’m sad. And Margrot ruined my chances to go to the ball.”

“Oh,” they say, more intrigued. “And why is that?”

“Why is- She ruined my dress! She left on the carriage with Charlotte and Maryam! I can’t walk to the ball with a dress like this!” You gesture to your rags. “I don’t even know why I still have this thing on, it’s barely even a dress.”

The figure hums. “But it’s still a dress. Interesting.” The figure lands next to you and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. “Do you mind if I have your name? I feel as though if we were to continue this conversation, it’s only fair if I know who I’m speaking to.”

You scoot away from the figure. “Cinderella.”

They smile wider, her eyes still as distant and calculated as it was when you first spotted them. “Clever girl,” They say, a bit of malice reaching their tone, “Giving me a name that isn’t fully yours. Who taught you how to be this cunning around the fae?”

“M… My father. He always told me to be careful with my name.” You look down. “I don’t think there’s anyone alive who knows my real name, besides myself.”

“Your father has taught you well.”

You look up to the figure. “Why are you here?”

They grin, flashing a row of dark, pointed teeth. “Well, isn’t it obvious? I’m here for you.”

“Why me?”

“Because I’m your godmother after all. I’d be a terrible mother if I didn’t make sure you were fine.”

You blanch. “Godmother? How in the world are you my godmother?”

“It’s quite simple. WHen you were born, your father came to me and we struck a deal. He said that if I ensured that you were fine if anything happened to him, then I would be your godmother.”

“If I was fine?!” You stutter. “I’m not fine! I haven’t been fine since my father died!”

“Yes, you have.”

“No I haven’t! Margrot has been working me to the bone every day! She feeds me the scraps of the meal I make for her! She hardly ever lets me sleep, she doesn’t let me see my friends, I haven’t had a bath in who knows how long, and she treats me like I'm a automaton!"

She tilts her head. “But you have food. There’s a roof above your head, and you’re not sick.”

You throw your hands up. “But I’m miserable!”

Your godmother hums. “Ah, I see. I can change that if you wish.”

You look at her with hope and desperation. “You can?”

“I can. Do you want this?”

You hesitate. You remember the words that your father used to whisper into your ear whenever you would walk past your mother’s tree: ‘Never trust the fae. They will promise you the world and the stars, but you will pay for it.’

But your father never foretold that you would be in such a terrible situation, did he?

“Yes,” You breathe. “I want this to end.”

Your godmother nods. She conjures a thick stick from nowhere, her head barely making it over the tip of the stick. “Do you like it?” She asks, a hand on the willow’s roots. “It was a gift from your mother.” You stay silent and your godmother humphs. “It’s rude to not respond to your godmother. Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

You flinch. “She died during childbirth.”

“Ah yes, I forgot,” She says, without a drop of compassion in her voice.

Your godmother buzzes towards you, her wings beating against her back so fast that it turns into a blur. She stops mere inches away from your face and it takes all of you willpower not to flinch away. She lifts her hand, her fingers hovering over your cheek. Her eyes bears into yours.

“You must promise me that you must return to this tree before the clock strikes 12. If you promise me this, I will give you an escape. I will give you jewelery, a dress, a carriage, and most importantly, anonymity. Tell me you promise.”

“Um-”

“Tell me!”

“I promise!”

Your godmother grins a wicked grin. “A deal has been made.” She backs up and you let out a breath that you didn’t notice you were holding. She takes the branch in between her hands and spins it in her hands. It spins and spins and spins, twirling in her hand like a ballerina. You follow it with your eye as it spins around you. It turns and twirls, growing and expanding, enveloping you. In a second, the branch turns into a dress, a dark brown thing with green accents, with shoes as dainty as your malnourished figure. You feel something slimy creep onto your face, almost as if a bear is licking you. You bring a finger to your cheek, it returns covered in a clear paste as thick as sap.

"There you go dear," Your godmother cooed. "Everything you asked for and more."

You look up. "Where's the carriage?"

"In the pumpkin patch." She smiles. "Now, I will tell you this one last time: You must be here by the 12th bell strike. You promised me after all."

A shiver creeps down your spine. "Yes, I know." You gather your skirt in your hands. "Well…. I'll be off now. I'll see you later, I guess." With a wave, you treck down the hill and head to the pumpkin patch.

~~~

You really meant to leave sooner, you swear. But, it's just…

The ball was so magical. The music was light, your feet seemingly lighter, and gosh, the prince was just so… charming. You just lost track of time, but can you blame yourself?

The prince likes you- no, the future king thinks you're stunning. Nobody has ever thought you were stunning before. Nobody has ever thought anything about you before. And then you two squirreled yourselves away, running to the royal gardens to grab some time alone. But you had no time, did you, and by the time you realized, the clock was already chiming.

You decided to run by foot, kicking your shoes off to make you go faster. The carriage was too far away, the clock would've finished by the time she reached it. Your skirt's gathered in your hands, folds slipping from your grip as quickly as you grab it.

The clock chimes for the nonth time as your feet slap against the forest ground. Your heart races as the truth echoes within your mind. You're not going to make it. You know you're not going to make it, but you have to try. You must try. Your mind knows the truth, but you can't believe it.

The clock chimes for the tenth time. The sound reverberates into your core. You beg yourself to run faster, but you're running as fast as you can.

The clock chimes for the eleventh time, soft laughter following in its footsteps. You trip over a rock, falling hard on your side. You quicky get up, ignoring how tree roots rip and tear your skirt.

The clock chimes for the last time.

The forest is silent.

She holds onto her skirt, a desperate lifeline in this nightmare.

"Th-this is a dream," She stutters, "A-a nightmare. I'll… I'll wake up at any minute, and I'll be in my bed, and I'll be f-fine. The fae would only be fiction, a-and I wouldn't have gone to the ball." She takes a shallow breath. "Today- Today would’ve only been a nightmare."

She hears laughter steadily growing louder and louder, and she turns to run.

"Dreams are a fickle thing," She hears someone sing. "They’re all form and no substance. And no matter how much you wish, you still broke your promise!" A hand grabs her wrist. She screams as she's whisked away into the forest.

A moment later I emerge from the forest, my dress in tatters. I have to get home before my stepmother realizes I was at the ball.

#cinderella #short story #fairy tales #idk what else to tag heres what i was talking about last night #hope you enjoy!

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quirkykayleetam · 4 years

Text

Cursed Silence

A 3.6K Witcher Sick Fic with Ill Jaskier, Hurt and Worried Geralt and some fun plot stuff of my own; a mild reinvisioning of Bottled Appetites if Yennifer hadn’t been involved, but Jaskier’s life was endangered another way. Behold! The AO3 link is now here!

“Oh gods, this is it! I am paying the price for my life as a libertine. Luck and mercy have deserted me and I am now doomed to pain forever!”

Jaskier winced and covered his eyes as Geralt pulled back the curtain from their bedraggled upstairs room.

“See?” he moaned “Even the light assaults me cruelly! And sound, the call of my life, is nothing but agony.”

“You would think you’d shut up then,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier tried to sit up and tut in affront, but only ended up falling back to the blankets instead.

Geralt glance at his fri… traveling companion. Judging by the amount he drank last night, Geralt figured he had a splitting headache and a roiling stomach. It would pass. It wouldn’t pass without dramatics--that was Jakier--but it would pass all the same.

“We only have the room ‘til lunch,” Geralt said, moving to leave. If he slammed the door a little harder than necessary to hear Jaskier groan, that was his own business.

…

Geralt had to admit that Jaskier played the part of the hungover rake well. When he stumbled down the stairs of the end, his doublet was artfully unbuttoned to show just the right amount of chest hair. He blanched at the sausage Geralt offered him, opting instead for a broth so watered down it smelled more like bowl than soup.

Throughout the meal, he kept stealing glances at Geralt. The Witcher tried to ignore him, but finally the tension became too much.

“What.”

“We don’t exactly have pressing matters in the South, do we? We’re just moving on because that’s what we do. More people to see, more evil to fight, more good to do for the delight of the land!”

“What are you getting at?”

“We couldn’t, perhaps, linger one more day to nurse the headache of a dear, famous bard who needs his beauty rest to sing the praises of the White Wolf of Rivia?”

Geralt huffed.

“Fine. But it’s your coin.”

He turned to leave, wondering if there was a secluded area close enough by for hunting. With Jaskier sick, they would make slower time when they did leave and would need more provisions for the journey ahead.

He also did not fail to notice the small smile on the lithe bard’s face even as Jaskier sunk further onto the bench. Geralt hoped Jaskier could get some rest before he face-planted into his soup.

…

“Jaskier!”

The next morning Geralt jerked the curtain so hard it ripped off its rung. The Witcher threw it at Jaskier, pole and all, who barely groaned as it hit him in the stomach.

Jaskier was doing better, Geralt thought the night before, watching the bard cavort wildly. Sure, he stayed closer to the fire than normal and seemed to have some trouble remembering the words to his old songs, but when Geralt turned in for the night, Jaskier remained downstairs. Geralt’s last look saw the bard downing a toxic-smelling red concoction the innkeeper handed him while scanning the crowd with crazy hazel eyes.

“Geralt, I’m dying.”

“Dying in a grave you dug yourself, staying up half the night with a belly full of booze!”

“I happened to mention my ills to the innkeep,” Jaskier moaned. “Aches and pains, that kind of thing. He said he had just the cure: something about mulled wine and herbs. It numbed everything, Geralt, and I didn’t want the pain to come back.”

“Yeah, alcohol does that. Numbs you now, makes you feel it tomorrow.”

He stalked to his saddle bags, feeling Jaskier’s pleading eyes on his back.

“No,” he said.

“What?”

“No, we are not staying another day for you to drink yourself to another oblivion. I’m getting Roach. Be downstairs in an hour or I will leave you.”

This time when Geralt slammed the door, he could have sworn he heard Jaskier sob.

Geralt was beginning to pace when Jaskier finally stumbled down the stairs. His clothes were rumpled but decent, his eyes glazed over but open. The biggest sign of his distress was his hair. Usually perfectly styled, it was now ruffled in ways that made Geralt think of nights spent in sex and debautery.

When Geralt slept badly, his white hair stuck to the side of his face in greasy strips like Roach had licked them. Of course that wouldn’t happen to Jaskier. Half asleep, bow-legged, and weaving from side to side, he simply looked beautifully dispossessed.

As the pair began their travels, Jakier shot a wistful shot at Geralt’s horse. Sure, the swaying movement of riding wouldn’t help his stomach, but he would give up all his gold and probably his trousers to rest on the animal rather than treading on his unsteady feet.

Geralt noticed.

“Don’t touch Roach,” he said.

Jaskier groaned.

…

Blessed silence.

Geralt never thought he would have too much of it. Now he had to glance behind him every two moments just to see if Jaskier was still on his feet.

To his credit, the bard was still keeping up. Geralt slowed his usual pace to give the man a break, noticing when Jaskier’s moans turned into whimpers and then heavy breathing, but he kept going. If Jaskier was going to make his life harder with drink, Geralt wasn’t going to entirely ease his pain. Jaskier did not complain. He shouldered his lute and limped after the Witcher, his face set in determination and hurt.

They were deep in the forest, when Geralt suddenly heard Jaskier slow.

“Ger...Geralt...I can’t…”

Geralt swung off Roach immediately, ready to relent and let the bard ride the rest of the way, but he immediately stopped.

Jaskier was a trembling mess. It was cold outside, chill enough to leave frost on the tips of branches and leaves, but the bard sweated through his jacket. He huddled doubled over. With one hand, he clutched at his throat.

“Can’t breathe, Ger...I don’t know…”

With that, Jaskier’s eyes rolled back into his head. Geralt barely caught him before he fell to the ground.

It wasn’t just drunkenness; Geralt could tell as soon as he touched Jaskier’s paling skin. The bard was burning up from the inside. Even mostly unconscious, he whimpered each time Geralt had to shift Jaskier in his grip.

Cursing, Geralt didn’t know whether to spend more time settling Jaskier on Roach’s back or dashing off to get help.

There wasn’t a mage or a medic in the town they left. Geralt could get Jaskier there in hours, but the Witcher might not be able to do anything but watch Jaskier pant in agony. The bard needed medicine, a cooling bath, Geralt didn’t know what else. He just didn’t want to see Jaskier in any more pain. Or worse.

Golden eyes set on the horizon, he set off as fast as he dared. Every pitiful sound Jaskier made echoed through Geralt’s entire body.

Hee had done shit all to help Jaskier. Hopefully now he could persuade someone else to do more.

…

Dawn crested the hill behind Roach as Geralt finally spotted a town within reach. The village was a sizable, a good sign, though not a certain one. He patted the horse tiredly, glad that Roach hadn’t bucked at riding through the night. In the saddle beside him, Jaskier did not even whimper. The bard had stopped making even the smallest sounds long ago. The only thing keeping Geralt going was that he could see Jaskier’s weak, stuttering breath in the cold.

Geralt swung down beside the first open door he saw, that of an inn. The innkeeper was sweeping out the debris from the night before and took the Witcher’s coin.

“Doctor? Mage?” He inquired huskily.

“Mage. North side of town. Not sure if you can pay him though.”

Geralt jingled his bag of coin. The innkeeper shook his head.

“He’s one for strange deals and bargains. Some folk say he’s fair. Others say wiley. Keep your wits about you, Witcher.”

Geralt thanked the man with another coin, but couldn’t give a damn about his wits. He’d lose them all if he could keep Jaskier alive.

He found the mage easy enough. While the man didn’t set up in a castle like some magicians, he made his profession clear enough; his three-story workshop was made of shimmery black stone that could only be enchanted. Either that or the man had spent lifetimes mining and shaping obsidian from the land’s farthest shores. Geralt figured he couldn’t rule that out.

Tying Roach to a tree outside and cradling Jaskier in his arms, he kicked at the ornate wooden door until someone answered it. Enough kicking, he supposed, and he could knock the bloody thing down, but it swung inward before Geralt had the chance.

“Witcher.” A spry man of indeterminate age, oaken skin, and jet black hair dressed blacksmith’s garb greeted him. “Please, come in.”

…

The wizard could clearly see Geralt’s purpose. He motioned the Witcher to a room on the third story with tightly shut windows, a fire in the hearth, and a bed for Jaskier. Geralt laid the bard down somewhat reluctantly. He wanted Jaskier to get better, but he didn’t trust wizards, however benign they seemed.

The wizard cleared his throat and Geralt turned to face him, keeping his body between the mage and Jaskier’s unconscious form.

“So,” the man began, “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blavikin, has traveled all this way to…”

“Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Pardon me?” the wizard said. He took a step back but looked more intrigued than insulted by the interruption.

“Can you heal him?” Geralt said, his voice a low growl.

“Are you sure you can pay my price? Surely someone must have told you…”

“Yes,” Geralt said.

“Why?” The wizard’s eyes twinkled.

“I’ll do anything.”

The moment the words left Geralt’s mouth, he knew they were true. Maybe he hadn’t chosen this life, but it was his and he was well suited for it. Jaskier was soft. He enjoyed fine cloth and finer wine. He deserved to sing in a palace and sleep on silk sheets every night instead of cavorting around with a twice-damned Witcher.

“It’s Vale’s Fever,” the mage said. “Comes on like the common flu, just quicker, until it steals the victims voice. Has it gone that far?”

Geralt nodded.

“Jaskier… He said he couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s it then,” the wizard said, turning from Geralt to examine the potions on his work bench in the corner. “I’ll give you this, I’ll tend to your friend, Jaskier, and save his life if I can, but only for the work you give me. I’ve got a workshop downstairs where I smelt metals important to me. For twelve hours of manual labor, I’ll give you twelve hours of medical care for your friend.”

“And the nights?” Geralt asks. “What happens if he needs help during the night.”

“Not my problem,” the wizard said. “Days for days is all I offer.”

“Fine,” Geralt growled. He wasn’t bednurse, but if he had to see Jaskier through a few feverish nights without throwing things at the bard, he supposed he could do it. “Show me where to start working.”

“Ah, ah ah,” the wizard said, holding up a finger. “That is simply the deal to save the man’s life. His voice on the other hand…?”

It took all of Geralt’s control not to slam the wizard into the glimmering stone behind him.

“What about his voice?”

“Terrible thing about Vale’s Fever. Most of those who survive never speak again. That I can restore magically…”

“What’s your price?”

“I’m a fair man,” the wizard said liberally, showing Geralt his palms. It didn’t soften the Witcher’s temper. “A voice for a voice is a fair trade, wouldn’t you think?”

“Fine,” Geralt said. “Do it.”

“Don’t you want to hear more about the process?”

“No,” he said darkly. “I stop talking and the bard sings again. Works well enough for me,”

No one but Roach will miss it anyway, he thought. And Jaskier without a voice? That would be like a bird without wings or a Witcher with purple hair. The bard might as well be dead as mute.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t swat the wizard’s hand away as he moved forward and tapped Geralt’s throat.

Magic flowed through the Witcher, causing Geralt to fall forward and clutch his throat. It felt like all the air inside of him suddenly expelled itself in a whirlwind of vacuum. He felt dizzy, but wouldn’t give the wizard the satisfaction of seeing it. Straightening, he opened his mouth to test the spell, first trying a whisper, then a curse, then a bellow. No sound came out.

The wizard smiled. Geralt glared. Together, they went downstairs to the workshop.

…

For five days, Geralt labored under the mage’s command. For the most part, he tended the bellows, keeping the wizard’s massive fire stoked to extraordinary temperatures. Whatever he was smelting, the mage needed it constantly, consistently scorching and he was ready to leverage the Witcher’s enhanced strength and endurance to keep it so.

By the end of each day, Geralt arms ached with exhaustion. His hands and forearms were black with ash. When he washed that layer of grime away, it showed only open burns from the flames that made him wince and curse. Each day he wanted to demand leather gloves or more than the small waterskin he was given from the mage, but each night he forgot to do so in his rush to Jaskier’s side.

“Better,” is all the mage would say. Geralt had to take his word for it.

From sundown to dawn, the Witcher sat in the hard backed chair by Jaskier’s bed. He used clean clothes to wipe the sweat off the bard’s forehead and clutched the slender man’s arms when he seized in his sleep. Each day it became harder and harder for Geralt to stop his head from drooping onto his chest during the quiet moments of the night, but he fought off the urge with every spark inside of him. He couldn’t do anything else for Jaskier, so he would sure as hell do this.

On the fifth night, Geralt caved. His limbs felt like leaden turnips. Jaskier was making sounds again, but shivering under the sheets. Geralt crawled in bed next to him, wrapping his arms around the bard.

“Be warm, dammit. Be well!” he thought with force and ire as his eyes closed.

Jaskier relaxed as his fever dwindled, curling closer to Geralt in the dark.

…

As dawn flooded the chamber the next morning, Geralt awoke to a familiar pair of hazel eyes.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way,” Jaskier said sleepily. “But normally when I wake up with a headache in a strange room, not remembering how I got there, I’m not in bed with you.”

Geralt glared.

“I’m glad you’re alive, you stupid git,” he thought, but he couldn’t very well say it, so he got up and started packing their bags, taking extra care not to manhandle Jaskier’s lute.

“Ah, so the sleeping beauty awakes!” the wizard said with a flourish, bursting into the room.

He turned to Geralt.

“The Vale’s Fever is cured and your friend is upright and speaking. I take it that you are satisfied with both of your deals.”

Geralt grunted his assent, trying to subtly motion Jaskier to go. Sadly, subtle was not exactly in Jaskier’s vocabulary.

“Deals? What are you talking about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the curing and all. But Geralt, what the hell did you do? Because if it was something daring, I have a great need to sing about it and if it was something, reckless I have a great need to berate you about it dunk me in a lake. Or something. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You’re infinitely creative.”

The wizard laughed. Geralt wanted to strangle him. Possibly he wanted to strangle Jaskier too, but the wizard was definitely his priority.

“Nothing of the sort, my dear Jaskier. Our Witcher friend simply engaged in a modest trade. Your illness often leaves its victims mute. He swapped his voice for yours, nothing fancy.

“Switch it back.”

“Pardon me?”

The Witcher stared at Jaskier as well, both because the bard was advocating for madness and because it was probably the shortest sentence Geralt had ever heard him say.

“You heard me. Undo the deal. I was unconscious and did not agree to it so make it, I don’t know, poof. Vanish. Go off into the air.

“Yes, I tend to use my voice a bit more liberally than our dear Witcher, but it’s for publicity. If it wasn’t for him saying things that mattered, we would both be dead four times over. Besides, I’m the normal person tagging along here. My songs are important, but come on, I’m not. The last Witcher you’ll see this age? That is. Geralt has a purpose or a destiny or whatever you want to call it that won’t get my teeth kicked in and he damn well needs a voice for that.”

“Very well,” the wizard said. “It’s your voice.”

He strode forward to touch Jaskier’s throat, but Geralt blocked his way.

“No,” the Witcher thought sternly.

“You heard the bard,” the wizard said. “You’re the important one.”

Geralt shook his head.

“You really want to argue with that?”

The Witcher nodded.

The wizard looked quizzical, but stepped back, raising his hands. With a gesture, the windows by the bed burst open and wind filled the room.

Geralt felt air rushing into his lungs. It felt like a punch in the gut, but he was ready for it this time.

He whirled on Jaskier.

“As soon as we get Roach, I’m going to kill you,” the Witcher growled.

“Can you at least let me get a meal first? And maybe some ale? I’ve always dreamed of dying with a full stomach and, hey, it’ll make it harder for me to run away.”

Both travelers looked at the mage in shock.

He shrugged and smiled, easing Geralt’s aches with another gesture and soothing the burns on his hands with a wave of his palm.

“You,” he said, “have proven yourself worthy of magic without a price. Those who would, without question, sacrifice all for another, deserve all in return.”

This time, Geralt didn’t hold back from slamming the man into the wall behind him.

“So this is what you do,” he said. “You ‘test’ people. Now tell me, who are you, shitbag, to determine who is and isn’t worthy.”

“Why, I’m a wise, discerning…”

Geralt pressed his forearm into the man’s windpipe.

“No. You’re a manipulative ass who gets off on playing power games by pretending it’s authority. You shouldn’t help people because they deserve it. You should do it because they need it. How many people have died from diseases you could have cured because they were too scared to pay your price? How many children have lost their mothers because they didn’t have someone to plead for them?”

“Now be reasonable,” the wizard said, his voice slightly less bold. “You work for pay. You’re not just out there slaying monsters because someone needs to do it.”

“Actually, we’ve missed several meals to that ideal,” Jaskier said, moving to his pack. “Ended up staying outside in wretched weather too. It’s not like Geralt finds something killing people and decides to ignore it just because folks aren’t putting up a bounty. Honestly, I think my profession gets us more money in the long run.”

“Fine,” the man said. “Let’s say I’ve had a change of heart. I’ll try your way. For one year, anyone who asks an honest boon of me will get it, free of charge or deals. What do you say to that?”

Geralt stepped back, letting the man’s boots touch the floor.

“I’ll see you in a year, wizard.”

With that, he snagged his bags and turned to go.

…

Jaskier trailed behind Geralt as he untied Roach and mounted the horse.

“Out with it,” Geralt said.

“Thank you for saving my life. Again.”

“Contrary to what you might think, you are important Jaskier, which is why from now on you’re going to tell me when you’re sick and not just drunk off your ass!” the Witcher snapped.

“Hey, I tried!” Jaskier said. “And have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re not exactly the most sensitive person on the continent. I was just trying to keep up with you!”

“Even if it kills you!”

“Apparently so!”

The pair glared at each other before Jaskier shouldered his lute and fell in perfect step behind Roach and Geralt, like he was meant to be there.

“Now, I appreciate you willing to take the extra hit for me, but I’m a little insulted that you don’t think I can make my living with just my glorious looks and extraordinary lute skills. My songs are my strong suit, don’t get my wrong, but I don’t have to sing them. I could sell them off line by line, the tune first, of course, then the words. I’d have people humming tunes before they even knew what they were about! Just think of it…”

Geralt sighed. Once Jaskier got going he wouldn’t hear a lick of silence for the rest of the day. The Witcher had to bite back a smile at the thought.

Thanks for all those who made it to the end of my first official fan fic! Tagging @redwingedwhump and @wanderingcas

#Netflix Witcher #Sick Fic #Exhaustion #Fever #Voice Loss #Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #Burned #Bed Sharing #Insults as a Love Language #Wizard OC #Illness #Magical Healing #Whump #quirkykayleetam writes #Hurt/Comfort #Fanfic

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laventadorn · 4 years

Text

hold this for me 1/?

here’s a rough draft of the first 1k or so of hand-holding ficlet... it’s almost 4k now and i’m still going (how far will it go?? who knows, not this chick) and that’s after i scrapped a bunch of stuff at the end and revised bc it was going off in a direction i didn’t know what to do with h e l p

soooo bc my act has gone on the road i’m posting some as a teaser (*´▽`*)

this is set during winter break of year 6

❖

The cold was sharp and biting, the sky craggy with dark clouds. Harriet, bundled up in her heavy winter cloak, followed the trench Snape had crushed in the snow as he walked ahead. Snow powdered on the black cloak hem, crunched beneath his boots; her breath hung cloudy in the air. The world was silent except for those breathing sounds, the breaking of snow and the settling of branches in the dark mass of the forest ahead.

Snape turned his head a little, one black eye peering over his shoulder, past strings of his hair. She smiled, reflexively. He whipped forward again, as if pretending he hadn’t been caught looking back at her. She saw the tip of his ear turn red and grinned.

Jogging a little, she closed the gap. He didn’t look around, but he shifted the basket on his arm. Since she knew he didn’t register discomfort until something like his leg was about to fall off, he wasn’t moving it to find a better position. This was a fidget.

She hummed a little tune to herself, pleased. Snape let out a breath, like it was too much work to sigh. She grinned.

“If we were here to find anything that required stealth,” he said, his voice curling in the air like fog, “you’d be making all our work useless.”

“You wouldn’t have brought me if you needed stealth. Although, I can be perfectly sneaky.”

“Sneaky is not the same thing as circumspect,” he said dryly.

“Well, we’re just here for plants anyway.”

“Some plants require stealth in order to approach. Which you’d know, if you paid attention in Herbology,” he said, like the swot he was. This would be the sort of snotty grown-up observation that would completely kill the mood if Hermione didn’t also say the same thing all the time (only more nicely).

“Gosh, how will my ego survive with you trashing my Herbology marks,” she said, rolling her eyes.

They’d come to the edge of the forest, into the shadow of the trees, the forest gloom folding over them.

“These are Frost Blooming Drops,” said Snape, still swotty. “They grow quite a distance inside the forest. If you get cold, you’re a witch.”

“I’m all set.” She patted her cloak pocket, where a jar of Hermione’s little bluebell flames warmed her ribs.

“And don’t wander off. We use the Forbidden Forest as a defense boundary for a very good reason.”

“I’ll be clingy,” she promised.

“Hm.” Snape’s gaze slanted along his gaunt cheekbones, then swept forward again. She smiled and followed him beneath the enfolding branches of the snow-crusted trees.

The thing with Snape was, you had to filter everything through a translator. There was normal-person speech, which would express concern by asking “Are you warm enough?” However, Snape-speech was, “If you get cold, you’re a witch.” After all, if he didn’t care, he’d have waited until she was already freezing before saying anything.

There was also this whole outing. Yesterday Snape had actually showed up at lunch, sat next to Slughorn (who was on Harriet’s left), and made noise about going into the Forbidden Forest to collect some rare seasonal flowers. It was a very long walk; the flowers weren’t even very useful, hardly seen in any potions you would use except twice every five years; pretty much a waste of time to bother collecting them. He’d go early so he could get there and back before dark.

This was clearly an invitation; he wasn’t even the Potions professor this year, and Slughorn’s attitude had clearly wondered why anyone would be so mental. So Harriet had bundled up this next morning after breakfast and loitered near the empty Quidditch Pitch until Snape turned up with a basket over his arm. His face passed through some interlocking expressions that she couldn’t decipher, but all he said was, “Walk behind me,” and crunched a path through the snow. This, too, was Snape-concern: if he made a path, she didn’t have to.

The snow in the forest wasn’t as deep, so she could walk next to him. He kept fidgeting with his basket. She smiled to herself.

It might work in her favor that he was twitchy about something. She had a plan, and she might be able to get away with it if he was too distracted to see it coming.

“So what potions do these flowers go into?”

“What do you think Frost Blooming Drops would be used for?” he retorted, which she interpreted as a desire to have a conversation. Good; it saved her the trouble of pestering him for one.

“Minty fresh breath?” She smirked.

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I should know better than to ask you Potions trivia.”

“Probably,” she said peaceably. Her middling marks seemed to genuinely irk him, although now that he was her Defense professor and she was his top student, he didn’t seem to know what to do about it. Sometimes he seemed downright helpless.

“So, what do they do?” she asked again.

“One of them does give you the power to expel frozen breath.”

She squinted. “You’re making that up.”

“Would I?” he asked blandly.

Right, a double agent who never made things up; that was believable. “What would you need frozen breath for?”

“You tell me.”

“Mmm. It’s hot out, and you want a cold drink?”

“Yes, for a wizard it would be far more sensible to mix a potion to cool the breath than to simply conjure ice.”

She grinned. “Which is why I’m saying you made it up.”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to trap me into admitting anything,” he said, affecting boredom. She knew it was fake because he was picking at a sticking-out bit of weave on his basket with a split fingernail.

She pointed a mittened finger at him. “So you do admit something.”

There was a glint in his eye, but his voice was still bland and his expression smooth. “I speak generally.”

“Yeah, sure. C’mon, don’t you want me to learn something about potions for real?”

He gave her a look: I-know-what’s-in-your-head-and-it-most-certainly-isn’t-potions. “If I thought it wouldn’t go in one ear and out the other, perhaps I’d give it a shot.”

She shrugged, smiled, and spread her hands in their mittens. He only rolled his eyes again.

They crunched along for a bit without speaking. Harriet watched his hand fiddling with the edge of his basket and thought about her plan. She’d mapped it out last night. All she had to do was find the right moment. . . She’d say, “Here, hold this for me,” and he’d say some variation of, “Why do I have to hold something for you? Aren’t you a witch?” but he’d put his hand out anyway, and then she’d--

“Harriet!”

“Huh?” She looked around, because he wasn’t next to her anymore.

“What did I say?” He was glaring her way, one foot below the edge of the path, apparently ready to climb down something. “What did I say about wandering off?”

“Right, right, my bad.” She crunched over to him. The tops of his cheekbones were pink, for some reason. Maybe it was the cold.

She peered down the slope, where a little side trail made of rocks descended along a narrow trench, beside a gentle stream of black water. “We’re going down there, then?”

“Watch your footing.” He stressed every word. “These rocks are icy.”

He shot a spell at the rocks to crack the ice, but even without the ice, the rocks were still wet, and she did have to watch their step. At the bottom, where a little trail wound into the snowy gloom beside the stream, he put his wand away.

His glare was still giving off little sparks, like a log settling in the fireplace, so she put on her best contrite air and decided she should wait till he cooled off a little before she tried. . . anything.

(to be continued in part 2/?)

#tner tag #snarriet tag

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vake-hunter · 3 years

Note

It will take very long time for me to reach new content so... May I ask why Discordance is cool now?

i forgot i never posted anything about this. oops.

SPOILERS FOR RAILROAD AHEAD.

Summary is you follow Fires and find its kidnapped Furnace. Direct quotes follow with bold being my favorite parts

"An exchange," it is saying. "We – the Masters and the Bazaar – owe certain debts to a power in the West. It is possible that these debts will never come due, and they are very old. But if you will accept responsibility for them, in the name of yourself and the Tracklayers' Union, then I will let you go. More than that: I will leave you and the Union to yourselves. As long as you do not bring your workers back to London or encourage my own factories to unionise."

Furnace looks gravely at Fires. "I will need to review the contract carefully," she says.

Furnace and Fires are still speaking. "And you'll keep your word?" she is asking.

"By the law of the Bazaar and by the Cedar of the Crossroads," says Fires. "And by my own personal word, of course."

"We can guess what that is worth," she retorts.

"Every person and power in this room is your witness," Fires purrs. "Let them all hold me to account, if I go back on my sworn word."

In your pocket, the boxed seed grows heavier; under your feet, the floor of the Tower continues to shiver. As if everything in the room were holding its breath for Furnace to sign this document, or refuse it.

Furnace draws the contract towards her and solemnly reads its pages. She might be sitting in the boardroom of the GHR, not imprisoned in a tower at the height of the Neath, for all the sign she gives.

Then, she pauses and looks up at you. Mr Fires is not looking at either of you. She stares into your eyes as though that would let her control your body through sheer force of will.

Then she mouths the words: Take cover. Now.

Furnace Ancona dips her pen in ink and painstakingly draws a sigil on the contract sheet. You can't see it from here – in fact, she is shading it with her hand as she writes. She does not mean you to read it. But that can't be her signature, surely?

When she's done, she blows on the sheet to dry the ink. Then she rather pedantically lowers her visor helmet. Only then, she pushes the contract across the desk towards Mr Fires.

Fires picks up the contract and lifts it to read: the text is not English. The phrase sounds like a shattering manacle, like a breaking chain.

The moment Fires has pronounced it, there is a loud crack, like the branch breaking off a frozen tree. All the fires in the room go out. Your whole body feels cold and heavy. Something is wrong with your thoughts.

A law is enacted:

The king forgets the hostage of war

The hunting dog does not know the scent of its quarry

The assassin cannot recognise the face of her prey

The opposing pieces are moved to separate boards

Hillchanger Tower is silent, and the faint throb of the stone has stilled.

Mr Fires lies face down, huddled in its robe.

Furnace is on her back, equally motionless, and her helmet is rimed in ice. You could not open the visor now even if you wished to.

I helped Fires to learn more about Creditor but if you help Furnace, she is badly injured and you have to help her heal.

"Discordance," hisses Mr Fires. "The cold language, the language of stars that have died and laws that have passed away." And it goes on like that, about dead light and corrupted law and the space between the stars polluted.

The fact that Fires calls it the language of dead stars is so fucking interesting. In skies its worded more like it the Discordance is picked up willingly.

"Some stars abandon the immutable light of their brethren for a more nuanced philosophy. The old language no longer suffices; heretical concepts exist for which it cannot provide signifiers." As the symbol takes shape, water turns to frost with a crackle. "These traitor-stars adopt another language. Or perhaps another dialect? The Discordance." She hisses and withdraws her finger from the completed symbol; the tip is blackened with frostbite.

I always thought of the Halved dead in a way and this confirms that yes, it is dead or dying. As suns do in real life when they die, they start to eat themselves. This also makes more sense given how much pain the Halved is in, and how hard it was for it to talk in the Correspondence during the Truth Ambition. And also that it doesn't have logoi.

#lore #fallen london spoilers #Anonymous

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master-sass-blast · 4 years

Text

The Christmas Decorating Fic.

Hello, yes, this is the proper time of year to post a Christmas themed fic.

Summary: You and Piotr decorate your home for Christmas for the very first time.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: G.

Warning(s): A very minor, mild mention of/allusion to childhood trauma.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical.”

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @super-darkcloudstudent, @leo-writer, @dandyqueen

“Orn-a-ments, lights, and ginger-bread cookies! Tinsel and more lights and… what else rhymes with cookies? Glitter and glitter and glitter some more! Gonna have glitter all over the floor!”

“Pozhaluysta, nyet. We will be vacuuming for thousand years, at least.”

“I make no promises.” You grin impishly at your long-suffering husband, then belt out, “When the dog bites! When the bee stings! When I’m feeling sad… I simply throw glitter up in the air, and then I don’t feel… so bad!”

It’s officially the winter holiday season –meaning snow, seasonal music, red and green everything, and consuming more cookies than you probably should in one sitting.

It’s also midterm season at Xavier’s for all the high school students, meaning your husband has been hard at work prepping exams, holding review sessions, making study guides, and generally doing everything he can to see that his pupils succeed.

Which is nice –but it also means that you were left with the task to purchase all the Christmas and seasonal décor.

You probably went overboard (not that you’re admitting that to anybody).

Piotr stares at the sea of bags and boxes that completely cover the living room floor and spill into the kitchen. He rubs his temples and sighs. “Moya lyubov’… why?”

“I just…” You smile sheepishly and duck your head. “It’s pretty! And colorful! And it’s so white and bland outside, so I thought we could use extra color in here! And, like, we can share whatever we don’t use with the residents so they can decorate their rooms, but…” You let your voice trail off, sheepish smile growing. “I liked all of it. Okay, look –all of the candles smelled amazing! How was I supposed to pick one type?” You pull a random candle out of a bag that holds many, many, many more candles –this one’s peppermint hot chocolate scented—and take off the lid before holding it out to your husband. “Smell this. It’s fucking delicious.”

“Smells very nice,” Piotr agrees after a cursory sniff. “Just… what will we do with all this?”

“Decorate, baby. It’s our first Christmas that we have our own place. We gotta go all out!”

“I do not disagree. Just… how much did all this cost?”

“I used my own money,” you defend yourself. “Which is technically crime money from Wade and dad and my uncle, which I know you don’t like, but it’s also supporting a capitalist death machine, which you also don’t like, so I feel like that should cancel each other out—” You sigh when Piotr crosses arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at you. “I got excited,” you admit. “I’ve never… I’ve never really been able to go all out for Christmas before, especially not in a home of my own. I can… I can take some of it back, if you want.”

“Nyet, nyet,” Piotr says gently. He draws you into his arms and kisses the top of your head. “That will not be necessary.” He kisses the top of your head, then surveys the sea of bags once more. “Well, at least we will never need to buy decorations again.”

“That’s the spirit!” you chirp, patting his chest before skipping away. “I need you to put up the tree, and also help me hang tinsel because…” You pick up one of your sketchpads and show him a few designs you’d made with an impish grin. “I drew up some layouts.”

“Did you now,” Piotr chuckles as he studies your sketches.

“I have a vision.”

He chuckles again, then kisses your cheek. “Then let’s make vision come true.”

***

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire… Jack Frost nipping at your nose…”

The smooth tones of Nat King Cole croon through the speakers. Snow flutters down from the thick, dark gray blanket of clouds high above, batting against the windowpanes before accumulating in drifts over the earth. A fire crackles in the fireplace, hissing and snapping as the flames eat away at the logs your husband had placed in the hearth.

You smile, hovering in the air as you tack up a strand of tinsel.

It’s like the spirit of Christmas has swept through your house. You got Piotr to wrestle the Christmas tree into an upright position –he’s still shaping and fluffing it now—while you focused on draping strands of tinsel and lights over every conceivable surface (within reason on the lights, of course, because Piotr drew a line at blowing the breaker every time one of you flipped a switch). There’s little clusters of figurines throughout the main floor –there’s a trio of wooden snowmen on the table next to the front door, a scene of those porcelain house and figures on a swath of batting on the side table in the dining room, several little penguins in festive hats scattered throughout the kitchen—

It’s almost addictive. Every new addition to your home leaves you giddy, giggling like a child on a sugar high. You dart all over the place, finessing and adjusting which decorations go where until it’s all just right.

Maybe it comes from never decorating for anything during your childhood. Your parents were stridently against any sort of frivolity, citing “hedonism” and “blasphemy” and “not following in the path of Christ” any of the few times you dared to ask.

Woe to thee, Pharisees and Sadducees, you think as you finish hanging a strand of red, holographic tinsel. Your upper lip curls in derision as you float back down to the floor.

Piotr looks over at you when you let out a ragged sigh. “Everything alright, myshka?”

“Yeah.” You sigh again. “Just… thinking about my parents.”

Piotr leaves the tree –which is looking far less bedraggled than it did first coming out of the box. He crosses the room and puts his arms around you once he’s by your side. “It’s okay. Everything is okay.”

“I know, I know. I just get mad at them sometimes.”

“As you have every right to be.” He kisses the top of your head. “I am so sorry, myshka.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” You tip your head back so you can kiss him properly. “You want to light one of the candles I got?”

“Sure. You pick.”

“In that case, I’m lighting all of them.”

Piotr laughs as he ambles back over to the tree. “Please, no.”

You start pulling candles out of a paper bag and line them up on the kitchen counter. “We’ve got ‘Peppermint Hot Chocolate,’ ‘Sugar Cookie,’ ‘Frosted Holly,’ ‘Sugar and Spice,’ ‘Fresh Pine,’ ‘Cranberry Orange Zest,’ ‘Gingerbread Dreams,’ ‘Minty Mocha,--’”

“Bozhe ty moi,” Piotr guffaws, shoulders shaking as he laughs. He presses a hand against his stomach and shakes his head. “How many did you get?”

“As many as I wanted!” You stick your tongue out at him when he continues laughing and keep lining up candles on the counter. “Shut up! I’ve never gotten to have shit like this before.”

Piotr sobers abruptly. He stares at you, forehead creasing with sorrow. “I am sorry, myshka. I did not consider this.”

“No, no, no.” You leave your plethora of candles at the counter and go over to him. “It’s okay, honey,” you assure him as you wrap your arms around his waist. “I was poking fun back at you, sweetheart. I wasn’t offended, I swear.”

“That is good to know.” Piotr strokes your hair with one hand. “But… it hurts me. I remember that you had so little, and were treated so cruelly, and—”

You hold him tighter when his voice breaks. “It’s okay, Piotr. I’m okay. I’ve got you now. And all the candles I could ever want!”

He laughs, even if it’s wet and shaky. “Da, very true.” He wipes a few stray tears off his cheeks. “Pick candle you like best, myshka. Anything is fine with me.”

“So, I can light all of them at once—”

“Nyet. Tochno net.”

“But—”

“Nyet.”

“But it—”

“Nyet.”

“You’re not even letting me explain myself!”

“Correct.” Piotr grins when you scrunch your face up at him, then kisses your forehead. “One candle, myshka. Please.”

You sigh dramatically, heaving your shoulders and rolling your eyes. “Fine. I guess I just have to smell each one until I can decide which one’s the best.”

“You will give yourself headache.”

“No, I won’t! I’m invincible!”

Piotr shakes his head as you skip back over to the counter. “Whatever you say, moya lyubov’.”

***

You don’t give yourself a headache –but you do switch between smelling candles so fast that you lose your sense of smell.

“I’m wounded!” you scream as you inhale into your shirt to try and clear your nose. “Forever disabled! I’m gonna die!”

“I warned you,” Piotr says, smiling all the same. He carefully sniffs a few candles, then takes a lighter and lights ‘Gingerbread Dreams.’ “This one is best.”

“How dare you mock me!”

“My sincerest apologies.” He sets the candle on the center of the counter, then faces you. “Are you ready to decorate tree?”

“Sure. You want to start on lights while I pick which ornaments to use?”

Piotr shoots you a dubious glance. His gaze flicks between you and the sea of plastic bags still covering the floor. “Myshka… why would you need to pick?”

“Well…” You shift from foot to foot as your voice trails off. “I wasn’t sure… what color scheme we’d go with…”

He sighs like the longsuffering saint he is. “How many did you get?”

“Uh…” You rifle through the bags, pulling out box after box of shimmery, shiny baubles. “Enough?”

Piotr’s eyes bug out of his head. “Y/N—”

“We can donate the ones we don’t use.”

“Yes, yes we will.” Piotr runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. He sighs heavily, then grabs a strand of lights and starts weaving it between the tree branches. “Thank goodness for extra spending money.”

***

The two of you settle on a white, gold, and red theme for the tree, since there’s plenty of green in the rest of the house. Between the tree, finishing the other decorations, and the tidying up –at Piotr’s insistence—it’s late evening before the two of you finish up.

You nestle against Piotr’s side. The two of you are on the couch, resting and admiring your handiwork in the light of the fire and the thousands of string lights. “It looks pretty.”

“Da.” Piotr drapes a thick, burly arm around your shoulders. “You chose well.”

You snort. “Hard to go wrong when you buy half the store.”

“You chose well,” he repeats, voice soft and loving. He kisses your temple. “Our home looks wonderful, moya solntse.”

You beam and lay your head against his chest. “Yeah. It does.”

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #seasonally appropriate fics #fluff #christmas fluff #financial escapism #deadpool fanfiction #x men fanfiction

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loveafterthefact · 4 years

Text

Love After the Fact Chapter 53: Reminder: This is NOT a Vacation

Lance meets a particular primate, which is good. He's got more than one job right now, which is bad.

First Previous Next

Walking through the city is mostly Lance watching his spouse smile and stop to play with windchimes and catch flying lizards. He doesn’t mind. It gives him a chance to avoid the unfriendly gazes of the locals.

Some are hateful. Lance assumes that these are the soldiers, the ones who fought in the war. The rest are suspicious, fearful. They hurry their kits inside, peer out at him from from behind curtains and cloth doors. A few come back out with weapons.

The reaction seems to worsen once they actually set eyes on Keith, still dressed in Altean clothes, very clearly not an adult. Lance wishes Adam were with them as an extra set of eyes, but ordered his friend to go speak to Shiro about the current political climate on Daibazaal.

“He smells different right now,” Krolia whispers in Lance's ear. “He smells like he’s in the midst of a growth spurt.”

“Can they tell I haven’t slept with him?” he murmurs back.

“Yes. It was a great risk you took, bringing him out into the open like this. Why?”

“I won’t let my parents nor your emperor go unchecked by the people. Plus, a small mercy can go a long way toward earning respect. It seems it did for you, at any rate.”

“That is not a small mercy, Prince Lancel. A Galra is tied to their mate forever. They never take another. As such, the taking of a mate is something inherently precious. To force yourself upon another is punishable by death.”

“Then I suppose it is very fortunate that I made the choice that I did... I gave my father my word. I only have a phoeb.”

“What will he do if you betray him?” Krolia’s eyes follow her son as he stops to grab some food, a loaf of bread with the inside cut out and filled with stew, the leftover bread on the side. The kit chats with the people around the pot, smiling all the while. It’s so different from how he is on Altea.

“I’m not sure. Probably not anything. These days, I am more beloved by the people, but… They fear him. Alfor has a legacy soaked in blood, blood that I inherited. Still, I don’t wish to pass that legacy on to our children. As it is, I hate that I have passed it on to Keith.”

The youth in question returns, sidling up to Lance almost shyly, slipping his hand slowly into Lance’s larger one like he doesn’t want anyone to see. Lance, for his part, beams with delight, a light blush beneath his scales as he presses a sweet kiss to Keith’s cheek.

Krolia only follows in silence, eyes lingering on how every time they stop, Keith’s tail twists around his ankle, how he follows Lance with one ear the entire walk. Lance appears to have gotten used to these things. Krolia’s unsure that she ever will.

Keith’s den, which he shared with his mother before her appointment at the compound, is about a third of the way down the mountain, looming over much of the city below. It’s simple, cut from the same red stone as everything else, one large dome as a living space, a few more attached. The ceiling is only just high enough to accommodate a taller Galra, low enough that it won’t get too warm inside during sunny afternoons.

Lance is fascinated by how Galra use their electricity and resources. And how they don’t. Most electronic technology appears to be centered in public areas for anyone to use, and the compound, for use by the Blade of Marmora and other vetted members. Meanwhile, everyday life consists mainly of manual labor and visiting with neighbors. It’s a semi-agrarian community, and seemingly more by choice than by necessity.

He wonders about the glares that have followed him all the way there, whether those are by choice or by necessity.

He follows Keith into the den, pushing aside a purple cloth hung in the entryway. A creature shrieks from a branch wedged into the dome above. Lance takes a tick to wonder how many times Shiro’s walked into it.

“BleepBloop!” Keith holds his arms out, letting the primate leap into them. BleepBloop chitters, fingers and toes struggling to find a good purchase of his clothes, but Keith just smiles, embracing his childhood friend, supporting his little body.

The bottle-green primate snuggles against his chest, having missed Keith as much as Keith missed him. The kit gently strokes his old friend, whispers in his little round ear.

Lance leans over to Krolia. “That thing… BleepBloop? It’s coming back with us. What’s it eat?”

“Oh, he'll eat anything, as long as it’s made of meat and either alive or very recently alive.”

“Gotcha. He’ll like our garden. There’s a nice tree out there. And the canopy of our bed. And the loft. My resident engineer, Pidge, can come up with some climbing mechanisms for him, too.”

“Sounds good. It'll make them both very happy.” Krolia sighs. “I’d best return to the compound. I’ll come back here around nightfall, if that’s alright.”

“Of course. He’s your boy. You’re welcome to monopolize him while he’s here. I promise I won’t hold it against you, though I might take it personally.”

The woman chuckles, slips out after planting a kiss on top her son’s head, promising she’ll be back.

“It’s okay, buddy. I’m here. I’m- I’m home.” Keith turns, still stroking his pet. He sits down on the floor of the den, removing his vest with nimble, practiced fingers. Lance goes to sit beside him, rests his head on Keith’s shoulder. He feels oddly insecure, very much like he doesn’t belong. He comforts himself with the reminder that Keith’s felt like this for nearly a decaphoeb. It’s his turn.

“I raised him from a weanling,” Keith murmurs. “His mother, TreeTrunks, died with my father when Bleeps still slept in her pouch. We spent a long while just the two of us after that. I really hated leaving him behind.”

“Looks like he missed you, huh?” Lance closes his eyes against Keith’s nod. “Do you think he’ll like Altea?”

“He’ll love the forest. The wildlife might hate him though.” Keith sighs, rests his head on top of Lance’s head. “Fuck, I’m still tired. Stupid, shitty metabolism. Sorry if I’m putting you out. I’m sure you have diplomatic schemes or whatever.”

“That’s okay, beloved. Ass-kissing can wait.”

“You go. I can-”

“Uh-uh. Listen.” Lance draws back, tucks a finger under Keith’s chin to get him to meet his eyes. “This is very important, okay? Your health is very important-”

“Yes, so I can bear you children. Gods, you’d think it’s the only thing I can do.”

“No, so you can be healthy. I care about you, Keith. You’re important to me.” Lance tips their foreheads together, leans up to get closer to his ear. “Let’s go take a nap.”

In one of the siderooms, there’s a round bed suspended by a series of ropes from the ceiling, and a curved chest against the wall. Keith rummages around, pulls out two sets of clothes, dark pants and white shirts, both loose-fit. “Want something more comfortable?”

“Yeah, alright.” Lance accepts a set of clothes, forgets what he’s supposed to be doing as Keith just tugs off his long-sleeved shirt like it’s nothing at all to him. Keith gives him a hard look.

“What, is that really all it takes for you?”

“Sh- Shut up! You-” Lance tosses the clothes onto the weird bed, glaring at his unimpressed spouse. “You forget you’re one of the first Galra except Zarkon I ever saw in person. And you’re my spouse, and I’ve literally never seen you without all your clothes on.”

“That’s not true! There was that fitting for the Frost Ball-”

“My back was turned. Doesn’t count.”

“Well, fine! If it’s that big of a deal for you, here!” Keith holds out his arms, pouting. “Behold my naked chest.”

Lance snorts, tugs Keith close by his trim waist, running his eyes up a well-muscled torso to spare collarbones and broadening but still narrow shoulders. So similar, and yet so very, very different from himself. “Ancients, you’re adorable when you make that face.” He kisses that pout away. “Also, your fur is so soft.”

“Oh, I- Thank you.”

"Hey, Beloved. Don't be so shy." Tugging on the end of Keith’s braid, Lance turns away, stripping his own clothes, pulling on the shirt and pants. They don’t fit perfectly, but thanks to their loose design, they’ll work fine.

“I can see your scales through the shirt,” Keith whispers. “You have a lot of them.”

“Yes. I do.” Lance bites his lip. “Keith?”

“Hm?” Keith raises a dark eyebrow, violet eyes smiles.

“Was this -coming here- Was this a mistake?”

“A ‘get murdered in your sleep’ kind of mistake or a ‘commit diplomatic suicide’ kind of mistake?” Lance shrugs. Keith sighs, smiles, lifts his hands to brush his thumbs over Lance’s cheeks. It’s his turn. “Lance. You are wonderful at many things. Chief among them is to dance into a room with that charming smile and make everyone feel welcome. And I love that. So much. But… You’re not welcoming my people. They have to welcome you.”

“Okay… How do I- how do I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Keith steps forward, embraces his spouse, tucks his head beneath his chin. “But I know you’ll figure it out. It’s a people thing. You’re people. I’m… not.”

“Hey, you’re people. You’re people that was just a person for a long time, but you’re people. All those other people out there? They love you and were happy to see you happy and safe. And whether anybody here likes me or not, I’m happy to see you happy.”

Lance runs his hands up and down Keith’s back, listening as he starts to purr, soft and sweet. He’s not sure when he became able to make him purr so easily, but Lance considers it a good sign, a sign that he truly does make Keith happy. He settles somewhat cautiously into the odd hanging bed, not surprised when Keith wraps his arms and tail around him, tangles their legs together. Lance tugs a blanket over them, makes sure it’s snug around Keith’s shoulders.

“Let me know if you’re hurting again, okay?”

“Mhm.” Keith’s purring softens, sleepy and content.

“Keith?” No response. He’s already asleep. “Thanks, beloved. Rest well.”

BleepBloop hops up, sniffs Lance’s hand suspiciously. Lance slowly reaches out to rub the little creature’s head, smiling at how the primate’s red eyes close as he leans into the touch. Like master, like pet, adorable and deeply appreciative of affection.

Lance doesn’t mind in the slightest, but he can't fully indulge as he carefully maneuvers them so he's lying on his back. He pulls out the collapsible datapad he'd hidden in the waistband of his pants, set it on his chest so he can project a Daibazaani import manifest from Adam and Shiro in front of him. Something about the numbers isn't adding up.

There's a weight discrepancy that might total out to about four Unilu. Or any number of things really, but he'll break it apart piece by piece, inspect a three-dimensional map of the ship in question, and then he'll scroll through security footage and interviews until his eyes bleed while he searches for answers.

It's been a phoeb and a half, but he hasn't forgotten that someone wants him and his family dead.

#LoveAftertheFact #LAtF #klance #galtean au #altean lance #galra keith #adashi #altean adam #galra shiro #voltron legendary defender #vld

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jesterlaughingstock · 3 years

Text

Fic based on this au.

Here's the link to AO3. I'd suggest you read it in there because i made some slight modifications.

...

It has been 5 years since wall Maria came down, and the zombies ravaged through the lands beyond wall Rose. Many citizens were infected, and much more succumbed under the attacks of the cannibalistic monsters.

The disease we're talking about is a strange one, as in early stages, it gives the infected marvelous, yet uncontrollable powers. If the infected does not control their powers by the end of the early stage -which, by the way, lasts a week on average, but can be as little as an hour-, their skin falls off and they start turning into the cannibalistic zombies that we observe outside the walls.

Armin and his childhood friends had survived the massacre, but paid in terms of loved ones. He had lost his grandfather, the only one to care for him after the passing of his parents, and his friend Eren lost his parent who were also Mikasa's foster family.

And yet, Armin hasn't lost yet the hope and faith in the outside world. His blue eyes glowed whenever he thought about what fascinating landscapes might exist beyond their lands. It was no surprise then that he decided to enroll in the scouts regiment, along with Eren and Mikasa.

But after their first expedition, Armin began to regret his decision.

As soon as he came back, he started feeling chilly. He had always been sensitive to the faintest whim of weather, so he brushed it aside.

The next day, as he was writing some documents, someone had opened the door loudly, startling him. When he looked back at the pen, it was completely encased in ice. Through his confusion, he thought clearly enough to hide it in his pocket for further inspection. By the time he was done and alone, the pen had returned to its original state, as the ice had apparently melted off. And yet, the scary implications of the event still remained.

In a last whim of optimism, he decided to forget about it, and not reconsider it until anything else happened.

Which occured way sooner than he thought.

The same afternoon, as he washed his face from a bucket, he stuck his hands in the water, and between one blink and another, the water froze over, locking his hands in. This time, he properly panicked. The only thing that was between him and screaming in a high pitched voice was the thought of other people being aware of this phenomenon and the terrifying implications of it.

He shook his hands inside the frozen water; they were fully encased in ice, but for some reason it didn't feel as cold as it should've.

This is bad. Bad bad bad.

He inspected the ice even more, it seemed like it won't be melting on it's own for a long time, so he had to melt it off on his own. He breathed in, closed his eyes, focusing on the ice. He tried to imagine the ice warming up and melting. He felt his hands loosen up, which meant his improvised method was working. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes and the water had gone back to it's inital state and his hands were free.

The relief had been washed away by the realisation that this further confirms the obvious; he was infected.

Armin couldn't sleep at night. Infected? How the hell did it happen? He did go in the last expedition, yes, they had encountered a few zombies, some of which has snatched up some of their comrades, but he had been, along with the rest of the rookies, in the back lines. It didn't make sense, and it drove him crazy.

Was this it, then? Was he going to turn into a faceless zombie, or will he seek someone to help him end his life before his state went so bad? He knew what he was supposed to do. In fact, he had gotten up, in the middle of the night, walked up to Commander Erwin's room, and lifted a hand to knock on the door. Were these really his only options? Was there really nothing, nothing else to do?

Maybe there was.. He thought as his palm rested on the door. He thought about that afternoon's event, how he managed to melt the ice he created, how that display of control was contrasting with everything he had learned about the complete chaos that is these powers gained by the disease.

He remembered how the only hope was that the infected should learn how to control these powers in time. It was a long shot, but god, it was better than to rot as a man eating monstruosity or to be executed. Besides, a tamed power would be a huge advantage to humanity. Maybe, with his powers, they might be able to explore what's beyond there lands, what's out there in the world!

After much thinking, he decided that he would try, at least try to control these powers. If they still are as rowdy after a week, then he would do the sensible thing and turn himself in to his death.

In the morning, Commander Erwin Smith woke up, and discovered frost on his door, strangely shaping a handprint.

Armin went on with his mission. Whenever he was free and alone, he practiced. And at some point, it seemed to be going well, but obviously, he still had his slip-ups, accidentally encasing his spoon in ice at breakfast, the temperature of the room dropping whenever he was nervous, freezing another everyday object.. Ect. He had been able to reverse the effect on most of them, though some object were still encased in ice, but that was enough for him. And it seemed that the long shot of surviving the deadly virus wasn't so long.

Until one day when he was hanging out with Eren, Mikasa and the rest of the cadets.

"Your hands are so cold, what the hell?" Eren noticed as their hands brushed together, and attempted to grab Armin's. Armin felt his cheeks flush, but he also felt the familliar cold rush that he always felt whenever his power was about to manifest.

Panicked, he whipped his hands away, yelling : "Don't touch me!". The tempreature in the air dropped. He hoped no one else noticed. "Sorry, that was rude. I'm fine."

"Got it.." Eren raised his hands and backed away. He shared a look with Mikasa and reluctantly reached back. "Um.. By the way.. Are you sure you're fine? You're been kind of.." Eren trailed off and looked at Mikasa for help. She shrugged and gestured at him to continue, to figure something out.

"..distant. You good?" Eren finished off.

"Yeah, I'm good. Don't worry."

"You sure bro? You haven't been sleeping all that well either." Connie tipped in. "I wake up to get a midnight snack and you're still up. You pretend to be asleep but I'm not an idiot"

Armin felt cornered. He felt hot, and yet the room's temperature dipped a little more. He put his hands in his pockets, just in case. "I've just been having too much tea, that's it. Sorry if I woke you up at night."

"Armin, was it something that happened at the expedition? While you were alone?"

Jean's words caught him off guard. Alone? He was never alone in the expedition. He doesn't remember being alone. In fact, now that he thinks about it, his memories from that day seem discontinued, like he remembers being in a place, then being in another, but has no recollection of the trip between the two locations.

What exactly happened the day of the expedition?

"Armin? Are you alright?" Mikasa was now in front of him, when did she get there? It doesn't matter right now, he thought. He felt that he should leave immediately.

"I'm fine. Sorry." He left, headed towards the forest. When he was out of earshot and sight of any human, he let a deep breath out, as frost seeped rapidly from beneath his feet and on the ground around him, and all the nearby tree branches were covered in snow.

He thought harder about the day of the expedition; the hole in his memory was even more prominent.

What the hell happened?

Frustrated, he punched at a nearby tree, and around his fist formed giant ice spikes. He breathed heavily, suddently drained. He looked around and grimaced at the amount of ice he'll have to melt.

It took him a good amount of time to wipe all traces of his breakdown. By the time he was done, it was almost sundown. He made his way back to the headquarters.

At dinner time, Armin tried his best to avoid his friends. And as much as it pained him, he knew that they will ask questions he could never answer.

Instead he paid all his attention to his food, or at least pretended to, until Commander Erwin and Captain Hange joined so that they could discuss strategies together.

Meanwhile, Commander Erwin and Captain Hange were at his office, still discussing. Erwin had showed them the icy handprint he had found at his room's door, and before he knew it, Hange pulled their own collection of random objects completely encased in ice. Naturally, their discussion and planning lasted so long that they were astronimically late to dinner.

Connie had been harder for Armin to avoid, with him being his roommate and everything.

Luckily, the roomate hasn't said a word, which, while it did sting, Armin was very thankful for.

The next day seemed like a good day; Armin had obtained some alone time to practice, (since all his friends were avoiding him,) and it seemed to him that he was really getting the hang of it; he could make a small wand out of ice and manipulate it, then melt it when he was done. It felt almost..natural now. He couldn't believe it. He will survive!

It was a good day, that is until Commander Erwin gathered them and announced another expedition. His hand grabbed into the table a bit too hard. It was about time, wasn't it? Then why was he so scared? Why was his heart beating so fast at the thought of leaving the walls?

He shook those feelings away, and listened to the Commader's plan, and left when all was dismissed. Hange made a quick tour of the table, and held back one of the cadets and asked, just to double check : "Who was sitting over there? At the seat that's in the middle?"

When the cadet in question answered "Armin Arlert", their doubts were confirmed. They dismissed him as they looked at the small shards of ice under the table, right in front of Arlert's seat.

Over the next couple of days, Armin further practised using his power. He could now make various shapes out of ice and manipulate them as he wished. He felt he could defend himself now against the zombies, instead of relying on his stronger friends as usual.

The day of the expedition came way sooner than he'd liked, and on his horse, next to the rest of cadets, and Hange, who was the one assigned to them, behind them, he and everyone else followed their commander into the dangerous lands.

Their first dozen minutes were calm, as they haven't yet entered the zone where the zombies were most prominent, so Captain Hange saw fit to use these few moments to chat, and rely important news too.

"I hope you all kids know how much this disease, despite being terrifying to all of you, interests me. Especially the first stages; powers! Fascinating, almost magical, no?" They prompted, studying the cadets' expressions. "I'd give anything to be able to experience that kind of rush, you know, of having the ability to do such grand things, even if its not controllable."

Armin started sweating. He did not like where this was going. In fact, he was about to hate it even more.

"You know kids, Commander Erwin and I made an interesting discovery this week." She prompted. "We found out that someone among us has been infected."

Armin felt his heart almost stop.

"They have ice powers, This person who was infected. Commander Erwin found an icy handprint on his door the other day. Now, I'd like to think that this person doesn't know aboit their infection, but it seems to me that they've tried to turn themselves in but backed out at the last moment, for obvious reasons."

Armin felt his breathing get heavier, and a familiar rush go through his limbs. "No, no, no, please, not now,' he thought.

But it was too late. Ice had started covering not only the saddle he had been holding, but also his horse's side. Pained, the animal threw Armin off it's back, bringing all attention to him.

Hange took out her gun and pointed it at him. The one they use to fight the zombies, the people infected beyond any help. The closest corporals surrounded him, their weapons out. The rest looked at him in disbelief. So did his friends. He couldn't meet their eyes.

"Call Commander Erwin," Hange commanded one of her soldiers. "Tell him we've found the infected; it's Armin Arlert."

"Is it true Armin? Is this what you've been hiding from us?" Eren shouted in shock.

"L-Listen, I can explain.."

Hange, not waiting for an explanation, cocked her gun. Mikass yelled and charged at her, dropping her in the ground. Corporal Levi cocked his and fired at him.

Armin luckily heard Levi's gun, and as he raised his hands protectively, a wall of ice rose from the ground between him and the shooter, and the bullet was stuck between the ice. Snapping out of his shock, Armin realised the gravity of the situation, and the urgency by which he had to explain himself.

"Get away! He'll freeze you to death!" All the soldiers backed up, all except Eren, Mikasa who was still hand wrestling with Hange, and the rest of his friends.

"No! I won't! I swear" Armin replied. "Listen to me, I know I should've reported myself, but I have reasons."

"I truely believe that these powers are controllable. If I do get the hang on them, it will be a huge advantage to humanity, and advantage you can't pass up!"

"And what makes you believe that you, out of all these people zombified, will manage to control your powers and escape that fate?" Commander Erwin inquired, interested.

"Commander, we can't possibly.."

"Cases of people controlling their powers may be rare, but not impossible. Sir, this wall of ice that I generated is proof to you, as we all know the infected's powers always act on the offense, never on the defense." Armin explained passionately. "Besides, I've found myself to be able to hold my powers back whenever necessary, and while in this aspect I still need some refinement, but the progress I've made is very impressive considering the history of the disease."

"And last, I implore you again to think of the advantage that my powers could give to humanity. With enough training and refinement, I might be able to seal the wall Maria, permanently, since the ice I make cannot be melted unless I choose to. All I want, is humanity's best, and if you see that killing me would be the most beneficial choice to humanity, then I implore you to do it!"

Commander Erwin retreated, and soldiers surrounded Armin with their rifles drawn, waiting for their superior's orders. Mikasa broke free from the soldiers holding her away from Hange and ran towards Armin. Eren followed her.

"Armin, are you hurt?" She attempted to hold his hand but he shoved it away silently. She understood why now. He shook his head. "Was this.. Was this what you've been hiding from us?"

He nodded silently. He still couldn't bring himself to look at either of his friends. Why didn't he report himself earlier? At least then he would've been executed with dignity.

"Armin, how much of your power can you control? We need to get you out of here, fast." Eren said, looking around him. They could hear snippets of the commader's discussion with the rest of the captains.

"Eren.." Armin said firmly. "It's fine. I'm fine with whatever decision they come up with. You just take Mikasa out of here, they're pointing guns at us."

Eren looked away, then hugged both Armin and Mikasa. Armin slid his hands into his sleeves and returned the hug.

Soon the Commader Erwin made up his decision, and started directing the formation to return to the walls.

He then announced their final decisions : Armin would be locked out of the walls, but with enough provisions to last him a week and his weapons. He was to stay outside the walls for a week, to make sure he won't be turning, and by the end of the week, Armin was to use his powers to climb to wall, as a test for his control over them.

The trio sighed in relief. They hugged each other tighter as the rest of their friends joined the hug. Sasha was barely holding back her tears, as she yelled at Armin for scaring them.

But eventually the moment came, where they had to leave him, alone, for a whole week, in the zombie infested wasteland.

It was going to be a long week.

#attack on titan #armin arlert #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #attack on titan au #attack on titan fic #laughing S og post

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