#The asker might not listen to a single word

[therainbowgorilla]

This is not a question. This is an explanation tied to a question, like an elephant tied to a latex balloon: do queer people know that the reason queer discourse exists in the state that it does is almost definitely because a lot of queer people are also retarded? I hope that's as blindingly obvious to other people as it is to me, because *aS aN aUtIsTic PeRsOn*, every time a great big angry ball of queer discourse comes rolling, flaming and screaming past my blog, I think to myself that if I was autistic AND queer, I'd most likely also be dead by my own hand, or wheelchair bound due to a stroke. The attitude expressed by the original poster of the post whose comment section you found me in: that language about or surrounding queerness should be essentially meaningless so as to keep those it relates to from having to conform to any sort of expectation that they may have previously established for themselves, makes it completely impossible for an autistic person to engage with those people at all. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in effect they make themselves more like computers to us than people: malignant and unknowable machines where all input is meaningless and all output is random and usually negative. It's so obvious that that's where the "language has meaning" and "there need to be rules" objections come from, and it's honestly kind of heartbreaking to feel like I, an outsider, am the only person who even notices or cares. I mean honestly, how dare you tell autistic people that there are no rules? What the fuck are you thinking? It took me my entire childhood to just about figure other people out, well into my adolescence. Over fifteen years to stop deliberately antagonizing people just to get a reaction that made contextual sense. I'm almost thirty now, and I'm not going back to that feeling of hopelessness. Not for anyone, no matter how sad their story is. And that's where "You don't get to know how to treat us with respect" came from.

What the fuck are you even on about? You think I'm gonna take the argument of someone who uses the R slur in 2023 seriously? What do you think this is, 5th grade?

I don't give a shit if you're autistic or not. Me too, the fuck? If you would have bothered to glance at my blog description, you'd know that.

Just like any other slur, you can use the R slur for yourself but not against others. (This isn't some roundabout way of calling you the R slur. I'm just saying it's how reclaiming works. You don't get to call other people the R slur just cause you're autistic.)

And oh my god your overdramatic shit about how you'd fucking kill yourself or wind up disabled if you were autistic and queer? How fuckin old did you say you were? Holy shit, you're almost thirty and you're acting like this? Get a grip. Grow up.

I'm autistic, disabled, and queer. The absolute audacity you have to come into my inbox with this shit is just blowing my mind.

And oh my god, the cognitive dissonance here is so legitimately hilarious to me. You're calling people like me overly sensitive when you're the one throwing a hissy fit in some rando's inbox on tumblr dot com lmao. And the claim that you've matured and stopped diliberately antagonizing people is just 😘👌 such funny irony. Like, did you even read your ask before you sent it?

You've self admitted that you're an outsider to the queer experience, so what the fuck makes you think you get a say in how we describe and label ourselves? Newsflash: non-queer people don't get to dictate what queer people call themselves. Shocking, I know (/s).

Look, dude/gal (I'm gonna assume you're not enby since you've said you're not queer), I'm genuinely sorry you've had trouble figuring people out as you grew up. Trust me, I totally get it. You think you're the only autistic person who had trouble figuring people out growing up?

Hell, I STILL ain't figured it out yet. How do allistics remember faces? How do they not get special interests? How do they know "common sense" intrinsically whilst I often don't seem to? How can I tell romantic love from queerplatonic love or from sexual love? Why do allistics always assume we know things despite them never telling us them? How does an NT person focus without hyperfocusing? How can you tell if someone is flirting with you? How does the person in front of me feel? Is the person I'm infodumping to actually interested or am I boring them? Why do people think my tone/face is an angry one when I'm just expressing confusion and asking curious questions? What's my gender? What is gender? Why do people in power want to hurt other people? Why are they so greedy for money they'll never spend? Why can't cashiers sit down?

And how the FUCK does someone make friends, especially as an adult not attending college/uni!?

FUCK IF I FUCKIN KNOW! It sucks! It sucks ass! I know that! Seriously, trust me, I'd love to understand the way allistics and NTs think. The world would be SO much easier for the both of us. And we struggle so much to understand NTs, whilst they rarely try to understand us in return! I know you struggled and that legitimately sucks, and I wish the world was more kind and patient and accomodating with you and I both.

But, like, you think you struggled? Try growing up disabled, nonbinary, aromantic asexual (with queerplatonic attraction), autistic, mentally ill in several ways, physically disabled, poor, and in an abusive home. Holy fuck, I was constantly confused about other people every day of my damn life!

I'm not saying this to invalidate your struggles and experiences. You struggled, and that sounds like it fucking sucked, and I'm sorry it was that rough for you growing up. It sounds like you weren't given enough kindness and patience and explanations about things when you should have. And that really really sucks, I get that.

But you're not the only one who has struggled, and having a rough life doesn't give you the right to be an asshole to others or dictate how they are allowed to live their lives.

There's something important you aren't understanding here.

You have to try to understand what a social construct is. By definition, social constructs like gender and orientation and the language around them are constantly fluid and changing. Labels are fluid and are ours to pick or to ignore.

I feel a sense of better understanding of myself when I find a label I feel happy with. I feel peace and a sense of comfort that I'm not alone in my experiences. I feel a sense or community. So, for me personally, I love it when I find a label I feel fits me!

Other people feel that labels are restrictive, and that's okay too! No one has to use any labels that they don't want to identify with, and they really don't have to use any at all! The important thing is that the choices are ours to make.

See, you seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding about what being Queer means.

Trying to force strict rules on what queerness is is literally antithetical to the definition of queer. And someone outside the community like yourself absolutely does not get a say in how we define our queerness.

Queerness in and of itself, by definition... is literally a rejection of the strict rules society has always tried to force upon gender, orientation, and the like. Society tries so hard to force us into cis heteromantic heterosexual boxes, tries desperately to enact strict rules about who we can be and who we can care for.

The reason that there are so little rules in regards to how we can identify is that Queerness, at its very essence, is a rejection of the strict rules and labels that society forces upon us. Queerness is about breaking free or rules and boxes forced upon us by others. Historically, for decades the bisexual and lesbian communities were heavily intertwined and welcoming to each other and to letting their members identify as either or both if they wished.

Then, a bunch of biphobes decided that bi people were disgusting and dangerous for (many if not most of them) liking men. And the biphobes began trying to drive a wedge between the historically linked communities and force bisexuals out. Unfortunately, it seemed to work.

(here's one source I really enjoyed reading that taught me a lot about this bisexual and lesbian history!)

The link between the bi and lesbian communities once thrived, and then it was stolen from us by a bunch of biphobic assholes.

Bi lesbian is a rejection of the unjust rules society has tried to force upon us. It is a reclamation of the historical link that was ripped away from us by the hatred and bigotry of biphobes.

You need to learn how to be okay with not understanding every little thing. If you don't understand someone, talk to them, ask them questions. And if you still can't understand, that's okay! Because here's the thing: You don't have to understand something or someone to respect them. I don't understand every single xenogender or microlabel, but as long as they aren't based on hatred or bigotry, I am perfectly content to say "I can't say I understand it fully, but I'm happy you've found a label that brings you comfort and happiness with yourself!"

Identifying as bi lesbian is, at its core, an act of queer rebellion and reclaimation. The very essence of what being Queer is all about.

#Fave og posts #The asker might not listen to a single word #But I hope that someone out there finds comfort in what I've written #Bi lesbian #Queer #Queer pride #R slur tw #Ableism tw #Suicide tw #actually autistic #This ended up basically being an essay #I hope this is #Empowering #To others as writing this was for me #I feel a sense of validation and catharsis and empowerment from writing this out #I hope the asker takes some of it to heart #But if they don't I hope it at least helps others

[belfrygargoyles]

I Answer Questions I Get About Star Wars Fanfiction

So, when I made this post a while back, I did end up getting quite a few people coming to me for advice!

And while I was happy to give what help I could through tumblr DMs, there was also quite a bit I was realizing was a bit Much to be conveyed just through the DM format.

So, while this is by no means a catch-all, comprehensive list of what to do and what not to do, I thought I’d make a post going into a bit more detail! I’ll specifically be addressing questions/concerns that have been brought to me, mostly

Because of the specific subject matter of the original post, most of the question askers were white/cis/het women, so much of what I cover will be directed at authors of that specific demographic.

The brunt of the post is about writing reader-characters of different demographics and why “gender-neutral” reader-inserts tend to fail to reach that mark, but the first two points I address are related to racism and fetishism in writing. Because of this, I want to preface: I am White, and I will never be an authority on what is or is not racist or fetishistic. These are questions I, specifically, have received, and needed more space to elaborate on. Everything I say, I have learned by listening to fans of color speaking out about the ways they and characters of color are treated and by doing my own research into the subject- my experience and advice is not exhaustive, I cannot cover every important facet, and my word should never, ever come before that of a person of color speaking about the same subject.

If while reading, you come across something that is not true, is offensive, harmful, or otherwise just not good advice for me to give, please contact me and I will remove or edit as needed.

I’m a White, cishet woman, and I like to write fanfiction about characters I find attractive who are men of color. How can I avoid writing fetishistic or racist stereotypes? 

To recognize fetishism, you first need to understand racial stereotypes and why they’re harmful, even if they’re “positive.”

First thing’s first: there is no such thing as a positive stereotype. All stereotypes bring with them the very real potential to harm people, demean or belittle them, isolate them, impact their social life, work environment, and how they interact with the world and the people around them, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, culture, or body type.

It is very important that you seek out and listen to the word of these people themselves. Understand why it is harmful to write a story about a “savage” tribal man seducing a White colonizer (and why “savage” is a terrible word to use to describe someone in the first place). Understand why it is suspicious to be obsessed with the sexual prowess of dark-skinned men. Understand why the common tropes and stereotypes you see associates with people of color are harmful, and understand that this is not about you. This is not about what you want to see as a reader, this is not about the specific fantasies you want to write out with a certain character, this is not about your fulfillment and enjoyment, because you are the person writing and putting your writing into the world for others to see and consume. The way you portray your characters and the situations they are in is important.

Second: you need to learn how to step back and examine your own thoughts and behavior for bias, conscious and subconscious.

Would you think the same way about a character if they were a woman? Would you write a character with the same personality if they were White? Would you think two characters have the same romantic tension and chemistry if they were different genders?

For example: In the game Subnautica: Below Zero, the player character is Robin, a Black woman. At some point in the game, she expresses defensiveness in response to unintentionally rude remarks about the human body, from a source that would have no idea that it was rude. Her offense and defensive tone is not at all unwarranted or unreasonable, nor does she hold a grudge, but upon first playthrough I found myself thinking, “man, Robin’s kind of a bitch.”

Then I remembered the fact that Black women are frequently seen as aggressive, rude, and “pushy,” and that Black women in media are commonly seen by (White) fans as “mean” in comparison to other (White) characters who act the same way, if not worse. I realized that at no point in the game does Robin ever act spiteful, cruel, selfish, or vindictive towards the source of the offending comments. She was someone who was proud of her physical capabilities and the hard work she put into her body’s fitness, and she was not in the wrong for getting offended at the implication that her body was flawed or inefficient. Throughout the game, Robin is patient, driven, compassionate, and forgiving, and expresses grief, frustration, offense, and anger as is appropriate for the situations she finds herself in.

What I had done was subconsciously put Robin in a set box of character traits based off of racist stereotypes and characterizations frequently seen in media and fanworks. I didn’t realize I was doing it in the moment, and had to take a step back to examine the source media and my own behavior, and realized I was projecting a completely false idea of what Robin, a Black woman, should be like as a character.

That is an example of subconscious racial bias. Subconscious racial fetishism can look more like...

- Believing male characters of color all have insatiable sexual appetites and massive penises

- Automatically headcanoning characters who are large, burly, strong, or aggressive as Black or dark-skinned

- Putting East Asian women on a pedestal for being beautiful, pure, innocent- or, on the flip side, as beautiful and “please queen roundhouse kick me” treating her as “beautiful but fierce.”

These examples, alone, in singular instances, aren’t fetishism- headcanoning a single man of color as sexual and being well-endowed isn’t fetishism alone, headcanoning a single physically large and strong character as Black isn’t fetishism, thinking an East Asian woman is exceptionally beautiful and elegant isn’t fetishism.

It’s how you do it in relation to how you interact with other characters. Do you only ever write about a male character of color in a highly sexualized context or only ever talk about how big his penis is and what you want him to do to you? Is that large and forceful character the only one you headcanon as having dark skin? Do you fawn over East Asian women as beautiful goddesses and “dragon ladies” but never actually explore them as anything else but just being there for decoration?

(Warning for the next paragraph: intersex fetishism, racist tropes in Star Wars fandom)

Something I commonly see in the Star Wars sphere of fandom is, particularly with the clones, use of the word “savage” or “feral.” For the sake of not singling anyone out, I won’t use URLs, but an example I recently saw firsthand was a prompt about Stewjonis (e.g. Obi Wan) all being intersex and “fertile” and as such exceptionally desirable to the clones, described as having a “hunger” and having “savage, animalistic instincts,” including having a violent, animalistic rage they unleash when they think the White man they think they own is in danger.

The author is fetishizing intersex people (making Obi Wan, a White man being paired with brown men, intersex for the sole purpose of making him “fertile” and able to be impregnated for the sake of a breeding kink- he’s not written as intersex just to be intersex representation, he’s written as an idealized fantasy of intersex for the sake of keeping him “male” but also able to get pregnant to fulfill the author’s bioessentialist fantasies of aggressive, animalistic cis men of color inherently desiring and being unable to help their “instincts” around a “fertile mate.”) and using a common racist stereotype for brown men: that they are “savage,” “animalistic,” sexually aggressive, sexually driven, violent, and sexually dominating over “smaller” (Ewan Mcgregor is 5′10, Temuera Morrison is 5′7. Even if you headcanon the clones as 6′0, as Wookieepedia defaults every adult male human to, that’s still only two inches of difference) light-skinned love interests (who have a vagina).

At a very, very basic level, I can get why the idea of such a dynamic might be appealing: the idea of someone finding you desirable and protecting you/fighting for you without reservation, the idea of “instincts” showing someone’s true feelings they can’t fight for you, etc. etc.. When that’s what you’re going for, it’s a case of you really, really needing to think long and hard about the characters you’re using and how you’re portraying them. I mean, you need to really think about it.

And I get it if it’s a trope you really like or a dynamic you really want to write, but I repeat: this isn’t about you. It’s about the image and stereotypes you may or may not be reinforcing about people of color, men of color, and intersex people to yourself and your readership.

This is the best advice I can give you: Take a step back. Check yourself. Check the way you think about a character, the way you write them, and the way they are portrayed in canon. Think about why you want to write the situation you want to write. Think about how you are portraying the character, and how it might be interpreted by people who aren’t in your brain. Ask yourself if you really think the character would act that way, or if that’s just how you think they should act, and then ask yourself why.

If you find that what you are writing might be falling into fetishistic or derogatory tropes or stereotypes, that’s where you stop. Identify what, specifically, about the situation or scenario appeals to you. Identify why the characters appeal to you. See if you can use those elements in a way that doesn’t reinforce those stereotypes.

2. When does a smut fic involving a man of color become fetishistic? What if an author is simply exaggerating pre-existing character traits for the sake of a smut scenario? Is writing characters partaking in specific kinks or tropes fetishism by default because they’re played by men of color?

I’ll go down the line:

- The short answer: when you use fetishistic tropes. The longer answer: when you use tropes in a context that could be considered fetishistic, and do nothing to add depth to the situation. Show that you put thought into your decisions, and show us why you believe the character would do/act/think that way. If you can’t because it doesn’t make sense and it’s just something you want to happen to engineer a specific trope (E.X. Clones never getting any sex ed ever and freaking out at the thought of a vagina), don’t do it. Are you focusing on a character as a dominant party in bed? Then analyze how you’re portraying that, if you’re using animal comparisons, references to how small and petite his submissive partner is, if you’re portraying it as a healthy sexual relationship or if you’re implying that he’s always possessive, domineering, and intimidating towards his partner- it very much helps to have beta readers.

- Then the author needs to put effort into the scenario they’re writing and really examine why those are the character traits they’re exaggerating in a character of color. Why, of all the character’s traits, are you choosing to play up his strength, size, and aggression in the way that you are? If you still really want to write it: write the characters discussing it as a BDSM roleplay scene or show aftercare that tells us that’s not what the character is normally like, but was an act he was putting on in a pre-agreed scenario. Oftentimes, the issue can be that the author makes no effort to show that this isn’t how the character acts outside of the bedroom, or even erases that line completely by showing no difference between how the character treats his partner in day-to-day life and in bed.

- Not at all. You can write Boba Fett being a Dom and having kinky sex all you want- but it needs to make sense. By that I mean-  writing OOC, shallow smut isn’t a sin, but when it involves men of color, especially in situations where they have already been highly sexualized and fetishized, you, as an author have to think about how you’re writing them. You have to think about if you���re just using them as sockpuppets to write out a dom fantasy you already had pre-engineered, and you need to think about why, exactly, you want to use that specific character in that specific role. Are you writing about the character, or are you using their name and face as a prop to play out the fantasy?

3. I’m White/cis/het/female and I write reader-insert fanfiction, I...

a. ...try to keep my readers ambiguous, but I think I still mess up.

First: Accept that some measure of character description is needed for your readers to not feel like they’re inhabiting the fictional body of a ghost. You’ll never be able to be 100% ambiguous, and that’s okay. Parts of who we are and the way we experience the world will always leak into our writing, and that’s just part of the experience. What’s important is that you’re able to recognize where your experiences are not universal, and decide on if that’s something you can change in your writing.

Next: Some basic tips for common whoopsies that are easy to overlook.

- Hair length, color, and texture

Instead of saying something that implies a particular hair type, such as the way it blows in the wind or how the reader-character brushes or styles it, you can reference that they just have hair without going into detail, such as:

“He found himself unable to sleep that night- normally, he would count the rivets in the ceiling until they blurred together, but now he had a new distraction catching his eye. Your hair against his pillow was new, novel- he found his eyes tracing the strands from root to tip, the way the dim light catching on the strands almost hypnotic, and before he knew it he was delicately tracing his fingertips along a patch near your ear that had grown in what was, to his sleep-deprived mind, an utterly fascinating whorl.” Vs. describing a character running his fingers through the reader’s hair.

- Body type

I will say: sometimes, it makes a reader-insert infinitely more engaging if we have just scant details about the reader character, but that’s usually if the details are uncommon in the genre. By this, I mean: if a reader-insert specified that the reader-character was actually buff and very tall, I would already be more invested, because I never see reader-characters like that.

This being said, when you want ambiguity, when it comes to body type avoid referencing the reader’s weight, size, musculature, height, and build- nothing about curves, nothing about hips, nothing about stomachs.

Again, you can reference that the reader has these things, but without specifying that their stomach is flat or their hips are curvy or that they look small and delicate compared to the love interest. What I see the most of is references to the reader being notably shorter, lighter, or weaker than other characters. If someone is targeting the reader over, say, Din, because they look like they’d be an easier target, instead of saying that it’s because the reader is the smaller, “weaker-looking” target, make note of it being because of some other vulnerability- armor, lack of visible weaponry, hands aren’t free, distracted, because they saw the reader choke on an apple seed in the market earlier and it made them think they were incompetent and easy to take out, etc.

- Skin color

This one is the most basic, but also easy to mess up. Along with things like hair type being correlated with race (ie if you describe a reader-character with long, fine, straight hair, you are excluding the possibility of the reader-character being Black), something that can be easy for lighter-skinned authors to forget is that blush, flush, sunburn, and pallor aren’t easily visible on all skin colors.

If you want to write things like that but don’t know how to portray them without indicating skin tone, try instead using temperature. Reference the reader feeling heat rise to their cheeks, or the uncomfortable warmth radiating from a minor burn, or how cold and clammy their skin feels.

- Unnecessary references to the reader’s gender (E.X. gendered bathrooms, dressing rooms, calling the reader-character things like “the girl” or “the woman”)

If you’re writing a fic with a gender-neutral reader, you do not need to use any of those in the story. I promise, you don’t. If you have to, either find a way around it or just... don’t. If you want to make the reader gender-neutral, you don’t need these. I promise.

If you’re writing a gender-neutral but explicitly AFAB reader: also don’t use these, because it defeats the purpose of you saying the reader is supposed to be gender-neutral. In fact, make the reader’s gender the absolute LAST thing you put in the fic. Write the whole thing as if the concept of gender doesn’t exist.

- Typically gendered characteristics such as voice pitch and tone, face shape, chest, hips, hands, height

See above. The thing is, none of these things are inherently indicative of gender, but for many people, they are. If you say you’re writing a gender-neutral reader, but include reference to very feminine-associated traits, you’re telling the reader that you wrote the reader-character as essentially Girl Lite.

Something not enough people realize is that there are AMAB nonbinary people, there are cis AFAB women who are very masculine, and so on. “Gender-neutral” shouldn’t mean “Female 2″ or “tomboy.”

- And think to yourself: Would I write a male character acting this way?

This is... self-explanatory. And also very important. And why I say to make gender the absolute last thing you put in the fic. I’ll talk more about this specifically at the end!

Something important to note: Nonbinary is not the same as gender-neutral!

Nonbinary specifically refers to the gender identity in which you are neither strictly male nor strictly female- your gender identity exists outside of the male-female binary.

Gender-neutral means that references to the reader’s gender are removed and it can be read by someone of any sex or gender without being taken out of the experience by gendered traits or situations.

...want to start writing readers who aren’t like me, but don’t know where to start.

Just do it, really. That’s the best way to do it. You don’t have to make it a major part of the fic!

I can only really speak on the experience of being nonbinary and reading fics written by cis authors, and again, at the very end I’ll go more into personal feelings and experience, but I really do mean just write it. Get a beta reader, or friends to look it over. Ask people from different reader demographics what they want to see. It doesn’t have to change the entire course of your writing.

...am afraid of writing a different kind of reader-character and getting something wrong.

It happens! No one can know every experience under the sun, and if you’re not writing from experience, you’re bound to get one or two details wrong.

But! That shouldn’t stop you from doing it! This is where getting a beta reader or having a discord server really helps, you can get viewpoints from people with different experiences to tell you what does and doesn’t work.

At the end of this post I’ll talk about things I, specifically, would like to see as a trans person, and how being nb affects the way I see things.

4. What’s wrong with dysphoria fics?

from here on out is personal conjecture

Nothing. I just don’t like them because, well.

They’re basically the only time I ever see fics with an explicitly trans reader, and they all follow the exact same formula: Someone or something triggers reader’s dysphoria, the reader is sad and having a bad time, the love interest comes in and validates the reader’s gender and it’s all better.

One: I’ve never seen this done with a trans woman reader.

Two: It’s... tiring, having the only representation you ever see of yourself being about dysphoria. A lot of the fics are written as personal comfort fics or were requested by a trans person with dysphoria, and that’s fine, but I want to see a grand, multi-chapter fic with an engaging plot and reader-character engagement that just... has a trans reader. It’s not a thing, they just are, because trans people’s lives don’t constantly revolve around how trans they are.

There are more “nonbinary” reader fics than there are fics about trans men or trans women. And all the nonbinary readers are AFAB- I have not seen a SINGLE AMAB nonbinary reader-insert in the Star Wars fandom.

It’s just one of those things that is just... it’s not bad, it’s just kind of exhausting? I’m the kind of person who wants to see stories of people like me just on adventures, not more about how miserable we are because our bodies are wrong or something.

I don’t speak for every trans person, I don’t and I never will. But I think a lot of the people who request dysphoria fic... don’t actually want to read about that. Body dysphoria is touted as the defining trans experience, and a lot of people genuinely believe you have to be dysphoric to be trans. Not only is this not true, but it’s also harmful. Hating your body sucks. Hating your body specifically because you know people use it to judge how to treat you super sucks. Thinking you have to hate your body or else you’re not really trans and are just pretending? Ultra suck.

I’m nonbinary, my partner is a trans man. I’ll paste his thoughts on the matter (minor edits to punctuation and paragraph breaks):

“But in all honesty it’s very very tiring, I think the majority of people asking for a dysphoria fic don’t actually realise they want something else. Many trans people feel dysphoria, myself included, but not all of them do, and it doesn’t make them any less trans, but the overall focus on dysphoria has made it this be all end all thing in and out of the trans community. It’s what people often think of when they think of trans people and while it’s certainly a thing, I think the focus has become entirely too toxic. I think newer trans people tend to internalise dysphoria a lot, especially if they don’t experience it to an extent which is ‘acceptable enough to be considered trans’.

Given that context I think that what a lot of people are looking for when they ask writers for dysphoria fics is actually validation and gender euphoria. They want validation of their gender identity because they’ve recently experienced dysphoria and are looking for escapism. It’s something I myself have only come to realise recently despite being out as trans for a considerable amount of time. I don’t expect cis writers to fully understand the intensely personal and nuanced relationship every trans person has with gender and identity, nor do I blame them for using dysphoria as a go-to, especially when the request was for a dysphoria fic. I am however asking writers to instead try more validation and less focus on the bad aspects of being trans such as dysphoria and discrimination.

Again, this is a very complicated subject, and I am only one trans person and one opinion. However I do believe people get stuck in that focus on dysphoria, and it’s not a healthy mindset to be in. For cis writings including trans people in their reader inserts, I’d recommend making them explicitly trans, whether it be male/female/nb, because you cannot have gn pronouns and call it a day, especially not if it’s an nb person because it’s simply not the same as gn pronouns in a fic. Cis writers tend to have a stereotype when it comes to trans people, especially on tumblr where trans men are always seen as soft twinky UwU Bois and it gets real old real fast. I cannot name a single fic I’ve read that’s had a trans reader not in a binder or on hrt. You don’t have to transition to be trans, but it would be nice to see some variation and have some guys only have top surgery or only have bottom surgery or have no surgery and be okay with it. Medically transitioning is by no means the be all end all but every trans experience is unique and it’s very bland to see the same trans story every time you read a reader insert. I am of course speaking from the point of view of a trans man, I can’t imagine what it must be like for trans women because those fics are even less common!“

5. Okay what was it you said earlier about stuff you’d come back to?

Glad you asked!

Look, I’ll be straight up and honest, this is something that’s hard to put into words because it’s such a nebulous experience, and I don’t know how to describe it to cis writers but.

Sometimes the way gender neutral, nonbinary, and trans male readers are written really comes across like the author wrote a female reader and just went back to change the pronouns.

The reason why it’s hard to explain at times is because there’s nothing overt, but there are specific patterns in the way authors write reader characters and their love interests, like... female-coding.

The way the reader-character interacts with the world, the way they’re written interacting with characters, the way characters are written viewing them, the way their body language is described- things that, if you take a step back, you’d realize “oh, I wouldn’t write a cis male character like this.”

Again, it’s... really, really hard to put into words, but it’s a pattern my partner and I have both noticed that’s made it hard to enjoy a lot of trans/nonbinary reader fics. The issue isn’t that the reader-character is feminine in any way, the issue is that that’s all anyone ever writes them like.

Reader-insert fics already have a very homogenized experience of “reader-character is extremely passive in their narrative and has little agency in their story other than to exist alongside a canon character for him to eventually fall in love with.” Even in fics where the reader is explicitly a cis woman, there are these... unnecessary references to her being female that, to me, just seem to serve no purpose.

This is. Incredibly just Me saying this here. But it’s genuine, from someone who hasn’t actually Had A Gender in over a decade now: Is... being a woman really that prominent in cis women’s lives? Is it really that big a part of who you are? I want to know, because it’s so wildly different for me, and if I’m going to give advice on how to write reader-characters of other genders, I kind of. Really need to have that one ironed out.

If your gender plays a large role in who you are and your perception of yourself: that’s great, chase your bliss, it’s good to know who you are and what you’re comfortable with! It’s just a theme I keep seeing in reader-inserts that... takes me out of it? Someone whose gender is featured so heavily in their identity and the way they interact with the world might not realize that, say, a nonbinary person, just... has a completely different relationship with gender.

And I’ll say this, too: Trans men’s experiences and relationships with their gender is also wildly different to that of a cis woman. There is overlap in some places, yes, but it is still a completely different relationship, and cannot be treated as the same.

I think this is where the problem lies, and why I never see trans woman readers or AMAB nonbinary readers: consciously or not, cis female writers write what they know, and are applying their experiences and relationship with gender to trans AFAB readers assuming it will be the same or similar enough.

I will say, as a general rule of thumb: it really is not. Do not treat it like it is, please. This is why I say to write as if gender doesn’t exist. Just write the character, write the story, and then worry about their pronouns. Don’t even think about what they look like or their voice if you find that stopping you.

Write the reader as a character, not as a woman.

Now that that’s out of the way.

6. How can I make my reader-insert stand out?

I’ll let my partner, Felix, take over for this one again:

“People write what they know so expand your knowledge by talking to others.

Reader inserts are often very passive, too. Try to have your reader become the driving force instead of letting plot happen around them. For example, try to imagine why the reader and the characters would have a reason to talk/bond, what would be reasonable motivations for the reader? Why would the characters care about the reader?

Easy ways to do this include having an already established relationship between the reader and character that you can draw from, the reader has to accompany the characters for an amount of time on a joint goal, anything other than ‘reader is sexy lamp and characters like reader because reader is sexy.’ If you’re gonna write about a one night stand, then write about a one night stand, but don’t try to shoe horn in a whole relationship.

if you’re gonna write tropes then you have to:

1) Make it your own. “School for superpowered kids” is the core of several IPs: my hero academia, Harry Potter and xmen, but all of them are very different to each other. If you’re writing for reader inserts, a common trope is ‘reader whisked away by character to start a new life.’ This trope is everywhere, and it’s fine, but art is all about that execution.Think more about why these things are happening; why is the reader being whisked away, why does the character care about them, why would they stay together after the initial danger has passed? Don’t explain it to me either, show me the events leading up to the scene you want. Don’t tell me ‘ever since character rescued reader he’s been in love with them,’ show me those events, show me the lead up, show me why I should give a damn. If the fanfic wasn’t specifically reader insert, would it still be interesting?

2) Execute your tropes well. Execution is the most important thing when it comes to art. You can have the most brilliant idea in the world but if you don’t execute it properly it’s worth about as much as dirt. A movie can have a great idea, but if the pacing is off or the lighting bad or the sound design shit it’s not gonna work is it? Best example are the original Star Wars trilogy vs the prequels, I could go on for ages about the differences between them and the behind the scenes, but the gist is that during the filming of the og trilogy Harrison Ford, Carrie fisher and mark Hamill were constantly rewriting the script during scenes to flow better and sound better, Lucas’ wife was the editor and was the reason we have those great scenes that are seared into the memory of our society.

With the prequels many people had credited Lucas as being the sole reason the og trilogy was so successful, therefore he had more free reign and bogged down the movies with things that, yes, might have been interesting lore wise, but served no purpose for the actual story. His execution was bad. Your execution of your fic doesn’t have to be on the grand scale of a million dollar budget movie, but you do have to make the effort if you want to make a good story. You wanna write a horny smut fic? Power to you, do research into bdsm and healthy safe sex practices. Go into depth about how that makes the characters feel and how it connects to them as people. You can do a fantastic character study just from bdsm practices because of how personal and intimate that situation can be. Even without hard smutty stuff you can still write a deep and personal fic about a character falling in love with the reader if you just take the time to actually develop the relationship between them.”

Phew, that was a lot. Those were really the Main Big Questions I hopefully answered to a satisfactory degree. Ask box is always open, though!

#star wars #reader insert #star wars reader insert #star wars x reader #x reader #din djarin x reader #boba fett x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #y/n #okay to reblog

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I was thinking, what if Jake accidentally triggered Chris? Like maybe Jake casually says something that sir would say when he was about to punish Chris. He’d probably feel so guilty.

So this isn’t exactly what you asked for, but it hits on another ask I received and is very similar! (sorry, other asker, I ended up losing your ask because Tumblr sucks)

CW: References to past whump involving a minor. PTSD/trauma response to stressful stimuli. Includes description of stimming including head banging. VERY vague references to past implied noncon.

Chris’s mind runs fast. Not as fast as his mouth, but that’s okay, he can mostly catch up to himself if he works at it. His mind runs fast but it also derails and crashes on tiny details when he’s trying to finish his chores, and he never had chores before he came to live here but he doesn’t mind them - it’s just hard to get them done when there keep being so many other things to look at.

He’s supposed to be cleaning the living room, and it takes Jake maybe half an hour to do this but Chris has been at it for nearly forty-five minutes, he thinks, maybe longer… and he’s still just trying to finish dusting all the shelves.

The thing is - the TV is on, because he likes the background noise, but words keep catching his attention, little phrases and bits of information his brain wants to add to the constant loop of his thoughts. Plus - plus, on top of the TV and the swirly letters he can’t read on all the books, and the way the throw pillows have kind of a cool texture - on top of all of that, there’s a chipmunk outside.

He knows it’s a chipmunk because Jake told him about how they chirp, which he didn’t know before he came here. Chris mostly didn’t know anything before he came here, but he’s learning, piece by piece.

The chirping keeps catching his attention, drawing him away, slowing him down. He’s no good at cleaning, he can’t think about it long enough, cleaning is too slow and too methodical for his brain. But he likes doing chores, because chores mean he belongs here.

He fluffs a throw pillow, then runs his fingertips over the rough braided texture right down the center, a change from the silky-touch feel of the sides. Silk, rough, silk, rough, silk, rough.

His eyes start to unfocus, go slightly blank.

Silk, rough, just like-

“How’s it going, Chris?” Nat calls from upstairs. She’s turning over all the mattresses and changing the sheets today, Antoni is with her, while Leila works on cleaning the bathroom upstairs and Jake’s down here, in the kitchen, just a few feet away. 

“It’s, it’s, it’s it’s it’s good!” Chris calls back, jerking himself into motion, but he can hear the chipmunk outside still, calling and calling and calling. Is it missing someone?

Do I miss someone?

The thought breaks in, strange and uncertain, hardly his own. It’s plaintive, sad. It’s a thought that belongs to Baldur in the dark nights, and to the numbered boy before that in the flat white room. It’s not a thought that belongs to Chris, who stands next to the window and looks out into  sunny day. It’s not a thought he wants.

So he ignores it.

 Thoughts like that come with headaches that leave him shaking in the dark, and he’s very good at ignoring anything that might bring on the pain again.

He moves to clean around the windowsills, which - who ever heard of doing that, but it’s on the list she reads out to him, and he tries to remember everything. He’s getting better.

The chipmunk chirps outside the window, a kind of throat-swallow sound, and Chris finds himself echoing the noise, making a high-pitched eep-eep-eep sound. It doesn’t sound like the chipmunk at all, but the little animal goes silent outside when he does it, and Chris feels a thrill.

It understood I was trying to talk to it. Maybe it’s listening to me.

That’s a silly thought, and he tries to tell himself it’s stupid, but when he thinks awful things about himself he can kind of hear how Jake would respond if he said them out loud. You’re smart, Chris, you’re smarter than you think you are - you’re brilliant in there, we’re just bringing it back out. Don’t talk down about yourself. The way you think about yourself is how you think about the world.

Chris mostly loves the world, now. So he tries to love himself.

The chipmunk starts back up again, and Chris moves closer, a smile on his face. Slow, and careful, step by step, cleaning forgotten, he tilts his head and-… there it is. Tiny body no bigger than a mouse in a movie, reddish-brown with the black and white stripes across its head and down its back.

Jake says they have stripes like that because the things that eat them don’t see color like people do, and the stripes help them hide.

I wish I had stripes to help me hide.

But the thought doesn’t matter, because Chris doesn’t have to hide anymore. He puts that thought away, too. Lets it sink into the revolving mix of things going on inside his mind at any given moment. Right now it’s mostly the chipmunk.

His hand keeps moving with the rag in it, wiping back and forth across the windowsill, spraying the glass cleaner and wiping at that, too, but it’s half-hearted and he knows he’s leaving streaks. He just… can’t quite stop thinking about the little chipmunk he can just see, hardly a breath of an animal, sitting in Nat’s grass under the white birch tree in her front yard.

If you go to the tree you can peel strips of white and black bark away, easy as cake, like peeling away all his skin to find the real him underneath.

There’s a voice, behind him, from the TV. Smooth, genial, warm and slightly arrogant, the voice of someone who has total and perfect confidence in themselves. 

Chris drops the glass cleaner, the plastic bottle bouncing off the floor. The chipmunk catches some hint of the sudden movement and takes off, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Of course, Deborah. But I don’t think it’s fair to remove this right that’s been enshrined in our laws since 1952 just because a few protesters get their, well, I won’t say it in polite company. But just because a few protesters are bothered, that’s no reason to get rid of an entire system that’s working just fine. We need to crack down on abuse, of course, and these nasty rumors about illegal acquisition - which, I know the head of WRU personally, I can tell you that’s all a bunch of nonsense-”

Chris’s constant running barrage of thoughts comes to a stuttering halt.

He turns slowly around, cleaning rag still clutched in his other hand, his heart somewhere trapped around his knees, to stare at the TV.

There’s a woman on the screen right now, with blonde hair shellacked in a kind of circle around her head, wearing bright red lipstick and a dress to match. She tilts her head at a practiced angle, and Chris unconsciously echoes the motion. His free hand twists, fingers twitching in a kind of dance, before they tap against his own side. Tap-tap-tap-tap, the motion soothing him, calming him, a rush of something pleasant that fights the fear.

“Of course, Governor Branch-”

“Oh, how do I love to hear myself called that, still,” The man replies. He sits back, the slight shine of the light off his hair makes Chris dizzy. He can almost smell the hair product that’s in it, can almost feel the smooth fabric of the suit Sir is wearing slipping through his fingers.

That’s the one he wore the night Miss Megan saved me.

“Speaking of illegal acquisitions, there’ve been persistent rumors surrounding WRU and its competing corporations about pet abuse, abductions, even minors being put into the system. What would you say o the protesters and pet liberation groups asking for better, more thorough investigations? Would you support the call for a Congressional investigation?””

Sir laughs - it’s a lovely laugh, pulling a smile onto the woman’s face, it’s a laugh Chris has dreams and nightmares about - and Chris lets out a choked-off sound. 

Baldur, darling, you do know how to make a man laugh, don’t you?

His fingers twist faster, tap harder into his side. He steps away, stumbling gracelessly, until he can find a hard surface, the wall. He taps on it as fast as he can, a constant barrage of tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap, holding back the worst of the fear, keeping it at bay.

The rush of the sensation isn’t enough to beat back the fog in his mind. He’s buying time but not enough. He can hear Jake singing to himself in the kitchen, and his mouth opens to call, to say, that’s him, that’s my Sir, that’s him on TV, but no sound comes out.

Outside, the chipmunk starts chirping again.

Chris slides down to the floor, curling himself up into a ball, staring fixedly at the screen. 

“Deborah, I have spoken to my good friend Timothy Rahm - current CEO of WRU, sorry, not all your viewers are going to know that, are they? - and he has assured me again and again that WRU has absolutely no minors in the system. They have strict physical examinations and quality control checks that ensure every single pet is of legal consenting age.”

Sir smiles, flash of bright white teeth. Chris thinks of whitening strips laid out in a little stray next to Sir’s sink. He had to look good for cameras. He does look good, in his suit with his tan and his sparkly amused eyes. 

Darlin’, don’t look upset. You’re going to stay right here in the basement for the party, can’t have anyone getting too good a look, can we?

But, but, but but I don’t like the, the basement, Sir I don’t-

Baldur. You’ll stay in the basement. No arguments.

Yes, Sir.

Chris leans his head over, until it thumps into the wall. Briefly, he feels a burst of better, a wash of something like adrenaline, but soothing, calming. So he does it again. And again. And again.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The chipmunk is silent, listening outside to the sound of Chris as his thoughts revolve and focus around the man on the TV.

He can’t hear what they’re saying any longer, he doesn’t try to. He lets the sound of Sir’s voice, melodic and warm, wash over and around him, but if he keeps thumping his head on the wall - if he keeps tapping, too, if he can just do both - he won’t let him in.

Get him to stop doing that thing with his hand, it’s annoying as hell. I don’t care how, tie his fucking hands down. Teach him not to do that anymore.

The voice wants to trickle under his skin, but a good thump - it’s not painful, it doesn’t hurt, it’s only a shake out of his freezing, it’s holding back the sounds that would hurt if they made it too far in - knocks it back out.

Not yours. Not yours. Not yours. Not yours.

He chants along with the thumps of his head, the taps of his fingers. He whispers without sound. 

Better now. Better now. Better now. Better now.

His eyes go unfocused, and Sir is gone, but Chris can’t remember quite how to find his own way back. He doesn’t know how long he floats there, waiting. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for.

Someone crouches down in front of him and Chris flinches - no, no, he’s not supposed to touch the walls any longer, he has to stop or he’ll be in trouble again - only to feel Jake’s warm hands on his shoulders, up his neck, on either side of his face.

Jake’s smell, simple clean shower-smell, nothing like Sir’s heavy cologne. Jake smells like soap from the shower and fresh-cut grass from mowing the lawn this morning and the sun that shone in his hair when he did it, while Chris watched from inside.

“Chris?”

“I, I, I, I… I I I saw, I saw, I saw-”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow in concern, a hint of worry lines across his forehead. “What did you see, man? Can you tell me what you saw? Can you tell me what’s in your head right now?”

Sir isn’t on TV anymore. They’ve moved on to talk about something else. Chris swallows, looking up at Jake, then shoves himself forward to push into Jake’s chest, tap-tap-tapping on his side. Jake doesn’t stop him, Jake never ever stops him, he understands the tapping helps. Jake only puts one arm around him and holds him tightly, leaving the other down so Chris can tap, twist-fingers-tap-shirt, again and again.

The simple, clean rush of calm, bit by bit, building a wall to fight back the waves of awful things that want to dig under his skin.

“Chris, I need you to talk to me. What did you see? What happened?”

Chris closes his eyes, thinks of Sir’s smile, just like it always was. His laugh.

Thinks of being good in the dark.

“I saw a chipmunk,” Chris whispers. “Saw, I saw, there was a, a, a-a-a chipmunk, saw a chipmunk, saw-… then the TV, I-… on the, the TV on the tv there was, um, on the TV-”

“Okay. Okay, I know that wasn’t it, but… do you need me to turn off the TV? Would that help?”

Chris nods into Jake’s shirt, clutching hard onto the fabric, tapping his fingers. Hold it back, hold it back, push back the fear and the noise. “Heard, on the TV, I-I-I heard, I heard-”

“It’s okay. Look, I’m going to-… there, if I stretch I can just grab it-” Jake reaches out with his free hand, shakes the side table next to the couch until the remote drops off of it onto the floor within his reach. He turns off the TV and the sudden lack of sound fills the room with a new kind of weight. “No rush, buddy.” Jake squeezes Chris’s shoulders with one arm. “No rush to tell me. Take your time. You’re okay, you’re right here with us, this is Nat’s house. Nobody’s here but us, and we’re safe. I’ve got you, man.”

“You’ve, you’ve got me,” Chris whispers. He feels an urge to thump his head on Jake’s shoulder like he did on the wall, but manages not to. Only just. He can still hear Sir’s voice, like music that won’t stop playing, like when you get a song stuck in your head.

Sir would hate him wearing Jake’s big T-shirt, would hate the silky-mesh basketball shorts he wears all the time. Would hate his knobby knees sticking out from them, his sharp elbows that dig when he doesn’t mean them to. Sir hated his cold feet under the covers.

Jake doesn’t mind any of those things. Jake gives him the shirts he likes, and holds him, and doesn’t stop him from doing the things he has to do to keep his mind from running away too far for him to catch it. Sir was on the screen, but Jake has him here, and only one of those things is real.

Outside, a bit of bark peels away from the white birch tree in the wind, slowly revealing soft, easily-damaged wood the color of pale human skin underneath.

#whump #tw: stimming #tw: ptsd #tw: flashback #tw: ptsd flashback #conditioned whumpee #box boy #box boy universe #chris the strawberry blond romantic #jake the shelter guy #rescued whumpee #trauma recovery #trauma recovery whump #tw: stim #references to whump involving a minor #tw: referenced past noncon #tw: implied past noncon #emotional whump #is that a thing #break the cinnamon roll #break himmmmmmm #welp there goes all that fluffy stuff #hurt/comfort #h/c #caretaker #tw: headbanging #tw: head banging

[funkzpiel]

Drift

So the original prompt had been lovely, utterly lovely, and asked for Alpha!Jaskier using his nature to help Geralt take care of himself (i.e. using his voice, body language, touch, etc. to help persuade Geralt to eat, drink, sleep, rest, etc.) and I LOVED IT and I sat down to WRITE IT and then whatever the fuck this is happened instead… I’m not sure how it spiraled away from me so vastly or how to even quite describe what it turned into, haha. So I’m keeping the original prompt in my rolodex, cause I’d like to try again per the asker’s original idea some time - but for now, have 13 pages of whatever the hell my non-stop headache managed to put together below…

warning: contains abo dynamics, however, literally focuses solely on the dynamic between Alpha/Omega. Does not contain smut. What has happened to me?

Also available to read on AO3

Little girl, little girl ~ don’t lie to me; Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines ~ where the sun never shines; Shivered the whole night through

- In the Pines

“Someone spotted your witcher out by the wood. He’s in a right state. No one’s brave enough to go near’em.”

Those had been the words of the messenger who had tracked Jaskier down at the inn, sent by the alderman. Jaskier had been prepared to go out into the rain and find a soggy, grumpy witcher. But “a right state” didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was raining. Of course it was raining, Jaskier thought petulantly as he braved the weather to find his witcher. It was easy to hide behind his griping. Easier to whine about the cold and the wet than to think too heavily on the messenger’s words: “No one’s brave enough to go near’em.”

He found Geralt at the tree line, as promised. There were at least six trees that had fallen victim to the man, carved up in great hacking lines that bore no pattern or reason. Just vicious, gaping wounds that oozed sap and frayed bark. Weeping splinters atop their roots. Geralt was busy carving up another tree. He was using his steel sword. It kept getting caught in the bark, the blade not made for slipping free of wood as easily as it cleaved flesh or bone. Every time it snagged, Geralt would snarl, shoulders heaving as he yanked it free and attacked again, each time without any of the finesse expected from a witcher. So he wasn’t practicing; not that he should be, so fresh from a hunt.

Jaskier could tell from afar that the man was exhausted. He could hear wheezing in his heaving breaths, see the way his armor struggled to make room for each inhale. His shoulders were low, his arms heavy. He didn’t move his feet more than he had to, instead forcing his hips and thighs to bear the weight of his movements, his attacks. His skin was pale and sickly, and even with the potions having faded off, his veins still showed through his skin like silvery cobwebs.

Something must have gone wrong, there was nothing else to it. Jaskier had seen Geralt like this before. Witchers by nature and grooming were not the most expressive people. They did not know how to tolerate any pain that was not physical. That usually meant their distress got channeled into outlets such as this: calculated violence. As if that stress and that emotion could be worked out of the body like a knot from sore muscles. Each blow exhausted him, each strike winded him – but it kept his mind off whatever had happened. Focused on movement, on the swing of his sword, the angle of the blade’s descent.

Jaskier leaned against the fench a short way from the snarling witcher, elbows braced atop its warped wooden rail. He’d let the witcher tire himself out, that tended to be the best move to make in this particular dance. He’d watch, be there when Geralt—

Jaskier’s thoughts came to a grinding halt as Geralt’s sword buried itself deep into the wood of his victim, then snapped with a clang that rang out like a song in one long, mournful note. The air drew sharp and electric, and Jaskier felt himself tense like an animal suddenly all too keen that a predator was nearby and on the prowl. Water trickled down the slope of his nose, under his collar, between his shoulder blades. He shuddered, eyes fixed on the witcher. Geralt stumbled with the force of the sudden break, and for a moment Jaskier thought that had done it, that had been the last straw of the witcher’s stamina. He waited for the man to fall to his knees. For an opening to go to him, gather him up and help him home. But instead Geralt drew himself up, sides heaving as he panted like an overrun horse, and held the broken sword up so he might better admire the damage.

The metal that remained attached to the hilt was jagged and short. It glimmered weakly, its runes in shambles, its use outlived. Magic popped and crackled along the blade in fits and bursts like a death rattle until finally Geralt tossed it aside – a sneer curling his lip, exposing his teeth. He stood still, like a rock in the middle of a raging river, head down as he glared at the broken sword among the grass. Jaskier prepared to walk to him, guide his exhausted witcher back to the inn, only to freeze when a wounded sound split the air with the same viciousness as Geralt’s sword had split the tree.

The bard’s eyes darted further into the tree line, looking for the source of that animalistic sound – then shot back to Geralt who was moving now, fast as a whip, fist colliding with the tree. Leaves fell, casting him in a veil of baby green leaves and spring petals as the force of the blow shook even a tree as thick as his victim to its core. But the sound, the sound had Jaskier shivering. Wet and fleshy. Geralt’s knuckles – gods above –

Geralt didn’t stop. He reared back, struck again, that howl that had sent icy dread down Jaskier’s spine tumbling from his lips, from behind his teeth, from deep inside his chest. Snarling and blind, Geralt punched again, and again, the sound of his knuckles impacting worsening each time. Jaskier heard a snap and finally that broke the trance that sight had cast upon him, wide-eyed and fawn-legged. He leapt the fence with more grace than he thought himself capable of. Long legs crossed the field, willowy and lithe, and although he knew he was in fact moving quickly, everything felt slow and distant.

“Geralt!” He shouted but could not hear his own words. The rain suddenly worsened, pelted him, as if each sheet might hold him back from his goal single handedly. Geralt either didn’t hear him or did not deign to listen. Petals and leaves kept tumbling down around him in bursts, decorating his hair, littering his armor. Haloing him with life as he raged. Striking, again and again, slap, slap, slap – “Geralt, stop!”

The words came out in a boom, slicing through the rain like a thunderclap.

Jaskier managed to catch the man by the bicep on his backswing, and even through his armor the bard could felt the whipcord tautness of the man’s muscles – the way he held himself, still yearned to strike, but neither relaxed nor continued. Vibrating like a hound snarling at the bit, waiting for the command to launch itself forward and maul its target.

Geralt wouldn’t look at him. His eyes were fastened on the tree, his jaw clenched so tight Jaskier swore he could hear the groaning of his bones, plaintive and grinding. A muscle was leaping in his cheek. His pupils were blown wide, so black and so large that only a thin sliver of amber remained. But he stopped.

He stopped.

Jaskier didn’t enjoy having to use that trick on Geralt – his voice. It was the equivalent of taking Geralt’s choice from him, his autonomy, and while once upon a time Jaskier used to look on such things with rose-colored glasses and nostalgic ideas of romance and “the way of things”, it wasn’t until he met Geralt that he learned that his voice was a very powerful, very painful thing. A tool easily manipulated into a tactic for control rather than kindness; control disguised as comfort. He was no master. Geralt was no pet.

The thought of trying to control something as untamable, as wild and beautiful as his witcher, made him shiver sickly.

No, he had long ago told himself he’d never use it. Yet here he was, the words tumbling so forcefully from his lips without a second thought. A command. Stop.

Geralt kept thrumming beneath his touch, every inch of him shaking. Trembling so finely that were he made of the fine edges and dangling trinkets of a wind chime, he’d be singing faintly. His nostrils were flared, every breath coming out in a huge, heaving plume from each. From his throat and beneath the falling hush of the storm, Jaskier caught the sound of something strangled emitting from the witcher. Lodged tight and captured behind his teeth; a moan, a whine, a snarl, a plea.

Help.

Jaskier hated to use it. It had been a problem in the beginning – his voice. What it stood for, what it meant, what it took away. A problem that took no small amount of effort to work through. Jaskier had been chock-full of all these ideas and notions of what it meant to be an Alpha, what it meant to have an Omega. The bard had built up this fantasy in his head of what that would look like. How he would coddle them, protect them, nest with them, because that was what an Alpha was meant to do. It took time to pull that structure apart in his mind. To rebuild on healthier foundations, all from scratch. Once or twice he thought Geralt would leave him. The Omega was too wild, too free. Every archaic tradition made him buck like a stallion refusing the bit and saddle. In the beginning, it had been infuriating. Frustrating. Offensive, even. Now…

Jaskier had been so blind. He had seen Geralt as something unique to be tamed rather than the truth – there was only one true way to love, regardless of secondary gender, and it was through respect, communication, and the understanding that tradition was a construct, not a rule.

Geralt stayed. They worked through it. Together, they rebuilt that house in Jaskier’s mind, in both of their minds. They made concessions, they navigated the dark together and created a language all their own with which to define what it meant to have a mate, to be an Alpha or an Omega. And one of those concessions had been simple and clear: do not try to own me or control me. Do not use biology against me.

I am a person, not a conquest.

Jaskier had used it. His voice. But he couldn’t watch Geralt do that to himself. Guilt curled coolly in his guy, greasy and sneering. But it was done. It was done.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, voice raised over the howl of the wind and the rain, but normal. Unaffected, powerless. Pleading. “I didn’t mean to… but your hands, Geralt, gods above, you wouldn’t stop.”

Geralt’s pupils contracted ever so slightly, that mad expanse of black thinning with every word that reached him. His heaving exhales turned into something shaky and stuttered, and finally Geralt blinked. He let Jaskier guide his arm down, slim hands reaching for his pale and quaking one. His knuckles – Geralt hissed, the pain finally registering as he caught sight of them – were torn to shreds. Swollen, broken and bleeding despite the rain that ran over them. Bark stuck out in places. Stung. Geralt groaned, nearly whined, before he caught it behind his teeth and swallowed it down with a grimace of distaste. His hand was shaking harder now in Jaskier’s.

The longer he was still, the more Jaskier saw that panic – that frenzy – begin to take root again. Spreading like vines and weeds that filled Geralt’s eyes, blinding him, choking him. Overwhelmed. Amber eyes drifted from the wreckage of the tree slowly, slowly to Jaskier’s face. And for a man as stoic as Geralt, with expressions so minute and so fleeting, Jaskier looked at him and saw nothing but shattered glass, buried beneath the thin line of his lips, the little wrinkled dip of his brows, the unfocused haze of his eyes. Lost.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his heart throbbing painfully against his ribs in great, crushing pulses, “Are you with me?”

Geralt clenched his jaw tighter. His pupils expanded. Something flickered – wild and animal-like – in the lines of his body and the tense edges of his bones. Feral and bewildered because his mad fight with the trees hadn’t worked as it should. It had exhausted him, broken him – and yet whatever had caused the panic remained with nowhere left to go.

His gaze strayed back toward the tree. In Jaskier’s hands, his own curled back into a fist even as he swayed on his feet, all color leeched from his skin – drenched and wrecked.

“No,” Jaskier said, softly but firmly. It drew the witcher back to him. Had the man stepping closer, pressing into his space. Drawn to the confidence of his tone. “Tell me what you want. How to help. Anything… just not that. No more. Please.”

Geralt said nothing, but in Jaskier’s palms and the cradle of his fingers, the witcher’s fist went slack. Trembling and bloody. Jaskier nodded at that, tried to think of how far the inn was without looking – too afraid to lose Geralt by breaking eye contact.

“How can I help?” He repeated, but Geralt just grimaced as though Jaskier had suggested plucking his nails from their nailbeds. He was searching for words that the School of the Wolf had never given him, Jaskier realized. So he asked instead, “What happened?”

All at once, Geralt’s pupils contracted to thin slits, then expanded all over again – worse – eclipsing all but the thinnest ring of amber at their edges. As though an electric current had gone through the man, he stiffened. A noise grew and choked him. Jaskier reached up to grasp the back of his neck on instinct and instinct alone, the call to soothe him too great to resist despite their many conversations. It went beyond tradition now. It was a bone-deep need, irresistible. His fingers dug into the witcher’s neck. Urged him down the scant few inches of difference between them until Geralt’s forehead rested against his own, white hair running into brown beneath the rain. Geralt huffed against him, a soft, relieved little sound, and his eyes flickered shut. Ever so slightly, his shoulders slackened, responding to that hand. Jaskier felt himself have to bear more of Geralt’s weight as the exhausted man leaned into him.

Geralt could have pulled away. He had before. But he didn’t.

“Does this help?” Jaskier asked.

The man keened, remained pliant in his hands.

“Do you want this?”

Another sound. Jaskier felt a plea of his own whimper past his lips, so desperately wanting to soothe – needing to soothe – and yet loathe to assume, to take advantage. Not when he had seen the wildness in Geralt’s eyes in those early days. Not when Geralt had asked for more than tradition dictates.

“I need a yes or no, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, the plea nearly lost to the rain, “Please.”

Geralt shuddered under his hand, all the way down the length of his spine. His jaw worked at something, huffed helplessly, then finally wheezed, “Yes,” like a death rasp. Needing nothing more, that knot of dread in Jaskier’s stomach unraveled – curling out into long, winding tendrils of instinct that directed his limbs thoughtlessly. His hand on Geralt’s neck squeezed a little tighter and a purr rumbled in his chest at the sight of how that little gesture had made Geralt’s eyes soften, relax.

It was like finally flexing a muscle he hadn’t moved in a very long time – a need he hadn’t realized had gone unanswered for so long. Jaskier’s bones thrummed pleasantly at the sight of his Omega – Geralt – responding to him so openly. It wasn’t just that he was feeding into his instincts. There was a level of trust there. A bond that went unsaid. He had no doubt that Geralt would have slunk into the woods by now, fangs gleaming and eyes wild, if he didn’t want Jaskier to touch him, help him.

That was enough.

“Ok,” he said in a hush against the crown of Geralt’s brow. He inhaled the scent of the witcher – rain, blood, Geralt. Then he dipped into the waters of his nature that he had abstained from for so very, very long. He used his voice. “You’re going to follow me to the Inn.”

Geralt nodded, brow still against his, and beneath Jaskier’s hands the bard felt a shiver run through the witcher – electric and pleasant. When he was sure the man would obey, he let his hand leave Geralt’s neck, instead weaving one arm around his own neck so their sides were as flush as possible. Geralt burrowed as closely as possible, and the longer they walked, the more he found the witcher leaning into him not purely for the pleasure of touch alone. Geralt was exhausted. From the contract, from whatever had gone wrong, from his rage at the tree line.

He wouldn’t have made it home alone, Jaskier realized. He might not have even tried. That realization made something strange and uncomfortable twist dreadfully in a place that had never quite twisted before. Geralt was hardly his first partner, Omega or otherwise. Hardly his first trial with instincts.

But never had he felt this; this keen understanding that his Omega was just a man, and that despite every stereotype that insisted that a ‘good Alpha’ could protect one’s mate by will alone, he could not protect Geralt from anything. He could not protect him from this, from his Path.

He could only be there to help him home.

“Witcher,” the alderman exclaimed at the sight of him the moment they returned to the inn, but one look from Jaskier – sharp and feral, daring the man to come closer – had him pause. It was the growl that followed, making Geralt shiver in his grasp, that sealed the deal. It was apparent then and there the man had not even considered Jaskier might be anything more than a Beta. Whether it was from disorientation or surprise or a keen understanding that to push any further would be to invite a fight, the alderman merely said, “Apologies. It can wait.”

Jaskier didn’t realize he had been baring on pearly incisor, lip curled, until he managed to guide Geralt up the stairs and back to their room. He sat Geralt on the bed and when he realized the man would not look him in the eye, he forced his expression, his body language, into something open and familiar rather than bristled and tight as it had become the moment the alderman had tried to conduct business with them.

The village leader wanted to know the status of their contract. Jaskier knew this. Knew that the intent had been benign, one born of fear and concern for his people. But what about Jaskier’s people? What about Geralt? How had the man not known right away that now was not the time? He turned away lest Geralt see how even so much as thinking about it affected him.

Jaskier wanted so badly to ask what had happened. He had seen Geralt return from missions in a variety of states: pleased, exhausted, annoyed, covered in guts, clean as a whistle – and he’d even seen the man fail before. But never like this. Geralt sat on the edge of the bed like a man numbed from a blizzard, still and pliant, eyes staring. It was a drastic change from the feral thing he had found at the tree line, and Jaskier still didn’t know if it was an improvement or something worrisome. The white wolf’s hands quaked on his lap – bloodied, splintered and swollen – and Jaskier decided there was no better place to start than that, once he got the man into dry clothing.

“Let’s get your armor sorted out,” Jaskier mumbled, automatically going to work on the man’s many straps and buckles with the efficiency of the practiced, peeling him apart piece by sodden piece until nothing but a thin, whipcord tight witcher remained. Geralt just let him do it. No grumbling, no grunts, no protests. The bard felt sick, off-kilter.

Jaskier took care to set his swords against the nightstand where he could easily reach them, then to set his armor in the corner in the way he had seen Geralt do many times before. All the while, the witcher didn’t stir. He just sat there, similar to the way he meditated. Distant, detached. Drifting. There, and yet not.

Jaskier dipped into the other room to heat the water he had already ordered be drawn long before his trip into the storm – knowing Geralt would want it when he returned and eager to remove at least this from Geralt’s plate. He let it heat as he returned to the witcher.

“Stay there, Geralt,” Jaskier said idly, the words tumbling from his lips on instinct as he fetched first a stool, then the medical kit from Geralt’s pack and began setting up beside the bed. He placed the stool between the weak spread of the witcher’s knees and automatically placed one hand across the span of one thick thigh and squeezed as he navigated his way around the witcher’s kit. Geralt’s breathing steadied ever so slightly and without looking Jaskier rumbled softly, pleased, “Good, Geralt. Very good. You’re doing so good for me.”

Jaskier and Geralt had played with the merits of praise before. The bard knew firsthand that the witcher was utterly starved of it, that it was an easy way to twist the wolf around his finger and get him howling. But this was different. These were no mere words meant to rile up an affection-starved, stoic cut of stone of a witcher. This was so much more.

Genuine praise for a man who knew not how to ask for help, and yet in his own way was asking for it. Because while Jaskier had made his concessions with Geralt, he had asked for some of his own as well. That was the core of relationships: give and take. I will not pester you, I will not control you, but in return please trust me. Please come to me when you need shelter, no matter the circumstances. Let me anchor you in the storm.

Praise for a promise kept against the witcher’s every independent instinct, giving into a nature he had struggled against the image of for so long. For his health. Because he trusted Jaskier.

Geralt seemed to melt somewhat, the stiff line of his spine curving gently beneath the weighty blanket of Jaskier’s words and touch. The bard did his best to keep at least one hand on the man at all times as he went through the delicate process of cleaning the wolf’s knuckles and bloodied fingernails, plucking splinters and wooden shrapnel from his skin, and applying ointment and sterile wrappings. Murmuring in low tones, so close to his voice but not quite, how good the witcher was. How much he appreciated his trust.

In the cradle of the bard’s working hands, the witcher’s fingers slowly steadied but for the lightest, faintest tremor.

Already Geralt’s fragmented bones were reknitting beneath his tattered flesh; a taxing affair. Jaskier could see it in his eyes as a heady cloud of exhaustion began to overtake the man, but still Geralt fought it, too afraid to give in. Too afraid to loosen the steel trap that was his mind and open himself up to whatever had happened. Whatever haunted him from the woods. Jaskier’s mouth pulled into a taut, concerned line.

“Alright, up now. Out of your smalls and into the tub,” he said, the directions helping him as much as it did Geralt. He braced the witcher by the forearm as he obeyed, disrobing entirely with an eerie, distant slowness. Drifting. Drifting in the current of Jaskier’s voice, his direction. Drifting far away from the woods and whatever lay inside them.

Jaskier guided him to the tub. Eased him in, singing soft praises beneath his breath all the while – smooth and steady.

“That’a boy, Geralt, just like that. Keep your hands out of the water. I’ll handle the rest. Yes, good. So good,” he babbled, draping either of the witcher’s hands to hang over the rim on either side before taking a washcloth, lathering it with soap and beginning an intimately familiar habit. This he knew. This they both knew. In this, they had even, stable ground.

Geralt wasn’t terribly filthy, for once. However long he had spent in the downpour, it had done the trick of washing the evidence of the woods and the fight away. It was more a matter of warming and soothing the wolf now. Easing the tremors from the corded muscles of his shoulders, the tight lines of his arms. He washed his hair, digging his fingers into the man’s scalp gently, scrapping idly with his nails. In the mirror, he watched the witcher’s eyes begin to fall and hood. Dazed and heavy and drifting.

Jaskier had never thought he’d share a moment like this with Geralt. He’d help the man with his wounds before, of course. They’d learned ways to show their affections for one another. But this was different. Primal and organic, impossible to imitate or force. What he had always wanted, so very long ago…

He remembered once – one of their first arguments about their dynamics, back when they were both unpracticed in the art of loving one another – how viciously Geralt had sneered at him when Jaskier had described the way he was supposed to take care of the man, the Omega. Remembered the jagged cut of his teeth, the wildness of his eyes, so unlike the stories he had always been told as a boy about Omegas.

“Shall I swoon for you, too? Lay down and present right here like some animal in a field?” Geralt snarled, outrage breeding a tremor in his bones. Shaking him from somewhere deep the way earthquakes could rend great fissures in the ground.

“Is it really so terrible for me to want to take care of you!”

“You don’t need to take care of me, you like the idea of taking care of me. They all do, until the time comes – but no one wants to clean up after broken glass! You wouldn’t be taking care of an Omega, Jaskier. It wouldn’t be soft. It wouldn’t be a simple matter of building a nest and stroking my hair. You’d be taking care of a witcher. And that’s dangerous for everyone involved,” he roared, “I’m not some item on a checklist to cross off and prove that you’re an Alpha. Don’t debase me by trying. I’m not collateral in your identity.”

There was a wound there, somewhere, just as much as there was truth. It took time for Jaskier to see that, but he did, eventually. He learned to live without a checklist. Learned to bite his tongue when people mistook Geralt for the Alpha, Jaskier for the Omega. He found the beauty in a relationship established not by society, but by communication and trust. Slower to grow, but stronger for it, like a tree with roots that spread and spread and spread.

Roots that led them here – to the moment Jaskier could finally prove himself. Not as an Alpha, not to society, but to Geralt, as a partner. Prove that he was someone who could be relied on. Present and patient, without ulterior motivation. So he wouldn’t ask about the woods again, not while Geralt was like this. He wouldn’t take advantage, knowing that his voice could likely get him anything right now. The witcher was vulnerable, his every defense devoted to protecting his mind from himself.

So Jaskier would guide the man while he drifted until the witcher found his way home.

“Water’s cooling,” Jaskier murmured, rinsing the man’s hair carefully before brushing it back, looking Geralt in the eyes – searching. But the witcher wasn’t there. “Come on. Food, then bed. That’s all that’s left to do, Geralt, I promise. Almost done, you’re doing so well.”

He eased him out of the tub, sat him atop another stool. Toweled his hair – always so much whiter after washing, like freshly fallen snow – and brushed it out. Clothed him, double checked that his wrapped knuckles were still sterile and dry. He coaxed the witcher into eating a few strips of jerky from their packs and a glass of water, unwilling to leave the man alone to order food from the bar. Then, finally, he eased Geralt down unto the bed.

It was hard to navigate how much space to give. The Alpha in him bayed to plaster himself close, cover the man with his body – to protect him. But their arguments echoed in his head, replaying over and over. Was he betraying Geralt in doing this? Was he no better than any other Alpha? Was this right? Geralt’s pleading eyes from the tree line haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

He laid on his side, watching Geralt stare at the ceiling a few scant inches away.

“It’s done. Everything’s done. There’s nothing left to do, Geralt… Try and rest,” he finally said, giving the witcher the initiative to seek that rest however he saw fit – in Jaskier or otherwise. Geralt’s head slowly turned on his pillow then, gaze falling from the ceiling to land on Jaskier’s face. He stared, so far away despite the intimacy of the bed, until finally he blinked. His pupils contracted ever so slightly, focusing.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said.

“Yes,” the bard said, relieved and yet hesitant to hope. There was a long moment where it looked like the witcher was going to say something – eyes trailing across the room, no doubt wondering how they got there, how much time had passed. Instead those amber eyes just fell back on him. Was he mad, or—

Geralt turned onto his side so he might face the bard. He curled his hands between them, then reached until his bandaged hand could properly splay across the span of Jaskier’s chest – right atop his heart. He hummed, eyes closing as the witcher felt the tempo of the bard’s heart, Jaskier realized.

“You stayed.”

Jaskier felt his brow furrow, confused, and breathed, “Of course,” as if there were no other answer, no other possibility. Amber eyes bore into him for a long time. Then Geralt burrowed closer, only so close as to tuck his nose beneath Jaskier’s chin and into the hollow of his neck, and finally the witcher went lax.

Geralt had been right. It hadn’t been simple.

But it had been worth it.

Jaskier fell asleep at some point, the witcher tucked into his arms. One arm had fallen asleep, all numb and swollen feeling and promising the uncomfortable pinch of pins and needles when he finally freed the limb from Geralt. The witcher never stirred, not once, not until he woke.

When he did, he spoke into the long column of Jaskier’s throat, voice rough from shouting himself hoarse – no doubt in the woods.

“I didn’t get there in time,” Geralt finally said, lips chapped and brushing against Jaskier’s skin. Breath hot and steady. A shiver trailed down Geralt’s back beneath his hands, so he chased it with the warmth of his palms.

Jaskier closed his eyes. Now that he had Geralt back, the contract began to return to him. Something about a beast in the woods. Missing children.

Children.

I didn’t get there in time.

“But… the alderman said the children had returned from the wood,” Jaskier asked. He had been certain that’s what the messenger had relayed to him when he came to tell Jaskier about the raging witcher at the edge of the wood.

Under his chin, Geralt swallowed dryly – but when he spoke, the words followed as cool and detached as ever. Clinical and distant.

“Not all of them.”

Distance was entering the man’s voice again. Geralt had told him, once, on a particularly drunken night, about what happened when a witcher failed a contract. If he was lucky, he got to keep the upfront deposit. If he was marginally less lucky, he didn’t get paid.

Generally, he got run out of town. Stoned. Spat on. Cursed.

Geralt knew what lay ahead. It wouldn’t matter that he had saved some of the children. Wouldn’t matter that the beast was dead. Only pain lay ahead. Pain on top of the knowledge that he had failed. Disrespect on top of the memories of those little bodies and whatever had been done to them.

And Jaskier hadn’t a clue what to say. What was there to say. That it wouldn’t happen like that? Surely they couldn’t blame him when he had been the only one brave another or skilled enough to try? No villager would have done better and Jaskier didn’t think any other witcher would have had any more luck either. But that wouldn’t matter to Geralt. Any explanation, any pardon would wilt in the man’s hand, fall away to dust.

Respect for a witcher tended to go hand in hand with their successes, and it would appear that rule had bled into Geralt’s bones like marinade into meat, stewing and soaking until the man’s own self-respect obeyed the same principle.

Jaskier worked his jaw, searching for words, but nothing came. His years of education, his grasp of language, his every beautiful string of words – all of it felt stale and worthless before the witcher’s grief. Children were dead.

Jaskier held Geralt closer, buried his nose into the witcher’s hair, and hummed deep in his chest where the witcher might feel it against the splay of his hands and the tight curl of his body. The grief was Geralt’s to hold, who was he to belittle or speak it away? All he could do was share it. Be present for it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Geralt’s hair. He felt the wolf let out a hushed breath against his throat, as though he had been holding it for some time. Geralt didn’t respond. He also didn’t pull away. He had been waiting for Jaskier to leave, the bard realized.

No one likes picking up after broken glass. Liable to get cut.

They stayed like that, together – the room silent, yet so full.

[LINE BREAK]

They dozed most of that morning. Jaskier let Geralt lead. After all, who better to navigate those waters than the man who had navigated them before. It was not his place to take it away, nor to numb it from the witcher’s mind. He did made himself present, and quickly realized that’s all Geralt ever wanted all along.

Eventually the witcher dressed. Jaskier thought they would go to the alderman next, but instead Geralt led them out of the village, back to the tree line. He never told the bard not to follow. In fact, he walked quite close to Jaskier all the while. It wasn’t until they returned to the edge of the forest – the bark scarred by Geralt’s outburst – that the witcher finally stopped, momentum faltered.

The bard looked from the woods to the witcher, confused, and asked, “Do you… not remember the way, or…?”

“I remember,” Geralt said, one hand on Jaskier’s chest just as he had done that morning – anchoring himself to the bard’s heartbeat. His gaze was firm if brittle, but he kept the bard’s gaze as he said, “You need to stay here.”

For the first time since Geralt had returned him, there in that inn bed, curled tight to his chest, Jaskier found that instinct to control rearing its head again. He had only just got the witcher back. The thought of losing him to that haze again made his gut clench violently. His eyes fell to the gloves that hid sterile white bandages, pain hidden beneath heavy armor and duty.

He could not stop himself from arguing.

“Oh no, Geralt, I’m not sending you back into there alone after last night, there’s no way,” he babbled, his own gaze turning a touch frantic at the thought, but Geralt just eased a hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck and squeezed – once – to get his attention.

“There are some things only a witcher should see, Jaskier.”

Ah. It was bad then. Messy.

It won’t be like caring for an Omega. You’ll be caring for a witcher.

The sound of Geralt punching the trees, splitting his knuckles, breaking his bones – all of it – echoed in Jaskier’s ears, running over him like a winter chill. But for a witcher, there were simply some things an Alpha couldn’t do… Some things they could not be protected from.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jaskier tried. His eyes drifted to the trees. To their long shafts and shifting branches and dappled shadows, all swaying so innocently, so invitingly. Those children had been lured in by much the same innocence. They had played in the wood, in those trees. Fetched berries for their mothers and kindling for their fathers. Somewhere, back behind those pleasant bows of grass and gentle curves of oak, there were bodies. Small, fragile little bodies. Jaskier shivered.

And Geralt wanted to go alone.

The Alpha in him bared its teeth and paced the cage of his self control, looking for any gap in the bars, any sign of warping or fatigue. Gods above, did he feel fatigued. But Geralt’s warning rang like a bell in his mind and realized, finally, the truth beneath Geralt’s bristling and snarling and feralness: most Alpha’s didn’t want to stick around with someone they could not protect, could not control. A witcher’s Alpha had to be a man willing to go against instinct. It was no easy ask. Obviously, Geralt had been left before.

No one wants to pick up after broken glass that they cannot protect, cannot prevent from breaking. Picking up finer and finer shards, all so sharp and piercing, cutting up their fingers until they could hold on no longer. Dangerous for everyone, Geralt had said.

“I told you it wouldn’t be easy, Jaskier,” Geralt broached with surprising gentleness. With understanding. He was waiting for this to be too much. Braced for it. Expecting it.

Jaskier let his shoulders slump as he found himself at the crossroads Geralt had always known their relationship was leading to. Could Jaskier handle this – handle fighting his instinct to protect – knowing that there was no protecting a witcher?

I told you it wouldn’t be easy.

His career had not been easy. Leaving home and financial security and the royal safety net of his birth right had not been easy. Going against expectations and becoming a bard rather than head of household had not been easy. Loving Geralt had not been easy.

Difficulty was not synonymous for worth or regret.

The bard ran a hand through his hair, looking around, then finding a suitable stump he plopped down with bardly grace, crossed his legs, and said, “Nothing worth having ever is,” with a beatific smile.

The witcher stilled, eyes ever so slightly wide, and stared at him – stunned. Behind him, the trees swayed lovingly. Petals and leaves danced between them, carried on an unknown current. Drifting.

Geralt opened his mouth at that, then closed it – at a loss for words, not that he ever had been a man of many words at all. He looked out over the village, over the inevitable. He’d return to that village soon enough. He’d tell them of the fate of the children who hadn’t come home. And more than likely, he’d be run out of town – and Jaskier with him. Geralt was at a crossroads of his own: could he bear to let someone carry the burden of their scorn with him, knowing they deserved none of it?

Jaskier watched, waited – let Geralt lead.

After a long, searching moment, the witcher clenched his jaw and nodded before finally disappearing into the wood without him.

It took time to bury the dead. Time to make sure they were buried deep enough to be protected from ghouls or anything else that might dig them up for an easy snack. Time to transfer their little bodies from the scarred nook of woods infected with their fear and their death to somewhere deserving of little bodies to be put to rest. To honor their graves with rock markers and holy candles and incense to ward away any creature that might try to make an easy snack of them so early after their deaths. Time, and great care, and all the while Jaskier waited patiently because Geralt, in his own way, had promised to return if he promised to stay.

Petals danced. The woods whispered a hushed lullaby. And on the alter of Geralt’s table, he offered the only thing the witcher had ever asked for: in the face of every difficulty ahead, every non-conventional hurdle, every contradiction of instinct – Jaskier stayed.

Jaskier waited.

He stood only when a slim, broad shouldered figure appeared from the womb of the woods, solitary and wraith-like in that way wolves always seemed to appear when separate from their pack. He paused at the tree line, in that delicate state of existence between the wild and man; and seemed surprised to see Jaskier there. Surprised, Jaskier realized, but also relieved. Some unspoken tension seeped out from the man’s shoulders. Left him like a malicious spirit leaving cursed flesh, finally setting its victim free. His entire body language bespoke of a man finally breaching the surface of some vast, unknown lake.

Jaskier wondered how long he had been drowning.

“You stayed,” Geralt grunted. Stunted and unaccustomed to being proven wrong.

“When have I ever been conventional, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, unable to hold back the volume of his smile, the light of it, the relief. “Of course I stayed. You came back.”

Geralt shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable.

“I did,” was all he managed. And that was enough. That was everything.

Jaskier broached the gap between them and laced his fingers in dirty, grave-soil stained hands; all too aware that beneath those gloves were the bandages Geralt had let him apply when the witcher had been weak, vulnerable and wanting. A symbol of the concessions that bound them. He could not protect Geralt as his armor did. Could not show his care publicly like any normal Alpha might. No one might ever know, may not ever see. But for that price, for that payment, he could have what mattered. He could have what the witcher was too scarred, too wary to offer anyone else.

Yes, he thought as they walked hand in hand back to the village – ready to face the people’s ire together. It was much better to love the man than the idea.

Geralt was real, more solid and more vast than any concept of intimacy or love that Jaskier had ever conceived of as a boy.

Geralt was real, and he was wanting. That was enough. That was everything.

#The Witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #gaskier #omega!geralt #alpha!jaskier #Witcher Writing #Witcher Ask Box #idk wtf happened #hurt/comfort #hurt/comfort (emotional) #no beta we die like men #ya'll someone needs to stop me lmao what have i done

[loyalflutist]

First Kiss (f!Byleth x Dorothea)

Challenge: Bylethea Week 2019 Day 1: First Kiss

A/N: So, I totally missed the first two days at this point (RIP self), but decided to give this a swing anyway. I love love LOVE these two so much. Aside from Edeleth, I love Doroleth so much too. They’re... They’re just so wholesome. Anyway, this one-shot features two awkward women who finally get to kiss, gasp! Hope you like it! I enjoyed writing this. 

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It was ironic how both Byleth and Dorothea express their naive and innocent nature for romance. Byleth, who had seen many parts of the world as a mercenary, could not distinguish between friends and lovers. Dorothea, who had varying attempts of being ringed by many men and women during her opera career, could not figure out what to do that didn't involve her habitual flirting. Add two confused young adults and their relationship is bound to be full of bombastic embarrassments and experiments.

Dorothea did try her best to move the cogs though. It's unfortunate that the two never made it past a friendly student-teacher association. Whenever she approached Byleth, the older woman would always stare at her blankly, the words that would bestow one's cheeks with redness having bounced off instead. Not even tickling her professor made any impact either! Byleth would always pat her on the head and shoo her away in preparation for the next day's lecture. During the rare occasion that the teacher invites the opera singer out for tea, their conversations were light-hearted and held almost no importance. As a matter of fact... Dorothea recalls that Byleth hadn't spoken much at all during their tea session anyway. Dorothea had filled the silent atmosphere on her own! It was completely one-sided!

"UGH," the student's hat nearly fell off her head as she slumped onto the classroom's desk face-first. "I could never understand what the professor is feeling..."

Across from her, Edelgard draped her arms on top of the wooden chair, her chin resting on them. The Black Eagle's house leader was always someone she confides in. All of her woos and woes were dumped on the white-haired female. Not that Edelgard minds. After all, they were of close friends. What sort of future emperor would she be if she can't even hear Dorothea out? Besides, now is the best time to pour out her emotional baggage, the lectures long over. Everyone had bailed out into the field and were either enjoying themselves in the cafeteria, petting the cats and dogs, or practicing in the training field. It was just Edelgard and Dorothea. Dorothea let out another groan as the noble softy hummed and watched over the agonized student.

"It's clear that you two like each other."

"You think so?" Dorothea didn't bother to raise her head. "I like her, but I don't know if she feels the same way towards me."

"Dorothea, everyone could tell from a mile away."

"Oh really."

"Yes really," Edelgard sighed into her arms. "If Petra could tell, that means it's that obvious."

"..." The commoner finally straightened her sitting posture. Elbows pressed upon the worn wooden surface, Dorothea grumbled, "Ridiculous. Then why didn't the professor say anything?"

"You know the professor is bad with her emotions."

"You aren't wrong about that. A brick even has more expression than her!"

"...I think you misunderstood me. She's not the only one to blame for this situation." Edelgard sternly poked her friend's hand. "You're sending her mixed messages. You have to understand that she grew up not knowing what the world is like to a normal civilian. She's lived her whole life as a mercenary up until now."

"..."

Edelgard had a point. Byleth was always oblivious... maybe a little too oblivious at times. Could it be because of Jeralt's protectiveness over his daughter? Or could it be that their mercenary ways influenced Byleth's social skills, making her difficult to read and socialize with? Dorothea could hardly keep up with her when it came to this particular trait. Even more grumbles and incoherent mumbles blubbered out of her way as the opera singer contemplated about her professor.

"What do you think I should do then to show her just how much I like her?"

"Have you ever tried giving her a kiss?"

Out of all the people in her life to hear of such advice, it came from Hubert's mouth. Dorothea had flinched from his sudden appearance. A bead of sweat ran down the loyal servant to Edelgard at the sight of the exaggerated woman. (Or at least, appears to be exaggerated. Little did he know that she really did leap up to her feet, toss her arms high up in the air, and raise one leg up by instinct.) It took an immense amount of energy for Hubert to stifle his sigh, his lips stiffened in lieu.

"Why do you act that way, Dorothea?"

"Oh, Hubie, have you ever tried to let others know that you're about to appear?" she frowned after regaining her composure. "Sheesh! You're like an assassin!"

"Can't say you're wrong about that..."

"Did you say something, Edie?"

"It was nothing."

Hubert coughed into his fist in hopes of returning to their original conversation. "I apologize for having scared you, Dorothea." He bowed. "As I was saying, giving her a kiss is the best way to show her how you feel."

"K-Kiss... Don't you think there's an alternative I could pursue instead?"

"Then I shall ask you this: do you like her as a friend or as a lover?"

"What a silly question! I like her!"

"As...?" he raised his brow.

"As a..."

Dorothea suddenly felt her mouth dry and throat become parched. The stylistic female tried to finish her sentence only to have wordless air puff out of her voicebox. She clamped her jaw and tried again. It was the same result. There was no answer to his question. Dorothea's eyes began to wander as Edelgard exchanged glances with Hubert. The duo's gaze eventually moved to the entranceway of the lecture hall. Lo and behold, they spotted an important figure for this topic. Both of them faintly smiled. Hubert assisted in Edelgard's hasty retreat from the premise. Of course, their quick bids of farewell alarmed Dorothea. The brown-haired female jolted back to reality and turned around.

"Wait! Where are you both going-- O-OH, BYL-- Professor!?" Byleth stood in front of Dorothea with a textbook at hand, her eyes wide from the outburst of her name. She blinked a couple of times. Dorothea proceeded to flash her favorite professor a bright smile. "Fancy meeting you here! What are you doing here at this time?"

"I think I should be asking you the same thing. What are YOU doing here?"

Drats. Byleth not only avoided the question (though it was likely a predictable answer knowing of her duty), she tossed it right back at the asker. Dorothea bit her lower lip. She knew she could lie. A little white lie doesn't hurt, right? But at the same time, she couldn't do that to Byleth... or rather, she can't. Those piercing and intense gaze that could see right through the magus... A shudder ran down Dorothea's spine, her smile slightly faltering.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...um..." the professor broke the silence with a single motion of her hand. "If you don't have any business here, I suggest you hang out with your classmates. It's a wonderful evening out and the weather is perfect."

Once again, Byleth was shooing her away. It was the same exact scene played out almost word-for-word. Dorothea could not help but make a comparison to them being in a theatre, the script running its course for the nth time. She was not going to allow it to end on a stale note like before though. Before Byleth could reach out and pat her student's head, Dorothea dropped a bombshell.

"Professor, I really like you."

"?!" Byleth's outstretched hand froze in midair. "...um... I like you too."

Uh oh. It seems like she misunderstood the definition of "like" in this context. Hubert's question echoed in the back of Dorothea's head the instant Byleth had given that hesitant response. If she laughs it off, that means their relationship would solidify into that of strong friends. If she speaks up, she might be able to accurately convey what she is feeling deep inside. Dorothea felt the palm of her hands moistened. It was now or never.

"Not in that way. I mean... I like you like this..."

For someone who was dubbed the "Ashen Demon," Byleth's lips were soft and wholesome. They were so delicate, Dorothea was afraid that her kiss would corrupt its pure existence. It only lasted a split second though as the intimate exchange was fleeting. The opera singer took a few steps backward and observed her teacher.

"That was... my first kiss..." Byleth murmured. She gently touched her own lips and showcased... confusion. "I... don't understand."  

' ...oh GOD, did I just do that? ' Dorothea nearly slapped her forehead. Now it seems as though the situation was worsening! ' Why did I listen to Hubie?! Stupid, stupid! What if the professor hates me now?! '

"Dorothea."

"YES?!"

That jerked the student upright like a soldier after a squeaky reply. Beads of sweat flew out of her head in anticipation of her instructor's next words. If anything, she's bracing herself for some harsh warnings. Dorothea trembled in spot, her eyes watering. Byleth placed the textbook onto a nearby empty desk and closed their distance. It took all of Dorothea's will to keep herself from running away, her feet rooted to the ground.

"I still don't understand why you did that."

"..."

"But," the ex-mercenary pulled her into a... hug? Oh goodness, she did pull Dorothea into a hug. It was a complete shocker for the student. Normally, she's not fond of being touched by anyone despite her demeanor. The girl would squirm and dropkick the responsible person. However, her knees buckled and her body was only held up by the teacher. Warmth enveloped Dorothea as Byleth said, "I want to understand it. I also want to understand why my chest feels so full... Could you teach me why I feel this way, Dorothea?"

"Professor..." Dorothea could hardly contain the wide grin that crossed her face. She buried her face into the professor's shoulder and breathed, "What you're feeling is love."

"Do you feel that way?"

"Yes."

"So... you don't like me?"

"I do... but I also love you too."

Turns out, listening to Hubert did work to her advantage, their first kiss ending in a bright note. In the background, Hubert and Edelgard spied from the back of the room. Their eyes were trained on the two with an iron grip on the doorway's borders.

"Thank goodness they got together," Edelgard mumbled. "Seeing them pin at each other from afar was driving me nuts!"

"Lady Edelgard, I think the same should be said about yourself."

"?"

Hubert cupped his chin and smiled. "I've noticed that you and Ingrid are in a similar predicament as our professor and Dorothea--"

"STOOOOOP!"

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #dorothea arnault #dorothea #byleth #byleth eisner #f!byleth #f!byleth x dorothea #doroleth #bylethea #byletheaweek2019 #fan fic #fanfic #fan fiction #fanfiction #oneshot #one shot #os #loyalflutist #day 1: first kiss

[loftyexecutor]

clean slate (11/?)

Pairing: (eventual) addcest [LPDE] & elsain [LKATh] WC this chapter: 3600 Rating: T+ TWs: (past) abuse AU: modern/single parent Lusa (with his tiny son Arc) + runaway Esper (hah) Notes: i wont spoil anything but i feel like this is my favorite chapter so far 

ao3 link

It’s with a heavy heart that Esper shoves a shirt into his backpack and then, after a second’s deliberation, grabs another one, Lusa’s, from where it’s thrown over the laundry basket. He’d never thought he would feel like this one day, throwing essentials into a bag to leave, heart in the pit of his stomach. He’d never thought he’d get attached to a place.

The last time he’d done this, much less peacefully, he’d been full of adrenaline, panic coursing through his very veins. He remembers looking over his shoulder the whole time, watching carefully if his father stirs from his unconsciousness. He doesn’t to that now; doesn’t have to, since he’d hear either Lusa or Arc coming long before they’d see him pushing all the overflowing things further into the bag to zip it up.

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll be missed. Arc had grown attached to him, and Lusa was nice to him, but ultimately, they’d go back to how they were before he’d turned up. Lusa will probably be happier, having his workshop all to himself again, not having to care for Esper’s untimely outbursts.

He resolves to stop thinking about it lest he start crying and wakes someone up with the sound.

He throws the bag over his shoulder and then picks up the note he’d spent an agonizingly long time writing up. He places it onto the dining table for Lusa to find easily in the morning. He would feel bad for leaving without even saying a goodbye, but he can’t exactly do that without Lusa attempting to stop him. He could also go for a hug that he knows Lusa would provide more than happily, but he also can’t have that, even if he feels so, so cold. Suddenly it doesn’t feel like the summer anymore.

Esper shakes his head to clear it and then slips on his shoes. He can’t handle turning around eve once more to look at the house he’d come to call home, a real home as it’s defined in the dictionaries, as opposed to the prison he’d spent his life at before.

He steps onto the dark street with quaking shoulders.

                                                         —

“Heey! Give back my dinosaur!”

“Shea!”

“But da-ad! It’s my turn!”

“That’s my dinosaur!”

“Shea, you lost your dinosaur last week. Give it back to your brother.”

“But da——d!”

“No buts! Give it back and go brush your teeth, both of your. It’s way past your bedtime.”

“...okay…”

Arme sighs, adding ‘get Shea a new toy dinosaur’ to his mental to-do list. He turns to Knight, who is still sitting on the sofa, fiddling with his phone and the strap on it. Arme’s expression melts as he sits by him, enveloping him with an arm.

“You tired?” he asks, bumping into Knight’s head with his.

Knight chuckles and returns the gesture. “A little. I still can’t believe what happened to Lusa today.”

Arme’s answer is a nod. He takes the phone from his husband’s hands and puts it onto the coffee table. The entire conversation is ingrained in his brain just as much as it is in Knight’s.

Knight had called Lusa to ask about going bowling next weekend, but it’d been obvious Lusa was not alright just from his tone of voice. Knight had put him on speaker then, and Arme had found his way into the living room, drawn by their discussion.

Lusa told them what had happened, and then promptly cried soft sobs into the phone. He didn’t want to wake up anyone, but Knight and Arme were lending an ear, he just couldn’t help it.

Knight had assured Lusa he’d personally be of help hiding the body if Asker were to ever show up again. Arme wasn't sure how to feel — because on one hand he completely agreed, but he also kew Knight was completely serious, so on the other hand he wished it wouldn’t come to that.

Finally, they managed to coerce Lusa to get some sleep, but ‘out of sight, out of mind’ never really worked its supposed magic with them.

“We’re a family,” Arme tells Knight, slow and deliberate. “We protect our own. God help those who would try harming Esper.”

Knight grins tiredly and then leans up to place a kiss to Arme’s temple. His lips linger there for a moment, and when they leave, Knight’s entire head rests on Armes shoulder instead. “You always know what to say.”

“Don’t make fun of me—”

“I’m not! I’m not,” Knight defends himself, “I mean it. That was very ice.”

Arme huffs. “You didn’t marry me because of my linguistic abilities or lack thereof.”

“You’re right, I married you for that sweet cheque you bring home every month.”

“Elsword Knight Sieghart-Ishmael, I swear—”

“Dad! Papa! We want a story!” Anpa cries from the upper floor, much to Knight’s elation. He uses the distraction to slip out of Arme’s hold and heads upstairs.

Arme watches with a fond look. He also adds ‘buy Knight something nice from that sweet cheque he brings home every month’ to his to-do list. It’s really getting too long at this point.

It’s not much later that he follow upstairs, stationing himself at the door of their boys’ room like a guard, listening in on every soft word Knight reads from the boys’ favorite storybook. The story of the fearless knight and the crystal of life. Arme knows it by heart, could probably wi a recital , that’s how many times he’d read it already. And Knight alike, probably even a few more times than him.

Still, there is no such thing calming like his husband’s voice piercing the nightly silence, and Arme closes his eyes to enjoy it to the fullest. It’s not like he can’t picture Knight’s smiles and fond looks aimed at their sons with perfection anyway.

He’s almost lulled to sleep himself by the time Knight finishes the story and places kisses on their boys’ heads, doing his best not to wake either of them. He’s smiling sleepily as he leaves the room, the click of the door handle hiding the smack their lips make as they come together.

“Let’s sleep, too,” he whispers, and Arme is nodding along with practiced ease, though he swoops down to get one more kiss beforehand.

Knight is tugging his shirt off before they’re even in the bedroom, sending it flying towards the direction of the bathroom. Arme would laugh if he didn’t feel similarly tired. He starts working his clothes off when Knight pipes up from the dresser, holding their pajamas in his hands with unnatural stiffness.

He’s staring out of the window as if transfixed.

“Is that—” He leans over the dresser, knocking over a — fortunately unlit — candle holder. “Is that Esper?!”

Arme frowns, running over so he can look out the window himself Sure enough, the figure passing their house has Esper’s hair, and is tall enough to pass for him. Arme’s breathing stutters as soon as he notices the bulging backpack on the figure’s back.

It might just be a coincidence, but then again…

There’s no one in the town who resembles Esper, especially not like that. Arme is rushing to get his phone from its charging station on the bedside table.

“We have to call Lusa,” he says, already doing just that. Knight peeks peering out the window, watches the figure go further and further down the street.

“What’s that way—?” Knight asks, but it hits him almost the second the words leave his lips. “The bus stop! Arme, he’s planning to leave!”

Knight’s panicked words only serve to make the dialing tones more terse. “Pick up, pick up, God, make him pick up alread—”

“Hm? Arme?” Lusa slurs from the other side of the line, obviously having been just awoken.

“Lusa, is Esper home?” Arme asks in a rush.

Lusa sounds confused, and Arme can almost see the little crease between his brows. “Wha? He went to bed before me…? Why’re you askin’?”

“Lusa, I need you to go check Esper’s room right the fuck now. Knight, I’m gonna start the car,” Arme instructs, pulling his shirt back on haphazardly.

There’s a distant, “Wow! Language!”

“Did something happen?” Lusa asks, starting to wake up more. Arme isn’t sure whose heavy footsteps he hears; Lusa’s or his own. The automatic light turns on as he steps onto the porch, already clicking the car lock off.

“Fuck!” Lusa hisses into his ear, “He’s not here! It’s a fucking mess, what happened?” He sounds just as panicked as Arme knows he is.

“Knight saw him going down our street a few ago,” he tries explaining. Hes jabbing the key into the ignition and pushing the phone against his shoulder with the side of his face as he peels off the driveway, making a sharper turn than he ever would during daylight. “He had a bag. Knight thinks he’s going to the bus stop.”

“Fuck! What’s he thinking?”

Arme has no answer for that question, but he knows Lusa does. There’s silence for a few blocks and then Lusa breathes heavily into the receiver and says, “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Please, stop him.”

“That’s the plan,” Arme cuts off, Lusa’s voice fading off with the end of the call.

                                                        —

Lusa’s hands tremble as he holds the paper, wrinkling it with the force of his grip. He wishes he could unread something, but alas, he has no such powers or luck.

— Lusa,

I hope you had a good rest. I decided it was too dangerous for me to stay when father knows there this is. I can’t imagine if he’d hurt you or Arc and I can’t risk it. Sorry I left without a word, but I don’t want you to try to stop me. It’s better this way. You’ll be safe if you don’t know where I am. My father is a dangerous man, you’re lucky nothing happened to you yesterday. Please please don’t look for me.

Thank you for everything. I hope I can repay you one say, somehow.

— Esper

Lusa feels like what he’d just read isn’t real, but Arme had made it all too real, and painfully so. He’s grabbing his keys before he can think about it a second longer, running out in nothing but his pajamas and bedheaded hair.

The letter gets shoved into his pocket haphazardly and Lusa wants to forget it exists, but it’s burning a hole through his jeans and soul alike. Nothing save it feels real at the moment; the dark and quiet transforms the town into something unfamiliar, strange.

The drive feels at once endless and over too soon. Lusa’s sneakers drag over the concrete as he half-jogs to the bus stop, breathing out an immediate sigh of relief when he spots a hunched-over figure.

Esper sits on the bench, the lone street lamp that reaches the secluded spot casting long shadows over his figure. Sure enough, there’s a bag on his shoulders. He was really planning on leaving.

Lusa can’t breathe.

“Esper!” he cries, breaking out into a full run and almost tripping himself over a curb.

Esper jerks, turning a wide-eyed face towards him, recoiling almost immediately. Lusa comes to a halt when he reaches him, panting and with equally wide-eyed stare. Esper is holding up his arms in front of his chest as if waiting to be struck down, to defend himself. The implications churn Lusa’s stomach in the very opposite of a good way.

How does he show Esper that he wouldn’t hurt him, never ever again? Each day, each tiny jolt and jerk and careful, fearful glance he beats himself up for contributing to it, wishing there was a way to re-do history and change not only his meeting with Esper, but everything else as well.

He only just notices Arme sitting next to Esper when he leans to look at him closer, frowning like Lusa had done something awful. And, fuck, Lusa doesn’t need him to remind him too; he’s very capable of kicking his brain himself, thank you very much.

He all but collapses at Esper’s feet, reaching out to grab his hands in his, enveloping them and warming the cold skin. He can’t hold back the tears that he didn’t even know he still had after all the ones he’d spent today.

Esper stares down at him, mirroring him with a look of agony that Lusa wishes will never cross his face ever again.

“Please, please, please don’t leave,” Lusa chokes out, back bending down in tandem with the quiet wail that leaves his chapped, bitten-up lips. His forehead comes to rest against Esper’s knees, yet he keeps talking. Esper and Arme hear him clear as day, no matter the mumbles or sobs. “Please, I promise nothing will happen to you anymore, so please, rethink it— I don’t want to lose you, Esper, please…”

Esper weeps — one would think he’d also have no tears left to cry anymore, after a day full of them, but no, his tearducts are as functional as ever and provide the saltiness diligently — and he leans over Lusa, squeezing his hand with his trembling ones. Lusa squeezes back and that simple human contact warms Esper like nothing else could.

“I—” he gasps, sniffling like a whining puppy that had been kicked. His face is a mess of various fluids and he’s thankful for the bad light so the others don’t have to see him like that. “I don’t want to leave…!”

“You don’t have to, you don’t, so please,” Lusa begs, gripping onto Esper like his entire life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

Arme rubs Esper’s back in silence. He knows there’s not much more he can do than he’d already done, or say more than he already had. He’s glad Lusa didn’t have to see Esper when he’d first realized he’d been caught in the act, fighting and begging. Really a sight Arme himself wishes to erase from his memory. He’s not sure how Lusa would have reacted.

Esper shakes between the two of them, trying to stifle his sobs and hiccups. His success is debatable, but it’s not like either of them is going to start the debate.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not without his voice breaking in the middle though, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Lusa echoes back back to each of Esper’s apologies, pulling the man closer, enveloping him in a tight embrace. He doesn’t want to ever let go, ever let Esper slip from his fingers like he’d tried.

They’re pulled out of their thoughts, out of their tears, by the bus coming up to a stop by their little bench, tires screeching too-loud in the night.

Lusa stares at the vehicle and then looks back at Esper, holding him in place with a terrified look. With wide and bloodshot eyes and tear streaks running down his cheeks like rivulets of pain, Esper isn’t sure he’d ever seen Lusa look this scared before. Lusa was strong, he was the one who didn’t cry — today is the first time Esper had ever seen him shed a tear, and what a way to find out.

“Please,” Lusa chokes out, no more than a cut-off whisper that gets stuck halfway up his throat, “I won’t— I can’t make you stay if you don’t want to, but please— please don’t go.”

Esper sobs again, lips wobbling as he grits his teeth and fights not to screw his eyes shut. He almost knocks Lusa backwards with the force he throws himself at him again, clinging like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. Lusa feels like an anchor, holding him down so he feels real again when everything feels like a bad, bad dream.

“I don’t want to leave,” he confesses again, straight into the fabric of Lusa’s already wrinkled shirt.

“Then don’t! I promise everything will be alright.”

Esper lets himself get lulled by the soft words until the bus drives closes the doors to the vehicle again and speeds off, disappearing into the distance as its tail lights fade out of view.

“Would you like to go home?” Lusa asks, peeking at Arme over the tremble of Esper’s shoulder. They share a look full of nothing but relief, though Arme knows Lusa feels much more of it than him.

Esper nods, choppy, timid. It would’ve gotten unnoticed if he didn’t have his face pressed into the crook of Lusa’s neck and Lusa couldn’t feel even miniscule movements.

“Then let’s go, let’s get some rest.”

                                                        —

“Thank you, Arme,” Lusa says, standing in the doorway. He looks so tired now, with bags under his eyes and unable to even form a real smile.

Arme shakes his head, arms folded not defensively, but pensively. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll Knight everything is fine, he must be worried sick by now.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Again, not your fault. Not Esper’s, either. Please go get some rest.”

Lusa nods, staring off into nothing again. “Yeah,” he says finally, when the sound of boiling water and the kettle squeaking reaches his ears. “Be careful on the way home.”

“I will. Good night, Lusa,” Arme tells him. He hesitates for a moment, though, then reaches up and softly claps Lusa’s shoulder. Then he’s heading back to his car.

The clock on the hallway wall reads 3:19 when Lusa closes the door and leans back on it to catch his breath, way past his or Arme’s bedtime on a weekday. They’re all going to be messes tomorrow.

But there’s someone who’s a mess right now who needs attention. Lusa paddles his way to the kitchen to find Esper pouring tea. He’s handed a steaming mug and Esper gives a wide smile to go along with it.

“Here. I thought it might help you sleep. It’s chamomile.”

Lusa puts the mug down onto the table. “Esper,” he says sternly, but not unkindly, “You don’t need to act like nothing happened.”

Esper’s falls off like a leaf in the autumn breeze. He holds his own mug close, fingers wrapped around the colorful ceramic. It’s Lusa’s, the one he keeps, the one that has the terrible cat pun on it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quiet and gazing down.

“Come on, I wasn’t looking for an apology. I’m not angry at you, okay?”

“Uh-uh,” Esper nods, staring into the moving surface of his tea like it holds the secrets to the universe. He plays with the teabag absently, yanking at the damp string.

“I wanna… talk to you about it again, but not now,” Lusa says. His voice is soft, as gentle as he can make it. “For now, I bet we’re both tired.”

“Yeah.”

“Esper…” Lusa hesitates. Gathering all his courage to ask this, he goes ahead with it, but not until a few tense moments pass. “Would you consider sleeping with me tonight? In my room, I mean— I know, it sounds weird, but I’d just like to make sure you’re here, y’know?”

“Okay,” Esper nods, but Lusa frowns.

“You don’t have to say yes. If you don’t want to, nothing will happen. I won’t get angry.”

“No. No, it’s okay. More than okay— I’d… like to not be alone, actually,” Esper explains, a quiet confession like a giant secret no one was supposed to find out.

Lusa opens his arms and waits for Esper to put his tea away before he hugs him again. The lankier man reciprocates, squeezing Lusa with all his strength.

“Today was… long,” Lusa says as he pulls away, “I promise you everything will be alright. So let’s sleep on it, okay?”

Esper hums, nodding with a small, crooked smile. He can’t wait to sleep, really; is sure he’d pass out as soon as his head hit the pillow. Now that the adrenaline is gone from his system, his limbs feel like lead and head pounds with a headache from all the crying.

They take their teas and sip them slowly, savoring the sweetened taste. Esper makes the best tea, Lusa had decided. And the best food. And the best desserts.

He has the nicest laugh. He’s so funny. He gets scared by horror movies too easily. He gets that wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates too much. He’s skilled with anything he picks up almost immediately.

He’s family. Lusa can’t imagine life without him anymore, just like he can’t imagine life without Arc.

Esper drags himself more than walks up the stairs and Lusa can see just how badly this has affected him. Not that he couldn’t before, but with the storm — hopefully — behind them, it’s time to see what hasn’t gotten flooded. Esper hesitates in the doorway of Lusa’s room until Lusa motions him inside.

It’s okay, he repeats. To himself, to Esper. To the both of them.

They collapse onto the bed, teas forgotten on the bedside table. It should be weird, sharing such a small bed with two of them, but it isn’t. Lusa’s arms come to wind around Esper, to keep him close, almost unconsciously, and Esper kicks away the blanket so they’re not overheating. They’re still wearing their clothes — or, at least Esper is, Lusa had just thrown a shirt on to go along with his sleeping sweatpants. That should also be weird. Possibly uncomfortable. But Esper doesn’t even peep.

Just as he’d predicted, the sweet embrace of sleep takes him into its hold just as easily as  Lusa does, and he snuggles up to both.

#elsword #addcest #lpde #.elsword #.addcest #.ch #.cs #.LPDE #im very fond of this chapter if im being honest here. puffs cheeks out #i wsih people would talk to me about this au its one of my favorites...........

[tisfan]

Candy Hearts Series

WinterIron - Wine  

Request: @summerpipedream Tags: first date, bad date, drinking, Tony has issues Wordcount: 1,889

Summary:

Tony asks Bucky on a date. This is great, this is wonderful, Bucky is very excited...

Tony discovers that Bucky is not Steve...

(In which a case of mistaken identity involves a LOT of necessary wine) (and in which case Bucky discovers champagne is good for getting red wine out of silk shirts.) (and Tony discovers that Bucky not being Steve is probably a good thing)

Bucky was pretty sure the date was in the toilet about five seconds after he sat down. He’d been running a little late, which meant Tony was already seated by the time Bucky walked over to the table. Bucky caught the man in profile, desperately handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and fucking owning the suit he was wearing, like he spent all day in tailored slacks and a three button jacket. He was absently rocking a glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand and people watching.

Bucky took a seat and watched as Tony blinked. Absolutely zero recognition on those coffee brown eyes.

“Hey, Tony,” Bucky tried to prompt him, “good to see you again.” He offered a hand to shake and Tony took it on autopilot.

“Yeah, I… uh… James?”

Bucky nodded. He’d just met the man last week at a three-day, long weekend seminar thing for team building. Kinda like summer camp, but worse, really. Fury’d assigned Steve, Bucky, and Clint to go, since, as Fury always said “the three of you need a map and a compass and a flashlight to find your way out of a wet paper bag.”

Which wasn’t true at all, but none of them were really team players.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Bucky said, awkwardly. How did Tony not know who he was? Tony had called him two days after the seminar and been charming as fuck on the phone for a ten minute conversation, rehashing some of the seminar, and closing off with I was really impressed with your attitude and intelligence. Oh, and humor, very amusing, and I was wondering, you know, if you’re single and everything… you might want to go out for dinner with me?

Tony had sounded a little overeager, his words spilling quickly, as if he was talking from a script in his head that he’d been rehearsing, and it had given Bucky chills and made him feel squirmy at the same time to think he’d managed to impress Tony Stark. He’d said yes without even thinking about it.

“I guess I thought you were blond,” Tony blurted out, and then, seemingly realizing how rude that was, grabbed his menu and buried his face behind it.

Oh.

Oh.

“You got me mixed up with Steve,” Bucky said. Of course that had happened. Of course, of fucking course. It would be easier if Bucky could hate Steve, but he couldn’t. They were best friends, had been for way longer than Steve had been the unobtainable fuck that everyone wanted and no one got, and Bucky was the one occasionally picking up Steve’s leavings. And spent a lot of time nursing a little ball of jealousy that was going to give him an ulcer one of these days.

Bucky sighed, pushed his chair back, folded the napkin back up and threw it on his plate. “No need of us wasting our time or your money.”

Tony’s hand snapped out and caught Bucky’s wrist. “No, no,” he said. “Come on, okay. Wrong first move, I know. I have exactly zero brain-to-mouth filters and I had a ton of business cards at the end of the weekend, and I’d been sorting them into piles when I got them. So… you were still in the left pocket, right? I just, thought you were the other guy, no harm, no foul. I mean, we’re already here, might as well…”

Bucky gave Tony a flat look. Steve would have already walked out if he’d known any of that stuff, hell, Steve probably wouldn’t have said yes to Tony in the first place. Steve had… weird dating requirements, and there was a -- no shit, Bucky had actually seen it -- a 27-item long list of deal breakers to get to a second damn date with Steve Rogers. “If it’s Steve you want, I ain’t him, an’--”

“Come on, just stay, would you? I went through a lot of trouble to get a table here tonight, and--”

“You told someone you had a date, and you don’t want to deal with the fallout if you don’t actually have a date?”

Tony actually blushed, and was all kinds of not fair that he looked damn adorable when he did so. “My ex,” he confessed.

Bucky didn’t quite sigh when he dropped back into the chair, but his hopes for the evening were pretty much shot. On the other hand, as the asker, Tony was still footing the bill. Bucky might as well eat, and then have a really horrible bad-date story to tell at the office on Monday. Anything had to be better than listening to Clint and Sam rehash the plot for the latest Bad Movie they’d watched. (It was one of their things, the bad movies. Which, as Bucky had at least two of them inflicted on him, were truly terrible. The one with the hopping vampires had been so bad that it wrapped around to being good again, and then kept on going right in to what the fuckery territory.)

“And they’re gonna know you didn’t actually go on a date how?”

Tony delivered Bucky’s signature flat look right back to him with a side order of really, were you not paying attention. “Zero. Brain-to-mouth filters.”

Bucky glanced at the menu and didn’t quite choke. The prices, written in neat little calligraphy numbers, were… yeah, ow. Tony must have really wanted to impress Steve. (They weren’t even like normal prices, $22.95 or anything, no decimal places. Bucky did a quick run of numbers and even if he stuck to Pepsi and a main meal, Tony wasn’t getting out of here for less than $200, which was a lot just to not have to lie to an ex.)

“You know, you could just tell them I stood you up? Or that we had a political discussion and you tucked some breadsticks in your bag and made a break for it.”

Tony laughed, bright and clear and obviously amused. “Oh, no, after that joke, you have to stay,” he said, eyes shining. “I insist. I remember laughing all weekend, doing projects and team building bullshit with you and your co-workers.”

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Then you probably meant to call Clint.” He waited until Tony gave him huge, hurt, wide eyes, before grinning. “Kidding, I kid.”

And it was on from there. Tony was snarky, sarcastic, bitterly cynical about the present, but so full of hope for the future that it was painful. They got some of the first date bullshit questions out of the way, and were deep in a conversation about the Brexit fallout, including some economic implications that Bucky hadn’t even considered, before he realized that they were finishing off their dinners.

Really, for eighty-five dollars a plate, he probably should have paid attention to the food. Or, like the four glasses of wine -- had he really had that much? He did vaguely remember the sommelier coming by with a second bottle. The house chiante was perfect with the braised wild boar and mushrooms that had made up Bucky’s selection.  

Their server came ‘round to see if they had room for dessert and Bucky let Tony talk him into sharing an espresso souffle. While they leaned closer to each other, dipping their spoons into chocolatey coffee goodness, the conversation turned lighter, favorite movies, books, music.

God, Steve would hate this guy, Bucky thought. A strict non-fiction, military memoirs sort of guy, with a side helping of literary fiction, if Steve Rogers ever read a science fiction novel in his life, Bucky would be shocked. When they were kids, Steve was constantly ripping Star Trek novels out of Bucky’s hands to give him books that were practically required reading for school, and what the fuck was up with that? Like anyone actually wanted to read Red Badge of Courage or Wuthering Heights.

Steve certainly wouldn’t be drinking with a guy he’d just met and giggling over bad Star Wars puns.

“Let me top you off, one last time,” Tony said, waving the bottle around. “No sense lettin’ it go to waste.”

Bucky considered it. He was already taking an Uber home, what was the harm?

“Oh, sure.” He went to push his glass, still half full, toward Tony--

Everything happened in that slow motion of a nightmare, where Bucky couldn’t possibly move fast enough to prevent anything. Like swimming in glue, he could only watch, with horrified eyes, as events spooled out.

He bumped the rim of the wineglass with his fingers, tipping the whole thing over. Brilliant red wine poured across the white tablecloth and headed straight for Tony’s expensive silk suit. “Oh, fu--”

Bucky didn’t even get the word all the way out before Tony had a lapful of cold wine and a splatter of red up his white shirt that looked like a bloodstain.

“--ck.”

Tony took a deep breath, looked down at his soaking wet legs.

“Jesus, I am so, so sorry,” Bucky said. He handed Tony his napkin -- even four cups in, Bucky wasn’t brave (or stupid) enough to try to pat Tony’s lap dry -- and bunched up the tablecloth to keep any more of the wine from spilling over.

Tony’s napkin looked like a victim of a crime scene, and the one Bucky gave him didn’t fare much better. He sighed, stood up, grimaced. “Ug, right down my leg into my shoe,” Tony complained, his face bunching up. (Was it wrong that Bucky found that damn adorable? It was wrong. It was so wrong. He was so screwed.) “I’m going to the men’s room and see what I can do about this.” Tony pointed a finger at Bucky. “Don’t you dare leave.”

Bucky considered the mess, the remains of wine in the bottle. Sighed. The server was already over, gathering up the dishes and folding away the tablecloth. Someone already had a fresh one ready. They were probably gossiping about him in the back. “Can I get the check?”

“Mr. Stark has an account here, sir,” the server informed him with just a hint of… sympathy.

“I need to do something, I just practically drowned him in chianti.”

The server considered that for a moment, then made a suggestion, along with quoting him a price. Bucky kept his grimace to himself. “Sure, sounds good.”

A few minutes later, Tony was back. He’d closed up his jacket to hide the wet, still slightly pink stain, and the rumpled fabric was evidence that he’d used the hand dryer in the bathroom to some effect.

Tony was barely back in his seat before the server brought them two slender crystal glasses holding their mid-line champagne, the bubbles clinging to the flutes.

“What’s this?” Tony asked, but he took the stem anyway.

“Get me the dry cleaning bill for your suit, please,” Bucky said, “and… well, I didn’t want to risk dumping more wine on you, but champagne makes everything just a little better.” He held up the glass to Tony. “To a bad first date that you can tell your ex about.”

Tony scowled at the glass, then gave Bucky a huge pair of doe eyes. “I was hoping to toast to a potential second date.”

Bucky almost choked on the champagne, the burned toast flavor dancing over his tongue. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, I could drink to that.”

#winteriron #Candy Hearts series #prompts #tony x bucky #bad first date #mistaken identity

[elsewhereuniversity]

Back to the Fire

Cinders was a transfer to Elsewhere University, a young upstart from somewhere he refused to disclose. He practically lived in the Engineering Hall, English Hall, and Campus Café, but it was easy enough to lure him outside for a talk with the promise of pastries. With a smile like the Cheshire Cat and a sense of humor straight from the gallows, he coyly danced around prying questions, turning them back at the asker in as little as a single sentence.

He clamored on about the stories he wrote, about his characters who all seemed to have a more vivid existence than his own. He knew them inside and out, could recite their family histories and backstories without a moment to look through the notebooks he carried around. He could name hundreds of landmarks in his fantasy world and explain their historical significance.

But he wouldn’t–couldn’t, it seemed at times–name his hometown.

He smirked at the questions, tapping his fingers on the table as if considering how to respond. His eight rings, all some combination of iron and silver, clicked on the wood in an awkward, stuttering rhythm.

“I remember salt. And storms. And an ocean past the breakwater, full of excitement and danger and the unknown. I remember the mermaid statues, decorating the street corners like peace offerings. But the name? My hometown is just as central to my identity as my first name. You’ll need more than a couple kolache to coax that out of me.”

Dime put her chin on her hands. She had heard from Cinders’ roommate that kolache was his favorite. If anything would get him to talk about his hometown, Hearth had insisted, that would be it.

There was a half-joking bet among the writing students Cinders told his stories to that he might be one of the Fair Folk. Dime knew better. They only knew the Cinders who wandered from the Campus Café to the English Hall, dazed and rambling about some aspect of his stories he’d been stalled on for weeks prior. She knew the Cinders who obsessively put his rings back on immediately after completing a mag particle test because he didn’t feel safe walking around, even in the Engineering Hall.

They didn’t know Cinders’ rings were silver and iron. They didn’t know that he wore jackets still coated in iron dust from his first mag class. They didn’t know he sewed a ring of iron jewelry chain into the lining of each of his hats.

Of course, that was because they never saw Cinders with his rings, jackets, or hats. Neither Dime nor Hearth knew why, but whenever Cinders went to the Café or to visit the writing students, he didn’t wear his protection.

“Cinders,” she started.

He cut her off with that Cheshire Cat smile and a flippant, “Did you make the kolache? Not bad, but I could give you my recipe.”

He was avoiding the question he knew was coming. Dime lifted her chin off her hands and tilted her head at him. The engineering and writing students both had questions about Cinders–questions they’d tried asking him before, only to have him talk in circles and turn it back on them. “You know what I’m going to ask. Just do us all a favor and answer this time, please.”

He sighed. He put his hands in his lap and shook his head slowly. “Do you know why I chose Cinders as my name for the University?” He waited for her to shake her head. A quiet, bitter laugh shook his frame. “Because I just can’t stop playing with fire, even after I get burned.”

Dime thought she understood what he was getting at. “You made a deal with Them, didn’t you?” Her voice was hushed, barely above a whisper. The Gentry heard everything; They would know if she addressed them improperly.

Cinders took off one of his rings, holding up at just the right angle for him to look through it. “Not so much a deal,” he sighed, “but a trade. A few, actually.” He put his hat on the table. The dull thunk from the sewn-in chain was a stark reminder of his paranoia. Even after all the precautions he took, he still prattled on about feeling unsafe walking from his dorm to the Engineering Hall.

“What did you trade?”

He put the ring back on, returning to the awkward, stuttering tapping.

“Cinders, what did you- Oh my god.”

“I needed inspiration, Dime. I couldn’t stand to have all these unconnected ideas in my head, all these stories that just wouldn’t go on paper no matter how hard I tried. It was torture. I couldn’t write stories, but I could tell them. I would sit around the English Hall after class, telling stories from my childhood to anyone who would listen, and I would notice some of the Fair Folk listening from the edge of the courtyard.”

Dime stared at him, understanding and horror dawning on her as he told the story of his first trade.

How he took his rings, jacket, and hat off and approached the Gentry at the Café with an offering of–what else–kolache. How he offered them a story just to listen to his request, and how when they accepted, he told them about the Woman of the Storm, a story he grew up with. How he bartered for inspiration and drive afterward, offering up the first few years of his childhood memories in exchange. How he ran back to his dorm in a haze, waking up the next morning with stories that finally made sense but a loss of interest in his oldest friends.

“They loved my stories.”

“Gamble nothing you cannot lose. You know this. Hearth told you; I told you! Why would you barter memories?” Her hands shook, curled into fists on the table, and she gritted her teeth. It made perfect sense now. Why he never went home for the holidays and breaks. Why he insisted on keeping so much secret. Why his stories and characters had more life than he did. Why he never wore iron around the English Hall anymore.

As an engineering major whose primary focus fell on metals like iron and low-carbon steel, he should have been safe from the Gentry. It hung in the air around him, dust from grinding and liquid from mag particle on his skin and clothes. As far as Dime knew, They would never take him, despite his stories.

But like a fool, he sought Them out. An offering and a story for an audience, memories for inspiration.

“The payoff seemed worth the price until I went home to family I no longer knew, a city whose name never stays with me, and friends I had to befriend again. All I had were my stories.” Cinders wasn’t looking at her anymore. He wrung his hands, eyes focused on the trees behind Dime. “I had played with fire, and I was burned. I came back here before break was over so I could have something familiar, but the inspiration went away again, so I made another trade.”

Dime got up. She couldn’t listen to him explain any more. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at the tears welling in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

He let her go without a word.

It was weeks before she saw Cinders again in more than passing. He’d been seen telling stories to the writing students after classes, lurking around the Café during his lunch, and wandering the Engineering Hall, but even Hearth wasn’t sure what he’d been up to.

His eight rings were down to six, his jackets finally washed, and his hats nowhere to be seen.

She heard from a few of the writing students that his stories were more vibrant than ever, more detailed and full of life than he seemed to realize. She wondered if they understood the cost of Cinders’ creativity.

She saw Them, too. Listening to Cinders as he wove his tales, venturing closer and closer with each time she saw him. She feared for him. Music students came back most often, followed by the writing students, but Cinders was a wild card, an engineering student who just happened to be a storyteller.

Once, she ran up to him when she saw him stumbling away from the trees near the English Hall. She called his name four times before he heard, yet he didn’t seem to really see her.

“Cinders, it’s been a while, what have you been getting up to? Hearth and I-”

He cut her off with the same Cheshire Cat smile and flippant tone as he had all those weeks ago.

“I knew you once, didn’t I?”

x

#iugulare-mortuos #stories #deals #english majors #oh cinders honey no #the last line is fantastic #cinders #submission

[mybluefics-blog]

Unrequited Ch.1

The common room was full of smiles and laughter as the team of humans and Alteans took a moment to relax. They played a number of games, suggested by both species in the castleship. Norwillian Jerkestand was a surprisingly fun game that seemed like a combination of Truth or Dare and The Question Game. One person would be asked a trivia question and given a ridiculous dare. If the person answered correctly or completed the dare, then they would give the asker a personal question they had to answer truthfully. However, if the person answered wrong or failed to complete the dare, then the asker would ask the whole group a personal question they had to answer truthfully.

That is how they got in this situation, with Lance dangling hazardously from a support beam he was dared to climb. He got up to the beam, but he slipped before he could reach the light that was his goal. Hunk and Shiro stood below him, ready to cushion his fall.

“Guys, if I fall, and you’re right below me, there’s no way you could catch me. I'd land on your heads!” After Lance’s surprisingly good point, Shiro and Hunk each took a step back. Now, both of them held their arms out bridal style next to each other. Lance decided that would be good enough, so he let go of the beam he had been holding. He let out an embarrassing squeal as he dropped the short distance into his friends arms, where his breath was knocked out of him. Shiro and Hunk supported Lance perfectly, but Lance landed in their arms the wrong way. His thighs were alright, but it hurt when his sternum impacted with two large arms.

“You good, bro?”/“Are you alright?” Hunk and Shiro asked as they gently set Lance on his feet. He stood for a moment in silence, worrying the others that there might be something wrong, before he spoke up.

“I failed the dare.” Though it was a simple statement, and didn't mean anything bad, Lance spoke as though a great tragedy has occurred. Keith simply scoffed, smirking.

“I told you you couldn't reach the light,” Keith stated.

“Well why don't you try it then?” Lance retorted.

“That's not the way the game works. You have to answer a question now, and so does the rest of the team,” Keith taunted.

“Fine. What is it, then?” Lance pouted.

Everyone waited while Keith paused, realizing he had forgotten to think of a question. He racked his brain for something better than ‘what is your favorite animal’ or ‘what is your best subject in school’. He glanced around the room, trying to find something that would inspire a good question, but there was nothing interesting enough. Suddenly, he saw Lance rub his wrist, and he immediately knew what to ask.

“Who’s your soulmate?” Keith was genuinely interested after he thought of it. Lance is always flirting with random aliens, maybe his was platonic or something. Lance had paused, but Coran cut in before Lance had a chance to answer.

“On the fact of soulmates, I had been wondering how those work for humans. I wasn't even sure if you had them,” Coran mentioned. “Would one of you mind explaining human soulmates to Allura and I?” His eyes scanned the crowd.

“Soulmates are complex things. Almost everyone on Earth has a soulmate,” Pidge spoke up with an in-depth description of Human soulmates, likely found on her computer. “They’re marked by a name written on the inside of your right wrist. The most common type of soulmate is a romantic bond, it means that they are destined to be together and love each other. The second most common type of soulmate is a platonic bond. Platonic soulmates are destined to be together, but they are there more for mutual comfort and support rather than love. There are three more types, but all of them are exceedingly rare; mentor, unrequited, and unmarked bonds. Mentor bonds are when the soulmates are destined to teach each other. This could manifest as a student-teacher like relationship or simply as someone leading you to a large revelation in your life. An unrequited bond means that one person has a soulbond, but that person either has someone else, or has an unmarked bond. This could lead to some form of a relationship between the Unrequited and their soulmate or it could leave the Unrequited lonely or depressed. Unmarked bonds are when someone simply doesn’t have a soulmark, so they have no way of knowing who their soulmate is.”

Coran spoke next, “For Alteans, soulmates are not simply assigned. We do have differing types of soulmate bonds, as humans do, but ours are bonds that were built. There are many different types of soulmate bonds, ranging from familial bonds to lover bonds to soldier bonds and more. Familial bonds mean that you have formed a platonic connection strong enough to be considered true family. This can be seen mainly as siblings or parent and child, but can be found as cousins, aunt/uncle and niece/nephew, grandparent and grandchild, etcetera. Lover bonds are just as they sound, a strong bond between lovers. Soldier bonds are when a bond is formed during a time of struggle. This can be seen as an actual war, or as something like fighting depression or anxiety, or having a large conflict with another. There are more types as well, such as one similar to the mentor bond you mentioned, but there are much too many to speak of now. Though we do not have any sort of ‘unmarked’ or ‘unrequited’ bond, as we form our own. For an Altean, your bond is shown during a time of great connection through the coloring of our cheek scales. The colors represent the bonds, and can oftentimes have more than one.”

“Dang, that’s so cool!” Hunk exclaimed. “So, are we going to share our soulmates now?” He paused for only a single tick before continuing. “Because I wanna go first! Okay, my soulmate is Shay.” Groans were heard from the group, accompanied by an ‘I told you so’ from Pidge as Hunk continued speaking, “She is really cool and awesome, but we aren’t sure about what type of relationship we have. It’s either platonic or romantic. For now we’re settling on platonic, with the whole, oh you know, war with the Galra to save the universe going on. When that’s over though, we wanna explore a bit together and see if it might be romantic.”

“D’awwww. Hunk, my man, you’re so cute. You have such a huge puppy-love crush on her, I would bet my favorite pair of sunglasses that you guys have a romantic bond,” Lance cooed, loving the way Hunk would gush about his perfect lady.

“Alright, well aside from the fact that Hunk in no way has a platonic bond, I do,” Pidge butted in, “None of you guys would know him though. It’s a guy I met in sixth grade. We bonded over nerd stuff and he actually helped me learn how to act like a guy and get used to pretending to be a guy when I snuck into the Garrison.”

There were various comments from the team of how her acting made more sense and how cool that was. There was a slight pause before Shiro decided to speak up next.

“I always wanted to meet my soulmate on my own. I didn’t want to search them out by their name or always wonder if anyone who had that name was my soulmate. Because of that I- I didn’t really pay attention to what the name was. I usually covered it with a sweatband or something and tried not to look at it much. When my arm was taken, I didn’t have to worry about that anymore… But now I can’t remember their name and I have no way of knowing who it was.” Emotions ran heavy through the air as Shiro took a few calming breaths.

Keith placed a hand on Shiro’s shoulder, silently reassuring his brother-like figure.

“You'll find them, they’ll know,” Hunk said as he passed a plate of cookies over to their leader.

Pidge gave Shiro a sympathetic look from over the top of her computer, and Lance smiled sadly, “Hey, they’re your soulmate. They’ll find you.”

“Now you are free to find your own soulmates, like us,” Allura said. “I haven’t found a soulmate yet, though with these times being as they are I’m nearly positive that my bond will be one of alliance or soldier.”

Coran dove in shortly after, “I have found my soulmate! You all will actually know of them, especially you, Allura! King Alfor was my soulmate.” A chorus of exclamations rose from his listeners at that statement, settling down only after realizing Coran would not finish until they were quiet. “We were brothers who became soldiers together. I was only a servant at the castle before we found our bond. After that, Alfor started looking more into my files and decided to promote me to Royal Advisor! We worked and joked side by side for many a year before the terrible incident with Zarkon. He saved the lions, his castle, daughter, and brother. I only wish I could have saved him as well.”

Allura rested her hand on Coran’s shoulder. They took a moment of silence before looking up and motioning to the final two paladins that they should tell their stories. The two looked at each other and communicated with their eyes. Keith seemed unwilling to share about his soulmate. Lance steeled his resolve and spoke up.

“You guys all have such cool stories about your soulmates, I kind of feel awkward about how short mine is. I have an unrequited bond. I met them long ago, but they never recognized me even after I tried to approach them about it.” Lance stated it like a long-rehearsed verse, quick and to the point. His tone left little to question, except—

“Who was it?” Shiro asked. Lance simply shook his head, refusing to say a name.

Keith took that as his queue to speak up. “My story is also pretty short. I have a soulmate. I haven’t met him.”

“Well, can we ask you who it is?” Hunk prodded.

Keith nodded, rubbing his wrist gently. He spoke one simple word, a noun, a name. As Keith moved his lips to say it, Lance’s world stopped. His whole universe jerked to a halt and started spinning in reverse, his mind was racing faster than the castle going through a wormhole.

“Wait… What?”

I finally got this posted!! I have been trying all day to post this!! Here is chapter 1, 1775 words of my first story! I hope you all like it!

#Unrequited #soulmate au with a twist #soulmates #langst #chapter 1

[eye-of-enigmatic-thought]

"Well Underfell Gaster told me you are humans."

Gaster immediately raised an eyebrow at the mention of the ‘Underfell’ version of him. This asker talked to Underfell? Doesn’t this asker realize how dangerous he is?

“And you... listened to him?” Gaster took a closer look at the asker in confusion. But it made sense, Uf!Gaster is a VERY manipulative individual, from his faux ‘happy-go-lucky’ demeanour to his soul breaking speeches that could tear down even the biggest ego. Someone could very easily fall for his tricks... so Gaster settled on giving the asker an explanation... along with some advice...“My friend, you must realise that whilst erm... let’s call him Gherrmez, doesn’t lie as much as you think he would, he is a manipulator. One of his few ‘methods’ in manipulating is getting people to distrust their main sources of security to make them easier targets for him. Whatever he told you, I assure you, was not for your safety.”

Gaster began to lean forward to the asker, he turned his tone into a much more serious one and gave the asker a soul piercing stare to make sure his words are not mistaken for jokes as this was definitely no laughing matter...

“I must ask you to not interact with him for the sake of your own health, and if you decide to anyway, do not trust a single word he says. He might give a bit of truth here and there, he may even have good evidence to back up his words, but I will repeat, what Gherrmez says is not for your safety, but to make you an easier meal to eat. I hope that is clear...”

#w.d. gaster #asks #underfell #undertale #ghermez #I'VE FINALLY GIVEN UNDERFELL GASTER AN ACTUAL NICKNAME HURRAH HURRAH! #It's literally the Iranian word for Red #I am creative I know. #jessicabiotech