#and she's right because he's too much of a coward to face that gaining the sainted ''family'' hasn't fixed him!

[betelgeusing]

marty hart's cyclical return to praising family as THE thing that keeps a man grounded, stable, and happy (specifically in pointing out that rust DOESN'T have a family) even as flashbacks show him spiraling into jealous macho violence as he lies to, mistreats, and destroys his family over the course of multiple affairs (by which he deliberately steps outside of and away from his family despite his wife's best efforts to get him to reconnect and step up to be the family man he sees himself as)

vs

rust cohle's repeated excoriations of the idea of individuality and personhood and the stupid self-centeredness and entitlement that comes with saying "I, a human being, matter to the universe, and the things I do matter", an ideology he carries for years and waxes poetic on for his interviewers as late as 2012, even as he obsessively works himself to the bone to get justice and resolution for the victims he's assigned and ultimately to protect children from the powerful and dangerous people who want to brutalize them

#true detective #so what if it all goes back to Melville and Milch. every great character spins against the way he drives #I know this is the point of their characters I know other people have said it before and better #but I go through it every time and this time Marty is hitting me extra hard. bc with Rust it's basically screaming in your face #Rust says humanity (without exception) is stupid selfish and vain and we're fools to convince ourself our actions matter #he then proceeds to take a job where everything he does matters SO MUCH. and to CARE about that job deeply and obsessively #but Marty... I've really noticed this time how Maggie calls him a coward multiple times in her efforts to pull him back to his family #and she's right because he's too much of a coward to face that gaining the sainted ''family'' hasn't fixed him! #it hasn't made him stop wanting to fuck other women #it hasn't made him the household hero the perfect father and husband the savior of the women in his life #he thought it would and when it doesn't live up to the fantasy he checks out completely #and even in 2012 when his marriage has fallen apart! he still lauds marriage and family as the thing that makes a man good! #despite all the evidence in front of him that he became WORSE after becoming a husband and father. he can't let the ideal go #he has good intentions at his core but he's obsessed with the idea of being a good ol boy and a family man #he shits on Rust for being isolated because he's scared to face the idea that he-- Marty-- would have done less damage on his own #sorry for the tag novel they make me want to bite. and knock their stupid empty heads together really hard #btw this show would be 75% less effective if they had not filmed on location. big brain move thank God for the TD S1 location scouts

[asukaskerian]

omg #2 from the arranged marriage prompts but with grimmichihime, where ichigo and orihime are already in a relationship and maybe even engaged but a war with hueco mundo/aizen faction leads to an arranged marriage deal where orihime is sworn to grimmjow in the hopes of ending the war... the drama of it all

2. Royalty AU - To end a war IT'S 2K LOOOONG sobs. also do not ask me about the worldbuilding i don't want to think about it because i WILL try to figure it out andm qvbv bqjhrvb f. yes. that.

anyway.

--

"You ain't supposed to be here, princess."

The girl's lower lip quivered; her brows scrunched down. A child's attempt to appear fierce. Grimmjow snorted, leaning his hip on the fancy chest of drawers he'd been saddled with for this farce. Embroidered shit from Hueco Mundo and local kimono bundled side by side, a present he hoped to never use again.

"I know. I thought--"

"You thought you'd see me without a chaperone and make double sure we got hitched?"

The twisted tangle of her hands came apart into fists. "No!"

Hooo. Grimmjow tilted his head, regarding her. She had a baby face; he'd have thought her sixteen instead of twenty had he not read the reports. Her hands clenched in her high-waisted, pleated skirt and he couldn't help but notice that it had been rigged so the hem was higher, easier to move in; underneath were dress uniform pants and laced-up ankle boots. Probably how she'd managed to climb his balcony -- but for a princess she sure wore some foreign style underthings.

"No?"

"No," she repeated, anguished, and then breathed in and out to steady herself, eyes closed. "That isn't why. I just -- there hasn't been a moment to talk to you directly, and I think -- you probably don't know. About me."

"Ah. Last-ditch attempt to have me break it off."

"I'm not actually a princess, you know."

She lifted her chin like she expected shock, anger. Grimmjow laughed. "Oh yeah?"

"I'm not!"

"You got the mark of the Soul King. Right? One of his fancy powers."

"Yes, but -- Grimmjow-san, that's not. I'm a commoner, I-- I was legitimised last year. We don't even know what branch I come from for sure." She met his eyes, sad but resolute. "My mother was a prostitute. This marriage alliance -- it's an insult."

... Haa. He reclined against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching her. Trying to be brave, to be honest and good. She was gonna be devoured alive.

"I'm only a duke as a way to keep my rebellion in check."

"--Ah?"

He snorted. "Don't even got a single drop of blood in common with Aizen, but I had enough support that he needed a way to break my power base in two and put a leash on me. So now the anti-royalty have ditched me and the rest have been fuckin' appeased by thinking I have a chance at the throne whenever he kicks it, but he won't. Guy's fully intending to become immortal somehow."

His voice had gone bitter by the end. He swallowed it; pointless to show too much emotion to someone so ill-suited to court. She would never keep the secret tight enough.

He was gonna have to carry her back home to the royal palace and be saddled with keeping her in one piece, though. Another weight chained to his ankle, disguised as an attempt to make him more palatable, give him more appeal to the cowards of the capital.

"So he knows..." she whispered, a slow horror rising as she started to understand the implications. "He won't break it off."

"Nah. Gonna wait until we're married and then make a fuss about suddenly discovering it to gain an advantage against your country, probably." Or take Grimmjow down a peg by starting rumors at court. Or both. Aizen was nothing if not efficient.

His fiancée (how fucking alien a word, related to him) pressed both hands against her face and muttered to herself for a bit. Grimmjow left her at it. He probably had letters to read--

"I'll run away," she blurted out. 

Grimmjow gave her a nonplussed look. "What the fuck. Who do you think is gonna hunt you down then?"

"You won't find me."

He pushed away from his perch, took a few slow, gliding steps toward the girl. She didn't step back, chin up, feet set, like a glowing ball of bunion-healing power was gonna keep her safe from him.

... She really thought he wouldn't find her, too.

Grimmjow had never lost a quarry and the whole continent knew it. She didn't seem that stupid.

"I thought you wanted to stay home, but that's not even it, huh," he mused, voice low, looming to see how much pressure she could take. "What's your reason? Can't be your previous fiancé."

Shocked indrawn breath. "You knew about him?"

"Sure. Had to know if you were gonna pop out a really premature baby, didn't I."

The girl flushed, said nothing. He didn't even get the impression that this was why she was so desperate to stay home -- that she had celebrated her previous engagement too early. 

"But you can't marry him and live in his back garden, now can you," he kept going, testing, searching. "The fuck are you thinking? Think some bland civilian schmuck would give you a nice little life hidden away in the attic?"

The way her eyelids twitched on certain words needed to be trained out of her at some point.

Her guy, she believed wholeheartedly, could and would hide her -- had the ability, or had the connections; had the determination. Her guy would take the risk of putting the Four Noble Houses on his ass... 

Because they were already riding it anyway.

Grimmjow barked out a laugh. She stared at his widening grin, and her hair pins pulsed with glowing gold, like now she was properly wary of him -- of a man from an enemy country who outweighed and out-reached her and of whom everybody would say he had a right to do to her whatever the fuck he wanted.

A pretty girl like her had to know his kind of man was dangerous, and yet she was only afraid now.

"You guys are in the rebellion."

He was only barely surprised when the window swung open and a man in battered samurai armor plunged sword-first at him.

He was slightly more surprised when the rejected beau -- some nobody from the cadet branch of a fallen noble house, from the reports -- managed a slash and a swipe at a surprise angle that clanged hard against Grimmjow's not-so-decorative vambrace.

Nice.

Grimmjow drew his blade, and while the man was distracted eyeing it, kicked him solidly in the guts, folding him in two. No armor but two pauldrons to get in his way; the room was large enough to maneuver. He rolled low, swiped his feet out from under him as the guy wobbled back up, lunged -- 

Got kicked off in a way that sent him crashing through a folding screen. The wood splintered noisy like a gunshot. He rolled to the side, behind the low table, kicked it upright to break the guy's charge and then shouldered it straight onto him. Ahh, noisy, so noisy, Aizen was going to be so pissed off. Grimmjow couldn't stop grinning.

Their swords rang against each other, sliding until they locked at the guard. Grimmjow leaned in to smile. The guy had the same kind of forthright, justice-blind eyes as the girl. Well-matched pair of idiots. He hated it.

He shoved forwards with his superior weight, feinted left, right, punched. Was a little appreciative whent his fist was almost blocked, parried enough to lessen the impact.

But the guy's sword was longer than his, so now that Grimmjow was under his guard he was fucked. He aimed the point of his sword--

Golden god-light, impassable. Jarring his arm to the shoulder. He tried to go around the side and it only grew to cut him off again, and then suddenly it was blooming out like a sail catching wind and shoving him back.

His fiancée stepped forward, hands joined at the fingertips before her chest. "Don't fight!"

Ah. Not just a small healing ability, then. The powers inherited straight from the Soul King seemed to be very random when all put next to each other, but also... people usually didn't get more than one. Interesting. Did Aizen know? Was he trying to sneak her out from under the Seireitei's nose? Or had she managed to hide it even from him? Grimmjow pressed a hand to the barrier and while it didn't hurt him, it also didn't yield at all.

"No fighting! Sh-- Kurosaki-kun, we know things about him too. He won't -- he won't sell us out. Right?"

He watched her give soft entreating looks to her old boyfriend, the boyfriend slowly shift to stand before her. "I guess" was the first thing Grimmjow heard in his voice, quiet and roughened by doubt and effort.

"Don't know why you're pretending not to be a Shiba when you could be the clan head's ginger body double."

"Well see, usually when I'm committing treason I wear a mask," Kurosaki-Shiba replied dryly, and discreetly eyed the room for an escape route. 

Grimmjow had turned them around, though; he stepped right in the middle of the wide open window, opening his arms, and crooked his fingers invitingly.

"I... don't suppose you're planning to let us pass through."

"You can come right into my arms, sweetheart." He turned his wrist so the edge of his sword would catch the lamplight. 

The next look was toward the door, but the noise they'd made had not been subtle. The corridor was filling up with hotel employees and guards from Grimmjow's country -- who knew better than to barge in without his say-so, but weren't going to disperse without having put eyes on him either.

Shiba's sword stayed up for long seconds of narrow-eyed wary thought before the point flagged down. "Fine. What the fuck do you want."

What did he want... Hm. Shiba had good fighting instincts. Could be better, though, sharper. The princess was a little sneakier and a lot more powerful than she seemed. Their righteous fervor was gonna grate on him something awful very soon...

Aizen had a leash on him, but the only real leash on them would be through Grimmjow, and they didn't like him enough to stay their hands out of fear for his safety.

He dropped his sword, tossing it onto an abandoned sitting pillow. Baffled, the lovebirds stared at him with dumbly blinking eyes.

Grimmjow smiled, slow and languorous, as he undid his waistcoat and tugged loose his shirt laces, letting the cloth slide open over his chest. 

A twitch, a yelp, two blushes. 

Cackling, Grimmjow tackled them both around the waist and let his momentum carry the three of them right into his bed.

"Whoa whoa what the fuck?!" "Iyaa, wait, wait--" "What are you--"

The mattress bounced under their combined weights. Cackling, Grimmjow sat up, straddling them both, and wasn't shy about digging in his knees. "Welp, looks like we're all compromised now. Gonna have to marry you both."

The shriek that came out of Shiba was higher than even the princess' voice could reach. He seemed to have switched from trying to punch Grimmjow's nose in to pressing both hands to his chest to keep him away, as if Grimmjow was even seriously trying to lean close. Virgin bottom behavior. Even the girl was still earnestly trying to knee his balls back inside his body.

"Ahh, shut up, I'll scratch your backs if you scratch mine. Yeah? We can all benefit from this."

And he threw an abandoned book at the door, making it clank obviously enough that the guards would decide it was sufficiently like a knock and check in on him. 

As the door creaked open, he decided to indulge his captives' panicked squeakings -- had to start things off on the right foot if he didn't want to have to deal with too many knives in his household, after all. Princess was yammering about how he couldn't marry Kurosaki-kun who wasn't a maiden at all and boys couldn't marry boys and anyway she didn't want him to be a concubine but you couldn't have two main wives-- 

"Ah, don't worry, in my country you can marry whoever the fuck you want." Behind the bed the room was filling up with rubbernecking guards, come in to stop an assassination attempt and discovering a tryst instead. Ignoring them utterly, he grinned into her wide, wide eyes, her scarlet face. "It's gonna piss everyone off, I can't wait."

#grimmichihime #Asuka writes #bleach #writing meme

[howl-fantasies]

Hey could u do one when y/n gets her period while Victor is on a job outside of Gotham and she had to stay for whatever reason and is getting mood swings and maybe she ends up at the good and asks jim for a water he says no and she starts crying and everyone is very concerned and texts Victor and then something happens idk thx u know I luv ur stories all the luv ~Princess

Hello dear! First of all, I am so sorry for the delay with this and basically all requests. But as I said a few days ago, I'll try to answer all of them!

The idea is a very good one to be honest, and imagining Jim making her cry and everyone starting to panic makes me laugh so hard!

Warning: English mistakes, I'm on my phone and it's not my first language, sorry for that, I'm working on it. A lot of bad words, violence, it's Gotham after all. Long post, got a bit carried away here.

--

How would you define a shitty day? Some would think about breaking anything they touch. Others about having a hard time at work, being screamed at by their obnoxious boss. For her? Answer was simple: having her period, and having to spend the week without the dickhead calling himself her husband.

Don't get her wrong she loves the idiot, but he knew her excruciating week was about to start and just run away like a coward, jumping on a mission far away from Gotham and abandoning her. What happened to the: "for better and worse" He vowed to honor when he coaxed her into marrying him, uh?! The little piece of shit.

"Don't you think the man has enough bullets inside of him to be confused with a pistol magazine, Y/N?" Groaned Carmine, standing behind her and folding his arms in front of him like a chastising father.

"Well, I would have been delighted to make him look like a box of tampons if I didn't need them so badly this week, Carmine." She sighed, while putting her guns back in their holsters and turning to look at him. Her eyes caught the livid face of Oswald, a few steps away from them. At least one funny thing today she thought.

The heavy sigh of the King of Gotham brought her focus back on him. He knew she would be insufferable. He knew it the minute he sent Victor away, telling him he would be able to deal with his woman. As a father of another female, he was pretty sure he would be able to handle the walking bomb currently in front of him.

Zsasz warned him about her non-existent patience, her extreme mood swings and the fact that he usually hide all weapons in their flat. Dear lord... Carmine found it a little bit extreme at this time and just decided to ignore the whole red alert. What a mistake. Now his favorite carpet was stained, ruined and one of his goons had so much iron in him they wouldn't even have to attach his feet to some weight to make him drow like a stone. He was too old for this...

"Y/N my dear. I appreciate you beyond measure. But right now, I think you need a walk and some fresh air to clear your mind. Go. Go in town, have some fun, just not to much and I'll call you if I need anything." The old man said.

Hearing the boss dismissing her like this truly infuriated her to be honest. But he had a point. Shooting someone to death because he had the fucking nerve to ask loudly if she was so moody because of her period wasn't maybe the best way to deal with things.

She simply nodded, indirectly answering Carmine and brushed past Oswald without seeing him. Yeah, she should have punch the goon's face to a pulp and answer him something like "since I started my day in a puddle of blood, I wanted to share the fabulous experience with someone. What do you think?"

Definitely better. Anyway, she was no necromancer. Dude was dead. Just another tally to add to her 'Murder week festival'. She would send a bouquet of pads to his widow or something, she would just have to tell the staff to sponge the guy's blood with it first.

As soon as the heavy oak door slammed, Cobblepot couldn't help but cough to try to gain Falcone's attention. "Are you sure sending her away tic-tacking like this isn't going to backfire, Don Falcone?"

His question earned a long silence from the king of Gotham, then a glance. One which froze Penguin on the spot. He should have shut his trap.

"You've got a point here", acknowledged Falcone in a low voice. "Go after her, be sure she doesn't cause too many mischief. Call me if anything goes south."

Penguin had to dig really deep inside of him to maintain a decent face and not scream bloody murder in the middle of the room. Monitoring Y/N was usually difficult. But now? In her state? And after hearing all the stories Carmine's goons fed each other with during their free time?! It will be suicidal.

The little man lowered his head in defeat and limped in direction of the door Y/N slammed a few minutes ago. Once outside, he swore seeing that the woman was still as swift as usual and already disappeared from the estate.

"Where did that tart went?!" He spat, rushing to climb inside of his car, yelling at the driver to go in the middle of the city and to open his eyes to help him find the assassin.

--

Did she use Victor's credit card to raid an entire clothing store? Absolutely. Was it petty? Sure. Did it help her to feel better? Not really. But the idea of her husband experiencing a mini seizure at the view of the bill definitely did.

She felt her phone buzz inside of her pocket for maybe the fifth time of the day, Footloose accompanying the buzz. She let out an irritated "ugh" while throwing her head back. Fucking Cobblepot. Didn't he get the hint when she refused to answer the previous 49 times?

She decided to cross the road in direction to the Narrows. Here, she was sure, he would let her be, too disgusted to even put his posh shoes on the dirty pavement. The idea made her move quicker, her eyes locked on the other side of the road, but something coming fast on her right brutally caught her full attention.

"HOLY FUCK!" She roared, her profanity hidden by the loud honking of the police car on her side, its wheels still fuming after the harsh stop it had to make.

Behind the windshield, Jim Gordon was looking at her with wide eyes. For a second, the two seemed frozen in spot. The next, the loud sound of Y/N's bags hitting the floor and the clicking of the security of her guns convinced Gordon to move. And fast.

He threw himself out of his vehicle, dodging a bullet, and using its door as a shield while grabbing his gun to also aim at the woman.

"Y/N?! What the hell are you doing here!" He yelled. "And why in hell didn't you look before crossing the freaking road?!" He added.

The snarl he saw on her painted lips indicated him that she wasn't in the best mood to take his scolding. He gulped.

"What are YOU doing here Gordon?! And why the fuck are you driving like you were a cop on a mission you fucking moron?!" She yelled too, her guns still pointing at him.

He scoffed. The nerve! "Well maybe because I am! I was planning to rush on a crime scene, but you being here and menacing me with your guns cleary changed my plans. Put the guns down, Y/N, and come with me. "

Now her left eye was twitching, a sign that she was losing patience with him. "Oh fucking fuck, Jim. Are we really doing this? Dude, just go to your freaking crime scene and let me be, today isn't a good day to mess with me, trust me."

She was about to say something else but another car screeched on the other side of the woman. A black one, from where emerged a furious Oswald, screeching like an angry bird. "You! You freaking tart! I called you at least a hundred times! Where were you?! Do you think I enjoy babysitting your dramatic self?! Because the answer is a bloody NOOOOOO!" He roared with an accusating finger pointing at her.

"Oswald?" Called Jim's surprised voice. "What are you doing here? Why are you with her?"

Cobblepot sighed deeply, letting his furious hands massaging his temples to try to ease the terrible headache this situation has been giving him. He brutally stopped, though, lifting himself and now facing the two with a bright crooked smile.

"Jim! Hello my friend!" He saluted like the previous seconds didn't exist. "I'm so happy the providence put you in our way!" He cheered.

Gordon made a face hearing him, looking at Y/N just to be sure he wasn't dreaming the turn of events. She just shrugged in response. "What do you want Oswald?" the young cop groaned.

"Remember your owe me a favor my dear friend?" Answered Penguin, still beaming like the sun in front of them. His statement made Jim groan again and roll his eyes. "I didn't forget, but today isn't the best for collecting debts, I need to go, but first, I need to make Y/N come with me."

Now it was the woman's turn to scoff loudly. Like the main idea of arresting her was just ridiculous. She didn't saw Oswald's smile getting wider in her back. But she heard the click of a gun and felt a jolt of pain in her neck. "Well, fortunately, your plan and mine are the same Jim. We need to keep Y/N locked for now, and for the best", sang Cobblepot.

She turned brutally in his direction, her eyes feral. "You fucking piece of shit! You called Victor and he told you for the tranquilizer gun!" Y/N yelled, turning the barrel of the gun in her left hand on him but loosing her focus as she pulled the trigger.

She fell on the ground as she heard Oswald howls and insults. "YA BLOODY HARLOT! YOU SHOT ME! SHE WAS READY TO KILL ME!"

"Calm down Oswald, she shot your leg, not your head" Jim distorted voice joined the yells.

"P-PARDON?! SHE WOULD HAVE SHOT MY HEAD IF IT WASN'T FOR THE TRANQUILIZER! JIM!"

After that last scream, all went black.

--

The sound of phones rings, the shouts of men and women and the dusty smell welcomed her. Y/N frowned and opened her eyes, only to grumble some muffled insults as she immediately close them. The crude lights weren't helping her terrible headache.

She lifted her hand to cover her eyes while slowly sitting on her bench. "Welcome back, sleeping beast. Sensible eyes uh? Poor thing " Mocked a voice she would have prefer to not hear so close to her.

"A shame, I missed. But fortunately, you're breathing so loud I still can kill you in the dark." She muttered, smiling when she recognized the sound of gritting teeth. When she finally felt well enough to open her eyes, she saw Oswald sitting on the other side of her cell with a murderous aura and a bandaged leg.

She couldn't help but giggle at the sigh. "Jimbo arrested you too I can see, that may be what people called karma". Now he was snarling like an angry dog, only holding back the middle finger because of his good education she was sure. How funny.

She lazily stretched, looking around until she saw Jim sat behind his desk, ending a visibly tensed call. "Hey Jim!" She called, winning his attention and a loud sigh.

While the man approached her cell, she also spotted Harvey following him. "Hi Harvey, not already drunk?" She taunted with a sadistic grin.

"Hi luv, 'm still working on it", answered the older man lazily, shaking a flask she suspected was filled with some whiskey.

The assassin snorted before looking back at Jim. "Well? What now Jimbo? Gonna do a stripsearch?" Her shit eating grin made him groan in annoyance. "If your husband and you would be so kind and stop telling the same jokes, I will be very grateful"

It was like she wasn't in a dusty cell at all, talking with them like their were neighbors and putting her arms on the bars like she would do on the frame of her window. "And you would be so kind to open the doors and let me out. You can keep the bird, though, this one will be better in a cage" She jested, grinning wider when Oswald indignant cry resonated.

Jim jawbone tensed, a sign he didn't find her last sentence funny. To be honest, the whole situation was making him quite mad. Because he knew she would find a way to get out. How, he wasn't too sure. At least not with the help of a rocket launcher this time.

"I'm not opening your cell, Y/N", he stated firmly. Her smile didn't even fade. She just tilted her head like a predator contemplating how it was going to jump on its pray. He hated it.

"Fine", she finally purred. "May I have one glass of water at least? I'm quite thirsty after that traitorous shot in my back".

Again his jaw clenched. He had enough. Enough of this day. Enough of the rogues. Enough of the stupid smile this irritating woman always wears when they cross paths.

"No." A simple, deafening no. Suddenly, the whole place seemed to grow silent. In front of him, he saw her freeze. "Excuse you?" She tried.

"I said no. Y/N. You're going to sit here and wait to be questioned, like any other damn criminal in this police station." He answered.

It happened so suddenly he didn't even have the time to see it coming. First it was a hiccup. Then another. Then her reddening eyes becoming glassy. And finally tears rolling on her cheeks. What was happening?

"Oh no", he heard Harvey gasp behind him.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!" Now he saw with a shocked face Penguin bolting out of the bench, limping to her and turning her crying face in front of him. "Oh my god! Oh no! Everything but this! Don Falcone is gonna shoot us all!" He started to panic. "Are you so poorly educated to refuse a glass of water to a prisoner Jim?! I mean seriously?!" He screeched while guiding the woman on the bench he was previously sitting on.

"What's wrong with her?" Asked Jim incredulously.

"What's wrong with you?! Being so insensitive with a woman fighting with her hormones, I can't believe I was considering you a good person!" Oswald shouted.

"How was I supposed to know uh?!" He shouted too. "And what with your behavior, didn't she shoot you an hour ago?!"

"Because of her hormones you imbecile! You took all her belongings, you've seen the box of tamp-... Of womanly stuff she carried with her! If it wasn't a clue, I don't know what it was then!" Yelled the little dark haired man.

Her cries were unstoppable. Nothing Penguin tried worked, none of Harvey gentle coos made her stop. In fact, it was getting worse.

"DO SOMETHING JIM!" Pressed Oswald. "Like what?!" Snapped the young cop.

Oswald scoffed like he was outraged. "I dUnNo CALL VICTOR MAYBE IMBECILE!" Demanded Penguin.

"Not like I have his number" Jim grumbled, he couldn't believe what was happening. "Gimme your freaking phone!" snarled Oswald, grabbing Harvey's who just shrugged when Jim sent him a glare and typing the number of their only hope.

Nothing. "He isn't answering." muttered Cobblepot, while awkwardly padding Y/N's back.

"Of course he isn't, what criminal in his right state of mind would answer a call from the GCPD Penguin?" Groaned Harvey, earning another glare to add to his collection of the day.

Oswald cursed under his breath and took a deep inspiration before he yelled so loud everybody in the room would be able to hear. "WHAT KIND OF LAME CRIMINALS ARE YOU?! CAN'T YOU SEE WE ARE FACING A CRISIS HERE?! CALL VICTOR ZSASZ NOW OR DON FALCON WILL PERSONALLY DEAL WITH ANY OF YOU SCUMS WHO LET HER BEST WOMAN CRY HELPLESSLY!"

Like a whip, his voice made all the criminals jolt in fear and Gordon had to open a wide mouth when he saw everyone in the cells taking out - from what seems like a magical pocket - a phone and starting to call or text the infamous hitman. Did confiscated phones meant nothing to rogues in town nowadays?!

He turned in Harvey's direction just in time to see him opening a plastic bag where he how so carefully put Y/N's items an hour ago. "What the hell are you doing?" He breathed.

His co-worker frowned and took the woman's phone, giving him to a very pale Oswald pleading her to unlock it. "Trying to make it stop. Trust my years of experience with her, nothing will stop her. The only soul in town able to deal with her in this state is an obsessive bald homicidal maniac." Bullock said.

"Christ it's just tears!" Tried to rationalize Jim while pointing at her like an idiot. "She'll stop, eventually!" The harsh glare he earned from the whole room made him question Gotham's general sense of sanity again. It was surrealistic. Truly.

--

---------- 1 New Message --------

Bullock

Red alert. Your wife is in tears at GCPD. Come asap!!

---------- End of message --------

.

----------- 1 New Message ---------

Unknown

Mister Zsasz, sorry to contact you but your wife is crying right now. Please help us.

...

Please don't kill me. I'm just a honest criminal who happened to be here.

------------ End of Message -------

.

---------- 1 New Message -------

Riddler

What is charming 3 weeks per month and a whole crying mess on the 4th?

...

Just the day I wanted to attack the GCPD, I only let it pass because of the exceptional circumstances.

...

Do something. The whole city is in alert right now!

---------- End of message ----------

.

-------- 1 New Message ---------

Kean

Heard you let your wife crying at the GCPD.

...

Told her she could have done so much better. You're the worst husband material.

--- Blocked and added to "killing list" ---

.

---------- 1 New Message --------

Mrs Sweetness Zsasz

It's Oswald. How dare you ignore my calls?!

...

Come fetch your wife, she cried so much I fear she'll not have any water left in her body!

...

And buy chocolate! A lot! Mother said it helps during those times.

---------- End of message --------

.

"Oh dear me. What happened here?" He asked to no one, scrolling on his phone and reading message after message. He knew it was the worst idea of the decade to let Carmine and the others deal with Y/N during this time of the month. He wasn't suspecting he would find the city near bursting in fire when he would come back.

He didn't even have to threaten the cops at the entry of the GCPD. For the first time of his life, the cops on the outside stairs looked relieved to see him. Alvarez, who was smoking among them even let out a "thanks god" which made him chuckle.

When he went inside, he didn't even have to search for her. All the cops where around her cell, the criminals behind bars where glued to them in her direction and tried to cheer her lamely. It was something to witness frankly.

He walked lazily, letting the cops who spotted him take a couple of steps back with the same disturbing relief painted on their tired faces.

When he reached the cell, he slowly blinked, taking the whole picture: his wife was crying like a river, her head between her hands, on her right was Cobblepot, padding her back and cooing, promising her husband was going to deal with everything. At her feet, he could see at least 30 full glasses of water, untouched. And outside the cell, a disheveled and very pale Jim Gordon was being scolded like a 5yo by an angry Bullock.

"Ah! Thanks Satan! You finally here!" Shouted the older cop once he saw him. Zsasz shrugged and made a face then pointed at the woman with his finger. "Why is she crying?"

Harvey sighed loudly. "Long story short, because of a glass of water..."

"THAT HE REFUSED HER!" Yelled Oswald angrily while pointing at Jim who groaned.

Zsasz blinked again then let out a tired sigh. "Open the cell." He demanded with a smooth but firm tone. Harvey immediately grabbed the keys from Jim's belt, ignoring his protests and opened it, sending a "Don't you dare do anything else mate" glance at his co-worker.

Victor went inside and crouched until his face was at the same height as hers. "Gonna take you home Sweetness", he muttered before he raised and helped her standing, hugging her shoulders and guiding her out of the cell.

"WAIT!" Shouted Jim when they started to walk in direction of the door.

"Just a minute" said Zsasz as he grabbed Oswald's arm to put it where his was. Now that Penguin was helping her to stand, the hitman turned around and walked on Jim slowly.

Nobody had the time to see him rising his left arm. But everyone heard the hard punch striking Gordon so hard on the face he fell on the floor, his nose now bleeding like a fountain.

"Don't make my wife cry ever again, Jim. It makes me angry." He muttered with a deadly calm face then turned around again to take back his previous place, scrounching just enough to put a hand behind Y/N's knees and lifting her princess style, taking his leave with a shocked Oswald.

Everyone was now looking at Jim, still on the floor and holding his broken nose. "Be happy he was worried about his wife or you'd be dead Jim. I told you many times: don't mess with Y/N, she's Zsasz trump card." Chastised Harvey as he pushed a box of tissues in his blood stained hands.

--

"Is she going to be her irritating self soon?" Asked Cobblepot uneasily from his back seat inside of Zsasz's black car.

The bald man threw his wife a glance and sighed. "I know I wasn't here Sweetness, but it was the boss' orders." Her lack of answer made him sigh louder. "Wasn't it a little bit extreme?" He asked in a dull tone.

Oswald opened his mouth to remind him he wasn't here and didn't see how she lost her composure but was cut by Y/N's also dull tone.

"Are you going to leave again? To finish the task?"

Zsasz let out a snort. "After the scene you made? Don't think I'll go anywhere. Plus I already finished my business outside of Gotham. And Carmine called on my way back, he heard about what happened and demanded me to stay glued to you until the week ends."

She also let out a snort, a very amused one a that, which made Oswald jolt in his seat, the surprise painting his whole face.

"Never thought it would work so well", she mused.

Ok now he was collecting his jaw from the floor. "It was an act?! You were pretending and let me made a fool of myself?!" Yelled Cobblepot, earning a tired glance from Y/N.

"Not at first. I really was crying." She said." But seeing how the events turned, I saw an opportunity to get out of our cell, make Victor come back faster AND stay with Carmine's benediction", she confessed with a shit eating grin.

Oswald scoffed, that tart was so good at acting he was really pitying her and tried to be as sensitive and gentle as he could be. "You're the worst!" He shouted angrily, only earning a laugh from her and a resigned sigh from Zsasz. But he saw how the man's lips were twitching. He was clearly enjoying his wife's new scheme.

"You both are the worst" He grumbled while crossing his arms in front of him and pouting like a little child.

A/N - I hope you loved it! 🥰

#gotham #gotham imagine #gotham x reader #gotham fox #victor zsasz #victor zsasz imagine #victor zsasz x reader #gotham fandom #gotham villains #gotham incorrect quotes #gotham victor zsasz #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald cobblepot imagine #oswald cobblepot #jim gordon x reader #jim gordon imagine #jim gordon #gotham jim gordon #Gotham Oswald cobblepot #Carmine falcone #Harvey bullock

[huh-1260]

doublebattleshipping but PLA

I have been consumed by the brainrot that is doublebattleshipping and PLA AUs that I make at night with my other crackhead ideas. Okay so like after Ingo gets Hisu'ed, Emmet gets a therapy/emotional support Walking wake because fuck yes thank you @bottle-of-harpoons for this Crack head of an idea, because I love me some good mental health (He was in Paldea for Teracrystallisation not because of time travel Boogaloo dang it. Also to see if Emmet can make battle strategy with it or ban it from the subway because it's to big SAFEY FIRST) Most of the paradox forms are ban from the subway because too big or will fuck up the train in battle. A year pass and Evelyn and Emmet start dating in secret from the media because the media always ruins a good relationship. They marry. ( Ingo now has been gone for 4 years they been dating for 2) the media catches on, they have twins named Rei and Akari ( it was suppose to be Akira it means Ideal but Emmet was verry tired and it was Akari but it could mean like the lights in gearstation or as in "up" because one of Rei's meaning is "return, resume, go backwards" :) I'm so funny. The reason why Akari looks like Dawn is because she is her Idol much to Iris disappointment. Rei is just a coincidence. Either way Dawn is in Hisui just doing Galaxy team thing and oh look two children fall from the sky, they both look like Survey corps members Rei and Akari (dawn and Lucas) but they also look a bit like Warden Ingo? Dawn takes them to Jubilife village because what kind of sicko leaves two kids that are like 5 or 6 in the wilds. Ingo is there at Jubilife this time when Dawn kicks down the doors ( not really) going " Holy Helix! Ingo I found kids!" Lucas looks at the kids then to warden Ingo then to the two unconscious kids in Dawn's arms. " Ingo did you spawn kids?" Ingo give a face of confusion. Akari awakens and says it very bluntly that her father would be proud, " I am Akari what the heck am I." Ingo's fragments of memories are screaming because she acts like Emmet. Rei wakes up and the first thing he does is cry, because he is in a strange place that guy looks like his dad and he just got kidnapped by some look a likes. Akari bites Dawn and Dawn yelps and drops them both, the siblings run Ingo, Dawn, and Lucas chase after them they are on the pokemon battle field, Akari pulls out her Pokeball which Rei does too, Lucas is so confused right now. Dawn is hesitant about fighting two little children. Akari screams "Fight me coward!" She smells the her hesitation. " I am Akari. And this is my little brother Rei, I like to win more than anything else!" " I am Rei, w-will your tracks line up towards v-victory or will you be crushed in defeat." Both children yelled, " ALL ABOARD!" Akari sends out a strange Zorua, and Rei sends out Axew. Ingo is getting flashs, Akari sends out her Decidueye, Rei sends out Pikachu. " Zorua use sludge bomb on the bird!" " Pikachu use Iron tail." " Axew make sure it doesn't hit you!" " It has sludge bomb!!?'

_____________________________________

(Akari and Rei lost their pokemon are Level sixteen to 20 they couldn't beat 62 level pokemon. Not even with enough plot armor)

" I am Akari, I lost." She mumbled. " F-fair play," her brother said, " You were very strong trainers." Ingo was having flashbacks where have he heard scripts, (scripts?) Similar to those children.

Meanwhile: Emmet

When his kids went missing, and team Neo Plasma was trying to gain power, his first instinct was to destroy them, which he did, Rosa live streamed it. Then future Volo tries to convince Emmet to his side saying I know where his kids are at, which lead to Evelyn and Emmet beating the living crap out of him. I mean Volo it sounds like you kidnapped them or work with the person who kidnapped them. And then Arceus because he needs to get to Hisui to protect his kids. And now they in Hisui. Emmet has Chandelure out to track their soul energy, and Evelyn grabs him to check the sky for higher ground with her Latios, remember Latios pokedex says it can go to Mach 4 so it's really fast so imagine your Sabi, you are flying with Lord Braviary and your vision says hey something fast and blue is going to pass you and you turn and a streak of blue flys by and then you see in your vision that was a Ingo in white and a women in blue. Wait what.

They end up in Jubilife village, so people panic because Emmet wears white and red, you know who else is white and red, Hisuian Zoroark. Akari and Rei sees them, and scream, " Mama! Papa!" While running to them. " Rei! Akari!" They hug, family reunion. (Looks at Ingo)

" Kids" Evelyn said.

" Yes mom?" Both their children replied.

" Your grounded."

" Whyyyyyyy?" Akari

" You uncoupled your trains from ours." Their father said.

" Emmet?"

Emmet turns around to only stare at his missing brother, and is that the Chamion of Sinnoh??

"Ingo?!"

"Your married???"

"You look like you got ran over by a train?"

Cue akward family reunion Between brothers.

#help the brainrot is real #doublebattleshipping #But hisui #Akari meets her Idol first instinct #Bite #Why can't I find any stories with Akari with Decidueye #This is Emmet 's kids they are going to get a hold of his TMs and HMs some how #immortal volo #It's like most stories Volo tries to get Emmet on his side but he worded it so wrong they thought he kidnapped his kids #It's so stupid #pokemon au #Ingo sees the kids that where causing problems earlier go to the man in white which he now remembers as his brother as they calling him Dad #: o #Akari is not Dawn #But she is at the same time? #Rei is not Lucas #But his is? #Dear Arceus I don't know if this is crack or if its something I want to write #Might just be Crack #Or not #Idk

[katyspersonal]

I am feeling so ill. My mental pain keeps translating into physical one, like something that keeps poisoning me from within, and it can last from very morning to very evening at times. I wish I stopped being reminded of the backstabbing, of how much that person has been lying to us, and how she threw away her empathy and common sense in an instant, as soon as she got enticed with the prospect to feel like a """victim""". When everything was explained and even forgiven prior.

For a Christian, she sure is a terrible one, and really should pray to her God for forgiveness. Because that's sin of vanity if I've seen one. Her sorry pro-lifer ass that can't even use they/them pronouns because it is "not correct in English" and has been following Mico herself before he deactivated must be satisfied with people around with whom she has to censor her true opinions, I suppose? She had all context, she had explanation and apology, she faked having accepted that apology too, lied about not really caring about the "drama", faked patience and lied about always welcoming me back - only to latch at the first chance to backstab me and my friends she got. And the way she conveniently ignored how I took my words back, too.. I don't know what is WRONG with people who think that when a person that has been stalked and harassed for a year lashes out upon feeling threatened - they've shown their """true face""". Nobody is more alien to normal human emotions and reactions than Americans. I guess for them you are either physically incapable of anger, fear and fucking up OR you are a vile dangerous monster.

But the real question - what did she want to ACCOMPLISH? She didn't really feel like a star and gain sympathy like a victim of the """horrible mistreatment""" that me lashing out when she defended my STALKER was - that I also TOOK BACK. From my knowledge, she kept herself anonymous. And of course instantly blocked me, because like a coward she could not answer for her lies. She also lost other friends too - one HATES liars and hypocrites more than anything, another has similar emotional problems to mine so no longer feels safe, third straight up was harassed by that person as well.. "They are still lovely people" she says. And I am not a "lovely" person, of course. Because "lovely" people just smile and shrug off being stalked, harassed and talked untrue shit about for a year, I suppose? Because "lovely" people don't become clingy for someone defending them so loud and proud?

My only theory is that she just secretly harbored hatred towards me all along but was forcing the facade of patience and understanding, until one day finally came what looked like a good justification to drop it. But then why sending me all that emotional support when I fell for suicidal road back in spring? Why write at least two essays to Alfred-chan about her right to interact with me and about how I deserved kindness and compassion? Why acting flattered when I said I loved her (platonically) when in reality she was creeped out? Why bothering to explain me how she did not blame me and always would welcome me back in the blog? Following me for a decent time and all that interacting. Was feeling like a poor victim that fell under attack of the "monster" for like 5 minutes without even revealing her name to the world and losing more likeminded people worth it? Was it worth it? How? How mad you should be at someone for getting attached more than """acceptable""" and for lashing out before learning why you'd defend someone that harassed us, that you'd resort to backstabbing and break all your prior promises? She even told me stuff like "ratting someone out is very condemned in my culture and I'd never do that". Then what DID she do, when she showed the moment of weakness I had 40 days ago, to a deranged ableist that has been condoning harassment and canceling for hell knows how long and she could tell wished me harm?

I want to ask whether it was worth it, but clearly she didn't lose anything of value. One of those "but internet connections are not REAL uwu" people.

I so badly want to say that this is my fault for trusting someone who is not only American but also a Christian, double combination of hypocrite and all you know. Because I just want to find a reason. I want to know WHY, even if the answer is something as shallow as nationality and religion. But this is just not fair to people who are one or both of these things but have common sense to not lie and not be cut throats. I guess the real reason is that some people are just too easily enticed with the chance to feel like the "good" guys, to mark category of people that do not deserve any empathy, human bonds and understanding because they are "evil and dangerous". It is just easier. You feel justified to mistreat a certain category of people because they are "bad" - all while the criteria for why they're "bad" is growing progressively absurd. But this coming from a person that preached kindness and acceptance. Yet she sided with the people that punish me FOR having shown that kindness and acceptance to someone else, and never intend to stop. Why following Mico yourself, then?

I have no skill of forgiving people that do not feel remorse, I am not that kind of a person. It just hurts until I forget or find another thing to worry about. I don't know where to turn to, what superior power to pray to for faster healing from this, because betrayal like this is the worst thing you can do to me. It is fine to refuse to forgive someone's mental breakdown, but why not tell me off in private? Why run under the skirt of the person with bad faith that only supports neurodivergence in the form of being quirky about one's special interests and not for what problems it really brings? Does she really think it is victim's fault when they develop bad trust and abandonment issues upon a creepy stalker trying to ruin their life? The cunt would've doxxed me if they could only over the fact that I said I was gonna reblog from who I want - again, something she herself kept getting harassed over. So was that okay, then? She never meant her words, then, and only flexed her "I interact with who I want" for weird flex of herself as a hero, and not for our friends group?

Well, yes. It has to be that. Until she saw an opportunity to switch sides and find a more compelling "enemy" to stand against. The final punch in the gut is that she assumes my friends are okay with the betrayal either, just goes around as though nothing happened, as though having betrayed someone and still writing them down as vile and unremorceful even after they apologised to her two times was nothing. Yeah, why? If a person failed to meet her personal mark of forgiving, tolerating and shrugging off harassment - then they deserve to be backstabbing and thrown to those cultish ableists. That's her logic.

And I just want to vent all this in a sorry effort to remind myself: "See, she is so petty and callous that she doesn't deserve crying and hurting over! People like that are below you, Kat, just forget it and move on!" But in the end, I just can't stop asking myself why. She did not feel like that type of a person. My other mutual also said it was not expected, since she had that 'wise', thoughtful exterior all along and acted as though she was trustworthy. At this rate I was right in my accusation of her being brainwashed, I guess... The only thing I was wrong is the TIME when it happens.

#/vent #personal #honestly she is arguably worse than other two #they are just bad people from the get go #but she? she CHOSE to be bad. like. deliberately. #that's worse.

[wwriothesley]

  it ends with a letter. the nightmare ends with paper.

      “ there was something wrong with Antonie's letter, ” Capucine whispers to him, leaning over his shoulder an evening when they have been left alone, all of their duties done.

      there's a brief moment where he feels cold, even as he puts an arm around her. �� what do you mean? ”

      “ do you remember that they never liked sweets? isn't it weird how they wrote- that now they can finally eat all the cherry pies they want, with their new family? ” a little sniffle. “ ...they never liked cherries. ”

      “ maybe now that they can experience eating what they want, they like cherries, ” he suggests, and loathes himself for keeping up the charade, to avoid spreading mass panic. he can feel his jaw clenching. his teeth are uncomfortable in his mouth for the disgust.

      “ maybe... i hope i'm not reading too much into it. ” Capucine looks up, big brown eyes wide. “ oh, ██████- did i scare you? i'm sorry- ”

      “ it's fine, ” he rubs her shoulder reassuringly, stands just a bit taller. “ just... don't tell Mom and Dad. ”

      she nods, and then looks away.

      she knows now.

      he can't protect her.

      he can't protect her from them if she talks.

  Capucine is gone by next week.

      “ -and if any of you kids ever want to hear about how good your other adopted siblings are doing- ” the woman- his mother- smiles with taut lips, a smile that's almost uncomfortable to see for the fakeness behind it, “ you can just come and ask us! ”

      a pause. little clinks of knives over the plate.

      “ just like our dear Capucine did! ”

      he is no longer hungry. silverware is clenched until knuckles whiten.

      and he has failed her, just like all the other siblings that 'left'. he keeps failing, no matter what.

  lately, they have been keeping an eye on him.

      it must be because he's older- he won't sell easy if he keeps being this somber.

      but there's nothing to smile about- and he's cold, stiff, paralyzed with helplessness.

      a trade of icy glares with his father makes him gain the scar under his eye. they're growing more restless- in the forged letters, they don't know their livestock's preferences and likes, cannot forge the callygraphy. they take the frustration out on him- on the other children.

      he throws himself between the beatings as often as he can- and gains and gives bruises. he punches, scratches, bites to hurt. last time, he found that he has grown stronger- he managed to wrestle the other adult man to the floor, fists in short, blond hair as he smashed his face on the floor until he was pried off him.

      in his throat, a growl.

      “ he's like a possessed animal, ” he hears his father angrily whine to his wife, in the privacy of their bedroom.

      that's right, he thinks with a twinge of pride. and who wins the fight? i'm an animal- but you're a monster.

      and i'm nothing like you.

  the logical conclusion of help never coming stands in appearences.

      thanks to their trades, his adoptive parents have amassed quite the number of people who could vouch for them. there's no reason to betray their so-called 'friends' if they ever want more 'livelistock' they'd better not make a peep about where they suddendly gained a child in their home.

      there's nobody coming to save them simply because no one knows about their personal hell.

      hell isn't out in the street- hellfire burns in this home, under all the appearences and sickeningly sweet smiles.

      there's no raft, only poisoned seawater for miles.

      his silence has been sickening. he may as well be an accomplice- but he's no coward. he's no longer afraid.

      chips of ice stare back at him from the mirror.

      justice is done from the inside.

      “ justice is done from the inside, ” his reflection spits back at him. ██████ sees this from a corner of the bathroom, disassociated from the scene.

 

a large hunting knife mysteriousy goes missing from his father's collection, one morning.

      he's fuming mad. “ nobody will eat until it comes out, ” saliva flies everywhere as he screams in the kid's faces, “ and if it doesn't pop back up for dinner, you'll line up for a good beating! ”

      don't worry, ██████ thinks. you won't make it to dinner.

 

he expected a murder to be something more difficult. something more tedious- but the knife went through his father's chest like it was made of butter, the blade singing over the edge of ribs.

      amidts the crimson pooling out of the gash, his father gasps. “ why? ” he asks- incredulous, almost hurt.

      he receives no answer. just two chips of cold, cold ice watching as he chokes on blood- and his last question goes unanswered.

      he dies with all of his demons, and ██████ walks out of the room.

      justice is done from the inside. from the victims.

 

his wife does not go down as quietly.

      she takes off running somewhere, knowing that their reign of terror is ending. ██████ quietly marches on- follows her, a gruesome sight of a fourteen, blood-covered animal advancing on her easily.

      once secured into a corner of the kitchen, she refuses to go down quietly. she wails and screams insults and pleas as he sinks the hunting knife in her chest- once, twice, thrice- and then draws back.

      she mangles the flesh of his arms with her sharp nails in an effort to fight back before she sags and sobs on the carpet soaking with blood.

      he'll be disgusted by the scars those gashes leave- he'll find a way to cover those, one way or another.

      ██████ won't give her the satisfaction.

      she pleads and sobs, the last song of the slaughtered sinner- she never thought she'd get the just retribution. she doesn't want to die. she begs him for help, and all he does is dislodge the knife from her chest- so she bleeds out painfully.

      just as painful as it has been for their children to be treated as livestock. just as confused as they have been when the tides turned, when the beautiful house and their lovely parents ended up being a cage and torturers.

      there's no victory fainfaire for ██████. just retribution comes with no triumphs, but with numb hands and his body on autopilot.

      he has committed a crime. he will have to pay for it, just as it was taught to him.

       

he heads down to the basement, opens the cages as his siblings huddle against bars and away from him. there's fear in their eyes, fear of him covered in blood.

      “ you're free now, ” he tells them, matter-of-factly, voice flat. “ run, and never come back here again. ”

      they plod away from him without a second thought, huddling together as if to look for protection, and he's sure he'll never see them again.

      even so, it was worth it.

      he waves at their disappearing backs without receiving a similiar gesture in response.

the mirror in the hall returns the gruesome sight of a murderer.

from head to toe, he's covered in blood. heavy, dark red and forever stuck to him. he knows that it won't go away even if he washes- two chips of ice stare back at him from under matted hair.

      unflinching.

      justice has been done- from the inside.

      the sinners are no more, and the innocents have been freed and avenged.

      ██████ has done his duty, and he has no regrets.

#( HEADCANONS. ) ━ into the CERBERUS dossier. #( IC. ) ━ administrator clocking in. #implied child abuse ;; #death ment ;; #blood ment ;; #violence ment ;; #been wanting to write that for a while..... aaaaah the smell of PAIN in the morning (its past 3pm for me)

[jackoshadows]

Unpopular opinion but the people claiming that Sansa is clueless about the poisoning of Robert Arryn because she’s 13 are missing the point. GRRM wasn’t able to do the five year gap but he carried on with his plans. He intended for Arya to be a 16 year old femme fatale who lures men to their deaths (at least in Mercy). He still did that (which we can and should criticise), so we can assume Sansa would still be ordering the maester to put sweetsleep in Robert’s milk at the age of 18.

Sansa is an interesting character in that she knows all these truths that's right in front of her face, and yet deflects and ignores because she selfishly wants her idealistic fantasies to be true. As explained here:

So yes, she knows that Sweetsleep is dangerous to SweetRobin's health. The Maester directly tells this to her. As much as her stans like to obfuscate and write about how Sansa does not have Wikipedia to do research on Sweetsleep (Yes that really is one of the excuses 😂) this is Westeros' version of a doctor who is telling her that this drug is harmful to a sick little boy suffering from epileptic seizures. Sansa is ignoring his warning because as she herself explains in her POV chapter 'Father and I have larger concerns' - like the plot to thwart the lords of the Vale and gain control and power.

In fact Littlefinger lays out his supposed plan to her, step by step, and one of the requisites of that plan - for LF and Sansa to succeed - is SweetRobin's death.

However, having a frail, little boy medically poisoned is not what Sansa's fantasy good people do. It clashes with her ideas of what makes for good people and heroes - beautiful, healthy, noble and titled (For instance she thinks that 8 year old SweetRobin is a coward because he has seizures).

So she reimagines the situation and justifies it in her mind as SweetRobin being totally fine and growing up to marry to marry and having a guard of knights and a grand tourney with an extravagant feast. Just like she blames Arya for Lady's death so that she can marry Joffrey and become Queen.

It maybe that it's SweetRobin's death that finally pushes her to confront the truth. I wish SweetRobin survives and is able to get rid of the LF/Sansa plotting. However, there's just too much stacked against him with only Maester Coleman looking out for his well being. And poor weak willed Coleman is doomed and possibly framed for SweetRobin's death.

#asks

[scratchandplaster]

Stack The Deck - PART 7

CW: reluctant Whumper (POV), aftermath of torture, non-con drugging, toxic relationship, injury, emeto mention

PART 6 ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 8

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Delivered at 10:47pm. Delivered, not seen because she's too much of a coward to face the consequences of her actions.

Morris had given every last thing, what else did she want to see? For just a simple sign of life, he would do it, whatever it was. Everything she could ever want, with a little extra hidden inside. To ensure she would stay with him, permanently.

Her ex-lover woke up a while ago, staring and breathing were the only acts Morris could notice while waiting around the bathroom door.

He looked so much better cleaned up, blood washed away from his soft features. His hair gained mass again, a bit wet from the quick cat lick he gave him. The tape around his legs was cut off too, it offered no use like this and limited the basic comfort Morris tried to provide. 

He had brought the mattress to this room, covered in an oversized bathing towel to hide any previous blemishes. He cleaned him up the best he could, limited by the sparse selection of his toiletry bag. 

A washrag and antiseptic took care of the most egregious areas, seemingly having no effect to calm Elliot down again. 

He would also have to take care of that. 

Gingerly, he pulled out a bottle of pills, small and flat, rolling it across the tile with a noisy clatter. To bury the hatchet, way too late and worth nothing.

"Should have given you this beforehand," he whispered his non-apology, "but I thought of the alcohol, you know, you don't just mix meds like that..."

He was sure the most of it had exited his system by now. Elliot didn't even seem to notice the gift he was made, focused on Morris instead, like he would stuff them down his throat any second. Morris knew that wouldn't be worth the effort, not in such a way. 

"If you have to throw up again, try to aim there," he pointed at the lidless toilet right next to where he was sitting, "would be a pain to clean that all again."

"I threw up?" The first words from Elliot sounded so raspy, you could grind rocks with them. Too weak to ask further, he just stared, lost in the space between them.

"Yeah, I squeezed pretty hard. The whole thing looked like a used grapefruit afterward, but I think I did a decent job fixing-"

Horrifyingly slow, Elliot seemed to remember what happened just before his involuntary nap, sluggishly raising his hand up.

Morris did do a decent job, the gauze was neatly wrapped around all fingers, leaving the thumb separate. A white mitten, it looked like. To support the lost curve that came naturally to the palm, he scrunched up a few paper towels to stuff them under the mauled flesh. 

Elliot didn't seem to feel a thing, marking the whole action as a success. The damage was clearly visible, yellow-red stains soaked through the cotton already, carrying the sickly sweet aroma of infection.

"Let me see, we need to change that soon," Morris spoke softly, approaching further. He wouldn't bet on it, but Elliot could do some damage, especially when frightened.

"Go away, don't touch me!" Elliot writhed on the soft terry cloth, unbound but still immobile with exhaustion, he shifted a few inches away to meet the back wall. Realization came over him in waves: "She didn't call, did she?"

"Let me help you." Nice and careful.

"I'll bite, I swear to god!" he sobbed, clearly not believe a single word himself. If that's all he has left, I really did a number on him.

"Ell, come on-"

"I mean it. Go away!"

Too tired to take a new fight, he gave in.

"We could watch the game, the Jays are playing tonight-"

Elliot didn't listen to a single word. Inspecting his thickly wrapped hand while cradling it in the other, he looked like the last breath had left him a long time ago.

"So much..." The horror in his faced settled down, tears now flowing freely down.

"Yeah, it had to be. She likes to overdo it, you know? But look, you're not a lefty, in a few months it will be back to normal. A screw here and there, you won't even notice the difference."

Compelled to continue, even through Elliot's found-again silence, he tried to explain the answer to his endless questioning:

"She never stopped talking about you. Stockbroker, crypto startups and so on." Morris gaze shifted through the window, now far away from guilt and ichor.

"You can laugh at me for that, no hard feelings. But I believed her."

Elliot had no intent to follow that invite, his face heavy with lead-like weight throughout the muscles; he had screamed himself numb.

"What do you want now?" he followed the quiet up with, ready to turn down any new game Morris had up his sleeve. He lost a long time ago.

"You need some energy back, so I brought you something."

Casually held in his grasp, he presented Elliot with a lukewarm can of Red Bull. Automatically, Elliot took it without asking further, holding it to his lips.

Morris averted his view from the misery below, acting disinterested as Elliot finally took a few sips of the sugary liquid. They stayed together, minutes passed till he was sure Elliot wouldn't struggle against his aid.

"I need to rest, and so do you."

Weakly shaking his head no, Elliot continued to sit still on the makeshift cod with the empty can in hand. A little extra in that, too.

He felt no joy in scaring him with violence, never had. A part of Morris despised him for being the old flame, the presentable version of what he so desperately tried to be. He would do everything for her, kill for her, but was not even worth a courtesy call, a fate Elliot had to share with him now.

One and the same, after all.

Not impressed by any of Elliot's threats, he let himself slide down onto the cod, keeping his hands by himself. He was a patient man, after all. Minutes ago, he had already seen the signs of sleep tugging at his frail body, senses slowly going south. He wanted so keep him sweet and distracted, a sudden outburst of panic would only worsen the situation, so he tried to keep the act up.

"You never told me what kind of band you got going."

Elliot pressed his left hand tightly against his stomach and as far away as humanly possible from the source of his injury.

"Orchestra, not band. A whole ensemble: choir, strings, winds. We rehearsed yesterday, for the Christmas Oratorio. Bach 'n all that, y'know."

"So you're a singer, huh?"

Slipping away again, so gentle this time, the drug guided him to let go of the tension in his muscles. Not even daring to notice, Elliot's head tipped to the side, safe and secure against Morris' shoulder. Only a slight shake of his head still held him in the exchange of amenities.

"P-pianist."

--------

He didn't think of Amber when unwrapping the old bandages, and neither as he took a good look at the dubious white spots that started to form in his absence. The bloodless tissue made the two last digits look almost ghostly. Quickly changing the gauze, he guided the limb back to the secure place on Elliot's chest, now rising and falling at a soothing pace. 

He tried to do it all tidy and cleanly, the swelling seemed to give the palm back some of its previous structure.

There was a slight twinge of, well, guilt. He had no reason to feel responsible for this, warning her thoroughly, so no harm was to be blamed on him. He tried his best.

Wet heat rose from the throbbing wound, still soaking through the material towards the outside, as if all of Elliot's warmth flowed out of it. It was visible by now how much damage he really endured; the stress made his eyes puffy and sore, the weak shiver still haunted his fingertips.

Morris wished he would have done it to anyone else, to anyone who was just half as bad at cards. Someone who he had imagined meeting in that apartment; a vain, insolent snob. He would never cross that person, it seemed, at least not in this house.

Morris thought of hearing him play just once. It had to be enchanting, surely.

The thick brown leather of his overcoat enclosed Elliot's body, now laying on his side, to keep any remaining warmth inside him. Not even daring to waste the time he had bought himself, Morris too sat down on the mattress, leaning against the bare walls. They would wake together, never alone, never abandoned.

As he let himself join in the emptiness that sleep granted them, he dreamed of melodies and matches, of the peaceful company he had thrown away so carelessly.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Febuwhump 2023 Masterlist]

@febuwhump

#whump #whumpblr #creative writing #whump community #whump drabble #febuwhump #febuwhump2023 #febuwhumpday23 #reluctant whumper #aftermath of torture #non-con drugging #toxic relationship #injury #emeto #gore #infection #carewhumper #lima syndrome #morris fucked up big times 😢no more crazy eights for you

[felicitythekittycat]

Things I have done wrong

Hi, I’m making a confession page. Within the past couple of years, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I need to fess up to them now before anything else.

I was abusive towards my ex girlfriend and I continued to treat her like the problem for years afterwards. I’d get angry at her, yell at her or act manipulative over certain things. If she were in danger, I’d make myself the center of attention or yell at her to stop. Even after she broke up with me, I continued to try to pester her or rebuild the relationship until I eventually let go. I continued to slander her name for years after this until we made up in 2020. Even though I’ve apologized and we have a semi-healthy friendship now, it does not excuse my past actions. Simon, I am truly sorry.

I’m an unloyal friend. Back in 2019, I slandered my ex-friend behind his back. I partook in a cruel prank making him think one of my other friends were dead, I shittalked him and talked about how “cringe” he was behind his back. I ultimately ostracized him from our friend group. In 2020, I tried to make things right but I immediately dropped it, I was too much of a coward to confront what I had done.

Also in 2019, I met another now ex-friend. Our friendship was riddled with communication issues and slander. I tried introducing her to a server, where the community there was hostile, and I was two-faced about the situation, reassuring her about the server while shittalking her behind her back. When she joined our roleplay server, I would once again, act like an attention whore and try to gain pity from people. Her character formed a relationship with mine. I was okay with it at the time, but later decided it was toxic and slandered the concept altogether. I slandered the creator of this character as well. There was another instance in which I was asked to stand up to some individuals harassing her, and I faked a conversation in order to get past it as fast as possible. This creator made her own AU, which I would make fun of behind her back. She wanted to stop associating with me and I disrespected her wish. It all came to its climax in March of 2020 where we ultimately agreed to part ways. I promised to reach out for help and she blocked me on Discord. I didn’t follow through with this promise, and then the pandemic hit.

Three months later, she tried to reach out to my friend’s server, wanting to rejoin. I had turned my friends against her and pushed her over the limit. I ultimately rejected the idea of her returning. During this time, I was still spreading slander about her, her creations and ideals. This didn’t stop until I was threatened with a defamation lawsuit. From there, all contact was ceased.

I am almost certain I’m missing a lot of information, this was all I could remember about the incident at the time.

As for what I’ve done since then?

In August of 2020, I started college. I reached out to a therapist on my campus with the intent to work past my own insecurities and selfish actions. I dropped therapy after a year because I felt like I was going in circles.

During the pandemic, up until August of 2021, I would roleplay with this group of people, all younger than me. This “roleplay” made all of us lose complete touch with reality. I would lash out and try to garner sympathy, same as before. I would push my own emotional issues onto people younger than me. I did once again push blame on someone else in the group, my friend Asriel. I should have taken more responsibility as the adult of the group.

In October of 2021, I joined an online roleplay community for the game Deltarune. I have made many mistakes in this. For a long time with my character, and even now, I have fallen back into the same self-pitying tropes that made Tier a bad character. In addition, despite my attempts to keep roleplay appropriate, I interacted with someone younger than me in a way that was ultimately fetishistic. I should have been the one to set the boundaries and say that what was happening was inappropriate, but I stayed silent. What’s worse is that I’m still in contact with this person

Edit for clarification: On my end, it was a fun SFW Deltarune twitter RP with a "hypnosis" trope that turned out to be a fetish for him. I feel really gross about it and as the adult I blame myself for not recognizing it sooner. I have also since cut contact with him!

I am not, however, in contact with an ex-friend within the community, who I had written a callout post about because he had created a nsfw account with the intention to interact with pedophiles.

As much as I wish I have changed in the last few years, I still continue to fall into bad habits. I am more willing to take responsibility for my actions, but these actions shouldn’t happen in the first place. If you have read this far, I am sorry. And anonymous, if you are reading this and believe I have left anything out, feel free to tell me. I am sorry, everyone.

As I said before, if I’m missing anything, please tell me

[izzyeffinhands]

🎲

28. A Kiss in Parting —- moving to become full thread.

War. It was all out war and blood now, something Ricky had started, that many others had tried and failed because the pirate heart was far too strong. All of their raids, all of the injuries, all of the deaths would not be for wrought and in vain. Life had become more fucking painful than it usually was thanks to this pompous rich fuck at the Brits. Enough was enough.

The final battleground? Nassau. It was strategically placed, a harbor the Brits had wanted for years, a pure pirate fucking Democracy. These streets all pirates knew. From the fort with its canons on the shore that kept the British at bay, to its little secret rum running passageways. Nassau was a pirate haven and if they wanted war? The final battle would be here. The line in the sand was crossed in blood and toil, and they had simply had enough.

It had taken some doing to unite other pirates and crews together because they were so vastly different and their loyalties were split but it had been done. For weeks Ricky had laid siege to the port, trying ti starve out its pirate rats, but pirates were too stubborn to just die. The main fort and it’s canons helped destroy and hold off the floatilla of vessels as long as she could. But with so much bombardment, even to the crucial fort the British didn’t want to destroy? They had no choice. Pirates were dead, the ships had come ashore. Their enemies were unleashed. This was it.

Izzy was frankly terrified for Stede. All of his training couldn’t possibly prepare him for *this*. The injured.. the ones who were low on rations and starving.. the brutality. There was only so much he could protect his husband from. Yes, husband. It hadn’t been the ideal wedding and they damn sure intended to do it right when this was over.. but neither man was just going to die in the sand without saying vows. And Ed.. fucking Ed. Ed had given him away. Even Ed had picked up a sword again to fight, abandoning his inn by the sea. He had been there, he had passed Izzy to Stede happily. Hell, they might not do their vows again.. but perhaps just festivities as now there was no time for that.

He could hear the gunshots and explosions. He could bear the screams. And he could see the frightened look in Stede’s eyes. Stede wasn’t a coward, but training.. the raids.. and this? They were all so very different. He even looked frozen in place like a statue, and that was when a soldier ran up from behind Stede with his sword for the kill. Unfortunately for him, even with a wooden leg Izzy was faster. He was on Stede in an instant, running the man through as his body fell lifeless to the ground. Already Izzy was smeared with blood, his hair wet from sweat. He snatched his shoulders.

“ Bonnet? —Honey, honey look at me. I want you to.. — “

He was cut off by a loud barrage of canon fire. Oh they were truly breaching the shore, more of the main infantry getting closer. Ed was shouting frantically to the man that in the past few weeks had become a leader on this island. Pirates knew Izzy. They knew Ed.. hell Stede had even gained infamy. But they listened to the likes of the duo of Blackbeard. Ed and Izzy.

Ed was now shouting at him. “ Iz!! Iz!! We need you toward the battlements, we’re dropping like files up here!! “

He nodded abs turned back to a seemingly still dazed husband, sheathing his cutlass and reaching up, holding his hands to cup his beautiful face. “ Now you listen to me, yeah? Don’t go trying to be brave and doing something stupid. Okay? Down. You keep your fucking head down. Remember the plan, right? If they cross by ‘Ol Market Way, have Wee John light the fuses. “ They’d blow them to hell, give the others a bit better chance to fall back and regroup.

Ed screamed again and Izzy turned, spitting and shouting back. “ JUST GO! “ He turned back to his dearest, his beloved. “ You stay with the boys, you don’t fight unless you have to. Try to stay with them, all right? I love you.. I love you so much.. “ His eyes were watering because this may be the very last time they speak again. He had to go, but he crushed his lips and body against his. One last kiss, he thought as tears rolled down his cheek. You’re dying for him. You’re dying for them, but you’re saving him.

#avastyetwats #a kiss to part ways #thought this could be the Ricky thread as you see I got jnspired #and bloody #i hope you like it

[bibliocratic]

the art of war - post S2. Jaskier/Yennefer/Geralt. -

War is coming to the Northern Kingdoms. Has come. Jaskier the bard, famed and renowned, buoyed with the fineries of fortune, a smile for every maiden and a song for every heartache, has nothing to offer in the Keep of the Wolves.

The Sandpiper on the other hand, has much work to do.

--

Jaskier loiters in wakefulness long after the others have capitulated to the demands of sleep. Submerged in dark waters of thought, he glances over at the sleeping from time to time, a snag of breathless air that makes his lungs hurt.

Yennefer, her fingers still caught in the weave of Ciri’s hair, a precise composition to her posture even in sleep. Ciri, her breathing taking on a whistle at the outbreath, her form having gained a second skin of elk fur that extends over her to cover Geralt’s knees like a lumpy shroud. Geralt, angled into Yennefer with the heavy grace of a fallen oak, his face held in a frown.

A tired monument of Jaskier’s dearests, held peaceful for a stolen snatch of time. There is space remaining, even now, for him to insert himself into the tableau. Wriggle and fuss and make a space for himself. Geralt might huff and Yennefer might tsk, both of them barely rousing, but he would need to be a fool to know he wouldn’t be permitted.

Not a fool. A coward, mayhaps, but alas not a fool.

Jaskier has stationed himself apart from the trio, slumped like a dropped coat into the armchair that brackets the dying fire. An ache scratches the pads of his fingers infrequently, the skin still lobstered. He would miss his lute more, if the urge to share song hadn’t dulled to near silence in recent weeks.

He’s had his mind made up for days, thought ossified into grim plan, but he torments himself by gnawing away at details, irritating the wound further.

The bottle in his hands, a fine vintage wasted on his thoughtless indulging, lightens over the hours. His teeth feel tacky with wine. He composes what he would say as he watches the logs reduce to cinders, florid words and declarations of intent, before he relegates the idea to foolishness.

The Princess of Cintra is in Kaer Morhen, Geralt’s surprise and charge and kin, rightful ruler of a slaughtered dynasty. Hemmed in by Witchers and witches. The Nilfgaard flag populates the banners where Cintra’s flag once waved, and their success has buffered their greed. War is coming to the Northern Kingdoms. Has come.

His fingers crinkle with scar tissue.

Jaskier the bard, famed and renowned, buoyed with the fineries of fortune, a smile for every maiden and a song for every heartache, has nothing to offer in the Keep of the Wolves. He knew that, yelping and cowed under a table while those with masteries so far beyond his ken wielded immensities of power. He slotted himself in best as able in the shellshocked aftermath, wiping tears and bestowing reassurances, bearing the snapping of the wounded as they limp and mourn. He scrubs the floor and hallways free from blood and dust until the lye from the soap makes his hands smart. And all the while he knows he cannot stay.

If he told Yennefer, she would call him a fool. Revive his failings as evidence, spitting them to his feet as apple seed, not because she wants to hurt him but because she wants him safe. Geralt would remind him of the growing treacheries along the path, that they are better in numbers, that his absence would be worrisome at best and dangerous at worst.

If they asked him to stay, he’d concede with selfish ease. Allow himself swayed by the currents of their opinion. And in these weeks he’s borrowed from inevitability, there is a tender understanding of their own shared affections, blossoming between three people learning that their stunted growths are capable of bearing something other than bitterness. Yennefer, who calls him husband, whose touches stray a fragment too long for innocence, too tentative for casual proposition. Geralt, who has attempted to apologise more than once, his sentences colt-limbed and tangled in the briars of his inadequacies, who foists bruise salves and extra helpings on him with a grunt and a terse comment that Jaskier knows enough to read as fussing. When Geralt speaks of the future, Jaskier’s place in it is assumed unquestioned.

It would be a matter of thoughtless ease, to stay here. Safe from war. Yennefer would make room in their bed for him, and Geralt would allow room in that sheltered heart of his, and he could take both offerings greedily.

What would his leaving accomplish? His thoughts have tended recriminatory, mocking, the more carelessly he imbibes. The world has never needed his sacrifices. They will not accrue value to his name or station. In the annals of history, his role is not required. And if he should die on the road, far from those he loves, under the name of Jaskier, or the Sandpiper or even the Viscount of Lettenhove, mourning will be candle-brief, and only his songs will survive him. Destiny has created no grand scheme for him, and he should be grateful for that.

“Fuck,”he murmurs heartfelt at the stuttering embers.

It’s you who’s done this, he wants to accuse Geralt. You and your stupid honour and ridiculous destiny. You and your confounded sense of right and wrong when that is never how the world has worked.

… sorry, he apologises in his head after another sip. Just a bit drunk. Bit sad. Bit lonely. Even though you’re all right here. Because I can always say everything but what needs to be said.

He places the bottle down. Yennefer sniffs and resettles at the clink of glass on stone. Jaskier rubs his arms and huffs because gods, he could lose his balls to this cold. Stands, retreats to the stone garret that he’s adopted as his quarters. Puts pen to parchment, sobering up in the chill.

Gone to be brilliant, he writes, inclined to flippancy as is habit. Stay safe. I love you all.

He signs with a J, and leaves with his pack before the urge to tear it up again wins. He leaves his songbook on his bedside table, an unspoken promise of return.

As he goes, he lets himself have a final wobble of cowardice, a self-indulgent final look over those he loves best. Then he skulks away from the Witcher’s keep before the snow can hem the pathway blocked.

-

He slips down through Kaedwen into Redania. It takes scant weeks for his lines of intelligence to be renewed or rerouted, and he submerges himself back into skittish habits, waking at the night chorus of creaking timbers and groaning stairwells.

He lays his head in barns and haylofts and inn cellars. Without his lute, and divesting his renown as a precaution, there’s little coin to be made as a green minstrel, so he applies himself with charm and eagerness to any trade that will take a wanderer as he works his way down the country. Despite his best efforts, some over-eager guards seeking to make some quick coin selling him to Nilfgaard recognize him on the Temerian border, and he starts a tavern brawl to provide the distraction he needs.

From there, it’s a three-day roundabout route until he reaches Kerack.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” is the first thing Ferrant snaps when Jaskier finagles his way to be granted an audience with the Royal Instigator.

“Cousin.” Jaskier dons his most obsequious smile, although it tugs on the jaundice-shaded bruise that runs a crescent under his left eye. “Verily, the years have been kind to you.”

“Don’t give me that shit. What do you want?”

Jaskier shifts on his feet, the soles beginning to thin from wear.

“I… hoped we’d be able to speak privately?” he proposes with a hopeful expression. “A personal matter, family business, you understand?”

Ferrant’s expression is momentarily mutinous before he gives a dismissive gesture.

“Go have a wash or something so you don’t smell like the arse-end of a dwarf. And I hope you’ve brought me some wine, I don’t have the time to be tidying up whatever mess you’ve fucked your way into this time.”

Jaskier has not, but doesn’t confess as such, and employs the next hour gratefully availing himself of the bathing facilities in the court. He truly is ripe, having spent two days sleeping in the cellar of a gristmill on a pile of unused flour sacks, and if Ferrant is in enough of a mood to turf him out immediately, Jaskier at least wants to be presentable while he does so. He manages to flirt his way into borrowing some clothes that aren’t encrusted with all manner of horrors from a serving maid, and joins Ferrant in his quarters, his hair damp and tousled and his newly buffed skin caked with the aroma of lavender salts.

“No wine then,” Ferrant grouses, having already started on a bottle by the looks of things. “Typical. And I see you stole my fucking clothes.”

“I thought only to save you from your own tragic sense of fashion.”

Ferrant trots out some creative curses. Pours him a glass of something potent as Jaskier avails himself of the most comfortable looking chair.   

“I thought you’d be strumming that accursed lute of yours,” he comments, glancing around as though it might manifest unexpectedly nearby.

“Alas, we parted ways rather violently.”

Jaskier takes a gulp, and regrets it with a wince. A firebrand on the way down, there’s an oaky flavour that remains on his tongue, and he senses it go right to his head with worrying speed. 

“How fares your father? Well, I trust?”

“Old and toothless and still a flaccid old cunt. Don’t flatter me with pretend interest. What’s this all about, Julian?”

“I was…” Jaskier puts on his most charming expression. “Well, it’s a delicate matter of sorts. I was rather hoping I’d be able to avail myself of some… financial support. I find myself rather down on coin these days, you know what the tides and tempests of fortune can be like, and there’s nought for it but to throw myself on the kindness and mercy of kin.”

Jaskier is practiced at playing the jester. An outfit that he has tailored well to his form, a gabbling fool, feckless heir to his whims and wants. He had imagined this conversation in great detail on the journey from Kaer Morhen.  Knows that Ferrant will assume a carelessness with money, poor investments, a child out of wedlock to support in some dingy port, a fine paid to an alderman for some public debauchery. He knows from experience that Ferrant will dress him down, get himself red and blustering as he delivers a well-worn lecture about responsibility, family tradition, honour and Jaskier’s lack of it, and all that noble bollocks. That Jaskier would be sent on his way, chastened, promising to change his ways, his pockets a few coins heavier. He has prepared to a host of potential responses to boost his yield in this regard.  

“What could you possibly need the coin for, Julian? Clothes and jewels? Mead? Whores?” Ferrant gives him a hard look, made harsher by his intense eyebrows. “Or could it perhaps be related to the fact that the Sandpiper has resurfaced. Looking to expand efforts in Kerack and Redania. Paying off the right people to look the other way probably costs a pretty penny, am I right?”

Jaskier senses his flesh pale. There’s one exit to this room, likely guarded, and his mind has abandoned any attempt at subterfuge. His silence is admission of guilt enough, and fuck, he’s not out of Kaer Morhen a month and he’s trussed up in trouble. He was such a fool to believe this would work, a stupid, stupid sing-songy twit…

“Relax, Julianuś.” Ferrant leans over, pours more of this revoltingly strong medovukha. Jaskier only retains the haziest childhood recollections of his uncle, Ferrant’s father, but his cousin is growing into that recalled likeness as he ages. A distinguished framing of a salt-and-pepper beard, a dour visage with a snaggletooth that breaks up his shark smile. “You’re amongst friends here. As far as all are concerned, I’m sheltering my irritant cousin from an irate Duke for spilling his seed where he shouldn’t have, and that’s the way it will stay.”

“How did you…?” Jaskier makes an encircling gesture with his hand to encompass everything. His heartbeat has started to retreat from his throat somewhat.

“I keep my ears open for talk of you. It’s been witcher this and witcher that for years. I must confess to surprise when the news on the grapevine begun to slide into smuggling instead.”

“Someone had to do something,” Jaskier mutters into his drink. The conversational turn has discomforted him, for all Ferrant’s reassurances. He senses a jitter start up in his leg and quells it out of habit.

“It didn’t need to be you though, did it.” The way Ferrant phrases it makes it clear it’s not a question that requires answering. His cousin leans back into the plush of his seat. “On the topic of coin. I can’t give you as much as I would like. Tensions with Nilfgaard mean rising grain prices, greater import taxes. It’s shaping to be a bad winter here, same as last, so resources are tight. Not to mention the King is getting married again, so the royal coffers are somewhat depleted. But I can give you enough to get things up and running. How long will you stay?”

“A few days,” Jaskier responds carefully, after another fortifying sip. “I’ve made arrangements to meet some associates in Oxenfurt and Novigrad.”

Ferrant hums, nods to himself.

“Rest then. You look shite. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Jaskier sleeps like the dead. His dreams murky. He stays two days, availing himself of good spirits, and Ferrant browbeats him into sending for a cobbler to deal with the abysmal state of his footwear. He is surprised by how much he enjoys Ferrant’s company. For all they chafed in boyhood, their humoural imbalances to sanguinity or phlegmatism causing disagreement and strife even with the distinction of years between them, age has tempered much of their youthful animosity.

The final night, having prepared for his departure early the next morning, Ferrant angles himself forward to study Jaskier. The severity of his brows does not quite belie the anxiety writ clear in his expression.

“I’ve got something to say, but it needs to stay between us. You understand?”

“My lips are sealed!” Jaskier responds, before correcting. “Well, not currently, but of course, hypothetically. Unless it’s murder, I might have to draw a line there. Although depends on the murdered party I suppose, I can think of more than a few people the world could certainly go without.”

“Gods, you don’t half spout bollocks,” Ferrant replies, burping a little at the bubbles in his drink.  “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll hold your secret to my breast and may I be struck down should I breathe a word!”

Seemingly placated, Ferrant declares “Enter!” in a clear voice. Into Ferrant’s quarters strides another man, clad in the armoured livery and colours of the Royal Instigator’s household. Tall, darker skinned, a neat beard trimmed close to his chin, his hair kept equally tight to his scalp in the fashion favoured by some holy men. Jaskier’s seen him around, figuring him attached to some branch of security at court.

“Julian,” Ferrant gestures to the newcomer. Jaskier notes with some frission of trepidation that the door has been locked behind him.  “This is Mirosław of Roggeven, Captain of the Guard. Captain, this is my paternal cousin, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Jaskier raises his half-empty glass, giving Ferrant a judging look for trotting out his full name, regardless of company.

“Viscount.” The captain’s voice is low and rumbling in his throat as he offers a clipped acknowledgement.

“Julian, please. Or better yet, Jaskier. Ferrant might refuse to use it, but you’re under no such limitations.”

Mirosław’s gaze darts to Ferrant, reading in his stony visage some signal. He pulls a chair over, separating it from its siblings at a nearby table, perching awkwardly with a soldier’s tension in his posture.

“Julian,” Ferrant begins. His eyes flick to Mirosław, his fists clenched in the fabric of his trousers. “Mirosław is a… he’s a dear companion of mine. We were betrothed, four summers past.”

Jaskier would need to be a great fool than he is not to recognize the stony tension that knots both their spines still. The pinning of both of their blank expressions, a braided confusion of defiance and fear.

“And yet you didn’t think to invite me to your handfasting,” Jaskier responds. Leaning into flippancy and flightiness in an attempt to loosen the air. “I am offended.” He gifts each of them a look in turn, deliberately open, a slow nod to Ferrant, a welcoming bow to Mirosław. “I shall cast my offense aside however. I have nothing but happiness for you both, and I wish you many more summers together.”

Mirosław, the little Jaskier knows of him, does not seem to be a man prone to emotive expression. He gives a low hum, a grateful dip of the head, and Jaskier is reminded of his own beloveds, their own emotions relayed in obfuscating code and infuriating inconstancy.

“There’s more,” Ferrant says.

“You’re not in the family way already, are you? Goodness Ferrant, such virility.”

There! Mirosław’s lip quirks in a smirk briefly, posture unwinding from its strained replication of a man condemned to the gibbet. He angles his body forward somewhat, bringing his hands up from the prim marshalled position they’ve taken on his knees, and pulls off a signet ring, a flat, dull thing of bronze that squats beneath bend of his smallest finger.

The effect is akin to washing one’s face free of the grime of the road, the sluicing of dust and dirt to reveal clean skin sunward again. Mirosław’s features sharpen, his ears adopting points at their peak, his bone structure altering incrementally, narrowing and lengthening to reveal a physiology unmistakably elven.

“You are either very brave or very foolish to be in such plain sight, kin-of-my-kin,” Jaskier says in Elder, after a pause.

“Perhaps both,” Mirosław responds.

“Yes, yes, your obscenely expensive education clearly paid off, well done” Ferrant interrupts. “The matter at hand?”

“You’re the Sandpiper,” Mirosław says, reverting to Common.

Jaskier nods, a little less caution in his bearing.

“’tis true, I’ve gone by that name.”

“I would ask a boon from you, if it is within your power.”

“Hush now, with all that formality. We are family now, I’ll brook no ceremony. What would you have of me, cousin?”

“My mother and sisters,” Mirosław responds after a considering beat. “They live in Roggeven, in the Elven quarter there. I wish them brought here. I know no harm will come to them within these walls, and sentiment towards our kind sours like it has in Oxenfurt.”

“…I can promise nothing,” Jaskier says quietly, affixing Mirosław with an understanding look. In his youth he might have boasted invincibility, the capacity to vanquish all, to conquer all barriers before him by force of will alone. Roggeven is not Oxenfurt, home-turf, where he could predict its fickle whims, knew whose pocket to fill and whose face to flatter. “But I promise to do all I can to see them safely over the borders.”

“That is all I ask.”

“Although…” Jaskier pauses, “I’d want something in return.”

Ferrant diverts into bluster immediately – “Pah! I’d have thought the coin and clothes and my fucking wine would have been satisfactory, you insufferable popinjay” – but Mirosław inclines his head without complaint.

“Name it.”

A sly grin graces Jaskier’s face.

“I want you to name your firstborn after me.”

Mirosław’s lips break in a smile, and Jaskier’s gifted a bark of a laugh, hard-earned and honest before Ferrant chucks a wedge of goat’s cheese at his head with a curse.

-

Jaskier has always known that there was more to the world than the walls he encountered young. The historic draperies and musty corners of his parent’s manor, the lineages and family lines he was expected to internalize. The chant and rote recall of temple learning, the nooks to secrete himself away from acolytes to indulge his own rapacious reading habits. The dust-infested tomes of scholars long consigned to corpse-ground whose ancient advice he was meant to prioritise in his studies.

“Oh, I know you’ll graduate,” Priscilla had laughed once. Jaskier had been sulking over undeservedly snippy comments from tutors, whinging into his wine glass. “You’re too stubborn to do otherwise. You’ll master all seven liberal arts just to prove those old fucks wrong.”

Whip-smart, quick-fire tongue that lashes before his brain can reign in, Jaskier has always been too restless for the cloisters of academia. And then there was the Path, that Geralt shared with him, ever new vistas, a panoply of revelations, all manner of beast and bane and brilliance.

Even so, outlawry is a stern teacher.

Jaskier lives a year nominally nocturnal. Senses prey-wary, skitter-sharp. There’s work to be done in Cintra, but his face and name are too known for complacency. A farmer shortens his hair with sheep shears and tuts at the impractical nature of his outerwear. Ferrant’s money helps keep him on the road and out of poverty. When he is on the move, his footfall traverses backroads and dust lanes come dusk, tripping through root-infested trails through the gnarl-knotted Erlenwald. His habit of language is ill-practiced, parsed to self-chatter, mumbling Geralt would be at home with. He pens no new songs. He’d considered himself a dab hand at herbology, not on the level of Shani of course, but not hopeless. His proficiency in fungi and berries and herbs is hard-tested, and he suffers through several sweating and shivering mistakes.

In that first year, Jaskier has a number of close-calls. Five months after descending from Kaer Morhen, a disgruntled sharecropper takes coin to divulge the hiding place of the Sandpiper. Scatter-shoed, darting panicked, Jaskier manages to give the cohort that was sent for him the slip amidst the choking undergrowth, all but one fleet-footed foot soldier. It descends into an ugly kick-scratch-snarl of a fight, rolling and rough-housing, undignified and messy. It ends with Jaskier panting, his fingers whitening the skin of the other man’s throat as he bucks and chokes, and in that awful void of sound afterwards, Jaskier bawls into his knees, something inside him breaking and irreplaceable.

Months roll into a year. His studies expand in complexity and breadth.

A rebel garrison at Hindmarsh hosts him for a month, and he acquires the vocabulary that’s begun to bloom out of Cintra and taking root in Temeria. A whistling, cheeping cant, fashioned to be indistinguishable from birdsong for the uninitiated –  lowing five-note calls, an outburst of cheeping, looping whistles, all which harbour their own translation. Danger, safe, run, hold, enemy, friend. A blacksmith’s daughter teaches him how to craft skeleton keys, a knack which delivers him from more than one cell. A deserter shares his sleeping roll for a week as Jaskier picks his way through Groundcherry Forest, evading a belligerent assassin and bearing a taut and angry wound to his thigh. The deserter shows him how to snap the necks of rabbits so their deaths don’t linger, how to read the passing of men rather than wildlife in the angles of broken ferns, and gifts him a kiss when they part ways. Jaskier leads a weary bastion of Cintran refugees around and out of fallen territory, and an old man with crumpled skin and a twitch in his hands gives him a leather water canteen. Jaskier breaks two dwarves out of custody, and in the time it takes the three of them to join a caravan heading north, he has been taught two drinking songs and a dirge, even though his pronunciation is apparently a lost cause.

The things he forgets are plentiful. The scent of old perfumes he formerly treasured, the taste of expensive grape luxuriating on his tongue. The habit of thoughtless chatter, easy camaraderie. He really fucking misses clothes designed to be lavish and eye-catching, colourful as a peacock, designed for showmanship over practicality.

He does not forget what he is striving to return to. Lilac and gooseberries, horse hide and leather. A smile rarely honest and a smile rarely given, both gifted to him.

-

Conflict alters geography. Anything south of the Yaruga river, which formerly bisected a unified Sodden, trailed unafflicted and billowing at the Cintran border, is Nilfgaard. Its Empire yawns grasping across the south, stomaching Cintra and Touissant to join its feast of vassal kingdoms.

The Red Port, with its ancient bridge crossing the girth of the Yaruga into Temerian territory, is the site of frequent skirmishes. Unofficially, Temeria is compromised, with Cidaris close on its heels, its safeholds uneasy, aflush with spies and scouting parties.

Factions coalesce, uncomfortably and shambolically, rarely delineated with simplicity. Both Ban Ard and Aretuza are cautiously aligned with the Northern cause, although many within the southerly courts have been swayed otherwise, no doubt at the word of Fringilla of Nilfgaard. The Temples across the Continent have been broadly silent on matters of politics, except for the Church of the Eternal Flame, which for all their many many faults are at least staunchly pro-Novigrad, so its zealous adherents use their pulpits to bolster anti-Nilfgaard propaganda. There’s talk that some jumped-up lordling tried to accost Geralt and his Child Surprise whilst under the protection of the Temple of Melitele, and that the head priestess didn’t leave enough of him to bury.

Bards and troubadours could barely be described as a faction at all, under the circumstances. Itinerant, their alignments individual, drawn by their own personal configurations of friendships and loyalty.

And yet.

-

“Barman!” A flamboyant cry startles Jaskier, his hand trailing to the dagger at his hip as he watches a familiar figure flounce through the doors. “You have been graced by the presence of one of the finest, if not, the finest, minstrels across all of the known Continent. Three ales and mayhaps I might find it in myself to wrangle the ever-feisty muses to perform for your delectation.”

Jaskier hopes, fruitlessly, that he won’t gain company. He is not so lucky.

The new arrival sights him with a roving glance, and his manner acquires a swagger as he travels over.

“Is there a seat going for the Continent’s most successful songster?”

“There would be, if I could see them.” Jaskier counters. “Alas, I only see a puffed-up prancer gifted only in mummery and jesting.”

A horse-chuff of a laugh.

“Still a cunt then. You mind?”

A pause, then Jaskier shakes his head, shuffles to make room. Valdo Marx sweeps his patterned cloak to one side to avoid sitting on it.

“Are you planning on giving over coin for these drinks,” Jaskier asks, “or am I going to be once again called on to give charity to the needy?”

Valdo gestures with his head, his coiffured curls giving a wobble, at the bar. A blond woman, dressed in a cornflower blue dress embroidered in angular patterns at its hem, has deliberately leant over, a finger making slow coils in her locks of hair. The barman’s cheeks have blossomed a struck red.

“Next round, you flirt with him,” Priscilla says as she sits down with her bounty of ale, slotting in where space remains.

It must have been years, surely, since he saw them. Before the war most certainly.  Jaskier feels light-headed, sickening grateful for such uncomplicated company, wraith-remnants of an easier time.

“What are you doing in this shithole?” Jaskier finds it in himself to ask after they’ve raised their glasses. He almost doesn’t. But people rarely approach Jaskier for songs and reminiscences these days, and he’s grown wary, the hand on his knee still cramped in a readying motion.

Pris wipes away the disappointing froth painting her upper lip to answer.

“Bringing a touch of class and song, as ever.”

Valdo must catch his expression.

“We’ve news from Oxenfurt, dear boy,” he murmurs in a tone aimed to reassure. “Can’t trust the roads much these days, not this close to the border, so we brought it in person.”

Jaskier sighs. Takes a long, sating gulp, knowing he’s going to need it.

“Go on then.”

“The Academy has declared neutrality,” Pris says. “Officially.”

“And unofficially?”

“Oxenfurt’s drawing plans in case of closure. Should the fighting worsen, there’ll be conscription to defend Redania’s borders. Amongst the Bard’s College, there’s a lot of folks chafing to aid in what ways they can. And the word is that you’ve become pretty good at pointing the right people in the right direction.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Jaskier retorts, deliberately airy, even while his gaze flints. Wonders if they sold him out. His friends, fickle and fairweather comrades. If there’s soldiers ready to drag him off in chains.

“Jask…” Valdo starts.

“How much did they pay you, viper?”

“Oh fuck off. You aren’t that special.” Valdo splays his hands on the table in front of him. “Hear us out? A minute of your no-doubt preciously rationed time. Acceptable?”

Jaskier gives a curt nod, and Valdo takes the opening.

 “I know how this looks. And I know we’ve never been firm friends. Mainly because you’re an arrogant, talentless hack who owes his success to composing unconvincing ballads for an audience who wouldn’t know music from farmyard braying. But this is…it’s more than just about your precious play at playing hero. If we don’t sing the right songs these days, Nilfgaard won’t hesitate to clap any troubadour in irons from here to Poviss.”

“And why should that be the concern of the Continent’s greatest songster?” Jaskier mocks.

Here, there’s a pause, before Valdo’s bluster wilts vulnerable. “Oh, pure selfishness on my part Julian, you know me.  Cidaris is on the defensive. My… my brother’s been conscripted, in case the borders are threatened. My mother refuses to move further north, take the family up to Kaedwen. Father wants me to return home, but… I can’t. Not when something can be done.”

“We’re heading to Brugge,” Pris interjects. “I’ve got some friends you might want to meet. We’ve been making headway already but the Sandpiper could only be an asset. ”

And that is how the first meeting of their flock is inaugurated. After more serious talk, their drinking grows muted, and yet the vacant night unspools old tales of debauchery and merriment. Jaskier’s recollection had mislaid the memory of Priscilla, whose arsenal of laughter veers from tinkling giggles to raucous howls. How Valdo’s spikes soften when he sings, the old injuries between them no longer smarting.

“Tell me,” Valdo speaks to the evening. They are sharing a room and a bed, a long-furrowed pattern dug out over countless evenings in their youth. Priscilla is snoring, her hair over her mouth, curled into Jaskier’s side. “Your White Wolf. Was he everything you sung of?”

“And more.”

“Did you ever tell him?”

Jaskier allows his silence to act as his confession.

The three of them set off to Brugge together.

--

The snowdrops fade back to a flourishing summer that grants a bountiful harvest. Valdo and Pris have scattered like dandelion seeds to combat threats in Redania.  Essi joins him for a few weeks but she doesn’t linger – she’s built up her own mechanisms of rebellion in Rivia under the name Starling; fair better than being named after some leggy little beach bird, don’t you think?

It becomes a dangerous time to be a music-maker.

But Jaskier the bard, although most have not connected him as the Sandpiper, still has power in his song. So when villages crop up like cairnstones along his route, he devolves from his outdoor nomadism. He washes in streams or the rivers that supply mills, dons the only armour he’s ever learned to wear, dredging it up from its squashed resting place at the bottom of his knapsack.

A fine (slightly elbow-worn) doublet, feathered (crooked) hat, well-kept shoes, a second-hand lute he bought with a sliver of Ferrant’s money. He’ll play requests and ingrained favourites, songs that have become integrated with pro-Northern sentiment, pocket some coin to keep him fed until the next town, the rest carefully stored for the next guard he’ll have to bribe to turn a blind eye. Once his set is finished, he sits in the corner to listen and gather. Sometimes his role is acknowledged for what it is by those in attendance, rather than his songs bespeaking a general disenchantment with authority: he collates messages to pass on to some holdout, gleans local dangers and hideouts. He promises fathers to ask of news of their sons, passes on the morsels of intel he has to mothers and daughters. His conversation is coded as his covert audience tells him of supply routes, towns aligned in sympathy or distrust, map points lost or regained.

Nilfgaard’s demanded infantry supplies from the blacksmith at Wulfrun, Sandpiper. The preacher says they’ll collect a week hence, but they’d need to pass through a choke-hold in the mountain pass. Let the fletcher in Landow know, and she’ll have the people to waylay them.

A skirmish outside Balladale. Enemy routed, a good one for a song, I reckon, my girl here saw it happen.

You passing through Heatlish? Can you give this to the baker’s wife? Tell her Katya died bravely, that she made her family proud.

The White Wolf and the Lioncub have been seen near Colkirk. Bodgan here’s managed to head Nilfgaard in the other direction, but they’re sure to ask at the next village to confirm, so you better tell Zorya so she can keep up the ruse.

Any victories for the cause he commits to memory to later twine into lyric, a rousing song or trembling ballad that will bolster their cause, mock the efforts of Nilfgaard.

He’ll twitter his notes to those who can read his tunes, and then he’s gone the next day.

-

Jaskier tracks a hint until it becomes a whisper until it evolves into rumour, then confirmed fact that one of the mages of Ban Ard betrayed Yennefer of Vengerburg to Nilfgaard. That it’s scant days until she’s turned over to Cahir and Fringilla.

Jaskier bribes and flatters to uncover the backway into the castle, a cramped tunnel part of an older design that the newer encroachments of battlements didn’t quite eradicate. He taints the mead of two watchmen with innocuous-seeming berries and does not need to tarry long before the poison takes swift and terrible effect. He lifts the key from their still-warm bodies.

The lock of the cell, deep in the bowels of the castle, turns with a rust-caked creak. The cell is narrow, unlit and without windows, and he regrets not grabbing a torch from one of the wall sconces.

Upon entry, two things happen: something rough and corded loops around his throat, and there is the furious clinking of chains as weight bowls him over to the ground.

“Fuck, Yen!” Jaskier wheezes, trying to scrabble at his throat, croaking with a wretched airless sound.

She stops trying to garotte him almost immediately.

“Jaskier?”

“You called, my lady?” His suaveness is off set by the grunting rasp of his voice.

“What are… what the hell are you doing here?”

“I can always come back later,” he retorts mutinously, but he’s already taking her hand to rock to standing. “I’m the cavalry. Just… stand there and look intimidating while I get these off you.”

She offers out her hands. The cell truly is pitch dark, but Jaskier goes for his skeleton keys, working through three attempts by touch alone before there is the give and click of the lock. Yennefer sighs as Jaskier uncuffs her manacles and lets them pool by their feet. He gives them a vengeful kick to scatter them further across the ground.

“You alright?” Jaskier asks. He wants – wants to reach out, tactile, a grounding union of skin to skin. But he does not know what damage has been done to her, does not want to take anything from her she doesn’t offer willingly. His hands flutter useless at his side.

“Just… give me a minute.”

Yennefer swallows a few nauseous breaths, inhaling through her nose. Then, a gesture with her liberated fingers, and a palmful of light like a trapped star tips from her palms to float unaided above her shoulder.

The cell is uglier illuminated. Little more than an alcove, hollowed and hewn imprecisely out of the surrounding rock, built more for holding than long-term occupancy. The cast-off metal cuffs betray the verdigris gleam of some dimeritium alloy. Yennefer’s hair has grown long, a long plait knocked messily. A truly impressive bruise ridges her right cheekbone, a purpling mass that narrows to yellow at its borders. A cut across her eyebrow has dribbled paltry signatures of violence onto her collar. She’s still grasping the filthy mud-draped girdle she tried to choke him with.

Her hug is unexpected. An intensity that he leans into, each of their bodies bolstering the other to gain a desperate equilibrium. Jaskier’s grip cinches around her waist, and they don’t have time for this, but he doesn’t withdraw, and for a long moment, neither does she, her muffled words lost in the fabric of his shoulder. Even when she moves back, they remain orbiting, connected at numerous points of contact.

“Not to be fussy, but I think we’ve overstayed our welcome in this charming establishment. Think you could manage to get us of here with your…?” Jaskier makes a gesture, spidering his fingers dramatically.

Yennefer nods. Makes a claw of her fingers scored with dust and mud, twists until a void ringed in purple flickers to life, expanding like an iris. They step through together.

A thatch-roofed cottage pieces into reality around them. She sways wind-knocked, and he babbles mindless platitudes, easy there, woah, let’s get you sat down huh, ushering her to the kitchen bench. There are faint smears of moonlight to see by, and a cursory search reveals the necessities. He lights candles with flint, structuring a slapdash pyramid of meagre logs that he curses and bullies into a fire. He prises the lid off the storage barrel he’s spotted in the corner to reveal a supply of standing water, boiling a cupful in the kettle over the fire before adding hyssop and nettle leaves to improve the taste.

Yennefer makes a face at it as she drinks.

“Never satisfied, are you?”

“Fuck off,” she mumbles, taking another sip.

“Where are we by the way? I don’t much fancy greeting the landlord in such a condition.”

“Safehouse. One of Triss’. We’ll be alright here.”

The smears of firelight that have begun to decorate the room alleviate Jaskier’s unbled nerves somewhat. He boils more of the standing water to fill the wooden tub he drags in front of the fire. It’s not enough for submersion, barely counting as a bath, but he isn’t confident enough of a nearby water source to feel comfortable tapping into their reserve too much. The hot water allows her to clean off the worst of the grime, revealing a motley collection of bruises but nothing that would require treatment, and he has found a jug to aid him in wetting her hair, carefully brushing out any knots. He starts humming as he does so, and for long while, that and the slosh of the water is the only sound that occupies the cottage.

“Thank you,” Yennefer says as he passes her a towel, exchanges her deplorable outerwear for items that don’t carry so much of the stench of a Nilfgaardian prison. “For coming to get me.”

“I was in the area.”

Her laugh is a last candle sputter.

“Is there… is there anything you need?”

“No,” she replies, before a carefully worded confession. “I’m tired. Sick of being upright.”

“Bed then, I think,” Jaskier responds softly, and she nods gratefully.

The bed is a coarse frame, likely hewn from local wood by an apprentice learning to ply their trade. The frame gives a grunt at the application of weight, rocks uneasily as though the pallets have not quite been uniformly measured. But the mattress itself is stuffed fat with feathers and down, overlaid with a woolen blanket, and Yennefer settles down upon it as though sinking.

“Stay?” she asks of him. So he does, toeing off shoes like shedding skin, trousers and leggings allowed to pool rumpled, leaving only his tunic.

He extinguishes the bedside candle, permitting him a flash of her expression before the dark of the late hour rushes in like a flood.

“Now, I know this presents a fabulous opportunity to appreciate my nubile form, but in your condition, I think it best you fight your understandable instincts and actually sleep in this bed, rather than anything more acrobatic.”

“You believe yourself so irresistible, bard?”

“I know myself irresistible.”

They lie side by side, inward facing. Their bodies connect at irregular points, his foot over her ankle, her hand on his thigh.

“I’m not sure about the beard,” she says. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“Urgh, I know. It’s a foul acquisition. Scratches something beastly, feels like my face is tormented by an onslaught of fleas. Helps with warmth though, so it’s a necessary evil.”

Silence sinks to mingle with the rock-bottom dark. For all exhaustion casts her motions sluggish, Yennefer assures herself of his presence idly: her fingertips follow the whorls of hair on his chest, make cartography of his hipbones and shoulder blades.

“I missed you.” Words spoken to the dark and close, warm air against his cheek. “You just… left.”

“I couldn’t stay.”

“Couldn’t say goodbye, either?”

“You had your hands full. Newly-minted motherhood and all that. Besides, I wasn’t much use to anyone sulking the winter in a Witcher keep.”

“You didn’t have to leave.”

“I did.”

She doesn’t correct him. Follows a crevice of scar, an ill-stitched and ill-healed memento of butchery that sits ugly over his stomach.

“Geralt was insufferable all that winter,” she responds finally.

“One of his frequent guises. You learn to bear it.”

“I doubt that. You don’t see him, the version of him when you aren’t around. Moping and lonesome and grunting. An absolute lost cause.”

“Have you… have you seen him recently?”

“A few months past. I’ve had my own affairs to concern with.”

“How mysteriously vague.”

“He asks after you. Often. It would grow quite the irritation if I didn’t echo the same to him.”

“Yennefer. My darling. Is this your way of confessing you care?”

“Don’t play obtuse, bard. It doesn’t suit you. You know we love you, you fickle, beastly creature.”

“… well, when you say it like that.”

“Come now. You must have known?”

“I’d… I’d hoped. I hadn’t exactly wanted to presume. Much was left unsaid at my parting.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“… I knew.” Jaskier unburdens himself with the weight of collapsing snowdrift. “I knew before I left. How the both of you felt. About each other. About… about me.” His voice splinters, creaks. “I knew and I left anyway. And I’ve missed you so. Like aching. I miss you and I miss him, and I want, gods, I want to come home. I want to wake up in your bed, or in your arms, or in your lap, wherever you’d have me, I’d accept… But I can’t be that selfish.”

“Rumours of your silver tongue weren’t unfounded. That was quite the pretty speech.” She presses a kiss, a seal of momentary pressure, to the hinge of his lips. “I would have you wherever I wanted you, bard. Wrapped in furs and confined to splay wanton across silks. A poor choice of timing then, to grow a sense of duty. But I understand. I don’t begrudge you. We all must make our way in this world and our paths cannot all be one.”

“And Geralt? He understands?”

“He has learned to grow a mature emotion or two over the years. Doesn’t mean he likes it, but yes. He understands.”

The scraping chitter of a flock of nightjars outside provides accompaniment to the silence for a while. Yennefer moulds her body against the line of his. She strokes the taut scar lines she finds. He knots and plays idly with her hair as he listens to the birdsong.

“I heard them. The songs you wrote about me. Hard not to, when they’re on the roster of tavern drinking songs from here to the Blue Mountains.”

“I can sense an opinion brewing. Ouch!” She’s jabbed him with a nail, before smoothing the skin with the pad of her finger in apology. “Go on then. Thoughts?”

“Overwrought. Indulgent. Entirely fabricated.”

“I like to think they have a poetic relationship with the truth.”

Yennefer smiles at that. He feels it form and linger in her tone.

“Oh, who passes hence, mother, who passes by?” Jaskier recalls, his lyrics scratchy with evening, murmured against the thicket of her undone hair. “Why, child, ‘tis the sorcessess who comes softly by. The vengeance of Vengerberg, her spells to apply, the scourge of the Black Ones, their plans cast awry, with a smirk ‘pon her face and a gleam in her eye, her beauty and guise doth her cunning belie.”

“I seem to remember another verse.” Yennefer dips into recollection before she brings forth the next lines. “Oh who passes hence, brother, who passes by? Why, child, ‘tis the sorceress who comes softly by, to vanish like smoke, off into the sky, to tell the White Wolf of what she did spy, and the Lioness bold, her head to hold high, for the reckonin’ of Cintra soon to be nigh.”

“A little flat there at the end. Stick to your witch work.”

She jabs him again.

“I should have added another verse about how much of a shrew you are.”

“Tisk tisk bard, you’ll give yourself more frown lines.” She stretches out, realigning herself against him. Questions go dry in his mouth. He doesn’t want to ask about the war. He’s sick of speaking of it.

They part the next day. She doesn’t tell him where she’s headed, and neither does he.

She kisses him again, once, twice, and loops her girdle around his waist. It’s more a belt, really, a corded plait of leather strips dyed black.

“I want that back,” she says. “The next time we meet. I shall be furious if you lose it, so I better see you in one piece.”

“You don’t have anything a little less… last season?” She gives him a look. “Of course, wife. I’ll see it returned to you personally.”

-

He collects names like seashells.

To the elves, he is Gobadán, Sandpiper, taedh, elf-friend, Wolf-kin. To Nilfgaard, a cornucopia of higher-class curses, sneak-thief, the Wolf’s rat, that little fucking shit.

To Yennefer and Geralt, he was only ever Jaskier. Will be again, he tells himself. When this is all over.

-

They string up the Magpie on a gibbet erected for the occasion in Vizima. A public song and dance of an event, an unsubtle lure for anyone prone to heroics. Afterwards, they leave him like a crossroads deterrent, rocked to a creaking lullaby by an unfeeling breeze.

Jaskier is too far away. Undercover in Redania, stealing secrets from soldiers and legates with a careful weave of flirtation and perfected sincerity, unfolding himself from their sweaty grip to pocket keys and missives and maps as he redresses and leaves.

Pris was there. She tells him how soldiers found her lodgings, how she avoided capture only because of the barmaid’s quick thinking, a woman who dragged her down to the cellar and hid her in an empty barrel of pickles, the stench of vinegar festering in her nose. How it had been too late for Valdo, already dragged bodily away in another room across town. Everything else glossed by hearsay. They tortured him senseless. Days between capture and execution. She doesn’t know if they got anything from him. Doesn’t know if someone sold them out. His neck snapped at the drop, and that was the only mercy shown him.

They broke his flute, Pris keeps repeating. The two of them getting an ugly kind of drunk, in competition with their grieving. They broke his fucking flute Jask, the bastards, those bastards, fuck, fuck, they fucking broke it. This whole fucking war, it’s shit, it’s shit, Jask.

Their sorrow is a nauseous, vicious thing, lining the bottom of their stomach.

They go underground. Pris pens a mourning ballad, and Jaskier hears The Magpie’s Lament in taverns from Novigard to Ard Carraigh.

-

“Any message for the White Wolf, Sandpiper?”

A green lass, headed in the direction of Makaham, a courier mission to relay details of supply routes and enemy fronts. Her tone is still patinaed with awe, at being a part of what she sees as a great liberation, a noble conquest between good and evil. It’s been a long time, since he believed that.

“Tell him to sleep, once in a while, if he wants to keep breathing.” Tell him I miss him, that he features in all of my night terrors, that I am hoarding the words I wish to tell him in the back of my throat. “Tell him I can’t sing his songs if he’s dead.”

“Anything else?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

-

On nights where he is scourged by chill, when his sleeping blankets pattern with frost and he frets that his limbs could blacken and erode, when winter could steal him kindly and easily in his sleep.

On nights outweighed by losses, his chest clogged with a dense foliage of grief, his hands calloused with blood and gagging on a terror for his life that he’s never been able to exorcise, the imprint of the people he’s ruined stamped behind his waking vision.

On nights where it has been miles since sighting friend, where his own songs for the birds and deer sound feeble and swallowed up by the tree line.

He allows himself to believe that he’ll be able to return home. That nothing will have changed. That his teasing and joking and lies and gentleness and brilliance will be unaltered by time or action, that he’ll be able to slip from the coat of Sandpiper finally to don the mantle of Jaskier again.

--

Sometimes living is harder than dying would be.

--

The years diminish him.

Temeria is rewon with losses, a distant heir of Foltest reinstalled. Nilfgaard is routed from Oxenfurt by its conscripts of academics turned soldiers. He is captured on the Aedirn border with Essi, and their escape costs them dearly; Essi loses an eye, and Jaskier never hears right in his left ear again. A scar ridges a mountain range from the top of his ribs, skirting his heart and stuttering to a halt over his hip.

Princess Cirilia brokers a truce with the elves of Brokilon to aid in forcing Nilfgaard out of Verden, on the defensive at the Yaruga. Nilfgaard responds by sacking Red Port and burning Rivia. Rumour has it Yennefer of Vengerberg routs their troops by turning the very tides against them.  The Sandpiper fills three ships worth of the frightened and fleeing in the hopes of them reaching safety in Poviss or Kovir. The last ship is waylaid by mercenaries hired by Nilfgaard, and the ship is ran asunder, its crew slaughtered, its cargo of refugees cast into the festering cold of the sea. Jaskier’s waterlogged corpse has life breathed back into it by a frantic family of elves who have dragged him onto a rocky promontory. For a week Jaskier is conscious only of a salt-water tang mossy on his tongue and splintered recollections: tune-fragments of his old songs, a low-held hum of agreement, the sensation of black hair twined around his fingers, white hair scratching against his neck. He sees Yennefer and Geralt and Ciri in the faces of his healers and sobs hysterically to be granted their forgiveness until the fever breaks.

There is ferocious battle at Upper Sodden. For months after, there are songs of the White Wolf and his valiant duel pitted against the Black Knight, the decisive moment where a wounded Geralt plunged his sword hard enough to break the Knight’s heart before depriving him of his head. Success breeds rebellion, an agitation of hope. Jaskier disrupts supply lines through thievery, extortion, a campaign of belligerent misinformation. He directs a cohort of Nilfgaardian reinforcements to a known Leshen grove by the careful forging of a false map, pickpockets orders and missives and writs, steals letters for blackmail and sabotages mills and foundries and smelters.

The Emperor of Nilfgaard is deposed. There is rumour of betrayals from his own guilds, or the vengeance of a slighted lieutenant, or even the gleefully pernicious talk that some slighted sorceress cursed him to shit himself to death. While peace talks are being tentatively proposed by the newest heir to a now-unwanted throne, Jaskier is averting plotting to install worse monsters, is carrying messages to ensure the talks are not disrupted.

And then.

And then it is over.

--

Jaskier attends Ciri’s coronation. Mingles in the mass of jubilant celebrants in an unfetching surcoat, a cheap glamour that casts him in liver spots and crow’s feet and a straggling bald patch that makes the rest of his grey hair a tonsure. He doesn’t listen to the speech which the rightful Queen of the restored Cintra gives her subjects. He instead weaves among the crowd as though seeking a better look at his monarch, listening as best as he’s able for marks of maliciousness or malcontent from the onlookers, any sympathy for Nilfgaard which might turn to violence.

Ciri has grown into her regality, adorned in simple finery as befits her station. She speaks strong and clear of the kingdom’s future, of the losses they will mourn and the triumphs they should celebrate. There will always be something of the wolf to her smile.

Yennefer is resplendent by her side. Her hair twisted in a complicated weave that has been precisely pinned in place, detailed with a streak of white hair that Jaskier does not recognize. 

Geralt is dressed in slightly showier armour than usual. His discomfort is unchanged and his hand does not leave the pommel of his steel sword.  

They looks happy.

When the coronation concludes, Jaskier leaves with the rest of the crowd.

For hours after, his mind warps in  cornered indecision. The war is over, it’s over and that’s what he prayed for, wept for, fought for. Yet he fears how the years have broken his form to fashion him anew, that he has been hewn from a stone too harsh for peacetime. He fears what Geralt or Yennefer see when they look at him. What he’s done in the name of Cintra. What he’s given to stay alive.

The war is over, so why is it so hard to go home.

The snagging fear is like stage fright, he tells himself sternly. You are a performer. Learn your lines and steps until they’re tongue-tripping,  but you need an audience at some point. So he submerges himself in his old fixes. In the safe house he has sequestered himself in, he washes perfunctorily but entirely, careful not to irritate his newest scars, daubs perfume to his wrists. In a looking glass, desilvered irregularly at its edges with ugly speckling, he chops and trims at his hair that’s grown unkempt like hanging moss into something presentable. After consideration, he shaves, dressing in an embroidered doublet and trouser. He straps his lute over his back, tucks a dagger into his waistband and above his ankle, and sets off to the castle.

He is, expectedly, stopped firmly at the gates. Affects a haughty irritation at the inconvenience, but he remembers how to play spoilt and brattish and is undeterred.

“Would you please,” he sighs, “tell the Queen that her old friend, the finest troubadour this Continent has seen, has come to grace her shining court with his songs.”

“Mate, you don’t know the Queen, leave off it.”

“The White Wolf is in the castle, is he not?” They nod with suspicion. “Then why don’t you inform him.”

“Know him as well, do you?”

“My dear, I know everyone of note. Now do be a good fellow and run along would you.”

A communication of raised eyebrows apparently ensures that Jaskier is permitted to stand freezing his cock off at the gate while someone goes to enquire if anyone can identify the irritant who is so brashly expecting entry.

Ten minutes later, Jaskier is feeling that his plan for a grand expressive entrance was self-indulgent and idiotic, when really bribery would have likely worked just as well, when the gate unfolds with a grating creak.

Geralt is there. He wears a new adornment of scarring at his temple, his hair tied back low at the base of his neck with a leather strip and, oh Geralt is there.

Jaskier had planned on bowing. Low and regal and over dramatic, choreographed in his mental rehearsals that helped him occupy sleepless hours. To deliver some cocky line, pithy and clever, laden with his old swagger with a smirk dancing on his lips. He’d wanted to stroll back into Geralt’s life as though the years had not divided them, as though the war had not sketched them anew.

His intentions scatter as fallen apples.

“Geralt,” he whispers, a crack in his throat like the sound of settling foundations, tears sprung to cast his vision wavering.

The Witcher marches forward. Grasps him with both arms, his expression a picture of ferocity, but when he drags them roughly into one space, a painful crumpled reunion, Jaskier’s fingers come round to clutch at his courtly attire claw-like.

“You fucking bastard,” Geralt snarls, breath hot against Jaskier’s ear. His fury damped by the way it shivers in his chest, a raw hurt coating his speech and enduring like a note struck from a tuning fork. “What time do you call this, Jask, fuck, I thought – ”

 The pads of his fingers are calloused where they cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier buries his head into Geralt’s shoulder and his breath shakes on the exhale.

“The coronation was hours ago,” Geralt continues. “Fuck, I thought – you were supposed to be here.”

“I was.” Jaskier feels the fabric under his eyes dampen, and he holds impossibly tighter. “Wouldn’t have missed it. She was marvelous, wonderful, you must be so proud of her. I was.”

“Don’t fucking do that to me.” Geralt hasn’t let go, and his growling words are muffled somewhat, spoken closer to Jaskier’ bad ear. “You were supposed to be there. You think I’d forget that you just fucking left us all, and now you come strolling back like it hasn’t been… like you didn’t…”

“I came home,” Jaskier replies wetly. “I came home, Geralt.”

Geralt crumples onto him then, enfolding them both. Jaskier forms their lodestone, grown strength to carry burdens far less cherished than this. Geralt’s breathing hitches infrequently. Jaskier hardly breathes at all.

When they walk through the castle gate, Geralt skirts him close as shadow and Jaskier cannot blame him.

He’s returned at a wind down hour. His reunions are all tearful, exhausted and drained, aged by time and trauma, too quiet for any sense of victory. The room is too full of ghosts for delight, their numbers too few for easy joy. Yennefer gets glassy-eyed when he hands her the girdle back. Ciri catches him in a fearsome bruising hold when he bows and calls her ‘your highness’.

After. The candles ran down to tallow stain. Fatigue gaining ground and insistence. The three of them gravitate, an unspooling orbit. Yennefer’s bed is huge but even then, when Jaskier gets inside the sumptuous slide of expensive silks, he is compelled to ground himself against her for fear of unmooring. Geralt a bulwark at his back. They are drained to the essentials of speech and sound, near-mute with fatigue for all that sleep evades them.

Yennefer’s caught a tremor in her hands, for all she attempts to compose her fingers to stillness. She channels the motion into sketching over the worst of Jaskier’s pains; a deep knick in the meat of his shoulder, poorly healed breaks that have aggravated his left middle and ring fingers for months. Her Chaos stutters out of her, and her fingers tremble and Jaskier clasps her hand against his chest and doesn’t have the words yet to ask.

Jaskier listens for dangers that don’t come. The line of his back taut and wary, reading the runes of their ruin in every step and squeak outside their door.

Jaskier does not need the paltry glance of moonlight outside to chart by touch the new marks on Geralt’s body. There are so many. There are so many, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge but let it fester in him.

It would be so easy. To push away from Geralt’s hold, overwarm and grasping. To make his excuses as he pulls away from the places he’s plastered against Yen.

I did such awful things, he wants to whisper, shout, rage. How can you still bestow such kindness when you don’t know what I did to survive? To save my own neck. It wasn’t noble or heroic. I lost myself for so long that I don’t know if I’ve brought myself back.

“You with us?” Yen asks. Jaskier opens his mouth but then closes it. The shake of his head is almost wild, as if he’s trying to knock something loose.

“I don’t know,” he croaks.

“Jaskier…”

“If you knew… if you knew what I did, the people I hurt…”

“I don’t care.” Yennefer’s interruption is toothed. Her unsteady hand against his cheek. “I don’t give a fuck about how you did it. You came back. My brave, brilliant bard, you found your way back to us. Don’t you dare feel guilty about that.”

“Fuck ‘em,” says Geralt, erudite as always.

Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobs. His nod erratic, unsettled. Yennefer envelopes the two of them entwined, her hair scratching his lips. 

“Tomorrow, bard” Geralt grumbles. “Whatever confessions you want to make. But fucking tomorrow. Now, rest.”  He presses his lips to the back of his neck, barely enough motion to count as a kiss, more of a nudge.

“Tomorrow,” Jaskier agrees tiredly with a murmur, and lets himself drift off amidst their hold.

#the witcher #jaskier/geralt/yennefer #cw implied violence #ask to tag #the sandpiper #fic

[boytickler35]

Ticklish Princes 4

 “So your people are entirely vegetarian? That explains Ariel’s aversion to meats!”

    “You sound surprised. The sea, and its denizens are my people, or does your kind eat one other?”

    Eric tried to quell his frustration. His father-in-law might have allowed Ariel to marry him for her happiness but this dinner made clear that Daddy Dearest still didn’t like his son-in-law. The entire meal had consisted of Eric trying to make conversation and King Triton not even trying to play nice.

    He’s in this mess because Ariel wanted to see the men she loves most get along and so arranged for her husband and father to share a private dinner. In theory Eric loved the plan; he wanted to get along with Triton if only for Ariel’s sake but the King seemed to have other ideas. Eric tried to engage him on topics of politics, that was a disaster, culture, which went worse and now dietary habits, two hours into this meal and it couldn’t end soon enough for Eric.

    He lapses back into the painful silence when Triton speaks, his first time initiating instead of responding, “I have one question for you Eric.”

    “What is it? I’ll try my best to answer it.” He hopes he doesn’t sound too eager, somehow he doesn’t think that will gain him any favor with Triton.

    “Why is it your people insist on covering up all the time? Do you all feel embarrassed to be seen a little exposed?”

    It takes Eric a minute to realize that Triton is talking about his clothes. He gets the feeling that no matter what he says or how he says it this won’t go well for him. Well, dinner has been a disaster from the beginning, might as well face it head on, then he can’t be accused of being a coward.

    “The world above the water is rough, wind, sun, rain, all of them can be dangerous in the right conditions. Our clothes aren’t much but at least it’s some protection.”

    The snort lets him know his assumption was correct. All well, better to try and fail than to never try at all.

    “I can’t believe my daughter married such a delicate man. Or maybe this sort of thinking is common to all the men up here.” The disdain in his voice is audible.

    Eric feels a flush creeping up his neck and his need to defend himself outweighs his common sense. “I am not *delicate* Ariel understands the need for clothes now that she’s living above the water.”

    Another snort. “I doubt that boy.”

    Something about being called boy gets under his skin more than it should and he’s about to reply when Triton beats him to the punch.

    “How about you prove to me you aren’t, unless you’re afraid to find out the truth.”

    “Alright old man what do you have in mind?”

    “Come over here and I’ll show you.”

    Eric comes where Triton beckoned him. In order for a human and merman to dine together there had to be a rather creative setting. In this case a platform floating near the beach carrying a table set with the food. Eric sat at one side, which was in water so shallow it barely comes past his knees. Triton, for his part is at the other side where the water was deep enough for him to remain submerged past his tail. He now motions for Eric to join him on his side of the table and Eric does so, determined to prove his wife’s father wrong on all his assumptions.

    Once he’s there though, Triton reveals his true plan and strips Eric’s shirt off with ease. The man blushes and growls angrily, “What are you doing?”

    “Just getting you ready to see how thin skinned you are.” The haughty tone only serves to make him angrier. “Keep those, what do you call them, pants, to protect your dignity, mermaids cover their tops so I won’t begrudge you covering your bottom, the other things can go though.” Eric realizes he means his boots and obliges, removing his socks after a rude prompting.

    Triton bids him to enter the water which Eric does. He’s a strong swimmer, when there isn’t a storm, and though he knows he can’t compete with a man who is half fish, he’s confident to tread water for a bit. “Well what now?” He asks impatiently and the smirk that appears on Triton’s face infuriates him.

    “Just a moment, I’ve never met someone so eager to learn their own weakness.”

    Eric is about to snap back when he feels something brush against his side. The sensation catches him off guard and he looks into the water to find it was a fish, one of many coming. They all take turns rubbing against him. His sides, belly, ribs and chest all receive the treatment and after the first few passes he bursts out laughing. He hates himself for it too, this must have been what Triton planned from the beginning and Eric feel for it hook, line and sinker.

    “HaHAHehAHEHaheHAHEhahAHE!”

    The sensation gets worse too, the more fish that rub against him the more ticklish he seems to become, it’s like they’re leaving slimy trails on him that make him more sensitive to the touch. Not only does that make it worse but several find their way to his armpits. These fish are different, once they get below his outstretched arms, they spread long, thin and delicate fins from their backs, which find their ways into his exposed hollows. The only benefit here is that these don’t seem to get worse but that’s a poor consolation since his armpits were terrible to begin with.

    One particularly cruel fish finds its way into his belly button. It’s tiny and frilly and those frills wreak havoc all over his sensitive skin. They almost feel like dozens of mini feathers and then the fish starts to turn in circles which means the frilly fins are spinning inside his poor belly button.

    He isn’t even surprised when his bare and thrashing feet come under attack. Tiny fish start to rub against them. Worse yet, they’re so small they fit easily between his toes...which they do.

    “I should have assumed by your need to keep them doubly wrapped that these strange appantages would be even worse than the rest of you.”

    Triton must be referring to wearing socks and boots but Eric isn’t really looking to pick apart the insults.

    Throughout all of this the only reason he isn’t in danger of drowning is because all his body’s natural struggling from the tickling makes up for the fact that he isn’t intentionally treading water. However it is much more exhausting and he doesn’t know he’s spent until he realizes the terrible tickling is over. Triton must have called off his fishy attackers while Eric wasn’t paying attention.

    Before he as time to appreciate not being tickled though, it starts up again. This time the water itself seems to be doing it. It’s as if it has a mind of its own, and worse still it acts like other hands. Excruciating is the word that comes to mind, as he feels finger like watery masses dance across his sides and belly, one dips into his belly button and wiggles around and other play in his armpits. Two also target his feet and get under and between his toes. In all he doesn’t remember a time he’s been tickled so badly!

     He hauls himself back on the raft and lays back panting. He expects to hear gloating from the Sea King. Instead he gets silence. Thinking he’s messed up so badly the merman won’t even speak to him he sits up and looks at the towering figure, who appears deep in thought.

    “I...expected you to give up. Immediately actually. You see Ariel mentioned your human notion of ‘tickling’ to me and that you in particular exhibit this strange sensitivity immensely. She also said that you couldn’t stand it so I thought I would use it against you. Except that you resisted it.”

    Triton pauses and continues to look at him deep in contemplation before finally admitting, “Perhaps I was wrong about you. There is strength in this oddity, at least strength in resisting it. Of you will accept my apology for my earlier crudeness I think I would very much like to start over.”

    Luckily even though his head is spinning from the shock, Eric manages some sort of dignified affirmation of this sentiment.

    He isn’t sure how but the rest of the meal, which isn’t much thankfully passes in a calmer silence and the King bids him goodnight only after exacting a promise to do this again. Eric agrees but hopes he means the dinner not the tickling. Still, if it makes the man happy that will make Ariel happy and in turn Eric happy, so he could put up with it again if he has to.

#sfw tickling community #ticklefic #ticklestory #ticklishboys #ticklishfeet #tickle content #tickle thoughts #malefeetstory #ticklecommunity #malefootstories #disneytickle #prince eric

[tower-of-erinyes]

The Ghost of Little Gracie || Drew || Trial 1-4 || ATTN: Everyone

Everything seemed to be shifting to Beni as they continued to spoke. It all was lining up, piece by piece, and they were about to nail him down. Drew felt it in his soul, Beni wasn’t going to be getting away with this. There’s no way he could.

Until he opened his mouth and just outright admitted what he did. “Wait… Wait, wait, wait…” That doesn’t make sense. Why would he? He can’t seriously be thinking that that is going to work out for him, right? “So you… You did stab her then. And yet… You think that saying that is a smart idea?”

Drew is just utterly baffled at what he just heard this sick freak say. “You go and craft an alibi by trying to get Kesley to punch you in the face, and you think that doesn’t immediately make you even more suspicious?” Drew is standing firm now, outright glaring at the punk.

“There is… So much wrong with what you just said. You clearly didn’t remember the rules correctly, because only you would have been able to win that money! I wouldn’t have gained anything by doing that!” This is probably the first time any of you had heard Drew raise his voice at all.

He just shook his head and took in a long, deep inhale. Breathe, Argall… Breathe. “…I’m sorry for the outburst there. I think… We can all agree being accused of murder and then knowing you’re going to die if you end up being the one with the plurality is… Incredibly stress inducing, especially on no sleep.” He then looks to Mae, his staunch supporter who seems to be shifting away from that by the second. “I’ve been open about that bedsheet being mine since the beginning of the investigation.”

The truth… They want the truth. They want to know everything, of course they would. “Okay… Then I can give you the truth. I admit, she was barely still alive when I found her.” He swallowed hard as his eyes go wide while he tries to recollect everything that happened. He tightened his fist for a moment, before letting go of the tension.

[TW: potential suicide implication]

“She told me what had happened… Told me about the note, going out there, and then getting surprise attacked by him.” He points his finger up at Beni to illustrate the point. “She laughed for a second, at how she gave him a right hook before he ran off like a coward…” Her words, but he agreed with the sentiment. “She told me she was dying anyways, she knew he got her in an artery. Too much blood was gone by that point. But she wanted to hurry up the process.”

Drew stopped for a moment, shivering at his podium.

“She told me to go get something to do it with. And… I came back with the dagger. She was laying in the floor by then.”

His eyes shake now.

“She… She begged me to. I told her I couldn’t.”

Tears are starting to well up in his eyes.

“It felt like a century. But just looking down at her, her telling me to just do it. I… Couldn’t do it.”

He tries raising his head, marred wet with tears.

“And then… I heard a voice. Not hers, not mine. A voice whispering in my ear.”

Do it. She’s suffering. She’s begging you. You wouldn’t deny her, would you?

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to, but…! But I tried stopping, but my body wouldn’t… I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

Drew’s stature quivers and shakes, until he toppled his head to the podium. He’s openly weeping now.

“I…! I did stab her…! But I didn’t kill her!”

He tries to force himself up to look at everyone again.

He couldn’t.

“The rules… The rules are whoever ultimately caused her death is punished…” He’s trying to squeeze this out between sobs. “I… May have… Listened… But… She was dying anyways… What Beni did… Would have killed her anyways…! It shouldn’t count as me!”

[tihgnari]

๑ [ 15 ] what a loser

word count: 1k / tw: toxic behavior

xiao blinks. once. twice.

he gulps, finding it oddly hard to swallow his saliva down his throat as his thumb shakily hovers over the option to change your contact name. his breath hitches in his throat. your sweet smile floods his thoughts. he can feel the phantom touch of your fingers dragging by his roots as he sleeps with his head on your lap.

and just like that, just like all the other attempts he's had in the past year of gathering the courage to change your cursed contact name — or if he's drunk, hovering over the 'delete contact' — much like a coward, he can never really do it.

he can't change your contact name, not when he knows how much you adore it when he calls you his princess.

"aw, come onnnn, xiao! please please pretty please? it's kinda plain just calling each other by our given names! why don't you like… i don't know, call me princess instead or dear or whatever?"

"what's wrong with yn? i think it's a really pretty name."

"and what if you meet someone with the same name as me?"

he rolls his eyes, grumbling. "then the name wouldn't be pretty anymore, idiot. it's only pretty because it's your name — ugh! stop! you're infecting me with your childishness! fine i'll call you princess, okay? are you happy now?"

the smile you flash is unlike any other.

"yes!"

xiao decided if it meant seeing that radiant smile directed at him, any cheesy ass endearment is worth it.

he hears izumi's voice calling his name, feeling her peak over his shoulders, he immediately turns his screen away and pockets his phone.

he loves izumi. he knows he does. or else he wouldn't feel as happy spending time with her, getting to know her, and creating all the lovely memories they've had in the past year. but he's stuck in a limbo, thoughts muddled and ever-changing and as much as it frustrates him, he can't do anything about it.

xiao's not sure whether he can ever love someone the same way he loved you.

but he knows he can't say these. not to you. never to you. because you deserve someone better, you've always had. you don't deserve a sore loser like him.

he never really did understand why he did the things he did to you these past few months. cursing you out… grabbing you by the collars… maybe it was a toxic trait inside of him that wanted your attention despite knowing how much you probably hated him — screw izumi, he knew he was only doing it for his personal gain because he's a selfish loser.

he knows he's vulnerable and he knows izumi can get a little whiney and manipulative but he hardly cares. this is the norm for him now. izumi's all he has left. this is what he gets.

"i love you, love!" izumi pecks his cheek as a goodbye. "remember there's an umbrella in your bag in case it rains and your car keys are in the inside pockets of your bag, not the outside. i'll see you later, okay?"

he can never love someone like he loved you, but he sure as hell can pretend.

"thanks, princess…"

calling another girl princess when it's your face that flashes before his eyes?

what a loser.

"…i love you, too."

###

the meeting was rather boring but nonetheless straightforward. ayaka sat you right next to thoma in case you were to slip out for a "bathroom break" and leave xiao, who's already looking half asleep, to fend for himself — you thank god he's finished grumbling and glaring at the starbucks coffee with the name 'kazuha' written on the side.

seriously, he's been acting so weird these days. maybe because izumi's been busy and hasn't been spending much time with him? there's definitely some underlying hostility there as he regards you and you truly do not know what you've done now to trigger this.

oh! you've heard from xiangling, who heard from a friend, that izumi's been gone because she's busy taking a few days off to spend time with a… twin? a brother? who recently visited town. well, maybe that certain relative didn't like xiao so much and now he's sulking about it.

you snort, finding the thought laughable.

thoma elbows you and you hiss underneath your breath. "ouch! i get it you stupid fixer-upper."

the rest of the evening progressed smoothly with ayaka girlbossing her way through most of the discussion and task designations per student organization.

as you and xiao were the guys from the film org, you guys were tasked to create a short tribute video for foundation day and you quickly jot down all of the key points needed to remember as ayaka babbled on with her measured, elegant voice.

at some point, your eyes met her older brother's, sitting across from you in the round table. ayato's notorious for capturing numerous hearts across teyvat university and you can perfectly see why.

especially when he shot that sly wink at you. thank god the lights were dimmed for the presentation flashed through the projector otherwise he would've seen your blushing face —

"fuck!" you hiss under your breath, head swiveling towards the young stoic male sitting next to you with a glare that can cut concrete.

you whisper, afraid ayaka will give you another one of her pointed looks.

"you stepped on my toe, dumbass!"

xiao rolls his eyes, pushing his hands deeper into his hoodie's pockets.

"oops."

###

the meeting ended nearly three hours after it had started and everyone bolted out of the room faster than ayaka could finish, "alright! meeting adjourned."

your phone was already beeping like crazy as you were texting both your group chat and kazuha. xingqiu was dead set on that movie marathon and was threatening everyone that if we say no, he'll kick them out of the chat. kazuha, on the other hand, was simply asking advice for low maintenance plants he can buy for his small corner in his dorm.

you giggle on a particular reply hu tao said as you clamber inside your car parked under the huge oak tree…

your skin prickles and something doesn't feel right. you put down the phone, it's screen suddenly appearing all too bright for such a shrouded place under the tree.

you wasted no time starting the car and speeding outside the parking lot. maybe you were paranoid. maybe it was your sixth sense.

but all you had in mind was you needed to get the hell out of there.

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a xiao! genshin impact social media au!

๑ summary — lesson learned! never challenge hu tao when you're drunk bc you'll just lose and now you have to post a thread of all your exes as songs from olivia rodrigo's hit debut album sour … or: "yn desperate much!" "yn still loves xiao? yikes! doesn't he already have someone new?" "stop ruining my relationship u bitch!"

#genshin imagines #xiao imagines #xiao smau #genshin smau #genshinimpact smau #xiao scenarios #genshin impact x you #genshin impact x y/n #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin x y/n #genshin x reader #xiao x y/n #xiao x you #xiao x reader

[tobi-momo]

A Misunderstanding

PAIRING: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

GENRE: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Reverse Comfort

WARNINGS: a lot of crying from both you and kuroo | cursing | mentions of sex | cheating (kind of? youll know when reading) | angst | mentions of drinking/being drunk | nothing is suggestive!! oh ya yall are married btw

WORD COUNT: 3k

A/N: ok ik this is long but this idea came from literally nowhere but i decided to write it thank you @combat-wombatus for helping me you helped put ideas in my brain<333 now i wasnt originally going for a happy ending but im really bad at angst so enjoy the shitty ending :)

“Please, Y/n, you know I didn't mean it,” he pleaded, his large hands desperately grabbing at your form while you push him away, your breaking sobs making his heart shatter. “Please, baby, don’t leave me,” he begs, falling on his knees in front of your trembling body, not being able to tear his eyes off of your heartbroken ones. He needed you to stay. He needed to show you that he isn’t that guy and that he would do anything for you. It was a one time thing. He wasn’t even sober. It wasn’t him. It was the alcohol. He wasn’t thinking straight. Please forgive him, please, please, please.

But you couldn’t. No matter how hard or how much you loved him and wanted to, the pain that ripped at your heart every time you looked at him was too much to bear. So you didn’t. You turn your blurry, glassy eyes away from him as he grabs your hand and forces it into his; your lips quivering and knees shaking. You couldn’t keep the betrayal and agony inside, whining and weeping at him, your knees giving out before your legs slam against the floor, your head near the carpet as you try and keep your affliction at bay.

“Y/n, please,” he whines, tears streaming down his pale cheeks; his admission of his unfaithfulness drained the color from his face. “Please forgive me, I need you, I love you so much.”

“W-” you sniffle, not knowing what to say. You knew you didn’t have to say anything at all, that you didn’t owe him any words, but you just...you just needed to know. “Why,” your voice quivered and cracked, your throat sore, “why did you,” you take a long breath, grabbing your chest to try and stop the heartache, the sudden cramp that formed where it used to be filled with warmth and love, “do this to me? With her?” You look up at him once with wide, searchful eyes as you ponder the reasons and look for the answers in his empty pupils.

“I wasn’t thinking straight, baby, I didn’t know what I was doing, please,” his voice stammers, trying to get you to understand that he really didn’t know what he was doing. “I would never do this to you, I-” “But you did.” Your tone is no longer sad and confused, but angry and fed up. His head backing up quickly, not expecting the response. “You made a promise, Tetsurou, remember?” You glare at him with menacing eyes as you hold up the very finger he kissed and placed the ring on on your wedding day. The beautiful diamond ring that had his initials carved in the interior and little gorgeous jewels that made the walls sparkle once hit with the hot sun was no more; the dark, gloomy piece of rock and metal meaning nothing but lies and mistrust.

“No, Y/n, please. Don’t do this to me,” he adjures guiltily.

“Don’t do this to you?” Your voice laced with deadly venom, standing and backing up, wiping your mouth with your hand in annoyance, placing it on your hip. “You did this to me! You did this to us! You went out! You got drunk! You fucked someone else! And not even a random girl! No! You just had to fuck your ex!” Your voice cracked again before you inhaled sharply and covered up your struggle.

“Y/n, I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“And that’s an excuse?? What, so now you can go fuck whoever you want and say ‘I didn’t know what I was doing!’” you mimic, “so you can get away with it every time?”

He didn’t answer. He looked at the ground, understanding exactly where you came from.

“Hm? Are you gonna answer me, or sit there like a coward?”

He could tell fully well you were just saying this because you were hurt. You didn’t mean any of it. You loved him. No matter what, you will always love him. Trusting him was out of the box for a while, maybe forever. But he can’t lose you. He knew you were soulmates- he knew you were made for each other. There was a reason you guys made it this far and only had big problems now. He needed to find that reason and use it for himself to win you back. He needed you back.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, your dramatic hand gestures coming to a halt at his words, your figure coming to a stand still as you wait for him to finish. “You don't deserve this. You don’t deserve me. Please know that it was a mistake and that I’ll never do it again ever, ever, ever,” he repeats, wanting it to sound as sincere as he means. “Just please give me a chance to make this up to you, please don’t leave me by myself without you,” he sobs out, putting his head in his hands.

You knew you shouldn’t feel bad for him. But god-fucking-dammit are you feeling bad for him. You knew you still loved him, you knew he still loved you- that much was obvious. You couldn’t see him for a while, no. Could you guys work it out? Maybe stitch the wound? Wait until the scar is barely visible anymore? Would that even work?

“Tetsurou,” a single, hot tear dripping down your face as you point to the ground. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you again.”

“I know, I know, just please give me a chance to help fix this!” He cries at your feet, his body bundled in a ball of self hatred and guilt. “I can do it, baby. I can help things go back to normal.”

“I don’t think they ever will be normal again.”

He whines, trying to negotiate with you as much as he can. “Let me fix us. Let me give you my everything again, let me show you that I’m all yours and no one else's, please,” he moans in anticipation for rejection, knowing the chances of you agreeing were next to zero.

The next few hours are silent. Him alone in the bedroom. Crouching on the floor as he ponders your possible answer. You work in the kitchen, making food to satisfy your appetite. He could hear your sniffles from the bedroom and picture you wiping your tears as you carry the pots on the stove. God, he was the biggest piece of shit ever known. What the fuck went through his mind when he was fucking his ex? He only remembers some of it, them waking up in bed together after, only wearing undergarments underneath the sheets and him holding her waist as if she were you. He thought they had ended on good terms, knowing that they were better as friends. He rushed out the door, not being able to stay in the same room without getting sick. He knew what he had to do.

He opens the door to the living room, a slight creak gaining your attention as you stir the sauce in the pan. Your eyes are puffy, your lip still trembling as you try to turn away from him. He only takes about two steps forward before he stops, trying to find the words he wants to say.

“Listen, I know you said you needed time, and I’m not rushing you at all whatsoever. I want to give you all the time in the world to think this over. If you need, I can go to Kou’s house and stay there for a while. He won’t mind. I just want to give you the space you deserve.”

You nod in response, your head still facing away before he whispers an “I love you” before he slips out of the apartment.

~.~.~.~

The next few days were tortue. Not being able to sleep in the same bed he would sleep in with you, not being able to watch the same tv shows, not being able to even be in his presence at least once a day like you used to melted a hole of despair inside you: eating away at your emptiness, taking away the numbness that you so desperately needed right now. The feeling came back- the one that you tried shutting out three hours ago. It crept up at you, flipping your stomach and weighing your lungs down to the floor, your throat sore and dry. Your eyes wet with a blurry wall as your tears build up once again, missing your cheeks as you crouch down looking at the floor, falling on the tile. The droplets containing your anguish splatter on the ground, your raggedy whimpers echoing throughout the vacant apartment, making it all the more obvious he wasn’t there.

Knock knock knock

Was that the door?

Your wide, unbelieving eyes turned to the wooden door frame; the knocks getting louder and faster. You quickly stand up and try to collect yourself, preparing to have a long talk with Tetsurou. You grab the handle, turning it- the door opening with a tiny creak.

Oh.

“Hi! Kuroo left his jacket at the party the other day, is he here?”

Oh, that bitch.

“No. He’s not.” You deadpan, not finding her cheery, happy expression amusing.

“Oh no! Uh, well, here, can you give this back to him for me?”

“Stop smiling at me like you aren’t part of the reason he’s gone.” You snark, glaring at her with sharp eyes as she backs up, confused.

“W-what?”

“You heard me. Don’t act fucking clueless.”

“Excuse me? Who are you to talk to m-”

“Oh, cut the shit,” you roll your eyes, “I know you slept with Tetsurou, you don’t need put on whatever the fuck this is,” you gesture at her.

“What the hell are you talking about? What are you, fucking crazy?” Your eyes narrow in confusion, your disgusted scowl lessening at her words.

“Right. You probably don’t remember because you were blacked out,” you add sarcastically. “He told me what you guys did. Now you know. So, I would love it if you would just leave.”

“What are you- Me and Kuroo didn’t do shit last night. I drank like two beers and was hanging out with another girl the entire time,” she explains, looking offended. Your face loosens into an expression she couldn’t read. “He blacked out early and passed out on the couch while I was busy talking with the other girl.”

“Huh?” You whisper, your disoriented thoughts not aligning to a proper conclusion.

“I didn’t go to bed until like,” she thought back, “I don’t know, three in the morning? There were people passed out on the floor so I decided to take the guest bedroom with her. I was still awake when Kuroo came into the room, I’m guessing because he thought it was yours, based off of how he kept mumbling your name and shit,” she exhales, “he grabbed onto me once he got in and just clung.” You glower at her, huffing. She sees this, sighing before continuing, “Calm down, remember nothing happened. Remember that girl? She ended falling off the bed because I was scooting away from his clingy ass.” You look at her blankly, trying to fit the pieces together. “She ended up leaving the party completely,” she mumbled in embarrassment before you speak up.

“Then why did he tell me you guys had sex?” You mutter quietly, although assuming she heard since her head backed up while she quickly scoffs.

“I swear to God, that man. Listen.” You look up into her eyes- her genuine eyes. “Me and Kuroo didn’t do a single thing. I didn’t do anything to him and he didn’t do anything to me. I’ll have a conversation with him later because he is an absolute dumbass,” she breathed.

What the fuck?? You were just supposed to believe her?

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Me and him ended a long time ago. I don’t like him like that and I haven’t for a while. And seeing he was bragging about you the entire time at the party, he’s over me, too. Besides, I’m not even into guys that much anymore anyways,” she grinned and winked at you. The shock and realization hit you like a truck. She wasn’t even- oh my God. She chuckled at your expression; you ran away from her to the counter to get your phone, quickly unlocking it and tapping on Tetsurou’s contact.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you mumble over and over. To tap the call button, listening to it ring as you bring your phone up to your ear, hearing him pick up the phone almost immediately after.

“Y/n? Are you okay?” He sounded worried. It’s only been about a week, he had hoped that you weren’t going to leave him.

“Get over here, right now, Tetsurou.” Your voice made it seem like it was urgent, so he quickly picked up his jacket from the couch, and you could hear the jingling of his keys as he grabbed them and opened the door, almost slamming it shut once he left.

~.~.~.~

“Y/n?” He asked at the open front door, wondering why it wasn’t closed. “Y/n, you have to be careful and close the door, we have them for a reason, you know,” he said as he walked in. Even after being at the line of a break-up, he still cares for your well-being. He didn’t even do anything wrong and he was still caring for you as a loved one should. He always did everything to make you feel comfortable and safe, so once he knew that he had slept with his ex he was completely devastated to his core. He didn’t want to do this to you, but you had the right to know.

“Tetsu.” You called. Already back to nicknames? This is good, right?

“Yes? Y/n?” He was scared, to say the least, feeling awkward and not knowing what to do. He walked scarcely towards your figure sitting on the couch, not caring to drop his keys and jacket on the counter. He had a feeling this might go wrong.

“We need to talk.” Shit. This is exactly what he didn’t want to hear. Hearing those words he couldn’t help but think that you were going to make him pack his stuff and go. “So, I talked with your ex.” You speak slowly, not wanting your words to come out wrong. You don’t want him to take any of this in a bad way at all. Yet his eyes widen drastically, his heartbeat racing and his nerves pricking him. “You are just one big dummy, aren’t you?”

What? What are you talking about?

“What?”

“You didn’t sleep with her. She told me everything that happened that night. She’s not even into guys anymore. Tetsu-”

This couldn’t be happening. Not only did he accuse himself of cheating, he accused himself of cheating with his ex, and that he cheated with his ex at a party, while you two are married. And then it turns out it wasn’t true? What the hell was wrong with him? He jeopardized your entire relationship because he was too drunk to know what was going on.

“Wait, what?” He yells, angrily sitting down on the couch, “so you’re telling me-” you nodded and hummed an ‘mhm’ in response. His hands find their way to his hair, pulling at the roots and scratching his scalp, his low grunts of pain and fury seeping out of his throat as he frustratingly comprehends what he just did.

You rush over to him, grabbing his wrists and pushing them down to his lap as fast as you can, making his eyes find their way to your blown out pupils. You can see the hot tears prickle down his cheek as he frowns at you, completely and utterly defeated.

“Tetsu, I don’t want you to hurt yourself, it’s okay,” you reassure, giving him a happy smile. He wanted to smile back, but he couldn’t control the broken sob that escaped him. “Hey, hey,” you try to grab his attention as he pulls his head down, crying. “It’s okay, baby, it’ll be okay.” You wrap your arms around his head, protecting him as you softly coo and ‘shh’ him quietly in his ear. ‘I’m sorry’ kept coming out of his mouth as he clinged to you, not being able to help his want to be closer to you. The realization that he just almost broke your heart completely and he had worried about divorce for this shit made him want to just rip his scalp out. He was so stupid. So, so so, stupid. “Tetsu, look at me, please. Look at me,” you whisper, bringing your hand to his chin, dragging it up so you could catch sight of his hazel irises. His eyes red and puffy, his cheeks wet and his eyes droopy, you couldn’t do anything but frown at the sight. He hated himself right now, not wanting to face the embarrassment and the humiliation of the situation.

“You don’t deserve me, I’m so sorry,” he whimpered in your arms, gripping them tighter and tighter for comfort- you knowing that he needed it right now. You had already pulled him into your chest, feeling his wet tears soak your shirt, your hands rubbing his back and your fingers gently grazing his throbbing scalp.

“It’s okay, I forgive you, Tetsu, you did the right thing by telling me you did it instead of hiding it from me, and then it turns out you didn’t do it at all.” Your cheeks start to feel hot, and you don’t even realize your sniffles until you could feel a dam break at your water line. You couldn’t stop them, the tears of relief. You didn’t want to stop them. You were glad that they were her, glad that they were for him, glad they were because you knew the truth, glad because you knew you two would be okay.

You looked back at your ring, watching it bloom like a flower in the spring, the meaning coming back to your marriage. It wasn’t just metal and rock anymore, it was a gorgeous promise.

“I love you, Tetsurou. Don’t forget that. You’re staying with me, alright?” you whisper into his hairline.

“Thank you,” he cries.

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[the-witches-you-couldnt-burn]

Like I did with you

So I’ve been procrastinating hard during my study break for my exams, but here have a song fic!

Ghost of you by 5SOS

Genius comments: The song tells the tale of a heartbroken lover who has lost his significant other – due to a breakup or even suicide/death – and is refusing to accept the fact that she is never coming back.

I didn’t feel like writing angst and whenever I hear this song I feel like ballroom dancing (and I have).

Also thank you to the lovely people on the Maribat discord server!

Ao3

The sequel ‘It started with a whisper’ is up!

————————

Gotham Academy implemented a new ‘Study Abroad’ program due to recent funding from a local humanitarian. This program gave the students of Gotham Academy a chance to study abroad in Europe and vice versa. Countries like Sweden, Greece, Germany, Ireland and more participated in the program; offering a multitude of high schools with many different courses.

And because of that very wealthy benefactor, his son got first pick on where he would like to study. This was 100% not a forced decision at all to subtly keep track of the happenings of Paris. With that the Ice Prince of Gotham took the City of Love by storm.

He had been at Collège Françoise Dupont for the past few months, and it’s been hell. The class he had been placed into was ripping apart at the seams. There were two students that the class gravitated towards; he observed some of the others meeting in secret, without the knowledge of their respective ‘leaders’.

The first student that held the majority of the class’ focus was Lila Rossi. She was a black hole with beady green eyes, who dragged who ever was in her reach to an agonising fate. Damian saw through her deceptions and rejected her flirtations. The students that followed her, ate up whatever lie she spat out. Rossi soon learned that lies about the Wayne family and Gotham wouldn’t fly with him.

“Really? You worked with Monsieur Wayne?” The pink clad girl, Rose, squeaked.

Damian had just walked into class on his second day at the hell hole and already regretted it. He shot a glare towards the large group, “Who ever told you that is severely misinformed. My father has never worked with a minor from Europe, due to potential rumours and allegations it could cause. It is not a threat but a promise if a lie of similar caliber is spread there will be a lawsuit.” And with that he walked towards his seat in the back, the Ice Prince had cast his decree, the class’ atmosphere had frozen over.

The second student was Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Those that surrounded her were Alix Kubdel, Chloé Bourgeois, Max Kanté, Lê Chiến Kim and the occasional secret appearance from Juleka Couffaine. They didn’t view Dupain-Cheng through rose coloured lenses, they were always grounded and opinions were respected. Damian, who was a loner without Jon at his side, was satisfied by himself; Marinette respected that and didn’t force him to socialise like Lila tried to.

So that leads us to this. He stood against a sidewall of the giant banquet hall, staring out at the crowd before him. Jon was walking to wards him with a can of sprite in hand. Jon had moved to Paris with him but had been placed into a different class. The boy who was the epitome of sunshine stuck around the Ice Prince, their friendship is an enigma to the Françoise Dupont students.

Jon’s face was flushed. He had just gotten a drink after dancing for the past hour. Tonight was the night of the Collège’s formal dance for their graduating class. Skirts of all colours and fabrics swirled, as their partners (majority of whom had matching suits) twirled them to the music.

Jon, gesturing to the crowd, asked him whether he was going to stand there all night or dance. Taking a sip of his drink a smirk appears on his face, “unless the great Damian Wayne is to much of a coward to dance.”

Here I am waking up

Still can't sleep on your side

Damian’s head snapped towards the taller boy, “Are you seriously using my ego to get me to dance?”

Jon raising an eyebrow, “Well?”

If I can dream long enough

The temperamental teen stormed off, grumbling about “Jon being as bad as Todd”. Scanning the room he search for a suitable partner, there was no way he would embarrass himself by dancing alone.

You'd tell me I'd be just fine

I'll be just fine

He spotted Dupain-Cheng stood off to the side, alone. She was draped in a layered white dress with black hemming. As he neared, he realised that the asymmetrical skirt was actually a light blush with her signature apple blossom flowers embroidered. She looked up at him and he straightened his stance, slowing his pace. Her sapphire eyes locked on to his, her bangs curled off to the side along with the rest of her hair in beach waves.

So I drown it out like I always do

She gifted him a small smile, a usual occurrence within her interactions with him. He offered his left hand, bowing his head slightly. “Dupain-Che—“ he cleared his throat, “Marinette. Would you do me the honour of joining me in this dance?”

Dancing through our house

With the ghost of you

Her eyes widened, not expecting the Arabian God of a teen before her to ask her such a question. She saw his temper during class during his spats with Lila and how he kept to himself without the presence of Jon. But here he was in a fitted Armani suit that made his green eyes glow, and hair messily slicked to the side. Marinette looked at his hand, glad that her makeup mostly hid her blush.

And I chase it down

“I am...” She paused to find the right word, “I am a bad dancer. It is better for everyone that I don’t participate.”

“I can think of nothing less appealing than an evening of watching other people dance.” A small gasp escaped from her mouth before she could stop it. She watched as his mouth twitch’s downwards before his facade returned with full strength. “If you do not wish, to I won’t force you. But if you’ll allow me I’ll guide you through the dance to make sure it isn’t an utter disaster.”

With a shot of truth

Marinette’s lips quirked, giggling as she took his hand, “Your funeral Damian.”

What had he gotten himself into?

The two entered the dance floor, taking up the dance support hold. Their dance had the basic steps of the waltz, with a promenade and many spins; some as a couple and some were just Mari. Damian soon found he enjoy watching the sparkles in her dress light up as she spun. It became even more enjoyable when he discovered that the dress was her own creation.

Dancing through our house

The two made quiet conversations during their dance. Damian pulled her closer by the waist as they repeated the basic steps, their bodies perfectly in tune with each other. “You are a fine dancer despite your protests”

With the ghost of you

Marinette tilted her head up at him, blinding him with a dazzling smile. Damian’s heart fluttered, the two always had a mutual respect but it seems to have grown into a fond appreciation.

From the tables scattered around the dance floor there was a blond, with his fist clenched. Lila had dragged him off of the floor as soon as Damian and Marinette made their debuts; together. The brunette was now off angrily gossiping to Alya and any other who’d listen. It was a hot topic between Lila and Alya that Marinette loved him, although now, as he watched her dance with Damian, he was unsure as to whether that was ever true. He sat there, glued to his seat, watching the spectacle before him.

Cleaning up today

Found that old Zepplin shirt

The two dancers didn’t notice that everyone had cleared off the floor to watch them. They danced in sync, no movement was made without the other following it. Adrien had realised awhile ago that even though he didn’t have romantic feelings for Marinette, he cherished her friendship. That relationship was now tarnished due to the path he took when he first revealed his knowledge of the deceptions. His father had forced him to keep Lila happy, even if it made him miserable.

You wore when you ran away

And no one could feel your hurt

He had lost her, and he was unsure as to whether he could gain any semblance of their relationship back.

We're too young, too dumb

To know things like love

Damian lifted his partner’s right hand and twirled her three times, they both were content within their own world. The two swayed before turning together and walking around the now open space.

But I know better now (Better now)

Marinette flushed as she realised what was happening around her, leaning towards her partner she whispered, “I think we’ve become an impromptu entertainment.”

Too young, too dumb

To know things like love

Too young, too dumb

Damian subtly gazed behind her seeing their peers in a circle surrounding them. He was on the inside looking out, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He whispered reassurances in her ear, he wished to finish the song before he released her from his embrace. The two drowned out their audience, focusing on each other and the beat of the song.

So I drown it out like I always do

Dancing through our house

With the ghost of you

And I chase it down

With a shot of truth

That my feet don't dance

Like they did with you

The melody slowly faded off as the last lines were sung. The two finished on a basic waltz step before swaying in each other’s arms. The music ends and there is silence, blood rushed to their ears and their breaths mingled.

The two stayed in the other’s embrace, face-to-face, staring. They broke out of their trance by clapping. Looking around Marinette saw many of her peers and most of the supervising teachers applauding their performance.

Their friends broke through the crowd, Jon patted Damian’s shoulder (retracting before he got bit) while Chloe and Alix pulled Marinette back to their table to discuss what Disney magic had befallen the couple. The bluenette glanced back at her partner, mouthing a silent goodbye.

The crowd dispersed but were still buzzing from their display. Marinette was bombarded with questions, not only from her friends, but from other students about her dancing with the demon. Her stuttered replies did little to quench the crowd’s thirst. Her face must be comparable to that of a tomato.

Damian, having noticed the building crowd and Marinette’s uncomfortable stance, broke away from Jon. The crowd parted like the red sea, unwilling to be the one to anger the Ice Prince.

He offered her his arm (to which she took) and escorted her out to the patio outside. She stayed entwined with him, as she looked out at the stray Parisian night; leaning her head onto his should. Here the two could breathe. Here the two of them could be their present selves, no ghostly facades needed. It seems they could drown out anything in the presence of each other.

Unbeknownst to them, Jon had recorded their dance, along with their previous and present interactions of that night. He thought for a second to use it as blackmail material but decided to just send it off anyways. Oh the chaos it caused.

#maribat #marinette x damian #mlb x dc #daminette #adrien salt #Jon Kent has blackmail #ghost of you by 5sos #song fic #good! Chloé Bourgeois #slight Lila salt