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asweetprologue · 3 years

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me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

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They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story!

tags: @whereismymonsterlover

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher #big bang #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #me lamh #geraskierbigbang #multichapter

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bonjour-rainycity · 3 years

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Double Heart | Chapter Twenty-One ~ Cosima

|previous part|

Pairing: Haldir x OFC

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 4032

Warnings: None

A/n Hello! Sorry I’ve been absent! Life got a little crazy with family visiting and school starting again, but I’m happy to be back! I’ll see you again Wednesday with the regularly-scheduled update :)

I wake with my face buried in the crook of someone’s neck. Pushing against the solid mattress, I raise myself up and try to remember where I am. But the solidness beneath me isn’t the mattress at all. It’s Haldir’s chest. I sit up straighter, realizing that, in the night, I’d pulled myself almost completely on top of him.

He moves as he chuckles, bringing a hand up to tuck my surely wild hair behind my ear. I look down to find him smiling up at me, looking much more awake than I feel. “Good morning.”

I purse my lips, trying not to show how much I enjoy the sight of him in my bed, the feeling of waking up with him. I lower myself back down, settling against his side. His arm wraps around me automatically, securing me in place.

“Good morning,” I reply, tucking my chin against his sternum. “How did you sleep?”

He chuckles, lazily running his fingers up and down my arm. “Better than you can imagine. Though I did have an elbow digging into my stomach, there were, amazingly, no snores. And your bed is so much more comfortable than mine.”

I grin, twisting so I can better see his face. “Well, if you can suffer through being stabbed in the stomach all night, you are welcome to share my comfy bed any time you like.” I furrow my eyebrows, considering. “For the next two nights, I guess. After that, you’re welcome to share the grass beside my bedroll.”

He throws his head back in laughter, the sight so beautiful that my own giggles dies as I take the time to stare at him. How can he be so carefree and joyful when he knows his death is only a few decades ahead of him?

Our conversations last night pretty much disintegrated my resolve to end things with him, not that I had much resolve from the moment we actually allowed ourselves to be together. So weak, I chide myself. But, as Haldir has reminded me time and time again, he is an adult and can make his own choices. I have to respect that, just as he has respected that for me on numerous occasions.

But part of me worries I’m just using that as an excuse to justify my selfishness.

Because no matter how well I love him, how much joy I bring him, how happy I make his life, I will always be the one causing his death. He’s not doing the same for me. I’m the one who will kill him.

Haldir moves his fingers from my arm to my hair, tangling his fingers in the waves. I love it when he does that.

He smiles at me, distracting me from my gloomy thoughts. “I am excited for you to see Lothlórien. What do you have left to do before we leave?”

I sigh, shrugging and leaning against him. “Not much. I’ve got to tell Alex about us, hopefully he’ll take it well, but you know how he can be. I imagine Lavandil already knows, but I would still like to talk with her. After that, just packing, but I can probably put that off until tomorrow night. Packing will be easy — oh, that reminds me — do you have an extra bag I could use? That’s actually what I went up to your room to get the other night, but you confessed your love for me which was really inconvenient, because I never did get that bag.”

He laughs again, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Please accept my most sincere apologies. Before any future proclamations of love, I shall ask if there is something you need to cross off your to-do list, first.”

“Thank you,” I huff, feigning relief. “That’s all I ask.” Once our laughter dies down, I turn the question back to him. “What about you?”

I feel him shift under me as he stretches to look toward the curtains pulled over the window s, likely trying to gauge the time by the rays of sun peeking through. “I have a few meetings lined up, as well as continued training with the guard. They’re in quite good shape, but you can never be too prepared. And, as much as I hate to say it, I must get up.” He rolls so I am under him and places a sweet kiss to my forehead. “I have stayed in bed far too long.”

I grin up at him, catching his lips in a proper kiss before following him from the warmth of the blankets. “If you must.” I eye my closed door, now fully aware that we are well into the morning hours. I cross my arms, shifting my weight between my feet. “People will see you leaving my room.”

He looks up at me, back leaned against the wall as he pulls on his boots and laces them up. “Yes?”

I shrug, taking a few steps closer to him. “Well, they’ll talk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk playing on the edges of his lips. “Would you like me to exit via window?”

I laugh and shake my head. “No.”

“Then let them talk.” He places his foot on the ground and meets me in the center of the room. “I’ve no intention of hiding you.”

I grin broadly, surprised by how much that sentence pleases me, and pull him down for a final kiss. “See you after dinner for training?”

“Yes,” he nods, letting his hand trail over my waves as he backs towards the door. “Your armor should be done by then. I’ll bring it with me.”

“I’m not wearing it,” I shout through the open door as he passes through.

“Yes, you are,” he calls back in a confident, almost lilting voice.

I grumble.

“Ah, good morning Ríneth.”

I freeze. Guess the cat’s out of the bag.

“G-good morning, Marchwarden,” comes the stunned response. As the attendant passes my open door, she sneaks a look, her eyes widening when she sees me standing in the center of the room. I raise a hand and wave.

She scurries off.

Stifling a chuckle, I close the door and head to the bathroom to get ready for one of my last days in Imladris.

{***}

I decide to tell Alex first. Between him, Lavandil, and Baranor, Alex is the most likely to have a sour reaction, so I’d prefer to just get that over with.

He welcomes me in after one knock and I try to contain my surprise, immediately noticing the explosion of books, scrolls, and papers scattered across his room.

I step over a large pile of volumes to make it through the entryway. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” He grins sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Elrond said I could take some books with me, but they’re too bulky to travel with, so I’m trying to copy down as much as I can before we go.”

I nod, trying to find an area clear of stuff large enough for me to place my feet. “I bet Lothlórien has a good library.”

“I hope,” he agrees, bending to move some books so I have space. “But what’s up?”

“Um,” I press my lips together, suddenly feeling very, very nervous. My hands twist themselves in and out of each other as I look for anything to distract myself from the way my heart races. “I wanted to tell you…” Just get it over with. “Haldir and I are — together.” I wince. That doesn’t even begin to encompass how I feel about him, but how the heck do I describe our relationship?

Alex raises an eyebrow, setting the books in his hands down on the chest of drawers. “Yeah, for a while, right?”

I blink. Of all the reactions, I hadn’t expected that. “What?”

He tilts his head. “Wait, this happened recently?”

“Uh, yeah,” I huff, a little put out that he’s been thinking I’ve been secretly with Haldir and just hadn’t said anything about it. “What made you think it happened earlier?”

Alex shrugs, throwing his hands in his pockets. “Well, I don’t know, it was just kinda obvious something was there. I assumed the two of you acted on it around the time we got to Imladris and have just been trying to keep it a secret or something.”

“Wha—um,” I sputter, completely floored. “We’ve been avoiding each other for three months,” I defend, suddenly self-conscious of my apparently obvious feelings.

“Yeah,” Alex shrugs again, hauling a bag filled with books onto his bed. “I thought that was part of it — pretend to avoid each other to quiet the rumors, but then meet up when no one was paying attention.”

“Rumors,” I squeak, not liking the sound of that.

“Well, I didn’t hear any,” he corrects, noticing my panic. “I just, you know — the two of you seemed to click. I figured other people noticed it, too.”

He’s not wrong about that, I think, remembering Lavandil’s excitement and, before he changed his mind due to my mortality, Rumil’s.

Alex speaks again, the slightest shift in his tone. “I also figured that, well, your attachment to him is what was making you want to stay here and not work so hard to get home. Because, honestly Cosima, I can’t wrap my head around any other reason that would be strong enough to keep you away from your own world.”

“Oh. Right.” I look down at my hands, guilt buzzing in my stomach.

“But now that it’s official, I’m guessing you’ve decided?” Alex comes to stand in front of me, arms crossed in front of his chest. He doesn’t look angry, like I thought he would, just resigned.

I sigh, hating the disappointment I know I’m causing him. “Yes. I will help you figure out how to get home if you still want that, but I—I’m staying here.”

He nods, his jaw tightening. “And when I get home, what should I tell your family?”

I suck in a sharp breath. Ouch. I drop my hands to my sides, pleading with him. “Can we just—not? Please? I don’t remember them, Alex, I don’t even know if they exist, aside from nonna, who passed away five years ago. And here…well…” I sigh, mind drifting to Haldir and Lavandil and Rumil and Orophin and Baranor, and even Glorfindel. “My family—the family I chose—they’re all in Arda.”

Alex nods slowly, regarding me thoughtfully. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

I try to ease the hurt. I don’t want him to be sad. “But I’ll keep helping you, I promise. If there’s a way home, we’ll find it.”

He sighs and then smiles, though it looks tired. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right. Thanks, Cosi.” He steps forward and pulls me into a hug, the action surprising me. Blinking against the shock, I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him tight. “I suck at showing it, but I am happy for you, you know,” he whispers, squeezing my shoulders.

He releases me then, and I smile up at him. “Thank you.”

{***}

After my unexpected conversation with Alex, it’s time to find Lavandil.

It’s not difficult.

Her high-pitched giggle catches me on the way to lunch, her hands whirling me around into a wall of curls. She surprises me by grabbing me in the briefest of hugs, then pulls away, gripping me tightly by the shoulders.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Orophin told me last night — he’s upset of course, but he does acknowledge that he’s never seen Haldir as happy as he is when he’s with you! And I honestly think Orophin just needs time. Bottom line, he wants Haldir to be happy and loved, and you’re doing just that. But okay, now that that’s out of the way, you must tell me everything.”

I laugh, trying to catch up with her enthusiasm and rapid-fire words. I pull her to the side of the hallway, closer to the stone wall. People are, of course, bound to find out as the week goes on, but I’d rather not shout the details of what I consider to be my most cherished moment. In a hushed voice, I recount the night Haldir and I decided to go for it, Lavandil squealing and grinning through the whole thing.

“That is so sweet,” she gushes, eyes bright. “Who knew Haldir had such a way with words!”

“I know, right,” I agree, pleased to finally be able to talk about this with one of my best friends. “And kissing him?” I place a hand over my heart in a mock swoon, earning me a delighted laugh. “I could do that forever.” But then I bite my lip, not sure how she’ll react to what I’m going to tell her next. “He uh—spent the night last night.”

Lavandil’s eyes blow wide. “Did you—”

“No.” I hurry to clear that up. “But, I mean…it’s difficult not to want to…” I sigh, feeling much better upon seeing her understanding nod. She gets it. “How do you and Orophin manage? For eight years?”

She grins somewhat bashfully. “Well, it does help that we don’t see each other very often. And a lot of times, we have to stop ourself before we end up getting married without a second thought. But it all just comes down to us acknowledging the reality of our situation — we don’t want to get married and live apart, but neither of us was ready to give up our homes, families, or careers, not until recently, so we had to wait to take that step. It was a decision we were both okay with for a while. But now…” She shrugs, her smile softens and a faraway look enters her eye. “That time is over. He’s staying here with me, and it’s the best feeling in the world.”

I smile at her, happy for my friend. “Do you…” I tread carefully, not sure how much more I can ask without intruding, “think you’ll get married then?”

“Oh, for sure,” she grins, crossing her arms over her chest. “And soon. All our reasons not to have conveniently been taken care of.”

I take her hand in mine and give it a quick squeeze. “I’m happy for you.”

“I’m happy for me, too, she jokes, winking cheekily. We laugh, and then she dissolves back into her interrogation of me. Dutifully, I answer each and every one.

{***}

When it’s dark outside, Haldir knocks on my door. In his hand, he carries a dark brown bag that makes a suspicious clanging sound with every step he takes. I eye it warily. He smiles, bringing the palm of my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “I’m sorry it’s so late. The drills ran long.”

I shrug, pulling him farther into my room and shutting the door behind him. “Don’t worry about it. I was with Lavandil until about an hour ago, anyway.”

He looks at me, a note of hesitation in his eyes. “And how did that go?”

“Better than expected,” I laugh in relief. “She’s very happy for us and says Orophin shows signs of feeling better. I talked to Alex too — can you believe it, he thought we’ve been together for months!”

At this, Haldir raises his eyebrows, shaking his head. “What would give him that impression? We avoided each other for almost the entire time we’ve been in Imladris.”

“That’s what I said!” I hold up a hand to stop him. “But I’m actually not going to talk to you any more until you open that bag. I need to decide if I’m going to be mad at you or not.”

He grins broadly, setting the bag gently on the ground. “I don’t know why you would be mad when all I’ve done is bring you a present.” Haldir reaches inside and draws out silver chainmail.

“Well, take it back,” I grumble, having correctly guessed the contents of the bag. I cross my arms over my chest.

“See?” Haldir smiles, straightening with the chainmail in hand. “It’s not as bad as you thought. It can even be worn under your clothes if you like.”

I grimace, taking a step forward and running a hand over the cool metal. Experimentally, I gather the bottom of the piece and hold it in both of my hands. It’s heavy. I look up at Haldir, unimpressed. “There’s no way this is comfortable.”

He shrugs. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, I’d rather have you uncomfortable and alive than comfortable and dead.” He steps forward, presses a kiss to my temple, then walks past me to lay the chainmail over my table.

I sigh. He’s just trying to keep me safe. “Alright, fine,” I acquiesce, following him further into my room. I step in front of him, trying to will my annoyance away. “Thank you for doing that.”

He smiles softly, though there’s a hint of humor in his eyes as he knows the effort I’m putting into making my tone polite. “You are very welcome. Now — go stand in the center of the room. I want to go over a few more techniques before we pause training to travel. And tomorrow, we’ll practice with the chainmail.”

I groan.

{***}

Haldir stays with me for the remaining two nights in Imladris. It’s very convenient — not only do I love having him with me, but it gives him and Rumil some much-needed space.

Over the course of our remaining days, we only had a few things on our to-do list: Inform Baranor of the development in our relationship — he didn’t seem surprised, just like he was making a very conscious effort to appear happy for us—prepare the horses, and pack our belongings and adequate provisions for the journey. On the morning of our departure, we’re set to meet at the bridge that marks the entrance to the city. Haldir leaves me while it’s still dark, kissing me while I’m half asleep and telling me goodbye. He went to ensure the horses were ready and ‘tie up a couple of loose ends,’ as he put it.

Despite the desire to sleep in, I rise with the sun, knowing we don’t have long before we leave. When I spot the chainmail laid over my table, I begrudgingly pull it on under my clothes, knowing Haldir will just send me back to get it if I don’t. It’s heavier than I want it to be, but he’s right — if we were attacked, it would provide an additional measure of protection. I don’t have to tell him that, though. Once I’m dressed, all that’s left to do is say my goodbyes and get on the horse.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

Lavandil meets me at my door. Wordlessly, she shoulders one of my bags and walks with me to the front of the estate. We step onto the lush grass, which still glints with the morning dew. Soon, autumn will creep in and the green of Imladris will turn into brilliant reds, golds, and oranges—or so my friends tell me. I hope that I will get to see it one day.

At the start of the bridge waits the rest of my company. I notice Haldir off to the side with both Orophin and Rumil. Unlike his brothers, Rumil doesn’t look up or wish us good morning. That stings—bad—but at least he’s talking to his brothers.

I search for Alex and, with a note of surprise, find him behind the horses, speaking with Elrond. I raise an eyebrow, but don’t investigate. If Alex wants to tell me about their conversation, he can.

Lavandil and I approach Faervel, who whinnies in recognition. Since Orophin is staying in Imladris, his horse is as well. Horses are apparently quite fond of their owners, so we agreed not to hurt any of them by pulling them away from their home and taking them back to Lothlórien. That means Alex still rides with Baranor and I will ride with Haldir — for now. Maybe if Rumil ends up forgiving me, I can ride Roch at some point.

I loop my bag into the straps on the edge of the saddle, securing it in place. Lavandil does the same with my other bag, tying it on Faervel’s back.

Someone behind me clears their throat, and both Lavandil and I turn around.

Elrond smiles in greeting, inclining his head. “Lavandil, would you mind if I had a moment alone with Cosima?”

“Of course,” she smiles, waving at me as she hurries off to join Orophin. This isn’t goodbye, I remind myself. I’ll catch her again before I leave.

Elrond pats Faervel on the head. “Cosima, I wish you safe travels.”

“Thank you,” I reply.

“Promise me,” he continues, voice turning serious, “that when you arrive in Lothlórien, you will speak to Lady Galadriel without delay. I believe she can help you and Alexander.”

I agree readily. Elrond has been so kind and helpful, of course I’ll do as he asks.

“Good.” He nods. “And, well…” he sighs, sadness entering his ageless eyes. “I pray to the Valar that you will have a happy, fulfilling life.”

Despite the well-wish, grief collects in his features and I suck in a breath, remembering exactly who his daughter is and who she loves.

I open my mouth to say — what? That I’m sorry? That I wish it were someone else? What can I say to an ellon whose daughter will die for the same reason Haldir will?

I close my mouth.

Because no, there is nothing to say.

Elrond inclines his head in understanding and steps back, bidding a final farewell to us all before returning to his estate.

Rumil, Baranor, and Alex mount their horses.

It seems there is no more time to waste. Lavandil comes to stand in front of me, sniffling. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Tears enter my own eyes and I bite my lip, desperately not wanting them to escape and betray how sad I feel.

“The shop won’t be the same without you,” she whispers. Then, in a movement so fast I barely register the change, she flings her arms around my shoulders, drawing me in for a brief, tight hug. “Be happy.”

I pull back, smiling despite my sadness. “You too. Write to me?”

“Of course.” She gives me a watery laugh and tosses her curls over her shoulder. “Who else can we complain about them to?” She jerks a thumb in the direction of Haldir and Orophin, who put on identical expressions of affronted disbelief, and I break into actual laughter.

But when our laughter fades, Lavandil falls back, stepping out of the way of the horses and into Orophin’s outstretched arms.

Haldir walks up next to me. He crouches, ready to help me on the horse and, before I can look at the sadness on Lavandil’s face and burst into tears of my own, I put my boot in his hand, allowing myself to swing onto Faervel’s back. In the next moment, Haldir lands in front of me, taking the reins in his hands.

“Now what are all these tears about?”

I jump, startled by the loud, unexpected voice.

None other than Glorfindel, followed by four armored members of Imaldris’s guard, gallop down the path.

My golden friend sidles his horse next to Faervel, winking at me. “Good news, my dear lady, we shall not be parted so soon! Your commander—or should I say lover, now—” both Haldir and I make a face at the term, “asked for an escort through the mountain pass. My troops and I are happy to oblige.”

Haldir nods to him, serious despite Glorfindel’s exuberance. “Thank you for coming.”

Glorfindel smiles, returning Haldir’s nod. “Of course, mellon nîn.” He calls out a command and our company, much larger now, moves forward. I allow myself one final wave to Orophin and Lavandil, as well as a last glance at this shining city that had just begun to feel like home.

Before I know it, we have crossed the terrifying bridge and left the safety of Imladris behind.

A/n Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs make my day <3 And to everyone who responded to the last chapter: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH, THANK YOU!!!!!

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#haldir #haldir x ofc #haldir x oc #haldir fanfic #haldir fanfiction #double heart

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janekfan · 4 years

Note

I'm a little hesitant about this prompt, because it might need a longer story to fill it, but based on reading your fics it may be to your taste for h/c? I've seen a few Geraskier stories where Geralt is cursed to lose his sight and hearing, but I'd be interested to read one where it's Jaskier who's cursed instead. You seem to like exploring growth in stories, and I could see Geralt having to step outside his comfort zone, learning to help and support Jask while they try to break the curse.

I was inspired by this prompt because in my youth, when families go to water parks and things, my mother insisted on holding my glasses so I wouldn't lose them, not realizing I cannot see hardly ANYTHING without them, just colors. She left me like half a dozen times in a throng of people and it was scary. And even though I kept telling her I couldn't SEE HER, she wouldn't listen. I felt scared and stupid because I couldn't keep track of my family.

So I hope you enjoy :D

Thank you for the prompt! @obscurebookwyrm

Sankofa

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965268/chapters/63119659

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“I. What do you want me to say?” Jaskier’s grip on his lute tightened and he had to forcibly relax himself so as not to snap it in twain. “That you should have gotten hit with it instead? That you should be the one waiting for the effects of a curse to take hold so that I? The mighty bard can be the one to protect us both?”

“Hm.”

“Need I remind you that had you not pissed her off, we wouldn’t even be here?”

“Hm.”

“Fine. Leave me at the next village and I’ll just succumb to whatever this ends up being while you continue witchering or whatever.”

“Hm.” Roach picked up her pace and he could hear Jaskier curse Geralt’s stubbornness as he loped after them.

Geralt was angry. Angrier than usual with the musician and definitely not impressed with his self sacrifice because now, if anything, he would be an even bigger liability. It was bad enough he fumbled along behind him, constantly jabbering, writing the most ridiculous songs. But now, Geralt had to wait and see what would become of him now that he’d been hit with some unnamed affliction. Geralt refused to admit that Jaskier was right. That it was better that the stronger of them was curse free and able to continue on unimpaired.

But he was now an even larger inconvenience and Geralt hadn’t thought that was possible.

And yet.

As brave a face as he was putting on, he could smell the sour scent of anxiousness as Jaskier filled up the silence with more talk about inane things, stray lyrics, random observations, all because he was nervous.

Nothing happened yet. Maybe nothing would happen at all.

“Geralt.” Even and steady, Jaskier’s voice hovered somewhere to the left of him. There was something strange about the quality of it and it immediately set Geralt on edge.

“What?” He couldn’t help the exasperation, it had been a long few days, and he felt Jaskier tense beside him on his bed roll.

“There.” He paused and Geralt knew if he turned to look at him he’d be worrying his lip between his teeth.

“What?” They were late as it is, the sun three fingers above the horizon already.

“There are no stars.” His whispering was shaky and trembling. Fear. It was flooding Geralt’s sensitive nose. What was this lunatic on about? Of course there weren’t any stars.

“It’s late morning. Of course there aren’t.” He rolled his eyes and began packing up camp. They’d eat on the move to make up for lost time. He nudged Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Get up. You’re wasting daylight.”

“Daylight.” His hand was hovering over his face and he kicked him a little harder.

“Yes. Daylight. Move or stay here, but I’m leaving.” Instead of following his directions, Jaskier swallowed a few times, blinking hard and staring at his palm in between. “Jaskier.” Growling, grabbing the collar of his chemise and slinging him to his feet himself, confused when his arms shot out for balance and he nearly fell. “What are you--are you drunk?” No. He’d smell it. But it was all becoming a little too clear and Geralt didn’t want to be the one to say it aloud.

“No.” A weak exhale, a disbelieving laugh. “I’m. I’m blind.”

Blind.

The curse.

“Are you sure?” Geralt was a hair's breadth away from his face, examining his eyes, blank and vacant and staring off into the distance despite their proximity. There was nothing wrong that he could tell. Still the same cornflower blue he was so familiar with.

“I think I’d know.” He scoffed.

“Then we’d better get moving.” Geralt couldn’t help it, the thread of anger twisting around his words just happened. All Jaskier seemed to do was slow him down and get in the way. “Find a way to break this thing.” It took the bard three times longer to pack his belongings and Geralt became more impatient every time he dropped something or stubbed his toe or lost his balance. He knew it wasn’t fair. But this was all the bard’s fault in the first place and he’d have to deal with the consequences.

Jaskier played his lute even more and was even slower, not yet sure on his feet without the advantage of sight. Geralt saw that he kept his ear canted towards Roach’s hooves crunching on the stones, using her as a guide and he wondered if maybe Jaskier should be riding her instead. The music he was picking out on his strings was simpler and felt more like practice than anything new and he realized that he was comforting himself with easy exercises and wondered how long he’d insist on doing it.

All day, it turned out, and Geralt was just about on his last nerve, turning his irritability into action by setting up camp and batting Jaskier out of his way, finally just sitting him in the dirt. He stoked up the fire, tossed down Jaskier’s bedroll and stalked off to find dinner and clear his head before he started yelling.

When he returned with a brace of rabbits, Jaskier was gone and Geralt swallowed down the spike of panic in his throat, dropping his catch and looking for signs of a struggle and instead finding odd marks that looked like Jaskier had crawled across the ground. And he found him, cowering amid Roach’s legs, a dangerous spot for probably anyone else, but she was as calm as ever, letting him stroke the length of her forelimb. There were drying tear tracks on his face.

“G’Geralt?” His voice was small and wavering, barely above his shaking breath.

“Who else would it be?”

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He didn’t leave the horse. “I, I called out. But. And then. There’s a lot of noises in the woods at night.” This laugh was self deprecating, as though he knew how ridiculous he was being, like a child hiding from shadows.

But his whole world was in shadow.

“You’ve camped before. It’s foolish to be afraid.”

“Y’yeah. Of course it is.” He extricated himself from his position beneath Roach, petting her neck, and Geralt let it be. “Thank you for your protection, good lady.” She lipped the collar of his doublet and he rested his cheek on her velvet nose for just a moment before stumbling back to his bedroll.

“Here.” Jaskier looked confused. “The rabbit. Dinner?”

“Oh, uh.” He reached out, drawing his hand quickly back when he burned the tips of his fingers and slipping them into his mouth for a second. “Ha, it’s hot.” Geralt yanked his wrist and pressed the stick he’d roasted the meat on against his palm and watched Jaskier’s fingers wrap around it reflexively.

“Just eat. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

They didn’t. Not the next day, nor the day after that, but Jaskier was trying to adjust more and more each day despite how he seemed to be withdrawing. It was easy to forget he was blind and Geralt was easily frustrated by his sense of direction, or rather the awful lack of it. More than once, he’d misjudged the path and toppled into the bushes. Twice, Geralt had come back from a hunt to find him trapped in the corner of their rented room. He’d gotten turned around and hadn’t been able to figure out how he was boxed in by the bed, the small table, a chair. Jaskier laughed it off.

He’d been upset each time.

At the market the next day, Geralt told him off handedly that he was heading to the blacksmith, and to catch up when he was ready, because usually he wanted to dither about at the stalls looking at some trinket or another. When he’d finally realized, tapping his foot and waiting for a blind man who didn’t know his way around this village to somehow find him, he followed his scent, laced with terror, to an alley where he’d pressed himself up tight to the wall, protecting his back. They didn’t speak, Geralt just grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the room. Told him to stay there if he couldn’t figure out how to find his way around.

The hurt on his face cut like a blade.

“Get down and stay down.” Geralt shoved Jaskier’s face into the dirt, both of them narrowly avoiding decapitation when the beast attacked out of nowhere. Caught flat footed, Geralt found himself pinned to the ground, struggling under the weight of it and hooking his thumbs in the corners of its maw to keep the teeth from closing around his head. Fetid breath came closer and closer and he thought for a moment this might be it when the resounding crack of a tree limb colliding with the side of its skull stunned it enough for Geralt to kick it off him. He used the momentum to roll and draw his steel sword, cutting off its head with a wet and sickening squelch.

“Geralt?” Jaskier, covered in black ichor and mud, stood swaying in the road, clinging to a length of splintered wood, blind eyes wide with shock. And then, panting with horror, Jaskier fainted dead away.

He’d lost him again.

“Fuck.” Geralt didn’t know where or how long ago and began retracing his steps, scenting the air and picking up the faintest traces of the oils he’d used last night in the bath. It was tainted by the smell of fear, acrid and sharp, and he ran.

Saw Jaskier pinned up against a wall by a larger man than he, a broad, ugly hand clasped over his mouth and a knee between his thighs. He was struggling to breathe, high pitched whimpering slipped from behind his attacker’s palm and he grabbed a fistful of hair to slam the back of Jaskier’s head into the wall behind him.

The brute didn’t notice the knife slipped between his ribs until it was too late. He’d die in this place and Geralt wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

“Who--” He sobbed, choked. “Geralt?” Tears cascaded down his cheeks, slipped off his chin.

“Who was that?” Why couldn’t he be kind to Jaskier when he needed it most? Why did he let his own fear of the situation manifest as blame?

“He’d. Solicited me in the tavern and I told him no.” He shuddered. “I thought he might be following but.” He swallowed with a wet click. “You were walking so fast, I lost the sound of your steps.” Drawing a sharp intake of breath he swept a hand through his tousled hair, trying to calm himself down. Geralt could hear his heartbeat hammering madly away behind his breastbone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier flinched at his volume, hugging himself around his middle and casting his face to the ground, and if Geralt was a stronger man he would tell his bard that this was not his fault. That he was scared of what he almost let happen.

“I. You were angry.”

“What?” With the heel of his hand, Jaskier scrubbed at his face. His bruised face, the imprints from where he was held darkening around his mouth and neck.

“You said I needed to figure this out and. I.” Had been snatched off the street by a predator and very nearly badly hurt. “I forgot my dagger back at the inn.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “I’m sorry, that was. That was stupid.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t. He should have been safe with Geralt in broad daylight. This time he took his hand, laced their fingers together and squeezed. “Let’s go.”

Exhausted from his earlier panic, Jaskier could barely stand when they reached the room, and Geralt helped him the last few steps to the bed, divesting him of doublet and chemise to expose even more bruising. He should have killed the guy slower. Much slower.

“Sorry. I’m sorry you have to do this.” Barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have. This curse.”

“Hush.” Geralt wrung out a cloth in the wash basin, touched it to his face and caught him when he jerked away in fear and surprise. “It’s alright. Just me. I’m going to get you cleaned up, Jaskier.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Muttering, he reached for the flannel.

“I know. Just. Relax, alright?” He swept it up his arm, lingered at the space between his neck and shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’m. Going to do better, Jaskier.”

“What do you mean?” This time, he allowed the touch and Geralt dabbed at a cut on his lip before rinsing and wringing again.

“You’ll ride Roach. In towns, I won’t let you out of my sight.” Jaskier was relaxing, blinking sleepily.

“You can’t babysit me all the time, Geralt.” Though he detected the hope that he wouldn’t have to keep doing this alone beneath his voice.

“No. But I can take care of you until we find a way to break this. Like I should have been doing from the start.” Jaskier’s head was nodding as he fought to stay awake. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Geralt let Jaskier sleep in. The man was dead to the world, bruises stark on his pale skin, and no doubt exhausted from the day before and trying to manage as a newly blind being basically traveling alone. They had to get moving. Maybe Yennefer would understand how to break this curse or at least point them in a direction. But they had to find her first.

“Jaskier.” There was no response, not even a twitch, and Geralt spoke his name louder, and louder still before shaking him awake and dodging his flying fist. “Jaskier!” Nothing but panic in his face and Geralt was tired of seeing that there. He settled his hands over his shoulders, cupped his neck on either side. “Jaskier, what is it? A bad dream?” That wasn’t uncommon after an experience like he’d had.

“Geralt?” His breathing picked up, tears lined his dark lashes. “I.” The witcher snapped his fingers on either side of his head and watched his stricken face stay the same. “Geralt?” This time he drew Jaskier into an embrace, hugging him tightly and allowing him to do the same.

Because he couldn’t hear.

#prompt #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt #Blindness #Deaf #Curse #hurt comfort

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vampire--dad · 4 years

Text

For the Witcher Writers’ Circle prompt bingo!

Prompt: There was only one bed

Spoiler alert: Lambert’s an idiot and Aiden’s a little shit

——————

“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, cat?”

Aiden smirks at the sound of a familiar voice as shouting and a volley of stones follow him out of the town. Two pairs of yellow eyes meet, accompanied with a cheeky grin and a shaken head.

“I’ll have you know I didn’t get myself into any trouble, wolf, I was dragged into the middle of an altercation in the tavern and did my best to settle it. The townspeople didn’t exactly take kindly to that,” Aiden says.

Lambert folds his arms and eyes the cat skeptically.

“Really? Are you sure you didn’t start the altercation?”

“I swear on my dear mother’s grave I didn’t start it. I just ended it… and a few lives in the process.”

The wolf growls and shakes his red hair, stomping past Aiden towards the gates of the town.

“I better still be getting paid. If you’ve fucked this up for the both of us, I’m selling your swords for some cheap whore and leaving you here.”

Aiden laughs. He knows all too well that Lambert’s threats are empty.

“You worry too much, wolf.”

They set up camp a few miles into the forest, far enough from the town that the cat shouldn’t be able to get himself into any more trouble. Aiden scowls as he searches his pack, muttering to himself angrily. Eventually, those mutterings develop into an accusation.

“Lambert, where’s my bedroll?”

The wolf shrugs without looking up from sharpening his sword.

“It should be in there somewhere. I didn’t touch it.”

“This isn’t funny, wolf, where is it?” Aiden hisses. That earns him a pointed look from the other witcher.

“And I’m not joking. I didn’t touch it,” he sneers.

“One of those bloody stable boys must have taken it. Fuck…”

“Keep looking,” the wolf says, inspecting the blade across his knees closely. “You’ve probably just buried it under all of your other shit.”

Aiden grumbles, “I’ve been looking for long enough. It’s not in there.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

Aiden doesn’t respond. He glares at Lambert as the wolf stands and sheds himself of his armour. The wolf feels his sharpened eyes on his back and ignores it. The gaze drops when Aiden realises he’s been watching Lambert for a moment too long and his annoyance has dissolved into admiration for the wolf’s figure. Broad, strong shoulders, slim hips— Aiden stops himself and stands, busying himself so his mind doesn’t wander any further.

As Lambert lays down and tugs the covers over his shoulder, he suddenly feels a pang of guilt. A few feet away, he watches Aiden make an awkward face, run a hand through his sandy brown hair, and lay down on the grass, shifting and turning as he tries to get comfortable. The cat’s back is turned to him, so he doesn’t see the soft look of concern in the wolf’s eyes. It slips away the moment Lambert catches himself and a sharp exhale escapes him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Aiden, you’re not sleeping on the ground.”

“Well, where the fuck else am I supposed to sleep, smartass?” Aiden replies.

Lambert huffs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t believe he’s about to say this, but he can’t let his friend sleep on the ground in the open. He’ll catch a cold and he doesn’t need a whiny, snotty cat following him around.

“Come here.”

“What?”

“There’s room behind me. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Aiden grins. He can’t resist a chance to poke fun at Lambert. It’s far too much fun to watch the wolf snarl at him.

“Lambert, if you were interested, all you had to do was ask.”

“Aiden.”

The cat only laughs and crawls over to the bedroll as Lambert turns away from him, slipping under the light blanket. His back presses against the wolf’s and all of a sudden Lambert’s face feels hot and his cheeks turn redder than his hair. He tries to ignore it. He doesn’t want to think about what that might mean. That’s terrifying. He doesn’t want to think about why he smiles every time Aiden straightens his swords on his back before they part for a hunt, why he lets Aiden know he doesn’t mean a word of the insults he hurls at him, why his eyes follow Aiden and he resists the urge to run his fingers through his hair when he wakes in the morning. He’s too caught up in his own thoughts to notice the cat hiding his own confusion. Aiden can’t close his eyes. He dares not move. Another brush against Lambert would break him. They lay in silence for a while. Neither sleep. Both minds are racing.

Aiden eventually gets it through his own head that if he doesn’t do something now, he’s never going to. He shifts and quickly pulls Lambert against his chest, his arm slung over the wolf’s waist and coming up to press his palm over his heart. Lambert tenses, his eyes wide as he tries to summon the words to force Aiden off of him, but… he can’t. With Aiden this close to him he has to face the fact that he’s wanted this for longer than he could admit. He slowly relaxes into the cat’s arms, his hand rising to rest atop Aiden’s. Lambert feels him chuckle.

“Comfortable, pup?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

Lambert wakes first, finding himself in a tangle of limbs and blankets. He’s somehow turned over in Aiden’s arms, now clutching the cat to his chest. Aiden’s leg is slung over his hip, holding him closer. He’s glad the cat is still purring away and sleeping soundly as he reconciles with how this makes him feel.

He cares about Aiden. He can’t deny that, especially not while the man’s wrapped around him and snoring softly. He just… doesn’t know how to tell him. If he should tell him. Or if they should just carry on like nothing happened. Witchers can’t afford to be distracted by their feelings, it could cost them their life. He doesn’t want to put Aiden at risk like that.

“Mmhph… morning…”

Aiden shifts and nuzzles into Lambert’s chest. Then he chuckles sleepily.

“Your heart is pounding, wolf. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were flustered. Do I really have that much of an effect on you?” he teases.

“Aiden,” Lambert hisses.

It comes out harsher than he meant it to. Aiden lifts his head from his chest, his face falling, pulling away from the wolf’s embrace. Perhaps this was a mistake. Lambert sighs and pulls him back, trying to put his thoughts in order so he can just say something.

“I didn’t… Melitele’s tits, Aiden, you… yes, I’m flustered,” Lambert stammers. “I… want this— I want you and that scares me. Because I don’t know if you feel the same or if you’re just messing with me. Because I don’t want to put you in more danger than you already are because I’m distracted and can’t pay enough attention to—”

“Lambert, stop. You’re rambling.” Aiden’s voice is soft and soothing. He brushes a stray curl from the wolf’s eyes tenderly. “I adore you. You’re an idiot sometimes and you’re useless when it comes to your emotions, but I do. Do you really think I would tease you the way I do if I didn’t feel the same? Do you think I would have turned over to hold you?”

“... I’m assuming the answer is no.”

Aiden laughs softly.

“You’re right. For once. And as for danger, we put ourselves in enough already by travelling together.”

“Yes, but—”

“Lambert, I’m not letting you push me away because you’re scared I’ll get hurt and it’ll break your heart. We’re witchers. Getting hurt is practically our job. You worry too much.”

The wolf opens his mouth to argue, but finds he can’t. His fingers glide across the ridges and indents on Aiden’s back, decades worth of scars. Not one witcher on the Continent isn’t riddled with scars. He and Aiden are no exception, and there will certainly be more to come. Aiden’s hands slide into his hair, running his fingers gently through the mess of red curls, and pull Lambert down into a kiss. The wolf melts into his touch. It ends far too soon, but Aiden isn’t finished with him yet.

“So,” he mumbles. The scar across his lip stretches as his face is drawn into a cheeky smile. Lambert can barely pay attention to what he’s saying when he can feel his breath on his lips. “Does this mean I don’t need to buy a new bedroll? Maybe it’s luck those stable boys stole mine, I quite like sharing—”

“Aiden.”

“What?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

——————

Tags: @lovelyeskel @jaskierswolf @viking-raider

#the witcher #lambert #aiden #lambden #lambert is so fucking dumb oh my god #red head lambert

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samstree · 3 years

Text

You are too well tangled in my soul (2/4)

Inspired by The Time-Traveler's Wife.

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Geralt is a time-traveler, and Jaskier falls in love in a slightly misplaced order.

Warnings: referenced child abuse and mentions of chronic pain

Read on AO3

Calling the Witcher ‘old friend’ at the tavern was probably a mistake. The Geralt walking in front of Jaskier looks exactly the same as he remembers: golden eyes and rugged jawline. And yet, this is the furthest Jaskier has ever felt from him ever since the first sunset at the lake.

There is no warmth to greet him, no knowing smile or softness, only indifference that bleeds into annoyance. The gut-punch is as loud a declaration as it gets. This Geralt is the youngest Jaskier has ever seen him, hardened with weary travels and open night skies, and yet seasoned enough to have settled into distrust and isolation.

As they trudge through Dol Blathanna, the notebook filled with their encounters sits in Jaskier’s pocket, every date recorded with the utmost carefulness, burning a hole onto his mind. How does he explain it? How does he explain that he’s been friends with the Witcher for eight years while he only glares at Jaskier with derision? No, that is too unfair.

Besides, even if he dumps it all out, Geralt is unlikely to just…transform into the person in Jaskier’s memory. This Witcher is not the ever-present friend of Jaskier’s childhood, not yet. He knows better than most that you can’t force people into becoming someone they are not.

Jaskier leaves the notebook at the bottom of his pack.

At the edge of the world, he witnesses the heartbreaks of an elf king. The second-hand stories he knows by heart now pale in comparison. A taste of the real world, of the real pain humans have been ignoring is all it takes for Jaskier to be sure of his path. He is a storyteller. Destiny has decided that when it brought the amber eyes into his life at the age of eleven, so he tells the story. He writes the song.

Jaskier starts following Geralt.

They settle into a routine: monsters, songs, and nothing more. There are no mythical powers that can bring his best friend to him anymore, only the newly acquainted Wolf Witcher who now tolerates him with glowers.

It shouldn’t sting when Jaskier sings their adventures at taverns and Geralt only grunts as feedback. It shouldn’t sting when his chatter is only answered with silence or an absent-minded hum. It shouldn’t sting when Geralt flinches upon hearing Jaskier refer to him as friend while begging to see the hunt himself.

“We are not friends, Jaskier.”

It shouldn’t because it is where their story begins, properly this time. And yet it does.

Seasons pass. Jaskier cannot stop searching for recognition in those amber eyes. Nothing comes up. Still, he searches.

Geralt notices.

Of course. As subtle as Jaskier would like to believe he is, his companion is too perceptive. We can tell by the heartbeat when someone is lying or hiding something. He learned this long ago by the lakeside, when Geralt indulged his curiosity by debunking all the Witcher myths. No, Julian. We cannot read minds.

His excitement that day reflected in the Witcher’s eyes that were amused by a child’s wonderment.

Can he tell what Jaskier is hiding now?

Jaskier stares long at his form on Roach when a throw-away comment from the Witcher brings him right back to the lake, all the words stuck at his throat.

“You’ve been quiet, bard.”

“What? Miss my lovely voice?”

“Glad for the silence.” Geralt drops it, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

At night, Jaskier helps the Witcher remove his armours, a newly formed habit as their travels settle into a familiar rhythm. His fingers untie the complicated knots. Geralt’s breaths brush by his ear.

A warm hand comes up to steady Jaskier by the elbow, the thumb drawing small circles on his chemise. It’s a comfort that he has received so many times before, a reassurance that he can trace by heart. And yet, Geralt is unaware.

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his chest, his heartbeat suddenly rabbiting.

“Alright?”

He cannot acknowledge the concern, scared that more will be revealed. Muttering something about being late, he fumbles away to his bedroll and burrows deep. As the churning in his mind subsides, Jaskier falls asleep hoping that it never comes up again.

It comes up again.

They sit by the glowing campfire, Geralt having just returned from a hunt in the forest. Despite the Witcher’s reluctance, Jaskier nudges him to spill the details and takes them down for new songs. The scratching of his quill fills Geralt’s contemplative pauses.

“This is all very good, Geralt. It’d make a great song. But what was the wyvern like? Come on, help me paint the picture.”

“It was…big, and green.”

Jaskier chuckles, his quill hovering mid-air. So many times before has Geralt only described a monster as ‘big’ or ‘fast’, even the older, more mature Witcher he met in his teenage years sometimes struggled with more adjectives. Being the curious child he was, Jaskier pestered incessantly for more during their short encounters. At night, he would lie in bed, playing out the scene in his head, clashes of magic and steel lulling him into sleep. Now, almost a decade later, he sits in the exact same spot in front of the Witcher, desperate to learn anything from a quest, just to be stunted by Geralt’s inability to form words.

“Some things never change.”

Jaskier smiles to himself and continues to fill in the blanks with more theatrical touches. A song does not become the greatest hit on the Continent just with plain facts and verbs. Chewing on the quill, he barely notices that Geralt’s posture has stiffened.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?” Still distracted with composing a melody for the words, Jaskier looks up at Geralt, whose expression now full of alert.

“What never changes?”

“Um…Just you?” Jaskier stammers, “Stingy on the details, as usual.”

“It’s not just today.” Geralt scowls and stands, pacing around camp irritated. “You talk as if… as if you know me a great deal, Jaskier. You look at me as if you see an old friend. You were familiar with me from the very first day. You didn’t run away in fear like so many others.”

Oh well, subtlety is not exactly Jaskier’s forte.

“You know me,” He tries to gloss it over. “the ever so friendly bard.”

Geralt considers him skeptically. Under the intense scrutiny, Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat. The Witcher finally relents.

“Whatever you see in me, bard,” Geralt lets out a resigned sigh, “it’s not there. So stop looking.”

It’s too late for that, Jaskier thinks. Or too early.

“I mean, why can’t I just tell you everything?”

Geralt walks beside Jaskier, his hair in a simple pony. A long scar runs down his left eye, barely missing it.

That one’s new.

It’s so jarring that Jaskier cannot stop staring at it from time to time. Added with the well-trimmed beard, framing his rugged face, Jaskier is almost looking at someone else. Witchers don’t age like the rest of them do, but the years are clearly showing on Geralt’s face, giving him more gravitas. The White Wolf, indeed.

He has a slight limp in one of his legs, also something new. The breastplate of his armour is worn and beat after what looks like decades of use.

A strange sight. Jaskier has only witnessed the man’s younger counterpart buy the same plate a week ago at a market in Cidaris, brand new and shiny. It was right before Jaskier decided to stay and perform at the local court and Geralt traveled on by himself.

The small garden behind the main hall is where he has found the older Witcher, who embraced Jaskier immediately without a beat. It is when Jaskier breathes in the familiar pine and leather that he realizes how much he’s missed his old friend, even though he’s been traveling with the same person for the past year.

Keeping the secret has taken a toll on Jaskier, as he only notices now that he is completely relaxed. He desperately wishes to unload it.

“You are going to know anyway. When you inevitably end up in Lettenhove, pimpled teenage me in front of you.”

“Jask,” The endearment comes out of the older Witcher so naturally, his voice deep and rich as wine. “You have seen me in my younger days. I was quite…let’s say, untrusting. I was determined to be alone. Telling me that destiny has bound me to a bard with no self-preservation instincts would only send me running away screaming.”

Jaskier teases, “Now that’s something I’d like to see. The mighty Witcher running and screaming because of a bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in return, “There are things that we have to experience for ourselves. Just wait a bit longer. I’m unlikely to be pulled away when we are together. It’ll have to be when we part ways. As I said, it’s like a homing beacon.”

An anchor.

“And now, you are only here when Geralt is gone. I mean, you. The younger you.” Jaskier muses, “Destiny has a way of keeping you from running into yourself. Hah! Probably a good idea. Imagine the brooding doubled.”

Geralt stays oddly silent and guides them both to sit on one of the benches, his knee stiff and slow to bend. It slipped Jaskier’s notice that now there is a sheen of sweat on Geralt’s forehead, his brows furrowing in pain. He starts rubbing at the knee with a wince, breathing through the discomfort. His right elbow also creaks like an old ship, followed by a pained gasp.

With the fast healing, it must be a particularly bad injury for it to affect Geralt this much. Jaskier rubs his hands together to warm them up and places them on the Witcher’s elbow, slowly massaging it to ease out the tension. He’s quite unsure of his touches but judging from Geralt’s gradually relaxing posture, it is working nonetheless.

“What kind of beast hurt you like this? Can I warn you when the day comes?” Jaskier’s worry clenches in his chest. After a moment, Geralt places his larger hand on top of Jaskier’s, an unvoiced thanks. So Jaskier lets go.

They are sitting too closely together. Jaskier can see the tiny scars on Geralt’s face, thin lines that disappear into the thick beard. Leather and pine, the most reassuring scents in the world, overwhelm his senses and draw him closer.

“I wish we could take away all the hurt that will happen.” Geralt says with regret, “But no, Jask, I’d rather not. Some things need to happen for us both to be here today. Not to mentions many others.”

“I can just warn you about this one thing.”

Geralt’s gaze meets Jaskier’s, the long scar prominent. “Some things are too important to risk. I now have people who are dear to me. They – they’ve all come a long way. I wouldn’t change it for the world if it means they are safe. Even if I have to go through this.” He rubs at his knee again.

The wight behind the words settles in Jaskier’s chest.

The Geralt he has been traveling with is so determined on isolation and detachment, rejecting even simple friendship. He cares, in his own silent, brooding way. Jaskier sees it when he refuses payment from people who are struggling to make ends meet. He sees it when he buys Jaskier new boots when a pair has worn out. And He sees it when Roach’s coat is always kept pristine when the Witcher cannot afford new clothing for himself.

But the man in front of Jaskier speaks of people in his life with love and openness, all his rough edges softened and smoothed. Whatever happened in the years in between, Jaskier is eager to learn.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot as usual.” He jokes.

The adoration in Jaskier’s heart unfurls into something more, something he does not dare to name. The same something, he realizes, is the gravity behind Geralt’s golden eyes that he’s been unable to name.

Jaskier is twenty-four when Geralt finds out.

He has just spent a winter at Oxenfurt after being offered a teaching post while Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen as usual. The job is exciting and the students cannot be more pleasant. Adding the occasional visits from Essi and Shani, Jaskier doesn’t have many complaints.

And if he lingers too long in the greenhouse, standing wishfully for something to happen, that’s no one else’s business.

Usually Jaskier waits until the ground begins to thaw before departing for Kaedwen, where he will continue to roam and perform in major cities and possibly run into Geralt. Their shared journeys are never planned and they never agreed upon any meeting places, but somehow the bard can always find the Witcher in the springtime, so that they may resume their on-and-off travels.

This spring, however, an unexpected cold spell hits Oxenfurt after buds have sprouted from bald branches. A blanket of snow covers the cobblestone streets overnight, driving students and staff alike indoors with sniffles and shudders.

Jaskier is intending to retreat into his bedroom with a cup of steaming ginger tea, when he hears of two professors talking about the famous White Wolf being stopped at the city gate. Perplexed, he puts on a heavy coat and walks across town, blowing at his frozen fingers to desperately warm them up.

Geralt never seeks him out when the season turns, despite Jaskier’s attempt at hinting at his wintering plans multiple times every fall. If the Witcher is here this early in the spring, he must have left the Blue Mountains when the howling wind of winter was still raging. Traveling across the continent in the cold cannot be easy even for the Witcher, especially when contracts are still scarce.

Jaskier’s boots crunch the snow beneath them, his vision filled with the clear, grey sky and snowflakes scatted in the air. Outside the city gate, a tall, cloaked figure is being told off by a guard. A chestnut mare waits loyally in the distance.

Geralt is right there, snowflakes peppering his dark cloak. His complexion is sour as ever.

Gods, Jaskier has missed him.

“Geralt! What brings you here?” Jaskier shouts to get his attention and jogs on the slippery road to embrace the Witcher. The hug is brief and impersonal, and when he steps back the misery is still present.

“Aren’t you happy to see your best friend? After all, you’re the one who traveled in this sodding weather just to see me.”

Jaskier expects a rebuttal of the claim ‘best friend’, but it never comes. The Witcher’s comprehension is mixed with travel-weary, souring him even further.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures to the guard. “But this man won’t let me into the city.”

Jaskier turns to the guard and explains that the Witcher is an esteemed guest of the university, before they are both let in with Roach in tow.

The walk to Jaskier’s lodging is silent with a tension in the air. The Witcher looks tired, disheveled from the wind and cold. Jaskier will warm them both up with a fire and ginger tea then.

“So,” Jaskier tries to make conversation, “Before we discuss the thing of ‘great importance’, how was Kaer Morhen? You know, the mythical Witcher keep nobody knows anything about.”

“It was…fine.”

“Masterful conversationalist as ever.” Jaskier takes in the curt response and fills the silence with stories of his winter at the university. He chuckles at the funny bits himself when Geralt seems deep in thoughts the entire time.

Once they have put Roach in the university’s stable and entered Jaskier’s warm bedroom, the tension can be cut by a knife. An inexplicable nervousness bobbles up in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt puts down his pack by the door and begins to speak.

“Jaskier –”

“Before you say anything,” he interrupts, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seems that ginger tea might not be enough to get him through this conversation. “We should warm up a little. Can you believe the weather!”

He puts one glass on the table near Geralt and downs the other in one go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reasserts himself, the golden eyes determined. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve met me before?”

Jaskier studies his glass as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. The Witcher continues.

“There was a lake, in the woods. You were young, and you…you greeted me by name. You knew me.” Geralt’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “You knew me before we met.”

“Um…yes?” Jaskier grimaces.

“Why haven’t you told me before? Damn it, Jaskier. You knew this whole time that I –”

“That you can magically time travel to my childhood?” Jaskier puts down his empty glass next to Geralt’s untouched one. “What was I supposed to say back then, Geralt? ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I know everything about you. And that includes your secret power because I’ve met you twenty times before –’”

“Twenty times?”

“Well I haven’t counted in a while so I could be off.”

Geralt sighs, palming his face. They both look away. The weighted silence in the room is only interrupted by the occasional crackling in the fireplace.

“Twenty times.” Geralt mutters to himself. “How – why?��

Jaskier tries, “You told me yourself. Your powers have this…pull. It’s like –”

“Gravity.”

“It pulls you to certain places or certain people.” Jaskier vaguely gestures around himself.

Realization dawns on Geralt’s face.

“That’s why you followed me. That’s why you weren’t scared of me, why you look at me…” He trails off. “Because destiny already forced me into your life.”

Geralt’s features morph into a stoic resignation, something Jaskier is too familiar with. It’s what Geralt looks like when someone chases him out of an inn or throws things at him, or when mothers yell at their children to get away from him.

No. Jaskier won’t allow it now.

“No,” His voice is desperate, “It was because you were my best friend. You are my best friend. You were there for me by the lake when no one else was. I followed you because you are kind and brave –”

“Because destiny already decided for you.”

“No –”

“Gods, Jaskier. You were so young. You shouldn’t be bound to me by something I cannot even control.”

Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath. “It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt, who looks so guilty through Jaskier’s blurred vision. He feels weak and hollow.

The conversation continues but Jaskier pays no attention. Geralt says something about traveling separately for a while and begins to leave. Golden eyes meet Jaskier one last time before the door clicks shut.

Running away while screaming indeed.

Sagging into a chair, Jaskier remembers the worn-out notebook sitting on the shelf, untouched.

Once again, Jaskier is left alone, his best friend disappearing right in front of his eyes.

Jaskier tries to find Geralt but always falls a step behind.

He travels and plays, pleasing tavern audiences so he may get a place to sleep. He asks about the white-haired Witcher everywhere he goes, hoping he can catch up with him just like so many other times. But the Witcher is gone whenever Jaskier sets foot into a town, as if sensing his presence.

“Isn’t that your Witcher? The one from your songs?”

Jaskier tries not to wince.

“He was here days ago, but I heard he left for Novigrad.” The innkeeper says in confusion, “Why aren’t you with him?”

Putting on a bright smile, Jaskier answers, “Even the most talented artist cannot stay with his muse at all times. Lest the creativity runs dry too soon.”

He sets out for Novigrad, but never reaches it.

Jaskier does not see the bandits coming, nor is he capable of fending off all five of them. The dagger he hides in his boot and the sword fighting lessons that tutors once forced upon him can only do so much against these fully armed men.

After stabbing one of them in the shoulder, causing the man to yell and cuss, Jaskier is knocked out from behind.

Jaskier wakes up flung across the back of a dark horse. The pain at the back of his head throbs with every step it takes, the moving ground makes bile rise in his throat. The men talk about ransom from the Count de Lettenhove for his only son.

Oh, dear.

There is no way to tell how they learned, since Jaskier is gagged and tied to a tree when they set camp. He doubts his kidnappers are willing to indulge his curiosity anyway. A growl comes from his stomach. The fire and roasted dinner warm in the distance but clearly these men are not the sharing type.

Frustrated, Jaskier dozes off as night falls, listening to their constant chatter about how to spend the ransom. Too bad for them, Jaskier thinks half-asleep, they are not getting any money. Father will probably thank them for stopping the family embarrassment from tarnishing the Pankratz name any further.

Jaskier wakes up again, to the sound of yelling and weapons clash.

Bodies are flung across the campsite; his captors scream in pain and scatter. The startles horses gallop away with some of them on top. A flash of black and silver moves with an elegance that can inspire songs after songs.

A hand comes to remove the gag in Jaskier’s mouth and continues to undo the ropes around his wrists. Concern sparks in the gold, the softness overlapping with Jaskier’s distant memories. He should greet an old friend, or it’ll seem rude –

“Julian,” Geralt says, “That’s a terrible name for you.”

Jaskier blinks. Now Geralt is reaching to untie the knot behind Jaskier, their breaths only inches away. No scar. These are the same eyes that left him in Oxenfurt months ago, with the click of a door.

Not an old friend, then.

“That’s why I changed it.” The rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists sting when he tries to flex them. He states the obvious, “I see my Witcher in shining armor has come back to save me, again.”

“It’s like you are looking for trouble, bard.”

“Not like it was my fault.” Well, only a little bit his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I was looking for you.”

“I know.”

Of course, he was avoiding Jaskier on purpose.

“Why did you have a change of heart then? Missed my charming personalities?” Jaskier intends a joke, but the old name reminds him. “Wait. You were at the lake again?”

Geralt hums as Jaskier gets up to rummage through what his kidnappers left. Thank the gods they thought his lute and bags might be worth something and didn’t chuck them in a ditch.

Neither the lute case nor the instrument inside received much damage, to Jaskier’s relief. He should check for his bags as well –

“You kept asking when I would be back.”

Jaskier pauses. “And you couldn’t answer.”

“You asked me not to leave. You cried.”

Yes, he desperately grasped for any semblance of certainty as a child, and when he couldn’t get it young Julian spiraled into a panic, begging the Witcher not to leave. He remembers trying to hold back the tears but it came out with snot and hiccups. The embarrassment is still fresh after a decade.

“Well, there’s no need to remind me.”

“No, I –” Geralt struggles with words, “You said you kept records for me. I don’t want to disappoint you again, if I go back there. When I go back.”

The leather-bound notebook is still sitting at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He can feel the shape of it through the fabric. It is what Geralt came back for, just so he can have an answer for that child, so he will not disappoint him next time.

“That’s sweet.”

“Jaskier. I would never choose to entangle your life with mine, a Witcher’s. It’s –” Geralt breathes, “You were so young.”

So he said, months ago. Jaskier digs into the bag and retrieves the notebook, walks up to Geralt, and presses it on his chest. Geralt catches it, his gaze never leaving Jaskier’s.

“I wrote down the dates after each of your visits. All you need should be in there.” Jaskier suddenly notices how tired and hungry he is, the headache flaring up once he’s upright. He sways as a clink of metal hits the ground and Geralt’s strong hand steadies him at the elbow. “Oh, thanks.”

Geralt only hums, but his amber eyes keep studying Jaskier.

“You said you didn’t want me bound to your life.” Jaskier tries again, “But Geralt, you were the best part of my childhood. You were the reason I could leave that wretched place. You were the only person who saw me when no one paid any attention. I – I cannot imagine my life if you weren’t in it, if you hadn’t shown up by that lake in Lettenhove. So please…don’t turn away from me.”

He’s begging again, just like ten years ago. He’s begging for the little boy waiting by the water. He’s begging for himself now. It doesn’t matter that it’s embarrassing because after a beat, Geralt nods.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay,” Geralt’s expression sags with softness. “I – You were so excited to see me. You asked about my hunts. And Jaskier, you were so unhappy in your own home, but my stories – There was a spark in your eyes when you listened to them.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He looks into the sunlight gold boring into his with warmth.

“Does that mean you’ll stop running from me?”

“I would never want to snuff it out. That spark.” Geralt sounds apologetic, “I see now that you decided this life by yourself. Travelling and adventures. They suit you well, Jaskier. So yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because there is a boy in Lettenhove, and he really, really looks forward to seeing you. In fact, he is counting the days right now, for your next return.”

Geralt chuckles, “That’s not how this works.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jaskier grins in return, patting the Witcher on the arm. Geralt looks at the notebook in his hand and says solemnly, “I won’t disappoint him again.”

The door of their shared inn room creaks open and it sounds like a bag of coin is dropped on the table.

“Ah. I see you collected payment for the Griffin.” Jaskier looks up from the music sheets spread out on the bed.

“I was at the lake with you.”

Jaskier feels a big grin spread across his face.

“You made me tell you about the hunt.” Geralt says.

“Yes, I remember. And I composed my very first Witcher song two days later. Well, only in my head and it lacked a bit polish, but you know, I was eleven.”

“Does that mean I’m spared now?”

“Yes, my dear. You may be spared of recounting your mighty battles for now. I still remember it quite vividly. Did you tell me you bit feathers off its wing and choked?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles and gets back to his composing. It might be time to revisit an old song yet.

“I was at the lake with you.”

“When?”

“Last month, when we were apart.”

“No, when for me?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who is lying in the meadow of wildflowers next to the Witcher’s crossed legs, trying and failing to braid a flower crown of dandelions. The afternoon heat is relentless, drenching them both in sweat before they have to take a break.

Tall shrubs cast down a cool shade where they are sitting, shielding away the scorch. Roach is nibbling at some flowers in the distance, the same flowers that Jaskier cannot seem to bend into shape without crushing.

“You were…older.” Geralt says after considering, “You braided flowers into my hair.”

“Oh yeah. That day. Can I do it now?”

“You are not a child anymore.”

“No, but this is not working.” Jaskier throws away the dandelions that are now in pieces, pouting. He lies back on the grass, inhaling the fresh smell of grass and letting the breeze cool him down a little. Above him, Geralt looks refreshed after a short meditation.

“You were getting restless. In your own home, about your own future. You kept asking me if you were going to leave Lettenhove.”

“And you distracted me by letting me braid your hair. I totally forgot about pestering you for the rest of the day.”

“It worked.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier is almost impressed.

Geralt pauses for a moment. “You were so unhappy, Jaskier. You couldn’t see a future for yourself.”

“Well, that’s why I left. It’s all fine now. I’m living my best life with my favorite time traveler. Don’t worry, dear.” With his forearm placed on his eyes, Jaskier is completely relaxed.

“Should I have told you, just so you had an idea?”

Sometimes Jaskier still thinks about his childhood in Lettenhove, how miserable he was under all the expectations that he was never going to meet. No, he couldn’t see a future for himself as the Viscount, neither did his father, as the falling of canes and sticks proved. Sometimes Jaskier still wakes up from nightmares rehashing those beatings.

Would it have been better if his younger self had known what the future had in store?

“No,” He says, “Don’t tell me anything. What I went through put me here. It made me what I am. Telling me the future might change things, and I would never take that risk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds apprehensive. “I’ll have to keep you in the dark.”

Sitting up, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, the one that’s going to retain an injury that doesn’t heal well, the one that’s going to creak and spasm on a rainy day. Geralt from the future is willing to endure the hurt just to make sure everything goes right, young Julian will have to as well.

“I wish there’s another way. Believe me, I do. But…it’s too much at risk.” He squeezes, hoping it’s reassuring. “I know you don’t like this, Geralt. But time is too tricky, you can’t tell me anything about my future. That’s the rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“It might be the first rule anyone’s had about time travels.”

“Right,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “The very first one.”

They go back to cooling off in a companionable silence before moving on again. Geralt rides on Roach’s back while Jaskier strums his lute on the ground, playing a song in Elder absent-mindedly.

For what it is worth, Jaskier’s past is already too well tangled with this beautiful Witcher in front of him. There is no changing his fate now.

A comforting weight unfurls in his heart whenever Geralt is near, regardless of which version of him it is. It unfurls even further with each step they take together over the years. In the blazing afternoon sun, it blooms into something else.

Oh.

He loves him.

He loves him with all he is, was, and ever will be.

No matter. Their days ahead will be just as entwined as the past.

Jaskier strums his lute again, the song turns into something bawdy. The amber looks back at him with mirth and a mirrored smile.

#geraskier #oxenfurt #not oxford #the witcher #time travel #geralt x jaskier #the time traveler's wife au #my fic #jaskier #geralt #hurt jaskier #hurt geralt #chronic pain #jaskier whump

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flightrules · 3 years

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Which Kind Do You Want to Be?

Chapter 6: No Promises

Sometimes, a sleepless night is a good thing.

Summary: This is a story about trust and kindness, loneliness and loss, belief and transgression. And two people crossing paths just long enough to find each other.

Previous chapters: I keep hearing tumblr suppresses posts with links. So, visit the pinned post on my blog or the same username on AO3.

Relationships and characters: Din/female reader (both similar age to Din in canon), Grogu, and a cameo from Peli.

Rating: Mature? Explicit? Anyhow, grown-up sexy stuff. Please be old enough to be reading this kind of thing.

Tags and warnings: Moments of angst, domesticity, kindness, explicit consent, and Din doing his best to be a conscientious parent in the midst of everything. Heads up for descriptions of canon-typical violence, mention of past dubious consent, and a moment of (unintentional) violence between our protagonists. Ending is bittersweet.

Supper is the same as the midday meal, cold rations washed down with tinny tasting water. "You eat like this all the time?"

"I try not to," he says. "He needs real food. I haven't had much chance to go shopping."

The child is sitting on your lap now, as you hold his little tray for him and he picks out bites to eat. He's seemed subdued ever since your game of chase went so wrong.

It's a bit of a balancing act to manage your own meal while keeping the tray steady and the little body balanced. But you turned down the man's offer to take him.

You should be careful about letting the child think there's something changing here, that you'll be a presence in his life.

It's just so nice to imagine, for a small moment, that you could be. That a child's laughter could be part of your world again.

There's not much conversation over the meal. You're tired and your body still has that vague achy feeling, like it isn't ready to forget getting thrown to your knees.

The ration trays get washed in the sink again, and then the child gets a bath in the sink again, too.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asks first. "He doesn't like the sonic shower. I think it's hard on his ears."

You stay at the table while he pushes his sleeves up past his elbows, pops the child into a mess of warm water and soap bubbles, and lets him splash around a bit. By the time the man lifts him out again, there are bubbles all across the counter and water on the floor. "I've told you not to do that," he says mildly as he wraps the child in a towel and, holding him in one arm, swipes a rag across the counter and then uses one foot to wipe the rag along the floor.

He crouches to pick the rag up again, a perfectly balanced movement with the child cuddled against his chest.

"I'll let you get him ready for bed," you say, getting up from the table and resisting the urge to go over there and melt yourself against this man. You are not his family, or the child's, and you need to remember it for yourself as much as for the little one.

The bedtime routine consists of a quiet, one-sided conversation, the man narrating all the little things they did today and the child cooing in response. You take the opportunity to use the ‘fresher while he’s busy in the little sleeping room, then spread out your bedroll, stuffing some clean clothes in a carry-sack to serve as a pillow. It's early, but you stretch out and close your own eyes, letting your back and shoulders rest flat against the blanket.

There's something comforting about his voice, the slight gravel in it, the way almost everything he tells the child is framed as "we." You've never been sure how much the child understands, but you hope he can at least hear how safe he is in this man's care.

You're almost asleep, yourself, by the time he gets to how he hurt you. "I made a mistake," he says, clear and matter-of-fact. "I'll always protect you, but that doesn't mean it's all right to hurt our friend. I want you to know we can trust her. Don't make the same mistake I did."

That's very sweet, you think drowsily. As if the tiny creature could do you any harm.

"Are you awake?"

You open your eyes to find he's standing a couple of meters away. Earlier today you might have thought that strange, but now you think, Right. No sudden moves.

"May I…" his voice trails off.

You sit up, making room for him to join you. And now it's your turn to ask, as he's left a careful few centimeters space between. "I'd like to touch you."

His voice is quiet, his usual confident tone sounding suddenly half strangled. "I'd like that."

You don't do it right away, though. You look at him, contemplating. There are curls falling over his forehead again. The scruff of beard he had yesterday is gone. Did he shave for you, or is that just something he does every few days? With the helmet covering his face all the time, he certainly wouldn't have to worry about looking neat.

Loose as it is, the shirt he's wearing does nothing to hide his solid-looking shoulders, and you've already seen the shape of his chest and waist from the t-shirt he had on this morning. Stars, that was so long ago.

You turn your body toward him and reach out, so slowly, to skim your hands over his hips and under his shirt, pushing the fabric up to bare the flat plane of his stomach, and then a little more so your hands are framing the bottom of his ribs. "Help me?" you say, meaning help me get your shirt off, but he's just staring at you, lips slightly parted, not moving at all.

"You tell me if you want me to stop," you remind him, and then get up onto your knees so you can lift his shirt further. The bruises from earlier remind you to move carefully, but you're able to shift your weight so it almost doesn't hurt to kneel.

He has dark hair across his chest. You resist the urge to run your thumb across one nipple, instead asking him more clearly to lift his arms so you can get the shirt over his head.

He does, now, taking over with a single smooth movement and then actually stopping to fold the thing and set it aside.

There's something about that that makes your heart hurt. That makes you think you could fall in love with him, if you had the opportunity to try.

You do finally have the chance to see what happens when you drag your teeth across his ribs. You start at his collarbone, lining kisses from neck to shoulder, then down over the muscles of his chest. As you do you can feel his breathing quicken, turning to a gasp as you go from soft kisses to the scrape of teeth. You should probably remind him to breathe but now you're tracing your tongue along a pale line of scar where, you realize, the beskar breastplate doesn't reach.

His hands on your shoulders stop you. He's gentle but firm, guiding your body back upright, giving you plenty of time to fight it if you want to.

You don't want to.

"Show me how to kiss you," he says.

"It takes practice." Kissing a new partner's mouth usually starts out clumsy and uncoordinated, until you find each other's rhythm.

"We have until morning," he says.

It is, indeed, uncoordinated at first. He's obviously got the general idea--you can't spend 40-something years in this galaxy without seeing what people do--but no idea how to actually do it. He's a quick learner, though, echoing back your movements until he's got the hang of it. And then that precision kicks in and he's got your mouth trapped beneath his, tongue at the corner of your lips and then gently opening you up to his warmth, and you're the one who's forgetting how to breathe.

It's new to him and it's been a while for you, and the two of you end up making out like teenagers for a while, his hand against your jaw and your fingers in his hair, and when you need to catch your breath you bury your head in his shoulder until gently insistent hands lift your face to his again.

What stops you is a small sound from the child. You might not even have noticed it, coming from behind the metal door, but he's already turning his head to listen. He kisses your forehead before getting up to trigger the controls.

The noises from the hammock sound like sobs.

"Hey," the man tells him, sitting on the edge of the mattress, leaning in to lay a hand over the little body. "Whatever it is, I'm here." He turns to you. "He cries in his sleep sometimes. Usually I sing to him."

"Then you should." You get up to go sit beside him on the floor and lean your head against his knee. It's the same lullaby you heard that first night on board the Razor Crest. He can barely carry a tune but that's all right, you don't know the melody anyway and you don't understand the words. You stay there for a while even after the child's cries have stopped, as he continues through a half-dozen verses, you resting against him and his hand against your hair.

More of the evening disappears into figuring out his body, into his hands finding confidence in how to touch your skin.

The last time someone touched you with such reverence, you were probably sixteen years old, trying new things for the first time with a boy you'd grown up with, whose body you'd seen change as you both slipped toward adulthood. He's long gone, that boy, not even buried, just lost in the ash that used to be your home.

Your shirt's off now, too, and he folded it for you, and you can't even explain why that makes you ache inside.

He's tracing your breasts with his fingertips, light against your skin but following every curve. He seems to know, by instinct maybe, to leave your nipples until they're aching for him to touch, and then to follow his fingers with his mouth, with his tongue and then lips and then, so very gently, with his teeth. He's got you panting, your fingers digging hard into his shoulder until you suddenly realize that's the side that was bothering him and you drop your hand.

He looks up at you, and it takes him a minute to find words. "What's wrong?"

You're slow to make sense, too. "You--you're hurt, I don't want to--"

He looks down at his own shoulder, the one you were working on together this morning. Then he's pulling you in to him, so very slow again and careful, until you're skin to skin against his body, your breasts pressed up against the muscle of his chest, his head bent down to yours. "Thank you," he says, and it's a whisper against your temple and then just the two of you breathing together for a while, the hum off the ship's engines the only other sound.

You know the shapes of the muscles on his back now. You've run your fingers along the grooves between them. You know now how his skin feels different over scars, and how the burn scar at his neck is different from the knife scar on his side.

You were surprised to find the small, circular bump of a contraceptive implant on his arm, and at first you looked at him in accusation. From what he’s told you, he shouldn’t have needed it. But he just shrugged. "When I swore the Creed," he said, "I swore I would care for any child I made. I've never been in a place to be able to care for a child." You could feel your eyebrows go up as you nodded toward his bunk, where the tiny being in his care was sleeping. "I'm still not," he said. "It seemed like a good idea, to make sure it couldn't happen."

He knows the most sensitive spot on your neck by now, and he knows the way you'll move your head if he kisses you there. He knows that if he runs his hands over your belly you'll jump at first, ticklish, but then lean into his touch if he uses a little more pressure. He's figured out what happens if he traces the shell of your ear with his tongue.

Right now you're kneeling behind him, one hand on his chest, one finger sliding over a stiffened nipple while the other hand traces the hair that trails down his abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. For the first time, you slide your fingertips beneath the fabric. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist and hold your arm still.

But he doesn't tell you to stop.

You tuck your chin over his shoulder and ask him if you should.

He doesn't answer. He's sitting up straighter, though, that uncomfortable posture you'd started to hope he'd left behind.

Carefully, you move your hands from his body, and his fingers slide from your wrist as you do. You shift around to face him.

Slow. You promised him slow.

Your own body is edging toward impatience. You've been wet for him for hours and, although you're not complaining about any of this so far, there's a sense of emptiness that your body is letting you know, in no uncertain terms, it would like him to fill.

You check in before you move next, get his permission to settle yourself back on his lap, knees to either side of his hips. It lets you press against the length of him through his trousers, and you find you're shivering as the most sensitive part of you connects there.

His voice is a vibration through your own chest as he says, "I can't."

You know you should let go, move back, but your muscles won't listen to your brain until he speaks again, until ingrained reflex takes over when he says the word "Stop."

He's keeping his hands to himself now, still breathing a little hard but keeping his body constrained. One hand clenches and then slowly opens, coming to rest at his side.

"If we keep going," he says, "I'm going to want you to stay."

Your heart skips for a second, and you're already thinking, yes.

"I can't let you stay." He's sitting so still. His fingers move again, what seems to be an involuntary tic. It's his right hand, the one that would reach for the blaster that's usually at his hip.

"I can't be distracted. If I had to choose between you and the child--"

He doesn't finish. You don't need him to. You reach over, slowly, slowly, and take his right hand. Slowly, you help him open those clenched fingers, and you place a kiss on his palm. "No promises," you remind him. And then, because there's nothing else you can say: "I'm leaving at Pavotha."

It's still so curious, getting to see his face. How sometimes his expressions are open and sometimes they're unreadable, like in all those years with the helmet on he's lost the ability to mirror certain feelings. Lost the muscle memory.

Right now, though, there's no mistaking that you're looking at pure gratitude.

"Do you still want to stop?" you ask him, and you're asking a little bit for him, but it's mostly because your body is longing to see the rest of his, to touch him in new places. To settle in against him, take his cock inside you, and move together until the rest of the galaxy disappears.

"No promises?" he says.

And, although your whole body is screaming at you not to say it, you tell him again: "Only that I'm leaving."

If you were planetside, it would be dawn by now. But here in the dimly lit hold, there's only the chrono to tell you it's near morning.

You're not looking at it though.

You're sitting on his lap again, legs around his waist and feet planted against the floor. His hands are on your hips. You showed him how this position works and now he's helping you move, bringing you down against him so his cock is buried deep inside you, holding you so there's pressure against your clit as he presses closer, then lifting your body so the length of him slides against your opening, setting every nerve on fire. You didn't teach him to pause sometimes, keeping your hips in place against him, and lean up to kiss you. He figured that out on his own.

He lasted longer than you might have expected the first time, when you drew his body over you and slow disappeared when he said "Are you sure?" and you said "Yes." And although you guided him in gently, carefully, neither one of you could stop after that. You bit your own lip so hard, trying not to cry out and wake the child, that there was blood on both your faces by the end.

You're going to have to sleep soon, before the child wakes up and the new day starts. But for now you're going to stay like this, your skin slicked with your sweat and his, the taste of him in your mouth, and the sacredness of trust between you.

#the mandalorian #fanfic #din djarin x reader #din djarin needs a hug #touch-starved din djarin #reader character also needs a hug.

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rinneganwritings · 3 years

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Never Far Away; Chapter Seven: Only The Lonely

Word count: 3,053 Summary: Tamako feels a little sad about her encounter with Itachi, but Tsunade tries to cheer her up by telling her that she's not sending her back to the village. Instead, the story of her parents is told and a new threat presents itself. Warning: Mentions of drinking, gambling and possible swearing.

Masterlist

Tamako isn’t sure how to feel as she trails behind Tsunade. While this used to be her ultimate goal, now it seems like an unattainable dream. Tamako always wanted to become a very skilled medical kunoichi, but now she felt like her dreams had been ripped at the seams. Her want to be with Itachi was so strong, it felt hopeless.

“Hey, kiddo, are you still with me?” Tsunade asks, looking back at the young woman.

“Hm? Of course, I’m here.” Tamako jogs a little further, matching Tsunade’s speed.

“Good, cause Shizune and those idiot ninjas we hired should keep your sister and Kakashi at bay for a little while. I need you to keep up so we don’t get caught again.”

Tamako thinks about what this truly means for herself. Did the hokage send Yumiko and Kakashi after her because she is a rogue ninja now or did Yumiko take it upon herself to do so?

“Don’t worry about telling me why you’re on the run. I’ve felt like running from that place so many times, that I just decided to leave and find a new place to call my home. It hasn’t been the best of times, but I do feel like I’ve been able to grow as a person.” Tsunade offers comforting words, but Tamako is silent.

They continue their journey towards a new village, not stopping in the next one that happens upon them. They know they need to continue past even the next two villages, and while it’s going to be a long journey, they also need to make sure Shizune catches up with them.

There was a certain anxiety that was wracking Tamako as they continued on. She didn’t know what to say to Tsunade, and she wasn’t sure if she should explain anything to her. It felt odd to her to have someone by her side who was willing to protect her, even though she felt like she didn’t deserve it.

“You know, your sister is only trying to protect you.” Tsunade says out of the blue. Tamako is a little surprised by this.

“She doesn’t know me anymore,” Tamako announces, and Tsunade can tell there’s some deep wounds there that haven’t healed.

“Is this about that Uchiha? Itachi?” Tsunade asks, and Tamako feels threatened by the fact that Tsunade knows what’s going on.

“How do you even know about that?” Tamako demands to know.

Tsunade laughs softly, “I’ve been in love before. I know what it can do to you. You just want to do what’s right for that person, you want them to have the world.”

Tamako huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. She hates that Tsunade is right, but she doesn’t really want to discuss what’s going on. As if Tsunade knows anything about really being in love, it doesn’t seem like she’s with whoever she is in love with.

“I lost Dan. He’s no longer with us, but sometimes, I can feel his presence.” Tears are brimming Tsunade’s eyes, and she shrugs it off so easily when Tamako looks at her.

“What was my mother really like?” Tamako asks, changing the subject. Tsunade smirks a little, knowing what she was trying to do.

“Ahh, Takani was really fun. She could drink just like the men, but she was also very sweet and caring. Kind of like you are, you know?” Tsunade begins explaining.

“I could never imagine my mother drinking. She was always so prim and proper at home when I was younger,” Tamako expresses. Tsunade laughs.

“Wow, she could almost drink me under the table. She had a foul mouth on her, and she fought very well. She was very skilled at ninjutsu, and most of the men in town feared her. She was like a wild one...Until, she fell in love with your father.” Tsunade continues, and now Tamako was listening intently.

“What happened when they fell in love? I’ve always wondered how they ended up together, but Yumiko barely spoke of that story. I wonder if she even knew it at all,” Tamako wonders out loud, and Tsunade smiles.

“Your mother was from a smaller village, but she came to Konoha all fresh faced and ready to fight anyone. She was tough as nails, and a lot of the men really loved her fierceness. She was already a jounin when she moved to Konoha, and her clan was known for being very strong. They didn’t have a kekkei genkai, but they were a force to be reckoned with.”

Takani Kokorotetsu and her clan moved to Konoha when Takani was eighteen. She was a jounin already, and most of the men who knew her wanted to get to know her better. Still, she didn’t care for them. She resented having to move from her little village to some better known village. She resented her parents, who wanted her to marry some rich guy. All she wanted to do was get drunk, gamble and get into fights.

Tsunade and Takani often got together and did just that. Tsunade was relieved to find someone who was just like her, and of course, the two formed a bond that would never be broken. They confided in each other, and when Takani met Nakachi for the first time, the person she gushed to was Tsunade.

Nakachi was from the Shōrihibana clan, who found the Kokorotetsu clan to be just a little too proud and a little too overpowered for their own good. The two clans formed a rivalry that was unmatched, and in all the land, they knew that things were tense between those two clans. Nakachi, who was meant to be the heir of the clan, grew up happy and strong, becoming friends with almost anyone.

When he met Takani, he took to her like a moth to a flame. He was smitten with her fierce attitude, her unmatched foul mouth and her ability to drink like a sailor. She was everything he could hope for and more in a woman. When their parents found out about their budding relationship, they forbade it. It was out of the question that Nakachi should marry someone from the Kokorotetsu clan, who were basically loud nobodies.

Nevertheless, nothing can stop true love, and while they kept things secretive, Nakachi and Takani eloped. Tsunade and Jiraiya both attended the elopement as witnesses, and they never told anyone. Sadly, the news found its way to both clans, and with that, Nakachi and Takani were on their own from then on.

The love between those two never dissipated, and they enjoyed each other as much as they always had until the very day they died.

Tamako turned to Tsunade, tears in her eyes. She had never really known the true story about her parents falling in love. It was bittersweet to think that they had loved each other for that long.

“Yeah, you really do take after Takani. She was wild and she would have done just about anything to be with Nakachi. He was more reserved, but he loved that wild streak in your mother.” Tsunade says, and Tamako stops.

“She was like me, and how I am with Itachi…” she finally says after a moment of silence.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me, I’m not going to send you back to Konoha.” Tsunade assures.

“Thank you,”

They continue on their journey, only to be stopped by Shizune, who has finally caught up with them. Shizune is a little frustrated, and most definitely tired. She wishes she didn’t have to be the one to fall behind, but she knew it was important for her to distract Kakashi and Yumiko.

“How did it go?” Tsunade asks.

“Exactly how you wanted it to. Although, it would seem Yumiko is a bit more concerned about her retrieval mission than helping her sister.” Shizune explains, and Tamako can feel her stomach drop. “She was quite forceful and intimidating as well,” Shizune shivers at the thought of how Yumiko was talking to her. It wasn’t what she was expecting to happen, but Shizune did know that Yumiko was really strong.

“Hmm, Yumiko did always take after her father, but there’s no way she wouldn’t be concerned about Tamako. She’s probably bluffing.” Tsunade says, and Tamako feels a little relieved.

“Anyway, the fight didn’t go exactly as planned, but seeing as how Kakashi and Yumiko are both very skilled, I had my doubts about the band of shinobi we hired. Nevertheless, they distracted them for an appropriate amount of time.” Shizune continues.

“Let’s keep going. There’s a small, almost unheard of inn somewhere around here where we can stay for the night, I’ve been there before.” Tsunade explains.

The three women follow along the path, finding it to twist and turn from time to time. Behind some giant trees and some greenery that resembles a hedge maze sits a small inn. There seems to be almost no one around, and Tsunade motions for the two other women to follow her in.

Inside, the vibe is completely changed. There are loads of people walking around in the small lobby, and they all seem like the type that would kill you in the blink of an eye. Tamako feels a little uneasy staying here, but she wants to trust Tsunade’s judgement right now. Shizune grips onto Tsunade’s jacket, yet Tsunade pays no mind to the men in the room.

“One room for the three of us, please.” She says to the host.

Tsunade pays the man, and she retrieves the key from his hands. Tsunade leads them out into the small hallway as the men watch the women.

Inside the room, it’s a bit cramped. There’s a small bathroom, but it’s not very clean. There seems to be a layer of dust on almost everything. The bedroom hardly has any furniture, and the sheets on the bed seem like they’ve been there for centuries. Tsunade tuts in disgust about the room’s condition, and Shizune looks like she might actually vomit.

“Listen, it’s just for a night or two. We need everyone to get off our asses before we even continue on,” Tsunade explains, and Tamako sighs.

Tamako walks over to one of the beds and strips it of its sheets. On top of the mattress, she places her own bedroll. It’s not very ideal, but Tamako hates the idea of having to sleep in sheets that have probably never been washed. It’s no surprise the room is in this condition considering the kind of inn this is. It’s definitely a place that attracts a lot of lowlifes and they don’t seem to care about this kind of thing.

“C’mon, let’s get a drink! There’s a good selection of booze here,” Tsunade suggests, and Shizune rolls her eyes.

Tamako drops her stuff on the bed, hoping they won’t get robbed while they are away. She wants to go drinking, but also, she’s feeling very emotionally vulnerable at the same time. After hearing her parents' love story, she’s feeling sad and just wanting to stay in the room.

“You don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to, kiddo.” Tsunade says to Tamako.

“I think I’ll opt out for tonight…”

❣

Itachi is sitting with Kisame in the Akatsuki hideout. There hasn’t been too much activity lately, and he’s been waiting on some directives from Pain and Madara. Kisame has been making some odd remarks and jokes like usual, and Itachi finds it kind of peaceful to have Kisame as his partner. They aren’t the most compatible, but the fact that they are opposites makes this interesting.

There’s also the fact that Kisame is quite the skilled fighter, but also that Kisame seems to scare almost everyone they encounter. It mustn't be easy being the Tailless Beast, but Itachi can probably think up more than one or two advantages to looking like Kisame does. Besides, Itachi had noticed more than one woman fawning over the shark-man.

“You’ve been kind of distant lately, Itachi. Are you sure you don’t have other plans going on?” Kisame inquires, and Itachi just shrugs.

“It’s not of any importance to what we’re doing here. It’s actually quite personal, but I’d rather not let the two get involved with each other.” Itachi responds. Kisame is instantly curious about Itachi’s personal affairs.

“Oh, personal you say? Would you tell me?” Kisame pleads, and Itachi chuckles softly.

“Kisame, you never fail to make me laugh. It’s nothing really important right now, let’s just wait for our leader to give us more details on our next assignment.”

Kisame pouts and is ready to beg Itachi to tell him what’s been going on, but they are both interrupted by Pain and Madara walking into the hideout. It’s very rare for both of them to visit the hideout at all, much less at the same time. Itachi worries it might have something to do with Tamako leaving Konoha, and he hopes that neither of his leaders have caught wind of this. There’s no telling what could happen if Madara knows about this.

“Itachi, Kisame,” Pain announces their presence. Both men look at Pain attentively, but Madara is quick to steal the show.

“Itachi Uchiha, from Konoha. Have you heard of that young woman who has gone rogue from Konoha? Perhaps you know her...Tomoko, is it?” Madara asks in a silly tone.

“It’s Tamako.” Itachi corrects, and he instantly regrets answering that question.

“Oh, so you do know about her! Perfect! I figured you did, but I needed to make sure before I asked you about her.” Madara says.

“There’s not much to ask about. She’s another rogue ninja from Konoha, it happens.” Itachi explains. He’s not really willing to tell Madara about Tamako.

“Really? And here I was thinking that she might be something special. Well, if there’s not much to say about her, then I guess I’ll drop the subject.” Madara says, and Itachi feels a little relieved.

Pain continues to delegate tasks to both Kisame and Itachi, while Madara begins concocting some plans in his head. He knows something is special about that girl, and with his connections with the Uchihas, he’s heard of Tamako Shōrihibana. Madara knows all about that clan, and about their hated kekkei genkai.

Madara is beginning to realize how valuable someone with such a volatile kekkei genkai could be to the Akatsuki and their plans. Without another thought, he rushes off to find the perfect spy for this mission.

In another room of the hideout, Madara finds Zetsu. It would be so easy for Zetsu to sneak around unnoticed by Tamako or anyone involved with her at the moment. Zetsu looks over to Madara, and makes his way over.

“My faithful Zetsu, I’ve got a proposition for you. I’d like you to follow this Tamako Shōrihibana, and I need you to tell me more about her.”

“Oh yes, we will find out everything there is to know about her,” the white side replied.

“Is she of any use to us, Madara?” the black side inquired.

“The Shōrihibana clan has a very strong but volatile kekkei genkai. The Static Release…if used correctly, it could be very fatal to our enemies. I’d like to look into Tamako’s control over it.” Madara explains.

Zetsu blinks, taking in the information that Madara has given him. It seems like a fairly easy enough job, but Zetsu is smart. With a volatile kekkei genkai in the mix, it could end up badly. He’s going to have to be even more sneaky than most of the other espionage jobs he’s done in the past for Madara.

“Don’t worry about it!” The white side replies.

“She’s no trouble to us,” the black side says.

“I didn’t think this would be troublesome to you at all.”

Zetsu makes his way out of the hideout, trying to decipher where this young woman could be. It’s not going to take him long before he does find her, and no matter what happens, he’ll keep himself concealed before acting out. He’s never acted out on a rash decision before, and it’s not about to happen now.

❣

In the morning, Tsunade and Shizune begin packing up their belongings. Tamako rests on the bed for a while longer, feeling dizzy and dehydrated. Despite wanting to stay in the room last night, she was somehow coaxed into drinking with Tsunade. For a while, it was going well and Tamako was winning lots of money from the gambling she was doing.

Then, she got sick and Tsunade and Shizune had to bring her back to the room. The night was spent nursing Tamako back to health, and while it barely helped, it made Tamako realize that she wasn’t cut out to drink that heavily. There was a point where she felt good, but Tsunade was quick to outdrink her.

“Don’t worry, kiddo. Your mom was like this sometimes, and even yours truly can take it too far.” Tsunade reassures.

Tamako gets up from the bed, and she makes her way towards the shower. Even though it is filthy, she decides it’s better to clean up now than later on during the day when she might be sick or sweaty again. Besides, who knows when they’ll get to shower in an inn again?

After thirty minute, all three women are ready to check out. A few of the men in the lobby have grown a little softer to all three of them, considering the women were all so charming last night.

“We hope to see you soon,” the host tells the ladies.

Once they get to the fresh air of the forest, Tsunade stops them. There’s a tension in the air, but she’s not sure if it’s an impending battle or she’s just a little hungover herself. The leaves rustle in the wind as they all listen and wait.

“What’s going on?” Shizune asks, but Tsunade shushes her. It’s a few more minutes before Tsunade finally lets her guard down.

“It’s nothing. I did feel something just now, but it was nothing.”

The three women grab their belongings and start to make their way towards the little beaten down path that will lead them towards the next village. What they never saw was two eyes blinking at them from the foliage...

#naruto fanfiction #itachi x oc #itachi uchiha x oc #tsunade #shizune #tonton #akatsuki #kisame #itachi uchiha #madara #zetsu #naruto #naruto fic

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ezzydean · 4 years

Note

018: “I want to hear you sing.” Kuroo and Oikawa.

Definitely under a cut because this wound up being 2400 words.

(click here to read on my blog and not the dash)

Tooru hums as he tucks himself against Tetsurou. It’s still early, not even noon yet, but Tetsurou can feel sleep creeping in on him. It might be because of the warmth of the sunlight they’re laying in. It might be the long night of research they had just finished. It might be Tooru content and solid and warm against his side. It’s probably a combination of them all but he doesn’t really care at all.

“Hey Tooru,” he says softly. Tooru hums in response and Tetsurou smiles sleepily. “Sing to me? I want to hear your voice.”

“Oh?” Tooru shuffles them a little until he’s draped over Tetsurou, smiling down at him. Tetsurou can feel Tooru’s heart beating steadily against his chest and he reaches up to run his hand through Tooru’s fluffy hair. “Just for you, love. Just for you.”

Tooru takes a deep breath and lets his eyes flutter close as his lips part. The softest, sweetest song fills Tetsurou’s ears and he struggles to keep his eyes open as Tooru’s voice washes over him and gently pulls at him. He wants to give in, to fall asleep here and now, but he doesn’t want to stop listening to Tooru.

“Stop fighting it, love. You’ll be awake again and grumbling at me to keep quiet before you know it.”

“I like listening to you,” he admits, sleep dropping his walls and his filters like anchors into the sea.

“I know you do,” Tooru whispers, breath ghosting across his cheek. Tooru presses a kiss to both of his cheeks and then brushes his lips so gently he’d swear he imagined it. “That’s why I never take offense when you tell me to shut up.”

Tetsurou laughs and when Tooru’s song reaches for him again he goes without resistance.

—

He wakes with a groan. The sun is still fairly high so he didn’t sleep too long. A quick glance around the room shows him a distinct lack of Tooru so he was clearly asleep long enough for Tooru to get bored of napping and wander elsewhere. He shouldn’t be hard to find. They’re literally the only people in this abandoned shell of a village. Have been since they got here a few days ago.

Tetsurou stretches and rolls out of bed. He wobbles for a moment — the biggest downside to asking Tooru to put him to sleep with his songs is how unsteady he feels when he first wakes back up — and shuffles out of the bedroom, snatching some bread and dried meat on his way across the main room. Tooru isn’t here either which means he either found something in one of the other, less habitable destroyed homes, or he’s in the stream that’s just outside the village fences.

Tetsurou is betting on the stream.

He still pokes his head in the other buildings as he wanders through village, enjoying the early afternoon sun while he still can. Only a few more weeks before the chill of autumn started to settle over the land. He wonders if Tooru has figured out where he wants to head this autumn yet or if he’ll just throw a knife at a map like he did last year.

Tetsurou is still shaking his head at the memory of Tooru trying to back out of his own rules in regards to the whole ‘knife at the map’ thing as he pushes through the branches and steps to the edge of the stream.

“Tooru,” he calls out. “I hope you’re decent.” He glances up and down the stream. “Tooru?”

Dumbass is probably planning on trying to jump out and scare him like last week. He rolls his eyes. Eventually you would think Tooru would learn that he can’t sneak up on Tetsurou, no matter how much supernatural blood is flowing through his veins. But nope. He still tries. Every few weeks.

“If you’re trying to play hide and seek Tooru you know you’re going to lose.” He cocks his head to listen to the woods around him.

It’s quiet.

No. It’s damn near silent. No birds. No animals. No insects.

No Tooru.

“Tooru!” He scrambles as best as he can upstream a bit and then back down, nearly tumbling into the stream in his haste. “Tooru! This isn’t funny!” he calls out as he hurries back to the village, letting his anger color his voice. Better anger than the cold shiver of fear oozing down his spine.

He throws open the door of the house they’ve been staying in, barely even wincing when the hinges finally give up and the door slams against the wall and then topples to the side.

“Seriously Tooru this isn’t funny.” No one answers him, not even a cricket.

He feels so stupid. Of course Tooru left. Tooru never stays put for long. Never has and never will. He should have learned that years ago when they first met. He just thought that maybe… maybe…

He stomps to the bedroom to grab his things; there’s not much point in staying if Tooru isn’t here. The research he needed to do is complete. The only reason they had stayed was because Tooru had insisted. Said he didn’t want to go back to the bustle and crowds of the living quite yet.

Tetsurou scoffs and starts shoving things into his pack. First his clothes. Then his various oils and potions. His notes. His bedroll. Tooru’s notes. Tooru’s cloak.

He stares down at the cloak. It’s Tooru’s favorite. He had actually made them turn around and travel two days back when they had left it behind at an inn a couple months ago. It was, apparently, one of the only things Tooru had left of his home. Tooru would not have left it behind.

Not willingly.

—

It takes four villages, three innkeepers who are probably mentally scarred for life, a half dozen threats of testing out his newest potion experiments, and seven assholes stabbed — why everyone is so surprised to see a mage with a dagger he still doesn’t understand, a sword he would see the surprise, but a dagger? Come on — within an inch of their life. But he finds out where Tooru is being held.

And why.

“Shit,” he sighs. The mansion Tooru’s being kept is isn’t all that heavily guarded. But it’s heavily guarded enough that one mage is going to have trouble getting in by themselves.

He slips back into the darkness of the forest at the back of the mansion, hand already slipping into his pack to pull out the pendant and potion he needs. It’s a full moon which will make the whole thing easier to do. In theory.

He downs the potion and smashes the pendant against the biggest tree he can find. He can feel the potion sluggishly fighting through his body, fingers going icy cold as the shadows around him grow and twist. Inky blackness seeps from the tree and he takes a deep breath, bracing himself before he shoves his hands into the darkness.

A leather gloved hand slips into his left hand. Fiery hot fingers take his right wrist.

He takes another deep breath and pulls.

Two figures, one taller than him and one shorter than him, come stumbling out, inky tendrils of blackness sliding from them as they catch themselves and stretch in the moonlight.

“What did you do this time?” Yaku glares up at him from his left.

“Why do you assume I did anything?”

“Because,” Mattsun says from his right, “the last time you summoned both of us at the same time I almost got eaten. And not in the sexy way.”

“What does that have to do with this?”

Mattsun shrugs and peers over Tetsurou’s shoulder. “I dunno. Just saying.”

Tetsurou rubs at his face tiredly. “So. Short version. The guy in the mansion back there kidnapped Tooru and is trying to find a way to harness powers so he can make Tooru sing at will.” He opens his eyes and gives them both a pleading look. “And I can’t get in there on my own.”

Yaku tilts his head and starts crackling his fingers, cracks loud even through his leather gloves.

“Whatever the cost of your help for this. I’ll pay it.” Mattsun’s eyes narrow dangerously as he considers Tetsurou for a moment before he pushes past Tetsurou’s shoulder and heads towards the mansion without another word.

—

“Sing for me.”

Tetsurou creeps through the shadowy corridor. Yaku and Mattsun have cleared out every living creature in this entire mansion save for the two in the room he’s approaching. He’s pretty sure he’s figured out how they’ve been trying to harness Tooru’s power. If he understood the messy scrawls on the notes in the lab in the basement. He’s also pretty sure it’s not going to work for the asshole in the room with Tooru.

Pretty sure isn’t entirely sure and he prays to all the gods above and below that he’s right or he’s going to step into the room and the man inside is going to order Tooru to use his voice to kill Tetsurou.

“Sing the song damn you.”

Tetsurou can just barely make out Tooru’s voice and he sounds so tired, so worn down, so close to breaking, that he shoves through the door without a second thought and barrels into the room.

Tooru is chained in the corner and the man who had him kidnapped, the man who had him experimented on, the man who caused him so much pain and exhaustion and stole the light from his eyes is standing mere steps in front of Tetsurou. He’s clutching a glowing amulet in his hand that he points towards Tooru.

“Sing,” he demands. Tooru’s eyes water. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head desperately. “And end him.”

Tetsurou leaps for the amulet as Tooru’s lips part. He struggles to wrestle it from the other man’s fingers even as the first whispers of Tooru’s song wash over him. The man gasps softly as Tooru’s voice reaches him, body going limp as he collapses to the ground. Tetsurou struggles against the voice, like he does every time, just wanting to hear it a little bit longer.

He meets Tooru’s eyes, watery and apologetic; Tooru can’t stop singing until the song is complete or he’s given a new command.

Tetsurou’s fingers inch towards the amulet. So close and so, so far away.

Tooru’s voice is a warm blanket on a cold night. A crackling fire in the darkness. A comforting embrace after a nightmare.

His fingers brush the amulet.

“Tooru,” he whispers sleepily. “Can I hear your voice? I want to hear you sing.”

—

Tetsurou groans as he wakes up. It’s cold, his entire right side is numb where he’s laying against the stone floor, and there’s a stream of moonlight shining on his face. His arm’s asleep, there’s a warm weight against his chest, and someone’s hair is tickling his nose.

“Tooru?” he mumbles.

“I’m here,” Tooru whispers against his chest. His arm is on fire with pins and needles but he curls it up and hugs Tooru even tighter against his chest. “You dummy.”

“’m not a dummy.”

“You are too. You charged in, knowing full well what that asshole was trying to do, and didn’t even have anything to guard yourself from my song.”

Tooru’s voice is gravelly and Tetsurou wants to tell him to stay quiet, to let himself have a break, but he knows that it’s pointless to try.

“I knew it wouldn’t work.” Tooru tilts his head and Tetsurou can feel his questioning gaze before he even opens his eyes. “I read the notes in the lab. Saw what they were doing.”

“How did you know it wouldn’t work?”

Yaku clears his throat and oozes out of the shadows to sit next to them. Mattsun settles behind Yaku and wraps his arms around him.

“Yeah, Tetsurou,” Yaku says blandly. “How did you know?”

“You can make a siren sing, eventually. If you have the right spellwork and rules and objects,” Mattsun says. “So how did you know it wouldn’t work?”

Tetsurou smiles. “Yes. You can. If you have the right research and enough coin anyone can make them sing. But you can’t pick their song. Well one person can, technically.” Tooru freezes in his arms. “But the siren has to choose them. And you can’t tell them to sing.” He looks down into Tooru’s wide eyes. “You have to ask.”

He stares into Tooru’s eyes until he sees Yaku shifting around out of the corner of his eye. He drags his gaze away from Tooru to watch as Yaku and Mattsun have some kind of silent conversation with their eyes and eyebrows. Finally Mattsun huffs and leans back on his hands, legs still bracing Yaku’s, and stares up at the ceiling.

“So?” He asks when neither of them say anything. “What’ll be?”

“You said you’d give anything. Whatever the cost, you’d pay it.”

Tooru gasps and tries to pull away from Tetsurou but Tetsurou just holds him as close as he can. If these were to be his last moments on earth then he wanted to spend them with Tooru in his arms.

“I did.”

“Tetsurou no,” Tooru hisses. “I’m not worth—”

“You are worth everything to me Tooru. The air I breathe. The sun on my face. The blood in my veins. The magic under my skin. I would give any and all of it to see you safe.” Tooru stills in his arms and Tetsurou takes the moment to press a kiss to Tooru’s forehead. “All of it and more.”

Mattsun gets to his feet and looks down at him. “If that’s the case,” he says as he leans towards them, eyes flickering with light.

“No.” Mattsun pauses at Tooru’s voice.

“No?”

“No.”

Mattsun stares down at Tooru, eyes flickering. Tooru stares right back until Mattsun looks away with a shrug.

“I wasn’t gonna take anything anyway.” Tooru blinks in surprise at Mattsun’s statement. “I mean. He just saved my brother. How can I accept payment for that?”

“Aww,” Tooru coos, “Mattsun you do love me!”

Yaku rolls out of the way when Tooru scrambles to his knees and throws himself at Mattsun, cooing and laughing as he knocks the other man over.

“So, seriously. What do I owe you?”

Yaku glances at him and then looks back at the other two. He shakes his head. “It was Matsukawa’s call. So. You don’t owe us for this one.”

—

Tooru hums as he tucks himself against Tetsurou’s side.

“Do you ever shut up?” Tetsurou murmurs sleepily.

“Nope.”

“Lucky me.”

Tooru laughs and kisses Tetsurou’s chin. “Yep. Lucky you.”

Tetsurou laughs and pulls Tooru tight against him. “Well if you’re going to be noisy will you sing to me? Please?”

“For you, love, any time.”

#haikyuu #OiKuro #oikawa tooru #kuroo tetsurou #OiKuro fic #hq writing #prompt #notsuchasecret

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caffeinetheory · 3 years

Text

Searching for a New Home [WIP?]

Hey y’all, this is very different from anything I’ve posted on my tumblr before but it has been sitting in my drafts for a while and maybe if i post what I have it’ll encourage me to write more.... dream smp style fantasy au that i have a lot planed for but who knows if I will ever finish at this rate

~~~~

if you are interested what i have is under the cut

The sound of his own breathing was getting to him. Dream was wandering in a new land, he could sense the magic in the air, it wasn’t hostile--yet. The only sounds in the current meadow he stumbled upon was his own warm breath, a quiet river in the distance and buzzing of bees he couldn’t yet see. He was used to being alone but it still ate at him, having to hide his face, even if he was a lone made it worse.

The sun was high in the sky when Dream made it to the flowing river, the slashing of fish welcomed after so long. He checked around him many times before deeming it safe to move his mask to the side, not fully off because you can never be too careful in unknown lands. How had he even gotten there? Leaning back on his hands the blonde stared into the great expanse of sky above him like it would have the answers he wished for. It never did, but the sun on his face was more than enough.

The sun was no longer high in the sky when Dream opened his eyes again, the only sounds being the running river by his feet. He took to rifling through his bag looking for a fishing rod and what he would need for a small campfire. It took him a minute but he found his trusty pole. Checking his surroundings one more time before taking off his mask and storing it safely in his bag, it was still empty; he had no worries of anyone seeing his face.

Plonk, the bobber hitting the water made a satisfying sound as he threw his pole. In one hand he idly held it, with the other he flicked his wrist making a small campfire to cook his dinner. Right as he was about to say the incantation to light the fire a tug focused his attention back on to the river, he got a bite. It fought back for about a minute before Dream was able to win, yanking it out of the water and into his waiting hands. It was well worth the fight as one of the biggest cods landed in his gloved hands. He would have to dry his gloves but well worth it as the fish would be at least two meals, maybe even four if he smoked it right.

The sky was a mix of orange and purple when the fish was almost done roasting over the fire, it smelled heavenly. While it was cooking Dream made sure to put up a small barrier and find his bed roll in his seemingly endless bag. It was probably really dumb but the sjy was beautiful here so he wanted to sleep inder the stars, not the canopy.

The flaky fish melted in his mouth, he wanted to moan with how good it tasted. It was one of the best things he had ever eaten, maybe this place wasn’t so bad after all. Half the fish was gone before he stopped himself, he needed to save the rest for later. By the time he had preserved it the crescent moon was out, the fireflies were saying hello and the kindling was gone, long since offering heat of light. Dream stifled a yawn as he stretched, a good shut eye would do him some good. Before he curled up into his bedroll a smile on his face.

~~~

Incessant pounding on his barrier is what woke the sleeping blonde up. His arm currently covered his eyes as he groaned, the pundung seemed to hesitate for a moment before it picked up again, slightly slower. Dream was glad he made the spell that would become opaque once the sun rose, he rubbed some sleep from his eyes and looked for his mask and a pocket knife, you can never be too careful.

“Hello?” the voice came through muffled and unsure, whoever was on the other side was persiant but shy? Was that the right word, Dream wasn’t sure but he made sure he had his bag and knife concealed before he dropped the only thing keeping him and this stranger apart.

~~~

It was early morning when Sapnap stumbled upon a greenish double by a river. That was certainly new, and new meant something interesting.

He started by tapping the surface, it seemed to ripple where he touched but otherwise did not change… interesting indeed. Sapnap spent the next 15 minutes walking around the sizable bubble poking it in different spots to see if there would be any other reactions, spoiler alert there were none. He considered setting fire to the outside, a small flame coming to life on his fingertips before a that sounds suspiciously like a Siren he knew advised him against it.

He had nothing better to do with his day, thus began his constant pounding on the outside of the odd barrier like thing in the middle of this field by a river. This continued for at least 40 minutes, he was thinking of giving up when he heard what sounded like a groan? Was someone in there? Were they okay? Subpoena continued his pounding with more purpose.

Nothing had happened yet so he hesitated before pausing his punding to ask, ”hello, is anyone in there?” his voice was getting quieter feeling stpuid as he asked the question. Surely if someone was there he would have heard it right?

As Sapnap was going to start pounding again the barrier dropped and he was left staring at a white mask devoid of anything but a drawn smile. He dropped his hand awkwardly,”...uh hi?”

~~~

Dream blinked at the person who had woken him up, no that the other could see. It took him a second to respond but he decided to just tilt his head at the other in question. Said person rubbed the back of his neck, it was clear he was nervous.

“You knew around here?” his voice was light and crisp, before Dream could even respond though he continued, “Well of course you are. I’ve never seen you before and I practically know this place like the back of my hand,” Dream loosened his grip on the knife and waved his hand at the person to stop the rambling.

“Yeah you could say that,” there was a smile in his voice as he saw them stumble over their words now that he had spoken.

They blinked before holding out a hand, “Sapnap.”

Dream tentatively reached out and shook his hand, “Call me Dream.” The guy's hands were warm, very warm, he would have to keep note of that.

Dream simply nodded at him and went to take his leave, the guy was clearly not going to hurt him. Sapnap didn’t leave though, he followed walking idley around him. Sometimes he was walking backwards in front of him, sometimes he was circling Dream and sometimes he would walk to his side but widely gesturing talking with his whole body. At first the constant talking was something Dream wanted to be mad at, but he found himself enjoying the other’s voice. The longer they stayed together the more he noticed about the slightly shorter man. Like the way he smelled of applewood and cinnamon, and the way he talked so casually to a stranger.

It was close to noon when Sapnap finally asked him a real question that he couldn't just nod an answer to, “Where are you going?”

Dream paused, his humming stopped as he thought about it, “I’m not sure to be honest,” his response seemed to throw Sapnap for a loop as he nearly walked into a tree.

Dream now had fully stopped walking a hand on his chin in thought, sure he was exploring but why? That was the question wasn’t it. Maybe he should find a place to live, would that be the right move. Making a home here?

A hand waving in front of his face broke his thoughts, “You still there homie?” Sapnap stood in front of him with a look of concern on his face. He had stopped just in front of Dream leaning over slightly to make sure he was fine.

It brought a smile to his face, someone he barely knew was showing concern for him. It was an odd feeling he wasn't used to but one he quite liked if he was honest, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he waved his hand dismissively.

Dream started to walk again but with more purpose, a startled Sapnap followed after a second and continued to fill the air with chatter.

~~~

“Tell me more about yourself?” Sapnap had changed the topic yet again. Dream no longer minded though. No one had grown so much to him as this stranger- no he was definitely no longer a stranger.

He found himself actually talking about himself, no lies or half truths. Dream hopped he wouldn’t regret this but something told him he wouldn’t. He started with some basics anyone could guess, then favorite colors and foods. The more he talked the more his companion leaned in his genuine interest clear as he eagerly nodded along and prompted questions. The more he talked the more Dream pervebarbly let down his hair and his hands began to join in his talking. His hands spoke almost as much as he did, it had been so long since he felt he could be this open.

It was while he was talking about some ‘recent’ adventures that he split up, walking backwards to face Sapnap, hands moving to show the action he was talking about. Some fight in a dark cave, “my sword covered in the green fire chopped off the queen spider’s head and set the surroundings webs to flames lighting up the whole area! I could see all the bodies disintegrate as the one that had made them faded slowly,” his hands were high, his breath slightly ragged as he was moving so much when he realized he mentioned magic, but not any magic. His magic.

Oh gods oh no ohnonononono no no no not again he can’t have messed this up again, his thoughts were getting crowded as he was beginning to panic. One hand reached up to where his mouth would be but was blocked by his mask, he could feel his eyes growing wide. Not again, not when he had just made a friend. Dream was still walking backwards but couldn’t meet Sapnap’s eyes. A gasp made him jerk his head towards him. He was ready to defend himself with his other hand when chestnut eyes filled with excitement would have met his own. The mask still blocked the fear he held in his own eyes from being seen.

“Bro that’s so sick!” there was such passion in his companion’s eyes, like he had a fire of his own.

Dream’s voice betrayed his utter shock as it mumbled out his disbelief. Sapnap didn’t seem to pick up on this distress and he grabbed the taller man’s hands and spun him around pure joy positively oozing out of his entire being.

“You have fire too?!” it wasn’t said with an actuation, it was said in excitement. Dream could do nothing but blink behind his mask in confusion. Sapnap seemed to finally catch Dream’s lack of movement, “Are you okay buddy?”

////////////////////////

that’s all i have written so far for this work but i have more or less a lot of it planed out with most people to set up the over all au i have set up, maybe i bit off to much by trying to make one really long work but who knows

#dreamwastaken #dream smp au #sapnap #wip??#i honestly have no idea how to tag this #fantasy au #i have 2 finshed things writen already #this was stared right before or around pogtopias beginging #old i know #i have a bit of notes #may need to revist #add some people #but its mostly just fun family time #ish #my wrting #shot me later and i hope this isnt a mistake #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

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akaluan · 4 years

Text

Erich/Kisuke/Alexis: Soulmate AU + Character in Peril Part 4

He sleeps poorly that night.

It’s strange to think that he’s already grown accustomed to his soulmate’s nightly visits, but somehow he has. Two nights of healing rest, a third interrupted visit, and now a part of him is missing the rest and reassurance even though it’s only been a single night.

Degurechaff politely says nothing as he hauls himself from his bedroll and gets dressed, and for her sake — for the sake of all his men — he boxes up his emotions and sets them aside for later.

They can’t afford for him to be off his game.

***

They work together like a well-oiled team.

He’s always known that Degurechaff was clever-sharp-capable, but he’s never quite appreciated the extent of it until it’s him and her against the world. Without the other officers in the way, their meetings are short, to the point, and decisive. Between them it almost feels like they can… perhaps not win, but at least survive until help arrives.

(Or until the Empire falls.)

(He tries not to consider that outcome.)

***

Degurechaff knows far more about guerrilla warfare than Erich knows what to do with.

They’re not quite there yet — their force is too large and they’re unwilling to divide into small, self-contained units — but… they start taking measures as they go. Caches of supplies tucked into places their enemy probably won’t find. Scouting focused on the lay of the land and plotting escape routes. Hit and run tactics in an attempt to delay and disrupt their enemy. A base camp hidden away where their wounded can recover in relative safety.

Their raids go off better than they should, mysteriously smooth in a way that indicates his soulmate hasn’t left the area. No alarms are sounded, no warnings go out, nothing happens except for the usual mishaps and trouble; some wounded, a rare few dead, a general lack of useful information to steal, the standard issues of raiding.

His soulmate still doesn’t visit, keeping his distance in a way that makes Erich itch. He wants—

But he shouldn’t, and he knows it.

His soulmate is still a Reaper, still a danger to him and his wife and all the people relying on him, Quincy and soldier alike.

But there are no more murdered camps that he comes across, no more indication that the Reaper is taking things into his own hands beyond smoothing their way, and he…

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

His sleep is restless and unfulfilling.

***

Erich slips away from his men as they all return from another raid, leaving Degurechaff in charge without qualm. She’s shown herself more than competent at handling their combined unit without him around, so… it’s no big deal to leave her to it.

He trusts her.

(And he’s so, so tired…)

He ducks into his tent with a sigh and seats himself on his bedroll, burying his head in his hands. He’s tired and sweaty and disheveled, his muscles ache and his feet are sore and he wants to go home but there’s no end in sight, there hasn’t been for years. He’s tired of the killing and the regretful souls and the Hollows that arise from them. He’s tired of sleeping alone and tired of hard beds and terrible food and—

Erich takes a deep breath. Lets his frustrations crowd his mind. Breathes out and lets them go.

(It’s not permanent, it’s never permanent, but…)

(It’s the only thing he can do.)

He straightens. Unbuttons his cuffs and brushes a hand over each of his soulmarks. Alexis is still fierce-determined-focused alongside her usual concern-love-trust and the sense of her feels… closer. She’s almost certainly coming to find him, he decides, and that’s definitely something he should inform Degurechaff of before it becomes an unwelcome surprise.

(He’ll tell her in the morning.)

(She doesn’t deserve to be blindsided.)

The Reaper is also the same reassurance-trust-loyalty as before, but the sense of depression and defeat has… tapered off. It’s still there, but now it’s tempered by patience and… he’s not sure how to take that.

Erich reaches over and pulls his bag closer, digging through it for a change of clothing that isn’t a mess. They really do need to head back to their base camp for supplies and cleaner clothing. Maybe he’ll suggest that to Degurechaff in the morning as well.

The strange hat the Reaper wore tumbles out of his pack as he digs, crumpled and a bit dirtied but otherwise fine. He pauses. Stares at it. Slowly picks it up, running the wide brim through his fingers—

“Your soulmate has terrible taste in clothing, sir, did I ever mention that?” Degurechaff asks as she enters his — their — tent and spies the hat in his hands.

He snorts, the corners of his mouth lifting involuntarily at her words. “You didn’t, but I had gotten the impression off of you, yes.”

Degurechaff comes to a stop a short distance away, hands clasped behind her back and an unreadable look in her pale eyes. Her gaze sweeps over him and he straightens at the assessing stare, wondering at the cause. He’s been professional, he’s been focused, hasn’t allowed himself to wander or leave without her or another soldier except here in the heart of their camp.

So why is she—

“He’s still nearby,” she says without preamble, then sighs through her nose when Erich nods once. “Call for him.”

“I— pardon?” Erich blinks, hands faltering in their motions. He wonders if he heard her wrong, if he’s maybe asleep, if she’s been somehow influenced by the Reaper—

“While I appreciate that he’s stepped back and given you room, you are still affected by his presence and who he is,” Degurechaff begins to explain. “Call him in so that we can get this conversation over before the uncertainty on both of your sides begins to fester. The lack of sleep hasn’t affected you poorly yet, but it will soon enough.”

He hesitates. Watches. Waits for Degurechaff to take her words back, to tell him she’s joking, to… to something that will make sense of her words.

(She didn’t want the Reaper around and now she does…?)

But she doesn’t say anything, just watches him in return, one eyebrow slowly inching up as the silence stretches between them.

He gives in first.

(Of course he does.)

(She’s telling him to do something he wants to do but doesn’t dare.)

(Why would he refuse?)

There’s a satisfied glint in her eyes as Erich sets the Reaper’s hat aside and settles a hand on the man’s mark. He breathes in. Out. Centers himself and tucks away the emotions he doesn’t need. Focuses on need-want you here-please and pushes it down the mark, tries to make it as clear as possible, tries to ignore the glimmer of hope that maybe everything will be better, maybe he was wrong, maybe-maybe-maybe—

“Maa, I didn’t expect such a welcome!” the man announces as he appears in the center of the tent as if by magic.

Erich starts, yanked from his focus by the words. He looks up, feeling suddenly tiny-helpless-insignificant, feels his heart stutter and his breath catch and his mouth dry because no, he wasn’t wrong, that’s a Reaper and he’s currently looming and—

“Sit your ass down,” Degurechaff orders gruffly, and the words manage to penetrate his rising panic because— because—

When did she have time to learn Akitsugo?

(The Akitsushima Dominion hasn’t been important for most of her career.)

(So why would she take the time to learn it?)

It’s the incongruity — the clean diction and easy grasp of a complex language so unlike their own — that gives his mind something else to focus on. Even as the Reaper sends a surprised look Degurechaff’s way and then sits as ordered, Erich’s attention is on Degurechaff instead of him. He arches an eyebrow in question and she… hesitates?

“Later, sir,” Degurechaff answers in their native language.

Erich accepts that answer with a small nod, content to let it be, then turns his attention reluctantly back to the Reaper. Now that the man isn’t looming, his presence isn’t quite so overwhelming. He still can’t sense much of anything from the man’s presence, but there is something there.

(He breathes out.)

(In.)

(Tastes the blood-death-chill of a Reaper and wants to hide—)

“Was there a reason you wanted me here, or was it just to admire me?” the man asks with a smirk, leaning towards Erich as he does. “I’m certainly willing to be admired—”

“Why are you here,” Degurechaff interrupts before he can complete his sentence. The look she levels on the Reaper is one that Erich’s only seen her level on under-performing soldiers, and it makes him tense, makes him remember the moment she hurled a cadet from the third floor and threatened to carve the rules into his skull—

“Maa, maa, my soulmate called out to me! Why else would I be here?”

Breath hisses through Degurechaff’s lips and she reaches up to adjust her cap. “You know what I mean.”

The Reaper hums and rubs at his chin, expression mischievous. “I didn’t know it was illegal to leave my country in order to find my soulmate.”

“You’re a soul. I saw you. Why are you here?” Erich says before Degurechaff can dig herself deeper, earning himself two grimaces for his butchery of the language.

“Sir… your accent is…” Degurechaff trails off with an awkward grimace, clearly trying to figure out how to politely tell him that he speaks like the worst sort of foreigner she’s ever heard.

“Being underestimated has its advantages,” Erich says with a touch of amusement. “People say all sorts of things when they don’t think you can understand them.”

(That, and it’s been years since he had a chance to practice.)

(He’s… a bit more out of practice than he expected.)

She gives him a flat, unimpressed look, but it’s clear she understands both his spoken and unspoken answer. “Just tell me if he says something you can’t catch, sir,” she says at last, then turns back to the Reaper and scowls at him. “Answer the question.”

The Reaper laughs awkwardly and leans back, rubbing at the back of his head. “Maa, can’t a guy just want to meet his soulmate?” He twitches at the way Degurechaff’s expression turns colder and raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Uh… would you believe I was bored?”

“Sir…”

Erich sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

They’re getting nowhere, both of them dancing around the truth. The Reaper hasn’t even acknowledged that he is a soul, and Erich doesn’t want to indicate that he knows the man is because there’s no reason he should know. Quincy know about Reapers, but the average human doesn’t.

(They can’t build a relationship on lies.)

(He knows this, and yet…)

Degurechaff looks between them, her gaze sharp-cold-calculating, and Erich feels his stomach knot. She knows the history even if she doesn’t know what the Reaper is, and she knows his reaction to it. That she hasn’t called him out for being a coward is a miracle in and of itself, evidence that she respects him more than he ever expected.

A part of him… doesn’t want to let her down.

(Foolish.)

(Why does he care so much?)

(When did he stop feeling terror at the very thought of her?)

Erich grimaces and straightens up, setting the man’s hat aside and tugging his cuffs back in place. “Degurechaff, if you could translate for me?” He’s not willing to risk fumbling his words or speaking something wrong. Not now. Not when everything relies on clear communication. Her nod is all he needs, and he tilts his chin as he gathers his thoughts.

“I know what you are,” he starts, staring at the Reaper with narrowed eyes. “I know what you are and what your people have done to mine, Shinigami,” he hisses, deliberately using the Akitsugo word for Reapers. “I have no interest in placing my life in the hands of one who will end it without hesitation.”

The Reaper startles at the word, attention darting from Degurechaff to Erich and back, listening to her translate and growing more thoughtful as she does. Erich can almost see it as the man pieces it all together, can see the understanding grow, and—

Genius, the plum tree across his right side promises.

He’s not exactly handed the man a complex problem but… the understanding sparks faster than he’d like. It sends a chill down his spine and he can’t force himself to remain in place, sends a glance Degurechaff’s way, doesn’t know what she reads from his expression but she moves, stands between them and he—

Leaves.

#soulmate au #erich von rerugen #Urahara Kisuke #tanya von degurechaff

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officialleehadan · 4 years

Text

Tequila Trickster

“I woke up with a pillow under my head!”

Shiriki didn’t handle confusion terribly well. It made sense; the Coyote wasn’t usually the one being confused, agent of chaos that he was.

Siavyn just watched his Second pace, leather coat discarded over a chair as Shiriki circled the room, radiating confusion in every direction.

“A pillow,” Shiriki continued at volume, apparently just warming up to the topic. Siavyn watched him pace for another moment, and held out a hand. A moment of concentration left him with a cut-crystal glass in hand, filled with three shots of Shiriki’s favorite tequila. Yes, it was lazy to simply create the liquor rather than go for the bottle in Shiriki’s room, but he didn’t feel like letting the Coyote’s tantrum spread to the rest of the castle.

Shiriki glared at him, took the tequila, downed it like a single shot, and kept pacing.

“You’re certain it wasn’t one of the new refugees?” he asked when Shiriki gave no sign of calming down. “I’m still trying to learn names. We got nearly a hundred in the last batch.”

The cold war between his keep and the rest of the Pantheon raged on. No one wanted to outright declare aggression; that might bring the attention of the Greater Gods and no one wanted that, but it was a decidedly hostile arrangement. Derelinquere got new groups of refugees once a month or so. More, sometimes. Shiriki always met them to learn their scents and check for spies, but it was a process. Siavyn wished he had some way to settle the situation, but Imagination and Tradition never played well together, and lately his Domain had been growing so fast he could barely keep up with the new power.

The single benefit of being the God of Creative Expression. He thought the radio had given him a jump in power; he never expected the towering wall of power that would come soon after as first television came around, and then the internet.

“Have you ever known me to mistake a scent?” Shiriki asked, dragging Siavyn out of his thoughts. As he turned to keep pacing, the light hit his eyes and they sheened red in the lamp’s glow. “No, it was one of the two who popped outta nowhere in the meeting hall.”

“I don’t doubt you,” Siavyn assured him with the ease of many years of friendship. Shiriki had been by his side since the beginning, before he raised his castle deep in the barren desert over the only oasis for a thousand miles. In fact, raising the fortress had been the Coyote’s idea, a reasonable way to burn off some of Siavyn’s unmanageable power. Shiriki had even been the one to name the newly-risen keep ‘Derelinquere’. “I keep trying to find them, but they’re hiding well. Derelinquere’s protections were never designed to deal with enemies inside the walls.”

“We’ve been lazy about that. Gotta plan better.”

“I know. I’ll fix it when I expand the keep again.”

“Soon?”

“Within a few days. We need the space for the new arrivals, and my control is starting to shake.” He couldn’t afford to lose control of his power. He wasn’t a minor fire spirit who might start a little brush-fire. If Siavyn truly lost control over the power that fed into him from seven billion creative humans, he would level the whole desert and everyone in it. Better to burn it off safely. Unfortunately, hos power built up so fast these days that even expanding the keep for new refugees wasn’t enough. He was going to have to find another safe outlet soon. “Talk to Jaid. Find out what the people are asking for.”

Shiriki hid his intelligence under tricks and Coyote humor, but Siavyn had known him too long for the clever ruse to hold up. He was a master of illusions. It was a rare soul who could meet his eyes and lie. Not that Shiriki was trying. Of course, between Shiriki’s keen nose and keener ears, Siavyn couldn’t easily lie to him either.

“You need a project,” the Coyote decided, and flopped onto Siavyn’s bed despite Siavyn’s eye-roll. They weren’t lovers, and Siavyn knew that Shiriki had a nicer bed than he did. There was no reason for the Coyote to nap here unless he was feeling vulnerable and wanted someone on guard while he slept. Then again, now that Siavyn thought of it, that was probably exactly the problem. Defeat was as rare for Shiriki as confusion, and a powerful new spellcaster in the keep, particularly an enemy, probably had him nervous. “I’ll ask around. But about the woman. She coulda’ killed me. Would have been easier than putting me to sleep. And she put a pillow under my head!”

“You’re very fixated on the pillow,” Siavyn noted, and leaned over to refill Shiriki’s glass with a wave of his hand. “But you’re right; it’s interesting that she didn’t take the chance to harm you when she had it.”

“An’ they were in your office.”

That was news to Siavyn, but he shouldn’t be surprised that Shiriki checked there. It would be a good place to ambush him if someone cared to do so.

“Did they take anything?” It wouldn’t matter especially if they did. Siavyn didn’t keep anything overwhelmingly important in his office, and it would take a very fine spellcaster indeed to find the pocket of illusion hidden in his room, disguised as a single book among his favorite tomes.

“Didn’t look like it. Pretty sure they’re hidin’ in the vents. Scent appeared in the middle of the room and vanished in the same place. Right under the vent.”

Well, he wanted a project. That was as good a place as any to start.

“I’ll do something about that when I expand the keep,” Siavyn sighed and conjured a glass of wine for himself. The tiny twist of power was nothing compared to the oncoming tide, overwhelming and barely manageable, that was his personal magic, but it still helped. A reminder of his mastery over his Domain, perhaps. “Maybe a spell grid to detect movement? I’ll have to think on it.”

“Don’t take long. If one of them can drop me that fast, we don’t know what they can do if they work together,” Shiriki commented, and wiggled to get comfortable. Siavyn watched him for a minute, and gave in without a word. If his second, as close to a younger brother as he would ever have, wanted to nap somewhere safe, Siavyn wouldn’t chase him out. It wasn’t like he would need the bed any time soon. He had work of his own, and found the desert night a fine time to focus on the few things only he could do. “I don’ think they’re assassins though. Not from Conciliam, anyway.”

“No?”

“None of them would have left me breathing. You know how they feel about Tricksters.”

“I do,” Siavyn admitted, and leaned over once more, this time to snag the thick blanket at the foot of his bed. He tossed it over Shiriki, ignoring the Coyote’s yelp, and chuckled as he freed himself from the soft cloth, ruffled and disgruntled. The tequila, Siavyn noted, was unspilled. “Go to sleep, Shiriki. I’ll wake you if I want the bed.”

“Or just get in with me,” Shiriki pointed out, and downed the tequila like a shot a second time. It was just as well that he was getting ready to sleep, no matter how hilarious it was when he shifted while drunk and tripped over his own paws. “Not like it would be the first time. We shared a bedroll often enough when we first met.”

He really was feeling vulnerable if he was leaning on his Coyote blood’s desire to sleep in a pile with his family-pack. Siavyn considered it, and smiled wryly, knowing he would be up until dawn working on the new spells for the keep. “You kick, Trickster. Get some rest. I won’t leave without waking you.”

Shiriki huffed, the put-upon diva, and bundled himself into the blanket even as Siavyn raised wards around the room with a thought.

“Night, Sio.”

“Good night, Shiriki. Sleep well.”

+++

Of Other Worlds:

Stara and Eislynn are sisters sworn to the service and protection of the Multiverse. Now if only it would tell them what exactly it wanted them to do.

Between Lives

Fortress of Sand

Revelare

Octuple Negative

+++

More Stories!

+++

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pepperedappels · 4 years

Text

SkekMal/Rek'yr Arranged Marriage AU

So I've had this AU in my head for a couple of days now but I've already got too much going on to actually write it so I'm just gonna stick it in a tumblr post

under the read more cuz this is long

So basically SkekSo decides that to strengthen their control over the Gelfling clans even more they will make each of the clans send a member of their respective Maudra's family to receive 'the high honor' of wedding one of their Lords.

The Skeksis need some convincing at first, most of them aren't exactly keen on the idea of being stuck with a Gelfling for an extended period of time but eventually they agree (if only because they know they can't go against their Emperor when he's come up with a new scheme). The only problem is none of them want to be married to a Dousan as they are known to be death worshipers.

Cue SkekSo deciding the Dousan bride will be gifted to SkekMal, if the Dousan enjoy death so much they will certainly get their fair share of it around the Hunter.

The Skeksis all have a good laugh at that, saying that the Dousan won't last a day with SkekMal. “In fact, the Hunter will probably kill them before the wedding night is through!”

Word is sent to the seven clans and plans for the upcoming nuptials are put into place.

SkekMal is none too pleased when he is summoned to the Castle only to be told he'll be marrying a Gelfling and a simpering little desert dweller to boot. He has no choice but to agree however, knowing that if he goes against the Emperor he will meet the same fate as the Heretic.

Meanwhile at the Crystal Desert the message has arrived with the Emperor's proclamation. Since Maudra Seethi has no siblings Rek'yr offers himself up for marriage in her place (it is my headcanon that Seethi and Rek'yr are cousins). She tries to convince him to change his mind but he won't. “You are Maudra, our people need you.”

Decision made Rek'yr sets off for the Castle the next day.

When he arrives at the Castle he finds the place in utter chaos, podlings and guards rushing about to get everything ready at the last minute. He's given directions to the throne room and takes his time getting there to explore the Castle for a bit.

The first Skeksis he encounters is Chamberlain.

“Dousan is here to be wed, yes? Come, come, Chamberlain will bring you to meet future husband! Hmmm.” Rek'yr follows until eventually they manage to locate the Hunter hiding out on a remote balcony.

“Ah, finally have found Hunter. Come, meet new bride, yes?”

SkekMal looks like he'd rather jump off the balcony but rises and walks over to tower over Rek'yr.

Rek'yr bows. “My Lord. It is an honor to meet you, I am Rek'yr of the Dousan clan, Sandma-- well, that is, *former* Sandmaster of the Southern Xeric.”

SkekMal just glares at him and turns to Chamberlain. “When will this whole charade be over with?”

“Tonight, hmmm. Gelfling and Skeksis wed tonight, is great celebration with large feast, yes.”

SkekMal growls and storms off without another word.

Rek'yr watches him go suddenly feeling a lot less certain about this whole thing after realizing the one he's supposed to be spending the rest of his life with clearly wants nothing to do with him.

“Hunter not most social of Skeksis, is pity. Come, Chamberlain take you to get ready, hmmm.”

Rek'yr is brought to a large room where he is whisked off by a couple of attendants to be bathed and dolled up for the ceremony and before he knows it he's brought to the throne room to get married.

The ceremony is over in a blur. Rek'yr and SkekMal stand across from each other, say their 'I do's' as the Emperor ties their hands together and then it is done. The moment SkekSo removes the strip of fabric binding their hands SkekMal storms off to stalk around at the edge of the room, his bad mood so palpable no one tries to approach him.

They are seated beside each other at the feast but the Hunter doesn't say a word to him all evening, just tears into his food and ignores all of Rek'yr's attempts at conversation.

The moment the Emperor announces they are free to retire for the rest of the evening (wishing them a very 'pleasant' night) SkekMal is gone, Rek'yr having to hurry to keep up with him as he follows him out of the Castle.

“Where are we going, my Lord?”

“Don't call me that.” SkekMal growls.

Rek'yr hesitates, then says, “...Husband.”

SkekMal whips around to glare at him. “Not that either!”

Rek'yr's brows furrow as he starts to get annoyed. “Then what should I call you?”

“Hunter.”

“You want me to call you by your title even though we are married?”

SkekMal scoffs, “Just because the Emperor forced me to go along with that damn charade doesn't mean anything to me, don't expect me to treat you any differently than the rest of your pathetic kind. Now keep up or I'm leaving you behind.”

Rek'yr silently follows behind the Hunter until they arrive at a cave. “Get in.”

Rek'yr walks in, looking around the rather spacious cave until his eyes land on the pile of furs that passes for a bed.

Rek'yr swallows, suddenly nervous. He's no virgin but SkekMal is practically a stranger to him despite the fact that they are now married. He's not exactly looking forward to this but he knows what is expected of him, knew it when he agreed to do this.

Rek'yr starts to take off his clothes when he is interrupted by SkekMal.

“What are you doing?”

Rek'yr gave him a look that said *isn't it obvious?* “...Undressing, my Lo... Hunter.”

“I have no interest in taking you against your will.” SkekMal says, turning to stoke a fire.

Rek'yr frowns, staring at the Hunter's back in confusion. “But... I am willing. It is our wedding night and it is expected that we--”

The Hunter is up and towering over him in an instant. “It is expected that I fuck you bloody until you can't even stand much less walk so you won't be able to run away, is that what you want?”

Rek'yr swallows. “No.”

“Then get on the bed and sleep.” SkekMal huffs, moving over to the other side of the cave and sitting against the wall.

After that outburst Rek'yr puts up no protest, crawling under the furs.

“What about you?” Rek'yr asks, feeling bad that he's taken the Hunter's bed when SkekMal could just as easily have made him sleep on the floor.

“I can pass the night without sleep, now be silent.”

Rek'yr looks at the Hunter for a long time before eventually closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of the Hunter's musk that lingered on the furs (which was actually quite pleasant).

“Goodnight, Hunter.”

SkekMal huffs and says nothing.

Of course they would eventually grow closer and start to fall for each other. It probably starts off with SkekMal going hunting and Rek'yr refusing to be left behind to sit around in the cave all day so he tags along.

SkekMal complains about it at first until he learns Rek'yr is a skilled tracker and hunter in his own right. Rek'yr never complains about the harsh pace the Hunter sets and doesn't get squeamish at the sight of the corpses SkekMal drags back, in fact Rek'yr even offers to help with them. It gets to a point where after a hunt SkekMal will wordlessly drop his latest kill at Rek'yr's feet and Rek'yr will skin the creature and take the meat to be prepared, leaving the bones for the Hunter to take his trophy from.

Sometimes Rek'yr will even take the bones the Hunter doesn't want to make into charms. The first time SkekMal sees Rek'yr stringing a handful of bones together intrigues him enough to ask what the Dousan is doing. Rek'yr explains what the charms are for, how the bones offer not just protection and strength but can also be used for things like health and luck. SkekMal is pleased Rek'yr is using his kills (though at this point he's unconsciously started referring to them as *their* kills) to make his own trophies.

Rek'yr offers to fashion him some charms and SkekMal doesn't refuse, wearing them with his other trophies.

So they settle into an almost domestic day to day life but even after they've been married for almost a full thrine they still haven't slept together. They both have feelings for each other but both are reluctant to take the first step.

Until one day while they're out on a hunt one or both of them gets a little too close to a creature's claws for comfort making them realize how close they came to almost losing the other and how they can't envision their life without them in it anymore.

They retire for bed in silence, both with heavy thoughts on their minds.

They've taken to sharing a bedroll (because Rek'yr insisted SkekMal shouldn't have to sleep on the floor about a week into their marriage) and as Rek'yr turns around to face SkekMal he finds the Hunter still awake and looking at him.

Their eyes meet and hold, something charged that has been building between them for unum finally reaching its breaking point. Rek'yr puts his hand on the Hunter's chest and starts to move it down slowly, giving SkekMal every chance to stop him.

He doesn't.

They undress each other without saying a word until they're both naked with Rek'yr on his back and SkekMal above him between his spread legs.

Before they can take the final step SkekMal asks “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Rek'yr nods. “It is. What about you, do you want this, want me?”

SkekMal caresses Rek'yr's face. “I have wanted you for a long time now.”

Rek'yr leans into his palm. “Then take me.”

And then they bone 🤣

So yeah that's it

This idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out but I've already got so many fics I haven't finished yet so at least this way it exists as a semi-fic in the world instead of just in my head

#skekmal #rek'yr #skekmal/rek'yr #sandhunter #The Dark Crystal #the dark crystal age of resistance #my fics #sorta

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pip25 · 4 years

Text

Refuge - A Lina/Xelloss fanfic

Hi there! This is a small companion fic written for the the April prompt of @slayersweek, a prequel of sorts to my main fanfiction story, “Slayers - Order in Chaos”. Knowledge of that fic is (hopefully) not necessary to understand most of what’s going on. Hope you’ll enjoy! :)

It was definitely not the average summer downpour.

The wind howled like an army of restless ghosts, while innumerable flashes of lightning turned dusk into noon for several seconds at a time. Not much could be seen, however; obscuring all sight beyond a couple of steps, the rain poured with a ferocious intensity that would give even seasoned adventurers pause.

Watching the storm vent its rage over the jagged mountainside, Lina Inverse found herself to be no exception, despite having over a hundred years of experience under her belt.

They had to consider themselves extremely lucky, having managed to find shelter moments before the rainfall went entirely out of control. The rock alcove the two of them had stumbled upon had its entrance opposite the wind’s direction and it seemed like no water could get inside from above either.

On the other hand, their hiding place was, to put it mildly, incredibly small. A far cry from anything that could be considered a cave, the alcove was barely high enough for the average person to stand, and had just enough surface area to fit a single bed. It was enclosed by cold, uneven rock on three sides, and a low stone wall on the fourth; beyond that, there was nothing but rain and wind.

“Well, I think we will be safe here for a while,” the sorceress said, turning away from the storm to look at her companion. “I doubt we’ll be going anywhere before tomorrow morning though, so… we might as well set up camp.”

She loosened a clasp below her neck, reached over her shoulder with one hand and took off her cloak.

“Here, hold onto this for a sec.” Despite her dangling the piece of clothing in front of him, the dark-haired man remained motionless, his face turned in the direction of the rain as he leant against the stone wall. “Um, hello…! Urgent message from the Material Plane to Xelloss! Please respond…!”

“Oh, my apologies,” the priest dismissed his staff from existence and grabbed the cloak with both hands around its shoulder line. “I was looking for any alternative accommodations nearby, but regrettably came up empty-handed.” He cocked his head to the side. “There does not seem to be much we can set up here, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what you think,” Lina smiled mysteriously. “Watch me turn this tiny jail cell into a high-class inn in no time.”

Now that she could use two hands, the sorceress removed her gloves and shoulder guards as well, then started rummaging through the countless magical pockets of her cloak with dizzying speed. She first retrieved a bedroll and laid it down; it fit the available room on the stone floor almost perfectly, leaving only a tiny bit of space at Xelloss’ feet. Next came a thick blanket, then a notebook, a wooden case about the size of a deck of cards, two large sacks of nuts and jerky, and finally a waterskin, still half-full.

Putting the case, the snacks and the waterskin next to the pillow section of the bedroll, Lina hopped down on the opposite end, threw her boots into the corner next to the priest, then crawled under the blanket.

“There! A cozy little alcove, in more ways than one.” Her head reappeared on the other side, soon to be joined by her right hand which flung a piece of jerky into her mouth. “Sure, the floor isn’t exactly soft, but from what I’ve heard that’s good for your back. Really, if it wasn’t for the fact that it’s out here in the middle of nowhere, I’d be shocked that people aren’t charging money for this.”

“It may indeed look comfortable, but I would not call it especially warm, even now in late summer,” Xelloss mused. “The weather being as it is, you might run into trouble by the early morning hours, even with that blanket on.”

Hardly appreciative of his warning, the sorceress folded her arms and stuck her tongue out at him. “Fine, be that way, you doomsayer. Remind me to gloat about how wrong you were in the morning.”

With that, she immersed herself in her late dinner. The food looked plenty, more than sufficient for four or five ordinary travelers; but Lina Inverse was quite far from ordinary, and for her it was just enough to get by until tomorrow. Unwilling to let that dampen her mood or to give her companion any more openings, she resolved herself to do something she rarely did: eat slowly, try to savor each bite, so her rations would last longer.

However, being accustomed to a meal requiring her full attention (to keep the plates, silverware and food from flying all over the place), she now found herself easily sidetracked; her gaze kept jumping back to the priest, who still stood there with his back against a wall, unmoving, as if he had become part of the makeshift room’s furniture somehow.

An unsettling thought ran through her head: she once saw him standing in the exact same spot for an entire night at the edge of a cliff, gazing into the distance.

This time there was no cliff edge, and he was not staring into the unknown – but at her.

“Um, Xelloss, don’t you want to sit down or something?” she asked. The prospect of him staying like that until morning – she had to admit, it creeped her out quite a bit. At least if he lowered himself to the floor, the whole thing would become less obvious.

The mazoku looked down at his feet. “I’d be glad to, but with so little room I fear I’d be sitting on you instead of the ground… unless…” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, here’s an idea!”

His body started floating upwards as if submerged in water, and a few seconds later he was waving cheerfully at the sorceress from above – sitting cross-legged upside-down on the rugged ceiling.

“What do you think? An imaginative solution, don’t you agree?”

Lina’s head plopped down weakly on the cushion. “Oh gods, this is even worse!”

“But why? I am sitting, am I not?” Xelloss looked at her like she had refused to accept that one plus one did in fact equal two.

“That’s not the issue here! It’s… uh…” the sorceress stammered. Explaining the problem to her companion felt like willingly inviting a terrible headache. “Geez, just come down from there already!”

The priest shrugged, lowered himself from the ceiling – and began floating halfway between that and the floor, seemingly lying on his stomach in the air just above her.

“Any better?” he asked, relaxing with both hands behind his head.

The sorceress hid her face in her hand. “Two words: Hell no.”

What seemed like genuine disappointment spread through Xelloss’ features.

“I… see.” he muttered with a pout. “Well, if you feel so strongly about this, I suppose I can simply withdraw to the Astral Plane for the time being…”

With a sigh, his projection blurred, then disappeared.

The sorceress frowned. She was quick to remind herself that he probably said all that just to make her feel guilty about driving him out of their shelter, at least in the physical sense. Being the annoying person he is, Xelloss cared nothing of the fact that she had several good reasons for doing so. Very good reasons.

To her even greater annoyance, however, this knowledge brought no change to the outcome: she did feel somewhat bad about it.

She looked around frantically in the alcove, but the priest was right: there simply was not enough room for him on the floor… with one possible exception. An exception he did not point out, and it was painfully obvious to her why.

In utter disbelief that she would even consider this, Lina rolled her eyes… and patted the bedroll beside her.

“Hey, Xelloss… I… guess you could fit under the blanket…”

She barely had the time to withdraw her hand, and the mazoku was already there, his head sticking out from beneath the thick fabric, his grin bigger than ever.

“My, Lina-san, aren’t you being bold this evening?”

Lina figured the two of them would not have much room next to each other, but it was far worse than she thought: the priest’s right arm was already bumping into her own.

“There’s absolutely nothing ‘bold’ going on here, capiche?” Her words sounded like she wanted to convince herself just as much as her companion. “You’re the one who said it’s going to get cold later on. Well, luckily for me, your projection has plenty of body heat you don’t need, so consider that your price of admission. Now, put your hands where I can see them.”

The priest raised a provocative eyebrow. “What exactly are you suggesting I would do with my—”

“Your hands where I can see them. Right. Now. Or I might really start entertaining some bold thoughts, like dragon-slaving you from under the covers.”

Xelloss obediently slid further up towards the wall behind his head, revealing his hands, arms and shoulder line; while he was still wearing gloves, his cloak and sack seemed to have disappeared.

More than eager to close the book on the previous conversation topic, the sorceress moved towards the edge of the bedroll to get at least a few inches of distance between them, then grabbed the wooden case next to the near-empty sacks of food. After a couple of botched attempts, it yielded its contents.

“…Glasses, Lina-san?” The priest seemed so surprised, his eyes fluttered open for a second.

“Yep, I need these to read my notes.” After levitating a ball of light to just below the low ceiling, she retrieved the booklet and opened it around the middle. Adjusting the tiny rimless frame on her nose, she scanned the seemingly empty page – but turned to the mazoku immediately afterwards. “Go on, say it.”

“Say what exactly?” Xelloss replied, wearing his best ‘I’m going to play dumb and there’s nothing you can do about it’ expression.

The Lighting spell at the ceiling suddenly became very interesting to Lina for some reason. “Well, me cooped up under the blanket, reading a book with these glasses on… makes me look like some old lady, doesn’t it?”

The priest scrutinized her features for several long moments. “Hmm… I don’t think I see much of a difference.”

Her shoulders drooped. “Oh. Too bad.“ She glanced back in Xelloss’ direction. “…What? I am an old lady, you know. It’s great being the irresistible ageless beauty and all, but is it so bad that I sometimes wish I could look the part a bit more?”

He raised both hands in a gesture of denial. “Not at all… though countless women and men less than half your age would want to have your head, Lina-san, if they could hear of this.”

The sorceress let loose a dangerous-sounding snicker. “Let them have it… if they can take it.” She turned a page back in her notebook, which seemed just as empty as the one before. “I don’t think I’ve ever been a pushover, but if this pans out… their odds might just get a tiny bit worse. As in a snowball’s chance in hell.”

His eyebrows soaring upwards with curiosity, Xelloss slid closer to her to take a peek; she was about to pull her notebook away from him when her body froze up, almost as if struck by a surge of electricity. But to her embarrassment, it was no attack magic – merely the priest’s shoulder-length hair brushing the tip of her ears.

“Ah, invisible ink! No wonder you need special glasses to look at the pages,” he marveled.

“And of course, you don’t. Why am I not surprised?” Lina grumbled, but the mazoku’s curiosity was starting to rub off on her. “So…? You’d better be amazed; you’ve been given the honor of being the first person ever to see my ground-breaking, top secret research project.”

Xelloss’ eyes opened ever so slightly, and the previously invisible paragraphs and diagrams started to glow on the pages with a faint bluish light. “This appears to be fundamental magic theory for holy spells…” his eyes opened further, “…cast in the human language.”

The sorceress broke out in a smug grin. “Pretty fancy stuff, isn’t it? Holy magic’s been around for almost a century now, so you’d think someone would’ve done this ages ago, but nope. Some lunatics wanted to learn the golden dragons’ language instead! Theyiiii—”

She desperately bit back a yelp as the priest leaned forward, and the hair on the back of his head tickled its way down along her neck. “…Uh… Long story short… I don’t want to brag, but I think I’ve really outdone myself this time.”

Her companion did not respond immediately; his eyes seemed to be glued to the notebook in thought.

“Is this the most recent version of your theory, Lina-san?” he finally spoke. “Because, if I may be blunt, these numbers appear to be grossly inaccurate.”

“…H-Huh?” She leaned forward as well; their faces were basically touching from the side, but she was too upset to pull away at that point. “What do you mean ‘inaccurate’?! Look here, it makes total sense! I’ve been doing some experiments to boot, and it all works!”

Xelloss’ smile was as warm and understanding as it was insincere. “But of course. And if you intend to restrict yourself to the holy equivalent of that Lighting spell above our heads, this will do just fine. If you wish to go anywhere beyond that, however… I’m afraid it’s not even close.”

After those words, it came as little surprise when Lina’s left arm circled around his neck and pulled him into a headlock, one that could have been much more fierce if it weren’t for the fact that the limited room required her to basically hug the priest to her chest.

“And what do you know about holy magic, huh? Huh?!” she yelled, her flushed cheeks just making her even more angry. “You’re not going to play the ‘age-old mystical being’ card on me this time, Mr. Know-it-All! The power of the gods did not come anywhere near the peninsula when you were prancing around during the last thousand years!”

The priest reached up, his left hand resting casually on her elbow as if her throttling truly was little more than an affectionate embrace.

“You wouldn’t believe how many holy spells I’ve found in Claire Bible manuscripts, Lina-san. I know much more about such magic than what I suppose would be appropriate for a mazoku of my stature,” he added jokingly. “It likely also helps that I speak the language of the golden dragons without difficulty; once you understand how they think, the fundamentals of their spells aren’t that hard to grasp.”

Her arm slowly relaxed around his neck.

“Okay, if you’re that sure of yourself… then prove it,” she said simply. “Tell me what the right numbers are, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

His hand ascended further, and he waggled an index finger in front of her face.

“A respectable attempt to bait me, I admit, but surely you realize that those numbers are a se—” Chomp. “Um… Would you mind not eating my finger?”

Ignoring his plea, the sorceress started chewing instead. “No, dheir nyot a decret!” With a look of displeasure, she finally released both his finger and his neck. “Bleh!… Seriously Xelloss, why don’t we try something new for a change? This is important, valuable info, I get it; but I don’t think Zellas specifically ordered you not to reveal it to anyone. So how about we try to make a deal? There’s no harm in seeing if there’s anything worthwhile I can offer you in exchange.”

Still well within the boundaries of her personal space, the mazoku’s eyes opened once more. “I can’t help but repeat myself: you really are quite bold this evening, Lina-san.”

She tried to move her head further back, but immediately felt her hair touch the unforgiving stone wall behind her. “Uh, let me rephrase that: I’m talking about an exchange of information, okay?”

As if on cue, Xelloss’ expression morphed into the friendliest one imaginable. “Naturally! What else could you have possibly been referring to just now…?” Apparently satisfied by the murderous look she sent his way, he let the topic drop. “In all seriousness though, while I find your proposition intriguing, I don’t see what you could offer me that would be of similar value to the human race discovering an entirely new form of magic… especially if we restrict the exchange to nothing but information.”

With unhurried movements, Lina put her glasses back into their case, and when she looked at the priest again, her lips curled into a smirk that matched his perfectly.

“Come on, don’t disappoint me like that,” she spoke in a low, soft voice. “I’d come up with the right numbers by myself eventually; no need to blow this out of proportion. Meanwhile, here I am, ready to answer any and all questions you could possibly have, and after all we’ve been through, you really can’t think of even one thing you’d like to ask?”

The mazoku propped himself up on an elbow, his other hand touching his chin in contemplation. “Any and all, you say…? That would be tempting… if it weren’t for the severe restrictions I feel I’d nonetheless have to uphold if I wanted to keep our little shelter here in one piece.”

Now it was the sorceress’ turn to lean closer to her companion.

“You don’t have to. If I get wet, it’s my loss,” she whispered, her tone dead serious. “Try me.”

His smile widened, a flash of lightning illuminating his face at the exact same moment, making the sight even less comforting.

“If you so wish. Assuming that I’d agree to this arrangement, my first question would be this: eighty-seven years ago, the five of us were travelling through the Kathoman islands at the southern part of the ocean.” Lina’s eyebrows twitched with discomfort. “One night I was called away on unrelated business, and when I returned in the morning, I found both you and Gourry-san looking like you did not get a minute of sleep, while Amelia-san informed me that the two of you did not get back until dawn. I never found out why; in fact, even years later, the mere mention of the incident sent you into a bout of embarrassed rage.” He put a gloved hand on her trembling fist which dug into the blanket like she was hanging on to it for dear life. “Would you be willing to explain exactly what happened that night?”

Speaking through gritted teeth, it took all of the sorceress’ willpower not to snap. “If that’s what you want to hear, fine,” she hissed. “Do we have a deal?”

Her reply visibly took the mazoku by surprise. “…Perhaps, but hold on, I’ve yet to state my terms in full. I’d like to ask you five questions; this is the first one. If you refuse to answer any of them, or I have reason to believe that you are not telling the truth or are omitting significant details, I reserve the right to withdraw from the agreement. Is that acceptable?”

In response, Lina slapped his hand away and receded under the blanket to the point that only her angry crimson eyes were visible.

“Alright you damn pervert, listen,” she muttered. “Gourry and I… we thought we’d explore the island a bit before sunset. We were about to head back to camp when we ran into a couple of natives; they spoke with a really thick accent, but were a genuinely friendly sort and seemed to have taken a liking to us. They’ve invited us to a… festival of some kind they were holding in their village, with free food and all that. There was a catch though: those wishing to attend had to be there by sundown. We didn’t have the time to tell Amelia and Zel… but, well, I thought we’d just eat some delicious grub and leave after an hour or so.” She winced. “I think I should have known better. If not right there, then after we arrived in the village and I saw all that… weird… stuff.”

“Details, Lina-san,” Xelloss reminded her in a sing-song voice. “Don’t forget about the details.”

“Aaargh… There were… statues of…” She forced the words out of her mouth. “…statues of… male… genitals… everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. Big, small, tiny, house-sized… you name it. They told me they were just… decorations… and that, combined with the mountains of food I saw being served won over my urge to get out of there at top speed. Gourry looked pretty relaxed too, so it didn’t seem like we were in any danger… I guess we really weren’t. But…”

She trailed off for a couple of seconds, her chest heaving like she was short of breath.

“The whole festival thing soon became even more suspicious,” she continued with considerable effort. “The invitation sounded like they simply wanted us to join the fun, but once we were there… we were treated like guests of honor, like the success of the entire celebration hinged on us. My nerves were already somewhat on edge, so I made a mental note to watch my back. Nothing happened though… not at first. The food just kept on coming, each course more delicious than the one before… until around midnight.”

The priest watched as her gaze became unfocused, her eyes widening with horror.

“I glanced up from my meal and saw that… the whole village started taking off their clothes… not like they wore many to begin with. Then… the guy who invited us stepped beside me and… encouraged me to do the same. Like it was… no big deal at all.” She clenched her eyes shut. “I was… this close to leveling the entire island… but then… I noticed Gourry. He was talking to the village elder in a perplexed voice saying something like… this wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.”

Xelloss stared blankly at her. “I… I’m not sure I follow,” he stammered.

“You’ll understand soon enough. Now shut up,” Lina growled. “Obviously, I started grilling Gourry for answers… you can take that literally, I know there were at least a few Fireballs involved. It turned out… he paid the villagers for the food, and asked them to invite us here. He wanted it to be a surprise, to… to celebrate… our anniversary.” She turned under the blanket to face the priest, a strange, agonized smile appearing on her lips. “It was actually a week later, but leave it to him to mix up the dates. To make things worse, the natives didn’t understand what an anniversary was, and thought he was trying to arrange some sort of… fertility… ritual.”

She gave a deep, forlorn sigh.

“Gourry wasn’t done though. After explaining to the villagers that we were going to keep our clothes on, he told them to ‘skip to the next part’. Before I could recover from the shock and bring myself to ask what the hell was that supposed to mean, I saw drums, flutes and… other instruments I didn’t recognize being brought out by the dozens. My husband stood there in the middle of them, and, accompanied by a choir of still butt naked men and women… he started to sing.”

She suddenly reached out and grabbed Xelloss by his collar, pulling him closer. The strained smile on her face blossomed into an expression even more baffling: it was impossible to tell whether Lina was about to laugh or cry.

“That idiot jellyfish…! I have no idea where he got the melody from, but get this: the lyrics were about how he couldn’t come up with any lyrics! How, no matter what he tried, he could not think of anything fancy to fit the occasion, but… he hoped I would like the song anyway, because… he thought it would… it would make me smile.” Her voice almost broke for a moment. “That… was so… him.”

She released the priest, but did not pull away.

“I think I fell out of my chair somewhere in the middle of the song… I don’t remember when or if I ever got back up. The rest of the night felt like I was in a daze… we were eating, singing… Ceiphied knows how, but I think they even got me to sing something, but I can’t recall what it was… I distinctly remember, though, trying to find a way to get Gourry and me alone, so I could beat the living crap out of him. I… or was it him?... managed to find an empty tent many hours later. In the end… well, the beating was postponed… and our second child was born early that next year.” She gazed at her companion with a weary look. “Is that enough detail for you, or do you want me to list the goddamn positions?”

The mazoku hastily donned a cheerful façade to hide his stunned expression. “I reckon I can fill in the blanks.”

“It’s so weird though,” she muttered absently, as if she did not even hear him. “I always figured if I told anyone about this, I’d either die of embarrassment, or at least blow up half the continent. But now… I don’t know how I feel. I…”

A single tear rolled down her cheek onto the bedroll.

Xelloss’ brows furrowed slightly. “There was no time limit in the terms I’ve set. Would you prefer if we continued this conversation tomorrow?” he asked in a careful voice.

“No… it’s fine,” she spoke in a half-whisper, managing to add a shaky wink. “And that was your second question.”

The priest wrinkled his brow further in confusion, then let out a small chuckle. “Oh dear… I did let my guard down, didn’t I?”

While he did not look particularly offended, his last few words - possibly a warning, a provocation, or just a remark of no consequence - were left hanging in the air. For the next few minutes, the two lay in the tiny stone alcove, under the cozy blanket, facing each other in complete silence.

Outside, the storm somehow managed to intensify even further. Instead of providing the occasional blinding flash or two, lightning became a constant feature of the night sky. The claps of thunder were distant at least, but as they melded into the scream of the wind, they created a horrid alloy of sound that seeped inside the tiniest cracks, wailing like a harbinger of doom.

Still, somehow all of that did not matter one bit. Lina pulled the blanket back above her shoulders, and let herself relax in the soothing warmth that enveloped her. Her gear was the best money could buy of course, but the sensation went far beyond what wool lining alone could provide; she felt some of this warmth coming from within her in greater and greater waves, like a hot spring that burst forth from her chest.

“I’m starting to feel sorry for the weather,” she said lightly, breaking the silence between them. “It’s trying so hard, and here I am, my only worry being what you’re going to ask me next.”

Xelloss put a hand behind his head in an almost bashful gesture.

“My, you flatter me, Lina-san.” His smile turned mischievous. “Unfortunately, flattery will get you nowhere. My first question was mostly aimed at testing your resolve; now that we’ve moved past that, let us get down to business, shall we?”

The sorceress nodded, rubbing her eyes. “Ask away.”

Somewhere nearby the roaring wind managed to fell a tree, sending it tumbling down the mountainside.

“I’ve been curious about this for a good while now: what exactly is your greatest fear?” the priest asked in a conversational tone. “The real one, I mean. I’m rather convinced the answer has little to do with slugs, and these days the mention of Luna-san also doesn’t quite cause the same panic attack it used to.”

As if to prove his point, Lina indeed merely frowned upon hearing her sister’s name.

“We really are getting serious, huh?” she spoke without much enthusiasm, blinking a few times. “Well, at least I don’t need to think too hard on that one. A word of warning though: I doubt it’ll be as interesting as you hope it to be, and it’s also kinda… hard to explain, at least in any detail.”

“Oh, no need to worry,” Xelloss on the other hand did not even try to hide his curiosity. “We can start with the simplest version, and go from there.”

Followed by her gaze, the sorceress’ index finger drew a shaky line on the bedroll between them.

“How do I say this… Remember Auntie Aqua?” With the raging storm as its backdrop, her voice was barely audible. “When we first met her while looking for a spell I could use against Garv, she showed me a vision… an alternate reality or just an illusion, I still don’t know… where I miscast the Giga Slave and destroyed the world.” Her finger came to a halt. “I think that’s where it all started… but that’s not it. My greatest fear isn’t what this would lead you to believe.” She looked at the priest again. “Maybe we should try to find some common ground first. It feels weird to ask this, you being a mazoku and all, but… how close did you ever get to experiencing true nothingness? Not just darkness or desolation, but a void without light, without matter… without anything.”

The priest’s cheerful smile waned inexplicably. “I believe I have seen what you describe… or at least something not far from it.”

Her hand slowly moved to touch the edge of his cloak. “Could you tell me about it? It might help me explain.”

Breaking eye contact, Xelloss appeared to be studying the orb of light above for several long moments, his face an expressionless mask.

“Very well. I suppose I did say we’re in no particular hurry,” he finally answered, sounding like he had made his mind up about something.

As if in anticipation, the incredible winds outside let up slightly.

“It happened a century or two after the War of the Monster’s Fall,” he began, his open eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Nothing in particular prompted me to do what I did, aside from idle curiosity perhaps. Sometimes humans simply feel like testing how far they can jump; that day, I decided to test how high up I could fly.”

He gave a light shrug. “Well, I said ‘fly’, but once I realized the true extent of the distance between me and the clouds, I quickly added short-range teleportation as an option. I reached my destination in just a few minutes; while the view was no doubt fascinating, to my disappointment there seemed to be nothing further up but an endless, empty azure sphere. Honestly, I was close to ending my little escapade right there, but ultimately I chose to go a bit higher regardless, just to be certain.”

Xelloss raised an arm to point at the unseen sky behind the layers of rock. “That blue sphere, I soon realized, is simply an illusion of some sort, if not necessarily magical in nature. The higher one goes, the more the color fades away into a starless night, caring nothing of the fact that the sun is still far from the horizon. Also, even with constant teleports, it eventually began to feel like I was barely making progress; thus I decided to bend space further, and multiply my distance from the ground many times in a single instant.”

After a beat of silence, the mazoku spoke in a voice that felt strangely weak and distant. “What I saw then… was genuinely unexpected. For one, the Material Plane is apparently a misnomer. It is not the sky, but the realm itself which takes the form of a sphere, not unlike the moon and the sun, which seem to exist as worlds separate from our own.” His expression hardened. “A lot more… unsettling, however, was what I did not see. The three orbs aside, everywhere I looked, both on this side and on the astral… I saw naught but emptiness, a black void stretching into a distance so unimaginably vast, it seemed impossible even for me to comprehend. It indeed lacked virtually everything: not just light and matter, but even force and motion. I was floating in place without using magic; I did not fall and, aside from spinning uselessly in place, I could not move either. Without the ability to teleport… I would have been trapped in that void for an eternity.” His eyes slowly closed. “Needless to say… my stay there was brief. I returned to the surface in short order, and have felt no desire to revisit that place ever since.”

The winds died down completely, wrapping the alcove in the much gentler sound of pouring rain.

With a faint smile on her lips, Lina drew closer, and rested her hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Well, what do you know,” she mused in what was little more than a whisper. “I didn’t expect us to share the same fear.”

Her companion frowned a little. “I said nothing about fear.”

“Right, you didn’t,” her soft voice quelled his protests quickly, almost ruthlessly. “But you should be able to understand then. What my true fear really is.”

Taking a deep breath, the sorceress closed her eyes as well. “Auntie Aqua showed me a vision of it, then Hellmaster Fibrizo let me experience it in reality. I can’t really put its horror into words the way you did, but… it’s like the exact opposite of all I hold dear in life. Something that terrifying, no matter how I’d try, I could never forget.” Her hand tightened its grip on Xelloss’ shoulder. “No, it’s more than that. At times… on some really bad days, I could still feel it lingering: its coldness hiding in every conversation turned sour, its weight pushing me down with each loved one I’ve lost.” Another tear rolled down her cheek. “When… when Gourry died, and I did not know where to go, what to do… when I looked at the road ahead of me, I did not see new things to discover, people to meet, good food to eat… I only saw black nothingness spreading before me throughout the centuries to come, until the last shred of the person I used to be gives up hope… and ceases to exist.”

Despite the sadness filling her words, Lina’s expression was not upset, not even worried. Her eyes still closed, she put her head against the priest’s shoulder next to her hand, her deep, even breaths becoming the loudest sound in the alcove as even the downpour began to lose its momentum outside.

“And yet, here you are.” Xelloss replied after a little while, his own voice likewise strangely calm. “Roaming the lands, fighting battles, solving mysteries, eating a truly astounding amount of food, discovering new magic… Lina-san, as far as I can tell, and I do believe I can tell – you’ve never been more you.”

Slowly but surely, that faint smile from before returned to her face.

“Yeah…” she breathed. “….and whose fault is that?”

His widening grin aside, the mazoku gave no answer to her question.

Instead, he turned his gaze outside, above the low wall of the alcove, noting that only a slight drizzle remained of the cataclysmic onslaught from before. Even the clouds did not fully cover the sky anymore; through a small gap, one could glimpse a quite clear view of the waxing moon.

Xelloss’ eyes reopened, then immediately narrowed into a line of foreboding amethyst. For a minute, he stared at the moon, or perhaps what lay beyond it with a dark expression, as if sizing up an enemy of considerable power – then he smiled, like he was amused by his own reaction, and turned away.

“It seems we’re through the worst of it,” he commented absent-mindedly. “Most strange; judging from its sheer intensity just a little while ago, it would’ve been no surprise to see it last the whole night, don’t you think?” After several seconds had passed without any reaction, his gaze slid to the side. “…Lina-san?”

The sorceress was asleep. Her head still leaned against his shoulder, her hands hugging his arm like a small pillow.

Visibly surprised, Xelloss let out an awkward chuckle. “Goodness, Lina-san, do you expect me to stay like this all night?”

“…Mmmnhgnm…” came the eloquent reply.

The priest nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Of course, that was my fourth question.” With his free hand, he smoothed out the woolen fabric covering her shoulder. “And I suppose… the answer could not have been more obvious.”

Reacting to his brief glance upwards, the sphere of light blinked out – and the alcove was covered by a comfortable second blanket of darkness.

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

Lina stirred as her consciousness emerged from the realm of dreams, but decided almost immediately that she did not feel like waking up just yet. Her entire body was surrounded by soothing warmth, like a cocoon; even the strangely-shaped cushion she cradled in her arms radiated comfortable heat. She felt she could still spend many hours like this – it’s not like she had anything important to do, right?

Amazingly, the cushion shook a bit, not letting her drift back to sleep. With great reluctance, she opened her eyes to see what was happening. The first thing she noticed was a small notebook, lying on the edge of the bedroll and her blanket. It was opened around the middle, the pages filled with notes written by a steady hand, using what seemed to be black ink; even a few small diagrams were squeezed into the margins here and there.

Her right hand reached drowsily for the booklet. She did not understand how she could read its contents without her glasses, but what she understood even less was the simple fact that these notes were clearly not hers.

“Good morning, Lina-san,” her pillow greeted her in a gentle voice.

The sorceress was very much convinced that cushions did not usually move, much less talk, so with some apprehension she quickly glanced to her left.

As it turned out, her pillow did talk – this oddity being explained by the fact that her pillow was none other than a most cheerful-looking Xelloss.

She pulled away from the priest with breakneck speed.

“Uh… um… g-good morning,” she stammered, trying to remember how on earth she ended up falling asleep in that position. The events of last night were slowly coming back to her, but some details still remained frustratingly hazy. “Err, I see you wrote some stuff about holy magic into my notebook… thanks.” She still could not banish the look of confusion from her face. “This seems like… way more than what we agreed upon though.”

The mazoku gave a frivolous shrug.

“Well, I certainly had a lot of free time on my hands in the past few hours,” he explained. “Also, it was only fair; after all, our little question and answer session also went, how should I phrase this, quite above and beyond my initial expectations.” He winked at her. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Lina-san. You were absolutely right when you took the initiative, and I was in the wrong for being skeptical; feel free to gloat to your heart’s desire.”

The sorceress basically flattened herself against the wall in the corner. She did not like the sound of that, not one bit. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but… what are you talking about exactly?”

“Hmm, it would be rude of me to go into the most graphic of details,” the priest pondered, his words making Lina flinch. He drew closer, trapping her into the corner completely. “But since you insist, a few highlights that come to mind… You hiding bashfully under the blanket, not wanting me to see your face, much less anything else under it… The feel of your labored breaths… That expression you had in the moment when we reached one of the many climaxes of our evening, torn between joy and pain… And when the raging storm that drove us into this frenzy of emotion had finally calmed down, your head resting against me, peaceful and content… Though I understand that you were perhaps not entirely satisfied, given your offer to tell me about various ‘positions’ – but I think we still have plenty of time for that. We can slowly get to know this new side we discovered of each other yesterday, and see where it leads us.” He put both hands to his (illusory) heart. “Truly, Lina-san, this night we have spent together… it was a night to remember.”

The cold stone behind her back suddenly feeling searing hot, the sorceress flailed about mentally, trying in vain to calm down and make sense of what was happening. Xelloss would not lie, that was for certain, but the things he said…

One by one, they clicked into place. All of them were true of course, but none of them were real, at least not the way they were intended.

She turned her attention back to the priest, who waited expectantly, like a child causing mischief to be noticed by his parents. With every ounce of her willpower, she forced her expression into a calm smile.

“It really was,” she said as she reached forward to trace her finger along Xelloss’ cheek, much to the mazoku’s astonishment. “This is a nice place. It might be small, a bit cramped, but I liked it here.” The moment her hand touched his ear, she grabbed onto it and started yanking it in every possible direction. “WHICH IS THE ONLY REASON WHY I’M NOT GOING TO BURY YOU UNDER THE SMOULDERING RUINS OF THIS MOUNTAIN, UNDERSTOOD?!”

The priest did not put up much resistance beyond a playful wriggle or two. “Yes, Lina-san, I hear you loud and clear… as long as there’s anything left of my ears, that is.”

With a grumble, she let go of him and got to her feet. “You can keep them… for now.”

It took her a minute to pack things up, most of that time being spent on waiting for the best moment to strike, then savoring the view after she unceremoniously pulled the bedroll out from under Xelloss and made him tumble over the stone floor.

“Oh my, such viciousness,” the priest commented as he picked himself up, summoning his staff into his hand. “They say one’s choice of travelling companions reflects on oneself – what does this mean for me, I wonder?”

“You have something to say?” Lina asked in a dangerously sweet voice as she secured her cloak to her shoulder guards.

The mazoku glanced at the sky. There was barely a stray cloud to be seen; nothing challenged the pleasantly warm rays of the morning sun as they poured down on the mountainside.

“Actually, there is one thing I forgot to mention.” He leapt over the low wall to join the sorceress outside the alcove. “I never managed to ask my fifth question yesterday.”

Lina eyed him warily as he reached over her shoulder and gestured towards the winding mountain trail that disappeared and reappeared among the giant boulders and tall trees below them; a beautiful sight to behold.

The priest’s question came in a mellow voice. “Could you tell me what you see now, when you look at the road ahead of you?”

Her apprehension melting away, a smile with the same radiance as the sun above spread over Lina’s features. She took Xelloss’ hand and made him point towards the horizon.

“There, right there! See that?”

“I’m… not sure what ‘that’ is.”

His uncertain words were met with bright laughter as she started running along the trail, down the mountain.

“Don’t worry, I don’t know either!” she yelled back. “But something tells me it’ll be fun!”

Looking satisfied with her answer, Xelloss quickly followed suit.

#slayersweek

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itwasalwaysjustred · 4 years

Text

prompt #006 - make up day (close)

no pairings; WoL comforts a Alisaie before the battle at the Ghimlyt Dark, 702 words

content warnings: spoilers for post-Stormblood questlines

A sound wakes Nhagi’li, quiet and quickly muffled but alarming all the same.

He breathes, slowly, quietly, and listens, trying to determine what exactly it was that he’d heard, hoping that whatever it was will fail to stifle itself a second time. Though in theory they may all be safe here, tucked away in an inconspicuous tent in the middle of thousands like it, that isn’t a complete guarantee that no harm will come to them. Nhagi’li has met Eorzea’s darker elements, beasts and humanoid alike, and he does not fancy being jumped by one of them in the dark.

Nhagi’li is in the middle of trying to decide how best he wants to fight off their potential intruder in close quarters in the dark when the sound slips again, a stuttered, wet inhale that can only mean one thing.

Someone is crying.

It doesn’t take much to guess who. Though she has kept a brave face for the entirety of this ordeal, she’s been losing ground ever since they first got wind of Alphinaud’s crash in the Burn. The sight of the Garlean transport ship and its scattered corpses had been more than enough to put a fine crack in Alisaie’s hardened resolve. To make matters worse, not only had they not found Alphinaud in the wreckage, what they had found suggested the danger of his mission had increased exponentially. The waiting, the not knowing, and then, the matter of the soulless Scions — Nhagi’li had watched it all start to pile one by one on top of her young, resolute shoulders. He had thought losing Urianger would have been the tipping point, but even he hadn’t expected to lift Alphinaud’s still body from the arms of one Gaius van Baelsar. It’s an image he’ll not soon forget.

Undoubtedly, it’s not one she’ll soon forget either.

Another inhale, this time followed by a poorly disguised sniff, and Nhagi’li makes his move. Sleeping on the ground makes travel easy — no bed frame squeaks or protesting mattresses to give him away as he slides out of his covers and onto the dirt floor. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust in the dark, but the still-smoldering torches outside make it easy enough to pick his way through their possessions until he arrives at her bedroll, trying to ignore how the way it’s bunched up hurts his chest. He would do the same; of that he knows without question. He would tuck himself somewhere safe to hide, where no one would witness his weakness. Even so, he cannot leave her to suffer like this, not when he’s all she has left.

Nhagi’li ignores Alisae’s startled gasp as he settles in behind her, squeezing his body onto a bedroll that is absolutely not meant to contain two people. “Cover hog,” he complains, voice roughed with sleep in a way that suggests he’s not nearly awake as he is. “Budge up, my feet are freezing.”

It takes some weaseling to get himself under the covers with her, but Nhagi’li is nothing if not persistent, rearranging the blankets until they’re both snuggled together under it. (In truth, he probably should have brought his own blankets too, but hindsight is 20/20). It’s a testament to her grief that she lets him manhandle her without complaint, that she unconsciously leans back into his chest when he throws a casual arm around her, that she lets him take one of her hands in his. Nhagi’li lets his eyes fall shut again as he lets his tail thump gently against her leg, reaching deep inside of himself for a purr that takes a few moments to truly get going.

He won’t say “I’ll find a way to fix him”; they both know that’s a promise he can’t keep. He can’t even reassure her that they’ll all come out of this okay, whatever “this” even is.. But he does do the only thing he can, which is to tuck her close and whisper, “It’s okay to cry. I won’t tell.”

Her bark of laughter is made wobbly by her tears, but she clutches his hand tightly to her chest, shoulders shaking.

Nhagi’li closes his eyes, and doesn’t let her go.

#ffxivwrite2020

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fallout4reactsblog · 5 years

Note

companions react to ss being in the red room before the war, and thats why their so good at fighting, killing, seducing people, etc

Companions are just realizing their crush for sole in this one! Warnings: depictions of violence, drug use

Cait: Cait watched sole disable the last of the collars keeping civilians as raider slaves. She allowed herself the briefest smile as families tearfully reunited and sole humbly waved off praise, only letting the barest hint of a smile show through on their face. As soon as they could get away, they picked their way over to her side, leaning up against the building with their arms folded.

“Thanks for doin’ this,” Cait said, giving them a gentle punch to the shoulder. “I know it was a hassle, but I do appreciate you doin’ this stuff for me.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Slavers are dicks. Anytime I can get a chance to hurt them, I will.” Their eyes trailed over the civilians making their way out of the camp and toward wherever home was. “Besides, it’s a little bit for me, too.”

“Oh?” Cait raised an eyebrow, waiting for them to continue, and to her surprise, they did.

“I guess it was a long time ago, but I was in cryo for most of that, so I don’t remember. So it feels like a couple months. But I remember what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call. No freedom, no will of your own, just doing what you were told.”

“Were there slaves before the war?”

They laughed a little. “Not legal ones, no. But there were people that would take civilians and train them in a place called the red room, teach them to become something other than human. Fighters, spies, torturers. They’d beat you until you learned, then either kill you or beat you some more. Then, once you graduated, you were always under your handlers command.”

Cait was smart enough to put two and two together. “And that was you.”

They nodded. “That was me, and I fucking hated it. The skills are great to have now, but constantly having to do everything my handler told me to, well, that was pretty damn miserable.”

“I always knew you’d seen some shite,” she said, leaning her head back against the wall. “Guess I was right.”

“Guess you were. Makes us two peas in a pod, huh?”

“Sure,” she snorted. “Two peas in a pod, whatever that means.”

“Come on.” They shoved off the wall and stepped into the sun. “Let’s get out of here. No sense in dredging up nasty memories for no reason.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

They headed into the sun.

Curie: “You have a lot of scars, cheri(e),” Curie noted as she patched up the latest of sole’s wounds. Her fingers trailed one without meaning to, and she quickly snatched her hand away in embarrassment.

Thankfully, sole didn’t seem to notice, as they just nodded. “The wasteland’s a pretty dangerous place. You get hurt a lot.”

Curie hummed a little, trying to focus in on the bandages that she was supposedly applying, but getting a little too distracted by their naked back to pay as much attention as she should. “Oui, this is true. But some of these are very old, non? They are from before the war, I think.”

They nodded again, letting out a long breath. “I suppose that’s also true. Life wasn’t much safer for me before the war, I guess.”

“Oh, why not?” She reached for a bit of tape to hold the bandages in place. “I did not think things were very dangerous before the war, but then again, I was just a small robot in a lab. My view of things was probably not the best.”

“Yeah?” They laughed a little. “I guess not. You were probably pretty protected, huh?”

“Oh, yes. The only news that I knew was whatever my fellow scientists were talking about. Otherwise, I would not have even known there was a war. “

“Yeah, things were a little different for me, I guess.” Their fingers drummed against the counter they were perched on. “In all the news you ever got, did you ever hear of something called a red room?”

“Oui, I did. There was a lot of talk about the police finding one not far from where I worked. We followed the story of them arresting everyone and the trials for months. I was very happy. All that talk about the violence and horrible things happening made me very unhappy. It was hard to work.”

They chuckled again, shoulders shaking. “That’s funny. I think that one was the one that I went through.”

Curie’s hands stilled, falling flat against sole’s skin. “You experienced one of these awful places? Cheri(e), tell me it isn’t so.”

“But I did,” they said with a shrug. “Believe me, I was as excited as you to see that hellhole get shut down. Watching them try my handler was the best thing I’ve ever seen, especially the look on that asshole’s face when they sent him away for life.”

“Mon dieu.” Curie moved around the counter to stand in front of them and take their hands. “I am so sorry. You must have seen such awful things.”

“Of course. But going through all those things is what makes it possible to stay alive out here. So, I guess, in a way, I owe them.”

“Absolutely not. You do not owe those horrible people anything.” She cupped their face in her hands. “You would have made it just fine on your own. You are very strong and very smart.”

“Thanks, Curie.” They were a little muffled, due to the squished nature of their face, but their smile was genuine.

“Of course. Now, let me finish patching you up.”

She slid back around the counter as sole whined, “How long does it take?”

“A while, if you want it done well.” She reached for another roll of bandages. “If you would take care of yourself, and not try to fight so many Deathclaws, this would not happen.”

“I know, I know.” But they were laughing, and so was she, and everything was good.

Danse: He supposed that one of the things that made him and sole such good partners was their tendency to have nightmares.

They shot up in bed across the room, panting heavily, eyes unfocused as they looked around. Slowly, he waved from his position keeping watch at the window, and when their face snapped to him, he saw fear clouding their vision.

“You with me, soldier?”

Their head shook, fingers curling around their wrist, nails digging into their skin. “I’m- I’m not-”

“It’s alright. You’re safe here.” He slid off the stool. “I’m going to walk toward you. Try to count the steps I’m taking. I’ll take it slow.”

His foot hit the floor, and they softly whispered, “One,” eyes locked on his shoes. They counted the steps as he eased toward them.

“Is it alright to touch you?” He knew from experience that contact wasn’t always the way. Rhys had punched him more times than he could count, just from the surprise, but sole slowly nodded. His fingers found theirs, and he pulled their hand away from their wrist. Gently, he pushed their holotags into their palm, and the other hand rubbed away the angry red crescents in their skin.

“Wherever you were, it’s alright. You aren’t there anymore. Can you tell me where we are?”

They nodded, and their voice shook a little as they spoke. “We set up camp in an abandoned drugstore. You offered to take first watch, said you couldn’t sleep anyway. I didn’t argue; I was tired. It was a long day.”

“It was.”

He stayed there, sitting across from them for a minute, watching them come back to the present. Their hand dropped from their holotags, and they slowly relaxed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked once they seemed to be with him again.

They sighed heavily and nodded, fingers curling into the bedroll. “Do you know what a red room is?”

“I’m familiar with the concept. A room of training through torture. They’re highly frowned upon here.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, at least.” Their eyes darted around the room, eventually settling on tracing the pattern in the floorboards. “I went through one, back before the war. It’s where I learned to fight. I guess it kinda messed me up.”

“Anyone would be emotionally scarred by that experience. It wasn’t your fault.”

They sighed again, then nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Silence stretched between them. He gently rubbed the redness away from their skin, trying to soothe the marks they’d made. He wasn’t quite sure when to stop, but they told him by pulling away and standing up.

“Here, you should try to sleep. I’ll take watch.”

“Are you certain?” He watched them settle on the stool he’d pulled up by the window. “I can stay up a while longer.”

“No, I mean it. Try to sleep.” They smiled, a little weakly. “It’s gonna be another big day tomorrow.”

“If you’re sure you’re alright.”

“I promise.”

He nodded and settled into the still-warm bedroll, mind spinning with this new information. He couldn’t imagine the things they must have seen, or even the things they must have done.

“Go to sleep, sir.” They seemed to read his mind. “I’ll wake you if I need you.”

He took their advice.

Deacon: Deacon liked the way the new agent worked, he decided as he sat back in his chair. He watched their leg gently press against a mark in the Dugout Inn, listened to them laugh at some joke the target had made. Their seduction techniques were beyond any he’d ever seen. They made it look so easy, even he found himself believing the attraction was genuine for a moment.

Their eyes left their target only for a moment, and they spared him a wink and a smile before returning to the Brotherhood Knight on their left, whose words were just beginning to slur together. They motioned to Vadim for another drink, and a certain change in their demeanor let Deacon know that they were about to get down to business.

Ten minutes later, when the information had been retrieved and the Knight was tucked into a bed, courtesy of sole, Deacon found them side-by-side as they stepped out into the rainy Diamond City air.

“How do you do that?” He asked, not trying to hide his grin as he gently nudged their shoulder.

“Do what?” They playfully nudged him back, just hard enough for him to stumble a bit.

“Handle those missions like you do.” He darted back to their side, shoulder hitting theirs hard enough to nearly make them stumble into a building. “You make it look so easy.”

“Secrets I learned before the war. You get to be an old-timer like me, you pick up a few things.” They practically ran at him to shove him, smile shimmering under the lights, and he was the first to hit the wall. “I didn’t go through the red room and come out with nothing to show for it.”

That was enough to make him pause their bout of roughhousing. “Sole, you went through a red room?”

They blinked twice, seemingly caught off guard by what they’d just said, then plastered a too-tight grin on. “Sure did. Terrible vacation, that was. Food was bad, hotel was bad, customer service sucked as well. One star because at least it was educational.”

Deacon was a liar. He knew that, and he also knew that it was his coping mechanism to deal with everything that had happened. In this moment, sole was not being a very good liar, but they sure were trying to deal with what they’d been through. So he wrapped an arm around their shoulder and laughed at their joke, and after a moment, they did, too, though a little uncertainly at first.

“Come on,” he finally said, pulling them back toward the exit to Diamond City. “Let’s get out of here and give Des the information you just expertly pulled out of that girl.”

They chuckled again, leaning into his side a little more to wrap an arm around his waist. “She’ll be happy we were so efficient.”

“She’ll be happy you were so efficient.” His other hand reached up to gently tap their nose. “All I did was watch.”

“You were…” they struggled for the words. “Moral support.”

“Sure, moral support.”

Gently, he squeezed their shoulders, and the two of them headed for home.

Gage: Gage liked a lot of things about his new boss. He liked the way they fought, he liked the way their ass looked in their jeans, and he liked that they certainly weren’t Colter. Mostly, though, he liked the way they got shit done.

A sickening crunch echoed through the streets as a traitor’s face met the pavement. They yanked the attached head up by the hair, snarling into terrified eyes.

“Where the fuck are the supplies, Davies?”

Davies looked like he was probably going to shit himself, but he shook his head in their grip. “I don’t know anything- I-”

Sole interrupted him with another slam against the road. This time they let him stay, grinding his broken nose into the ground, pulling a muffled scream from his limp body. “You know who you were working for, you piece of shit. Start talking.”

Muffled words were swallowed by the ground, and they dragged him up by the hair once again.

“All I did was do what Char told me to do. I swear, that’s all I know, please, she said she’d kill me if I didn’t do it. Please.”

“Oh, Davies.” Their lips curled into a sneer. “Did you really think Char could fuck you up worse than me?”

“No,” he whimpered. “Please, Overboss…”

They shook their head and gestured to a raider nearby. “Get this dumbass on a pike, and bring me Char.”

Davies’s screams and begs for mercy echoed off the building and fell on deaf ears. Sole stood up and wiped their hands on their jeans.

“Nice work, boss.” Gage offered them a can of water, which they plucked from his hands. “I think a lot of the people around here could stand to learn somethin’ from you.”

They snorted and handed the water back. “We could make our own red room here, if we really wanted. Make a whole new line of raiders. Nobody would dare fuck with us, then.”

Gage didn’t quite want to ask, but curiosity was burning him up from the inside out, and eventually he just couldn’t hold it in. “A red room?”

“Yeah, you know. A place for training. You take a bunch of people, put them in isolation, make them learn to be killers and spies and beat the shit out of them or kill them if they don’t succeed.” They eyed his undoubtedly quizzical look. “Do those not exist anymore?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe they should.” They kicked some dirt over the spot of blood Davies’s face had made on the ground. “After all, I learned everything I know from a red room.”

“You’re a badass, boss, there’s no denying.”

They grinned at him, and opened their mouth to say more, but Char’s voice cut them off.

“What the fuck is going on here? Why do I have to see the Overboss?”

Their grin widened into something far more unpleasant, and Gage settled back to watch them work, contemplating how to set up one of these “red rooms” for the boss. It’d make a nice present for them.

Char’s shriek echoed off the buildings as the Overboss’s ball bat connected with her knee.

Plus, it might keep him on their good side for just a little while longer.

Hancock: He sank back into the couch cushions, watching the colors begin to spin along the ceiling. Sole sank in beside him, head dropping back against his arm, and they let out a contented sigh that he could just barely hear over the song playing from the radio. He loved to get high with sole.

“‘S a good batch,” he mumbled, and reached up to gently run his fingers through their hair, soft strands tickling his skin even more than usual.

“You hear that?” they asked in reply, sitting up again. He whined a little at the sudden lack of warmth against his side.

“What, the radio?”

“No, that- that-” They stumbled to the window, pushing it open. Cold air rushed into the room, and Hancock whined again.

“That what?”

“That screaming. It’s getting louder.” Their now-yellow eyes darted around the room, and they reached over to shut off the radio. The world went quiet around him.

“I don’t hear anything.”

Their hands reached for their ears. “How do you not hear that?” they shouted, making him jump and land unceremoniously in the floor. “God, it sounds like-”

They froze, eyes on the door. He looked over, seeing nothing, but sole looked like they’d seen a ghost. Fingers still curled around their ears, they whispered, “Alex?”

“Hey.” He crawled across the floor to wave a hand in front of their eyes. “Hey, there’s no one there.”

“I’m sorry,” they whimpered, tears beginning to run down their face. “I didn’t want to, Alex, they made me, they said they’d kill me, they’d kill my son. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”

Hancock’s drug-addled mind made two and two connect, and when they finally made four, he was glad they’d taken Jet. Just a few seconds left, now. “Sole. Hey, there’s no one there. It’s just us.”

“I’m sorry,” they said again, rocking back and forth slowly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to, I’m sorry.”

As the drug faded out, he wrapped them in a hug, tucking them against his chest. He rocked them a little slower, trying to calm them, trying to soothe the sobs that wracked their body. The colors finally disappeared from around him, and sole’s hands fell away from their ears.

“Bad trip?” he whispered gently, and they nodded.

“Real bad.”

“What happened.”

“I- I saw an old friend of mine. Someone I was forced to kill. We were close and-” They laughed and didn’t bother to finish their sentence.

“Who’d make you do that?” He ran a hand through their hair.

“My handlers. That’s what the red room does, John. It makes you do terrible things, and then it uses the guilt from that to make you do more awful things until you stop caring and just start doing what you’re told. And if that doesn’t work, they show up to your house in the middle of the night and threaten to kill everyone inside, including your newborn son, if you don’t carry out your orders. So, you go torture your best friend to death for turning and then you try to move on with your life.”

He wasn’t sure what all that meant, exactly, but he was sure that sole needed him. So they sat on the floor together, slowly rocking back and forth, him whispering calming words every now and then, and he promised himself that he would never, ever let sole get high on Jet again.

MacCready: Robert Joseph MacCready was in no place to judge people for their personal business. He’d woken sole up enough times shouting Lucy or Duncan’s name that he couldn’t be irritated when they talked in their sleep either.

But still, he thought there was something a little different between shouting for a family member and snarling, “Begging for your life won’t matter to me” at three in the morning.

The strangest thing was that, come morning, sole never mentioned this. They were their usual chipper self, offering him a cup of instant coffee and a cigarette. The sheer juxtaposition of the sharpshooter he knew by day and the apparent psychopath that came out in their dreams was enough to unsettle him to the point he was actually willing to ask.

“So what’s up with your dreams?” He asked one morning, after their mutterings had kept him up late into the night.

They raised an eyebrow as they refilled their coffee. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“Y’know, what do you dream about at night? You’re a pretty restless sleeper.”

They slurped the cool layer of coffee off the top. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, RJ.”

He sighed, seeing that they weren’t going to give him the answers on their own. “You say weird stuff in your sleep. It’s creepy and I want some answers.”

“What do I say?” They laughed a little, leaning back against a tree, seemingly unfazed.

“Weird stuff,” he said again. “Stuff like, ‘Shut up or I’ll kill you.’”

Their face collapsed. The energy in the camp seemed to shift in merely a second, and he’d swear the world went a little grayer. “Oh, I thought… Nevermind.”

“Sole.” His eyebrows furrowed seeing how clearly upset they had suddenly become. “What’s going on?”

Their fingers ran over the side of the mug they were holding, tracing the design on it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s clearly bothering you.” He reached out to touch them, but pulled away at the last minute. “You can talk to me.”

A breath hissed between their teeth, stirring the steam rising off their coffee. “Did you ever wonder how I got be such a good shot?”

“Sure, lots of times.”

“I figured.” They sipped their coffee again, clearly uncomfortable. “This is hard to talk about, I guess. But, y’know, you’ve told me a bit about you, so it’s only fair…” They sighed one more time, then set their coffee cup to the side. “Back before the war, I was trained in a place called the red room. Heard of it?”

He shook his head.

“I didn’t figure. Basically, it was a ‘learn to do this or I’ll kill you’ thing, where I learned how to fight, how to seduce people, how to… well, torture them to get information. That’s what you’re hearing. I was there for a long time, so I guess it stuck.”

His breath hitched in his throat, stealing his words for a moment, but he finally managed to choke out, “You torture people when you dream?”

They bit their lip and nodded slowly, picking up the coffee cup again. “I guess so.”

“I- that’s messed up.”

They laughed, bitterly. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

They lapsed into silence. MacCready tried to process what he’d just heard. His fingers combed through the grass, trying to ground him to the here and now and not freak out over this new reality.

“If you don’t want to stick around, I understand.” Their voice didn’t shake. “I probably wouldn’t.”

He scowled at them, a little playful but mostly genuine. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

They glanced over, eyes betraying their vulnerability. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt for not having told them more about himself. “Promise?”

“Yeah, sure.” His cheeks flushed a little. “Unless you do something awful, I’ll stick around.”

They nodded, and their posture relaxed once again.They drank their coffee, he drank his, and together they settled back into life.

Nick: The Valentine Detective Agency was usually a quiet place. Nick liked it that way. There was something comforting in knowing that, no matter what happened, he always had a place to go back to that was warm and quiet.

That changed a little when sole arrived. It took them a while to settle into the routine that he and Ellie had unofficially set out, but once they had the hang of things, Nick found he liked having them around. They had a relaxing air about them, and it was nice to have someone else to work on cases with.

The only time sole ever broke their usual calm persona was at night. On the rare occasion they slept in the agency, it wasn’t uncommon to hear whimpers of what he thought was pain at first, or words that begged for someone to not hurt them.

Nick knew what bad mental health looked like, and he hated to watch his friend suffer.

“Got a minute?” he asked, one particularly slow afternoon.

Sole glanced up from the case file they were reading over for what had to be the hundredth time, then nodded and set it to the side. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Well, I’ve noticed you don’t always sleep very well. Get a lot of nightmares?”

They pursed their lips in displeasure but nodded, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You know, talking about this stuff helps.” He offered them a mug of coffee, which they accepted but didn’t drink. “I’m always here.”

“It’s hard to talk about.” They wrapped one arm around themselves, staring into the distance.

He considered that for a moment, then motioned them to sit in a chair beside him. They did, slowly, and he produced a piece of paper from his jacket along with a pencil. He scratched down. “Do you think writing about it will be easier?”, then offered the pencil to them.

They considered the offer for a moment before setting their coffee to the side and plucking the pencil from his fingers. “It might.”

Their handwriting was far nicer than his, and he tried his best to not be jealous, instead writing, “What do you dream about?”

“Things I did before the war. I don’t want to bother you with all the details.”

He sighed and shook his head, retrieving the pencil. “I’m one of the few people who might understand. It’s not a bother. I want to help.”

They tapped the pencil against their lips a moment, considering, then scrawled, “I was in a red room. I did some stuff.”

“What stuff?” He already knew the answer, but him making assumptions wasn’t going to make them feel better.

“Torture. Killing. That sort of stuff. It was-” they paused int their writing, thought for a moment, then resumed, “awful. Sometimes, I think there’s still some of them out there, looking for me. Even though it’s silly and they probably all died when the bombs fell.”

Nick wrapped a gentle arm around their shoulders as he scratched out his reply. “The mind is strange sometimes. It makes us believe things that don’t make sense, puts memories in that we don’t want. It’s okay to be afraid. But you have people to help you. We’re on your side.”

The didn’t take the pencil from him, just opted to wrap their arms around him and whisper, “Thanks, Nick.”

He hugged them back. “No problem, kid. Any time.”

Piper: “Come on, sole,” Piper whined, trailing her traveling companion by a few steps. “You’ve picked this camp twice over already. There’s nothing here.”

“Well then what does this go to?” They brandished a key they’d pulled off of the Gunner Captain, metal glinting almost menacingly in the light.

“Probably something in one of the other camps.”

They shook their head. “Something isn’t right here, Piper. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

Piper sighed and resigned herself to another round through the building. “Alright.”

Sole nodded their thanks, and their right hand found the wall again as they traced their way through the building. Piper followed, mentally composing a new article on all the ways the hero of the Commonwealth was an idiot,though a lovable idiot, an idiot nonetheless.

Suddenly, sole came to a halt, and Piper, who wasn’t paying attention, ran straight into them with a small “oof.”

“What’d you find, Blue?” she asked, straightening her cap on her head and dusting off her coat.

Sole grinned. “Secret door.”

Their fingers wedged in between two wall panels, and with a heavy shove and a grinding of rusted gears, the wall slid to reveal a long, empty corridor. Fluorescent lights flicked on overhead as they stepped into the hall, illuminating the area. At the end, a large metal door stood imposingly, and sole shot a very smug grin at Piper as they slid the key into the lock and turned.

The smile dropped away from their face as the door swung open. The key clattered from their hand to hit the floor, and they just stood, staring into what seemed to Piper to be an empty room like any other, littered with skeletons and a few towels.

“Uh, Blue?”

“They starved,” they whispered, seeming to forget that Piper was even there. “The handlers must have died when the bombs dropped.”

Piper rocked back on her heels anxiously. “Blue, it’s just a bunch of skeletons. We see them all the time.”

“I might have known these people, Piper. I trained here. This was…” They sank to their knees to trace a long scratch mark on the tile flooring, stained dark brown. “This was my red room.”

Piper’s breath caught, and she sank down into a low squat beside them. “Oh, I- Geez, I don’t know what to say.”

They shook their head. “Don’t say anything.” A long breath dropped from their lips. “It’s a long way behind me now. I guess at least I have closure. Nobody’s gonna be coming after me now, right?”

It was a weak attempt at a joke, but Piper smiled anyway. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Wanna help me burn this place to the ground?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Preston: Sole had a lot of bad habits. He knew that about them, and so he tried to mitigate it when he could. He didn’t let them stay up all night working on new defenses, he made them take at least one day off a week, he made sure to get some food into them every once in awhile because they’d forget to eat.

He knew what guilt looked like for sole. It looked like running yourself into the ground week after week, trying to solve every problem they found, trying to save everyone. He didn’t know what they’d done, and for a while, he didn’t ask. He reasoned that it was their business and that they’d figure it out in time.

But they didn’t. As the months wore on, they only became more frenzied, taking on more responsibility, handling more issues. He appreciated the help, sure, and as a Minuteman he knew that serving the people was their first priority. As their friend, though, he knew it wasn’t healthy.

His tactic wasn’t the most honorable, he’d admit. He waited until late night, when they were exhausted and their defenses were down, to corner them at the workbench. They were bent over what looked to be the wiring for a new turret of some kind. He whistled loudly as he approached, trying not to startle them, and they waved with a screwdriver in his direction.

“General,” he said when he was finally close enough to not shout through the sleeping Sanctuary Hills. “We need to have a talk.”

“I’ll go to bed in a bit, Preston. I just need to finish this.”

“This isn’t about that.” Gently, he rested his hand on theirs, stopping their work. “This is about you.”

“I know, I know. I’m not taking care of myself, I work too hard, blah blah blah. Spare me the lecture.”

“Not this time.” He perched on the counter to the workbench. “This time it’s something different.”

“What then?” The lights made the dark circles under their eyes stand out against their paler-than-usual skin. They looked exhausted, and for a brief moment, he almost backed down and sent them to rest.

He didn’t. “What are you running from, sole? What are you making up for?”

They said nothing for a long moment, simply looked at him. The lights danced in watery eyes, and he wordlessly handed them a handkerchief. They took it and wrung it between their hands.

“I’ve got my own Quincy,” they whispered finally. “I’m just trying to make up for the damage I’ve done.”

“Sole,” he said again, softly and kindly as he could. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me.”

They trembled, undecided, for a moment longer. Their eyes held uncertainty and something he thought might be fear, so all he did was smile.

“It’ll be okay. We’re friends. You can tell me.”

They twisted the handkerchief tighter as they spoke, as if they could choke out their demons through it. “Back before the war, before I went into the vault, I was trained in a place called the red room. I… I learned awful things there. I did awful things there. My handlers would send in people and tell me to find out what they knew. A lot of them were scared. They were just normal people in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hurt a lot of good people, I-” They sucked in a breath. “I killed a lot of good people that didn’t deserve it. I just want to make up for what I did.”

“That’s noble,” he whispered, laying a hesitant hand on their shoulder. “That means you’re on the right track.”

“I don’t think I can ever make up for everything I did, Preston.”

“I know. But all we can do is try, right? We have to promise ourselves we won’t go back to that, that we’ll be better. That’s how we make up for it. We help others, and we help ourselves.”

They nodded, finally dabbing at their eyes. “Okay.”

He smiled and patted them softly. “Alright. Now, let’s get you to bed.”

For once, they didn’t resist, and he guided them away.

X6: X6 knew what humans were supposed to be like. He was around them often enough to observe their usual patterns and habits, and overall he would say he had a decent idea of what a normal human typically behaved like.

That was one of the things that intrigued him so much when it came to the new director. They didn’t fit that pattern at all. They were closer to him and his courser siblings than any human he’d ever known.

He wasn’t about to ask about it though. No, X6 had more pride than that, and he knew all too well what the costs of stepping out of line were. So instead, he snuck out at night to poke around in their personal file. No harm, no foul, and if he got caught, he could always just say he was doing research for their next mission.

What he found was hauntingly familiar. This concept of a “red room,” something he’d never heard of before, dredged up a host of old memories for him, and he forced them to the back of his mind as he scanned the file. It seemed there was a reason that the new director reminded him so much of a courser; the training was incredibly similar. The Institute had probably modeled their courser training after this, removing the part involving seduction and adding more to fighting.

He never did mention it to sole, though. It was their business, he decided, and he didn’t want to get punished for looking for answers he wasn’t asked to look for. But still, a part of him wanted that companionship with them, to reach out and let them know that they weren’t alone, especially when they cried out from night terrors or jumped at strange sounds in the dark.

X6 didn’t have the words for that, though, so he let them be, and hoped they’d approach him in their own time.

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