#oh and green river running red of course

[pynkhues]

kinda niche but any books or plays you would want to see adapted into a prestige miniseries / film that havent yet ??

Ooo, that's such an interesting question. I've been seeing a lot of theatre over the last few months, and have actually seen a lot of tremendous plays (and a couple of very bad ones, haha), but the majority of them have been one-act indies which don't necessarily lend themselves to TV or film adaptations. My favourite was My Sister Feather, which was actually probably one of the best theatre experiences I've ever had (I wept through the last half), but I don't think it'd work as a film or series at all. It's such a play to me.

Books there are a few though! I read Maaza Mengiste's The Shadow King last year which has really stuck with me and I think could be an incredible series.

The Devil in the White City is one of my favourite true crime books, and something I think would be an incredible series if done right. Martin Scorsese has had the rights to the book for approximately 12 million years which I was SO excited about, but then he handed the directing reigns over to Todd Field (less excited by that, but not-not excited), but he's now left post-Tar, and Hulu's just dropped it too, so I'm in doubt it'll ever be made.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt would be great too, but I'd worry what that could set off in terms of pop culture, haha.

Actually though, I think the film or series I fantasise about the most is one about Ann Rule. Ann Rule is a very famous true crime author and while I've read a lot of her books and have always loved her writing style, I've always found her own story one that's so interesting. She grew up middle class and while both her parents were teachers, she had a lot of family members in the judicial system - her grandfather a sheriff, her uncle a medical examiner, a cousin who worked as a prosecuter for the DA's office.

She studied creative writing and psychology at college, but she ended up deciding to be a police officer only to be fired at 21 for her eyesight. She ended up marrying young and having four children, and then her husband left her. With old connections to the police force, she started writing true crime stories off recently closed cases to sell to magazines which was enough for her to get by, and then in 1971, she sold her first book proposal to write about the currently active Campus Killer. At around the same time, she started volunteering at a suicide hotline only to be sat next to, and befriend, a guy who she'd learn over the course of the year was the Campus Killer, Ted Bundy.

The Stranger Beside Me, the book she wrote, was a huge success, and it's genuinely a pretty brilliant read. Ann's such a great writer, and combined with her meticulous research and her own self-reflection (and criticism) of her relationship with him, the judicial system and herself and her family too. It's great, insightful and devastating, and I've read it a few times over and can't believe it hasn't had a prestige adaptation already.

I do think there's a series in her life generally too though, because Ann would write 32 more true crime books and develop an enormous following, and the way she balanced a complicated relationship with celebrity, crime and commercial gain is messy and Ann isn't always likable, but she's always interesting, and I feel like she deserves a story that really unpacks all of that.

#i'm seeing three plays this month too actually #the crucible which i've never actually seen staged #an all-woman cast production of frankenstein which i'm v excited for #and then a new aus immersive performance at a festival #which i'm not sure about but got free tix through work so am going to check it out #welcome to my ama #also if you're looking for ann rule recs i'd say stranger beside me #small sacrifices #and if you really loved me #oh and green river running red of course

[possibilistfanfiction]

For the one word prompt: allergic

[a small bea & lil (platonic) backstory for tattoo artist/florist au]

//

'so let me make sure i understand you correctly,' you say, trying your best to seem unaffected and annoyed in front of both beatrice's and your parents in beatrice's childhood dining room. everything is austere and the back of your neck prickles in discomfort, years and years of it; you remind yourself to not fidget. 'you want me to, what? fly to oregon —' admittedly, an offense on beatrice's part — 'and... kidnap beatrice back to england?'

'stop being so dramatic,' your mother says, rolling her eyes. 'beatrice needs to come home. she's passing up a job in parliament to go choose to live a sinful lifestyle —'

'fine,' you say, just to stop where you know that would inevitably end up. admittedly, you do think beatrice is running away from, like, every single one of her issues, but you've never been good at talking to each other, and, anyway, no one has ever been able to force beatrice to do anything, especially not you. you doubt it'll start now. 'just send me the flight and hotel info.'

'you leave later tonight.'

'a red eye.' you resist the urge to groan. 'great.'

/

begrudgingly, portland is beautiful — green and lush and quiet for a city its size, the river meandering through its middle, all the bridges and fast-moving clouds on a relatively clear day, a barely-there warmth in the sun that signals the beginnings of real spring. you watch it all go by on your way from the airport to the address beatrice's parents had somehow found — you don't even want to know how; better to leave well enough alone, you've learned — and when you arrive at a small house, navy blue with a red door, a neatly kept pollinator garden in the front, you park your car and allow yourself to acknowledge that, well, it's kind of cute. the sun is sinking beneath the hills across the river and a chill is moving in, but the air is fresh.

you smooth down your hair, try to fix any wrinkles in your shirt, which is, of course, both fruitless and unnecessary as soon as you get out and put your favorite leather jacket on. honestly, you don't even know if beatrice is home, but there's a practical, small hybrid suv in the driveway, and you're pretty sure if you texted or called her that you'd been sent to fetch her back to london by both sets of your parents, she'd never see you. you pocket your phone and keys and walk up the little stone path to the small porch, then knock on the door. you wait while you hear some shuffling on the other side, and then it takes you a few moments to process that beatrice is standing in front of you.

apparently, her too, because she stands perfectly still for some seconds before, 'lilith?'

you take her in fully, because you can: her hair is short now, buzzed on the sides and back, swept back on the top, neat and dark, and you can see part of a tattoo on her forearm from under the soft, loose sweater she's wearing, pushed up to her elbows. she has on casual pants — navy, still well-tailored in a way you expect from her, cropped at the ankles — and blundstones, like she's getting ready to go somewhere. 'it's been, what, ten days? you're really assimilating quickly,' you say, even though you regret it as it's happening. her face goes from surprised to stormy, one you know all too well.

'piss off,' she says, and starts to close the door, but you stick your arm out and she glares but — thankfully, because she could — doesn't slam it in your face. 'if you came to convince me to go back to london, it's not going to work.'

'can you let me inside?'

she waits a beat but then sighs, still glowering, but steps aside. 'i have to leave in seven minutes.'

'hot date?'

the blush that creeps up from her chest, beneath her sweater, and spreads along her cheeks, to the tips of her ears, is also new.

'oh.'

she crosses her arms over her chest, an unspoken dare. you look around at the house: it's small, but it's been remodeled and has a beautiful open floor plan, marble countertops and a big fridge, a comfortable couch and a big tv, all warm woods and easy greens and rich oranges, mirroring the world outside. 'this is yours?'

she clenches her jaw. 'yes.'

'look,' you say, processing the fact that beatrice has apparently also purchased a house here, and hold up your hands, palms toward the ceiling. 'i come in peace.'

'there's about a 100% chance you're here at the bidding of my parents.'

'they want you to come back home, yes.'

she rolls her eyes. 'i'm an adult.'

you're twenty-seven, and beatrice is a year and a half younger than you, so that's sort of debatable, but it's not worth the argument you see written all over her posture, her stiff shoulders and ramrod straight spine, the set of her feet, ready to get into a fight. 'transparently, they did send me here with the purpose of convincing you to come back to london and do your parliament thing.'

she huffs and turns toward the kitchen and motions for you to follow; she opens the fridge and takes out two beer cans, opens them and hands one to you. a local west coast ipa, you take note of. 'no pint glasses?'

'like i said, i have to leave soon.'

'fair enough.' you lift yours in an offer for a salute — an offer of peace, more than anything — and she clinks hers with a resigned little expression, takes a long sip before putting her can down on the counter and leaning toward you.

'you know i'm not going back.'

'i do,' you say; you always had. 'mostly i wanted to see that you were, you know —'

'okay?'

it's kinder than anything that would've come out of your mouth in the moment, a hint of affection seeping in. 'sure.'

'i'm doing great.'

'clearly.'

she frowns, takes another drink. 'if you really believe all of our parents' bigoted —'

'beatrice.' she stills where she'd started to pace. 'you know that i don't. i just don't understand why you can't be a lesbian at home.'

beatrice tips her head back. 'of course you understand,' she says, more intense than you had expected. 'maybe not about being gay specifically, although, whatever, we can get into your proclivities later —'

'bea —'

'but — don't you want to have your own life?'

'you think, what, moving halfway around the world, with no warning, to help run some farm, is — '

'— is what, lilith?'

you feel yourself deflate; you take a sip of your beer because there are tears starting to burn at the corner of your eyes.

'it's a permaculture project — part science, part local politics, part business. it's a good opportunity.' she stills, glances at the time on her phone. 'and, even if it wasn't, i just — you know as well as anyone how suffocating our families are.'

you can't quite look at her yet — her sincere, golden eyes and serious frown, her freckles, things you've known since you were children whenever she was explaining something that hurt, something that mattered — but you nod. 'it's been ten days, beatrice. and you're already —' you swallow, a hurt silence sitting in the air, heavy and swarming.

but beatrice has always been braver than you. 'i need to breathe, lil. it was killing me.'

'you and your fucking flowers,' you say after you're able to gather yourself enough that you're fairly certain you won't cry. thankfully — full of more grace that you have ever been — beatrice grants you a laugh.

'why don't you stay with me,' she offers after a silence when you can't bring yourself to say anything more. 'i have a spare bedroom, and, lil —'

you reach out and squeeze her hand. 'please don't say anything.'

'just because you're allergic to any kind of affection —'

'fine.'

'yes?'

'yes.'

a smile blooms on her face that makes caving far too quickly — you want to breathe too, so badly — much more bearable. 'okay, well, i shouldn't be too late. there's leftover vietnamese food in the fridge if you're hungry, and i recorded the arsenal match from earlier.'

'plying me with katie mccabe?'

'well, i didn't know you would be failing at kidnapping me today.' she rinses out her beer can and puts it carefully in the recycling. 'kismet, if you will.'

you roll your eyes while she grabs a camel wool peacoat — one she's worn for years now, gorgeous and an inexplicable comfort, that she still has it — and then carefully pulls a pale blue beanie on. you gesture helplessly toward, well, whatever this aesthetic is. 'do you feel like, well, you?'

her smile softens. 'i think so.' she shrugs. 'more than i ever have before, at least.'

'well, i won't wait up, and i don't want to know any details.'

'it's a first date, lilith.'

'are these walls soundproof?'

'goodbye,' she says, but there's amusement in her tone and, before she leaves fully, she turns and strides back toward you and wraps you in a hug. 'i'm glad you're here.'

'me too, beatrice.' you hold onto her a moment longer than you normally would. 'she hot?'

she backs up and smacks you on the shoulder.

'have fun, bea.'

she nods. 'i'll text you when i'm headed home.'

#wn #wn fic #avatrice fic #i GUESS? but like not yet #for my organization purposes i gotta tag it sorry #flowers au #butch bea 🥺🫡 #these two are so silly!!! they love ea other so much & are so mean about it!!! #it’s in portland bc. it can be lmfao

[thehollowwriter]

Summary: Fin loves red. He loves his partners, too.

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤️)

Red

Finn adored red. Such a beautiful fascinating colour. The colour of rage. The colour of blood. The colour of love.

Green remained his favourite colour, but red triggered so many emotions in him, so many... feelings. There was much he could do with red, especially today.

A deep crimson stained Finn's hands. Some of it had gotten in his hair somehow, tangling with and matting the dark green locks. Streaks of red marred his face too, but there wasn't much of it.

Truly, he would look ghastly to an outsider. Coated in red, grin stretched wide over his face. But there were no outsiders. Be was perfectly alone in his greenhouse, free to do as he pleased.

The movement of his paintbrush against the canvas was practised and delicate, slow and careful. Red stained the white of the canvas.

Apart from the wet sounds of the paintbrush, it was dead silent. Finn didn't dare say a word, opting to bite his lip in poorly restrained excitement instead.

A splash of purple and a dash of teal were the only break from the raw, unyielding red dominating Finn's piece. Red ran down the large canvas in thick rivulets, forging a number of haunting rivers that travelled to the bottom of the canvas.

Perfect. Oh, it was perfect.

The sound of a doorknob turning and a door creaking open shattered the silence, pulling Finn's attention from his work.

"Finn?" Came Azul's voice. "You called us rather urgently. If this is about a painting, I have a lot of work to do. It will have to wait."

"Oh, but it can't." Finn said, his voice nearly cracking in delight. "I made something for you. Something special."

He stood up and set his paints down. Then he slowly and carefully turned his easel around to face the other three, gripping the side tightly and cocking his head to the side.

"I do hope you like it."

Three pairs of eyes widened in varying degrees of surprise, fixed on Finn's little homage to red.

An anatomically correct heart was centred on the once pristine white canvas, brought to life in dozens of intricate painted shades of red. It felt so real, so life-like, one would wonder if Finn somehow got hold of a real heart to use as a reference.

Red dripped down from the heart in half-dried streaks that glistened in the light.They trailed all the way down to the edge of the canvas, running over Finn's slanted and looping signature at the bottom right.

But that wasn't all.

Octopus arms burst from every opening, from the aorta to the vena cavas to the pulmonary veins, encircling the heart in a protective embrace. Two moray eels squeezed out of the vena cavas and tangled with the arms in a beautiful flurry of purple and teal.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my loves."

His partners were stunned into silence for a while. Then, a low chuckle sounded.

"It's beautiful." Jade spoke first. "Thank you, darling."

His voice stirred Floyd from his stupor. "Ha! Ya always find something interesting to do. S'pretty."

Azul took a moment or so longer to form words, seemingly entranced by Finn's piece.

"It's... it's incredible, Finn. Do y-"

Finn reached forward and pressed a finger against his lips. "No. This is for the three of you. Nobody else."

"Ah, right, of course." Azul smiled. "It's amazing. Thank you, Finn."

Finn preened at the praise, delighted. "I'm glad you like it. I wanted to- well-." His face flushed a little. "I wanted to show how I felt in a more effective way than words. You... you've captured my heart."

His voice steadily grew quieter, and he cringed at how ridiculously cheesy he sounded, even if it was true.

"Aww, our stone cold cookie is being all lovey dovey today." Floyd cooed. "Lucky day."

"Indeed it is." Azul purred, an utterly diabolical smirk plastered to his face. "So honest. How unlike you, Finn."

"I believe he's simply getting into the holiday spirit." Jade chimed in. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't get us real hearts this year."

"I wanted to," Finn said almost immediately. "Papa had no leftovers to spare, and I couldn't get human hearts. But I spoke with him, and he was able to send up your favourite cuts for me."

"Really?"

The excited expressions on his partner's faces made him laugh.

"Of course. Anything for my dearly beloveds."

-End

...........................................

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I had a lot of fun with this one. I didn't know how to end it, though, sorry rjtntn

Tagging: @distant-velleity @krenenbaker @kitwasnothere @theleechyskrunkly @whspermy-name @jaylleoo14 @officialdaydreamer00 @cynthinesia @skrimpyskimpy @boopshoops @jovieinramshackle @casp1an-sea

@poisoned-pearls

#azul ashengrotto #jade leech #floyd leech #finn clearcove #octavinelle #twisted wonderland #twst oc #oc x canon #fluff #valentines day #writing

[gococogo]

Day Twenty One: Gentle Sex

Kinktober Masterlist will be posted after October

Synopsis: Two decades without seeing those red sails one would think that Haytham would forget them after awhile. But no one could forget the Morrigan and her Captain. Of course he couldn't forget Shay. It would be blasphemy.

And oh, how has he missed him.

Word Count: 6.3K

Genre: Assassin's Creed

Pairing: Shay Cormac/Haytham Kenway

Warnings: Gentle sex/Feelings/Anal/Fingering/Blowjob

He had messed up with his own son. Yet at the same time it could also be blamed on him for not seeing the bigger picture. His son’s temper is something that really gets under Haytham’s skin and yet he knows where he inherited it from. It’s like looking into a mirror, but he mostly sees his mother in that reflection. It should sadden him, it truly does but at the same time it angers him so. Angers him that he didn’t spend more time with her or even go back. That he didn’t know he had a son until he was full grown.

Yet, he could argue with himself that his mind needed to be truly focused on the Templars. Even thinking the thought only brings Haytham more guilt to his already heavy heart. The only person he can be rightfully angry at though is himself. It’s only his own actions that lead to all of this. He is a Grandmaster after all. He has duties elsewhere. How could he have known anyways.

Maybe in another life time. But not now. What done is done, that river has already been crossed. Maybe he can try and fix what he has with his son. But Connor is very much in his own ways, strong minded to what he believes in. Like himself.

Haytham releases a small sigh at the stressful thought. He rubs his rubs with his thumb and fore finger as a headache can be felt coming along. He truly has gotten himself into a hard place.

The trip back to Boston was a long one, but the familiar streets finally come into view and Haytham makes his way to the Green Dragon along the docks. The sea breeze is familiar, but the city stink is something that is not welcoming. A frown is so deep cut into his features that any passer-by would think that’s his usual resting face. That it’s permanently stuck like that.

That the saying for children, the wind will change, was true.

The locals see him so often around here now that they know not to bother him. They know that he is another grouchy British man that has moved here against his will. And he had, so they’re not wrong there. From past events of sourness to them they know not to make conversation with him. Always on a mission he hears. Always got somewhere to go. Which isn’t wrong. It feels like ever since he stepped foot in America every day has been filled with something.

His frown doesn’t stay for long though. For it’s not the children laughing and playing around a fish stall that gets rid of it. For it’s not the old woman smiling at him with frail eyes that gets him to smile back. Nor is it the two dogs running down the street with two teenage boys.

It’s the tattered red sails with black wolves on them that has his face as wide as a saucepan. His feet are planted to the brick street and he feels his heart squeeze. He hasn’t seen those sails in what feels like a lifetime but he’d know them anywhere.  

He’s back.

The Morrigan sits in the harbour of Boston with all her crew. Scurrying around on deck and unloading cargo with shouts and yelps. From where he stands he can see someone ordering them around. But it’s definitely not him.

Still in awe, Haytham makes his way over to the side of the Morrigan. Zig zagging around her crew and other Boston civilians taking in the old ship. She is an old girl, not one like the newer ships these days with all their fancy looks and what nots. She has seen her days, but her captain has made sure she still shines. He gets to the plank that connects the ship to the harbour and watches the man that is ordering everyone around.

It takes him a moment to realize who he’s staring at. Mister Christopher Gist. All grey and cut clean now. He is sporting a full beard and his hair is much shorter than it once was. That hat he always wore is long forgotten but he wears a pair of specks instead on his nose. When Gist finally sees the Grandmaster down below, he has to do a double take.

“Master Kenway!” He bellows out.

His voice is still the same and despite how long it’s been, Haytham can already tell it’s going to get on his nerves again.

“Mr. Gist!” Haytham calls back. “It is good to see you!”

Gist makes his way down the plank and on dock. He shakes Haytham’s hand, patting his upper arm.

“It been what!? Twenty-one years!?” Gist exclaims loudly.

“What are you doing in Boston?” Haytham asks a little too eagerly.

The first mate gives a short chuckle. “We found the box, sir.”

 Haytham suddenly feels light headed. As if he’s going to float off. They found it. He found it. Haytham doesn’t let it show but he’s more than thrilled. After so many years they’re back. Shay found it.

“Where is the box?” Haytham asks, a little too enthusiastic for his own ears.

“Actually, Shay went to the Green Dragon to find you,” Gist says with another chuckle. “He wanted it to be the first thing as soon as we docked.”

With another shake of their hands and a goodbye, Haytham is off to the Green Dragon leaving Gist on the dock. He had told Shay of the tavern when he had joined. He had asked about other Templar hideouts in case his search took him away from New York. And to think Haytham was just on his way there. If he hadn’t stopped at the Morrigan he could have bumped into Shay sooner.

He would have most likely had a heart attack at the sight of him. The thought of walking casually into the tavern for only to bump into a man he hasn’t seen in two decades.

Haytham’s pace is quick, moving down the street with a skip in his step as soon as the Green Dragon comes into view. He swings the door open a little too aggressively but keeps his composure as his eyes dart around the place.

It takes him a moment to recognise the man, the mental image of young Shay still in his mind. But there he is.

Shay doesn’t wear the red and black Templar colours and has instead swapped out for blue fabrics and a brown leather coat. His temples are beginning to go grey but he still has his hair tide back out of his face. His face has even changed. Into something harder, wiser and calmer.

At the sound of the door swinging open, Shay stares at Haytham with wide eyes. It’s as if time stands still for a moment. The two stare at each other for what feels like ages and everyone in the tavern either thinks too things. These two are two idiots, or they’re going to start throwing fists.

Shay excuses himself from talking to Catherine and meets Haytham halfway. The two stare at each other before Shay engulfs Haytham in a tight hug. Catherine behind him lets out a startled gasp, waiting for Haytham to push this newcomer off. But Haytham smiles as he pats Shay lightly on the back. Shay steps back and looks at the Grandmaster up and down with a wide grin on his own face.

“Master Kenway,” Shay breathes out. “By God, is it good to see you.”

He hadn’t forgotten Shay’s voice. Forgotten the finer details to his face. And Haytham can’t seem to look away.

Haytham has so many things to ask. So many things we wants to tell Shay. He wants to know everything that went on for Shay in these twenty years. He wants to hold onto him and not let go this time. But not here, not when he has an appearance to keep up. Not when a stranger just man handled Haytham Kenway and wasn’t stabbed for it.

“I wish for us to speak more privately, Shay,” Haytham says firmly, reminding the other of where they are.

Shay seems to collect himself and gives a short nod. “Lead the way, sir,” he says with a little bow and his hand gestured outwards.

Wherever he learned that, Haytham is going to kill him for it.

“I have my own place in Boston, we’ll talk further there if you’d like,” Haytham quirks an eyebrow.

Shay nods with a slight bow, his hand gestured outwards towards the door.

“After you,” he smiles warmly.

Haytham has to turn quickly and cover his face with his hat to hide the redness he can feel coming over his cheeks. He will have to admit that Shay has achieved some charm in his time away. He is a completely different man to the cocky, revenge filled one he knew so long ago. Shay follows him out of the tavern and walks by his side.

“How is your wellbeing?” Haytham asks to break the silence.

He’s tense on the inside. Wanting to ask Shay all these questions. But for professional reasons on the street and out in a public eye he needs to keep his stoic appearance.

“I’ve been good, Haytham. My travel has taken me to many places but I’ll wait to tell you the details that shouldn’t be heard to prying ears,” Shay responds with a warm smile.

A gesture that has one coming to Haytham’s own. The rest of the walk to the Grandmaster’s is peaceful and calm. They speak about mundane things. Like the weather or Shay’s sailing. How the Morrigan has kept up with him all these years and how she’s best to retire soon. But Shay doesn’t want to let her go. Doesn’t think he could until he’s in the ground or she’s at the bottom of the sea.

At some point, he had mentioned, he would have loved to passed it down to his children. But children in the future is something far away. The thought of Shay being a father brings something to his chest. Something warm.  

Maybe Shay could be a better father than he has been to Connor.

When they arrive at Haytham’s, the host unlocks his front door and lets Shay in with an outstretched hand. He follows in, watching Shay look around the place with a small sense of awe. He leads the Captain to the living room that sits on the far left corner of his house.

Haytham hangs his own coat and hat on the hook in the hallway, letting Shay look around. They’ve almost fallen into a familiar, comfortable attitude around each other. Even after so many years, this feels, normal.  

Haytham comes to the doorway of the living room, spotting Shay looking closely at his décor.

“Would you like a drink?” He asks.

Shay quickly jerks up, looking away from a model ship on his bookshelf. Almost like a kid being caught red handed with their hand in the biscuit tin.

“Something strong,” Shay answers with a smile. “I’ve realized that drink over seas is somewhat watered down compared to here.”

Haytham nods. “I reckon it’s only because American’s need the harsher stuff to get through the absolute trouble they get themselves in to.”

“I can agree on that.”

Haytham leaves the room to fetch two crystal glasses and his best whiskey. Something he’s been saving for a special occasion like this. It’s still three quarters full and he can’t remember the last time he opened it. Or why he opened it.

He comes back to Shay having discarded his heavy coat, making himself comfortable. But Haytham is able to see that even after all these years, the man has kept himself in check. He almost seems broader in the shoulders and the waist. But nothing on the side of letting oneself go. No, it’s muscle. Something someone could only achieve by being at sea their entire life. Even his once pale face has become sun kissed and reddened at the cheeks.

He sets the two glasses down on the coffee table, focusing on the task at hand and not on Shay. He pours the whiskey before sitting down on the couch opposite of Shay. He picks up his own glass and takes a generous sip out of it.

“Alright, Shay. Report back to me,” Haytham gestures his glass towards the other with amusement in his voice.

Shay begins at the start. From the moment he set sailed a month after he dropped Haytham at New York, to the moment he heard of Haytham Kenway still operating in Boston. The topic of Connor came up. Shay had heard of him from the French Assassins. The small welt of pride that bloomed in Haytham should have been something hideous. But to know that his son’s reputation had reached all that way was truly something to ponder about.

But one thing the is clear. Shay does not know of Connor’s relations to Haytham.

And he doesn’t tell Shay of who Connor is. Keeps that to himself. Why? Why does he feel this need to withhold the information? Maybe, maybe because at the corner of Haytham’s mind it will always be there that Shay came from the Assassins. Was raised in their ways, learned their ways, spoke their ways.

Yet Shay is a Templar. Has done many things for them, for him. But Shay isn’t like himself or like the others. With how much Shay would deny it, the man still walks like one. Still thinks like them in a way. Still uses their weapons even though that thought alone is hypocritical.

Who is Haytham to judge though. His own father, flesh and blood was an assassin. For as much as Haytham knows, he was going to raise him as one as well. All those sword lessons and literature teachers weren’t for nothing. And his own son walks the way his father wanted Haytham to. Could say it’s ironic it skipped a generation.

But all in all, Haytham hasn’t seen Shay in over twenty years. Who is he to know what goes inside Shay’s mind these days. He came back with the box. After twenty years. An entire lifetime spent away searching for one thing because of his own moral code. Because he wanted a safer world. Now, who is Haytham to judge for that.

Despite all of this though, he can’t help the fondness he holds for Shay. The yearning ache that grips his cold heart. And why judge, when the man before him has probably seen more in his life than Haytham. Been places that Haytham has never stepped foot in. Been searching for this blasted box for half his life. For him. All because Haytham asked. All because of duty for the Order.

And here they are. Going grey as wrinkles crack at their once young faces. Crow’s feet now dancing on their cheeks that don’t go away when their faces are placid. A slowness to their motions that come with the ache in the joints that were once so easy to move in youth. No thought of how their daily activities would now venture into their years to form into grunts of pain when they wake up in the morning.

When Shay reveals the box from within his coat, Haytham can’t help the shaky exhale that withers his body. The man holds it out to him and with a gentle touch, Haytham takes it.

It’s lighter than expected. It almost feels fragile. Like it’s going to fall to dust in his hands and blow away at a small breath. But it doesn’t. It stays solid in his hands. It’s almost buzzes against his skin, but Haytham can’t quite put the sensation that’s emitting from the box.

All those years. For this. Shay searched too long for this. But his determination is a strong one Haytham will admit. A sort of, bitterness comes across him suddenly. He squeezes the box a little too tightly that he has to put it down on the table in front of him before he does anything stupid.

Haytham clears his throat. “Well done, Shay,” he says professionally. “I knew I sent the right man.”

“The only man you could.”

Haytham’s dark blue eyes dart up from the box to the hunter with a frown. There’s a cockiness to Shay’s voice that brings an itch to Haytham’s tongue. One that wants to snap, but he finds himself he can’t. There’s too much on his mind he wants to say.

He looks out the window instead and only now realizes just how long they’ve been conversating. The street lamps are on and the night is dark.

“Are you staying on the Morrigan tonight?” Haytham changes the topic. “Or have you booked a room nearby?”

Shay gives a light chuckle that it almost isn’t audible. “To be honest, I truly didn’t get that far, Haytham.”

Before Haytham realizes what he’s saying, he declares out something his heart wants, “I have a spare room here already set up. I think you’ve already spent too much time on your ship. I can only guess you’re sick of it a little.”

This brings a smile to the other man’s face. “I do suppose here would be better than that old ship. I won’t ever get tired of her, but maybe a change of scenery is a must. Thank you, Haytham.”

The Grandmaster stands up from his place and grabs onto the Precursor Box as he does. He looks it over one last time, before holding it out to Shay.

“Keep it with you. Hide it somewhere only you and your cold grave know. I do not care,” Haytham instructs. “Don’t let it in Assassin hands again.”

Shay takes it from him and places it back within his coat. “I’ll take it to my grave then, sir,” he speaks firmly.

That answer alone has a cold edge to it. A promise to death. Like a soft kiss that grows to something more. Something that Haytham knows Shay will keep to.

-

They have dinner out that night. At a small high-class place that only Haytham knows about amongst the others in the Order. He likes to get away here and keep to himself. Away from everything in life.

The fact that he’s sharing it with Shay, no second thought to do so, should mean a lot to the Irishman if he knew it’s significance. But yet again, Haytham doesn’t tell him the minor details. He keeps it to himself, knowing how much it means to him.

They dine but don’t drink. Both of them wanting to remember tonight. They talk about nothing but everything all at once. Of the little stories that Shay didn’t mention in his long report before. Of the minor things he did when the lead for the box was cold. He learns a many of things, how Gist almost died in a storm from here to Europe early in their voyage. How he had lost half of his original crew to a run in with the navy that mistook him for pirates out at sea. But the Morrigan had never fought so furiously that day. Shay thought she would have joined the sea but somehow, through the canon smoke, they survived.

Death has shaken hands with Shay many a times, but yet not taken him. He still breathes and laughs. Still has the privilege to have his hair go grey unlike many others he’s left behind. Same could be said for Haytham.

In this line of work, in the line of the Templars, not many get to see their head of hair go fully grey. Not many can say they lived a good life. Haytham couldn’t lie about that. Neither could Shay. The scar on his face tells the truth.

-

Once home, the hour late, Shay bids Haytham a good night. Haytham stands outside of his own room and watches the other pass him. A tug comes to his chest, knowing that after so long, he’ll have to sleep alone once again. Without even thinking, he reaches out and grabs onto Shay’s hand. He stops dead in his tracks, and he looks straight at Haytham. He waits for him to say something.

“I-“

Before Shay had left, Haytham had known with confidence where they stood with each other. Their private relationship being something of comfort for one another. But now a whole lifetime has passed before them without each other. Would Shay even still want him? All grey and old. A man that’s grown even sterner and crueller over time. Someone that still lies to him even after all these years. Someone that has forgotten the touch of the other, has missed it. Has yearned to hear the other’s voice again, having forgotten that Irish accent but will know who it is when he hears it.

And holding Shay’s hand, he realizes how calloused his palms are. A sailor’s hand. A hand that squeezes his own as Shay comes forward. He looks to the ground, not being able to make eye contact with the other at the moment. Oh, only if the other Templars were here to see their Grandmaster right now. A loss of words and falling apart because of a man.  

“It has been a long time is all,” is all Haytham manages to get out.  

A hand cups his face and raises it so that Haytham can look into the same dark brown eyes he grew so comfortable with. Even after all these years, he’s glad those that his eyes haven’t changed.

“It’s been a lifetime,” Shay almost recites Haytham’s thoughts from before. As if reading the man’s worries.

It’s Haytham that moves forward slowly, hesitating over Shay’s lips before kissing him softly. And the bliss that comes over Haytham, the pure content he feels right now as Shay returns the notion is something similar to floating. He deepens the kiss, needing more. Holding onto the front of Shay’s shirt so that he doesn’t fall forward with how light he becomes in the head.

The kiss is as if picking up a hobby you haven’t done in months. The first few tries you don’t get it, but after the rest it’s like one’s body takes over. Muscle memory kicks in. And kissing Shay now is different yet so similar to all those years ago.  

But he breaks the kiss before he does fall over, inhaling deeply through his nose. He stays close to Shay, breathing in the saltiness the man always seems to hold. That now seems to be part of him with how long he’s been at sea.

“Will you join me in bed?” Haytham asks, his voice all but a whisper.

“I’d love to.”

With their hands still interlocked, Haytham opens the door and leads them inside. The room is large, bigger than the spare room. The bed is big enough for a whole family, but it’s the only thing that Haytham finds himself being able to sleep on. Everything else either too small or he finds himself thrashing too much in his sleep with how vivid his dreams can be some nights. But tonight. Tonight, it is to be shared with another.

Shay brings Haytham in for another kiss with hands on either side of his face, this one much deeper than the last. He backs Haytham up until the backs of his knees hit the bed, their lips and tongues not leaving one another for a moment.

But they have to part for air. And Shay takes this second to begin undressing him. His intention is nothing out of desperation though. He takes his time, dark eyes watching his own finger movement intently so that he doesn’t make a mistake with the buttons or the lacing on Haytham’s clothes.

When Haytham’s top half is thrown behind Shay, he is pushed back to sit on the bed. All so that Shay can undo his boots. It’s like Shay has just fallen back into something long forgotten. How many moments has he thought of Haytham just like Haytham has thought of him? Has he yearned the same? Felt the same ache in his heart?

“You still care too much, Shay,” Haytham murmurs out.

It’s not an insult. No, it’s said with almost a hint of melancholy from a time before. From a conversation they had decades ago in a situation similar to now. And it has Shay smiling.

“I always have,” he replies back as he pulls the last shoe off.

Shay stands straight once more and shuffles off his coat where it thumps on the floor next to Haytham’s. Dark eyes look over Haytham’s frame with a soft smile. Despite being in his fifties now, the man’s body is still one of strength. It may be a bit softer in some areas than Shay remembers, it may be a bit spotter with freckles and age spots but none of those matters. It’s still Haytham.

Shay strips the rest of his clothing, his vest, his shirt and his pants and boots. He is younger than Haytham, so his body hasn’t been touched by age as much as Haytham’s. But there are still a lot of changes. And Haytham can’t help but look over the new scars that litter his body. Some stark white against his already sun kissed skin to some that are pink and ugly.

Not to Haytham though. Haytham reaches out, bringing Shay forward and lets his hands feel over the scars that weren’t there before. He shuffles up the bed so that Shay can lean over him, chasing his lips. The bedding is soft and Haytham almost sinks into it all, loosing himself in it. But Shay finds him.

“After so long, how would you have it tonight, Haytham?” Shay asks softly, his face inches away from Haytham’s.

A million things go through Haytham’s head. So much he would like to do. But one thing does stand clear as day. He would just like to take this slow. He just needs to feel Shay close to him. Wants Shay to take him with something akin to a feeling of bittersweetness.

“I just need you tonight,” Haytham breathes out.

At that, Shay gently kisses him. Softly, like a brush of air before he kisses his cheek, then his chin. He makes his way down Haytham’s neck to his collarbone. Slowly, as if making sure that he gets everything. And each kiss feels like a spark of a fire. Something that feels so foreign yet so wanted at the same time. He hasn’t been worshipped like this since Shay left. He hasn’t had a gentle touch since Shay left. He hasn’t felt pure, unconditional love since the only one that sees him left.

Shay hooks his fingers in Haytham’s pants and pulls them off, throwing them on top of the pile of others. Haytham’s dick is almost fully hard already, all this touching and kissing going straight to him. Shay seems to have always had the effect on him and hasn’t lost it.

Haytham props himself up on his elbows as Shay’s pink lips ghost over his crotch. Shay slithers a hand around his dick, giving Haytham a few slow strokes to bring him to full hardness. And when Shay wraps his mouth around the head of his cock is when Haytham can’t help the shaky exhale that escapes his lips.

Shay only sucks and works at the head of Haytham’s dick all while he softly strokes the rest of him. It may not be enough for some, but in Haytham’s age it’s doing a lot. And he may be grateful that Shay knows this with his own age. He doesn’t think they could do the things they once did from their youth.

In their youth, Shay could easily thrown him onto a table and taken him. One time they had hidden away below deck on the Morrigan and taken each other. Their touch filled with something young and desperate then. As if the moment would slip away from them easily. As if someone would catch them and tell them to bugger off. But now, tonight feels so much different.

Tonight feels like returning to something long lost. Something that has changed yet, it hasn’t at the same time. It’s only grown into something more. Something more mellow but the same amount of love and adoration is there for one another. Nothing has slipped away. Nothing has blown away in the years.

And with that, Shay has Haytham withering and shaking from a simple blowjob. His soft pants is almost music to Shay’s ears, something he’s long missed. He comes off of Haytham’s dick with a string of saliva connecting them. He licks his lips, tasting Haytham on them and wishing the other could as well. He moves up Haytham’s body slowly again, hands running up his side until they stop at his chest.

Then Shay kisses Haytham with his tongue having the full intension of the other tasting himself. It only has Haytham wanting more. Threading his fingers in Shay’s hair and undoing the little band in it, letting his locks fall onto his shoulders. It’s grown long but it’s apparent Shay likes to keep a certain length.

Shay pulls away slowly, letting Haytham come forward in need for more. Haytham finally opens his eyes and looks to Shay with a dazed stare, lost in the heat that coils and buzzes at every fibre of his being.

“Do you keep oil here?” Shay asks the important question quietly.

Haytham exhales a short chuckle. “Over in the draw. Across the room.”

Shay gets up off the bed, leaving Haytham cold where he lays. But the view that Haytham can admire makes up for it. Shay struts across the room to the drawer and opens the top one, peering inside and ruffling around. And Haytham can’t take his eyes off of the other.

The searching man finally finds what he’s after and plucks it out with a small noise a triumph. When Shay turns, he meets the gaze that hasn’t left him since his absence. He walks back with the bottle in hand and shuffles himself back onto the bed between Haytham’s legs.

“Miss me?” Shay jokes.

“Dearly.”

With a pop of the cork in the bottle, Shay pours a small amount into his hand. He doesn’t want to spill a drop onto Haytham’s bedding even though it might get ruined later on. He lathers himself up, then pours a bit more onto his hand again and comes to Haytham’s ass.

Haytham, will be honest with himself, hasn’t done this in a while. He opens his legs a bit more so that Shay can work him easier. He doesn’t realize he’s tensing until a warm hand splays itself on his stomach.

“Breathe, Haytham,” Shay assures. “It’s just me.”

It’s just Shay.

He inhales and relaxes. It may be years, but it’s Shay. Tonight, it’s just them. No one else. No one else knows where Haytham is tonight, nor do they know that Shay is with him. Only the moon can whisper their secrets to the stars but even they won’t tell their stories to the mortals down below.

The first finger slips in easy, but it’s a foreign feeling. Shay works Haytham slowly, waiting for his stomach to relax once again before slipping in a second finger. This has Haytham grunting deep in his throat. His dick twitches slightly as Shay eases him.

“You’re doing great, Haytham,” Shay reassures again.

With such a coy, Haytham would snap. But the small praise goes straight to his gut, almost making him feeling light. In all his years, he never would have thought that such simple words could make him feel such a way. Especially from a particular Irishman.  

When the third finger slips in, a dull painful stretch has him hissing. But Shay takes his time, making sure that he’s able to work Haytham open so that the next step he wants to achieve isn’t as painful. When Haytham is relaxed from the stretch and that the only noises that come from him are soft huffs and deep moans, is when Shay takes out his fingers.

The loss of touch has Haytham almost asking for more. But he holds his tongue, not wanting to be perceived as some needy old man that is severely touch starved. He may of already come off as that, but he doesn’t need it to be said out loud.

Shay pours another lot of oil into his hand and this time, lathers up his own untouched dick. He puts on bit of a display as he doesn’t let his hooded eyes leave Haytham. The hunger inside of him only grows for this man. The want is something dangerous on the verge of desperation. Over two decades without Shay. God, Haytham hasn’t truly realises how long it has been. He’s been dived into his work, focusing on many other things for the Order. Forgetting what day it is at some points or what month.

When Shay deems himself slicked up enough, he lines himself up to Haytham. He doesn’t go right in, not just yet. He waits. He waits for Haytham to become impatient, and he waits for the dark glare to be sent his way. The one that anyone that doesn’t know Haytham like Shay to cower away. But to Shay, he smirks in the face of danger.

“Shay, don’t keep me waiting any longer,” Haytham inquires.

A small pang of guilt suddenly strikes Shay’s gut. One that makes him regret being cocky in this type of situation. He leans down to Haytham and kisses him softly, caressing his lips with his own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against rosy lips.

Slowly now, slowly he pushes into Haytham and watches as the man’s face scrunches up under him. Haytham’s mouth falling open and brows furrowing. It’s truly a wonder, and Shay takes every moment in.

The pure aching want fills Haytham that isn’t quite satisfied right now. He needs more of Shay. He tries to wrap is legs around Shay’s waist to push more of him, wriggling his hips. But all he is met with is another kiss that distracts him. Haytham holds onto Shay as if he’s going to slip away.

Shay moves his hips slowly, grinding down and pushing more of his dick in slowly. The oil does wonders, letting Shay move with ease. Haytham pulls away from the kiss, having to catch his breath. The feeling of having Shay so close, of having Shay in him, of having the man’s breath on his lips is all too surreal.

He holds onto the Shay, getting lost in everything. The Captain still smells of the ocean despite them being out all night. As if the ocean has attached itself it him, wedged itself into his skin. It will be a sad day to see that ship retired. But Haytham doesn’t think Shay would truly be able to let her up. He’s sailed too long with the Morrigan it would be like saying goodbye to a friend for the last time.

Without even realizing, the simple thought strikes a hard cord in Haytham. A cord that he has spent years not touching nor not even wanting to bring up in conversation.

Haytham exhales shakily and quickly brings a hand to cover his face, feeling the wetness on his palm. It almost shocks him. That these are his own tears. But the tightness in his throat and chest only come forth tenfold. Shay looks to him with wide eyes as a small noise escapes Haytham’s throat, his movements stopping instantly.

He keeps his eyes covered, not wanting Shay to see him like this. But Shay pries his hand off all so that they can look at each other. All watery and teary, Haytham can’t even stand the thought of seeing him like this.

“Oh, Haytham,” Shay breathes the words as if he’s speaking to someone he loves.

And maybe it’s true. And maybe Haytham has just never had anyone speak to him like this. Look at him with such adoration that it has Haytham second guessing everything. All because, only now realizing, he doesn’t know what true love is supposed to look like.

And yet here Shay is. After all these years, he’s here. Still wanting Haytham. He still came back for him. He could have very easily gone off after finding the box. Gone off to never be seen or heard of again. But not Shay. And maybe tonight has restored something long broken inside of Haytham without even realizing it.

Haytham huffs his last and looks to Shay, a stray tear slipping form his eye. Shay wipes it up and then cups his face gently.

“I’m not sending you away again,” Haytham manages to whisper out without his voice shaking.

At this, Shay smiles warmly. Something that makes his brown eyes sparkle. Something that Haytham always liked, even though his eyes are so dark, they seem to shine brighter than anyone else’s. Even after everything he’s seen. After all the fighting and all the death. He still smiles and laughs.  

Shay plants a soft kiss over Haytham’s teary eye. A gesture that hasn’t ever been lent to Haytham before but it’s welcome all the same. The gentleness that Haytham receives from Shay is something he hasn’t received in his entire life. It’s as if tonight is on stand still, this room a moment that will never be forgotten all while the world goes on around them. Never knowing what has gone on under this roof.  

Finally, Shay answers softly. Soft enough that only Haytham can hear and no one else. Not even the moon, not even her stars. Just for Haytham and the moment that holds this room.

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[lucky-clover-gazette]

The Big Picture

The Four Swords manga, adapted/retold using both canon and additional scenes, with a focus on Vio and Shadow's individual characters and ambiguous relationship.

Chapter Two: Who Are You? (Part One)

Link glances down at his own tunic. So that would make him…

“Purple,” Red says, although he doesn’t seem quite satisfied with the title. Link—not Purple—crosses his arms over his chest. “No… Violet? Maybe just Vio?”

“Isn’t that a girl’s name?” Vio mutters, although he’s already subconsciously using it for himself. Red either pretends not to hear his question or simply decides it isn’t worth answering.

Read the rest on ao3 or under the cut:

As rare creatures who thrive in both the Dark World and realm of light, the dragons have been invaluable to Ganon and Vaati’s grand evil plan. It had taken some negotiation with the union leaders, but sure enough, Shadow basically has an entire fleet of them at his disposal. And look at him now!

“Fly! Fly, my dark ones!” he calls to his minions, perched atop the strongest of the bunch. “Tear down Hyrule Castle!”

The dragons cover the castle in darkness, alerting the guards outside. Shadow steadies himself on the lead dragon’s back, reaching out an arm for balance. The loose sleeve of his undershirt flutters in the wind. “There’s a new Link in this chain!”

Shadow’s dragon opens her mouth wide, politely informing the guards that there is a fireball in her throat. The cowards drop their spears at once, literally running for the hills. Shadow hopes they’re singed on their way out.

He still expects some resistance inside the castle. During mandatory research he’d learned all about the royal knights, whose forces are lead by the hero’s own father. And he knows the four heroes will show up, too, eventually. How could they not? Those idiots are courage personified.

But so is Shadow, and he actually has the guts to get his hands dirty. Their strengths may match his strengths, being cut from the same cloth, but they have four times the weaknesses. In a way, the Four Sword’s bizarre magic only makes Shadow’s chances better—not that he’s ever needed fate’s intervention in the first place.

He glances down at his tunic, focusing his magic on its many interwoven threads. One by one they shift from black to green, making him the spitting image of Hyrule’s savior.

“Well?” he asks the dragon, putting his hands on his hips. “How do I look?”

She shakes her disapproval with only a second’s glance.

“Missed something, huh?”

The dragon huffs.

“Where’s a Dark Mirror when you need one, am I right?” He runs a hand through his hair, very proud of the quip. “Oh, my hair!”

Purple locks shift to blonde, red eyes to blue as a final touch. Shadow clears his throat. “Okay, what about now?”

The dragon’s nearest deadly claw curls into a thumbs-up.

“Thanks,” Shadow says, and means it.

─────────────────

It would be a beautiful hike, if not for the circumstances.

Link stands directly beneath a rainbow, the cool spray of a waterfall hitting his back. The four have made good time through the sprawling overworld, trekking through dense woods and climbing down a scenic cliffside.

“Are we there yet?” Link asks, second-closest to the front of the group. Of course the one in green takes the lead, as he clearly enjoys doing, while the other two lag slightly behind.

“We should see it when we cross the river!” answers the leader, while someone pants loudly behind them both.

“Can we rest a little?”

That was definitely the Link in red. Link turns his head and sure enough, the guy is on his hands and knees like he just singlehandedly took down an entire hinox. But if we’re all echoes of the same person, Link wonders, how is one of us more easily exhausted than the rest?

Throughout the quiet hike, he’s found himself questioning many aspects of the others’ and his own personhood. It’s a bizarre feeling, to know you’ve been alive for nineteen years, but you’ve only been yourself for less than a day. He is simply not the same Link who drew the Four Sword from its pedestal, which is a difficult reality to accept when that former self is the very foundation of his existence. All of his questions have led back to this: where does Link Prime end, and where does he begin?

“We don’t have time for that,” their unofficial leader tells the Link in red. “We’ve got to tell my father about all this as soon as possible!”

His father? Our father? Link isn’t quite sure. He has memories of the captain, of course, all the way from childhood to young adulthood. But just as with Zelda, there’s a certain distance he can’t help but feel. Link watches the memories in his mind like an actor is playing himself. He can recall the hero’s past, but lacks the emotional and sensory details of actually experiencing it.

The most brutish of the four clears his throat. “First, we need to make a decision.”

“About what?” asks the Link in red, who seems to have caught his breath. Guess he got his rest after all.

“Names! Names!” hollers the Link in blue. “We can’t all be called Link, we need nicknames!”

At first Link bristles at the thought of this—that’s his name!—but quickly realizes that the conviction just isn’t there. Maybe he doesn’t feel like just Link anyway. He wonders what the almighty Goddesses would think about that.

“I wear red clothes,” says the Link wearing red clothes, “so call me Red. You’re Blue…”

“Huh?!”

Link glances down at his own tunic. So that would make him…

“Purple,” Red says, although he doesn’t seem quite satisfied with the title. Link—not Purple—crosses his arms over his chest. “No… Violet? Maybe just Vio?”

“Isn’t that a girl’s name?” Vio mutters, although he’s already subconsciously using it for himself. Red either pretends not to hear his question or simply decides it isn’t worth answering.

“And Green! Whady’a think?”

Green runs a hand through his hair. “It’s weird, but it makes sense. I guess.”

Blue, meanwhile, is less willing to accept Red’s idea. “You can’t just change people’s names,” he fumes, pointer finger outstretched. “I won’t answer to anything other than Link!”

“It’s a great idea!” Red enthuses. “I’m a genius!”

“You’re an idiot!” Blue shoots back, stepping up on a rock for just a little more height than others. “Look, just ‘cuz we look alike doesn’t mean we’re gonna be buddies!”

“You’re no fun...”

“Riiiiiiight,” Vio says, finding that he quite enjoys being a snarky contrarian. “Hanging around with you fools is dangerous to my health.”

Blue grabs him by the collar, but he remains thoroughly unimpressed. “You callin’ me a fool? I oughta…”

“Oh, c’mon! Stop it!” shouts Green, his eyes sparkling with self-righteousness. “We’re all copies of the same person! Do you really want to hurt yourself?”

Distantly, Vio wonders how exactly that would work—do they feel each other’s pain? Maybe if he can goad Blue into actually throwing a punch, he’ll—

“Don’t say this guy is the same as me, or I’ll pop you too!” Blue growls, now pointing at Green. “You three can call each other stupid nicknames!”

Vio smirks and slides away, making a mental note to investigate at a later time. Having observed Blue’s first few hours of existence, he expects many more violent outbursts to come.

“My nicknames aren’t stupid,” Red says quietly. Vio knows he should say something reassuring, but it doesn’t come as naturally as it once did. And before he can figure out the right words to say, the conversation has already moved forward.

“If there’s a main Link,” says Green, “it’s me! Everyone knows Link dresses in green!”

Blue stretches his tunic as if searching the fabric for any hint of greenish pigment. “Rats.”

For a second Vio thinks this is a sign of resignation, but then Blue launches towards Green in a new fit of rage. “You think you’re better’n me just cuz you wear green!” he shouts, grabbing at Green’s tunic. “Take it off! We’re switching tunics right now! And hats, too!”

Vio can’t help but smirk at the absurdity of it all. Red, meanwhile, seems genuinely confused. “Why isn’t ‘Blue’ me more laid-back and mellow? If we’re all the same person, why are our personalities so different?

Green shoves Blue away, his tunic still completely intact. “Because we’re each a part of my… errr… Link’s whole personality,” he tells Red, ignoring Blue’s indignant huff. “Green is focused and motivated,” he says of himself, and Vio almost has to respect his unearned confidence. “Blue is hotheaded and aggressive—”

“What?!”

“Red is innocent and optimistic,” Vio interjects, patting the poor guy on the head. See? He can be nice. He’s great at being nice.

“Oh, I see!” Red exclaims, turning to Vio with a smile. “Vio is super cool.”

Vio finds himself glancing away, bangs falling over his eyes. Is one backhanded compliment all it takes to earn this simpleton’s respect? It feels too easy, too shallow. Red can’t possibly respect him if he doesn’t understand him, and none of them understand each other in the slightest. “Hmmm…. I’d prefer calm and collected.”

Before he can gauge Red’s response, Vio spots two familiar women climbing up the cliffside. The others see them too, finishing each other’s thoughts aloud:

“That’s…” Blue says, his voice low.

“… Arcy…” Vio mutters, the name familiar on his tongue.

“… the castle cook!” Red exclaims, and now Vio remembers why.

“Hey, Arcy!” Green calls out, hands cupped around his mouth.

The others rush towards the women, ignoring Vio’s motion to stop. “Idiots! Not at all once!”

“Arcy,” Green repeats, “thank goodness! We got lost trying to find the—”

Arcy wields a stick like a sword, pointing it right at the four. Beside her, the young girl looks absolutely petrified. “Stay back,” Arcy warns, “you monsters! How did you find us all the way out here?”

Red wipes at a tear. “Monsters? That really hurts!”

Green continues to talk when he really should just shut up and let Arcy explain—although Vio is already piecing things together himself. “Listen, Arcy, I drew the Four Sword and got split in four. But inside we’re all the same Link!”

“All the way out here…” Vio mutters, too busy contemplating Arcy’s words to disagree with Green’s demonstrably incorrect explanation.

“I used to think you were a good kid!” Arcy cries, holding onto the small girl for dear life. “But those things you did… you’re a demon for sure!”

Blue looks incredulous. “What did I do?”

“Wait,” Vio says, meeting Arcy’s panicked gaze. “Do you mean a dark, shadowy Link?”

She gives him the smallest of nods. While Vio just rolls his eyes at the reminder of that purple-haired freak, Green lunges for the poor woman.

“The castle,” he demands, grabbing desperately at Arcy’s wrists. “What happened at Hyrule Castle?”

#my writing #four swords #fs #shadow link #vio link #red link #blue link #green link

[caffiend-queen]

The Auction

Chapter Three: Not Out of Obligation

In which we learn What Comes Next for our new brides.

Chapter Two here

Like everything I write, this is 18+ only. I am barely capable of looking after my own children, I can't parent you, too. Plenty of profanity, explicit object sex, and general dystopian misogyny

James…

“It’s done.”

I barely got the words out before Rowan was nearly leaping on me, arms around my neck and tearfully thanking me. Her angry shell cracked wide open - at least for the moment, I reminded myself - and her joyful, lovely face was alive in a way that was so different from the bitter, practiced way she’d been onstage.

I just blurted it. “You’re so beautiful.” I’m amazed still that such a perfect woman had been walking the streets of the same city I had and we’d never found each other before this. Amazed at my good fortune and that she didn’t seem to hate me. That she was grateful. 

But, I thought, just how grateful?

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she began, but then her light dimmed, just slightly. “But, I promise, I will be the best wife I can be for you. You saving Ben for me, I just-”

My fingers slide into her hair and I kiss her again, I don’t want to hear her forcing herself to be the bride that was bought and paid for. Rowan’s mouth is open and wet from my tongue and god, I have never tasted anything so sweet. 

She sucked in a determined breath and her hands moved to my jacket, slipping it off my shoulders. The cuff caught like it always does on the glove on my left hand and I pulled back. Rowan’s long fingers - musician’s fingers - were already trying to unbutton my shirt. 

“Wait.” I caught her hands in mine. “Just… take a breath. This has been an insane day for you.”

Goddamnit. Her eyes rose to mine, that pale, perfect green. The color of the Nile River. I’d seen that river twice, once as a kid when it was that exquisite color, like nothing else on earth. The second time, choked with bodies and parts of it on fire. I shook my head and tried to smile. 

“Oh, god. I’m so sorry,” she started speaking very quickly, “I just… you want to be in charge of course and I’m throwing myself at you-” 

I watched a flush rise up that silky, pale skin on her neck and groaned internally. My fucking dick is about to tear a hole through these pants. 

“No Rowan, it’s not that. I don’t want to sleep with you because you think you owe me. Sex out of obligation is…” 

She’s stepping away, arms crossed and that pretty blush is turning her face red.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I feel my willpower slipping. I’ve got to get away from her or I’ll be fucking her right here in the hall. I press a button on the wall next to the light switch, and Mrs. Kashif is standing in the doorway instantly. She’s even made me jump before when she materializes out of nowhere.

“Rowan, this is Mrs. Kashif, she runs the household.” I watch her nod and smile at my house manager, who inclines her head politely. “Mrs. Kashif, this is Rowan Barnes. My wife.” If she’s surprised, the old broad will never show it. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barnes. Perhaps I can introduce you to the staff tomorrow and take you on a brief tour?”

And Rowan takes it all in stride, straightening back up and clearing her throat. “It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Kashif. Thank you, I would like that.”

Meantime I’m standing there with my cock so hard it’s like a fourth person in the room and I know my housekeeper is carefully keeping her beady brown eyes away from me. “Can you show my wife to the master bedroom and help her get settled?” 

My wife, I think, that sounds so good.

Looking at my bride, I manage to smile even though all the blood’s left my head and settled down south. “I’ve got some work to finish tonight. Why don’t you get some sleep?” She’s even prettier when she’s confused, that hard careful shell is gone and her pink mouth moves for a moment before she manages to say, “Of course. Thank you. I’ll… see you, then? Later, then?”

Leaning in so I don’t poke a hole in her stomach with my dick, I take her chin and give her a slow, light kiss. God, her mouth. It’s perfect. Like the rest of her, perfect and I want to shove her against the wall and suck on her tongue…

Fuuuuck, you asshole! Get it together!

“Yes, I’ll try not to wake you. Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes.”

Rowan…

“Yes, I’ll try not to wake you. Goodnight, Mrs. Barnes.”

This was not how Rowan expected the night to go. She’d been picturing James jumping her and ruining her vagina ‘till sunrise. He’d looked so hungry from the moment he’d gotten her alone. 

Following the tall and angular housekeeper up the huge, sweeping staircase, she looked down to see James watching her with a half smile before he turned and went into what she assumed was his study.

What are the odds that I’d actually get a decent man, she thought, a little stunned, a truly good human being?

She smiled tentatively until that cynical voice surfaced again, “Yeah, what are the odds? This is too good to be true, you sucker. 

While she’d been wrestling with what Ben called V.I.C, "her vicious inner critic," Mrs. Kashif had paused by an open door, waiting with a polite smile. The smile made it clear she’d been waiting as in waiting. Walking faster, Rowan caught up.

“This is the master bedroom, Mrs. Barnes.”

The room was ridiculously huge. She could have fit three of her crappy apartments just into this one space. The walls were a deep chocolate hue with cream-colored crown molding and trim. The windows on the second floor were just as tall as the ones on the ground floor, with an elegant wrought-iron balcony outside matching doors. Rowan tried to picture herself sitting at the little table outside, perched on one of those wildly expensive chairs and haughtily sipping tea, A snort rose and she just held it back by slapping a hand over her mouth. Yeah, she was so not cut out for this shit.

“You’ll see that the door to the master bath is just adjacent to the fireplace…” Mrs. Kashif was wearing a severe black dress, her hair in a severe black bun, and sensible shoes. But she still managed to have more intimidating dignity in one pinky finger than Rowan suspected she herself had in her entire body. She wondered if the woman despised her, thinking she was just another rich, useless asshole that the housekeeper would have to wait on hand and foot.

Oh, damn the bathroom was too perfect to pee in. A huge glass enclosure housed a shower with multiple heads and the most exquisite tub - long and gracefully sloped and clearly big enough for two, even if one of those two was a giant like her… husband?

Oh god, she cringed, the V.I.C was back and whispering in her brain, I can’t have a husband! And he’s going to want babies! I’m not ready, how do I even-

“Here you will find the dressing room, Master Barnes has made available the left side for your wardrobe.” 

She thought about the battered armoire she’d picked out of a trashpile. Ben painted it blue with flowers snaking up to a sunny sky along the drawers, and that was where they’d hung their meagre stash of clothing. And now there was a dressing room. Polished wood shelves and drawers, one side hung with an endless array of astronomically expensive suits, crisply pressed dress shirts and ties neatly rolled in glass trays. A display drawer for watches that would have cost more than Rowan could have made in her lifetime. She put an index finger on one, a chrome vintage Rolex. 

The familiar, comforting fury was rising again. This man with his insultingly costly watches. Buying her. Buying her fallopian tubes and ovaries and her apparently spectacular DNA. Angry was good. She could handle angry. Enraged Rowan was the most effective version of herself. Furious meant she could deal with anything. Even a Rich Asshole who bought her.

“Of course, we use Sferra Palace sheets, I hope you are comfortable with Italian cotton?”

Mrs. Kashif was standing stiffly next to the bed. It was a massive affair with a high mattress that Rowan couldn’t have accessed without a running start and African Blackwood posts, carved with vines and faces of animals and rising regally over the bed with ivory and navy blue pillows and a hugely thick and downy comforter. As gigantic as James was, surely the bed could fit like, six or seven of him comfortably.

Rowan wondered if he’d hosted an orgy in this bed. Would Mrs. Kashif, the woman who did not look like she liked her at all, tell her this? The woman’s expression was completely neutral, but those dark eyes told a different story. She was quite clear the new Mrs. Barnes Did Not Belong.

As if I fucking want to, she thought bitterly.

Still, it wasn’t in her to be impolite. Not to a fellow member of the working class. Mustering a smile, she said, “Thank you. I appreciate your tour and the information. I know it’s quite late, so I hope we didn’t disturb you coming in.”

The housekeeper arched a brow. “It is my purpose.”

“What- you mean your job?”

“No.” Mrs. Kashif corrected flatly, “My purpose. Serving Master Barnes is position so sought after that it becomes a life’s purpose. It is no mere job,” she finished with a slightly contemptuous tones on the last word.

Rowan’s lips pursed. Okaaay, she thought, that level of devotion is creepy, but sure. “Well, again, thank you for your time, and I won’t keep you from your own bed any longer. Good night.”

The other woman inclined her head and left the room silently.

Eyeing the colossal bed and the perfectly turned down cover, pillows plumped and sheets glowing in the light from the elegant scones, she backed away uncomfortably. The bedroom was deathly silent. There was no screeching of brakes or shouting from pedestrians, she noted. No sirens. This gargantuan, fancy fucking mansion blocked all the business of the lower forms of life. Walking over to the corner window, she sat on a wonderfully cushioned window bench, drawing up her legs and looking out at the city. The part the Rich Assholes saw.

“It will be okay,” Rowan whispered. “Tomorrow I’ll see Ben and we’ll just… figure it out. It’ll be okay.” Really? That was exactly the phrase she’d avoided with the crying girl today. Because it was most definitely not going to be okay.

Glenna…

Ransom was snoring next to her in bed, maybe it wasn’t snoring, more like wheezing because he kinda passed out after that last round. She was grateful because sweet baby Jesus, she couldn’t feel anything below her waist and her nipples were on fire from being bitten so much. Was he warming ‘em up for nursing? Oh, god she hoped he wasn’t one of those weirdos who wanted to suck the milk along with the baby because after he opened a couple of drawers in that scary-looking armoire she saw enough hardware to know Ransom Drysdale already had plenty of kinks.

Sitting up cautiously, she watched to see if he’d stir, but Ransom just grunted and turned over on to his side. Slipping out of bed, Glenna stretched and gave her ribs a scratch. Turning to stare at her new husband’s broad back and excellent wide shoulders, she sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the Lord. There were some nasty-looking guys there at the auction - what did Rowan call them? Oh, the Rich Assholes. A'course Ransom was kinda one of them but he was hot and he’d just ruined her for all men with that huge jackhammer dick.

After groping blindly on the floor to find something to put on, she padded across the vast, shining floor of the bedroom to look out the window. Tugboats crisscrossing New York Harbor, their sweeping spotlights lit the water, and further out there was the Statue of Liberty on her own little island. She took her brothers and sister out on the ferry to see Lady Liberty when they first came here. The Lady was much smaller than she looked which made sense. Because all the liberties she used to stand for were now only for the rich. The statue looked tired, Glenna thought. Tired of holding that light when it didn’t really shine any more.

Mina…

What was happening here? Who was this man?

Loki Laufeyson terrified her from the first second she’d spotted him, holding up one imperious finger for the final bid on her body and soul. For the next five years, anyway, she reminded herself. Of course, she knew better than that. Once Auction Brides gave birth, very few of them were willing to just give their baby up and disappear with their bag of money. So it was a new kind of ownership, then. Dancing to a rich man’s tune forever?

And this place! It reminded her of the castle from Beauty and the Beast, a massive mansion with Gothic spires and stained glass windows more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen before, even in books or movies. A high stone wall around it all to keep anyone from looking in. There had to be servants because someone laid out a simple meal for her, but they were gone before she could see them and say thank you. Invisible, silent servants. Did Loki scare them as much as he scared her?

She’d been too dazed to recall anything between the front door and ending up in his study. Shame flushed through her like a bucket of hot water splashed down her back.

Earlier that evening…

“Remove your clothes.”

Mina just stared at him, stunned at how fast he was going. But when he’d seen her shocked expression, he’d just chuckled lightly, circling her like a panther, examining every inch of her body.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling. I simply want to enjoy your beauty right now.”

He owns you, she thought bitterly and half scared to death, so just… do it. Down went the pretty dress they’d put her in for that awful “wedding” and her hands rose slowly to her bra.

Loki had seated himself in a big chair by the fire, his long body filling it and still dominating the room. He nodded to her, “And your bra, darling. Let me see those lovely breasts.”

The fancy lavender lace bra joined the dress, neatly draped over the side table. His cold blue eyes were assessing her again, idly swirling that expensive booze in his glass.

“Mmm…” he hummed approvingly. “Those sweet brown nipples? The color of a good dark chocolate. Perhaps I will pour some over them one day and lick you clean.” His tongue came out to slowly trace his lips. “And now those scant scraps of lace. Push them down your legs. Slowly, mind.”

Mina’s mind turned sluggish, everything went into slow motion, the burning logs in the fireplace, the pulse of Loki’s throat as he took another sip. Everything but those eyes of his, flickering like an incandescent blue flame. Rowan said they need us, she thought. They’re scared enough to pay for us. Her fingers went to her panties and she slowly pulled them down, trying not to be awkward. But her hands flew to her center as the lace puddled around her ankles.

Like a snake striking, Loki’s cane flew up and the tip slapped her hands away. “Ah, ah. No hiding what is mine.” The slim wooden cane was stroking lightly up one thick thigh, then the other. “Your skin glows, do you know that, sweet Mina? Almost as if it absorbs light and makes it brighter still. And such a tantalizing pussy…”

“I didn’t wax,” she blurted, “they told me to, but the esthetician stripped off all the rest of my hair and took pity on me when she got to…there.”

“Good.” That cane was still sliding along her. “You are a woman capable of carrying a child, you should not be hairless like one.” The cane’s tip sharply tapped her knee. "Spread your legs.”

Sucking in a desperate gasp of oxygen, she slowly slid her right foot wider, leaving that part of her exposed to Loki and she was dying right now.

He made a sound, something deep and guttural and a little scary. “Aren’t you just… the most delicious thing? Your tender little cunt is swelling for me. And this…”

She jumped, alarmed, as the smooth wood slid between her thighs, between the lips he’d been praising and stroked along the slim furrow between them, stroking lightly, maddeningly, back and forth and rubbing her clit on each pass.

“Look at my cane, darling.”

Mina forced herself to look down and smothered a moan. The wood was shining with her slick, her arousal making each movement of his instrument of torture slide easily along her most sensitive, private parts.

“I think my lovely bride rather enjoys this…” his voice was deeper, his crisp English accent slurring slightly and Mina thought of the image of a panther circling her again. 

“Now, just like that,” Loki purred, “your proud shoulders back, your head up like the regal goddess you are.”

“I j- j- just-” Oh, no don’t stutter now Mina!

He didn’t seem to notice or care, eyes still trained on her swelling center and the slight, helpless movement of her hips. “Shh…” he soothed, “so close, aren’t you, darling? Be still!” His cane slid free from her and landed a sharp tap on her hip. “No moving. Focus on how you feel.” 

The evil cane was between her legs again, sliding along faster now with a twist upwards and against her clitoris each time. “Beautiful…” the rich lunatic who’d bought her sounded almost reverent. “Your toes are curling, lovely Mina. I believe you are very close to coming. Would you like that?”

“I- it’s…” Oh, my goodness, she thought despairingly. Was that a trick question? What kind of maniac makes you-

“Yes! Please I’m so close can I come?” Her breasts were heaving and it took everything she had to not bend her knees slightly and rub harder against the silky, slick wood but cruelly, he slowed its movement.

“Such a very good girl,” Loki approved, “asking so nicely, without any prompting. Such good manners…”

The way he purred the last sentence made it quite clear to Mina that this had nothing to do with manners at all. 

The leather of his chair creaked as he leaned forward, eyes alight and intent on her wet center, slick glistening in the black curls there and streaking along her inner thigh. And then, thank you! The cane moved faster, sparking all the delicate nerve endings so exposed now and her throbbing pearl, flushed and she was going to keel over. She was going to pass out and-

“You may come.”

This moment would have been the last thing Mina ever could have anticipated, but she gasped out in gratitude, “Oh, thank you! So good, I…” her babbling silenced as a tidal wave of pleasure hit her, nearly knocking her over and making the muscles in her legs shake and clamp down on that insidious cane. How was it that a piece of wood had made her come harder than anyone or anything in her life?

Just as her knees buckled, Loki was up and one long arm around her waist, holding her up and murmuring compliments. He lifted his cane, examining the wet wood and ran his tongue lightly along it. 

“Just as I knew it would be,” he wasn’t as unaffected as he’d pretended because his voice was husky, “utterly delicious. You, darling, are a delicacy.”

In a matter of moments, his horrifyingly expensive Tom Ford jacket was wrapped securely around her and Loki swung her up into his arms, carrying her lightly up the sweeping staircase as if she was a feather and not what her mom had called, “well-established and sturdy.”

“Your fertility tracker tells me we have two days before you reach your full potential,” he commented, putting her down gently on a spacious bed, the duvet cover and pillows done in shades of ivory and oyster. “So I shall let you rest.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Your ensuite is there. And there is clothing in the dressing room for you.”

Leaning down, so he was eye to eye with a dazed Mina, Loki lifted her limp hand and kissed it lightly. “You were an orchid in a garden of weeds, darling. I am very pleased with you.”

Present… Shifting again on the sinfully puffy mattress, Mina flushed again at the memory of earlier that night in her intimidating husband’s study, thinking again, Really, who is this man?

Alerting mutuals who I think might be interested, please let me know if you’d like on or off this list. Thank you!

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#The Auction #dystopian bridal auction #dystopian Avengers #dystopian Loki #dystopian James Barnes #dystopian Ransom Drysdale #unwilling brides #women sold for their genetic potential #patriarchial assholes #human TRAFFICKING

[beetlesau]

CHAPTER 7!

A Child and A Mother

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

In the night, you awaken to complete darkness. Considering you see very well in low light conditions, thanks to your quirk, it's rather alarming. But you feel warm as if there was heat coursing through the home. Then you remember there was supposed to be another body in the bed. You fumble your hand in the darkness, feeling the empty spot where Bakugo should have been. 

"Huh. Must not have gotten very much sleep." 

You pull yourself from the bed and wobble from the sudden rush to your head. "Aaand I got up to fast." you hum to yourself. "Bakugo must be downstairs."

You make your way down slowly, still trying to wake up and dragging your hand along the wall for support in the darkness. 

At the bottom of the stairs, you see Bakugo sitting on the couch, a blue glow illuminating his face from the TV. 

"Woah, how long have we had power here?" you ask.

"Hey, sleepyhead. It kicked back on maybe an hour ago. I didn't want to wake you. I just came down to check the news when I noticed it." he held out his arm, inviting you to sit next to him. 

"Oh. You know you need to take it easy, right? You've barely been alive for a month. We don't exactly have a handbook on how much you should be pushing yourself right now." You sat and rested your head on his shoulder as you mindlessly watched the screen. 

"Tsk. Says you? How many times have you patrolled the neighborhood this week? How many supply runs have you secretly gone on without me, huh? You're just as stubborn as I am." his voice was scolding, but the smirk on his face told you how proud he was to be with someone as driven as him. 

"Shut uuup. Those people need our help. And unlike you, I've always been alive. And I know my limits, thank you very much." you stuck out your tongue as he flicked your forehead. 

"I know," he conceded, "But anyway, on to more important matters, eh? Are you hungry?" his lips pecked the small red mark he left on you, then he got up, heading to the kitchen. "I've got some, only slightly, expired pancake mix with your name on it."

"Yum, my favorite!" you roll your eyes, grinning.

"I know, that's--- hey, what's this?" Bakugo cuts himself short to stare at the mess on the floor. 

You turn your head from the couch and see the large puddle of deep red, almost black substance on the ground. Bakugou stands over it, illuminated by the TV, and deep shadows engulf his face.

"Oh, I thought that was your blood?"

"No, it's not mine."

"Then who is it?" you ask. You stand from the couch, and when you turn around to get a better look at the floor, you can see the mass moving. You watch as the blood slithers and swirls around Bakugo until finally it crawls up his body and begins entering his now-empty eye sockets. The blood looks like a running river of tears going in reverse and you stand there, unable to move even when you try. 

"It's my moms." he finally says. His body is decayed and green. His hair is matted and black at the roots, like how it was when you first met him. He isn't human anymore. 

"It's my mom's, and I killed her." 

Your eyes opened, and you've awoken once again. This time, there is light coming in from the second-story window that sits on the wall next to the bed. You're frozen in fear and covered in a layer of sweat. You take a moment to realize it was only a dream. But the instant memory of the first one hits you. The dream of Bakugo needing your help turned out to be real, leading you to fear the worse of this new dream. 

Bakugo turned and then killed his mother. That was the blood downstairs? If he killed her, his flesh and blood, what chance did you have of saving him and not being eaten yourself? It was already a fear you battled with most days but it was the first time the weight had finally settled in the pit of your stomach. This was too much pressure for just one person to handle. And you of all people? Before meeting this blonde Dead, you stuck to your paths of safety. Now you were doing the most dangerous thing of all, lying across from one, practically in the arms of danger. 

You could feel him still there, his weight on the bed causing the smallest divot in the mattress. Inclined almost enough that you could fall back into him if your body wasn't stiffened with anxiety. 

You got up as slowly and as quietly as you could, turning to make sure he was still asleep or meditating, or hybernating? Whatever it was that he did to shut his unliving body down for rest. 

You needed a moment. 

You silently crept from the house and inhaled the crisp morning air outside. 

"What am I doing? Who do I think I am? Why did I think I could do this!?"

The back and forth in your mind was stifling. You needed to go for a walk. By choosing the alleyway, you could take comfort in not being exposed and out in the open. It was easy enough to use your quirk, but you didn't want to. You just needed some moment of normality. A time before the Dead, before the dangers of the world, before the need to hide. 

You promised you would help Bakugo. And you still wanted to, but the reality of how difficult that could be was creeping up on you. 

What was that dream? What parts of it should you even think about? The fact that you're pretty sure that blood belongs to his mother, or maybe that you two were.... like... A THING? in your dream?

You shook your head. It wasn't real. The idea of a relationship during the apocalypse seemed the most trivial thing imaginable. 

Considering it was just a dream, the possibilities it created in your mind were endless. 

Before long, the walk came to an end. You were so lost in thought that you hadn't noticed you'd gone down a no-outlet street. You turned in a hurry to double back. 

A rustling noise came from the nearest dumpster to your left, so you activated your quirk and waited before continuing. Out of the pile of garbage fumbled a body. It shuffled to its feet and took a few steps where you had last been seen before realizing there was no longer anyone there. Its groan sounded confused and desperate as it reached out into thin air. You took a few steps back to stay completely out of reach but he seemed persistent. He must have been able to scent you out just enough as Bakugo did, though perhaps far less accurately. 

You would have considered the chainlink fence to your right, making too much noise as you try to make it over it, or you could have considered the crumbling wall of an old house to your left, the chance of a firm grip, not the most promising. But, instead, you hadn't time to consider any of that when a furious firey-eyed beast came barreling down the alleyway towards you both. 

Surprisingly, your first thought was how much trouble you were in. But more in the way of how a child gets in trouble with a parent after coming home after curfew. 

Your second thought was how he was absolutely coming to kill the Dead that now slowly turned towards all the noise he was making. 

Your third and final thought was how stupid it was that you instinctively put yourself between Bakugo and the Dead, revealing yourself in the process.

Very smart. Yup, save the Dead guy that is about to chomp down into your neck from behind. 

You came between the two just before Bakugo was able to slam his sizzling fist into the Dead's droopy face. 

His reflexes may not have been what they used to be, but you noticed the improvement in them over the past few days. He slowed his arm and diverted it away from you, just over your shoulder. You could hear it connect with a pop. 

"No!" you cried. You turned your head to check the damage to the Dead, surprised to see that instead of a shattering punch Bakugo instead had an open palm wedged between a struggling set of teeth. The pop you heard must have been the jaw opening wide enough to accommodate the intrusion. 

Bakugo held the skull steady as his palm built up heat. 

"Stop. Please. Please don't do this." you grabbed his arm gently, pleading with him.

"Danger." he seethed, true anger in his eyes, and not the kind he carried with him on a regular day. 

"I know. I know, but he doesn't deserve it. The same way you don't. Please. Don't be the monster."

His brows twitched at the word Monster. 

He pushed the Dead back, far enough out of your reach. He fumbled to the ground but kept his eyes on you. There was some small shift in them, you thought, but it must have been imagined. 

You two didn't stick around, knowing if the Dead attempted to approach you again, Bakugo would have no choice but to do things his way. 

You both sat in silence a while back at his old home. 

"Thank you." you finally managed to say. "Thank you for not killing him."

"I'm not..." his voice cracked as you listened intently.

" 'M not... monster." 

"Blood. Not mine." his eyes flickered to the spot on the floor just past him. 

"I know. It's your mother's, isn't it?" you already knew.

His face scrunched up in pain. A memory he couldn't forget. 

"What happened to her, Bakugo?" you were desperate for the answer.

"She became Dead... She attack. I was strong, but not enough for her. She bite. She's gone." 

It was the most he'd ever attempted to talk. But you understood all of it.

To see his mother become one of these things. He wasn't strong enough to stop her because he loved her. He couldn't kill her until it was too late for him.  

You got up and stood over him where he sat. You ran a hand through his now soft locks and leaned down, placing a kiss on his forehead. You held him a moment. His deep breaths getting lost in the fabric of your shirt.

"I think we can help the others. There are more like you. Will you help me?" 

 He leaned away to look up into your eyes, before nodding, "Yes."

#bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bakugo katuski #mha zombie #Bakugo zombie #warm bodies type of story #mha au #bakugo x reader #my hero academia #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katuski x reader #zombie au #zombie fic #bakugou is dead but not #AU #uuuh how does one make tags #Zombie bakugou #bakugou needs help #fantasy romance #bakugou love story

[one-true-houselight]

[id: an illustrated poem over ten images.

'Two boxes stare at me, unblinking. 

'There’s been a problem, I say.

'You’ve asked me who I am, but have only given me these choices.' (There is a blue and a pink box)

'Oh, of course, our apologies. 

'A new paper. 

'Three boxes stare at me, unblinking. 

'Something tells me I won’t be able to get another paper.' (There is the same blue and pink box, and a messy green box has been added.)

2. 'This is what I’ve come to expect: a hastily added third option, or a sliding scale between two options.' (There is the same messy green box, along with a question mark, and a blue to pink gradient)

'I’m not sure which is less accurate.'

3. 'I have fallen into the trap that to disavow myself of the label printed on my forehead at birth, I had to run for the opposite shore. But it wasn’t right, not really.' (There is a hand throwing a pink heart into a garbage can)

'I am not a third option. I do not appear on any gradient, any sliding scale.' (There is a figure clutching their chest, where there is a red heart shaped hole.)

4. 'I float among the stars, flipping and turning in three dimensions (four if you count the time flowing through my fingertips).' (The words float on a black gradient background with stars. The words flipping and turning are doing as such.) 

'I am running through a forest, a stream by my side, racing a race that has rules neither me nor the rushing water can fathom, and that has no winners, no losers, simply the promise of existence.' (These words are seemingly immersed in a river, which shows the reflections of trees.)

5. 'I am high in a catwalk, everything around me dark but for the light hanging in open space. No one could confirm what form I take, least of all me. I see the silhouette of two hands against the light, a nose that glasses slide down. Any other details are lost to the darkness, until I smile, the light reflecting off what we hope are simply teeth.' (There is a ERS stage light hanging from a railing, throwing a cone of soft light. There is also a smile of sharp teeth.)

6. 'I am dusk and dawn, midnight and high noon, all at once and none at all.' (There is a sunrise and sunset, along with a fully up sun, a crescent moon, and a full moon partially hidden by clouds.)

'I am the waves lapping at the rocks, I am the foam stirred up by the wind, and I am the rain returning to the ocean below.' (There is an ocean wave, rocks, and rain.) 

'I am the light that defines the void, and the void that defines the light.' (The word 'light' glows white against a black shape, and the word 'void' glows black against the white.)

7. 'I am every type of cloud in the sky, something that seems so insubstantial, but bigger and fuller than could ever be imagined.' (There are clouds of various types.)

'I am fire, I jump, I spark, I send embers into the sky, telling others I am here. I smolder. And sometimes I die.' (There are leaping flames, throwing up sparks, which some of the words follow. There are also smoldering embers.) 

'I am everything, and I am nothing.'

8. 'I weave words into tapestries to admire, into a blanket to keep one warm, into a lens to see the world at a new angle. And when who I am claims to be beyond words, I laugh and set about proving everyone, even myself, to be wrong. I am words, I am nouns, verbs, and adjectives. I am a period ending a chapter, a question mark demanding what for, an exclamation mark screaming to the howling void that I am here, and a comma showing that there is more to come. I am the space between letters, where hidden messages lie (or so I’m told).' (These words are backed by colorful glitter.)

'Here I am, given these boxes three, but when I let words pour from my soul, I am truly free.' (The blue, pink, and green boxes are back.)

9. 'Some may say this is all irrelevant to the question asked, but I raise them this: what importance can that question have, if it does not reflect the person it is asked of?

'So this is what I say.'

10. 'I am a far off storm radio announcing an incoming storm.

'I am me, and nothing more.' (There is a meadow, with a storm cloud rolling in, dropping rain. In the distance is a radio, making noise. There is also a small drawing of my face, a white non binary person with short dark hair and blue glasses.)

/end id]

This post brought to you by 'Erika discovered a whole bunch of new brushes!!!!'

#i draw sometimes #i write sometimes #genderqueer #gender thoughts #transgender #nonbinary #wahoo

[foodandfolklore]

The Grimm Variations, Episode 2

A new Netflix Anime has caught my eye. It's Called the Grimm Variations; which feature retellings of Original Brothers Grimm fairytales. But rather be a beat for beat, they are more reimagined. A "What If" kind of thing. I figured I'd share the original Fairytales these stories are based on for those interested.

The second Episode is based on the Story of the Pied Piper. Which wasn't first created by the two Brothers Grimm (Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm) but was first a Pome by Robert Browning. However, it latter became a Brother's Grimm story when the Grimm Brothers added it to a published collection of stories. With Browning's Credit of course. Here is the Original Pome, translated into English.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin (Also Called the Children of Hamelin) Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing! "At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smile went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers they noticed were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon his pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor Piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats, I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished!— Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 'And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes

(such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by.— Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast." He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say, all? No; One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six: "And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor, Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

#food and folklore #fairytale #folktale #folklore #brothers grimm #grimm variations #Pied Pipper #Pied Piper #pied piper of hamelin #classics

[geewintg]

Curious Little Fox

Fandom: Genshin Impact Ship: Cyno x Tighnari

There was always something that would catch a little fox's interest. It could be a little red bug drifting to his window, or how leaves would shine gold under the sun's rays, or the plants spotted floating on the forest's rivers and ponds, or how a flower would only seem to bloom under moonlight.

The forest was full of wonders.

But this time, it wasn't in the forest that something caught his eye. It had a pair of tall ears just like his, wandering around in the desert. Only his dark tall ears could be seen above the sandy dune's crest whenever the little fox would try to get a peek from the forest's borders. After that it would disappear from his sight.

The little green fox went to the same spot again, driven by his innate curiosity. He stayed there. All day just so he could wait for the same dark tall ears above hills of sand.

He noticed, there was a specific time of day where he would chance upon it. It was when the sun was angled past midday, slightly a few inches from the peak. Then next time, he would go for that hour.

Of course, the little fox never knew what creature was the one with dark tall ears. It could be one of them too. It must be one of them!

Of course, curiosity began to grow and grow. So too does little Tighnari would want to know who was that with the dark tall ears.

So this time, he learned how to climb a tree. It was a very useful skill mostly for hunting and surviving. Against a sumpter beast, yes. Against a rishboland tiger, not so much.

It depends. And for this one, it was very useful.

There he saw it. A tiny moving figure across dunes. A pair of dark ears, a spear in his hand, cloaked in black.

They walked at a slow pace. As if taking it in leisure.

What they looked like under the hood, little Tighnari couldn't see.

As he continued to watch it from a height, he noticed that where the dark figure is heading, it was heading towards the border with certainty.

With each step taken, his heart anticipation grew wilder. Did they notice him? Should he start to run? Are they dangerous?

Silly little thoughts muddled his mind.

Then the hooded figure stopped just across the tree, still on the desert side of the border. Then they looked up.

Curious forest eyes met sanguine red. Both did not say a thing. It was until then that the young albino child swept the forest canopy with his gaze, pretending to not see anything within the leaves.

Should Tighnari be grateful?

He was warned not to cross the desert.

As the boy turned away, walking off to another direction, Tighnari peered down, hugging the tree tight. Then he began climbing down.

But the moment his foot touched the ground, the boy's head swiveled towards him. Tighnari had little time to react to behind the tree.

He's pretty sure he was well-aware of his presence. With how loud he made the sound, he'd be a fool not to.

Tighnari had his hands up his mouth to hold back a yelp. When he heard footsteps continued, that's when he took a peek.

But what he didn't expect was the expecting red eyes that met his.

O-oh-! He was caught.

"Don't cross the border." He warned him. The little green fox only blinked.

Whether he understood Cyno or not, he should be smart enough to know it's not safe. So he went on his way.

Tighnari stared at the ears attached on his hood. It seems to be made of fabric... There should be something underneath, right?

So he followed him.

After a while, Tighnari could start to feel the heat under his dark fur. The best thing he could do was wipe them as he trudged behind his target.

Cyno glimpsed back, seeing the little green fox still following him. Although what started was like a tail, now he's very far behind.

That should be fine. If he loses him, the young fox will have no choice but to go back home in the forest. So young cyno kept up his pace.

After a while, Cyno looked back. The young fox was no longer in sight. Good riddance. At least he wasn't stubborn.

With that out of the way, Cyno turned, changing directions that heads to Aaru Village. But each time his spear dug the sand as he walked along, worry weighs heavy on his conscience.

Should he really just go home? Shouldn't he at least check on the fox to see if he really got to the border?

As minute passed, so did his steps falter until he took it upon himself to turn back. As he transcends a hill, he spotted a dark green figure on the sand.

His eyes narrowed. What? Then he went for a full sprint.

The little fox that was following him passed out. He was out in the desert for too long with no cover over his head. His ears flopped like a stricken animal when Cyno lifted his head a little. He was covered in sweat; skin was red and burning.

Young Cyno removed his cloak and covered him with it instead. Then he carried him on his back all the way to the border.

The grass felt weird under his soles. The ground didn't shift like it would it the desert. Despite that, Cyno was quick to find a nearby water source.

He took care of Tighnari until he woke up. The fox was confused at first but then his eyes widened after realization.

"I told you, don't cross the desert. Curiosity kills the fox, doesn't it?"

"But only satisfaction can bring it back," Tighnari remarked. Cyno sighed at this, not wanting to argue while the young fox took a good look on top of his head.

Tighnari was disappointed, to say. There were no ears underneath after all.

"You made me worry."

"I'm sorry..." His had his ears back apologetically then sniffed. "But thank you."

"W-wait, why are you crying?" Cyno panicked as tears started to fall from his eyes.

Then it took him aback when Tighnari held his hand, pulling him into a squeezed hug.

"T-thank...you.." he said between hics. Cyno would only pat his back in comfort.

He sighed. "Don't worry. I'm here."

~~

inspired by DyingStarArch's art. Go check them out! also sorry for not being online for a long time

#genshin #writing #creative writing #cynari #cyno x tighnari #cynonari #available in ao3 #ao3 #genshin au

[shipperneko]

So uhm…I wrote a fic for what happened to Bakugo after he collapsed on the battlefield. It has a few theories in it and it was mainly just a way for me to calm down and get some fluff.

So here you go.

‼️ Manga spoilers ‼️

Note: :0 means a curse word lol

“Kacchan?”

Katsuki felt a small tapping on his shoulder.

“Are you awake?”

Crimson eyes struggled to open, blinking in the sudden bright light that surrounded him.

“Oh good. I was getting worried.”

Bakugo looked around. They were sitting on a large mossy log above a running river. As he glanced to his left, he saw curly green hair perched on top of a chubby, freckled face.

“I-”

He cut him off, hugging him so tightly as if Izuku was the last thing that dwelled in Bakugo’s soul. In fact, maybe he was.

His voice came out raspy and pained. “Am I dead?”

“In a way. Your heart stopped.”

Izuku smiled so that his freckles scrunched up and made Kacchan’s heart flutter.

“But you can come back. I need you.”

The blonde’s eyes welled up with tears. “Is he-I mean you-are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay, why would you think I wasn’t?” His happy smile came across as morbid and sad.

Without another thought, Katsuki grabbed his hand.

They sat like that for long minutes, fingers interlaced, solemnity weighing the air around them.

“When you go-”

“What do you mean?” His brow furrows. “When I go?”

“Well…yeah. You have to go back.”

“I don’t see why! It’s perfect here. I have you.”

“Katsuki.”

Oh :0. This can’t be good, he thought.

“Right now you’re laying on the ground in the middle of a huge war.”

“So what? They can win without me.”

“And what about me?”

Bakugo threw his arms in the air. “What the :0 are you talking about, Izuku?!”

“I’m not real, and I desperately need your help.”

“Hold on a minute, I asked you if you were okay a while ago!”

“Oh I thought you meant me as in me in your head.”

Bakugo cursed under his breath. “I have to go then.”

“Yes. You do.”

“How?”

“You’ll figure it out. I trust you.”

His grip on Bakugo’s hand tightened.

“He’ll never know this ever happened. Right?”

“Right. Unless you tell him, but knowing you, you never will.”

Deku’s emerald hair bounced in the breeze. With a sudden burst of confidence, he blurted out the words,

“I love you.”

Even this Izuku who didn’t even exist, flushed bright red at the soft words of the boy next to him.

“Promise me something, Kacchan.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll tell him. After the war is over, after everything is done…tell him. Please.”

His head lowered. “He’ll take it well?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.”

The blood red sun set in front of them, framed by huge trees. This place, although magnificently beautiful, brought back painful memories.

“I’m so sorry for not taking your hand back when we were kids.”

“That was a long time ago, Kacchan. It’s okay.”

“Time doesn’t erase.”

“But it heals. Scars just show how much we’ve grown, and I think you’ve grown the most out of all of us.”

Katsuki opened his mouth to thank him, when the echoey sound of a voice calling to him reverberated around the false world.

“It’s time.”

“But I-”

“Tell me. Go back and tell me.”

The world dissolved into a blank reddish black right before his eyes. The voices got closer and closer, and his blood began to boil. Literally. Something was happening inside of him. Something new. Was this a quirk awakening? Was this what Izuku had told he’d figure out?

Bakugo didn’t have the answer. All he had was one phrase. One word. The word that had consumed his entire life.

Izuku

Thank you @skelle404 for being my beta ^^ I rlly appreciated it

#bakudeku #bkdk #ram #wolf #bnha #decchan #katsudeku #mha #boku no hero academia #bakugo #bkdk ftw #deku #I needed some fluff #I was not okay

[witchesoz]

Oz the Great and Powerful: Script vs Movie (3)

VIII)  The Great Battle

Right as they leave the Quadling Country and pass the shimmering wall, Glinda summons an enormous snowstorm to cover the entirety of Central Oz – covering and hiding the location of Glinda’s army, while Glinda’s forces themselves are located in a zone right in the middle of the storm where the perfect is perfectly calm, the very “eye” of the storm that moves with them as they walk towards the City.

As the Wicked Sister see Oz, Glinda and the forces approaching, Evanora lashes out one more time at Theodora, pulling on her hair while giving her the orders to embrace the hate inside of her, reminding her that she has nothing more to hold onto and that he beloved Wizard is here to kill her… and finally Theodora gives in, and accepts to sacrifice her heart to join Evanora in full wickedness. We then have the “apple” scene from the movie, but again slightly different. Evanora does use an apple on her sister, but the apple is shining red and Theodora watches as Evanora places drops of poison onto it. Evanora also tells her sister that it will “fleetingly” hurt, but after that she will be delivered of things such as pain or love, in exchange for even more power. Of course, since the script Theodora already knows what is going on and made this decision (partially) on her own, there is none of the “it’s you the wicked witch!” and shocked surprise from the movie. Like in the movie, as her heart withers away, the appearance of Theodora changes – her chin lengthens, her nose grows into a hooked one, her skin becomes green, and she turns into the Wicked Witch of the West from the MGM movie. Like in the movie, Evanora offers an enchantment to have her look exactly the way she did before – but unlike in the movie, Evanora doesn’t say anything about Theodora looking “hideous”, and insists that she will only give her the enchantment if she wants to. And Theodora replies that no, she will keep this form, because it her now – there is nothing of this “I want him to see what he turned me into” nonsense. And as Theodora jumps at the window to order the Sisters’ generals to exterminate Oz army, wicked-Theodora has a … really corny and cheesy set of lines, that I’ll leave here:

THEODORA Hurry, Wizard -- I want to dance with you again -- a different dance this time -- a wedding dance... I got married, you see -- to Wickedness -- and from now on: The bride will wear only black!

Yeah… a good thing it was cut. So the “savage army” runs on the South… only for them to be completely blocked and defeated by the shrieking winds and slashing ice of Glinda’s snowstorm. Evanora doesn’t mind this huge problem, because she explains that a storm of such a magnitude needs a lot of magic, and the longer the storm is up, the weaker Glinda will get – they just need to wait until the storm dies out, and then all they’ll have to worry about is the Wizard – and while Evanora is not sure he is actually a true Wizard, she still says she doesn’t remove the possibility that maybe he does have some magic in him…

Now, Glinda is indeed weakened by the storm, and when it is dispelled we are revealed that Glinda’s forces weren’t marching towards the Emerald City, but to a pyramid of boulders near it – the entry to caves leading to inside the City. Glinda uses the last of her magic to create a miniature tornado that lifts the big, heavy boulders blocking the entrance, and then she passes out. As the “savage army” camps outside the city in the now snow-filled fields, Glinda’s forces enter what is described as a “subterranean wonderland” of vast caverns and underground rivers. Oh, and remember how I said the fact the “savages not being from Oz” was just dropped like that with no explanation? Well, the script corrected me! The writer clearly knew what he was doing – as Kala explains to the wizard that this set of tunnels actually passes under the Impassable Desert surrounding Oz, and into the Savage Lands, and it is through them that the Wicked Sisters could summon their army. While I still don’t like the use of “savage” to describe these creatures, I have to say I was too quick to jump to the conclusion before, this script seems to know what it is doing. We also get more backstory: it was Evanora who summed the Savages from their far-away land, to help her in her fight against Glinda’s father – and in fact these huge boulders were placed here by Glinda’s father to block the tunnels, right before he died, killed by Evanora as he was protecting Glinda from her. We also get the whole “friendship” story Theodora told earlier, but reversed: Evanora and Glinda were indeed friends, and Evanora used that friendship and Glinda’s goodness to trap her. Why? Because she knew that Glinda’s father, the actual King of Oz, would do everything in his power to save his daughter, and this allowed Evanora to “strike like a snake”. We also get an interesting line from Kala: as Oscar wonders what to do with the passed-out Glinda, and Kala says he shouldn’t try to wake her up in a kiss, adding “we need you Wizard”. This line seems weird, but I read a bit further away and it is explained later.

As they wait under the cavern, they are helped by the “inside men” of Glinda, who turn out to be the Munchkin citizens of Emerald City – they arrive to help load all the Elves’ machines inside the city, and one of the Munchkins point out he was expecting the Wizard to be bigger (which was something the Dainty China girl also said to him before and acts as a sort of running gag, since both were small characters). Now, once Glinda is awake they get to the next part of their plan. Glinda, Oscar and Kala climb in one of Glinda’s magic bubbles, with all the living Utensils climbing onto their bodies (to travel in the bubble without piercing it) – and arrive in the camp of the asleep “Savage Armies”. Silently, the Utensils then proceed to destroyed the Gnomes’ beard and Whimsies masks. And once this is done, they return into the caves. The Cuttenclips, being paper soldiers, just fold themselves into hay carts – being 2D you can pile lots of them into one cart – which are then drawn by the Munchkins into the city. The Elves got their own secret way into the City (and Glinda knows they are in because of some telepathic connection to them apparently – similar to how she knew Oscar and Kala were arriving at Quadling Country) – basically everybody slowly prepares their place for the plan.

In the morning, the Savage army explodes in a mass panic and flees into every direction, while an ungodly shriek can be heard everywhere through the city – the shriek of Evanora in front of her crystal ball. (I don’t know if I said it before, but Evanora keeps watching everything that happens in Oz with her crystal ball). Evanora, terribly angry at her army being destroyed, keeps searching with the crystal for the hidden armies of Glinda, while Theodora, remembering the “broom” line of Oscar, takes a broom from a Munchkin maid of the palace and flies on it through the sky to also partake in the research. Meanwhile, Evanora finds the location of a part of the army: the Fuddles and Hammerheads arrive at the Enchanted Orchard, and Evanora transmits the info telepathically to her sister. Theodora takes charge of the two “savage species” left, the Growleywogs (asked to form a defense of the City) and the Winged Monkeys, sent on the orchard to kill everyone. At first the winged monkeys only see the Fuddles, the Hammerheads being hidden, and as they arrive, the Fuddles fall into a pile of puzzle pieces. This confuses greatly the winged monkeys, who stop to assess the situation – only for the Hammerheads to jump out, beating up the monkeys with their heads, and sending them crashing into the enchanted apple trees which, angry at seeing their branches broken, quickly also start knocking off the winged monkeys. Once the beasts are defeated, Glinda knows and informs the Wizard (again, thanks to her telepathic witch senses).

The second part of the plan has the Munchkins carry on the Cuttenclips with their hay carts near the Poppy Fields outside of the city, and then have the paper-army place themselves in front of the City, marching towards them. When you look at them upfront, you can’t know they are paper people, due to how impressive and human they look – and when Theodora notices this army marching near them, she sends all the Growleywogs against them.

Meanwhile, Glinda uses her magic to stop all wind, to prevent the paper army being flown away or revealed as… well, paper. The Growleywogs use their arrow on the army of soldiers, only to see that they pass right through them – which surprises greatly both the Growleywogs and Theodora. Then, the paper army starts retreating, and the Growleywogs encouraged to fight are sent after them to kill them – and suddenly Glinda releases all the winds, making them blow over the area… Theodora finally understand what is going on, but too late: the paper army retreats into the Poppy Fields, and the Growleywogs hunting them down follow them there, and the winds of Glinda help this whole “pushing them into the soporific” flowers thing – and just like in the movie, they are put to sleep forever. (To be fair, while this scene does make some more sense than the poppy fields scene in the movie, it also has some problems that the movie scene did try to cover up – such as for example hiding the poppies with mist in the movie to help the villains forget where they were heading).

Now that all of the armies outside of the city have been defeated, the Wicked Sisters await with their own personal guards inside the city. At nightfall, the Wizard, Kala and Glinda enter in the city secretly, and before they part, Oscar half-confesses that he kind of fells something for Glinda (he notes that he didn’t do all of this for destiny so much as he did it for her). Glinda, on her own, goes through the dark streets of the city, and then goes into the royal palace by literally walking through the walls (what’s the use of having a witch if you can’t show her magic?), and she arrives in the throne room, where Evanora awaits her. They have a chat, with Evanora mocking Glinda for believing in what she is sure is a false Wizard, and being foolish enough to have been tricked by Evanora, while Glinda replies that Oz is a Great and Powerful Wizard, and she warns her that he will sit into the throne that was her father’s as the king of Oz. Theodora arrives and tries to kill Glinda with some more of her lightning, but the Witch of the South just vanishes into the air. Theodora has some doubts about whether or not the Wizard is real, but now Evanora is sure of it, he is a fraud.

Meanwhile Oscar gets arrested by WInkie Guards, who identify him as the Wizard. Oscar confuses them by saying he is not the Wizard, because the wizard is a ten-feet tall giant spitting fire (and they have heard of such rumors), but ultimately it is Glinda who saves Oscar by turning all the Winkie Guards into rats. Kala manages to ring one of the alarm bells of the city, so all the citizens would gather on the main place of the city – and then we have the whole “giant fiery hologram” trick scene from the movie. Interestingly, while in the movie Glinda is unable to do anything, a prisoner to the Wicked Witches, in the script she helps participate in Oscar’s grand illusion: for example, when the guards send their spears and arrows through the hologram, Glinda works her magic so that the weapons turn into snake as they go through the light and smoke. Interestingly, in the scene Theodora shows the use of both lightning and fireballs with her magic attempts at destroying the hologram (so in the original script she had the lightning powers of Evanora, who in the script actually seems helpless when it comes to offensive magic, and even begs Theodora to “do something” in front of the Wizard making the “stars explode”).

Interestingly, the whole “weakening Witch” thing with Glinda is reused here, as the holograph-Wizard points out the “weakness” of the Wicked Witches – since Theodora keeps throwing lightning and fireballs at the holograph to no avail, weakening more and more as she does it. Evanora is the one who suggests fleeing, like in the movie, while Theodora wants to stay and fight – but here Evanora doesn’t just flee out of cowardice. She points out “The night is his… But if we flee, there will be other nights.” Clearly she just sees they are in a bad position and wants to survive to prepare another attack. The two sisters eventually fly away together out of the city – Theodora on her broomstick, while Evanora’s long sleeves actually starts flapping around her like wings.

As everybody is happy with the victory and the Wicked Sisters fleeing, Oscar jumps into Glinda’s arms and tries to kiss her… only for her to stop and reveal what Kala meant earlier: Oscar cannot kiss Glinda… because she is a Witch. And a kiss from a Witch would kill him.

We cut to a great parade the next day as everyone is happy – and we see all the spells of the Wicked Witches dispelled, such as the Hammerheads having their arms back, but also the Dainty China people being restored to flesh-and-blood people (now I didn’t see this one coming). Oscar gets ready with his treasure to leave Oz, as per his deal with Glinda… but hearing the cheers and seeing the happy people, he decides he can’t go – because if he goes away, the Wicked Sisters will attack the City again, and the Good People of Oz need a Wizard… It was what Glinda was always expecting and she points out “You are a good man, Wizard”, to which Oscar replies “Yeah: who knew?”. And, as per in the movie, Oscar decides he can’t go among the people and let them see him now, because they’ll see he is a common and ordinary man – he needs to keep the myth and the illusion, and asks Glinda for help, to help him maintain the whole trick, to keep faith in the “wizard” figure.  Glinda warns him it will be lonely, he says he knows, and they actually bond over the fact that both of them are very lonely in their respective existences.

The Wicked Witches make one last appearance, flying on broomsticks, writing with black smoke in the sky “Just you wait”, but then the Wizard sends an official decree to declare the Land of Oz free… and we finish with Oscar asking if it isn’t all just a dream, and upon being told by Glinda it isn’t, concluding “There’s no place like Oz”.

- - - - - - - -

And there we go, a full breakdown of the original script! As you can see, it is not refined and there are some stuff left out here and there - like the Diamond Dagger. It was presented as this specific artefact and seemed to be important, and yet... it seems to be just a random dagger? Similarly, Theodora and Evanora are, as I said, called the "wicked witches of the east and the west", despite it making not much sense since they are sisters who visibly came together, and leave together, and they are only seen in the center of Oz? But overall, as you can see, this script actually avoids many of the troubles the movie falls into, and solve almost all of the problem brought forth by the final product

#oz the great and powerful #wicked witches #wizard of oz #glinda #evanora #theodora #witches #script #script vs movie #what could have been #oz movie

[bunnyanqel]

A Simple Favor (4)

[1]  [2]  [3]  [4]  [5]

Summary: Aliyah agrees to play D&D if only for Eddie.

Warnings: nsfw content, MDNI, 18+, a dash of angst, oral sex, vaginal fingering, profanity, mentions of drug use

“Can we—can we talk?” he asked, licking his mouth a few times as he blinked the pain away. He gingerly tested his nose with a few probing nudges and then checked his teeth one more time for good measure.

“Oh, now you wanna talk?” she laughed dryly. “You sure as shit didn’t want anything to do with me before. Get fucking bent, jackass.”

She started to to turn away again but was stopped by his hand tightening on hers. Not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to keep her in place.

“I thought it was a joke, okay? I’m not—I’m not exactly well-liked, and it’s happened too many times for me to think you were being serious,” he said, the words jumbling together like he couldn’t swallow them back. “Too many times a pretty girl asked me out only for it to be one big fucking joke. Fuck with the freak, you know.”

She examined him, taking in his earnest, frantic expression, the way his chest heaved, and decided no one could fake the sincerity. And if Eddie could, well, he found a calling in acting.

“So yeah, I stood you up but when you texted me, asking where I was…I realized—realized you weren’t joking. And that was a miracle in and of itself, because well, I’m me. Eddie the freak Munson. Devil worshiper, satanic monster, sacrificer of innocent lamb—” He stopped mid-sentence and released her hand, running a hand through his wild hair. “Look, what I’m saying is I fucked up. I fucked up big time, and I want—I wanna make it up to you.” A pause, his tongue darting out to trace over his pouty, tempting mouth, leaving behind a sheen she wanted to kiss off. “If you’ll let me.”

Part of her wanted to still be angry. Angry at him for hurting her, angry at herself for letting herself be vulnerable. But that required energy she didn’t have to exert. No one ever told her how tiring it was, so she looked away and nodded. Just once.

“I’l cook you dinner, the finest cuisine this side of the Mississippi River.”

She turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “You can cook? As in it’s edible and tastes good?”

He smiled, his cheeks pink. “You’ll just have to see.”

“Fine.” She dug a sharpie out of her bag and offered her arm, shoving her sleeve out of the way for him to write his address. “Don’t fucking stand me up this time.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

He seemed to mean it.

Wayne Munson answered the door when she knocked on the door and wore a look of confusion.

“I’m here for Eddie,” she said dryly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

He looked at her, taking in her dreads, the oversized baggy jeans and faded Nirvana T-shirt underneath an oversized leather jacket, and simply stepped back, allowing her entrance.

The interior of the trailer was well-worn and cozy, creams and browns and greens, and it smelled good. Like spicy meat and cheese. Maybe he hadn’t been lying about being a good cook, but she brought a miniature bottle of hot sauce just in case.

“Eddie? You’ve get a, uh, girl here askin’ for you.”

A loud yelp, a curse, and then heavy, frantic footsteps, getting louder and louder the closer they came. And then there was Eddie, red-cheeked, his hair pulled back, in jeans and a Metallica T-shirt, more unbuttoned than she’d ever seen him.

And damn if he wasn’t hotter because of it. Damn if her body didn’t burn at the sight of him, all relaxed and casual, his feet bare. Damn if her traitorous heart didn’t skip a beat when his eyes met hers and damn her pussy when it throbbed when he fucking smiled so wide, it seemed to move his ears.

“You made it,” he breathed, still staring at her like she was the sun after a lifetime of darkness. Like she’d handed him the winning lottery ticket and offered to give him a blowjob. Which she would, of course, but maybe after he grovelled in apology first.

“Uh, yeah. I—kind of hard to miss this place with all the metal blaring from it.” She picked at her chipped nail polish with her thumbnail. “Plus your van’s kind of ugly as fuck, so there’s that.”

“S’your date, son?” Wayne’s keen gaze flicked between them, no doubt trying to figure out why Aliyah was standing in his trailer.

The words escaped before she could stop them, a running theme it appeared when it came to Eddie Munson. “If he doesn’t stand me up this time, yeah.” Ignoring the startled expression Wayne shot her, she rocked back onto her heels. “Can I take off my shoes and put my bag somewhere?”

Eddie cleared his throat. “I—uh, sure. You can leave your shoes right there” —he pointed to a haphazard pile of shoes on the right-hand side of the door— “and we can put your bag in my bedroom.”

She toes off her boots, placed them neatly beside the mound of mismatched shoes, and trailed behind Wayne as he led the way to what she could only assume was Eddie’s bedroom. Somehow she didn’t think Wayne was a metalhead with a pair of handcuffs hanging off the bedpost.

“He stood you up, huh?” he remarked as she set her bag in the middle of the unmade bed.

“Yup. I get it now, of course. Bunch of fucking religious fanatics obsessed with projecting the perfect image and God forbid anyone—” She broke off at his unimpressed expression and stared down at her hands.

After a minute of berating herself, she murmured, “Sorry. What I mean is that I get it, a lot more than most people think.”

“Alright.” Wayne pushed away from the door. “I have work in thirty minutes, so…” he trailed off as she walked past him, the space between their bodies warm with his body heat. “Be safe, I guess.”

And then he was gone, disappearing down the hall.

She swallowed and headed back into the main room.

#eddie munson smut #my writing #bunny's writing #bunny writes

[ykwrites]

bdsjsndhsisn your osamu fic is everythinggggg to me 🥺💖 can i request another fic of him whenever you’re in the mood to write. i’m not picky i just love fluff and osamu :)

Ty! I know this is very late aaand short but I´ve been kind of inactive haha, ty for your interest and love, hope you like it! :))

Pairing: Osamu x reader

Warnings: None

Rating:SFW

MASTERLIST

''What do you think?''a voice asked.

The sudden movement of Osamu sitting on your left almost made you jump back, scared that a random stranger decided to join you.

As soon as you saw him, your body relaxed, and he flashed a sweet smile, laying his back on the grass and looking up at the sky that turned orange.

He brought a green plastic bag that you guessed was probably food.

''About what?'' you said, deciding to lay down too.

''This view''he responded.

''Its relaxing, that`s why I come here''

''I think it´s beautiful, and I also think it´s weird that you decide to come here alone and sit next to the the river''

''You always say that''

''Because you don´t ever call me to come with you''he laughed.

''Osamu, I´ve been here for an hour''

''And?''

''You were working''

''I know''

You see him turn to look at you from the corner of your eye, and know he is definitely pouting.

Osamu was insistent, even more so since he confessed he liked you about a month ago. Nothing came of that confession, you liked him too but thought a relationship was not the best idea for both of you right now, and that didn´t seem to bother him at all.

''Stop pouting''you laughed faintly.

''I already told you, you can call anyway, the business is mine so if I leave early the boss won´t care, because I am the boss''

''You have a restaurant to run''

''Enough of that''he sat up, a wide smile on his face ''I brought fresh onigiri and drinks''

''Another dinner along the river?''

''Yes''

''Thank you, Samu''sitting up, you excitely took the drink he was giving you ''You are a life saver''

''It´s nothing, try the onigiri''

You happily complied, taking a bite and instantly closing your eyes to enjoy how delicious it was. Osamu was such a great cook.

''Perfect, as always''

''Is it?''he asked.

He had a smug look going on, and you knew exactly why. He was an open book.

''It is'' you reiterated, holding your laughter in anticipation.

''Then you should kiss the cook''like a child, he closed his eyes and leaned over with his lips pursing.

This was your time to mess with him a bit.

''Oh, you are right, I should do that... where´s Tsumu?''

''Huh?''his eyes shoot wide open, offended by that comment.

''He told me he was helping you today, I assume he made these''you continue teasing.

''The disrespect I am feeling right now, my brother only cleans, he comes nowhere near my food!''

''Okay, calm down chef''

''Tsk''he clicked his tongue.

Moments like these were to cherish, the calm and warmth he made you feel.

Withou thinking much, you leaned and pecked his lips, it was as natural as breathing and after the short kiss you just went back to eating like nothing happened.

Osamu grew silent, completely stunned.

''No''you heard him say.

''What do you mean?''you looked at him, raising an eyebrow and instantly feeling embarrased when you saw his face all red.

''You can´t just kiss me like that and pretend nothing happened''

''Huh?''honestly, that question came more from embarrassment than confusion.

''I know you don´t want to talk about it, but we will''

Of course, pretending wasn´t going to last as long as you would like, even less when you were so dumb and treated Osamu like your bouyfriend even though you said it was bad timing for a relationship.

''I thought you were playing, I´m sorry''you said, apologetic.

Osamu clicked his tongue, crossing his arms to look at you frowning.

''I think it´s so dumb that you don´t want to make this official''

''It´s not that I don´t want to... I´m just scared our friendship will end if we break up''

''We are not breaking up''

''We are not together''

''Jesus''he breathed deep, frustrated ''We already act like a couple''

''Okay... you might have a point''

''Might?''raising an eyebrow, he looked at you up and down.

''Again, I´m sorry''

''I`ll forgive you if you admit we're dating and give me another kiss''

Who could say no to that beautiful face? You were lying to yourself if you ever said you didn´t like him.

Screw fear, like Osamu so cofidently said, you weren´t going to break up.

''Okay, from now on, we are officially a couple''offering a cheeky smile, you finally said it.

''See? It wasn´t that hard''Osamu laughed with you, his face coming closer without notice.

He didn´t wait for the kiss and did it himself, this time with full purpose and sweetness, straight out of a movie.

In the end, he was right as always.

#osamu miya x reader #osamu miya #osamu x reader #hq scenarios #hq imagines

[ardentguilt]

Dash game thingy

Are you named after anyone?

“Uh….no?”

((I guess. My mother got the name from a character in a Tom Cruise movie. I think the movie was Cocktail))

When was the last time you cried?

“What? Me? Cry? Haha. No.”

((4+ years ago))

Do you have kids?

“Oh 8oy. Yeah. 3 from a previous relationship 8ut they’re off doing their own thing nownights and one from a current relationship.”

((Definitely not. No interest or ability to have bio kids but I’m open to maybe one day adopting an older kid if I ever feel ready for that))

What sports do you play/have you played?

“They made us play gru88all as wrigglers 8ut other than that is 8eing a pain in the empire’s ass a sport?”

((Used to do Archery and was freakishly good at it despite being shortsighted and not having glasses back then. Kinda wanna get back into that. Used to run as a kid and was pretty good at it. Also used to do tae kwon do but I don’t do sport nowdays.))

Do you use sarcasm?

“What do you think?”

((Mostly no and if I do it’s not often or usually intentional because autism.))

What’s the first thing you notice about someone?

“Um….I dunno? Is there something specific you should notice first or…?”

((No clue. I don’t like to make eye contact so I guess maybe..hair color? Outfit? Never really paid attention before))

What’s your eye color?

“Right is teal 8ut my left is all fucked up and damaged red.”

((I guess green-brown? I’m a weirdo and they’re still shifting every so often but seem to be settling into the green-brown sort of range. Apparently they’re supposed to settle while you’re still a kid??))

Scary movies or happy endings?

“I don’t have any real preference, I don’t mind an occassional scary movie 8ut romantic stuff is mostly just the same things repackaged with different actors so it’s a 8ut 8oring. I prefer action, sci-fi and drama”

((Same as the muse tbh))

Any talents?

“Conditional immortality. I’m essentially an escaped imperial experiment. They fucked me up good and I’m VERY hard to kill and even then unless certain criteria is met I won’t stay dead”

((Where do I start? I’m the weird cryptid of my local town. Deceptive strength for my appearance. I don’t feel most physical pain. I heal abnormally fast. I have abnormal night vision, tongue spines, teeth that keep growing back when removed, hypersensitive hearing, my core temperature is above the norm for a human. I befriend wild animals like a Disney Princess…))

Where were you born?

“8rood Cavern C-1768-Z4, Central Alternia.”

((NSW, Australia))

What are your hobbies?

“Horticulture, 8artending and criminal mischief.”

((Reptiles, minerals and videogames))

Do you have any pets?

“Not at this stage no.”

((2 cats who are siblings Willow & River, an abundance of fish [spotted silver dollars, freshwater angelfish, bristlenose plecos {standard color, super red & albino}, bumblebee gobys, Gourami {golden Pearl, honey, coral blue, neon stripes}, phantom glass catfish, freshwater mussels, mystery snail, tetras {neon, Cardinal & rummy nose}, loach {yoyo & banded kuhli}, Siamese algae eaters and 3 generations of swordtails] and 2 central bearded dragons Spike & Puff))

How tall are you?

“Not counting horn height 8’8” 8ut if we’re including horns it’s 9’5” last I checked”

((Last I was measured it was something like 170-172cm))

Favorite subject in school?

“Eww no”

((School was hell on earth so hometime))

Dream job?

“You know I’ve always wanted to open my own 8otanical store….”

((Working with reptiles, specifically in the area of rescue and rehabilitation. I’m working on qualifications to get there but with that I have obtained currently I’m qualified for volunteer work. Just need a first aid course and snake handling course and I’ll have everything officially to get into it fully))

[transholmes]

The Mandragora

Summary: Dandelion, Geralt and an evening at The Mandragora.

A/N: Trans masc/enby Dandelion, referenced past transphobia briefly mentioned, soft Gerlion. Book/game Geralt, book/game Dandelion. Set sometime post B&W.

For @witchersummercamp prompt, fireworks.

Can also be read on AO3.

-

Dandelion gazes up at the magical fireworks silently lighting up the sky in yellows and purple above The Mandragora. Geralt’s arms are wrapped around his waist, the witcher’s chest pressed against his back as he too watches the dazzling display. In the courtyard beneath the balcony upon which they stand is filled with people milling about, enjoying the performances, playing in the water or watching the fireworks like they are. 

The Toussaint summer night is hot, though here by the river the soft breeze makes the heat tolerable. 

“I thought you hated fireworks,” Dandelion observes. 

“I hate the explosions; the lights are beautiful,” Geralt says. 

“They are very pretty,” Dandelion observes, as another bout of lights burst across the darkness, shaping itself into the form of a dragon. 

Geralt snorts. 

“That’s not what a dragon-” 

“Oh hush,” Dandelion says, gently slapping his wrist. “You can go one evening without correcting people about monsters. Besides darling, it’s art. It isn’t meant to be accurate.” 

“So you always tell me.” 

They watch the display in silence. Dandelion leans his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for this lovely night,” he says. 

“You’re the reason we’re here, you’re the artist. We wouldn’t have been invited otherwise.” 

“I was invited. You didn’t have to come.” 

Geralt’s arms tighten around him. 

“I know being invited to join The Mandragora means something to you, of course I would come.” 

Dandelion caress Geralt’s cheek, tracing the lines of age now lining the witcher’s face. 

“Yes, but I know how much you dislike these kinds of parties.” 

“The wine is good. And you didn’t make me dress up.” 

Geralt is indeed dressed the least fanciful of the attending crowd. A pheasant among peacocks in his plain – if well-made – black shirt and trousers, unlike the colorful outfits around him, like the scarlet Dandelion is wearing. In its own way his understated dress manages to stand out more because of its stark simplicity and the stark contrast to his white hair, that it has drawn more gazes than anyone else’s attire. 

“I like you in black,” Dandelion says, running his hands across Geralt’s chest. “It makes you look... enigmatic.” 

“If you say so.” 

“In any case, I’m glad you are here.” 

More fireworks shower them in blood red. 

Blood. 

Last time they were in Toussaint it nearly ended with both their death, had ended with so many companions’ deaths. 

“What are you thinking? You suddenly look so serious,” Geralt asks. 

“About the last time we were here. About... how it all ended.” 

Geralt grows somber as well. 

“I wish, I wish it could have been different,” he says. 

“So do I. For some of it.” 

Dandelion rests his head against Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt holds him close, closing his eyes. Through his eyelids he sees the lights change from red to purple then over blue and silver to green. 

“I wish I had been braver,” Dandelion says. 

“I’m glad you weren’t. You just would have died with the rest.” 

“Oh, not about that. I know I would have been beyond useless in that fight. I meant about us, about myself and what I really wanted.” 

He sighs softly. 

It had taken him far too many years to accept that Geralt loved him just as he is.  

For Dandelion other people's love for him had always come with terms and conditions, from his parents who couldn't love the son they had but always insisted he be the daughter they thought he was, over his countless partners who always wanted something of him he couldn't give them, demanded he be someone he wasn't. And in all cases he ended up leaving rather than sacrifice who he was. 

Geralt had never asked for such a sacrifice, had never wanted him to be any other than he was and loved him all the same. But that had taken Dandelion years, decades to figure out and then even more time to run away from what he concluded had to be an impossible dream. That he could never give Geralt what he wanted and besides there had been Yennefer at the time. By the time he had sorted himself out and begun to find the courage to say something it had been too late. Far, far too late and all he had thought he'd have was memories and dreams of what could have been. 

The second chance he, they, had been granted when Geralt had returned from the dead had not been without obstacles. Getting from there to here had been an even longer and more painful journey, but here they were. But for all that Dandelion takes joy in what they have he do wish that the getting here had been less arduous. 

“Not sure it would have changed anything,” Geralt answers softly. “I had things of my own to deal with. And even if it had I'm not sure it would have been better. We could just as well have ended up tearing each other apart.” 

“Perhaps you're right.” 

Gerald’s fingers twin into Dandelion’s hair as they rest their foreheads against each other, Dandelion's hands resting at Geralt's waist. Golden lights shimmers down around them. 

“We're here now,” Geralt concludes. “That is all that matters in the end.” 

Dandelion smiles. 

“You are very right about that,” he says. 

#gerlion #geraskier #jaskier #geralt #geralt of rivia #dandelion #willow writing