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#personally i'm of the belief that his hat IS part of him. so to put another hat on him he'd either squish it down or change to another shape

spacexseven · 1 year

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Trying to find the post I originally saw it from would take too long and plus the person who made it didn't go into detail they just said "reader with a God ability" like I'm guessing an ability that makes you God or something? I'm not too sure but if you want you can try to make it into something

But I REALLY wanted to know how would Fyodor would react because you know the story with him and god

basically reader is a kind of (forgotten) god but i didnt go too much into it so feel free to imagine whatever you'd like ^^

cw: yandere character

sometimes it occurred to you that divinity, in a world of gifted people, was ultimately meaningless. after all, who would choose to believe in a god—a presence so unclear and foreign—when they had people with powers only gods could have? when there were people with powers that defied logic, powers that decimated cities, and powers that could change the fate of the one affected within moments, what did your divinity matter?

what could you do that some ability user out there couldn't?

despite knowing there wasn't anything you could offer to regular people, you liked to walk down their streets and watch them go on about their day. there was something captivating about their lives, something that resembled what you had lost a long time ago. though in this bleak part of yokohama, most of the people you saw seemed to be weighed down by regret.

once in a while, you'd see some spectacular show of power—paper turning into a weapon, accidental deaths that you knew were not supposed to happen, people on the brink of death brought back to life in perfect health—such things did not amaze you as much as they worried you. maybe that worry came from a place of inadequacy, knowing that your own powers, while typical for a divine being, was overall unimpressive compared to these wonderful and terrifying feats.

however, the worry and the shame did not compare to the delight that followed when talking to someone. you felt alone, isolated by the things you knew and had seen as compared to the mundane lives most people lived, yet you yearned for company. most people were too busy to talk to you when they saw you seated alone, and some were put off by the strange feeling that something about you was not exactly human, but there was always someone who'd approach you first, and those people were almost always the ones that stuck with you the longest. years ago, it was a man wearing a hat and holding a cane, and more recently, a woman with red hair.

and now, it was this man with dark hair and amethyst eyes.

the very moment fyodor uttered his first words to you, you could already tell that he was unlike anyone else you had talked to before. there was something about him that was simultaneously alluring and unsettling, something that glinted in his dark eyes that told you that he knew everything you were trying to hide. even the way he held your hand in his felt like he was trying to sense something from you. still, his expression did not change—calmness evident in his face when yours was definitely teeming with intrigue. it should have embarrassed you that a human was better than you at controlling his emotions.

but there was something unusual about fyodor—the way he carried himself, the contrast between his sharp gaze and sleepy smile, the words he spoke—you could already tell that he was someone destined for great destruction. (or maybe, he was destined to be the harbinger of destruction?) he spoke to you like you were an old friend, someone he had known all his life, not finding any unease in slipping into deep conversation. his voice was soft, but each word felt purposeful.

and then, he mentioned his belief in god.

"what does a god matter," you finally asked the question that had been plaguing you for all this time, "in a world of people that are treated as gods?"

he smiled at you then, like he had been expecting it, "that is simply a result of the follies of man. isn't it disgraceful that they think of themselves as gods?"

"but what can a god do for you that some ability user out there can't?"

"what i sought, what i received, was guidance," he whispered, "my eyes were opened to the truth, and i realized my purpose. ability users parade themselves as gifted, special, but they only bring misfortune."

your heart wavered then, for the man in front of you. you never believed that ability users were blessed, or whatever some groups liked to say. in some cases, it appeared to be more of a curse than a blessing. something unwanted. was he haunted by himself as well? before you could stop yourself, your next words leaped out of your mouth, revealing your identity and subsequently confirming his suspicions.

"if so, what does that make you?"

he smiled then, wider than before. the very sight sent chills down your spine, even though very little still scared you now. he straightened up, clasping your hands within his with a newly gained fervor, with more strength than he appeared to have.

"a sinner seeking repentance from you."

you exhaled sharply, but he wasn't finished, "i know now for sure that this is the right path, and under your guidance, i will deliver your judgment, and i will reinstate you to your former glory."

danger was easy to miss when it looked like fyodor dostoevsky, and it was too late for you now. realization dawned on you a moment too late, as tendrils of consciousness slipped away from you.

among the ghosts of yokohama, fyodor was the harbinger of great destruction. and his reign of terror would start with yours.

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bookishdaze · 2 months

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My too long theory post about Mae as Reverse Caesar? This is multiple theories, really...

My theories on Mae's origins have ranged from her just being a lone smart girl among feral humans, to her coming from an underground civilization living in a bunker (My personal favorite. I like Fallout, lol).

Here's one that came to mind recently. It's not my main theory for her, (I still think she's just from some colony of smart humans) but it's my most "creative" and "crazy" one, but if people are allowed their crazy astronaut theories, THEN I'M ALLOWED THIS ONE 🤪

I'm gonna be calling her Mae/Nova for this.

Feel free to poke holes in this theory by the way, hehe.

This theory came to me after watching the new trailer, where we hear her being called "Nova," and we also get a shot of her riding on horseback with Raka. It reminded me a lot of Nova from War riding with Maurice.

So I thought, 'Huh, we're getting another blonde girl named Nova riding on horseback with an orangutan in the exact same way. It almost looks like the characters and plot for KOTPOTA could be a reworked version of what a plot could look like for a direct War sequel following a grown up Cornelius with Nova and Maurice and ohhhhhh-'

*puts on tinfoil hat* So my weird train of thought led me to this wacky theory: Mae/Nova is a human that was taken in by Raka as a child, and he has been raising and taking care of her. Just like Maurice did for Nova. She's kinda like Tarzan.

At first I had thought Raka met Mae/Nova because she was separated from her human colony and he was helping her get back home before they ran into Noa.

I also thought that maybe they come from a place where humans and apes already coexist, and I honestly still think either of these is the case tbh, but this part of a recent article made me think otherwise.

The "rabbit-in-headlights" bit makes me doubt she comes from a place where there are intelligent humans. (It's still possible she could be. I'll get to that later). To me this sounds like she's smarter, but still has some "animal" behaviors.

As for why Raka took her in, it can totally just be coincidence that we have another friendly orangutan who adopted a young girl.

Or maybe it became some sort of, ehh, tradition? Him wearing a necklace with Caesar's symbol and talking about how apes and humans used to live side by side makes him sound like a religious person. Maybe somewhere along the line, it became custom for those who follow his faith to "adopt a Nova" to raise and take care of, like Maurice did.

There is a difference, though. Raka could have been taking care of Mae/Nova, but he still sees her as an...well, an animal. A very smart animal that he feels a responsibility towards. I know him viewing her as an animal sounds pretty harsh, but keep in mind that humans have regressed to be like animals at this point.

And there's also this scene where he just....tosses her some food. It's no different from the way humans toss a friendly animal some food, really.

"But why does she seem frightened by the apes at the fireplace if she's been raised by Raka?"

I think she's scared of Noa here.

Orangutans are actually solitary creatures (I googled, lol), so it's very possible that it's just been her and Raka, and any newcomer makes her nervous.

Ok ok ok, so he's a guy who has taken in an animal that shows signs of intelligence and has taken it upon himself to nurture and care for this animal because his personal beliefs tell him that in doing so, he could potentially make the world a better place.

Like Will did with Caesar.

"So she's reverse Caesar." Yeah. That's pretty much what I've been trying to get at with all my rambling. Yay, parallels!

And we know Will cared for Caesar, but he always saw him as an animal. A very smart animal, but an animal nonetheless. He had him on a leash, and as much as he didn't want to, he still took him to the primate shelter. It wasn't Will being cruel, he just treated Caesar the way any human would have treated an animal, no matter how close they are.

Of course, like Caesar, Mae/Nova is gonna go through some changes. She's a young girl growing into adulthood. She'll have "needs and wants," as this article states.

Those needs and wants could be many things. To be regarded as equal. No longer wanting to feel inferior. And if she truly is some lone smart girl among a world of feral humans, she's also gonna feel really really lonely. (Think about it. If she does not come from a colony of smart humans and she truly is the only one, that's tragic. I'd be depressed, man).

So she'll also want friendship and companionship. To have a friend or anyone she can relate with. She'll most likely find this with Noa, since the article says, "...there are far more parallels and commonalities between the two of them than they might have originally imagined."

Okay, one question came to mind when coming up with this theory.

Why is she smarter than other humans? I got a few theories.

Theory 1. She could still be someone who grew up in a colony of intelligent humans, whether it be a colony in an underground bunker or anywhere else. It doesn't matter. But something terrible may have happened, like her colony was killed off, or she was separated from them as a little girl. Then Raka found her and took her in. Like Tarzan!

Theory 2. This one and the third one won't be as satisfying to fans, I assume. But maybe Raka noticed a lone child that was smarter than most, and he decided to take her in and help her intelligence grow.

Theory 3. She started off as an unintelligent feral girl, but being raised by an ape allowed her to slowly gain her intelligence back. I actually like this one. For starters, it's similar to the Planet of the Apes novel from 1963, where one of the astronauts became feral and unintelligent because of spending too much time in a cage with feral humans at a zoo, and Nova actually gained the ability to speak and became intelligent after spending a year or two in space with Ulysse, the protagonist.

Theory 4. She's like Megamind where she was launched into space from an alien planet as a baby while her homeworld burned all around her and she crash landed onto Earth. THERE'S YOUR ASTRONAUT THEORY.

I'm kidding. That was a joke. I know April Fool's was two days ago.

As for her name, we've gotten three so far. Mae, Nova, and Echo. I like to think of her name as a sort of symbol or indicator of her character growth, where I assume she'll gain the ability to speak at the end, or will have grown into herself as a person.

She'll start off as Nova. A common generic name given to all humans, given to her by Raka.

Then Echo. A more unique name given to her by Noa, but still not her own.

Then, finally, Mae. Her true unique name that she was either born with, or she picks out for herself.

Aaaaand I think that's it. I'm done. I know that was long, but I wanted to gather all of my thoughts and theories on Mae/Nova somewhere before I watch the movie in a month. Whatever her story is, I cannot wait to see it unfold. Now it's time for me to SLEEP.

#planet of the apes #kingdom of the planet of the apes #pota #kotpota #planetoftheapes #kingdomoftheplanetoftheapes #please feel free to pick this theory apart #thats the best way to test if something works #trying to break it as much as you can to expose where the holes are

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hogwartshotel · 10 days

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putting on my trauma therapist hat

Full Moon spoilers under the cut.

Okay so if people are mad at Blitzø after that episode, send them here!

I am, in real life, a licensed therapist who works with PTSD, so I feel like I have some hopefully helpful perspective to offer here.

I've started to see a some "I get it, Blitzø has issues, but he fucked that whole thing up", and I want to talk a bit more about how PTSD works. If any of this resonates with you personally, I recommend seeking a therapist who specializes in trauma!

There are five categories in which we expect trauma to effect people's beliefs about themselves, others and the world, long-term: trust, safety, power and control, intimacy, and self-esteem. So let's take a look at those in this scene. They do overlap.

Trust. That heartbreaking line where Stolas says "I didn't realize you thought so lowly of me" is a result of Blitzø expressing that he's never had complete trust in Stolas's intentions. Hard to blame him -- trust is something we first learn in early childhood. Imagine trying to learn trust from someone like Blitzø's dad. People often have difficulty trusting not only others, but also themselves and their own judgment.

Safety. This really ties into power and control below. Imagine that Blitzø's whole personality has come from a desire to keep himself safe -- he's good with guns, he's his own boss, he doesn't have close relationships so he can't be rejected, he puts on an air of over confidence. Having any of that challenged can shake his whole set of beliefs about himself and the world.

Power and control. When something traumatic happens to us, we can often feel ourselves. We often try to limit our experiences to ones we feel we have control over, because our brains convince ourselves this will keep us safe. We've seen Stolas come to realize that their arrangement gives him more power over Blitzø than he's comfortable with. We've also seen Blitzø attempting to exert his own power -- by keeping Stolas at arm's length, by being the one to direct their sexual encounters (not saying that you need to have trauma in order to be dominant), by doing everything he can to keep the sex interesting so that Stolas won't end the deal. Stolas is doing the right thing by giving Blitzø the crystal, but it freaks him the fuck out. He's already figured out how to have power in the situation, and he's been operating under the assumption that Stolas also likes having this power over him (that part is more theoretical, but I see Blitzø as someone who assumes that everyone thinks the way he does about this shit). So having that dynamic suddenly changed makes him panic. It triggers a fear response. He reacts in a way that assumes it's a game or a trick. The idea that someone would willingly give up power sets of alarm bells in his mind.

Intimacy. Obviously, this is a big one in their dynamic, and it's going to tie in a lot to esteem. It is very common for folks with trauma histories to have difficulties forming intimate connections -- if you've read the above stuff about trust, it's probably easy to see why. In his part of the duet, we hear Blitzø acknowledging that the situation is feeling a little complicated, but that he's going to avoid that by focusing on the sex aspect. The idea of emotional intimacy is terrifying to him.

Esteem. Blitzø does not believe that he is capable of being loved, or that anyone who gets to know him will want to stay with him. We see a lot of that in the "bad trip" scene back in season 1. Hearing Stolas express feelings for him is terrifying. I'm not sure exactly what goes through his head, but it might be something like "I'm going to fuck this up," "he's lying," or "he doesn't know what he's talking about."

So. Imagine all of that getting triggered at once. I'm not saying that Blitzø handled it well or that he isn't responsible for his actions, I'm just saying it's really understandable that he didn't handle it perfectly. Quite frankly, I thought it was going to go a lot worse -- he does get angry and say hurtful things, but we immediately see him regret it and reach out to Stolas, and I was expecting him to need a lot longer to stop being angry. I am curious to see if he's going to go to a self-destructive spiral ("I always do this, I fucked it up again, why bother even trying") or if he's going to break the pattern and figure out a way to make it right. Seeing as the next episode is called "apology tour," I'm guessing we're going to see the latter -- but that is honestly huge character growth.

#helluva boss #long post #blitzø #helluva boss blitz #stolas x blitz #blitzo #hb stolas #ptsd #trauma #therapy #therapist #helluva boss full moon #helluva boss spoilers

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kaija-rayne-author · 11 months

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Ugh I can’t not theorize. I’ve been at it non stop. Once a story catches my interest my brain just going into hyper speed trying to figure out how the writers (if they do a good job) will bring all of their themes, hints, etc to fruition. All I’m missing is a cork board, pins, and miles of red string.

What’s super exciting this time is I’m actually dealing with a property where the writers are….good? I’m so used to being disappointed when fan theories (often my own) turn out to be much better than the canon, but I don’t see that happening here. Weekes is clearly a masterful writer and knows how to build up to a satisfying twist.

Because you just know another twist is coming. Solas, despite everything, is just too soft hearted to make a convincing final boss. It couldn’t be more obvious that being The Dreadwolf and putting aside his own conscience takes every ounce of energy he has. Eventually he’ll have his breaking point and that’s when we’ll find out who our true villain is.

It’s Mythal. I’ll eat my damn hat if it isn’t. She’s either not the person Solas remembers, or maybe she never was. In either case, there’s been plenty of clues both in DAI and in subsequent materials (specifically Tevinter Knights) to imply that there’s something else going on here.

We keep seeing imagery of the Dreadwolf as a mutant abomination that is part wolf and part dragon. It’s easy to point to the end credit scene of DAI and say “well yeah he fused with Mythal who is a dragon” and sure it looked that way…but is that actually what happened?

We saw Flemeth part with some form of magical energy before Solas arrived. We also know that she’d taken the soul of Uthemiel from Kieran. Uthemiel happens to be a dragon, or was until he was tainted and became an Archdemon.

Archdemons can control Darkspawn. And taking a Darkspawn army past the Veil to enact vengeance upon the Evanuris sees like something Flemeth would do. But that doesn’t seem like something Solas would want. His agenda has always been to fix his past mistakes and tear down the Veil for the greater good. He doesn’t seem that fond of Darkspawn, in fact he was pretty pissed at the Wardens for screwing around with them.

Where I’m going with this, is I think it’s entirely possible Solas is being used. He may have unwittingly fused himself with an Archdemon, assuming it was the essence of Mythal. The real plan, now that plan A failed, might be turning him into an Archdemon so Flemeth/Mythal can use him to start another blight and wield the darkspawn. Corypheus managed to mind control an Archdemon, so clearly it can be done.

And if that’s the case, then ooooooh boy.

Poor Solas.

OMG. I missed this one and I'm so glad I finally found it!

What a fascinating idea. Holy shitballs.

Okay, so I just restarted DAO, I'll be on the lookout through these playthroughs (I'm doing DA2 next, then probably DAI again, because I'm an utter sucker for lore) for hints about all that!

I thought the whole point of the dark ritual w/Morrigan was to purify Urthemiel's 'soul' through being born as an innocent child. But what if that didn't work?

But then, wouldn't Kieran have shown signs of taint? Hmmm. Maybe not, given it's just the soul?

I'm still not convinced that Flemythal parted with any kind of energy in that scene. BUT if she did... well, she's pulled the whole 'soul piece recovery schtick' before. So if it was energy or a soul, it could've been hers. Leaving just Urthemiel. Which would very possibly warp Solas into a dragon/wolf thing. And Mythal is very used to Solas going along with what she wants. So it feels like something she wouldn't think twice about. She uses Morrigan too, and Kieran, so it’s definitely something she's used to doing.

I have a strong feeling Solas is indeed being used. And has been since he was 'born' from the fade. There's a lot of hints to his resignation, nay, even belief that it's right that Mythal used him. (This is... common, in abuse survivors, FWIW.)

But I believe it's canon that his forehead scar came from when he burnt off Mythal's Vallaslin? I have to see if I can find that again. I can't remember where I read it.

I think Mythal will be rather unpleasantly surprised in the spine Solas has developed since her 'murder'. He doesn't seem at all likely to me to be all 'hey! My enslaver is back! Let me just get my slave brands again'. Now, if he were still truly alone, he might just cave into it because man, does Solas have some pretty massive Mythal issues. Not sure if he regards her as his mom or something else or a mix of things, urk.

BUT he's not actually truly alone anymore is he? No matter how hard he tries to be. A Romanced Lavellan can tell him "Var lath vir suledin" which translates sorta, into "Our - love - way/path - endure/strength to withstand loss."

So he knows he's not alone. That inky will absolutely go to the mat for him. He has actual friends, too. He said Bull has him, if you don't betray Bull w/the Chargers. Solas doesn't strike me as someone to say that lightly.

So, he also knows he has friends, too.

I think, if Mythal actually is the big bad (kinda hoping for this tbh) she's gonna have a rather rude awakening when it comes to Solas. Who, from all I can tell, has always willingly served her whims. Because she was 'the best of them' doesn't mean she was actually good.

I talked about how he's heavily neurodivergent coded before, and we're generally loyal to a fault, which Solas very much shows.

But we do also often, eventually, reach a 'no more' point. After which, we'll absolutely close all those doors we'd previously left open.

If Solas acts the way I suspect he might, he'd then use everything he knows about Mythal and the Evanuris to help the game protag (I still wish I could just carry my inky over) defeat the buggers.

But what would it take for him to finally reach that point with Mythal? Mommy issues are soooo hard to deal with in therapy because it's so damned easy to backslide.

Hurting Inky? Doing something that will destroy the fade (like marching a darkspawn army into it)? Making him betray all of his followers who truly believe in him and his goals of freeing enslaved elves?

Solas deeply believes that slavery is wrong. In a way that makes me think he was actually enslaved at one point. Obviously to Mythal.

Oh, fuck me. What an amazing story they could tell about the whole 'but there were good slave owners' bullshit nonsense some people like to spout.

Of course, I still really wish Bioware would tell a story with a disabled protag. Which the end of Inquisition really would set up nicely. But given their shit disability rep, I know not to hold my breath over that.

#dragon age series #dragon age #solas #dragon age inquisition #solavellan #inquisitor lavellan #solas dai #dragon age dreadwolf #dragon age theories #mythal #Flemythal

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seattlesea · 7 days

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Lorien Legacies Characters as Things My Family and I Have Said (part five)

Nine: God the smell in here is making me want to die John: Then go outside Five: Then die --- Maggie, writing a book: Can your breathing get cut off if there's a heavy weight on your chest? Adam: Yeah Maggie: Cool Adam: That's how they killed people in the old days, by stacking a bunch of rocks on their chest and suffocating them Maggie: Okay a 'Yes' would've been fine --- John: Finish your food Nine: I'm going to go home and take the fattest shit you've ever seen do not make me eat more --- Eight: I'm psychic, I can see into people's futures. I see in your near future that you're going to get sick Eight: *coughs in Nine's face* --- Adam: Did you eat? Maggie: Yeah. A strawberry Adam: That's it? Maggie: Two strawberries --- Six and John: *talking about spirit animals* Six: You'd be a swan John: Because I'm so graceful? Six: No cause you're white --- Sam: I was actually really good at orchestra in school, I was first chair on the cello Six: *puts her hand to her chest and gasps* Oh my god! Sam: What? Six, sarcastically: What a cool story! --- Six and Marina: *having a normal adult conversation* Eight: My black olive just rolled across my laptop --- Nine: Dirty mother... John: *giving him a dirty look with Ella next to him* Nine:...Of...Jesus --- One: Hey what're you gonna be for Halloween? Adam: I dunno yet what about you? One: I was thinking of being a witch Adam: Oh that's cool One: Yeah maybe you can be my broomstick so I can ride you all night Adam: WHAT- One: What, is that bad? Would you rather I be a pirate and you be a sword so I can stick you in me? Adam: *screaming* --- Ella: *touches a gross blanket* Ew Marina: What? Ella: It's giving me the ick Marina: The what? Ella: I'm acoustic --- Six: Bitch, I do NOT lift to be called a lipstick lesbian --- Five: *staring at a candle* Eight: What are you doing? Five: Trying to light myself on fire with my mind --- Nine, in public loud as hell: Yeah I'd fuck young Elvis Strangers passing by: *giving him grossed-out looks* Nine: What? You would too Nine, muttering: Prudes --- Sam: Look at my skeleton animal collection. I can a bat, I got a rat, and I got a cat Hannu, sadly: But no hats --- John: *celebrating his birthday and opening gifts* Five, silently crying: *places a couple wadded-up singles in front of John* That's all I got --- Six: You know it would've been easier if you just took the highway Marina: But...the trees... --- Adam: I'm gay John after taking Adam to a Fall Out Boy concert and watching him sit on the floor with three empty couches: Cool --- One and Six: *Talking about the ped@ at their job* Six: He's the reason there's an 18+ age limit --- Five: Despite popular belief, I will be going to Heaven because Satan will be jealous someone has a fatter ass than him --- Sam teaching the Lorics to make cereal: Okay first gather your things Lorics: :) Sam: Then, you put in your milk Daniela: Huh? Lorics: :) Sam: Next, you add your cereal Daniela: Hell no Lorics: :) Sam: Then drizzle in your honey Daniela: Bro WHAT Lorics: :) Sam: And finally, put it in the microwave Daniela: WHAT THE FUCK Lorics: :) Sam: And then you have cereal Lorics: Yay Daniela: I'm going to kill you --- Marina: So what is credit score? Sam: *ten minute explanation of credit score, payments, debt, and loans with examples* Marina:... Sarah: The loophole so the bank can't lend poor people money to stop being poor Marina: Ohhhh --- Nine: Damn, dude, I really don't know anything about you. I only know like your favorite color and animal, the music you listen to, your favorite movies, how you dress, your favorite coffee flavor, your personality, your deepest fear, your address, your entire backstory, all the people you like and hate, and your habit of needing to use a straw with every single drink or it doesn't 'taste right' John:... --- Eight: Damn I'm thirsty Adam: Then go drink water Eight: I can't, I'm fasting Adam:...Well I think you're supposed to drink water if you're running around all the time Eight:...

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tomatocages · 4 months

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sdgjkal idk if this is the type of meta you'd want to write but I admire so much how knowledgeable you are about GROWING STUFF and about BAKING and I love the fandom's penchant for giving Shiro post-war hobbies to keep the PTSD goblins at bay so like, aside from strictly building headcanon situations i would love to hear your thoughts on his hobbies as META, like, thematically speaking, what will heal, how does he approach it, how does it relate to creativity and growth !!!!!!!!!!

I have been ruminating on this a lot and I hope my answer is something that actually answers your question! it's at the very least the start of a conversation. I give Shiro the same hobbies that I have, in many ways - fiber arts and baking and gardening - because these are the things that I use to hold on to living in a physical world, sometimes by the skin of my teeth. by my fingernails. It's hard to have a body and to be a person, and I always have the haunting sense that Shiro struggles with that in the wake of the war: in the wake of being a prisoner, who had to fight to survive; in the wake of having died and been caught inside the astral plane, becoming a ghost to himself and to others. I don't actually relate to Shiro very much, which is funny because in many ways I think I have a similar approach to responsibility that his character demonstrates (slightly resentful, but determined to do as good a job as he can, given the circumstances, even if that job is sometimes done poorly). The reason I grow a garden, or knit, or bake croissants, is because going through the motions is ultimately convincing to me. I am convinced that this action holds weight. The hat I knit for someone is a commitment I have made to keep them warm, the quilt I sewed when my nephew was born as a way of saying that I wanted to welcome him into a world that was more terrifying than not. These things take the burden of living off my shoulders and grant me some small measure of satisfaction, and I hope that in my writing I'm able to convey that Shiro is open to and deserving of this kind of satisfaction. That he is willing to put in the work that will help him survive and thrive. It's not a sense of ambition, exactly - I get the sense that pre-Kerberos, Shiro was very ambitious and somewhat idealistic - but it's a a kind of hope that has to be held in gritted teeth. Sometimes those teeth are gritted in a smile, sometimes not. But it's the process that matters. It's notable too that even if these hobbies are considered creative, they still have a quality of repetition and practicality; it's following a pattern. Directions for being a human person. Soup is either very creative or very boring, but either way, you'll be fed. Part of this too is my resentful, core belief that I am here on this earth and I should help other people while I walk up and down in it! And sometimes the only way to do that is to make someone dinner. I think that having some small kind of saving-the-world task to fall back on, after being a DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSE, after being a champion of a gladiatorial arena, after being a star student in a quasi-military space program, would be a relief. Domestic work feels meaningful to me because it is the scaffolding of everyday life. (I'm not going to go into the religious baggage that I have from my upbringing here because it is too much, but I think these things are important even though for many years I was told domestic labor was the only gift I had to offer. And it was not a gift I wanted to give.) Still. There's something comforting about making something new out of very insignificant parts. I want that little bit of comfort to be present in Shiro's postwar hobbies, because I want all of the paladins to have that mundane experience of grace. Of waking up and getting on with things, not because the universe is at war, but because -- I don't know. You love someone so you're going to knit them a hat. And they're alive to wear it.

#meta #takashi shirogane #writing asks

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notasapleasure · 5 months

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Fait prosperer qui n'est à croire vain please?? Tell me everything!! I forgot abt this but it sounds AMAZING (I’m partial to the Marthe/Güzel but ofc would love the Jerott/Lymond too!)

Oh it's all my end of PiF feelings again, about Marthe and sacrifice, Lymond and depression/recovery (or lack thereof) and Jerott and 'kindness'. Also i think Marthe deserves to rule Russia with a fist of iron and have a blazingly hot strategician girlfriend.

Uhhhhhh so this starts as a good fic and then gets utterly bogged down in me trying to make Jerott and Francis fuck. Sometimes a fic is better when there is no smut, Jo. Also paging @oughtaagh because there's Jerott, there's Francis, there's water, there's recklessness and rescue.

I'll write a bit about how I would have continued it/ended it at the end, but first

I'm just gonna post it.

It's LONG, so if you're struggling to read it all here on tumblr and really want to read it let me know and I'll stick it in a doc or something.

[Peak Lymond draft problems: googling a Latin quote you stuck in there because you have no idea what it meant, and learning that it's from Cicero, but still not knowing what it meant. Truly, it is just like dealing with Francis Crawford himself. Or lunchtime in the undergrad common room as the only dunce who didn't do the Latin module. Anyway I did find rough translations in the end but I'm leaving the quotes untranslated so you all get the authentic Dunnett experience]

---

The wagon slowed to a halt beside the figure among the trees.

Men at arms, moving with no anticipation of a threat, approached with open hands and a foreign greeting.

Taking their assistance, with golden head bowed and covered by a soft cap, the weary traveller got on board. Among cushions and furs, long limbs settled with grace. Cornflower blue eyes held mischief, and wide pink lips smirked satisfaction.

Kiaya Khatun's own eyes widened.

"You."

The straw in the stable had been piled up to cover worn buckram, silks and cottons. The boot prints around it were narrow and had scuffed the stone floor in their haste.

Only one pony remained.

Lymond ran a hand, already trembling with effort, down the thick fur on the animal's neck.

It was dawn, and it was cold in the mountains behind Volos. The pony's fur was sprinkled with a fine glitter of dew and its breath coiled in the air beside him.

He had it saddled, but the girth hung loose and unbuckled as he leaned against the animal's warm flank. He was certain he could travel, but the longer he stood in the damp morning air the less willing his body was to collude in this belief.

Marthe had gone early, and she had worn men's clothing, changing her outfit in the stable.

She had taken his place, asking no leave, contradicting her sanguine words about Camille de Doubtance's wishes.

All she had left was the discarded dress and a ghazal written on a scrap of paper, crumpled and stained, as though she had regretted it and nearly destroyed it:

"A friend is the one who beheads you.

A swindler puts a hat on your head.

A host who pampers you becomes your burden.

The Friend deprives you of yourself."

Inside the main building one person still slept. Jerott Blyth lay oblivious to the competition to leave him behind.

No voices were raised: raised voices travelled.

"Silly girl," Kiaya Khatun said softly.

The fates would be displeased; the planets misaligned; the old woman would not take this news kindly.

"She is dead."

"As she predicted she would be. So it is up to us to continue her work."

Lymond's sister raised a cynical brow. "It is very easy to predict one's own death, if one is willing to play a part in it."

This brash effrontery made the courtesan laugh.

She would allow Marthe the morning to talk to her of fantasies. At first stop, the girl would be returned, and Kiaya would send a man to retrieve her intended companion.

Russia needed warriors, not soothsayers.

Lymond crouched by the embers of the hearth.

He picked up the packet he had left. It was addressed to his sister: letters to make arrangements for her inheritance. A request that she uphold her promise. A warning that he should not be followed when he left.

He had returned to the building to ensure that these details were not left for the wrong eyes.

If Jerott read it in the absence of both Marthe and Lymond there would be recklessness, and Lymond could not afford to leave recklessness in his wake.

He had returned to the building to protect his exit.

It should have been clean. It should have been quiet. It should have been easy.

Following the sound of shuffling feet, the door opposite the fireplace began to open and Lymond breathed a curse.

On impulse, he tossed the paper packet into the orange bed of coals. Its edges blackened, and a smoky eclipse rushed over its surface before flames kindled and crackled, smacking their lips on the dry words.

"It's early."

Lymond stood - too quickly. His head swam.

The other man paused in the doorway of his room, rubbing rough-skinned hands over tired eyes and morning stubble.

"Was it a bad night? Are you ok?"

"I am fine," Lymond answered.

Jerott peered at him with a dubious expression.

In the trees up the slope a woodpecker hammered out its breakfast rhythms.

"Have you been outside?"

Lymond let his arms open in a sort of shrug.

Droplets of mist had caught in his hair, turning its ends to darkened twists. His boots had straw stuck in the mud on their soles and his riding cloak hung from his shoulders.

Glancing at the hearth, Jerott took in the tongues of flame that were already dying down, and the grey rectangle of ash sheaves from which they had sprung: the ghost of the letter packet.

The cot beside the fire was empty, its curtain drawn back and bedclothes rumpled.

Marthe had few belongings, but none remained in their accustomed places.

Jerott looked at Lymond with sharp new panic.

"Where is she?"

Jerott was outside, halfway to the stable block even as Lymond called the answer Jerott already knew: "She's gone."

Standing within the stable, Jerott picked up the dress. He pressed it, unhesitatingly, to his face. He breathed in the smell of her body, mingled now with the dry scent of fresh straw.

His eyes opened to the sight of the saddled pony and it added insult to injury.

Jerott stormed back to the other building and tossed Lymond's packed satchel on the stone flags before the hearth. Combined with the hurt in his eyes, no accusation needed to be spoken.

In response, Lymond's expression was closed and wary, but his body language was resigned.

She had taken his place. That was all.

He did not know how long she would survive in it if he did not reclaim his position at Kiaya Khatun's side.

"Russia?" Jerott exploded. "Why would she go to Russia?"

Because, Lymond thought to himself, she had chosen to ignore Camille de Doubtance's plans. She had elected to claim her birth right: the adventure that should have been hers without question had she been born a man. She had intended to set her brother free of the webs that had been woven for him. To take up their severed bonds and turn them to a bridle for her own destiny.

"She is looking for a new station."

Jerott looked at the ash fluttering on top of the embers.

"But I was going to marry her."

It took little enough time for Iphis to have her way.

Among furs a sea-weathered cupid rolled with the movement of the cart. A gift and a promise; ambition and proof; the cupid had changed hands in Djerba, and ridden as the strange confidant of Kiaya Khatun since then.

She drew the lithe body of Lymond's sister into the cushions beside her. The blonde head rested against her shoulder and Marthe sighed with pleasure.

Kiaya Khatun had always been too curious.

Ambition was a virtue, but without restraint it was dangerous. Curiosity ignored boundaries and left ambitious women seeking more.

No need to be a warrior when you can be a shapeshifter. No need to be a soothsayer when you can forge your own fate.

"You don't understand."

Jerott had been stung by multiple barbs. He nursed the knowledge that Lymond had meant to leave him. He wondered about the future with Marthe that might have been - he contrasted her placid sweetness in recent memory with her old cruelty. Had she been kind because she knew it would come to an end before it came to marriage? Had that been an act to appease Lymond as much as Jerott?

Because it was always Lymond who stood between them. Always Lymond, in the corner of Jerott's eye, in the back of his mind, like a conscience double-checking all of his actions.

Lymond, who stood now in inscrutable stillness with his back to the wall. Beneath heavy lids and golden lashes, he regarded Jerott with an expression of weary patience.

"I understand." Lymond spoke softly but firmly.

"No," Jerott slapped an open palm on the door jamb. He stared at it, disappointed that the shock of pain caused by the gesture was already fading.

Lymond's jaw tensed.

"I love her. How can you, you, possibly understand?"

Lymond's fingers flexed against the stone wall to either side of him. His posture remained defensive, an animal backed into a corner. "I am not immune to the feeling, Jerott, despite what you seem to believe of me."

Jerott scoffed and looked at him with the kind of tolerance he might show a particularly stupid child. "Really. When you intended today to make for Russia on the touring bed of a Turkish courtesan."

Lymond did not flinch. "Kiaya Khatun is Greek."

"Clearly I am mistaken, and your profound connection with her runs deeper than I realised," Jerott said bitterly.

He missed the hot, blue flicker of irritation in Lymond's eyes.

"And I should learn about the profundity of love from you, I suppose?"

Jerott flushed red, though the firelight camouflaged it.

"Do not sully this by claiming you have encountered its like in the debauchment of the French court," he muttered. His ears prickled with heat.

Lymond sighed: "Ah."

He leaned his head back against the stone. "You think that such things occur in the absence of sentiment."

Lymond considered, in turn, the joy that Thady Boy Ballaght had brought men and women alike. The meeting of experience he had had with Oonagh O'Dwyer. The broken heart of the archer Robin Stewart.

"I find that, all too often, it is a surfeit of feeling that makes court such as it is."

Jerott's hands curled into fists, propped above his head on the jambs to each side of the door. He shifted the weight of his hips and feet, glaring at the swept stone floor. "It is hardly the same thing."

Lymond, tiring, conceded a final justification of his words. "I will not claim to have felt as you feel for Marthe. But I have seen more of life than exists in an Auberge on a small island, Jerott. Allow me some understanding of its rhythms."

Finally, Jerott raised his black head and met Lymond's eyes. He shivered visibly when he looked into that fine, Della Robbia face. All its foundations were etched sharply in the firelight and what daylight entered through the door around Jerott's blocking form: the elegant sweep of cheekbones and jawline, the plaintive sockets and the translucent, gem-like glitter of blue in their depths.

Jerott's lip curled, but he did not quite manage to keep his voice steady. "Then thank you. For your understanding."

In angry silence, Jerott was left with a familiar discomfort: the idea that each of them, Lymond and Marthe, had all these months been occupied with plans they had never shared - would never share - with him. It was now joined by the unhappy knowledge that both had tried to leave him behind in secret - whether abandoning Jerott to the arsenal of their sibling, or perhaps abandoning their sibling to Jerott's uncultured company.

The worst of it was that Jerott thought back over all that had happened since Philippa Somerville had insisted on pursuing the seemingly sanguine Crawford of Lymond - keeper of armies, uncaring father to a lost bastard - across the continent, and Jerott could barely recall the moments he would not choose to live again. His thoughts dwelt only on the thrill of the horse show, the pounding of his heart as he raced across Moorish rooftops and powered through the warm Mediterranean with a body in his arms - precious salvage from the wreckage of Zuara. He held to the memory of a single, longed-for look of pride and the dangerous glamour of gold hair and white linen beneath the African moon.

Lymond retrieved his pack wordlessly and eyed Jerott, who remained in the doorway.

"I will take the pony and catch up to them. If Kiaya Khatun has not already sent her on her way back here, I will tell her you are waiting."

Jerott did not move. His arms tensed as he grasped the wooden jambs and he raised his chin in defiance. "No."

This was precisely what Lymond had feared.

"I am losing time," he said warningly.

Ironically, given his present position, Lymond thought about how Jerott was like a door that would not stay shut. He could exhaust one's energies on an impossible task. And for a man used to a lifestyle of discipline and regiment, Jerott had shed the obedience demanded by the Order with a speed that left one reeling.

Attempting to shake him off was like negotiating with quicksand.

"They won't be travelling quickly." Jerott reasoned. "You said she would be bringing a train. We can catch them up with the pony - they won't make it to Larissa in a single day, even on the old road."

Lymond had to grit his teeth against the pain that was rising in volume in his head.

He lacked the strength to stop Jerott from snatching the pack away again.

"Besides, you are not in a fit state to stop me," Jerott muttered. "So you are not fit to travel alone."

Had all gone according to plan, Lymond had feared that Jerott would try to follow him. Why should it be a surprise, now, to find that Jerott would not leave him?

He watched Jerott through the doorway, thinking of St Mary's and every instance since in which Jerott had simply remained.

Once, Lymond had asked Jerott not to let himself be driven away.

To that one order, Jerott had remained faithfully compliant.

At first stop, Kiaya Khatun laughed beneath pear trees still laden with browning, over-ripe fruit. She sat on a bench covered by woven rugs, steaming kahveh set between her and her lover.

She was patron of the young champion in practical brown hose and doublet: a peacock dining with her graceful hen.

With a dagger on her belt and her hair braided tight beneath her cap, Marthe was not quite comfortable. She was not quite Lymond. But she rode the thrill of Kiaya's smile and placed olives into her mouth, and they made new plans. They drew up their own charts, for the planets they had pushed off course.

Russia needed warriors. Most of all it needed strategists. And what was running a household, navigating a seraglio, buying and selling ancient artefacts, but being a strategist?

A storm was rolling in from Mount Pelion, and Kiaya Khatun watched Marthe learn the vocabulary of command needed to arrange the vast train accompanying them.

Although she lacked Lymond's confidence, Marthe compensated with a ruthless assumption that none would choose to do as she asked without the threat of misery held over them. This tone made the men hurry to prove themselves capable, and Marthe stood back, astonished and pleased, as mules and servants, tents and shelters, arranged themselves in regimented practice to construct a small village of cloth and leather, enough to barrack them all through the heaviest of snows.

There was pride in Kiaya Khatun's eyes as she said "Khorosho."

Marthe's heart ran like Ottoman cavalry across the plain. Not once in her life had anyone looked at her in that way.

Time passed in a slow descent through the mists that left Lymond furious at their pace - and exhausted in every muscle. They wove through the thin trees silently, droplets of cold water clinging to their hair and cuffs and the pony's thick fur.

Even had he been alone he would have made slow progress. The soil was slick with streamlets of groundwater that began to crunch and crackle as the earth cooled, and the rock beneath them juddered down from the mountain in uneven steps, laced throughout with treacherous, snaking roots.

The pony, sturdy and gallant though it was, followed Jerott's lead, its heavy hoof-falls striking hollow sound from root and rock.

When the mist left them - quite suddenly, and well before they reached the Thessalian plain - it was replaced by a thin, warning breeze. Lymond pulled the woollen collar of his cloak up around his neck and set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Still they could see no further through the leaning boughs of conifers. Colour was absent beneath the white spotlight of the high clouds: trees were the shade of iron, their needles and the cobwebs that hung on them were bleached and silver-gilt by dew.

Walking at the bridle, Jerott did not attempt to make conversation. His black hair clung in damp runnels to the edges of his face, to his head and neck. Water beaded and pooled in the folds of the pack on his shoulders but his pace did not tire.

He would be thinking over what had almost happened and, perhaps, trying to distinguish between his anger at Lymond and his anger at Marthe.

Lymond regretted it, but he remained silent.

He had thought that his sister had reached an understanding with him - and with Jerott.

Marthe had professed a prophecy of kindness for a man adequate to his fate and then - in an act of hubris - she had changed her mind and stolen away in the crepuscular light.

Lymond considered all that had proved true since it had been foretold in Lyons, and all that could have been proven true even then. Information was not art magique; an understanding of the past was not the same as a vision of destiny. Whatever she had been, or was meant to be, to Camille de Doubtance, Marthe must have recognised this and preferred some other path.

Perhaps, when they caught up to her, she could explain how she had broken free of the framework of fate, and explain to Jerott how he might do the same.

For his part, Lymond would inform Marthe that she had jeopardised not some nebulous destiny or chart dictating his future; not some unsolicited vision of lives conducted by an old woman in a Saxon wig; but a decision made by a rational and lucid mind. A decision of his own making, that he had every intention of holding to.

Large, feathery flakes of snow were beginning to penetrate the thinning tree cover. The slope was no longer as steep, and they could now glimpse the pale expanse of the Thessalian plains beyond.

Lymond pressed the pony to a faster pace, taking over the lead, and Jerott's stride lengthened to compensate, his cheeks bright with colour.

On the plains, the snow had been blowing down from the uplands, and it smudged grass and river and track and building into indistinct grey. Only the black water of Lake Karla stood out, its surface stippled like old metal beneath the wind and the precipitation.

Jerott broke into a jog to keep pace with Lymond's descent towards the edge of the lake. He glanced up between footfalls, searching what could still be seen of the horizon for Kiaya Khatun's encampment. It was where Marthe would be, and he sent his heart out into the weather, thinking of the pricking of his skin when he was in her presence, of the dragging ache in the pit of his stomach and the way she made his arms feel like they would always be empty.

Without her, he did not know what he would do. All he could imagine, that was not in proximity to her, was the endlessly occupying struggle of following the rider ahead.

Now Lymond was directing the pony into the marshy land at the lake's edge. He was making for a shallow-bottomed fishing dory, Jerott saw, and not the reed-thatched shelter nearby.

Wet ground tugged at Jerott's boots as he plunged after Lymond. He had begun to worry that the other man would not wait, and tried to close the distance between them when Lymond drew to a halt.

"Francis! Do you see them?" Jerott called, hoping that, in giving an answer, Lymond would think to allow Jerott to catch up.

Lymond swung his feet from the stirrups and paused for a moment, both of his hands resting on the pommel. Like a bird tucking its head into its own neck feathers, he glanced back at Jerott over the cloak bundled around his shoulder.

His face looked as grey as the whirling snow over the lake, and Jerott recognised, at last, the frailty Lymond had tried so fiercely to hide all morning.

Jerott did not take the time to drop his heavy pack but flung himself forwards through the freezing mire, swinging arms and pumping hot, tired legs to reach Lymond before he fell.

He got to the pony's side too late to stop Lymond from dismounting, but in enough time to support him where he landed, clinging to the saddle in limp desperation. Lymond's legs seemed beyond his control, liquid and powerless beneath the pressure of some unseen agony.

"The boat," Lymond ordered through pressed lips.

"No. In God's name no," Jerott swore. He heaved Lymond's weight, his hands hard and unforgiving against the trembling body of the other man, wedged into armpits and scrabbling at wet clothing. Lymond clearly wanted to protest, but his white fingers could not maintain their furious, stubborn grip on the saddle. His throat released a sound of mingled pain and rage when Jerott kept him upright and forcibly rearranged Lymond's hold in order to boost him, unwilling, back into the saddle.

He went, in a cascade of cold muddy water, spurs catching on cloth and skin as his legs struggled against the air. Back onboard, Lymond curled over the pommel with hands hooked in pain. His eyes were screwed shut, his body shook from exertion, and his breathing howled in him like the wind on the mountains. But he did not attempt to dismount again, and he gave no further orders.

Jerott took the pony's bridle and turned towards the little hut on the lake's edge. He wiped the drizzle of blood on his chin with the back of one soaking, frozen hand and sighed at the new rip in his weather-worn jerkin.

Dreams now were too full of the familiar. Lymond longed for the bewildering terror of early withdrawal: the howling, bleeding, unknown of those visions.

In sleep he saw a child, scared and uncertain. The dress that Marthe had left in the straw turned to straw in a dress, stuffed unevenly, imperfect seams covered by black curls of hair.

Green eyes shaded by the holes of a sequined mask; then empty sockets, misshapen under leathery skin, their depths tangled with straw.

He heard a lisping voice beg in many-accented English; an Irish lullaby; it segued into raucous singing, the whispered promises of the court, the babbling of a demigod pinned down by mutes on the corner of a chessboard.

He turned from the scene, blood on his doublet, though he did not know where it came from. Through a door he saw Sibylla smile and beckon him to her, he heard Richard's merry laughter mingle with that of his wife and the child he dandled on his sturdy knee. Lymond hurried forwards, but only in order to heave one side of the heavy double door shut. Across the entrance, where they should have been helping him by closing the other door, Marthe and Philippa watched him toil and Marthe murmured: "A friend deprives you of yourself."

Inside the small fishing hut, some terrible battles were being fought.

"Mother, it is me." - "But I cannot come home." - "Mo chridh..." - "Do not make me promise it. Do not make me." - "I cannot go home. I have no brother. I have no home." - "I beg of you. You know not what you ask." - "Mother, mother I am tired..."

Already tormented by questions that arrived in pursuit of words he should never have heard, Jerott could stand no more. He arranged his aching legs and crossed the room in two strides to crouch by Lymond and shake his shoulder roughly.

"Francis! Francis wake up."

"I am tired," Lymond repeated, a frown troubling his alabaster brow. From beneath the darkened, matted gold lashes, tears had spilled.

Somehow seeing them was more troubling than all of the physical suffering, and Jerott shook him harder.

At last, Lymond's eyes opened with fury. One hand flew, sharp-nailed, to Jerott’s wrist.

Jerott stilled, waiting for consciousness to catch up with instinct.

The hand that clawed at him loosened slowly, and Jerott felt the wet chill of broken skin revealed beneath one nail.

Breathing heavily, silently, Lymond folded his hands over his abdomen. He became an uncomfortable jumble of slackness and fraught tension, blue eyes wide and teeth minutely bared.

"The dreams. You were shouting," Jerott explained, and found his own voice hoarse and unsteady on his lips.

"And what is it that you would like me to clarify about my situation?" Lymond put as much acid as he could muster into the words. "What sordid detail piqued your interest?"

The glitter of saltwater remained on the shadows beneath his eyes, but Lymond did not move to wipe the tears away. He seemed half submerged in dream still, barely conscious of where he was.

The antagonistic tone unbalanced Jerott just as it always did, and he sat down hard next to where Lymond lay, confusion mingled with exasperation on his features. He shook his head at Lymond's venomous stare.

"Are you in pain?"

Lymond's eyes glinted as though he had been provoked. "What did I say?"

Jerott sighed and let his shoulders fall into an aspect of defeat. His eyes were hot with misery. "All sorts of things. I don't know. You said you can't go home."

One of the loosely folded hands flinched and began to shake before Lymond regained control of it. He swallowed drily.

"I see. Well that much you already knew."

Lymond's eyes closed and his expression was subsumed by nausea. On one temple a muscle tightened, and a purplish vein showed through translucent skin. He struggled with the weight of one arm, moving it so as to lie his fingers across his lowered eyelids.

Jerott reached for a leather flask with water in it, and softly determined to move Lymond's hand and help him to sit up against the wall.

Instead, Lymond made himself an intractable dead weight. Resistance set itself in Lymond's jaw, and Jerott felt something give, like a worn cord breaking with a twang inside himself.

"For God's sake, Francis, I don't care what family secrets you feel the need to keep from me! I no longer wish to know any more than I do about Marthe's parentage or yours. You are clearly related - " Jerott glanced away with regret. "The heavens would never play such a cruel trick twice otherwise. But that is not why I am here."

Lymond lay deep among the bedding, recoiled and withdrawn like a threatened predator. His breathing was laboured and some unseen agony twisted each joint and tendon. The shape of his skull was more clearly defined than usual, his pallid skin drawn tight up to his hairline, where sweat began to darken the coils of blond hair. Enmeshed in pain, he would speak only of pain; he would inflict only pain; he would embody the thing that was consuming him because no other care would suffice to dull it.

In this context, Jerott's words offered to lay a responsibility of explanation in his hands that Lymond could only thrust away from himself viciously.

"Then why are you here? I see no wayward teenagers twisting your conscience; no innocents left to save, no need for vengeance gone unaddressed. You would not even press on to find the woman you profess to love - have you any idea of the danger she has likely put herself and Kiaya Khatun in?"

It wasn't enough. In Stamboul he had thrown a knife, lashing out like he might at a stray dog, and that had not been enough either.

His expression grim, resigned, Jerott replaced the flask on the floor and - Lymond's heartbeat sharpened with fear - looked momentarily as though he might stand and leave Lymond to stew in his discomfort.

Instead, he pried Lymond's unwilling shoulders from the nest of blankets on the floor with ungentle fingers.

Lymond hung back, a weight that acted against the strength drawing him into Jerott's hold. But when the balance of his body shifted and he fell forwards against the other man's chest, all the weight with which he had pulled away now collapsed into the waiting embrace.

Lymond was submerged in Jerott's arms, which were a tourniquet around the torrent of pain in his body. His head dropped into the shape of Jerott's neck, his raw nerves scuffing against the cotton ruff of his collar. His body shook and Jerott's hold tightened; Lymond's fists balled as though to fight off this imprisonment, but he brought them to rest against Jerott's back. He did not embrace him in return, his palms felt like they had on the galleys: flayed and exposed, bloodied and ruined. But his arms took strength where they lay alongside Jerott's rib cage, and he gasped in the hot air trapped between their bodies, inhaling the scents of fire smoke and damp wood that were imprinted on Jerott's clothing.

Jerott's was not a gentle gesture, but a fierce onslaught of care that fastened as stubbornly to Lymond's being as the ache of withdrawal did. He did not release him, even when the shivering slowed and became intermittent. He did not release him even when Lymond's eyes drooped and fell closed in the dark of Jerott's shoulder. Lymond's breathing steadied and still Jerott could not let him go.

Jerott stared at the wall with unfocused, fearful eyes. The blond hair that tickled and stuck to his cheek was familiar and yet not; the thin shoulders and bony, hard-muscled back was like Marthe's but different. The need with which Lymond had, at last, drawn on Jerott's care was wholly new, and intoxicating.

With stilted, stiff movement, Lymond's fists loosened and unfurled. He lay his palms on the plains of Jerott's shoulder-blades and slowly, cautiously, wrapped himself closer to the source of respite and relief.

Jerott leaned his jaw against Lymond's head, and wondered whether Lymond could hear his blood thunder like floodwaters in his veins.

It was rare that the expressive features ever lay so still.

It was rarer yet that Jerott Blyth paused to examine anything with such care.

Lymond's body had sunken against him, true sleep imposing its peace at last. Jerott guided him carefully back to the floor and arranged the covers around him, unconsciously tweaking at folds and ripples of wool until Lymond lay neatly beneath an even covering, protected from the many draughts in the little hut.

Moving on the way to tidying Lymond's unruly waves of hair, Jerott caught himself, his hand poised by the curve of Lymond's brow and the elegant line of his temple.

When he had looked at Marthe he had drunk in all that he could about her appearance, wide-eyed and unashamed, letting his longing gaze caress each and every quadrant of skin and shape. He could enumerate and bring to mind all the tones of her hair - lemon flesh, saffron and sand, ochre and brass - all so unique to her - and all the gradients of her sun-basted skin. He had imagined what it would be like to hold Marthe before he had held her; he had sought frantically to recall the taste of her lips that time in the tekke he thought he had made her endure his kiss (all that he recalled, though, was the subtle fire of the raki on his own tongue).

He did not look at anyone else in such a way.

He did not look.

He did not let himself look.

But here were those familiar features, softened in sleep, their edges chiselled and bevelled into something stronger, perhaps even more striking. All those colours that he had told himself were hers alone, flagrantly sported by another.

As though he had placed an ember from the fireplace on his tongue and swallowed it in one gulp, Jerott felt heat slash a line deep into his body. His heart twisted: a resistant, bucking animal. He could not explain whether it was the same feeling that was kindled when he thought of Lymond's sister. That had been a need, a demand that his every fibre clamoured for without shame. This - this made his pulse quicken in a new way. A furtive, hopeful way that left him feeling physically bruised.

He murmured a prayer and it rebounded on him. His mind offered only a mocking rejoinder:

Stay me.

Refresh me.

I am sick with love.

As though his fingers belonged to another person, Jerott watched his own hand descend to stroke sweat-streaked golden coils off Lymond's skin. The hair at his temple was softer and finer than Eastern silk, the feeling of it beneath the sensitive pads of Jerott's fingers something that he wanted to experience again and again.

Shyly, he smoothed its satin strands with short strokes of touch. His thumb moved out to compare the feeling of one perfectly shaped brow, and it was only when Lymond uttered a sigh in his sleep that Jerott withdrew. He flexed his fingers, feeling their skin changed as though burned.

For a time, he sat wondering at himself and at the newly peaceful body curled among the covers. He had contributed to the rest that Lymond now enjoyed: it was an act of construction the likes of which he had never thought he would experience outside the spiritual ceremonies of the Order.

This was a fearful new discovery that made his pulse run in feverish haste. Where faith and protectiveness and the sweetness of touch eddied together.

Shaken, Jerott returned to the other end of the shelter and wrapped himself as well as he could in a leftover blanket. He listened to the storm, and did not intend to sleep, but the strange emotions of the already-long day left him wrung out and exhausted. His chin smarted and he was at last beginning to feel the chill of his damp clothes and hair.

His mind blundered in pained desperation against all the choices of the previous year. He covered his face with his hands and asked himself how it had come to this, so soon after Gabriel's betrayal, so soon after he had made a promise to keep his love in check. And yet - he could not imagine choosing differently. His memories shone with the gilt adornment of Lymond's sanction, also: he had needed Jerott, as much as Jerott had needed to be there.

He moved his fingers apart, like fretwork over his eyes, so that when he blinked rapidly at Lymond's resting form, he felt his lashes flutter against skin. […]

[…]

His eyelids grew heavy as he looked across the fire at the peaceful hills of Lymond's form beneath covers. Jerott drifted out of consciousness wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the back of blond curls; to touch his cheek to the fine-muscled neck and shoulder; to press his mouth to skin as smooth and beautifully freckled as a goldfinch egg.

[…]

Lymond awoke with a sense of lack. He was wound round in a plethora of blankets and covers but felt exposed. The blankness of thought that followed a deep sleep lingered, and he struggled to grasp the context of where he had slept and what time of day it was. Memory and pain repelled one another, like oil and water.

All he could discern was that it was cold and it was dark.

He blinked rapidly, squeezed his eyes shut and opened them wide. The darkness endured, but he moved his head and was able to identify the embers of a low burning fire. Relief prickled his scalp at the sight, at the confirmation of sight, and the clue as to where he had found himself.

It was a small room - no, a small building - thin-walled, thatch-roofed, sparsely furnished with details he could not quite identify. Pots and herbs hung from beams that criss-crossed the space beneath the sloping roof, biding, draped in spider webs, cloaked by winter disuse. The air was heavy with the smell of wood smoke and wet cloth and the only sound he noticed was the occasional hiss of protest from the embers as meltwater dripped through the narrow vents in the ceiling.

He was not in Volos any longer and he was not in a travelling tent or wagon. Even as consciousness surged, he could not say where this building was or how he had come to be there.

Without having done more than crane his head from the covers, Lymond felt his heart pound with exertion. A reflexive sweat of panic chilled his temples and his body, and the throbbing of his veins was like the warning of distant thunder. He rolled onto his back and made his hands into fists within the blankets.

His thoughts were like moth-eaten silk, unravelling as he grasped for them.

He had left the monastery at Volos. He had ridden downhill, through forest and mist, through thinning trees and cooling air, dogged all the way by regret. He had to cross the lake, though he did not want to - but it was the only way back onto the path he had lost. And the harder he pushed to reach it the more hopeless it seemed, the further behind he appeared to have been left, the more he understood and sorrowed for how much he had let them all down.

That thought finally snagged on something: he flinched, his eyes closed, throat tight, as though he could look away from the recollection of that silent knife and the blood, staining purple satin to wet black. He began to shake, and his dreams started to seep into his mind again like the snow dripping from the chimney vents. All of those he would never see again: doors closing, closing.

Among the dead and the distant who haunted his thoughts were Marthe and Güzel, who he had seen together at Djerba, even as he made his own plans. Pride with pride, a pursuit of power that forged onwards with inexorable need, loosed from a divine grasp like the apple of Eris. The ear of the Tsar would be bent to new fortune tellers, those who were unafraid to answer back to the heavens and tell them to speak their predictions anew.

He understood the compulsion, he supposed, but he had to stop it, else they would become just another sphere within his nightmares.

It was also, he acknowledged, out of a selfish fear that he recoiled from giving up Russia to them. If they kept him from his intended work he must face his present position: depleted of all resources, robbed of family twice over, and, by necessity, a sword for hire and a pair of strong rowing arms as he had once been before.

Lymond turned to his side again and curled, animal-like, about his knees. Deep in the muddle of blankets and clothes he picked up the scent of another body: something difficult to define, sweaty and damp like he was himself, but of a different source. Leather where Lymond wore velvet; woollens where he wore silk. He inhaled deeply, but the smell of the other was elusive and soon lost in his own miasma. It made him lie still with concentration though, and in stillness he found another memory: the salvation of warmth and an embrace that had gathered together all the fraying parts of Francis Crawford's being, fusing his shattered person like a smith might melt down old silver to forge it anew.

He sighed into that memory because it did not hurt like all other thoughts hurt. It was fresh and simple, familiar and yet long awaited, as though he had been able to find comfort in his pocket when he needed it most, where once he had placed it and forgotten about it. Demanding nothing, promising nothing - Lymond's mouth twisted wryly against the blankets - understanding nothing. Just the memory of an embrace, like a dogged presence he could not shake free of.

Almost wary of breathing lest he disturb the recollection, he imagined the shadow of touch steadying, tethering him. A hard jaw against his trembling head and flexed muscle across his shivering back.

There had, after all, been one person absent from his nightmares. One who did not need to be mourned and who countered regret with stubborn continuity. One who - Lymond opened his eyes and stared with resignation into the darkness - was yet to be freed of his thankless task, but who needed, like all the others, to be shown why he must leave Lymond to his own lonely path.

If only Jerott had not woken at Volos. There would be no new act to bring to mind previous occasions in which Jerott's utility could not be denied. No need for Lymond to resent his own weary body for clamouring in hope of peace and rest, for its treacherous nostalgia for a firm, warm embrace standing between Lymond and the beckoning road.

Just a night, his flesh seemed to beg him, quaking more at the idea of cold than at its actual penetration of the covers. A night to sleep and be warm and to let another shoulder the burden of his needs. Just to sustain him through whatever lay beyond here, his skin pleaded, tightening and puckering like a plucked fowl along the backs of his arms and his neck.

Lymond pressed his short nails into his palms and regretted their bluntness. He thrust himself up to a sitting position and threw back the blankets to make his body aware of the cold properly and fully. He would master this childish longing more easily than he had mastered the withdrawal from the drug. He must do so, for he feared stopping now, feared the war within himself: continue or - cease. He saw no way to navigate a path in between.

He forced himself to stand and waited for a moment as the darkness wavered murkily and a tide of nausea grasped at him.

Stiff-legged, aware with each movement of the aches of riding and of sleeping on a hard floor, and more besides, Lymond shuffled to the area where a jumble of packs and shoes, old fishing rods and reed woven receptacles lay. On the opposite side of the grey lines of light that edged the doorway, he saw Jerott's sleeping form.

His body crumpled awkwardly against the wall in the draught from the entrance, his head to the wooden panels, knees drawn up and arms tight across his body. He had positioned himself as far as he could be from Lymond in the small building.

Lymond approached with trepidation and was assaulted by the stench of wet horse: the only blanket Jerott had kept for himself was the saddle blanket, beneath which he snored lightly. His hair was still damp from outdoors, clinging to his forehead and cheek in dark lines. On his chin was a separate stain, rising from the shadow of his throat, a strand of newly dried blood, smudged carelessly, neither deep nor long, but enough to make Lymond frown.

He did not remember causing it, but the guilt he felt was adamant. It was further confirmation that Jerott Blyth would be much better off without him.

Lymond shuddered and turned away to pull on his boots and cloak. He ensured that Jerott was left with all he would need on the road, and hauled the pack to the door with shivering, unsteady determination.

Gently, Lymond pulled open the door of the fishing hut and the gust of fresh oxygen made the embers behind him glow brighter.

He glanced back, but Jerott continued to sleep, caught now between the firelight and the cool blue of the evening. On impulse, Lymond left the pack and retrieved one of the blankets he had had for his own bed. It was dry and still warm, and he tucked it around Jerott's legs carefully, ensuring that he did not wake.

Outside, snow had met the edges of the building in arrested drifts, packed thick and undulating over treacherous marshy ground. The sky above the mountains was the colour of mallow flowers, and it was impossible to tell cloud from the deepening of night. All had the heavy, expectant stillness of winter, when the world took a deep breath between snowfalls and adjusted thoughtfully to its new mantle.

The pony was nowhere to be seen. Jerott must have turned it loose to let it find its own way through the storm. It would have discovered shelter in the woods or it would have provided a boon for the hungry winter wolves. It had not waited by the hut with any misguided sense of attachment. No trace of it remained: the snow was pristine, untouched even by the birds chattering in the trees or the squirrels that shook the occasional dusting of white loose from the branches.

Lymond gazed at the scene, and as he did he began to piece together the journey there. He glanced down at the heel of his boots and saw the trace of crimson glint on the wheel of his spur. He grimaced and left the pack for the moment, taking instead one of the oars and beginning, methodically, to clear a path to the lake's edge.

[... about this point in the fic there's overlap between chapters because I couldn't decide on the perspective etc, and I kept going back to rewrite the build-up/add more in]

"Are you leaving?"

Lymond paused in the act of shouldering on the pack. He hid the way his face pulled in a wince at the weight of it and turned to the door. "I told you, I am going to Russia alone."

Jerott's body pushed him to stand, leaning against the wall, even though sleep still lay heavily on his mind and his face. "But I thought - If Marthe does not want - If she no longer -" Jerott rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and shook his head. They had already had this talk, hadn't they?

Things had seemed to simple, for a few days at Volos. Now that tenuous bond he thought he had forged with Marthe had been swept away like a fine veil of cobweb, and he no longer knew where he should turn.

"Would you not have use of me there?"

Lymond's shoulders moved a fraction, and he sighed. "It is not that, Jerott."

For a moment it seemed that Lymond might offer more, unbidden, but when he looked up the gem-like glitter of his eyes was resolute. "This is something I must undertake myself."

Jerott's voice came, impulsive as ever, from the shadow where he stood, beyond the reach of the dying fire. "But I would serve under you."

Lymond smiled. "Up to a point, I have no doubt that you would. But as the proverb says: bonum esse, habere amicos: sed miseros esse, qui his uti cogantur."

He arranged his gloves and put his hand on the latch.

Jerott moved forward with a frown, his sluggish mind picking at the Latin. "There is no compulsion when friendship is offered freely. You barely have the strength to carry that pack. How will you make it even as far as Güzel's camp?"

The low red embers now illuminated Jerott from beneath, light picking out the worried angle of his brows, his flared nostrils and bow-curved lip. And - Lymond's eyes alighted on it instantly - the fresh wound on his jaw.

"I will manage. I have a great deal of experience with rowing through discomfort," he said sourly.

Jerott, seeing before him only a long and lonely journey West, spoke with exasperation. "You don't have to always do this alone."

The cornflower blue eyes, muddied by the red light, widened a fraction. "Alle þinges er maad of one alloon substance of one alloon ordinance. I will not involve those who do not need to become involved. I have allowed it to happen too often, and it has not been myself who has paid the price."

Jerott noticed the other man's gaze rest on his chin and touched his fingers to the injury. "This was an accident."

Lymond said nothing more. He reached for the oars that leaned in a corner of the hut with the fishing tackle, and Jerott felt panic, like drowning, push him another step closer.

"For God's sake, you don't always have to be the martyr!"

"I thought that martyrdom was done entirely for God's sake?"

Jerott made a noise of frustration and grabbed for his travelling cloak, its wool still damp from the earlier journey. Lymond flung the door of the fishing hut open and the gust of fresh oxygen made the embers glow brighter.

Snow had met the edges of the building in arrested drifts, packed thick and undulating over treacherous marshy ground. The sky above the mountains was the colour of mallow flowers, and it was impossible to tell cloud from the deepening of night. All had the heavy, expectant stillness of winter, when precipitation had ceased and the world adjusted thoughtfully to its new mantle.

Lymond paused for a moment and then stabbed the oars into the knee-high drift at the empty doorway and began the task of forging a path.

Jerott surged forwards but stopped, stunned, when Lymond flipped his cloak back to lay a hand on the decorated pommel knop of his dagger.

"I will write word to you at Lyons. Go back to Volos and then to France. If I can send Marthe to you I shall."

"It seems a poor kind of charity," Jerott told him bitterly, but he stayed back on the limen, his hands braced in each side of the entrance as he watched Lymond toil at the snow.

Lymond made good pace, but Jerott saw the forced control of his movement, the uneasy line of his shoulders. Occasionally he had to stop and release a single, shuddering breath before he continued his work, and then Jerott would take a few steps along the path behind him, reluctant to simply turn away and let him go.

When he reached the water's edge and hooked the dory close to land, the slush of ice in the surrounding water hissed and chattered at the disturbance. A family of rooks started up a raucous chorus in the trees at the foot of the mountain, and above the lake a v of waterfowl coursed its way across the sky.

Lymond pulled the frozen oilskin from the boat and clambered in, his movements catching and stiff, and Jerott approached the edge only a little too late to step on board.

As the boat drifted and Lymond settled himself and his pack and oars, he called back once: "I need someone I can trust outside of Muscovy, Jerott. I need you to be my guide to the ongoing world." He looked up at Jerott, over the oars, and his face was shrouded and dark like the sky, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his unruly hair.

Jerott clenched his fists and breathed heavily. His fingers were frozen and his lungs ached; his boots and stockings were still damp from earlier, and now damp again anew, and the crisp air made the smell of wet wool a cloying distraction.

Once, the slender arms extended, willow-straight, and once, the oars dipped smoothly into the thick water before Lymond's arms were pulled back, close to his chest.

Then the mechanism that drove his perfect movements seemed to fail: a cog with worn teeth, an unoiled thread. The oars burst from the water roughly, with uneven angles. They wavered in the air and the arms shook and strained as they extended. Lymond bowed his head, his shoulders shaking, and he might have made a small sound of pain or frustration.

Jerott did not hear it. He did not take the time to steel himself, but plunged into the soupy water at the lake's edge, slipping down hidden, muddy banks, weighted and steadied only by the cold lakewater that poured mercilessly into his boots. The chill of it enclosed his skin instantly, dragging at his movements and travelling up his body like a fever. He pushed through it. He had to. Lymond had not travelled far, and Jerott had faith that the lake was not yet that deep.

It reached the tops of his thighs when he waded at last to the prow of the boat.

Lymond's head had raised, his eyes searching the darkness blankly as Jerott splashed closer. His mouth was locked shut and there was unmistakable fear in his expression.

Jerott spoke to him as calmly as he could through chattering teeth, tugging at the oars and removing them from Lymond's hands and the waters. "It's me, Francis. Let's go back." He laid the oars in the boat and turned to pull the shallow vessel back in among the frozen knees of the reeds.

"I did not ask..." Lymond whispered hoarsely.

Jerott swallowed a gulp of cold air and considered his speech between each slow, lapping footstep. "You never do," he finally grunted.

He fell to his knees once in getting to land, but his legs already burned with cold and he got to his feet methodically, tying the dory back to its mooring and extending a hand to Lymond, who could not see it.

"Francis, get up," Jerott tried to speak softly. He leaned and took a fistful of Lymond's brocaded cloak, and at last prompted the other man to unfurl, wobbling on the rocking dory.

Lymond insisted on taking the pack, fumbling for its straps, and levered himself unsteadily onto land with aid of the oars as well as Jerott's hold.

They struggled slowly back along the path in the snow, stepping up to the raised deck of the fishing hut and stumbling into a room no longer so well warmed by its neglected fire.

Jerott did not release his grip on Lymond, but he stopped, his legs freezing, burning, and his chest aching still more with a regret and a guilt that he did not understand.

"Francis..."

Lymond's eyes, dark and dilated, looked wild, but they did, at last, look at him. Then he tugged his arm free and Jerott realised how bruisingly tight he had been holding it.

"Oh, Christ," Jerott breathed. "I'm sorry." He stepped back, his palms placatory.

Lymond swayed like a birch sapling and reached a hand out - not for the wall, but for Jerott's fingers, which his icy grasp closed on as he stumbled to his knees.

Jerott's cold hands tried to capture Lymond's focus, to make his questions intelligible to the mind trapped within its brittle husk of agony. He cupped Lymond's face, he clasped his temples, and the coolness of Jerott's palms against the pulsing heat in Lymond's head made Lymond's eyes flutter closed in a moment's bliss.

Pain made his head feel light, but Jerott's hold seemed to tether him to the stuff of reality.

He had no answers for the questions he was bombarded with and he grasped, instead, at the cloth of Jerott's clothing.

Continue his journey or simply cease to be. Those had been the choices he had allowed himself.

Instead he was, once more, at the mercy of another's care. Not the impersonal, professional touch of Archie, not the unconditional sweetness of family, nor even the resentful acidity he had received from Oonagh. Jerott kneeled before him, his hands on Lymond's face, his eyes dark and wide and full of concern. Lymond's gloved hands pawed and clutched at his cloak and jerkin like a cat settling, unable to speak his need but seeking, in desperation, the respite that seemed to be on offer.

It was his body, he thought to himself between the strikes of pain in his head. His body that demanded Jerott's nearness when his mind could not rule with sense and articulation.

But he could not make his shaking fingers withdraw their plea, and Jerott drew him close against his chest.

Lymond's breath heaved, once more contained within the safety of Jerott's hold. His head was in Jerott's neck again - such an easy place to rest - and he gnashed his teeth in the darkness against Jerott's cold cloak, wishing, fervently for it all to be at an end.

Amid the agony in his head, Lymond forced a rough laugh out from his aching throat, determined that he should not have comfort if he could not have autonomy. "Well, Jerott. Twice have you held me and twice have you prevented me from leaving. I suppose now, like Proteus, I am to reveal my true form and grant you all that you wish."

He felt the results of his words instantly: Jerott flinched and let out a breath like he had been dealt a blow. Lymond felt the pressure of Jerott's Adam's apple move against his head when the other man swallowed.

"I ought to have left you in that boat to freeze?"

"Yes."

He did not even think about the answer, it had been on his lips before Jerott's sentence finished. Lymond clutched icy fists in wet gloves to his chest, leaning on Jerott with body alone, forcing Jerott to take his weight in his arms.

"No," Jerott returned, the single syllable wavering with horror. "No."

Lymond's laughter was devoid of joy: a hacking sound, the noise of a fox chewing its way out of a trap. "As you say. Then you have won me. The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott tried to lift Lymond's body from him, to hold his juddering arms and torso at a distance and meet his eyes.

Sullenly, Lymond kept his head down. He felt trapped by the pain, trapped by inaction, trapped by a slow recovery and a fate that he thought he had learned to be more resigned to. The rich care in his gaoler's expression did not ease his frustration. The tight grip on his upper arms pinched just enough that he bared his teeth and leaned into it, fighting Jerott's hold with his bodyweight.

"Christ, what do you think I want?" Jerott breathed in a horrified whisper.

From Lymond's throat emerged another rasp of sound that mocked the very idea of humour.

He finally raised his head to bestow a withering look on Jerott.

"I don't begrudge you it."

Jerott's face was very close, and Lymond leaned towards him, his body still tripping with spasms of pain even as his eyes delivered a challenge.

Confusion and disgust were all he was met with. Jerott jerked his chin away pointedly as he let Lymond fall against Jerott's shoulder again.

Lymond's forehead furrowed uselessly against the thick wool of Jerott's cloak. Its weave was abrasive against his screwed-up eyelids and it felt nothing of the furious struggle of Lymond's features in response to the pain. He rocked his head against the curve of Jerott's body, and he realised, with despair, that to be held against linen or skin would provide a far better distraction from the discomfort of his own corporeal prison.

His body's conflicting demands seemed to tear at his sinews and joints: pain and pleasure, cruelty and comfort. Care always came at a cost, did it not?

At last, a blankness, like a snowed-in landscape, followed his fury. The flames of frustration that had been fanned were reduced to white embers, cooling, crumbling as they settled into ashen byproduct.

He subsided against Jerott, breathing against the skin of his neck, and heard Jerott's rueful murmur as though through water.

"If you knew what you offered."

Jerott had dropped to his own knees in stunned recognition of the plea in Lymond's gesture. The gloved hand grasping his fingers had been an admission of need that Jerott fumbled to answer, shuffling close to Lymond like they were children sharing secrets beneath the kitchen table.

Jerott laid his touch on Lymond's shoulders as Lymond's fingers coiled and bunched in Jerott's cloak. He was able to see his surroundings now, Jerott was almost certain, but the pain made his expression into a death mask, rictus tight, the blue eyes bulging uncomfortably wide.

The embrace had seemed to calm Lymond, to stymy his frustration and anger, and it had given Jerott a sense of a contribution made. Lymond's form, even with the racking sobs of pain pulling through it over and over, felt right in his arms. It felt neat and compact, strong and graceful. When his face nuzzled Jerott's collarbone and his hands pulled at his clothes, when Jerott leaned his jaw on Lymond's head and let flaxen strands adhere, tickling, to his dark stubble, it felt as natural and as proper as anything else he used his body for.

So when, spitting venom, the creature in his arms had attempted laughter, Jerott was struck cold anew at the implication of Lymond's words. What had he won? His arms tightened reflexively on Lymond's body and then he made them loosen, trying to disentangle himself, to see Lymond's face and to understand the despair in that voice.

Lymond's body was limp, doll-like in Jerott's struggling grip, but the blue eyes glimmered from behind blond curls, mocking and hungry as he tried to absorb pain and turn it into a weapon of his own.

Jerott shook his head, not really wanting to hear a response to the question drawn from him. "Christ, what do you think I want?"

His arms folded across his body like an funereal effigy, Lymond shivered and made a sound, and looked at Jerott with something that perhaps was intended as a seduction.

"I don't begrudge you it."

His alabaster skin was clammy and the hollows of his eyes were purple and uneven. His lips were drawn into a thin white blade across his mouth and the fine, neat hairs of his brows were dishevelled from contact with Jerott's cloak. He leaned towards Jerott with the inevitability of a tree falling, and Jerott raised his chin aside to make his disinterest in the offer clear.

Lymond's face was against his shoulder again, pressing for comfort like a nesting animal. He would not unfold his arms to hold Jerott, but he would not let Jerott move away.

Jerott wrapped himself around that fragile form again and suppressed his own shivers. His legs were soaking wet and the cloth on them clung. The fire was perilously close to going out and the winter's night had enclosed the fishing hut and its surroundings.

But, now wordless, unable to speak or act upon the easement and solace he required, Lymond had stilled in Jerott's hold. He wished, it seemed, to be close, though he hated to acknowledge it, and Jerott would not drive him away in order to arrange his own comforts.

Jerott had seen Francis Crawford endure a great deal in the past years: fire and water, the blade and the thonged whip. Nothing had penetrated the marble-poised, expertly composed demeanour like this withdrawal though. External forces could be rebuffed or managed, met with raised chin and accepting defiance. But this was a pain from within: Lymond's own body turning against itself, matching and outwitting his defenses because the pain was a mirror of himself, accustomed to all of Lymond's tricks already. Jerott had never heard such misery as that contained in a single, unthinking word when he had asked if he ought to have left Lymond to perish on Lake Karla.

Yes.

Jerott knew how to handle wounds: sword, arrow, broken bones. He knew how to calm and control his own fears, how to push through pain and tap into the rush of aroused senses to keep on fighting. To keep on living. But he did not understand the sickness that ravaged Lymond in these intermittent raids. He did not understand the darkness or the desire for darkness.

He knew only that he would not leave a wounded man to travel alone unless the need was dire. And he clung to that principle, which he recognised and welcomed, and he understood that the impulse to stop Lymond from going was separate from the impulse to hold him close. The two needs may have joined in felicitous convenience when Francis had reached for his hand, but Jerott reassured himself that he could tell the difference, even if, in his pain, Lymond apparently could not.

The episode had passed, and Lymond lay unmoving against him. Jerott at last let his chin lower to rub against Lymond's hair again, let his eyes close as he re-examined what had passed.

He did not want a reward, or a prize. He had seen how Lymond deflected pain with his body - from himself and from others.

What do you think I want?

Jerott sighed and shifted his shoulder so that Lymond's breath warmed his neck. Lymond lay as heavily on him as before, and Jerott turned his cheek against the thickets of blond curls.

"If you knew what you offered..." he trailed off, imagination failing him.

[I think the next bit was written earlier than the above chapters - emotions are running higher, and as often happens with F/J I feel I have to go back and cool them down, and then they cool too much and inertia sets in. I was definitely overthinking this. It then turns into really fluffy smut that probably belongs with a totally different fic, but it's sweet and I like the headcanon that Jerott might know something about massage, so I'm plonking it here with everything else for anyone who's interested.

Just imagine I took a screenshot of that post saying 'all Jerott/Francis fic reads like it was written by Jerott as wish-fulfillment' and pasted it here. It is a post that has haunted me since I first went tag diving, and I will never escape the sense that it mocks every J/F fic I write.]

Shakily, Lymond drew the cocoon of blankets about his shoulders and plucked at the toe of one damp stocking. The fire was regaining warmth, but Jerott continued to fuss around it, prodding wood and kindling into rigid formation and judiciously failing to meet Francis's eyes.

"The attacks affect your memory also?"

"They do."

Finally, he looked up and scanned Lymond's expression. A frown scored his brow, but Lymond could not tell what source Jerott's temper drew on. He sighed and sat back, staring at Lymond over the rising flames and the thin breath of smoke winding its way towards the roof.

"What do you remember?" he asked grudgingly.

"Enough to surmise that I have been unjust."

Jerott shook his head and looked away.

Lymond wrapped his arms around his knees and tried to summon warmth from within his own body. "My intention was to leave, and yet I am still here. Will you resent me for that, when it was not my own choice?"

That struck a chord, hammer to string, and a shudder ran through Jerott's shoulders.

"You dream. And you speak when you do." He looked up, and trouble and care mingled in his eyes. "You feel you let them down. The child, your mistress. Philippa. God knows who else. Your family. I think. You miss them, but you say you cannot see them. I don't understand it, when it seems to bring you no relief to be away."

Lymond made himself hold Jerott's gaze, though his throat closed with hard tension and his eyes stung from the smoke.

"You have - twice - intended to take the dory out onto the lake, alone by preference, when it should have been as evident to you as the weather in the sky or the lateness of the day that you lack the strength."

Where he rested it against the floor, Jerott's hand formed a balled fist. His legs shivered and he moved them, sitting on the side of his thigh to hide his body's nerves. "You are not a prisoner here. I am not your keeper. But you would have - I couldn't leave you like that."

Silent, Lymond measured Jerott's hurt and confusion.

[…]

There was more he had said. Lymond could see it, he could practically taste the other words in his mouth, and in Jerott's miserable expression he saw their confirmation. In Lymond's mind was a store of language, a magpie's hoard of treasure gleaned from books and papers and people. Where his own wits failed him, he always had recourse to the prepared cleverness of others.

"The price salbe presentit til thaim that best has disseruyt."

Jerott's eyes closed and he turned his head to the shadows, nausea crawling over his features.

Lymond watched him, very still and very wide of eye, conscious of the renewal of bodily charge that he felt in the wake of the migraines. Suddenly there was heat in his blood again, and he was like a clepsydra filling, drop by drop: it pooled in his belly, accompanied by the sensation of having come upon his own sentiments unexpectedly.

In rashness and in the desperation of pain, he must have offered himself: the prize for Jerott's loyalty. It had been a crass gesture, diminishing to both of them, but rooted, sure as a weed, in something real.

The idea of his offer being taken up produced an honest quickening of his pulse.

[…]

Once I loved a girl and wished to make her my wife, and once I loved a man and wished to make him my leader.

[…]

He caressed the stubborn bloom with his mind, wondering when its seed had settled. Gratitude may have nourished it, but probably it had rather thrived on neglect - Lymond did not recall its cultivation at any point between St Mary's and the Mediterranean.

It was not amor de profundis, of that he could be fairly certain, but it was within him, unlovely desire, scrabbling for purchase among the rubble of his being. It was selfish and heedless of all the others who had been hurt before, of all who had left their hurt on him in turn. Perhaps it was some state of bestial default, an insensible need, to which his parched self had turned when all others had fallen by the wayside: left behind, snatched away, driven from him for their own betterment and protection.

Lymond's lips twisted. As an invitation, it seemed that what he had said was akin to the death he had given the delly on the road to Volos. Nothing else had driven Jerott away - but that lack of finesse had probably done more than anything else Lymond might have tried.

"I have shown you improper thanks," Lymond said quietly. "But I once more owe you my life, it seems."

"You owe me nothing," Jerott snapped, getting to his feet.

He stormed two short, absurd paces to the edge of the small room and stood facing the wall, his breathing heavy. Jerott snuck a single glance over his shoulder.

"My clothes are soaked," he muttered.

Being a man of spiritual rather than physical shame, he began to remove each item with violent haste, loosening ties and freeing clinging cloth from skin that looked blue with cold even in the firelight.

Lymond, whose cloak, gloves and boots had been taken from him with care and the utmost gentleness, allowed a shiver of interest to run through his body.

Jerott laid his clothes over the rack he had created by the fire and stooped smoothly to pick up a blanket, one dry enough to be capable of warmth. He swung it over his shoulders and was momentarily displayed against its red pattern: lean and toned, the skin of his chest still swarthy even where it had not been exposed to the sun, fine black hair gathering in a line down his centre to draw the eye.

He met Lymond's interest with a glare and an astonished blush and wrapped the blanket about his torso loosely. It fell to the tops of his thighs, leaving stocky, muscled legs exposed and lit by the flames. His knees were scuffed and red, the colour of his mouth.

A pace away.

He might be at Lymond's side before either of them could catch breath, but Lymond had ruined any chance of that. Logic said that this was for the best - the depths of Jerott's attachments were notoriously abyssal. But loneliness had found a way to raise its grizzled head, loosed by the migraines, slipping free while the pain distracted Lymond. He wondered what Jerott's hold would feel like to a body not savaged by pain, what his embrace could do for a man who found himself all too sober and aware of what he had lost - as well as of the value of what remained.

"Francis. You're shaking."

Jerott frowned, and the distance between them drifted away like fire smoke. His hands reached for Lymond's wrists, his eyes studied Lymond's own. "Is it happening again? Already?"

Lymond blinked rapidly and shook his head. He tucked himself deeper into his own wrappings and dusted off a wan smile.

"No, no. I am just cold." He had not in fact noticed until asked, but although his core retained heat, his back and his feet had begun to feel like ice.

"You should take the wet stockings off," Jerott advised.

Lymond stared at him: guileless, impulsive, loyal to a fault. Unable to leave and unable to admit why he remained.

Oblivious to Lymond's grim resignation, Jerott sighed and his fingers shifted to the ties at the knees of Lymond's britches. He loosened them so as to reach the ribboned stockings beneath. He worked brusquely, but the feeling of his hot hands sliding silk down Lymond's calves was enough to make the air shudder in Lymond's throat and blood drop to the pit of his stomach.

Jerott froze at the sound and looked up. His head was bowed and his expression was difficult to read, but he let his fingers remain where they were on the folds of knitted silk.

"Are you all right?"

It was not an expression he could remember seeing on Lymond's face before.

It was not an expression he recalled seeing on anyone's face in recent times. Unless there had, perhaps, been a mirror in the tekke.

Jerott's fingers lay heavy on wrinkled silk, and he pressed them into the fabric, sliding it against Lymond's skin once more.

The heavy-lidded eyes widened minutely; the dark flourishes of Lymond's nostrils flared with another intake of air. The result seemed to be the same whichever stockinged leg Jerott stroked, so - he told himself prosaically - it was probably not a response garnered by bruise or injury.

He wrapped each hand around the athletic calves and their coverings, his weight on his own grazed knees, the blanket he wore hanging to either side of his naked body. Lymond's golden lashes moved quickly, like the wings of a small bird or a moth, and his lips parted as Jerott drew touch and silk together down to Lymond's two fine ankles. The golden hair on his milk-white skin glittered like embellished thread in the firelight. Jerott let one warm palm travel down the bare front of Lymond's shin, smoothing the soft texture beneath his touch, ostensibly trying to warm, but savouring the meeting of flesh.

Pleasurable sensation was somewhat spoiled by the sodden chill of the knitted feet, but Jerott pulled each stocking away quickly then, and sat back with a small, triumphant smile.

Lymond's breathing was noticeably rapid. Two spots of colour has risen to his cheeks and he held both covering and knees protectively close to his body.

As though the realisation of what he had done only now caught up to him, Jerott felt his own skin glow with heat. He blinked and his smile faded and he remembered to close the blanket around his body once more. Touch had stirred his flesh, and he gritted his teeth, trying to battle his bodily response with a regimen of thought and prayer from a lifestyle that was no longer his.

He looked down at Lymond's bare toes in penitence, overlaying the memory of warm, smooth skin with the sight of Lymond's damp-puckered feet, bloated and patterned and blued from their enclosure in damp cloth.

But he could not silence the need to know what Lymond's own response was. While Lymond had slept, Jerott had admitted to himself the existence of a feeling that he thought could never truly be reciprocated, and to feed it with hope was only to increase the inevitable disappointment.

But - there was nothing in existence like being looked on with pride and pleasure, those perfect, clever features appraising him and finding him worthy of trust.

The feeling that caused him to blush built in intensity: were Lymond's eyes on him, hungry and questing? Or had he looked away in shame and repulsion?

Jerott made himself raise his head to face Lymond, and found him staring back, closer than Jerott had thought he was, blonde curls in tousled disarray. He looked neither feral nor afeared, but his expression was not edited to fine control, and its openness made Jerott flinch - like he would flinch from staring direct into sunlight.

It took him a moment to notice that one of Lymond's hands had emerged from the blankets. Fingers as delicate as the petals of orange blossom extended an invitation to him: one that Jerott took before even considering what it could be. He laid his own hand across Lymond's, fingers wrapping around fingers.

I am sick with love.

With reserves of strength that surprised Jerott, Lymond held him and drew him close by the hand. Jerott approached, moving his knees against the hard floor, his eyes caught by hypnotic blue, until he was close enough, between Lymond's legs, for Lymond's other hand to touch his cheek.

Comfort me.

His eyes closed and he leaned into the contact. Gabriel had been free with such gestures, offering brotherly comfort and affection that did not need to be earned so dearly as Lymond's wary friendship. Hard breathing, after battle, a fond hand on his face; a calloused touch raising his chin when Gabriel saw Jerott look away doubtfully from the words of another Knight.

Stay me.

He swallowed and jerked his head away, squeezing his eyes tight shut. The cool backs of Lymond's knuckles tried again, brushing his jaw, sweeping around his chin until exploratory touch found the cut left by Lymond's spurs. It was not a brotherly touch: the crook of one finger bracketed the wound while Lymond's thumb extended upwards to Jerott's lower lip. The slight pressure of the thumb pad made Jerott's mouth open with a gasp and he tried, with all his fervour, to remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He had kissed her, hadn't he?

Jerott opened his eyes tentatively and looked across Lymond's knees to his face. His eyes were wide and quite dark, but the blue rim of his irises was like a secret only Jerott knew how to read. His mouth was set with determination - or regret? - and the firelight showed a divot between his brows where he frowned.

Jerott swallowed, but his throat was dry. "You told me you'd rather I had left you in the boat to freeze."

Lymond's frown deepened. His eyes watched his thumb as it continued to play along the underside of Jerott's lip.

The touch was an overstimulation of sensitive skin, and it began to feel to Jerott as though his lip has been numbed by caresses. He bit it to try and regain feeling.

"Having been provided with the time to reflect, I think I would choose to be here instead," Lymond murmured.

It seemed a familiar sort of deflection, and Jerott's smile was hard. "In preference to death."

Lymond's expression turned sharp and he withdrew the hand on Jerott's face, though his grip remained firm on Jerott's fingers. "That is not quite what I meant."

The heat of the fire made the exposed soles of Jerott's feet tingle. Its light moved over Lymond's changeable features, cycling through almost-expressions that played directly into Jerott's fears.

He wanted, very much, for the offer to be real. He wanted to surge into Lymond's arms, to feel that touch on his lips again and more. He wanted completion, connection, a revelation of contact that would change him utterly.

But he had been told to strip his altars. To let go of heroes, to let go of love.

"Then what do you mean?" Jerott asked bitterly.

Lymond sighed. "Militat omnis amans, Jerott." He looked tired, the shadows deep and richly coloured on his face.

"I want peace. I want to think of pleasure, not of pain or punishment. And - I fear that I am no longer able to."

As he spoke, Jerott's hold on Francis's hand tightened. He let go of the edges of blanket that he had clasped together and, falteringly, reached for Francis's cheek. His fingers brushed the barley-fine tips of curls, and he crushed them beneath his palm, feeling Francis's hair as a handful of foliage between their separate skins. His thumb smoothed the silken line of Francis's temple and he leaned close, testing his feeling, testing Lymond's assurances.

He could not remember kissing Marthe in the tekke. He began to believe he had never done so. Jerott's mind filled instead with the memories of gemstones and signet rings held beneath his lips, of relics and swords, brotherhood and penitence.

He wavered close to Francis's face but found that he could not make himself do what he had in mind. With a gasp and a shudder he touched his forehead to Lymond's temple instead, then rolled his cheek against the other man's, breathing hard into the fine little ringlets that coiled around Lymond's ear.

"Yes," Jerott made himself say, the syllable a half-swallowed whisper. "I want to. To help you."

Francis clasped the back of his head and kept him close, but did not try and turn Jerott's face.

He had been a boy when he joked that the site of his home was in reality The Ostrich Inn. Still a boy when his father had arranged for them to stop there on the road to Solway, and Blyth the elder had been struck to rowdy laughter as he learned that every lady of the house already knew his son quite well.

If he had been just a boy then, what had he been before that, hunting kisses from the kitchen maids, making eyes at his father's well-dressed guests over the rim of his ale cup?

Elizabeth, he had never touched. She had died unblemished, a vessel filled with mystery and reverence. And for her sake, the boy he had been vowed to forgo all others. Guilt for breaking this vow should have compelled him to pull away, it should have stopped him from wanting the heat of Lymond's skin against his and the feeling of the other man's breath on his body. It should have been enough but it no longer was.

Jerott pressed his face into Francis's cheek, his ear, his hair, his neck. He threw both arms around Francis's thin shoulders and let himself be drawn forward, his hips between Francis's thighs, Francis's hands carefully, gently, keeping the blanket enfolded across Jerott's shoulders.

It was not, all told, the response he had intended to elicit. Thoughts of pain and punishment certainly ran alongside any thought of pleasure in Jerott Blyth's mind at that moment.

As though he had to wrestle himself into conviction, Jerott squirmed his body against Lymond's, his face pressed into the open collar of Lymond's doublet, his hips seeking a comfortable position against the cloth of Lymond's breeches.

Lymond shut his jaw tight and felt his bodily response begin to press against the inside of that material. Heat, single-minded and insistent, was driven to that one part of him, pricking awareness of the naked body on top of him, of the tantalising closeness of Jerott's mouth to his skin.

The feeling of Jerott's own erection on the other side of his clothing was enough to convince him to seek more. Francis released the blanket that covered Jerott's shoulders and scooped his face from Francis's throat, raising it to his own.

He kissed him without preamble, not waiting for Jerott to imagine what was to happen. Francis pressed his mouth over Jerott's lips before they shut against him. He licked their bitten surface with his enquiring tongue. Jerott made a sound of surprise: pleased but uncertain, his lips vibrating with it beneath Francis's kiss.

A flush of desire leapt through Francis at this sensation and he pressed his mouth again to Jerott's closed mouth, seeking still for a response.

Jerott's hands fumbled to his shoulders and pushed Francis away slowly, though his grip was tight. While close enough, Francis's lips lingered on Jerott's, following up with kisses that brushed softly against hot skin, but he was repelled with inevitable force and had to look up into Jerott's wide-eyed expression.

Seeing something of Lymond's exasperation, Jerott managed a shaky smile - Francis wanted, savagely, to obliterate it with his kisses. He wanted, he supposed, to be deprived of himself as promised: in the physick of touch and taste it was possible to forget recent history and the foreboding future, and to live, momentarily, with no demands but those of his body.

But evidently, Jerott retained some reservations about this approach.

He sighed, breath cooling the saliva on his lips, his dark eyes round and black and astonished.

"Might we wait?" Jerott swallowed. His throat moved as though he wanted to laugh, but nerves stole the sound. "It has been...some time since I -"

Lymond had to bite his tongue to contain a rash comment on the proclivities of monks, but he did so, for the sake of the colour in Jerott's face.

Still Jerott frowned and looked again at Lymond's expression. "My God. When did anyone last say no to you?"

Francis scoffed and bit out a sharp crack of laughter. He tossed his eyes ceilingwards to avoid Jerott's earnest gaze, but he did not answer. By the time one was in another's bed chamber, or holding a naked body in one's arms, the time for saying no had usually long passed.

"You are saying no now, then?"

Jerott licked his lower lip. "For now. But I would like," his glance turned bashful again. "To bring you comfort."

He raised his hand to Lymond's hairline again and swept fingers through his curls. "If I might."

Francis shivered and wished it did not show. He closed his eyes and wondered what Jerott could intend - comfort was for children and the dying.

There were enough blankets to cover the hard floor as well as the two persons who lay down to sleep by the light of the fire. Lymond wore his linen shift and undershorts and was warm and still in the cupped form of Jerott's body. His breathing was steady, quiet, untroubled by the stresses and pains of consciousness.

Jerott's forehead touched the smooth skin of his shoulder where Lymond's shift had slipped, the collar stretched across the top of his back. His left arm curled around Lymond's small ribcage, held in place by Lymond's left arm. The cold soles of Lymond's feet pressed against Jerott's shins and the warm curve of Lymond's arse sat against Jerott's thighs.

Jerott's eyes were closed but he did not sleep. His knees prickled where ice had grazed them, his jaw tingled from the cut, and his muscles throbbed with heat from the exertion of the day. His thoughts grew ragged with protest and justification, with hallucinations of the smell of spikenard and the sound of Gabriel's voice.

He flattened his nose to Francis's skin and drew the deepest breath he could. He wondered if he would still smell the Aga Morat's perfume, stained into Francis's body.

But Francis smelled only of himself, and that was something Jerott was still new to: linen and leather, spice and incense lingering in his pores, the earthen, shoreside scent of exertion. He touched his lips then to the surface of Francis's body, covering the dark spots of his moles one by one with honest abstraction of thought. It was easier, knowing that Francis was asleep - that Jerott's curiosity was not about to be confronted by a sharp and worldly scrutiny.

He could not say why he had needed to postpone the consummation he knew he wanted. Tiredness, perhaps, fear of Francis's tiredness and the possibility of another migraine - perhaps, if Jerott wished to persuade himself of unselfish motives. But a deeper fear lingered in him, tangled and knotted up in the memory of Lymond's first offer. His body as a prize, to be collected by the last man standing, a cynical gesture of resignation when he found himself unable to choose for himself when and how to leave.

For ten years, Jerott had followed a man who had, in the end, discarded faith and loyalty and brotherhood without a second thought. Jerott had been a strut for Gabriel's vanity, a trophy of sorts himself: proof of Gabriel's leadership and worthiness, proof of Gabriel's persuasiveness and skill.

Jerott did not want, only, to be yet further proof of Francis Crawford's charisma.

It finally made sense to him, poised on the blurred edge of sleep, that there was one very simple way by which he could ensure that Francis wanted him. That he wanted Jerott from affection and not from some twisted notion of duty or reciprocity. Jerott had earned the rare coin of Lymond's gratitude before. He would simply have to do so again, in new ways. Timorously, his nerves jangling with anticipation, Jerott smiled against Francis's shoulder and the fingers of his left hand tangled around Francis's fingers.

He slept without dreaming.

Morning light meant nothing inside the snow-insulated hut. Jerott's skin was russet toned in the glow from the fire's embers, his dark eyes sparkling with interest.

Beneath strata of blankets - wool and cotton, waxed and frayed, stained and creased - Lymond's body shivered with involuntary glee at the expression in Jerott's black eyes. He lay in Jerott's loose embrace, the edges of his hands pressed against the hot skin of the other man's chest. For once, he was not cold; did not know for what or who he had gotten into this nest other than himself, from his own selfish desire. And now he simply waited, thrilled with curiosity.

First, with a slow care that made Lymond's eyes close as his body anticipated a grasping, hard touch, Jerott loosed a hand and it settled on Lymond's cheek. The meeting of flesh was soft, far softer than Lymond expected, and Jerott's fingers pressed against the hair above his ear, smoothing the strands back against his skull.

Jerott watched the motion of his own hand, his lips parted, wondering, and then he looked into Lymond's blue eyes.

The answer was there, risen to the lapis surface, but Lymond's mouth moved anyway: "Yes," he told Jerott.

Jerott's face flushed with colour and his hand settled, a form fitted to Lymond's jaw, and he raised his head from their shared pillow. He kept his eyes open until the last minute; his lips planting, pursed, against Lymond's own.

Lymond responded as he could, carefully, feeling a tremor of unfamiliar nervousness run through Jerott's body. Lymond's lips pressed against Jerott's closed mouth in return, his tongue raised against the back of his own teeth impatiently. He wanted, very much, to taste Jerott's flavour, to seek out the contours of his mouth with all the senses he had been given. To share the joy of touch given freely.

But he waited, allowing the first kiss of the morning to remain chaste, allowing Jerott the absorption of sensation, the experience of closeness, the long-unfamiliar reciprocity of affection.

A strand of Jerott's hair fell down to tickle Lymond's brow and he smiled within the kiss and fumbled a hand free of the covers to comb his fingers through smooth black locks, pushing Jerott's hair back with gentle insistence.

At last Jerott's mouth parted to release a gasp, and he let his eyes fall closed for a moment despite his curiosity. He ran his teeth over his lower lip.

When he looked again for confirmation in Francis's eyes, there was a renewed, fortified certainty in his steady breath and his firm touch on Lymond's cheek. It made Lymond shiver, the fierceness that glinted in Jerott's dark eye and the wordless depth of the colour that spread across his chest and neck.

Jerott bowed to him again and his tongue quested against Lymond's mouth, and Lymond opened and let him in.

Jerott's hand tightened against his jaw, feeling Lymond's response as taste encountered taste.

Lymond's confident movements sidled around Jerott's exploratory forays, guiding him, intercepting him, encouraging Jerott's pressure. Jerott covered Lymond's mouth with his own, savouring each meeting, his kisses learning precision, mapping out each new piece of flesh uncovered.

Lymond's fist closed in his hair, knowing Jerott's strength and impulsiveness, his body wondering when this methodical introduction would give way to something less ordered. The pressure of Lymond's grip elicited a moan, sound that he lapped up greedily with his own mouth, and there was an echo of response, Jerott sighed again, and again Lymond captured the expression of feeling.

When he drew back, Jerott's hand was shivering against him, and Lymond let his own eyes stay closed, his mouth curving into a grin at the simple honesty of Jerott's body.

For his part, Jerott let his fingers plough deeper into the corn silk curls, felt his heart hammer, too much for his chest as he lay cramped and gasping on his side. Francis was smiling, at or despite what he had done. It seemed genuine, not mocking, and Jerott wondered what it felt like beneath his own hot mouth. He kissed the dimple at its edge and felt muscle and flesh respond as Lymond's smile deepened. He kissed the corner of his lips, then the centre, and let want drive him, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue between Lymond's smiling lips.

Lymond gripped him back, one hand around his jaw, the other sending smooth fingers over the skin of Jerott's collarbone and shoulder.

Caught up in his own eagerness, Francis coiled like a serpent and rose from the pillow of blankets. He pushed Jerott back and leaned his face and chest over him, pressing into the kiss, one hand holding Jerott's jaw, the other propped against the floor.

Jerott ruffled the loose sleeves of Lymond's shift, feathering touch and texture as he swept his hands up Lymond's arms. His fingers clasped at the base of Lymond's skull, and he pulled his chin free of Lymond's hold to stretch into the kiss.

Lymond used his empty hand to feel out the anatomy of the body beneath him. His fingers started in the hot groove beneath Jerott's jaw and followed the beating of his jugular to the sharp definition of his collarbone. The pads of his fingers spread across Jerott's sternum and stroked along the hair of his chest before his thumb swerved away to the side and pressed and flickered over one brown nipple.

Jerott bucked beneath him, his hips thrusting his hardened cock against Lymond's side. Francis gasped and laughed into his mouth, then pinched the tip of Jerott's nipple with calculated mischief.

Jerott swore and surged up from the covers, his hands on either side of Francis's face, his abdomen tightening as Francis let his roving hand drop to tease touch over his stomach and thighs.

His more customary violence of passion awoken, Jerott was not shy in manoeuvring Francis's body so he could get his hands beneath the edges of Francis's shift. He pulled at the cords of the linen undershorts and Francis heard stitches rip.

Another torrent of impatient language fell from Jerott's mouth as he leaned away to see what he was doing. Francis’s grin was delighted, and he could not help but remark upon Jerott's hurry after a decade's waiting.

He received a furious, heated glare in return and Jerott abandoned the tie to bend Lymond's body against him in another deep kiss. On their knees, swaying with imperfect balance, they tangled together until Jerott felt he had made his point and slid his hands once more to the waistband of Francis's underclothes. His fingers dipped inside the cloth, his knuckles on the skin to either side of Francis's navel and he pinned Francis with a look of warning and a small, subversive smirk.

Francis's eyes widened and he was on the cusp of protesting a shortage of spare clothes, but the breath he drew was obscured by the dry cough of linen tearing and his words did not get past Jerott's kiss.

The underclothes dropped down his arse but remained caught and tented on the shaft of his cock.

Francis smiled toothily into Jerott's kiss and nipped until the other man let him speak. "Very well then. Stronge in his despoylle, wel armed in the batayll."

Jerott's groan of amusement - or exasperation - buzzed against Francis's lips and his hands smoothed a path from the base of Francis's spine to the crease between arse and thigh. He gripped flesh and jerked Francis towards him, trapping body against body, rolling his hips to press himself fully against the folds of Francis's half-fallen underclothes.

They kissed until touch was sloppy, the skin surrounding Francis's mouth stinging from the roughness of Jerott's stubbled jaw. Jerott disproved Francis's apprehension that, once aroused to it, all his movements would be as full of bruising force as he could make them. Jerott's hands were gentle in the waves of Francis's hair, his fingers quested in the short ringlets at the nape of his neck. Soft down the hollow of his spine and around his hips, carefully plucking the cloth of Francis's undershorts away at last and rocking his body against Francis's with hot, pulsing regularity.

It was obvious that he would try to pull the shift up over Francis's body next - but it was more difficult to explain why Francis resisted.

Lymond clamped his elbows to the sides of his ribcage and said "No," with automatic firmness. His torso was marked with the mistakes of his past: cut and branded and flayed. It was a source of fascination to some and pity to others, and he did not want it to distract - to come, now, between himself and the unexpected pleasures of Jerott's touch, to encourage the doubt and dread that remained, ever-ready, on the edges of his mind.

Jerott's brows raised, his expression poised and worried. "I've seen it before, Francis."

"Not since it healed," Lymond snapped and shut his eyes, regretting the words and the tone. It was the reminder he could not resist giving: Jerott had ordered the most recent whipping experienced by Francis Crawford's ruined back. He had watched it all happen. Close enough to feel the mist of spattered blood.

Jerott's hands had ceased their exploration at the sharp protrusions of Lymond's hips. His thumbs moved over the sensitive place where bone came close to skin and he touched his lips to Francis's again, his mouth soft, open, lingering. It wasn't an apology, but it felt like one. Jerott did not try to raise the shift again.

His acquiescence did more to settle Francis's tightened nerves than any other persuasive words might have. The room was dark after all, and he had surely been in more compromising states around Jerott.

Francis banished the ticklish memory of Robin Stewart's gaze on his scars, steeled himself, and pulled the shift up in one swift motion.

He had barely discarded it when Jerott caught him up in another tight folding embrace, one arm about the small of Lymond's back, the other at Jerott's favoured position on the side of Lymond's face, his fingers in the soft hair above Francis's ear. He pressed his skin to Francis's skin and kissed him as though he had been waiting for the opportunity his whole life. He didn't look for the scars on Lymond's torso with his eyes or his hands, he just sought a dizzying maximum of touch.

Francis let himself sigh, a slipping of control, and pulled Jerott back down to the covers with him, grunting as his body hit the blanketed floor side-on.

Jerott laughed, lying on his back, his hair a scattered mess of spilt ink around his face. Mirth made him seem younger, his eyes closed trustingly, with genuine humour, and one hand reflexively grasping for Lymond's skin.

Francis stared, remembering the wild young man from Solway, his heavy, earnest gaze and sharp questions. There was so little he had left from then, and Francis was barred from returning to those others that remained. A swell of gratitude seemed to tower over Francis as he looked down at Jerott, the feeling dredged from deep within, carrying with it the chill of authenticity.

He was glad not to be alone. Not to be with Kiaya Khatun and her imperious assumptions. But here, with a reminder that Francis Crawford's life was more than just a string of disconnected events pushing him from pillar to post. A reminder that some things endured.

He aimed to put all of that feeling into his kiss, leaning over Jerott and moving his tongue with languid, eloquent motion. Judging by the noise that emerged from Jerott's throat and the way his cock twitched under Francis's hand, something of his intended message seemed to have gotten through.

Francis splayed his fingers over the hot, smooth skin of Jerott's dick and slid them down over his balls, kneading the soft flesh with gentle, probing touch. The muffled moan between their mouths contorted into a curse and Jerott's hand joined Francis's, holding him still while Jerott breathed hard against his lips.

"Wait. I can't. It won't take long," he said grudgingly.

Francis smiled angelically and dropped a garland of kisses along Jerott's brow. His fingers tightened again on the sensitive, velveteen skin and Jerott's back arched a little as he gasped.

"It matters not. I believe you will rise to the occasion more than once."

Whether Jerott's frown was for the concentration he tried to summon or for Lymond's pun was unclear. But he shook his head, his eyes closed.

"I want you to...I want to," he swallowed and laid his hand over Francis's once more, though he no longer tried to stop the strokes Francis was making at the base of his shaft. Jerott opened his eyes, his expression plaintive. "I want you to enjoy this also."

"Believe me, Jerott, I already am. And we are in no hurry. There is plenty more to be done."

Jerott looked like he might make some clever comment about forging a path through the snow or rowing across a frozen lake, so Francis precluded these suggestions by tightening his grip a little and increasing the speed and length of his strokes.

Jerott's throat curved towards the thatched roof, his eyes closed reflexively and his heels dug into the folds of the blanket beneath him.

Francis rolled to a kneeling position and clambered over Jerott's closest leg. He bent to use his tongue in tandem with his hand, pushing into the base of Jerott's dick with the tip of his tongue and licking along the length of the shaft.

The first clear discharge was already on his hand and glistening on the reddened dome at the end of Jerott's cock. Francis gathered the taste of him with lips and tongue and at last enveloped him in his mouth.

Jerott made an appeal to a number of the manifestations of the Christian deity as well as to several saints, but not one of them offered him a reprieve from Lymond's touch.

Indeed - it did not take long at all. Lymond's lips tightened, his tongue swiped the sensitive folds of skin, and he felt a rush beneath his hand as Jerott's hips leapt from the floor with sudden urgency.

Momentarily, his own movements slowing just as Jerott's jerking thrusts slowed, Francis raised his head, removing his lips gradually like a man sucking the juice out of a peach.

He sat up and swiped his wet lip with one thumb. He reached for and swigged from the flask of water, kneeling between Jerott's legs, while Jerott lay splayed before him, his eyes barely open but regarding him with a fresh new awe.

Francis responded to Jerott's open-palmed, begging hand by moving to stretch himself alongside the other body again. He ran his fingers against the lay of Jerott's body hair, ruffling dark strands before smoothing them down again. He rested his head on his elbow and smiled at the wondering look in Jerott's eyes.

Jerott rolled to face him, and took Francis's chin in his hand. He tightened his grip for a moment, keeping Francis's face held still and at a distance. His eyes scanned Francis's expression like it was a code he needed to decipher, like he suspected and feared some imminent revelation of underlying motive.

The lovers Francis had lain with before tended not to seek answers like those Jerott searched for. The coin of those transactions was common currency, from border brothel to Ottoman palace, and Francis Crawford knew its rates and exchanges well.

Less familiar was the insistent need in Jerott's serious expression. It was not a need for Francis's touch, for more of what he had given or could give. It was a need to please and a need to prove, a need to make certain the freedom of what was offered.

Jerott bit his lip and looked at the steady blue gaze and the wet red mouth - he had to steel himself, but this he did, and then he kissed Francis carefully, tasting what remained of himself on the other man's mouth. He had swallowed enough of the Mediterranean in his life to find the hot, salty taste less than startling, and he soon forgot his reticence.

Francis's tongue was seasoned, his lips felt swollen and soft beneath Jerott's kisses. He shuffled closer across the blankets and hooked one leg over Jerott's calves.

The strange, unsettling idea of his own discharge between their kisses made Jerott think of the rites and rituals of the ancients. Mingling blood with blood to forge new ties, tasting one another's flesh to prove that they would to do anything to remain by each others' side.

Jerott, his eyes closed, his hand on the uppermost side of Francis's face, his nose touching the other man's nose still, murmured a half-formed question. It seemed to him that it was a query that would appeal to Francis's broad knowledge and omnivorous sensibilities.

"What is it that Lucian says of the bond of friendship?"

As he had hoped, delight rang clear in Francis's response. "Lucian! I did not expect you to know the texts of the barbarians, Jerott."

"Not his satires. One of More's translations. A discourse on friendship? It was a popular text in the Auberge."

"Toxaris. Now that does make sense," Francis said, smirking and moving his head so that their noses brushed together. "Sacrificamus inquam haud tamen deos esse arbitrati, sed viros bonos."

Jerott's reply was firm. "Not sacrifice. About loyalty."

Francis's smile was sharp like that of the fox preaching to the geese. "Etenum simulat que incisis digitis, sanguinem in calicem destilla verimus, sumus que instinctis gladiis, ambo pariter ad moventes biberimus, non est quicquae quod deinde nos quiat dirimere."

Jerott blinked at the vivid imagery. "Yes. I had forgotten about the swords."

Francis's lips stretched wide and he summoned a sound of amusement from deep in his throat. It made Jerott shift impulsively: in order to lay his lips on the source of that noise he pushed Francis to his back, unpeeling his arms from his curled body to kiss Francis's Adam's apple; the firm cords of the tendons in his neck; the convergence between his collarbones.

Pinned down to the far side of Francis's body, Francis's fingers twisted and knotted with Jerott's and he chuckled again at Jerott's kisses, adding to the cascading vibrations in his throat, creating more waves of sensation for Jerott's hungry mouth to chase over skin.

Much as Francis's body was strange machinery to him, Jerott was well trained to observe and to learn from what he discerned. The first thing he had understood was how hungry any touch could make Francis - if it were offered in the appropriate manner.

And, Jerott thought excitedly, if he could also engage that steel trap mind...

Jerott pushed himself away from Francis's skin to prop himself above him.

"Do you know of a man named Paré? A barber surgeon."

A frown crossed Francis's brow, but with it he wore a bemused smile. He shook his head wordlessly, then Jerott saw his eyes widen.

"The man with new-fangled techniques concerning the treatment of bullet wounds?" Francis ran his fingertips down Jerott's sternum and belly and smirked at the shiver he elicited. "I don't know what your idea of pleasure entails, Jerott, but I prefer the firearms to remain outside the bed chamber."

Jerott grinned and tossed his hair from his face before lifting a leg over Francis, to sit astride his narrow hips and feel Francis's cock move enquiringly against his thigh. "He also has ideas about providing physick through touch. Massa," Jerott said in Arabic. He held Francis's face between his hands, his thumbs beginning to roll in circular motions over Francis's temples. "Le massage," he added in French.

Francis's expression was one of polite patience, but as Jerott increased the pressure of his thumbs, moving the supple flesh beneath and occasionally stopping to push his fingers firm and hard in trailing lines against Francis's scalp, Francis's face began to relax, and his eyelids fluttered lower and lower as his smile unfurled.

"Jerott, where did you learn this?" he said, his voice emerging as a weary gasp.

"There were a couple of Knights who had fought for the French at Piédmont before realising the threat of the Turk. Paré demonstrated his techniques there."

As the cranial massage seemed more likely to relax Francis to sleep than arouse him to other activities, Jerott gently removed his hands from his head and smoothed his fingers across Francis's chest, watching the near-invisible golden hairs shimmer as his touch passed over them. "I understand that it is particularly beneficial for the shoulders," he said hopefully.

Francis swept his own hands through his hair, familiarising himself with the sensation of his aching skull having been remade. He glanced up at Jerott, his eyes dark like royal dye, his expression thoughtful. "I think I should like that," he admitted, quite quietly. Combined with his serious expression it felt like a covenant, and Jerott leaned down to seal it with a kiss, luxurious and slow.

They rearranged their bodies, Francis turning carefully onto his belly and elbows, all tension in his joints renewed before Jerott's eyes. His back shone with scar tissue, like an iced-over lake of old pain, white and scored, puckered and ridged. Many of the wounds had blended and pooled together, but at its edges, at its sloppy borders, lone strokes had ploughed silvery furrows into flesh, and Jerott, who had been expecting it, still had to bite the inside of his mouth and shake his head. He had seen such things often enough - he did not forget his own role in the creation of some of the landscape before him now - but never had they felt as much like a knife between his ribs as this sight did.

He laid his palms flat over Francis's shoulder blades and rubbed his thumbs against the groove of his spine. The scarred skin was softer than anything he had touched in his life, but it moved and stirred beneath Jerott's fingers just as any other flesh. He let out a sigh and swept his hands up to Francis's shoulders and neck. Jerott flexed his fists against the tightly bunched sinew and muscle and Francis let out a sound like air escaping from broken bellows.

Jerott blushed with immediate pride, and began to settle into his motions, watching his own brown fingers knead Francis's fair body. There was little covering on Francis's light bones, but Jerott's hands found the places where smudges and twists of hard pressure worked their effect nonetheless. Once he knew that the sensation was pleasurable to its recipient, Jerott found it easy to leave his hands to figure their way around Francis's body without conscious direction: the hands of an expert horseman, they knew the benefit of finesse and caution as well as the brutality of combat. Thumbs and knuckles ground out stiffness from the column of Francis's spine, around the sweeping curves of his ribs, ruffling nerves where scar tissue met healthy skin, pressing down into the softer parts of his back: the hollow dimples above his arse and the subtle curve of his flanks.

Francis arched his spine and raised his arse beneath Jerott's body, pushing back into his touch and trying to muffle his moan in the arms that he held crossed beneath his forehead.

Jerott was drawn to the sound by need though, and followed the trail of his hands back up Francis's body, leaning forward to nuzzle his face in the curls at the nape of Francis's neck. Jerott kissed the overspill of hairs that trickled down into an uneven v at the back of Francis's head. He dragged his teeth along pristine, freckled skin at the curve where Francis’s neck met his shoulders and he felt his cock grow lively once more against the flesh of Francis's lower back.

Beneath his body Francis twisted like an eel. Newly facing Jerott, their faces close enough to mingle breath, Jerott saw the expression he had been searching for. Undeniable points of emotion coloured the pinnacles of Francis's cheekbones. His gaze was steady but on edge, seemingly alarmed by his own response, but he took Jerott's face in his hands and kissed him deeply, and Jerott at last let himself believe that this was not a hidden bargain. It was not merely Francis's body offered in exchange for Jerott's acceptance of his onward journey - something further had been secured.

Francis rocked against Jerott in the kiss, his cock a hot pressure between Jerott's legs, pushing into sensitive, hidden parts of his flesh.

Unwilling to cede the initiative yet again, Jerott guided his knee between Francis's legs to push them apart. He ran his hand up the length of Francis's thigh, then began to squeeze handfuls of muscle and to rub his fingertips against the smooth skin on the inner part of his leg. He felt Francis adjust to the position, stretching from the floor to maintain contact with Jerott's mouth, to steady himself with his own sure grip on Jerott's shoulders.

Jerott's fingers trailed their way down the taut muscle at the back of Francis's leg and pried his arse cheek from the floor. He fed his hand into the space between Francis's body and the blankets, searching for the textured line of the perineum, hot and enclosed between curving flesh.

The unexpected pressure of Jerott's finger at his arsehole made Francis flinch at first, breaking from Jerott's kiss with a smacking sound, regarding him with heavy breathing and raised brows.

Jerott merely lifted his own eyebrows and pushed again at the opening, stroking across and around it until he felt Francis stop clenching his muscles warily tight.

He still regarded Jerott thoughtfully though, and murmured through gritted teeth, his breath scorching on the skin of Jerott's cheek and ear: "You are full of surprises, Jerott," before Francis captured Jerott's earlobe in his mouth and sucked on it vengefully.

Jerott could not hold his gasp, but he kept his confidence on all else. It did not seem like the opportune moment to point out his experience with the tricks of the women at The Ostrich Inn, nor was it they who he wished to occupy his thoughts.

Two joints of his finger made their way within Francis, and Jerott grunted at Francis's weight and the pressure on his digit, while Francis made his own sound as Jerott's finger twitched inside him.

"Go deeper," he instructed, grasping Jerott's own arse with one straining hand. Francis lay back on the blankets, seeking the purchase to push back against Jerott's finger, his body relaxing rapidly to accommodate the touch now that he had settled into it.

Jerott strove to do as he was ordered. He twisted his finger to nudge the wall of flesh and muscle and heard Francis release a sigh of air. Using the strength of his wrist and swordsman's hand, Jerott made his touch cramp against the spot that seemed to make Francis most likely to whimper and bite his lip and flex his body against the spread of cloth below them.

Jerott used his free hand tentatively at first, acclimatising himself to the strange feeling of another man's cock in his grasp, but found that he could hold himself alongside Francis. Jerott thrust against his palm and against Francis's shaft and his eyes fell closed in concentration as he tried to align the gestures of his two hands and their two sets of hips. Flesh jumbled with flesh, sensation with sensation, desperate and reckless, dry and hot.

The first he knew of his success was not the bitten-back sound Francis made - a shudder of relief like a collapsing building - but the sudden lubrication on his hand and his cock as Francis's ejaculate spilled over all. Jerott gasped and swore as the warmth of it hit him, triggering a jolt within his own body that he could do nothing to control.

His hips moved under the sway of no intent, his body surged with bliss for the second time that morning, and his could not avoid daubing Francis's firelit skin with fresh discharge.

That which carried more momentum missed Francis's face and hair by mere inches as he jerked his head to the side, laughing.

Jerott looked down at the two softening dicks in his hold and laid Francis's down with a dazed sort of reverence.

"God," he gulped, removing his finger from Francis's body less gently than he intended, and holding both of his ruined hands before him in bewilderment. Each one was stained with the ink of sin, slick and shining in the dim light, but he felt no guilt or shame - only their shadow, the sense that he ought to feel them. Instead, his mind was as blank and settled as the pristine snow outside, dazzling and dazzled.

Francis was shaking, his head rolling to one side on the pillow of covers, his own palms hanging uselessly in the air above the puddled mess on his belly.

He was still laughing, now in total silence, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared helplessly. His chest was blotched with colour and his cheeks were darkened by blood risen to the surface; his curls were clustered and dark with sweat; and the same salty sheen sparkled on the skin of his abdomen and thighs.

Jerott collapsed back on his heels, one of Francis's legs still trapped beneath him.

"Sorry," he managed to mutter, though it was a response made out of obligation.

Francis sat up as though stung and hastened to be close to Jerott, yet he still smiled. The pool of fluids on his skin dripped, catching on the golden hair around his navel. He took each of Jerott's hands in his own, shamelessly, palm to sticky palm so that Jerott was suddenly afraid they would be joined never to be parted, a punishment for what they had done. Francis gripped him more tightly as he tried to pull away, his eyes steady, inviting Jerott to look at him and find calm.

Francis murmured something - French; poetry; Jerott's swirling mind thought - and kissed him softly.

His lips already seemed so familiar, so much like a welcome, and the vague cloud of Jerott's unease started to dissipate. With their hands entwined to each side they leaned together, and Jerott only shuddered a little as the cold, wet stain on Francis's belly was shared with his own skin.

"Apology not accepted," Francis smiled against his mouth. His fine lashes brushed Jerott's cheek when he moved his face closer, and he let Jerott lean, exhausted, against him in turn.

Jerott's body shuddered against his bare skin. He kept his head and his eyes lowered, though he let Francis retain a grip on his hands.

"There is nothing to apologise for," Francis said against the swell of Jerott's mouth. His body was chilled with fresh sweat, his back felt frighteningly exposed, but there was no taking back how good it had felt to have Jerott's touch on him, how strangely content he had felt when he looked up and saw a familiar, trusted face lit by the furnace of passion.

Jerott's breath caught and he leaned his cheek against Francis's.

"Nothing we did was wrong, Jerott," Francis murmured. Their bodies rested close, their hands to their sides, Francis's thumbs working softly over Jerott's, though his grip was firm and he would not allow Jerott to pull away. Not like this. Not after that.

"Did any of it feel wrong, to you?"

Jerott's neck tensed and his head flinched back from Francis's, just far enough that he could meet his eyes. A series of muscles moved in his face, around wordless lips and wide, dark eyes.

Finally, "No - " he managed to answer.

Francis's expression cut off whatever caveat he might have been about to add. Jerott drew in a gasp and his colour deepened beyond the red blotches on the high points of his cheeks. He looked wonderingly at him, so that Francis could feel his own skin grow hot again, and Jerott kissed him.

His fingers shivered from the cleansing snow, and Francis wiped them on the shift he had replaced over his quickly cooling torso. He stood in the doorway to the hut, gazing out onto the painfully bright morning landscape. The tracks they had made the previous evening, on Francis's last attempt to divert their course, had been covered by fresh snow. Their meandering path to the lakeside and back again to the door - that which had been ice and mud and snow churned together - had turned now to soft white curves, like a line of small tumuli on the land.

Francis's eyes narrowed and his breath coiled in the air. Only the rooks stirred, and the sun was too low to do any more than skim across the glittering surface of winter's coat, like a pebble on a lake. He could smell no other fire smoke but their own, could hear nothing over the cawing of the rooks, and felt dizzy at the weight of snow that now lay between him and Kiaya Khatun's caravan.

But it was not the dizziness that sucked at his consciousness like a swamp, nor did the sun's brightness feel like hot daggers in his skull. Francis wrapped his arms about his body and loosed a held breath, steady and slow. He watched the air bloom with it, expanding petals of condensation that drifted away from him, glittering as they caught the sun. For perhaps the first time since he had boarded a ship provisioned by Onophrion Zitwitz, he felt good, clear: clear-headed, clear-sighted, clear of pain. His whole body hummed with the freshness of sensation like that experienced around a newly-healed wound, when spiking, tingling nerves begin to reach out again in exploration.

Shy at first, the hands that wrapped around his body smoothed his shift beneath their weight, and Francis blinked at his own response: he did flinch protectively, but hardly knew it through the roiling tide that crashed against the nerves below his stomach. He wanted the touch of those hands, then; it was not complicated, physically.

As for the rest - could he think of this existing beyond the little hut, and to what end? - Francis supposed that might wait. Waiting was all they had left for the present.

"It's cold," Jerott's reminder was spoken quietly, with a vein of uncertainty. As though he expected Francis to tell him it was as mylde as a mornyng of May. As though, if Francis told him so, he might try and make himself believe it was true.

Francis stepped back against Jerott's body and let him push the door closed, Jerott's arm reaching around them both. Francis twisted about and closed his eyes against the darkness inside the hut. Gentle, wondering fingers were at his hairline again, combing, teasing against his scalp in warm tracks. Jerott's mouth was at his, brushing querulously and catching on skin, his lips skimming close to Francis's spreading smile.

Francis, so used to playing to the melodrama of romance, so used to folding his lovers over his arm, pinning them in a deep kiss of passion that was calculated to undo the mortar of their knees, laughed at first as Jerott's body curved over him, into him. He almost thought that he simply would not be bent that way, half expected a snap, like an overstrung bow breaking. But instead, there was just Jerott's palm, splayed wide in the centre of his back, easing out his trust as they leaned into each other, as Jerott's other hand supported his head.

Jerott was still undressed, and Francis had to slide his arms up Jerott's bare body to find purchase, fingers clawing and grasping at smooth muscle and the submerged outline of his bones. Francis exchanged the long kiss for a series of gasping, nipping touches, mouth to mouth, untidy and competitive, each man striving for the final touch.

It was Jerott who, at last, pulled away, allowed Francis to take more of the balance of his own weight back, and looked at him with an expression far too serious for Francis's liking.

And that's it! For now, probably for ever? Though if anyone wants to write gap fillers or a conclusion that would be very sexy and I'm totally cool fwith that happening.

So, from what I remember of this, the lads catch up with Marthe and Kiaya on the other side of the lake. I think they plan to sneakily infiltrate the camp because they realise exposing Marthe will just create dangerous chaos, and I guess they (Francis) think they can reason with Kiaya.

I think I imagined some Mexican stand-offs, Marthe definitely has a gun, and she maybe even got to use it.

Details of the resolution are not a thing I recall at all, but the satisfactory conclusion is, I think, that all four of them go to Russia. Maybe Marthe still gets the chance to cosplay as voevoda now and again, and Kiaya Khatun doesn't have to threaten any small boys because Marthe is keeping her busy. She and Francis probably still think of Marthe and Jerott as place-holders of a sort, and I think Francis always regrets the vulnerability of letting Jerott in - there would be some absolutely blazing rows about some of his Ringed Castle behaviour, even if it was mellowed a little by changed circumstances, it's still pretty wild, and there's a lot he'll be keeping from Jerott about family circumstances.

I hadn't really thought through to ultimate resolutions, but left it so Francis/Philippa could still be a thing, ideally with Jerott having come to terms with enough about himself and about Francis to accept that they're probably not an optimal long-term match. He's always got Danny, who will have been making eyes at him from the ranks all winter long. I also think Kiaya's ambition should mellow, she and Marthe should have a Gabriel mummy bonfire/sell him for parts like the Egyptians did with their mummies, and then retire to Lyon together to be weird traders/fortune-tellers/coffee-sellers. CRAZY idea! Marthe/Kiaya coffee shop AU!!! Get your stars read when you buy ten cappuccinos! Sorry we're all out of caramel syrup but we can grate a little dessicated finger bone on top? I'm sorry we don't take payment in cloth sir, but if you can spare that antique relic we'll toss in a whole bag of our finest roast beans. No? Oh well, just keep your eyes on me, that's it. What, no, that's not my wife behind you with a dagger haha, what are you suggesting?

#wip ask meme #my wips #kinda. this one's probably gone as far as it will go #i resisted editing so forgive the clichés/jumps in register #this is a draft after all #francis/jerott #marthe/guzel #lymond chronicles

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theangryjikooker · 2 years

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This is just a little rant cause I thought I was so sure but please read the whole thing 😂😭

So literally like a couple days ago (literally like 2/3 days ago) I was so sure about jikook. Like I was responding to asks on other tumblrs about jikook and my 90-10 rule. 90: being that I believe they're real and 10: because of inconsistencies, but now I'm really not sure anymore 😂.

Like I'm a person who is very stubborn in my beliefs and isn't swayed easily. I literally picked up the habit of reading people and their body language and expressions because I'm an only child and most times alone, so I developed that habit.

What's fueling that too, is that I'm a baby army, like baby baby army. I just became an army late May 2022. I rewatched all their content to get a better understanding of the group without any fan made storyline and in the midst of that, I saw jikook. They're weird. They're weird in their behavior. One thing that stood out to me was the hesitancy. Alot of things that the members do naturally, sometimes be weird to them. Why are you hesitating to put your arm around his shoulder when you do that for everybody else. In the video for the commercial (I can't remember the name but it was butter era) jimin interlocked their fingers, jk interlocked his too but removed his hand and looked at the camera. Why? Jm's behavior towards jk nowadays is very questionable behavior in my books. Why? This and many other things were in my 90% along with many other subtle moments and that's the thing, the grand gestures don't move me. Rosebowl would never be on my list of questionable jikook things.

Recently I've been hearing things about jk and girls which is an inconsistency with my thoughts. There's a lot of holes that have been popping up in my thoughts for the last 2 days. Besides the tone of voice they use with each other or jm looking like he's been struck by fucking cupid, I'm now not seeing a difference in behaviors. Now I'm not saying there isn't any, I'm just telling myself "maybe you let your bias formed a thinking". But when I tell myself that, it doesn't make sense.

There has been a time(s) when I have been right with real people (friends) and now they on the 3rd year of marriage, so I have confidence in my habit of reading people but those 2 make me question myself.

But like I said there's alot of inconsistencies in the being real and in them not being real for me I always think about why make such a big deal in not being seen in each other's room. They're bandmates nobody would bat an eye, why the secrecy? The amount of times jimin slipped up and said "our room" is about (to my knowledge) 3 times. One where he did a vlive the next day after the osaka live, one where everybody thought jk was in jm's room when hobi came into his room and the other when he said he would invite jk but if he invited him, they wouldn't focus on the vlive itself. 3 times so far, now it could mean he might have not meant jk but (tin hat on) I think he did. His bday vlive was awkward (even though many don't think it was) but not in a bad way. That shit made me feel like i was suffocating, like I deadass felt like I shouldn't be watching that and I have not watched it a second time. Again with his bday vlive, nobody would bat an eye that you're in his studio because yall are bandmates why the secrecy? And hobi immediately saying "let's go to my room"...huh? To go from one bandmate's room to another? Huh? Jm's whole vibe SWITCHED in the hopevminkook live when jk came in. When I tell you that shit shook me, IT SHOOK ME. I said "wtf?!". But that ain't the part that really got me, what really got me was that jk could've sat next to Tae if Tae moved across, there was room that all 4 could've sat on the couch but he immediately when to jh and tapped him to move, he moved and he said sorry.......sorry....jh said sorry. 🤔 Excuse me? Why the hell would he say sorry, that's his fucking room. This is what I mean when I said I like subtlety. The unspokenly spoken, the subconscious gravitation. Now this might just seem like a lot to me and not you which is fine (that's why we're human, to have different views). This was under my 90%.

Then I came upon your Tumblr which became a good wake up call to me and it became my personification of smelling salts 😂😭😭. You have me thinking that maybe I DO need to be on the neutral side of things until I see definitive proof in which we may never get.

There's so much that I want to get into but I don't want to make it too long but for further interactions (cause I'll be sending asks in the future too 😭😭) you can call me assassin anon🥷.

Hahaha, assassin anon. I tag people by their usernames when they use one, but if you'd like me to refer to you as "Assassin" when writing to you, I'm more than happy to do so.

Anyway, hear me out: my feelings on Jikook aren't meant to influence anyone's feelings on them. The main reason why I encourage neutrality in shipping is because of what happens when people do go overboard. Sometimes the fantasy doesn't line up with reality, and people either get really upset or they double down on a narrative that is only ever rooted in speculation; for others, especially popular Jkkrs, they completely disregard how much of an influence they have and impart their ideations to a younger and more impressionable audience, which I personally believe can have repercussions.

I never really say things like more people should be like me or should adopt a "healthier" parasocial relationship, unless they're genuinely concerned about their fixation on shipping. I think I've only had 2-3 anons (more in my DMs) who were quickly becoming upset with their participation in shipping or recognizing that shipping Jikook was developing into an obsession for them. These are usually the only times I'll ever directly tell someone to not do what shippers/supporters tend to do as part of the fandom experience (i.e., analyzing).

Otherwise, I don't actually mind the stance of Jikook supporters (provided it isn’t delusional). If we can agree to disagree, I use the opportunity to see why the other side has their beliefs. I'm not much of a daydreamer by nature and am partial to logic. I can only entertain Jikook things so far, but my inability to ignore the incongruous aspects is what keeps me "grounded." But because I do like Jikook and their dynamics, and because I'm also fond of the idea that they would work together as a couple, I have to reconcile that logical side somehow. Ergo, I'm "neutral," a.k.a. Schrödinger's Jikook a.k.a. they are/aren't until something comes up when it's known that they are or aren't.

Just do you, Assassin. Whether you do or don’t take away anything from my blog isn’t really for me to comment on because your experience and how you choose to interact with your world from your POV is yours alone.

Thanks for sharing your views!

#TAJ asks #promisemaniac #jikook #kookmin #bts shipping #schrödinger's jikook

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meili-sheep · 2 years

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Ningguang: an amazing leader who has earned the respect of her people by sacrificing the jade chamber for their safety and helping them move forward, works at a rational rate and is able to leave time for herself.

Kujou Sara: the general of the shogunate, one of the closest to the almighty shogun, an honest and passionate leader who takes care of her soliders and leads them into the path of a better Inazuma, but doesn't exert herself with matters to big for her to handle or matter not worth her time. Recognizes the flaws of her family and doesn't support their actions, and tries to redeem herself to inazumans, who love her all the same.

Kamisato Ayato: handles the Shuumatsuban and the Yashiro Commission, shared the burden that was supposed to fall on his shoulders alone with his sister. Works hard to keep citizens safe ("I do whatever I can so that everyone has a home to go back to.") And makes sure everyone in Inazuma enjoys festival. Has unparalleled respect towards the Raiden Shogun.

Raiden Ei: the God of Eternity, whose view of the world is so distorted to that of mortals thus she fails to see the eternity her people desired. Fought for Inazuma and protected them from the shadows for centuries on end. Made mistakes and terrible decisions that hurt many of the people in Inazuma. Recognizes her mistakes and fought for Inazuma again for 500 years with no rest, working to better herself and become a better archon for her people, who will never forget how she fought for them despite everything.

Jean:

Im sorry but jean is so godamn underwhelming in comparison to all those people

While I don't agree that Raiden's redemption arch was handled the best. And I do think that She needs to continue working more closely with her people. She does at least have an attempt at an arch. Jean... Well, she doesn't grow or change at all or really has any distinct personality traits or ideology for me to latch on to. It also feels like she's constantly treading water and has no desire to change that.

But Especially compared with Ningquang, Kujoy Sara, and Ayato.

Particularly Ayato. Like I want to point out this conversation line from his teapot dialogs.

How's work in the Yashiro Commission?

Kamisato Ayato: I had thought you'd be inquiring about more personal matters. Heh, you don't need to worry about me being overworked. Case in point — I still have the energy to chat with you here.

-> But don't you think there's too much to do?

Kamisato Ayato: Oh, you mean my workload? Yes, it's rather enormous. But there's nothing that can be done about that. All I can do is try to work through each item as intelligently as possible.

-> -> Well, hats off to you.

Kamisato Ayato: I am flattered beyond belief to receive your praise and concern for my well-being.

Kamisato Ayato: But you needn't worry. At present, there is no one more suitable than I to be in the position of Yashiro Commissioner.

Ayato is confident. He has worked hard to get his family back to his point. And he continues to put in that effort. And He is happy to share in the reward from his efforts. But he does that in part to make people feel indebted and loyal to him. His showing leadership, by saying, "Hey, I'm ready to give good reward to people who help me," And he makes sure to keep those promises. He also understands the balance between the commission the best and he knows that for the leadership to work, everyone must stand strong and stay in their lane. He can be an asshole, he can be perfectly charming, he can be loyal, but he can be mischievous. Ayato is just so much more dynamic. He also really care for his sister and avoid having her deal with the dirty parts of their work.

And a lot of my friends don't like Ayato. Which I totally get. He's a manipulative asshole. Who take joy in pushing people's buttons. And I totally understand how that would turn someone off. But I think he has personal reasons. I'll get into it at a later date as i just want get to my point.

Ayato is not only a much better leader than Jean. But he's much more dynamic than she is.

#ayato #kamisato ayato #jean #jean gunnhildr #in defense of my favorite asshole #and this isn't just cause i spent money to get his weapon

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whityoungfan · 6 months

Note

"There's a good reason these tables are numbered, honey, you just haven't thought of it yet " — Panic! At the Disco fits Cross

Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman

(Referring how rich he is and who he probably socializes with in meetings)

From that moment, you'll be out of place and underdressed

(¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯)

I'm wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it

(Possibly referring to the fact that he has pretty much the reason they would distrust, also episode 6 talk & 7, of him immediately putting the spotlight on the most suspicious)

Ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and

(Same as the other)

Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats with the doorman (repeated lyric)

From that moment, you'll be out of place and underdressed (repeated lyric)

I'm wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it (repeated lyric)

Ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and (repeated lyric)

When you're in black slacks with accentuating off-white pin-stripes whoa oh

(¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯)

Everything goes according to plan

(Let's be honest he's one step ahead of everybody)

I'm the new cancer, never looked better, you can't stand it

(He's referred to the cancer of the entire cast, the bad apple if you will, as he's the one who comes to face with their beliefs and shuts it down with reason)

Because you say so under your breath

You're reading lips, "When did he get all confident?"

(Probably about episode 7 and their lack of understanding about how he was feeling)

Haven't you heard that I'm the new cancer?

(same as last time)

Never looked better and you can't stand it

(They can't stand him physically and emotionally, and some even want to physically harm him)

Next is a trip to the, the ladies room in vain

(Probably referring to Rox)

And I bet you just can't keep up (keep up) with, with these fashionistas

(He's fashionable. And views everyone as foolish)

And tonight, tonight you are, you are the whispering campaign

(¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯)

I bet to them your name is cheap, I bet to them you look like shh

(His "Byakuya" flaring up lmao)

Talk to the mirror, oh choke back tears, and keep telling yourself that

"I'm a diva"

(It's clear he's mentally distressed and let's be honest he was probably having a whole ass panic attack in his room 💀 also definition of diva means — a self-important person who is temperamental and difficult to please — and he is self important, by his introductory video, saying that he's a god. And pretty temperamental as he got angry at the fact Corza wouldn't tell shit. The cast probably thinks that he is difficult to please considering all he is doing is demanding answers)

Oh, and the smokes in that cigarette box

On the table, they just so happen to be laced with nitroglycerin

(These two lyrics can refer to as entrepreneurs have a higher chance of substance abuse.)

I'm the new cancer, never looked better, you can't stand it

(same as last time)

(Skipping repeated parts)

Haven't you heard that I'm the new cancer?

I've never looked better and you can't stand it

Haven't you heard that I'm the new cancer?

I've never looked better and you can't stand it

And I know, and I know it just doesn't feel like a night out

(same thing as last time)

With no one sizing you up

(Referring to Corza and the fact NOBODY ELSE has asked questions)

I've never been so surreptitious

(He's never kept the secret that he wants answers, though the actual lyric probably means they're hiding something.)

So of course you'll be distracted when I spike the punch

(Uhh probably referring to the fact that he slapped Rox and their attention was all on that AND the fact that they kept blaming him for things he had no idea even existed (Enigma's attack specifically))

(Skipping repeated parts)

Anyways thank you for coming to my "This song really fits Cross/Tomoya Ted Talk" lmao

love ur ted talk 🙏🙏🙏

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loud-bread-boy · 3 years

Text

The Den (Colt Cassidy x gn reader)

Request: Bro— hear me out, Cole and Gabe are werewolves, but Colt has a human S/O and is introducing them to gabe (cuz he’s basically the dudes fanon dad at this point) and sizes this person up to see if they’re w o r t h y of his boy

God ur so fucking smart ily

Also I was torn because ,,,werewolves,,,abo,,, I ended up not doing it but listen there's this guy that makes uh,,,,spicy audios with Colt and lets just say I do fully plan to make an abo story, whether I post it or not

Characters/prompt list , askbox !

Featuring Dad Reyes, son/brother/boyfriend Colt, and sibling Sombra

Content Warnings?: implied werewolf Colt, Gabriel and Sombra, Gabriel being intimidating, few to no couple moments between Colt/Reader, abrupt ending (I'm rusty okay)

Ok here

You chew your lip so roughly you can feel the skin ripping between your teeth.

"Don't look him in the eye," Colt reminds you, fidgeting with his hands. He reaches for the doorbell again, then pauses and pulls his hand back. The process repeats once, “Don’t mumble,” twice, “A-And call him sir and stuff, he likes that,” then, as he lays his shaky fingers on the button, the door swings open. Colt clears his throat and stands up straight. His dad, on the other hand, is already standing like there’s a stick in his ass.

“Colt,” He starts, looking your boyfriend up and down with an expression that isn’t helping your idea about the stick.

“Yessir.” He turns to you, giving the same treatment but looking a bit more skeptical about it. He manages to catch your gaze, which knocks the air right out of your lungs. His face is covered in scars, but that isn’t even the scary part. His eyes are a horrific shade of red, darker than Colts, but then he speaks in your direction.

“Welcome home, son.” His mouth is full of some of the sharpest teeth you’ve ever seen. You realize you’ve broken one of the first rules Colt told you, so you quickly snap your head down to look at the ground. A large hand comes into your vision, a deep voice following shortly after. “Gabriel Reyes.”

You take his hand, taking a second to remark at the size difference, then give him your name. It came out quieter than you meant for it to, but you didn’t expect him to tighten his grip on your hand and demand that you speak up. You say it again, louder, with power in your chest and a sir tacked on at the end. You squeeze his hand right back, not taking the time to regret your actions. He seems a bit surprised, raising a brow and tilting his head to the side while looking you up and down again.

“Come on in.” He grins, showing the teeth that have no doubt ripped someone's throat out. Colt takes his hat off and presses it to his chest while he walks around Gabriel. You take another moment, briefly wondering if you want to put yourself in this situation. “It’s cold, kid.” He grumbles.

“I know,” You reply, dipping your head down but finding yourself unable to tear your gaze from his eyes. There’s a moment where all either of you are doing is staring. It’s awkward, but possibly no where near as bad as eating dinner with the man.

“We’re not going to kill you.” He assures, the bluntness of it catching you off guard. “Oli- urgh- Sombra made tamales.” He closes his eyes and mumbles some things about Sombra, counting to three by stretching his long fingers away from his grip on the door. “Are you coming in or not?” His face looks frustrated but his tone seems slightly defeated. You answer by nodding and pushing past him into the house.

The dinner was tense. Colt's younger sibling seemed to find it all hilarious, which lightened the mood every time they'd giggle at Gabriel's glare. Said glaring monster told Colt and Sombra to clear the table, which everyone seemed to know was code for giving you and Gabriel some time alone. He deepens his glare at you, then sighs, features softening.

"You know about Colt's upbringing, yes?" The question gave you a few of your own. Did he mean political or religious beliefs? Or the fact that Colt was adopted at twelve? Either way, you know all of it. Colt tells you as much as he can.

"I'm pretty sure, sir."

"Then you know he's more fragile than he seems." You pause before answering. Of course you know that, it's just a bit surprising that Gabriel does. He stands before you can answer, leaning over the table and getting in your face. "If you ever hurt my son," he starts, voice dropping to a low growl and you can swear his eyes are glowing. "You won't even have time to be sorry. Understood?" He cocks his head to the side.

"Understood." You confirm. He nods, then sits back down with a sigh.

"So, tell me about yourself, kid."

#Colt Cassidy #Colton McCassidy #Cole Cassidy #Colt Cassidy x Reader #Colton McCassidy x Reader #Cole Cassidy x reader #dad reyes #werewolves #werewolf!Colt #werewolf!reaper #werewolf!reyes #halloween prompts #gender neutral reader #requests open #gn reader #mine

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local80smotel · 4 years

Text

Midnight wind

pairing; V x air bending! Reader

summary; Y/N gains powers and after escaping Larkhill wants to get revenge

requested by; @scatter-mind001

rating; T

warnings; heavy mention of guard-on-prisoner abuse

word count; 2,311

A/N; I'm actually thinking of making a part two of this but I'm actually very satisfied with it! Thank you for the request!

Y/N remembered the night they were stolen from their normal daily life and how much terror pulsed through their body. The reason? Y/N's family were proud Irishmen and refused to hide that fact from anyone. They went as far as to hang the Irish flag outside their home instead of the Norsefire flag which they were commanded to do so. It became an inside joke of the neighborhood on how long it would take for the L/N family to be removed.

Some even betted money. Unsurprisingly it happened around seven months into high Chancellor Sutler's term that the raid happened. Y/N thought they would be spared as they broke down their bedroom door around 1:34 AM. Sadly they were wrong as they were 17 and was seen as being "too old" to be sent to a reclamation camp. Y/N was sent to Larkhill while their parents were sent to two different camps.

This fact was the thing that caused the kid to wail almost every hour of the day when they were forced to stay in their cell. Oh, what would they say to their parents instead of blaming them for this. They should have known they would do something as heartless as break a family up. Larkhill was, to put it shortly and simply, was living hell. The only time Y/N got human interaction was when they were getting experimented on and even then the scientists were anything but kind.

What messed with Y/N's head the most was the lack of clocks or calendars in the camp. Seconds seemed to turn into hours as they would just lay on the concrete floor and stare at the ceiling. The only thing that kept their spirits high was one of the fellow prisoners at Larkhill. The first time they talked was when snow started to stick to the corpse ridden ground. He was quiet and had issues with mumbling and when asked what his name was, he became silent for a few moments only for him to reply with an “I can't remember”.

The two of them decided to give him the name of V as it was the roman numeral for five, his room number. Y/N never knew why but V was the one that the prison guards would abuse when they would become enraged at something. Maybe it was because he didn't try to fight back as other prisoners did. When asked by Y/N why he wouldn't stand up for himself he told her “What's the point?”. V especially enjoyed hearing about the gunpowder plot of 1605 and started to idolize Guy Fawks, the man who had planned the explosion. They couldn't help but giggle when V would ask so many questions like a knowledge-hungry child.

The experiments Y/N experienced was... Something. A theory the scientists had was that an increase in air and maybe using the old-time favorite, electric shock therapy, would bring answers and results. When it came to the air theory, many of their "guinea pigs" had already died as they had been injected with 2.7 mL of air which killed them almost immediately. But somehow, after the now 18-year-old had their brain almost fried, survived and only passed out after the 1.5 mL mark.

When they woke up their food, or better yet described as slop, was harshly thrown into their room.

Y/N feeling nauseous, tried to push away the plate even though it was five feet away from them. To their astonishment, it moved and banged loudly against the thick metal door which left a dent in it. The now curious Y/N would test this new power by "playing" with the local camp rats. When they'd come into their room to eat their food, they flick a wisp of air which would hit them like a whip. As a result, the poor creature would run away squeaking in pain but luckily not bleeding.

What's ironic was both the rat and Y/N were somewhat the same as both were hungry, alone, and puzzled on this new ability. They had never used this power on the workers until they had practiced for three months. At this point in time, they knew how to control how much power they let out and what they would call an "air-blast" which was a shot a compressed spurt of air from their hands. It was hard to practice as they were being restricted in an 8ft by 8ft cell.

When Y/N attacked the scientists it was initially an accident. What caused this? They tried to eject more air into them as almost all of the scientists that worked for the camp were perplexed on how they were still alive. Once 0.5 mL of air was pushed into them, poor Y/N was sent into a panicked state as they could feel their heart starting to skip beats. They were able to strike two of the five people in the room until they were restrained and subdued.

After that, they were moved from room #4 to one of the more secure rooms. With this happening V was under the impression that Y/N had been executed or died that day. V was sent into a blind rage and well, you can guess what happened next. Around midnight, a few weeks after their move to room #12, explosions woke them from their deep slumber. When they awoke they expected to see complete darkness but were entirely wrong.

The fire was everywhere, making it hard for the know coughing inmate to focus on what was happening. Once they were able to get up they immediately looked for shoes. Sure, it sounds selfish at first but they were looking for shoes not so they could run away but so they could look for their only friend, the man in room #5. Sadly, when they heard a loud scream- no, it was more of a roar, they were under the belief that the fire had devoured him. Y/N couldn't help but fall to the ground which was covered in rubble to sob.

This wasn't fair. This place had taken everything from him; his memories, his name, his humanity, and now it had taken his life. The rest of the night was a blur as they tried to travel back to London. This took weeks as the adult was too exhausted to stay up for more than 8 hours as their sleep schedule, just like their will to live, had been completely destroyed by Larkhill. When they finally got to London it was pitch black.

Their heart stung as they walked the brick sidewalk. Their heart was breaking because V and them had talked about this back when they were still cell neighbors. They were so hopeful that they'd get to walk down the streets together once they were free. Y/N was lucky enough to find an abandoned matchbox factory. They decided to stay in the basement of the burned down building as it would be the safest choice when it came to being seen.

Slowly, over the next four years, they fixed up their new lair. They got working electricity and indoor plumbing after trying hundreds of times. The escapee finally got a television after trash diving and finding a still working 70s one. The first channel they watched was "The voice of London" as they heard through the grapevine that it was a news channel. Y/N went to channel 012 and once they saw the News host, their excitement left their body.

It, it was him. Lewis Prothero, the man who would frequently abuse the prisoners of Larkhill. Just seeing him made their blood start to boil. They instantly got off of their makeshift couch, walking back and forth as they mumbled under their breath. They could have sworn they saw Lewis' dead body that night of the fire. This simply wasn't fair.

For the next few weeks, they began to plan, gradually gathering information on where Lewis was living now. The night they finally got his extract location, they were overwhelmed with joy. Y/N grabbed their jacket, as winter was finally rolling around so the winds would nip at them, and left the bunker.

They took flight, fury making it seem like they were moving two times as faster as they should be. Y/N had learned this new ability when they lost all earthly ties after V died. Sure, flying still freaked them out but it was the fastest and safest way. When they slowly approached the building, they prepared for what they would have to do next, which was break the giant window to get inside. They took a deep breath in and air hit and kicked the window in rapid succession, shattering it after just a few hits.

Rolling inside and brushing off pieces of glass, Y/N proceeded to walk in the direction of the home's bathroom as they heard the water running. When they opened the door the first thing that drew their eye was a black mass.

“Lew-” they began their speech they had been writing and tweaking over the last weeks but stopped midway through the first word when the mass turned to them. This wasn't Lewis, this was a random masked person. Before they could ask where their victim was, the man stepped out of the way to reveal the lifeless body on the floor which had a single rose on his chest.

Anger filled them as they looked back up at the masked man. Y/N was supposed to get revenge for their long-dead friend. They RUINED this moment. How was Y/N supposed to help V heal in his grave?

“You!” they screamed as they swiped the air, turning their swipes into blades. “How dare you?! You have no clue what he did!” the man was pushed back by the amount of force the wind carried in it

“Wait let me explain!” the Guy Fawks mask-wearing murderer shouted as they fell to the ground with a knee on the floor to keep them up.

“You weren't there! You weren't mistreated!”

“No Y/-”

Using their oldest power, the air blast, tears were already seeping down their face which was twisted in what seemed to be never-ending pain. The blast hit them directly in the face as they groaned out in pain and finally fell the floor, making a loud thud as their skull hit the marble floor. Y/N strolled over to the body to finish them off so they could get some kind of revenge, only to stop with their body now feeling numb. Their mask, now cracked and was flung off of his face and now somewhere else on the floor with his hat.

“You-” their breathing became shallow as they dropped to the floor with them. “You asshole!” Y/N grabbed the collar of his cap, once again crying but now more violently. “I thought you died- you left me! You left me to suffer alone!” they laid their head on their chest as they continued to sob. V just had to lay there as their close friend cried over them. His skin felt like it was burning as the bathroom's overhead light was beating down on him. He couldn't help but start to cry too. V never wanted to leave them, he was under the impression Y/N has already died. That impression was the reason why he exploded Larkhill.

“I tried looking for you-”

“Well, you didn't try hard enough then!”

There was a moment of silence as the two friends wept next to the freshly dead body of their abuser. V moved them into a hug as he sat upright, rocking them gently as he did so.

“Stop-” they hiccuped “treating me like a baby”

“But that's the only way you'll calm down. You told me this yourself Y/N.”

They rubbed their eyes as they looked up at the severely burnt man. His skin looked inflamed from his crying. They tried to reach up and touch him but he jerked his head back the second their hand went up.

“How did you survive?”

“I can ask you the same thing.”

Y/N rolled their eyes at his reply. Typical V behavior, they thought to themselves. They stayed this way for a few more moments until the realization of where they were set in.

“Welp, we must be going now, police will come any second. We'll be executed if we're found here.” V sprang up, walking over to his mask and hat and quickly put them back where they belonged. Y/N followed suit, already walking out of the bathroom and to the window they had broken to get inside.

“Where are you going?” V asked as the night wind went through his hair

“Home?” they answered back, hoping that they could still fly now that they knew V was alive.

“But that's the completely wrong way.” they looked over at him, confusion on their face as they opened their mouth to speak before V interrupted them, oh how V had a horrible habit of that.

“You're coming home with me. I'm not letting my dear friend live on the street or in some broken-down building.” he held out his hand to them. Y/N could feel V smirking under his cracked mask and rolling their eyes gave them their hand.

#v for vendetta x reader #v for vendetta headshot #v for vendetta imagine #v for vendetta #imagine requests #imagine #airbending!reader #V #V x reader

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madlymiho · 4 years

Note

Hello!!!! If I'm right on time can I request spooky alphabet Casper, Frankenstein, kill, supernatural & Unexpected with Law & Zoro? If not then delete this.

Hey anon! ☺️ you were in time!

Law's S and F letters has already been answered, so I won't put it again here!

Thanks for requesting my alphabet! 🤓❤️ I hope you'll enjoy it!

Spookyvent #12

Zoro

Casper: Do they believe in ghost? Would they hunt for them? Do they believe in a life after death or are they down on the ground most of the time?

Zoro isn’t so much a believer (remember how he claims he didn’t believe in God even when he was in Skypeia?), so ghosts? Meh, possible, for sure, maybe it exists, maybe not. Who really cares? If they exist, well, he’s not afraid of them, and he’s more curious to know if he’s able to slice them in pieces rather than truly study them. Can he kill a ghost for a second time? That would be a nice thing to discover for sure! If Luffy believes it can be fun the hunt them and discover their existence wherever they are, yeah, for sure he’s in! Zoro lives for the thrill and the fun, and he’s probably the one who doesn’t blink when his captain comes up with the stupidest ideas. So frankly, Zoro is swinging between his non-beliefs in general, and the very fact that his world is a damn example of weird things happening. If it happens, it happens, he will only care if it can bring some fun and challenge in his swordsman’s life!

Frankenstein: Favorite literature to read during this spooky period? Comics? Novels

Not that he’s the most idiotic man on Earth, but Zoro isn’t a thorough reader either. He sometimes borrows some comics to Usopp or Franky, he avoids to ask the damn cook for any kind of reading as well (because he knows what he will find), and he’s not really into very complicated books like Robin would enjoy. What can be his options? Chopper prefers to read medicinal books, Nami is into romance or navigation stuff, and Brook prefers some classical readings Zoro finds too boring to actually care. Perhaps if any of them could offer him a story with sword and war, he will pay attention and might try to read (if he’s not falling asleep during the process).

Nah, really, the best option remains in having a member of his crew (Robin, for sure), picking a very morbid and bloody story to read it out loud, so at least, he wouldn’t have to read it himself - especially not when someone can do it better than him!

Kill: What would be their most favorite way to kill someone? What is their method? Are they able to kill or would they get cold feet?

Killing isn’t what motivate Zoro to fight. He’s not looking for any sort of murder, and this is not the Straw Hat’s philosophy, on the contrary, they always prefer to try saving soulds rather than condemning them. Zoro will always make sure that he’s not deadly hurting someone, only seeking for the challenge of the combat rather than the death of his opponent. Even the most cruel ennemies he fought aren’t dead today, even if Zoro definitely has the power to end their lives.

Zoro has honor, despite his choice to become a pirate, and killing someone is a part of the forbidden thing of his own code.

Supernatural: What are their beliefs? Do they actually trust in supernatural existence in the first place?

Absolutely nothing, this guy is bulletproof to any kind of supernatural beliefs. You can put him a ghost, a god, a zombie, for sure he’s surprised, but he believes they are some kind of explanations, coming from the Devil Fruits in the first place. Real ghosts, real demons, all of these, he clearly thinks they are a myth and nothing else. He’s very rational, and would never pay attention this kind of stuff, preferring to live his life in peace.

Supernatural things aren’t a thing for a swordsman, he has to remain down to earth to prepare himself to claim the title of being the best fighter, and for that, he can only count on himself anyway.

Unexpected: What could really surprise them, what would be the most unexpected situations to spend Halloween for them?

Having a quiet celebration can be the only surprise for Zoro here. Quiet... the only world which would never define the Straw Hat and their chaotic vibes. It seems almost frightening to imagine that they can behave. Imagine how it can be so disturbing to have them all quietly seated around a table, eating in peace and soft voices, until they would all choose to sleep rather than doing some mischief in town?

So scary... It gives goosebumps to Zoro for sure!

Law

Casper: Do they believe in ghost? Would they hunt for them? Do they believe in a life after death or are they down on the ground most of the time?

No, definitely, Law doesn’t believe in ghosts. He doesn’t really believe in anything from the supernatural area, mostly because of his scientist mind for sure. Of course, as everyone, he has sometimes wished to be able to see his family again, or Corazon, because it could have offered him a bit of comfort when his days were dark and clouded. But right now, as the grown-up edgy man he is, frankly, ghosts are nothing but stories. Even in a world like the one he lives in, he can’t allow himself to really have hopes in those beliefs. So he doesn’t care, and wouldn’t hunt for them. Surely, he has better things to do.

A life after death? If he’s not certain about it, at least it hopes it exists. Probably because he wishes to see the people he lost once more. He wants them to forever live pain-free, in a soothing world they will all deserve. But it’s only his personal hopes, and not something he will share with anyone.

Kill: What would be their most favorite way to kill someone? What is their method? Are they able to kill or would they get cold feet?

It really depends on the person, Law would avoid killing someone if he can. He doesn’t believe it’s necessary, especially with the power of the ope ope no mi he has. After all, he can remove organs and uses them to balckmail those people, so killing innocents, or pirates, just for the thrill to kill someone else? No, really not for him. He’s also a doctor, and it would be a contradiction for him to assassinate everyone on his path.

Though, for the people who hurt his loved ones, you better be sure that death can be on the menu. He prefers to come up with a long prepared plan rather than just rushing to kill that person. His emotions are honestly blinding his judgement, and his way of killing might be utterly brutal, depends on what the person for sure. So yes, Law can kill, Law will kill if he has a good reason - he’s still a pirate after all - but he’s not thirsty for blood and can definitely control his wrath.

Unexpected: What could really surprise them, what would be the most unexpected situations to spend Halloween for them?

Probably endind up trick and treating with any member of his crew or some allies like the Straw Hat, or just... celebratring Halloween in the first place. The real surprise would be that someone eventually find the good arguments to make his change his plans. He doesn’t want to go outside, he doesn’t want to party, he doesn’t want to put a costume on... If anyone manages to make him change his mind, well, that would be quite a feat here! After all, Law hates when things don’t follow his plan, and he’s not very comfortable when something breaks what he has anticipated for days, or weeks.

For sure... He’s afraid of the chaos Hallowen can be if he’s around the Straw Hat for example, quite sure that he would have the most stressful night of his entire life for sure!

#one piece headcanons #one piece imagines #trafalgar law #roronoa zoro #trafalgar d. water law #zoro one piece #law one piece #one piece headcanon #one piece imagine #spookyvent #one piece halloween #one piece writing #anon request #queued

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countessofbiscuit · 4 years

Note

What are your Bobasoka headcanons? I've already gone through all of the (criminally little) fic on ao3 and I especially loved Smothered and Covered, and I saw the majority of the fics in the tag were gifted to you so I'm assuming you're the OG shipper. Feel free to essay if you like!!

Thanks for the ask and kind words about that fic :3

Oh, Bobasoka … where to begin? It’s a pairing that’s been bumping around in exchange requests for a few years — I figure it’d be easy for anyone invested in Ahsoka’s relationship with the clones to be compelled by the idea. Lledra used to draw Boba and Ahsoka interacting, and it was probably a few panels of their incredible Destinies comic that set my Bobasoka wheels turning. I’m also drawn to them because their journeys traverse so much canon; there’s not just a sandbox to play in, but a whole goddamn stretch of beach, stretching far out into the horizon ... (#AhsokaLives #BobaSurvived :D)

I have to lead with the proviso that almost everything I write/daydream about/headcanon has a groundsheet of Rexsoka. Ahsoka’s interest in Boba, in my head, is intimately tied up with her attraction to and/or relationship with Rex — or, at the bare minimum, her intimate fellowship with the clones. She went through puberty (maybe with heats!) surrounded by a literal army of handsome, roughly college-aged dudes; that must’ve been a heady mix of heaven and hell. If she didn’t quench her thirst before war’s end and her (eventual) separation from Rex, she’d probably be pretty dehydrated when stumbling across Boba. As for Boba’s attraction to Ahsoka, well ... she’s very pretty, she’s potentially useful, she’s not likely to skewer him in his sleep (+2) on account of being a Jedi (-1), and now she’s the one down on her luck; if he falls in bed with anyone, why not this girl who isn’t afraid of him and stares a lot at his lips?

And Boba is like a hot shipping potato — satisfying, hard to fuck up, goes well (read: makes for an intriguing story) with almost everyone. And I think it has everything to do with his liminality, something he shares with Ahsoka and probably recognizes.

Their neither-this-nor-that-ness overlap in such interesting ways, and they each bring their identity issues to the table — Ahsoka as an on-again, off-again Jedi; Boba as a clone who isn’t a Clone™, a Mandalorian by birth and bearing, but not by the book. At different points in their stories, they identify as different things, and that would affect their headspace and color their view of the other. They wrestle with themselves and each other. Force-user and bounty hunter; privileged topsider and orphaned juvenile delinquent fugitive; GAR commander and outcast clone; Jedi and Mandalorian; Disillusioned veteran and disaffected army brat; Rebellion agent and Imperial contractor.

And as much conflict is baked into these dynamics, it also generates a certain magnetism; and I believe they recognize, on some level, their shared trauma and the symmetry in their experiences. Boba and Ahsoka both have happy childhoods with very little to distress or vex them (beyond the art, I do not jive with Age of Republic: Jango Fett, a Disney-canon comic that not only doubles-down on the Jango-wasn’t-Mando nonsense, but shows him being rather cavalier about Boba’s life); Geonosis happens and their adolescent lives are dominated by war (which is how they came to actively threaten each other as space!secondary-schoolers — whaaaaatf!); they are both dubiously (even wrongfully) imprisoned; and they both suffer alienation and incredible personal loss.

Boba was set apart from the clones before he was even pulled him from the jar, othered and elevated from the beginning. He never bonded with brothers, he does not identify as a clone. And while there are examples of clones making overtures to him, canonically his relationship with them is fraught and probably made worse when he gets banged up in Republic Central at the tender age of eleven or twelve — and of course, Ahsoka is an accessory to this, the second chapter in his tragedy at the hands of the Jedi. He needed help (whether he wanted it or not), it was not given by clones or Jedi alike (hamstrung by bureaucracy, sure, but surely some other means of intervention might have been lobbied for?), and Boba becomes a right teenage disaster, well-balanced only in the sense that he has a chip on both shoulders.

(n.b. Putting my RepComm hat on for a second, I can’t help but sniffle-laugh at the idea that the Alphas watched him get thrown in a maximum-security slammer and were like “Ah, there he is, the feral vod’ika. First time, we’ll let the little snot earn his stripes. Second time, we’ll bust him out and send him on a tough love retreat with A’den or Jaing.”)

Ahsoka, meanwhile, is part-and-parcel of the institutions that Boba sets himself against, even after she too has been cast out by circumstances beyond her control. She grows up in a supportive Jedi community and then spends some seriously formative years with a whole slew of brothers — brothers that should have been Boba’s!

Boba, on the other hand, is a great example of the proverb that a child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth. (As he tells Hondo, “Why should I help anybody? I’ve got no one.”)

The resentment that must create! But also, later, the quiet empathy too — maybe when Boba’s having one of his better days and Ahsoka’s obviously not.

And all of the above is interesting enough, without also touching upon the wildcard that is Mandalore.

Boba’s relationship with Mandalore .... well, that’s contested in- and out-of-universe and I won’t allow myself to essay overmuch. I subscribe firmly to a Mandalorian Fetts construction of canon, even though Boba must be someone who struggles mightily with Mandalorian identity. He’s raised by a bona fide Mando, a solicitous, loving father who’d have no reason not to pass on his language and beliefs; but at the same time, it takes that village, and when Boba’s clan of two is shattered, he has no one else. The loss of his dad unmoors him from his only anchor to Mandalorian culture and clan.

If Boba had been close to the Cuy’val Dar, one would think he’d have turned to them rather than fall in with Jango’s criminal acquaintances; or maybe the bounty hunters just scooped him up first, and troubled lil’ Boba was shepherded through bereavement by folks who enabled and encouraged him to externalize his anger in a way that gave him a (false) feeling of agency and strength.

Whatever the reasons, Boba does not repatriate himself to Mandalore (much to Fenn Shysa’s melodramatic dismay). He strikes me as a lapsed Mandalorian; he doesn’t exactly follow the creed besides wearing the armor (scavenged? his dad’s sans helmet? canon is confused on this point, but he doesn’t go Mando until the unfinished arcs at the end of TCW, either for lack of stature, lack of armor, or lack of enthusiasm). I feel like if someone rocked up to Boba in a cantina and had the balls to ask “hey, so you a Mandalorian?” Boba would be like “<ominously slow helmet tilt> who’s asking” and never give you a straight answer.

Meanwhile, Ahsoka gets a crash course on Mandalore from none other than someone who, at one point, belonged to a sect that wanted to expunge Jaster’s legacy from the galaxy — and at the very least, had reason to dislike clones. This isn’t the place to explore my Boba/Bo-Katan feelings, but know that they are fathomless, and I would pay good money to be a fly on the wall of that Kom’rk when Bo-Katan gives Ahsoka Mando History 101 with her own special sauce. Ahsoka is probably more up-to-speed on Mandalore than Boba, and at one point, she may even own more beskar than him! (n.b. After the crash, I think one of the first places Rex and Ahsoka bounce is just inside Mando space, to scope out the Sundari situation and maybe try to scramble a signal to Bo-Katan; she’d have the goodwill to at least get them back on their feet if she can’t help them lay low herself. For a variety of reasons worth maybe ficcing down the line, they aren’t successful.)

I don’t really have a concluding statement except, I just think Bobasoka’s neat :) They hit all my depressed-Millennial buttons.

Headcanon by bullet-point isn’t really my style, but this is tumblr so ... tl;dr:

They recognize a lot in each other, even if they’re slow to admit it, if ever. Boba’s a cagey bastard and Ahsoka doesn’t ever like him enough to be emotionally honest.

They bump into each other during Ahsoka’s walkabout(s) ‘cause Coruscant’s Underworld ain’t big enough for the two of them. Without Slave-1, Boba couchsurfs at Nyx Okami’s garage, but he does his laundry at Rafa’s. He might even borrow the Martez’s new, useful friend for a job or two.

Ahsoka eventually matures enough to be sensitive about her use of the Force on and around clones, and she definitely doesn’t use it around Boba. Definitely not during sex.

Boba is privately weirded out every time Ahsoka uses Mando slang she picked up off the clones or the Nite Owls.

Boba absolutely kills Cad Bane in that shoot-out, keeps the hat, and lets Ahsoka have it. She shoves it out the airlock and uses it for target practice.

So many great smut flavours! Hatesex. Acquaintances with benefits. “You’re traumatized and touch-starved and you look just like him/them, and I know how to be gentle and what to do, so maybe we could … ?” They’re both privately comfortable with their bodies and sexuality, but Boba’s got trust issues a parsec long and Ahsoka’s lost confidence; it’s always an awkward affair, but desperation wins out.

They exchange comm codes every time they run into each other, which is kind of pointless because they both use burners.

Ahsoka hitches a ride on Slave-1 more than once. There really is only one bed, so it’s either sleep upright, sleep in a pokey prisoner hold, or sleep with him.

For a few years, Boba can pass as a last-generation clone — the ones that got sold off in bulk units to slavers before Kamino sunk another three years’ food, board, and training into them. Boba pretends he doesn’t notice, easy to really, since he tells himself his helmet is his face. But occasionally, when Ahsoka can convince him there’s profit in it, he agrees to play sleeper agent and assists in liberating a few here and there.

They don’t talk about Aurra Sing.

When an Imp really crosses him, Boba passes on intel to Ahsoka to ruin their day.

Once, when they’re both super skint, Ahsoka volunteers to get handed in to some relatively minor and out-of-the-way Imperial garrison, so Boba can collect, bust her out, and split the pot with her. It’s the closest she ever comes to telling him “I trust you” — and when he brushes the idea aside, citing something about risk, it’s the closest he ever comes to telling her “I love you.”

Boba sees Inquisitors as muscling in on his game. There are so many lousy Force-users around nowadays, it should be easy pickings, but Inquisitors get privileged information. So he makes sport out of misdirecting them, especially from Ahsoka.

When he pisses her off, Ahsoka fantasizes about Bo-Katan taking Boba down a peg or two while she watches :)))

Boba experienced Ahsoka’s heat once, secondhand through a cabin wall. He thought he was being clever by shooting Rex up with some Nevoota stim pollen, locking him in with Ahsoka, and hijacking their locked ships. Longest three days of his life, limping on broken hyperdrives and shared fuel stores to the nearest waystation to a soundtrack of violent lovemaking : \

Bounty hunters invariably bump into spies and agents because they work in the same areas. The agents pretend to be bounty hunters, eccentric business people, sex workers, or a range of other things. Sometimes each party knows all about the other, but it’s only polite not to mention it. This happens to Ahsoka and Boba A LOT, especially once she becomes Fulcrum; rebel cells and Imperials often want the same people. Occasionally they exchange fire. A couple times Boba gets imprisoned in Ahsoka’s own brig. Once, Boba blows her cover and definitely lives to regret it.

(this essay was originally punctuated with pics, but replies with images won’t show up tumblr tags so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

#bobasoka #boba fett #ahsoka tano #rexsoka #the clone wars

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somewhat-happilyeverafter · 5 years

Text

My Happily Ever After (Part 2 of Cursed Love)

Part Two just as requested!

Jane is kinda mean in this, but like I kinda don't like Carlos x Jane so hahaha. . .

I would love some more requests so please request something! (I have only 1 so please!)

Part 1

Warnings: Almost death, angst, blood

Summary: You get to read to find out!

A door was knocked on, once, twice, a third time. Nothing. Silence. The door was knocked on once more, but more rushed. There was a named called, and again. The door was barged open and a scream was emitted from the doorway.

~-~_~-~

There were tears as Harriet sat next to her first mate and closest friend. Her first mate was lying on a bed, fully unconscious. They were in Auradon, crazy right? Not really...

Harriet did all she could to keep (Y/n) alive even if the girl was unconscious. Luckily the day after (Y/n) went unconscious the barrier was opened. Harriet in fear of losing her friend, got help from anyone she could. She found Harry and begged him to help her. So he did.

Harry got help from Mal and Ben. They got Fairy Godmother and explained the situation. FG wasn't sure what to do, this curse was nothing like she's ever seen before.

The door to the room was open and Mal came walking in with FG right behind her, both in a hurry. "I'm sorry Ms. Hook, but we haven't found anything that could help. Right now we are only slowing the erm-- death now... I think it would be best to let her go."

Harriet was angry, "I'm not lettin' her die! She'z all aye got!!!" Mal sighed and thought for a second, "What if we get the person who she is in love with and talk to them about her," Mal snapped her fingers "That could work right?"

Harriet deflated against (Y/n) just holding her hand, "The person she is in love with has someone already. Besides that won't do anything! She has to fall out of love for the curse to leave her." Harriet ran a hand through her hair, "None of that matters anyways because her heart is broken... God I wish this didn't happen," Harriet wiped away her tears.

~-~_~-~

"Hey give that back!" A hand reached for their pirate hat, "Carlos!!!" Carlos laughed at the girl as she pouted and turned away from Carlos.

"Aw (Y/n). C'mon," a shoulder nudged the girls. The pirate turned to Carlos and laughed, he was wearing her pirate hat and was making funny faces. "Forgive me?"

"Always and forever." She rested her head on this shoulder and pulled the hat over his eyes.

~-~_~-~

When Carlos found out (Y/n) had fallen deeply ill he flipped out. He ran straight to her room as soon as Ben said where she was.

"Carlos wait!" Ben called, but it was too late Carlos was not going to lose his best friend and- nevermind that thought. It could never happen. He flew past people and even his friends, nothing would stop him to get to (Y/n).

"Carlos?" Was all he heard as he sped past his girlfriend. Yup nothing would stop him.

Well except the door in front of him and this newfound anxiety. What if (Y/n) wouldn't talk to him? What if she told him to leave? What if she said that she didn't want to see him ever again? What if... Carlos shook his head, no time for those types of thoughts.

The de Vil opened the door and saw her, she looked like an angel as she laid there, but when he took a closer look you could see the sweat on her face and the paleness of her skin. He then noticed she was asleep.

He walked closer and sat on the chair where he supposed Harriet was sitting before he got there.

Even if (Y/n) looked sick, there was still beauty in her. Carlos moved a piece of hair out of her face and sighed. "What happened to you, lass?" He hadn't used that nickname in forever. When (Y/n) first taught him different namecallings that pirates used he immediately used lass for (Y/n). It felt fitting for some reason.

The de Vil grabbed for her hand and sighed, nothing could be done to help her as he was told by Ben.

Suddenly Jane opened the door and looked at Carlos, "Why are you in here and why did you ignore me when I called your name?" She seemed upset.

"I'm sorry Jane, but (Y/n) needs me and she's not doing well! I can't lose her again." Carlos glanced at the priate then turned to look at his girlfriend.

"Lose her? Carlos I'm sure they can help her, why they would want to help a pirate I don't know why," Jane muttered before speaking a bit louder, "I swear Carlos these past few days have been you moping about this pirate girl! Have you heard what she's done to other people? I don't even know why you would even care about her! I mean her father is Davy Jones, isn't that a big enough of a warning sign to leave her?"

Carlos was shocked Jane even said that, but she did and he got angry. He stood up, letting go of her hand as he protected (Y/n) from Jane's verbal attacks, "What the hell Jane? (Y/n) is my friend! She knows practically everything about me and just because she is a pirate doesn't mean anything. (Y/n) can be kind and understanding, when on the Isle she would always be there after my mother would abuse me! So yeah she has hurt people, but that's how people live on the Isle! If you want to live you have to hurt, steal and lie."

Jane was shocked, he never yelled, but she wouldn't back down, "Carlos I am your girlfriend and you still go against me? I am there for you whenever you need me and this is how you treat me?"

"When have you actually been there for me? I try to talk to you about my nightmares and you brush them off as me being dramatic and when your friends talk bad about me you don't even stop them! Girlfriend? Not anymore, go find someone else Jane we are over."

"You cannot do that to me Carlos! You know what, fine, have fun with your dying girlfriend!" Jane then stormed out of the room and slammed the door.

Carlos fell back onto the chair as he ran a hand through his hair. He wanted everything to stop. He wanted to just stop this whole mess. He wanted to back to the time where he and (Y/n) would just make mischief on the Isle. He would do anything to go back to that time were some things were easier than others.

His eyes started to water and he let it all out, tears fell down his freckled cheeks and he just held the pirate's hand once again. Carlos couldn't handle the pain anymore, he missed when it was (Y/n) and him.

For a few minutes Carlos cried, his cheeks red and eyes puffy. (Y/n) seemed to hear him as she slowly woke up. She looked at Carlos and saw him there, broken and it hurt her. She remembered on the Isle when his mother would hurt him and (Y/n) would always help pick up his broken pieces, always fixing him even when he refused her help. This boy meant everything to her and it killed her body, but it was always worth it, to see his eyes light up and smile. To be able to hold his hand when he needed reassurance and hug him when he just wasn't feeling well. To wipe away his tears as he cracks a smile. Everything was so worth doing just for this boy and she would do it a billion times just to see him happy.

(Y/n) forgot about everything in that moment, but Carlos. She shot up from her laying position and grabbed him, hugging him even through the pain.

Carlos was a bit shocked, but he let the hug happen. He enjoyed the warm feeling that (Y/n) gave him including the butterflies in his stomach. They sat there for a while until the girl started coughing.

"Lass? Are you alright?" A coughing fit began and it just wouldn't stop. Carlos looked around and saw a glass of water on the table next to her, he grabbed it and held it in front of her mouth, "Drink this."

(Y/n) held onto his hand that was holding the cup, she took a few gulps of water and some deep breaths. She then looked up at Carlos, his face filled with worry. The pirate gave a small smile and said "I'm okay I guess."

She knew she was already dying so might as well tell him her feelings, right? "Uh Carlos. . . The reason I am sick is because I am in love with you so so much and after finding out about your girlfriend, I was heartbroken and I'm just in love with you beyond belief and I wish we could be together, but my stupid curse has ruined everythi--" (Y/n) was pulled into a kiss, her eyes wide in shock, but she kissed back a second later.

The kiss was slow and very sweet, the two put their hearts into the kiss, making sure every second counted. As the kiss went on they didn't notice the door opening, revealing some friends of the two.

What they also didn't notice is a blue and gold like fairy dust come from where (Y/n)'s heart would be and curl around her and Carlos.

"True love's kiss huh." Was said quietly from the door.

(Y/n) and Carlos pulled away and saw the blue and gold dust, the looked in awe. A voice then was heard and they looked to see a few people, but Fairy Godmother was speaking, "True love's kiss seemed to have broken your curse (Y/n). The curse stopped you from loving without hurting your body, but it seems by someone loving you unconditionally and you loving them back in the same way it was able to break the curse." (Y/n) looked at Carlos and smiled

"Looks like you're stuck with me," (Y/n) said with a laugh

"I wouldn't want my happily ever after any other way." Carlos pulled the girl in for another kiss, happy that he could be with the girl he truly loved.

#carlos de vil x reader #carlos de vil #carlos x reader #disney descendants #descendants x reader #descendants imagine #descendants

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