#she will smell sweet spices and fresh flowers and remember how he looked when his brother handed her off to him at the end of the aisle

[bluebellhairpin]

Erwin Smith X Fem!Reader X Levi Ackerman (Slight!Zeke Jaeger X Fem!Reader) 

A/N: I’m really excited for this one, and I hope you like it! It is a part 2 to ‘Broken with Gold’, but honestly I do think you could go straight into this without reading it. - Nemo

Summary: Unrest in stirring in Mitras. With a sickness of a man festering in the underbelly of the castle, the King and Queen decide to put off dealing with him any longer. But when Zeke’s life is about to end, events change for the worse. For everyone, this battle just got personal - and far from over. 

Warnings: Dark themes. Blood, Gore, and Violence. Pregnancy and miscarriage’s. Sexual Assault threats. Implied character death. Coarse language. References to war. Character injury. Manga/Anime parallels/spoilers. Zeke is a manipulative piece of shit, and also a bit of a yandere. 

Listening to: ‘The Politics & The Life’ by Daniel Pemberton and Gareth Williams - “We are glad to plunge feet first into hell in the knowledge that we will rise.” AND/OR the whole soundtrack to ‘King Arthur: Legend of the Sword’

Series Masterlist 

Part I || Part III || Masterlist || Ko-fi  

Your life, thus far, had been going pretty well.

Had.

There was something about your old life you missed. Your old village. Old home.

Going to the bakers, the smell of their fresh bread and baked sweets wafting across the street. You used to have to tug on your mothers skirts and beg for a coin so you could buy a sugar-iced roll, only to have to split it with your siblings.

The sound of the blacksmith, muttering to himself as he tended to a horse’s hooves as his weathered apprentice clanged a new shoe together. The heat of the hearth and metal, the smell of smoke and iron wafting into the street. You’d wave at the blacksmith as you’d pass, he’d nod his head at you as a greeting, and your mother would usher you giggling children along with a warning to not bother the nice man while he was busy.

The market stalls, and merchants yelling offers trying to sell you their produce. Fresh vegetables, plump and juicy fruit, meat hanging from hooks, spices and silks imported from out-of-country, wool and yarn with matching do-it-yourself dye powders. If you were lucky you could snag a few berries as you passed the stall without anyone noticing.

You remembered your father, visiting him one day with you mother and siblings when you went into town. He looked down at you all, smiling, sweat on his brow, taking a break from thatching together a straw rooftop to greet his beloved family. Your mother tossed him up an apple, and he caught it flawlessly - plucking it from gravity easier than if he was picking it off the tree itself.

Things were simpler back then in your small town.

Back when you were a child.

Erwin barely remembered his own mother. She’d died when he was still young, too young to remember seeing her face with his own eyes, but old enough to remember how warm she was when she’d hold him close.

His father was Erwin’s rock during his youth. Someone that made his memories of a motherless childhood no less than that of the others that had the one thing he didn’t. He was a stability. Something consistent. A strength. His duty as king meant he was an absent father at times, leaving him in the care of nursemaids and his governess, but the times they did spend together were perfect.

His father would tell him stories before tucking him into bed. Walked with him through the gallery in the castle and told tales of the paintings over and over. He’d hold his hand tight as they went on outings through the streets of Mitras to visit the people there.

He was the one that taught Erwin it was okay to be kind. It was okay to tell stories, and give little girls flowers that they could show to their mothers later. He taught Erwin how to be human, to do things that meant his people loved him as a Prince, and would adore him as a King.

And after a successful assassination on the King’s life, not even a week later Erwin was no dreamy young Prince anymore. He hardened into a King with eyes that turned from a clear blue to a stormy sky, but he was still kind. Rough around some edges, but still kind.

Always kind.

Really, Erwin could thank his father for Levi, meeting him, giving him a chance, loving him. And for you too, for not letting the fact you held no rank bother him into shunning you away when letting you in was the best thing that ever happened to him since Levi.

Levi grew up on the streets. He had no siblings, and no family, but he had his mother, and he had two friends.

He lived in a building a few blocks away from the docks at the river that ran through lower Mitras. The streets were filthy, and the people that lived there were often just as bad. He quickly made friends out of a scrawny string-bean of a blond boy, and a small red-headed girl whose mouth got her into too much trouble. Levi, to this day, still didn’t know how that friendship formed - lord knows he was not a nice child - but Furlan and Isabel’s loyalty to him never once wavered.

His fists did most of the talking, and that often landed him with his face in a brick wall and his arse in the mud. But he was a fast learner. With the right teacher, he became a fearsome sight, and his words became fast and sharper than a blade.

Then his mother died. While the other women in the building wanted him to stay - he protected them, he kept them safe, treating them all as if they were mothers, aunts, big sisters, they wanted him to stay if only for that - the men who owned the place kicked him to the curb with his belongings and mothers corpse.

Deemed too much trouble than he was worth by his reputation alone.

He tried seeking a place to stay with his teacher - his mothers brother, Kenny - but the place was empty. Abandoned in a haste. He had no one. No one but Furlan and Isabel. Levi decided that was enough, he’d make it enough.

Years later, thriving with his own hustle, things changed. That’s when he met Erwin. That’s when fate decided for him that what he had was no longer ‘enough’.

Erwin hadn’t been the same since he lost his arm. Not many people would be, but when he seemed to go back to being so ‘normal’ so quickly once he’d returned to you and gotten his strength back, it wasn’t hard for the likes of you to pick up on when he did act differently.

Levi could too.

It was mostly at night.

After a staff housing rotation in the castle, Levi’s quarters got moved a lot closer. Just down the hall type of closer. You liked that a lot, and so did Erwin. But he liked it less so when he’d wake up in the middle of the night, thrashing, sweating the sheets through, and you’d calm him down only to go fetch Levi so he could keep your husband company while you went to the kitchens and got him a drink to put him back to sleep again.

Erwin thought one of his loves knowing his nightmares was that bad was bad enough, but both? He could only try and convince himself that it was just your way of coping, and not your way of helping him cope.

He’d be up against the headboard by the time Levi quietly entered. Clad in his slacks and tunic, boots and sword belt on for good measure, though if Erwin wasn’t able to convince him to rid himself of them by the time you came in then you’d do it for him. Levi would make his way closer, coming to sit at his feet with a hand resting on Erwins leg.

Sometimes they’d talk about the nightmare - because Erwin would never talk about it with you, the horrors of his dreams worse than anything he’d dare subject you to, and Levi knew half of them off the back of his hand already, what's a few more? - other times about their day, often nothing at all. Just basking in the comfort of each other’s company until you came back to make their trio complete again.

You’d enter, looking like the epitome of beauty even though you hadn’t been fussed over by a half-dozen handmaidens, carrying a tray with two cups. For him and Levi. You’d recently gone off the tea you all shared together, and neither man would fuss over forcing you into something so menial as drinking tea. Not when they still had your company anyway.

Usually you’d fall back asleep by the time you were done drinking, tucked into Erwin’s side so low that Levi could rest a hand over both yours and Erwin’s legs at once. Levi would comment about how tired you’ve been lately, and Erwin would reply with something along the lines of you not resting more than you normally would even though you needed it.

Erwin never said so, not even to Levi, but more often than not, his nightmares were about you. Not the war.

About how there was a darkness growing inside you. Pulsing in your veins and pushing at your skin. Feeding off your own life force and sucking it dry. It stretched at you and made you bleed from the inside out. Bones broke and cracked and stuck out of your skin. Tar oozed from your mouth and blackened your eyes to nothing but a void. You were being torn apart right in front of his eyes and he couldn’t even move so much as to ask why.

Those were the nights he fought the hardest. Thrashing against the sheets and waking up in tears.

Those were the nights he talked with Levi about his day.

Those were the nights Levi knew that it was bad.

Levi, most days, would spend his time between watching you or Erwin, and checking in with the Prisoner.

Bringing Zeke into Mitras alive was the worst thing Levi could think of, in fact, one word from Erwin and he’d have the man’s head cut clean off his shoulders seconds later. If it weren’t for Erwin’s higher-in-command Royal Court and their pompous military personnel insisting to wait for the King’s call as to deal with the Prisoner, Levi would’ve gotten the job done weeks - months - ago. Back when they were still at the warfront, back when Erwin hadn’t even woken up yet.

But now, with things settling despite Erwin’s restless nights, an end date to Zeke’s life had been set. Erwin, with the blessings of the Kings Court, had decided on a public execution. The people of Mitras and its surrounds would have no doubt that the horrid rulers of their neighboring nation were no more.

Despite the event being a death, a buzz lined the city streets. Peace would not be a certainty until Zeke was dead, and peace was something all the people in Paradis could agree on.

Zeke’s death, for Levi, wouldn’t just bring peace to the country, but also peace to his own inner torment.

Zeke, like all other people on death row, had a final wish. It had been done for centuries, and apparently, even though he was a monster, Zeke still got such a final wish. When it turned out to do with you, Levi was less than willing to let you go, and Erwin wasn’t pleased either.

You, however, wanted to look into the eyes of the man who’d cost your country hundreds of lives, who cost your husband his arm, and almost cost the people their King.

Erwin couldn’t go with you, even if his duties allowed. The dying man’s last request required no one else to go with you to meet him, not even the guards posted at the end of the prison's hallways were allowed to stay until you walked back out again.

But you had a few tricks of your own, and you were not stupid enough to leave yourself alone with a madman like Zeke. In the time you’d spent in the castle, coming up two years, you’d learnt a thing or two about letting people know where you are, and where you are not. When you wanted to be heard and seen, and when you didn’t.

You told Levi, no matter what happened, or what was said, that he stayed put in that empty cell unless you told him otherwise.

You told him to trust you. To not make a single sound. To keep his steps in time with yours so no one could tell there were two people.

“Miss, I apologize for making you travel to a place as dirty as this. I hate to see pretty dresses getting soiled.” he said, leaning forwards off his cot.

“It’s ‘Your Majesty’.” you said, folding your hands over your front, “After that you address me as ‘Ma’am’. But I suppose I can forgive you twice - you’ve been stuck down here long enough to have forgotten your manners.”

His lips twitched back, smiling, and he stood to shake his hair away from his face.

“How kind of you, ma’am.” he tilted his head into a barely there bow. Mocking you. You had guessed beforehand that he was just messing around when he used his last request to see you, rather than send off a letter to any loved ones - you doubted he had any of those anyway. But this was a nail in his coffin to you.

You’d doubted yourself plenty - having come from nothing to become a Queen - but Erwin had made sure you knew your worth, him and Levi, and countless others. You were a Queen, if not by blood then by nature. You’d proved that, and proved you're worth a thousand times over, and you’ll do it a thousand times more. This blond bastard of a maniac was not going to change that.

Not that easily.

“Is there a reason I’m here, or have you just wasted my time?”

“Direct and to the point,” he cooed, “I like that.” He stepped closer, inching to the bars of his cell, and looked you up and down in the most direct way possible. You stood your ground, taking strength from knowing he couldn’t do anything to you from this distance, even if he did decide to try and reach past the iron bars. That, and Levi was close by.

He was being more of a strength to you than he knew.

“Don’t fuck around with flattery, tell me why I am here.” you said, looking at him hard in the eyes. He licked his lips, leisurely curling his arms around the bars and leaning against his cage.

“I don’t like that King of yours. I don’t really like anyone over here, in fact. But I’ve decided to throw a little party before I sort it all out, because even if I don’t like anyone here, I am a kind man.” He was no such thing.

You tilted your head at him, urging him to continue talking.

“I’ve heard rumor's about the pretty little doll Erwin picked up off some country street to be his Queen - I’ve found that here, rumor's and talk spreads very quickly among the guards and maids and such. Anyway, I knew I had to get a good look at you before I go.” he said, knocking his head on the iron in a way that could be likened to a stray cat rubbing against your legs wanting food. “Well was I sure not disappointed, and now my expectation has met reality, I want to give you a warning.”

“Why?” you said, feeling your jaw tense and an anger bubble in your stomach. “What would I need a warning for?”

“This castle is going to be under new management,” he murmured, “Very soon. And well, my heart can’t bear the thought of little you getting all messed up in a bloodbath like that - I told you I don’t like pretty dresses getting dirty.”

You snapped. Lunging forwards, you grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled him impossibly closer, smashing his head against the bars and splitting his lip.

“I find you so much as draw a blade to cut their hair and I’ll personally see that you never see another dawn after it.” He looked away, thinking, playing unbothered by your outburst.

“I have to pull you up on that one, dear Queen,” he said, “You said ‘their’.”

A drop of his blood dripped off his lip, down his chin, and onto your hand.

“Now surely that can’t just be you being the caring and kind ‘Queen of the People’ I’ve heard about, not wanting anyone getting hurt - don’t tell me you care about another like you care about your King. That would be a scandal!”

“You need to shut your mouth. You’ve had enough lying in your life, you’re putting the devil himself to shame.” Zeke’s hands curled around your wrists, jagged nails digging into the skin beneath your dress sleeve.

“And yet if I proclaimed such a thing to the heavens and gods themselves, not a single lie would spill from my lips.” he said, pulling you close to the bars just as you did to him, “You, though, would not be able to do the same.”

“He did what?”

Erwin heard the words leave his mouth before he thought about saying them. His feet moved next without his knowledge, standing and walking over to where you stood. His hand reached out and took hold of yours, tenderly brushing your skin to push the fabric of your sleeve up your arm, revealing the crescent moon indents lined on your wrist.

He turned your arm over, checking over the other side, before wordlessly doing the same to your other wrist.

“Did he do anything else to you?” he asked softly, hooking his finger under your chin to bring your eyes to his rather than the marks on your wrists. You shook your head.

“No, not to me.” Erwin looked at you, raising an eyebrow.

“What does that mean?”

“It means he’s planning something. A ‘bloodbath’ were his words.” you explained, “One that ends with him as the ruler of Mitras, not you.”

Erwin’s hand dropped from your chin to your shoulder, squeezing, and he looked over you to Levi.

“Is that what you heard?” You heard Levi’s armor move as he shifted from his post at the door.

“He had his voice lowered, if I were closer I’d be able to say for sure. But the words I caught were along those lines.” He said, “And I don’t know who in the castle we can trust anymore.”

You hummed, agreeing, and Erwin looked between the both of you.

“What else happened down there?”

“He said rumor's spread quickly among the staff here. If he’s planning some ambush or assassination he’d have to do so with the people already here in the castle.” Levi said, “There’s no way in the high heavens that he could be conspiring something like this with someone from Marley. Borders have been shut too long for that.”

“Whose been attending to him? Who serves him food?” Erwin asked.

“I don’t know,” Levi said, “But his guards have often been Yelena and Onyankopon, shifts of theirs were shared with Floch and one of his buddies.”

“Take them all into questioning, but keep this on a need-to-know basis.” Erwin said, “Like you said, we don’t know who we can trust.” He turned to you as Levi left, presumably to go and do immediately what Erwin had told him to. Diligent as ever.

“We need to sort out your handmaidens,” Erwin started, “We could get you new ones, ones you and I both trust, they can be from your hometown. You have a sister right? She can come and -” He was rambling. Very - extremely - uncharacteristic of him.

“- Erwin!” you said, cupping his face in both your hands to pull his attention to you, “I’ll be fine. I trust all my handmaidens, there’s no need to replace any of them. They all dislike Zeke too much to commit treason for his sake.”

“But if there’s something going to happen here, I want you to be safe.” Erwin heard you laugh bitterly at his words, and he frowned.

“As much of a bloodbath as it might be, Zeke said he didn’t want me getting in among it all. That’s why he told me.” you said, “But I’d rather stay with you, and Levi, even if it means I’m not safe.”

Erwin had walked you back to your room after your talk. Things had been sorted, plans were made.

Both of you had your mourning rekindled - the loss of many, Miche more now than ever, during the war was one hard felt in times like these. He could pick out an ambush in a crowd like a bloodhound hunted a deer. That was why he was your guard to begin with. While Levi was a more skilled fighter, Miche could tell when danger was near and could steer you away from it before the fighting even began. You were close friends with him, just as he was a childhood friend of Erwin’s.

The losses from the war kept reminding themselves they existed. The pain kept returning, like stitches being pulled from a wound too-early. Trouble kept biting at your heels, no matter how high you scrambled to stay away from it. Hope, peace, nor anything else that was good, didn’t seem too deserved in times like these.

Which is why you were holding off speaking any good news, just to make sure you didn’t jinx anything.

Aside from yourself, and your handmaidens, no one else knew about the secret you held. No one else knew the reason you were feeling unwell, tired, restless. Many marked it as stress - being a Queen in times like these wasn’t easy - however if they had a keen eye, and knew what to look for, maybe they’d get a hint.

The odd cravings, going off certain tastes and smells, not being seen most mornings, the dresses that slowly started changing styles to hide your secret perfectly.

Your group of handmaids only knew because such things as not bleeding for three months, and a little bump below your stomach starting to grow which was not there before, those things were very hard to hide from the people who you were with more often than you were your own husband.

The changes you were going through were ones you made sure to hide - even from Erwin and Levi.

How Erwin reacted to what Zeke said proved it. He’d do anything to make sure you were safe, if he knew you had a child, he wouldn’t take no for an answer anymore. You knew that. And when things were getting this bad, you knew you’d be more help staying, not for your sake, but for theirs.

The day had come, and Levi didn’t think anyone was more unsure about the whole ordeal than he was.

There were a lot of things that could go wrong, and the idea that Zeke had gotten his hooks into any of the people of Mitras set him on edge. A public hanging seemed too good for a man like him, like it was just another final chance for him to shine like the raging fire he was. Another chance for him to take the spotlight when it wasn’t deserved.

Despite the gruesome nature of the event, the area of the city gallows was packed to the brim with people waiting, watching, wanting to see a man die. Yes, the country of Paradis was home to peace, housed peaceful people, but those people were still human. And humans were drawn to death, and suffering, and pain. Even among Mitras there would be people who were cruel. Mean. Awful. Sadistic.

There would be people just like Zeke.

Levi guessed that was why they were here now. Acting how they were, doing what they were.

The King and Queen sat on a podium to the far left of the gallows, raised above the crowds. Levi’s eyes flicked through the hundreds of faces below where he stood on the stairs, trying to sift out who could cause harm and who wouldn’t. Who would betray their leaders and country in favor of a madman’s loose words.

What worried him most wasn’t the looming threat, it was the fact he couldn’t see a single reason why or how this could go any more wrong than it already had. Not until he saw guards gone missing from their posts did he realize that things were going wrong right now - and by then there was nothing he could do anyway.

By then it was too late.

Erwin saw it all before Levi did.

He had always been one to strategize, to sit and think, to work out puzzles and problems before they became an issue. He’d been out of the game recovering from the war for months, and now he was paying the price. You were paying the price, and so was Levi.

Even if you all managed to get out alive from this, there would be some part of himself that would never be forgiving enough to forget it happened.

He’d been up all night, piecing together what Zeke did, and realized at dawn that this went back a lot further than the war. There were people in the castle that had turned against him, and he knew they weren’t the ones that had been here the longest, joining the staff not long before he met you. An influx of new strangers who wanted jobs at the royal residence.

After all, people lie all the time. What's changing the country you were born in when all anyone could go off was the words that came out of your mouth?

He knew a few by heart - Yelena and Onyankopon were the two that were front in that list, despite how their cooperation left him feeling uneasy, some others were, Reiner and Porco, guards Levi had been training - but the one that really had him worried was a woman named Pieck. One of your handmaidens.

You’d told him, more than once, that you’d trust each of them with your own life, Pieck named specifically on one occasion, and reassured him the night before that none of the handmaids would ever pick Zeke over him, or you. And yet.

It all happened so fast. Faster than you could ever have imagined.

Zeke was being led onto the gallows, the rope secured around his neck, he looked your way, smiling, then his head was covered. Everyone knew what he had done, why they were here - there was no need to read charges or give a speech about why he was dying. He was supposed to be dead already.

Neck snapping after the boards under his feet were pulled away, or simply strangling, wriggling like a fish on a hook until he didn’t have any breath left.

But that's not what happened.

Arrows screamed through the air, landing on every guard on the gallows and leaving only Zeke alive. The crowds were thrown into chaos, with people pushing left and right in a sea of bodies trying to find cover. Another wave of arrows reached the crowds, and people fell dead again.

You looked over to Levi, seeking direction on what to do, where to go, only to find he was gone. Levi was gone and there was a man holding a sword to Erwin’s throat. You wanted to reach out, to speak - to do something that wasn’t uselessly standing there watching the blond man holding your husband's life in his hands - but even if you did, you would’ve never gotten the chance. An arm wrapped around your neck and a knife positioned at your lower belly.

The soft voice of one of the women you trusted most made you want to cry.

“You’re coming with me, majesty.”

By the time the crowd dispersed, and Levi had fought off anyone and everyone who was in his way, and by the time he was able to get back to where you or Erwin were supposed to be, there was nothing - or no one - to find.

Everyone he was supposed to keep safe, had vanished, and for one awful, pitiful moment, all he could do was stand there staring at the empty seats, wishing he’d never gotten swept away in the crowd. However it was his staring that snapped him out of his thoughts and feelings.

Drops of darkening blood sat on the wooden boards, acting innocent but alluding to something much more sinister.

It made Levi angry. Fists clenched and released at his sides, then he wiped the blood off his cheek and turned around. A few guards still remained, though a number of them left wherever Zeke went, and some were lost in whatever shits-how just happened, while others simply ran away.

The faces he saw were young and old alike. Some surprised him - Jean, Marlo, Hitch, and Annie weren’t ones he’d have picked to have stuck around two weeks ago. While others less so - Sasha and Connie had always been wild cards, and the likes of Pixis and Hannes were loyal if nothing else.

Those that were still here were ones he could trust, that much he knew.

“Our main, and biggest priority is returning the King and Queen back to where it's safe.” he said, “They can’t have gotten out of the city yet, so make sure whoever took them never gets the chance.”

Levi had sent out whatever of his soldiers and guards he could, everywhere he could. It had been hours, and so far not a single sign of Erwin or you had been found in the entire city of Mitras.

Actually, that was a lie.

Levi had managed to track a blood trail from the podium at the gallows to a spot a couple streets over. The trail stopped in the middle of the road, and he could only assume there was a wagon of some kind waiting. Whoever’s blood it was - your or Erwin’s - it meant they could be anywhere by now.

Either way, he knew his duty meant he should put priority on Erwin. He was the one in more danger, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was more important. He was the King, a born royal, and the one most in danger as far as Zeke’s plans went. You were not. Levi didn’t doubt that one of the reasons why the people in Mitras were so content with you ruling while Erwin was at war was because Erwin was still alive.

However, if he died?

The only reason you’d have for staying in the castle at all was because you used to be his wife. But Levi didn’t see any other option for a ruler otherwise - unless the people preferred Zeke over you.

With how things turned out today, Levi’s hopes weren’t high.

The dark of night was settling in, everyone was getting tired. But he wasn’t going to stop. He had a hunch, a feeling, one of you was definitely still in the city, and he wasn’t going to rest until he found who he was looking for.

Erwin didn’t know where he was. The last thing he saw was you being dragged away by Pieck before he was hit on the head.

Where he woke was dark, and cold. His arm was squished to his side, and everywhere around him he felt walls. Wetting his lips, there was a lingering taste of blood in his mouth. Something groaned, maybe him, maybe the wood he was lying on, he couldn’t tell. The darkness in the small room - box, practically - was overwhelming.

Too dark.

He closed his eyes and everything stayed the same. He could see nothing and yet all he could see was you. Tears in your eyes, an arm around your throat, a knife pulled on you and digging into your dress just below your bodice. Where are you now? Were you okay? Are you alive?

He shook his head. No, you wouldn’t be dead - not yet. You told him Zeke wanted you alive, but Erwin didn’t know if that was any better. Surely whatever he had in store would be just the same as death.

And then Levi, what happened to him? Erwin didn’t doubt that whatever happened, he was okay. He was alive. But he also knew that it didn’t matter how injured Levi was, his determination would be enough to keep him going, and that worried him. If Levi pushed himself too far then that could kill him instead.

Shuffling, he tried to push at the walls, finding no give anywhere. Nothing but more darkness. Then he wondered what was supposed to happen to him?

Death? Surely.

But locking him in a way too small box, waiting for him to die, didn’t seem like something Zeke would do. He was too cocky, too proud, to not gloat at least before death took him. So where was he?

You had to admit, gagging you was a very good idea on your kidnappers part.

Tying you to a chair seemed a bit unnecessary.

Taking over the castle immediately after performing the coup was dramatic, however you guessed that was, like, the whole fucking point. It wasn't like you made a habit of being tied up in your own home.

Pieck had taken to standing in the corner, facing the wrath of your angry stare with lowered eyes and a bored face. You also imagined the gag was so you couldn’t throw your bitter words at her in a time such as now.

Yelena had walked in a few moments ago, not straying far from the doorway, and quite frankly you were wondering to yourself which you didn’t like more. They both betrayed you, and that couldn’t be forgiven, however as bored as Pieck looked, she wasn’t looking happy. Not like Yelena was.

A little quirk of her lips that definitely reached her eyes.

You’d spit at her for the smugness if you could.

The door opened, and in walked the biggest ego you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Zeke was here, in front of you, in your home, wearing Erwin’s clothes. How the hell they fit him, you didn’t know, but with the struggle you gave everyone to get yourself where you were right then, he’d have had time to have gotten it altered.

You did have a very efficient tailor.

“Sweetheart! Wonderful to see you made it back -” he looked you up and down, spotting the bloodstain on the gag around your mouth, “- in one piece.”

He walked over, standing so his toes touched yours. If your legs weren’t bound to the chair, you would’ve kicked him right in the -

“You know it is a shame we had to tie you up,” His hand reached up, brushing a finger along your hairline, “But I couldn’t have you running away on me.” His fingers wove through your hair, catching along the back of your skull and gripping hard, pulling your head back. “You fought too hard, and it’s been made very clear to me that your old husband didn’t make sure you were properly trained.”

‘Old’ husband? Your eyes widened, and he smiled.

“You’re so smart, maybe that’s why he kept you so long.” His other hand reached up, hooking over your gag and tugging it down past your chin. “Now tell me what he left behind.”

“What did you do to him?” you whispered.

“I did nothing. But some associates of mine put him six feet under.” He tilted his head mockingly at you, pouting. “But don’t worry, he’s not dead yet. Probably will be in a few hours though.”

“How dare you - I’ll kill you!” You screamed, “May you burn in hell for what you’ve done! You monster! I’ll kill you! -”

He grabbed your face, fingers digging into your jaw and cheeks just like he did your arm.

“You’re so pathetic. I only asked you one question, other than that you can keep your whore mouth shut, understand?” Your chest heaved, and you felt tears of anger burning behind your eyes, but you said nothing more. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. “That’s better. Now tell me the truth, because I want to hear it from your mouth and not hers.” he gestured back to Pieck.

“What has Erwin left behind?”

A guard, Anka, met with Levi in a small street beside a tavern. She told him her and her partner Gustav had spotted lights in the castle, as well as the starred Marelyan flag having replaced that of the one belonging to Paradis’ wings of freedom.

Levi knew what that meant. He wasn’t stupid. But then she explained further, that she and Gustav had discreetly asked around the remaining castle staff as to what happened. As suspected, Zeke was there, but so were you. Brought in soon after the coup, bound, gagged, and being led blind, kicking up your feet and making the biggest fuss about the whole ordeal as you could.

He refrained from smiling about it, but it was so like you. And at least he knew where to find you now - or where to focus looking. At least the last people saw of you was you alive.

Angry, but alive.

Now he started to think of how to get you back where it was safe. However, they still needed to find Erwin. Desperately. The more time spent with him not found, was more time Zeke’s people had to get him further away and do something that he wouldn’t be able to be rescued from.

“I need you to do something for me.” Levi said, and Anka nodded, standing straighter. “I need to go to Orvud, to find some help at the chapel there. You’re to take the other guards and start searching for the King further out of the city. But keep some people here to keep an eye on things, to make sure nothing happens to the Queen. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

After the instructions were given, Anka nodded again, determined and full of trust, and walked away, taking Gustav with her.

Levi sighed deeply, leaning back against the wall. His hand covered his face as he rubbed at his eyes.

“You’d better stay alive, Erwin.”

He could hear things.

For hours it seemed, Erwin was stuck in that dark box, and now he was hearing things. It didn’t seem like a long enough time to go insane, but it was stuffy, struggling to breathe was somewhat becoming normal, and yet still more difficult.

The noises became more clear. Scratching, right in front of his face.

Then another noise. Different. A voice. It was muffled, and Erwin couldn’t make out any of the words being said. But they sounded young. With more scratching the voices became clearer, and soon after it multiplied into more than one.

The box shifted.

More scratching.

“... The man said they’d come back…” He caught a voice staying.

“... Can’t be that bad…” Went another one.

“... Bury all sorts…”

“... Go home…”

“... Just open it and see…”

The box shifted again, and Erwin felt himself move with it. A thud above his head, a groan of wood, and then splintering as the box was cracked open.

Erwin’s eyes shut on instinct, then opened again to fight the light of fire, and four pairs of eyes stared at him.

“Greetings.” he croaked. Everyone screamed, then ran away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You croaked, looking up at Zeke with as much venom in your eyes as you could muster. “You should try being a little more specific, if you want a specific answer.”

“Don’t test me.” He said. “You’re already on thin ice, don’t make it worse for yourself.”

“You’re not making any sense, I don’t know what you want me to tell you -”

Zeke’s hand raised, and then you weren’t looking at him anymore. Your head flung to the side and your cheek stung like it had been placed on a hot iron. You felt your lip go wet, and you tasted iron. Then he stood over you, reaching a hand over to grasp the chair beside your shoulder. A fist flew into your stomach, and the breath was knocked from your lungs.

If you weren’t so focused on your pain, you could've heard a quiet gasp sounding in the room.

He leaned over you, watching as a tear spilled onto your cheek, quelling the heat of the hit. You coughed, feeling as much sick to your stomach as you felt it hurt, and swallowed harshly to stop the sob from escaping your throat.

“You’re not having anyone's baby, unless it’s mine.” He murmured. “I don’t care what you do to get rid of that thing, but if you don’t, I will. And I don't care if it means you die too.”

He stepped back, looking down at you with something you couldn’t place and then left, Yelena stepping forward in his place. She hunched over you.

“Hi, my name is Yelena. I’ll be your doctor this evening.”

In their haste to leave, the people that freed Erwin from the box dropped one of their torches. With it, and having made sure it was lit again, he looked around at where he was.

Below him was the box, still half buried in dirt. Laying there all suspicious-like. Too much like a mediocre coffin and unmarked grave for his liking, but the message was clear. If those people - those teenagers - hadn’t decided to dig up that box and pry it open, he’d have died there. No food. No water. No air.

He was meant to die there.

As far as he knew, he was already dead to the people who buried him. He thought to himself that there could be some advantages to being a ghost. Sticking the torch in the ground, he started pulling over branches and stones, filling the box until it might’ve weighed the same as he did. Then put the box back together, and buried it again.

Now out of breath, and needing to sit down, he leaned against a tree and brushed the dirt off his hand onto his pant leg. He then realized he’s been stripped off most of his clothes, only being left in his tunic and slacks, with a mercy given in that they decided he’d be buried with his shoes on.

How kind of them.

He looked around, now trying to bare his internal compass and figure out where he was. No lights were in sight aside from the stars and moon above him - meaning the city wasn’t close-by, and no small town near either. The box was on the outskirts of woodlands, however he gathered that there must’ve been some place to live nearby - where else did his saviors come from or run away to?

Walking out to the clearing, he squinted, seeing a road. Once he reached it, he had a fifty/fifty chance of choosing the right direction. He looked left, and right. Then down to the road. He sighed, and looked up.

“I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.” He started walking.

He hadn’t been on the boats in a long time, however he was pleasantly surprised when he’d reached the wharf at Orvud at dawn. The trip was quicker than Levi thought it would be.

Along the way he ditched the parts of his armor that bore the royal crest. Breastplate, shoulder pads, and medals of honor were thrown overboard into the river, and the cloak turned inside out. He was able to fit in well with the others in the streets like that.

Levi stopped to gain his bearings, finding a sign that directed patrons of the town to the chapel, and weaved his way in its direction. Thunder cracked overhead as the building came into sight on the edge of the town, and he made it to the doorway just before rain started pouring down.

He shouldered the door open, startling an old woman in one of the pews, and a small group of kids huddled off to the side crowding around a loaf of bread. A man stood at the end of the aisle, back facing the door, and apparently looking up at the stained glass.

Levi walked closer, making it known that he was here, before speaking out to the man.

“I thought you gave up taking in kids after how bad I turned out.” The man moved, and Levi caught a smile on his face before he turned to him fully.

“Course you’d think that. I never did get to tell you how much you were my pride and joy.” He said. “I put a hell of a lot of work into raising you, boy. Lookin’ at you now, it turns out I wasn’t so bad as a father figure after all.”

The man reached out, patting Levi on the shoulder before brushing past to sit at the front pew and pat the set next to him.

“Now c’mere and tell me why you finally decided to visit your old Uncle Kenny after so many years.”

Last night was nothing short of a nightmare for you.

With no way to help yourself, and no help seeming to come from an outside or inside source, all you could do was brace yourself for whatever hell Yelena put you through on behalf of Zeke. However it wasn’t so much a nightmare because of that.

In the early hours of the morning, Yelena left, deeming you and herself in need of a rest, if only for a few minutes. That was when you realized Pieck was still in the room. That she’d never even left.

“You did this.” She looked at you, flashing hurt across her face.

That she’d stood there watching. Watching as Zeke threatened you and your child, watching as Yelena tried to beat life out of you with her own two hands. Over and over again.

You managed to lift your head, spitting the blood from your mouth, and looked at her.

“I didn’t know -”

“Bullshit, Pieck.” you hissed, “You’re smarter than that, and we both know it. Were you really expecting anything else?”

For a few moments she just looked at you, and then she moved. She was at your sides, arms, feet, behind you at your waist. One by one your restraints loosened, and you were a little shocked at her sudden change of heart.

Once they were all done, and she was in front of you again, you reached up and grabbed her collar to pull her to your face.

“Why?” you said. She ignored your aggression and grabbed your arms, hoisting you up out of the chair to stand.

“I thought I didn’t care, or that Zeke wouldn’t kill you. But I guess that was just me lying to myself.” she said. “I’m so sorry. Let me try and make it up to you. Let me help you escape.”

“How do I know I can trust you after what you’ve done?” you asked, voice cracking. She shook her head.

“I don't know. And if I were you I probably wouldn’t.” she replied, and gave you a sad smile, “But I’m not you.” And hence the nightmare of leaving the castle began.

Ewin had met two rain showers, and the light of dawn, by the time a town came into sight. Admittedly, he wasn’t walking very fast, and the idea that someone not so friendly could still be in whatever town he came across wasn’t a far-fetched one.

But it had been all night, and before he saw the town, he did start to think he’d gone in the wrong direction.

It was small. All buildings of straw rooftops and mudbrick walls. Some people had started going about their lives, while it was very clear that other places wouldn’t see a sign of life for a good few hours more. It reminded him of the place you told him about growing up in, from the sleeping blacksmiths store to the empty market stalls.

“Oh my…” he heard a gasp beside him. Turning, he saw a boy in the street between two houses, looking at him like he’d seen a ghost. He looked familiar - huge blue eyes, blond hair - and it was those eyes that gave him away.

One of the teenagers that dug him up.

“Hey, you were -” But before Erwin could finish reaching out to speak to him, the boy ran away with a trip of his feet and a yelp. “Hey!” Erwin didn’t know what else to do except follow wherever he ran off to.

He didn’t get very far, not just because there weren't many places to go in such a small town, but because a firm hand was placed on his shoulder from behind and stopped him in his tracks. For one awful moment Erwin thought his enemies had found him again.

“What’re you doing following that boy?” a slurred but deep voice asked. Erwin turned, and was met with a face that was too familiar. “You’re not from here, so you’d better have a good excuse.”

His hair was longer, face seemingly older, and scarred, eyes darker. But it was him. Here. Alive. The face and body of a man he thought he’d lost not so long ago. His oldest friend.

Another man appeared over his shoulder, followed by another, the second whose face was also familiar, but for a different reason. That man’s face looked far too much like yours to be a coincidence.

“Miche, whose this man you have here?”

“So where exactly do you get this stuff from?” Levi asked, dipping a hand into the barrel of black powder, raising it and letting it sift through his fingers.

After telling Kenny about what had happened, minus a few details on the more personal side, Kenny seemed rather amused about the whole situation. When asked if he could help Levi, he even agreed without Levi having to pull over half the strings he was preparing to. Levi guessed Kenny must have been left bored for too long.

When Levi told Kenny his plan, his uncle shook his head, muttering about how he raised him to think up something better than that. Together they put together a new one, with a main component that was hidden in the chapel’s secret basement.

“Cousin of mine’s wife. Apparently royal connections in the family are something I keep stumbling upon.” Kenny started. “She gave up the more fancy life but has still kept up some connections. I’ve grabbed such connections and made use of them.”

“Wouldn’t expect less from you.” Levi said. He pinched it between his fingers, rubbing it together and bringing it to his nose to smell. “So you said it’s…Explosive?”

“Well yeah. You’ve probably seen it already in those fireworks that King of yours has had at his parties. Same stuff from the same people. This is just the deadly side, not the pretty one.” Kenny scratched at his chin, leaning on the barrel. “Packs one hell of a punch, let me tell you.”

“You’ve used it already?”

“Incognito, yes.” Levi stepped back, and folded his arms over his chest.

“So you’d know how to use it against people?” Kenny’s eyes narrowed.

“You really want him dead, don’t you?”

“This powder would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question, I’m too old for that.” Kenny shook his head. Levi frowned at him, simply waiting for an answer instead. “It’d be better for a distraction, but yes. It could kill.” Levi nodded.

“How many people here know how to use it?”

“Couple dozen.”

“How many would help us?” That got the old man thinking. But after a moment his eyes lit up.

“One of them is the littlest Reiss Princess. Got the whole town wrapped around her finger, that one. We convince her, then we can get all of them.”

Being in the castle, in your home, knowing that anyone that saw you could cost you your freedom - and Pieck her life - put you on edge.

You were moving slow, not just because you had to be careful, but because you hurt too badly to move much faster. You probably couldn’t go quicker than a jog even if you wanted to. A constant throbbing in your jaw, and throat, and chest, meant your breathing came out too loud. The ache in your abdomen left you hobbling and clutching the flesh there to try and ease the pain. Even your arms and legs hurt from how they were tied, and how tense you had held them during the whole ordeal.

Leant against a wall, hiding in the shadow of one of the open drapes, you took in a few deep breaths. Nothing was sitting right. Nothing felt right anymore. Where was Levi? Why wasn’t he here yet? How many people knew Erwin was dead, and Zeke was two steps off being the official King? Where did they bury Erwin? How could you get to him to take him and bury him somewhere better? Where was Levi?

It all felt like too much, and it took far too much of whatever strength you had left to not let your legs give out underneath you. You needed something. You needed someone. You needed Erwin. You needed Levi! -

“Come. You need a doctor, we need to keep moving, find you help.” Pieck urged. She took hold of your arms, moving you forward again and through a door.

“No, no, it’s not. I can’t feel it anymore, it’s not okay.” Words came out slurred, not making sense. You could barely tell where you were anymore, too overwhelmed to even see straight, but you felt another pair of hands grab hold of you.

Panicking, you tried pushing away and crying out for help, but a hand wrapped around your mouth, and fingers touched your cheek, and your blurry eyes met those of your new companion. You stilled, settled. The hand released your mouth.

“Hange…”

“It’s okay,” they shushed you, Pieck helping them maneuver you behind a set of shelves, only to have them pushed back to cover you all in darkness. “Moblit will have to stay behind, but you’re okay now. You’re with friends now. You’re safe.”

Levi wasn’t sure how much he trusted Kenny with recruiting people to use the gunpowder, but he didn’t see another choice. Anyways, he didn’t see anyone else he could trust more to find extra muscle right now.

If the people Kenny gathered were not brutal enough to get this job done, then Levi didn’t love Erwin or you at all.

He’d been moving barrels from the chapel to the boat Kenny said to use, and slowly more people started showing up, wordlessly starting to help. Eventually a girl came over, flanked by another taller, tanned girl.

“You’re Levi, right.” The blonde said, nodding after he nodded in acknowledgement. “I’m Historia. Kenny told us about what happened at Mitras, and, well…” she started to shy away under his stare. Then the other girl pushed her forwards, out of the way, to speak up.

“She met the Queen once, before they and the King married. Bubs here is just trying to say she’ll do whatever she can to help.” She said, before shrugging her shoulders. “If she does then so do I.”

“That’s appreciated -”

“Oi, boy!” Kenny interrupted, approaching from across the street with definitely more than a ‘few dozen’ people. “I found a few extras who thought the idea of overthrowing a government right after it’s been overthrown sounded fun.”

Levi stood, eyeing the group alongside Historia and her friend. Kenny laughed at something one of them said, before sulking over to Levi’s side.

“They're drunk, aren’t they?”

“Most of them are, but many hands make light work. If anything they’ll be good for causing a few little distractions over the city.” They all stood watching a little longer. Levi spotted one who looked like he was about to be sick, while two others had started passionately making out. Kenny patted his shoulder and turned around.

“Let’s go get that throne back for you.”

The men had been very apprehensive in taking Erwin inside. He however, was far too busy trying to piece together how the man in front of him was still alive.

He’d seen Miche die with his own two eyes, and yet he was standing on his own two legs as if nothing had happened. He looked a little worse for wear - a limp and crutch to prove that his injuries went beyond the gnarled scars across the crown of his head and the right of his face. But Erwin didn’t think that was the worst of it - when he’d repeated Miche’s name, his old friend looked at him with the worst glare he’d ever given him.

Miche didn’t remember him at all.

Nevertheless, they still had him seated inside a house at a table while a woman wordlessly stood at a stove across the room.

The oldest man, the one that had your hairline and same fierce look in his eyes that you’d sometimes have, sat at the head of the table, legs and arms both crossed, and looking at Erwin with his head tilted down. He was doing something you also did - reading the room, or a person - even if you did so less obviously.

To his left was the third man, burdened with a scruff of a beard and coal colored hair. Much like the older man, he didn’t have a very happy look painted on his face, however the lines around his eyes told Erwin that his look was less painted and more permanent.

The woman walked away from the stove to Erwin’s side, sliding a bowl of stew and a spoon in front of him before then leaving the room completely.

Only after Erwin apprehensively took a few mouthfuls of the food did the older man talk again.

“You never did answer Miche’s question before.” he said, “What were you wanting with that boy earlier.”

Erwin swallowed a large chunk of potato.

“It’s a long story.” He said, and Miche leaned forwards, resting his arms on the table.

“I think we can make time,” he said. “From the state of you, it should be a good one.”

Erwin thought about what would surely be happening in Mitras right now, the chaos and danger that was no doubt being caused by Zeke, and shook his head.

“I don’t really have the time -”

“- Then give us the short version.” The older man said, and the third stood up to the door, pulling the deadbolt shut. “Because we don’t take lightly to people like you coming into my town and harassing children. You’re not leaving until we know we can trust you.”

Erwin raised his eyebrows. He was caught in the middle of a misunderstanding. It was clear to him that these people didn’t know who he was, and he was feeling like they wouldn’t really care - he had very few cards left and he needed to figure out how to play them. Quickly.

He said your name.

If it weren’t for the third man hesitating, or Miche’s glance to the older man, Erwin may have thought that it wasn’t worth the gamble. However it turned out it was.

“How do you know them?” The older man asked, leaning forwards and uncrossing his arms with a small smile. The kind you get when you’re remembering someone fondly.

“I’m the king, I think I ought to know who my own wife is.”

“You’re Erwin?” The third man spoke for the first time, eyeing him up and down. “I thought you would’ve dressed more pompous.”

“Nile,” Miche said, warning in his voice. “If he is who he says he is, you'd better watch what you say.”

“Oh?” Nile turned to Erwin, “And how can you prove to be who you say you are? You don’t have so much as a ring to say you’re married at all.”

Erwin froze. His spoon dropped and he looked down at his hand to find - yes - his wedding band was not there anymore. He cursed himself for not realizing sooner, something that he probably would have noticed if not for the fact he felt like he was going half insane with how fast events were moving, and what things he needed to do in such a short amount of time.

“No,” the older man said, “He is who he says he is.”

“How do you know that?” Nile scoffed.

“You weren’t too keen on bringing Miche back with us from the war, and yet now you are practically brothers.” The man said, “My judgment has never been wrong before.”

Nile huffed, defeated, and looked like he was ready to leave. Miche however, now took his turn to give Erwin a once-over, a faint look of remembrance flashed over his features as quickly as it went away again.

“There’s been rumors from my vine of a new king in Mitras,” Miche said, “Rumors that often start with ‘the old king is dead’ and end with ‘long live the king’. I think we really do need that long story now.”

“Spare no details, especially those about the Queen.” the man, your father, added.

Levi sat alone at the boat’s bow, legs dangling over the edge as he fished out the chain under his tunic. Weighing it down was a silver band. It had no engravings, no stones. Simple - bland - anonymous. But it meant more to him than any other material thing in the whole world.

By lunchtime, a small armada of boats left Orvud. Bound for Mitras, with cargo hulls full of gunpowder, and a combined passenger and crew total of around two hundred souls.

If luck was on their side, the castle would be theirs by nightfall, and Levi would have Zeke’s head on a pike.

Not even one month ago, after one of Erwin’s nightmares, you’d settled back into the pillows of your bed, tucked into Erwin’s arm-less side. Levi sat at your feet, legs crossed under him, and he watched Erwin press a kiss to your forehead before mumbling something to you - so quiet that he didn’t even catch it.

But it made you roll over, and grab a piece of folded cloth that was on your bedside table.

“Levi, we want you to have something.” Erwin started, “We’d understand if you refused, but it’d mean everything to us if you’d take it.” You seemed to pick up on his confusion, because then you spoke too.

“We’ve had our wedding band’s updated. Apparently it’s tradition with royalty here to only get your permanent rings after one year of marriage.” You scooted closer, unfolding the fabric to reveal - not two - but three silver bands. “Yours, we had to go through a bit of trouble to get made without anyone knowing. But I hope you still like it.” Your voice was soft as you laid the fabric down on the bed covers.

It was obvious to him which two were for you and Erwin.

The first, smaller and thinner, but pressed with diamonds and engravings, was yours. The second, much thicker, lacking in gemstones but heavily carved with engravings, was Erwins. Both decorated, regal, fitting for a king and his queen.

And the third, plain, simple, but made of the exact same silver as the other two, was his.

He slowly reached forward, fingers grazing over each band before settling on his.

“We had it made to match.” Erwin started, the sound of his voice making Levi look up to meet his eyes. “I know that before this time in my life -”

Before he married you.

“- If I had the chance, I would’ve married you in a heartbeat, Levi. It’s still not a proper arrangement, but to us it’s real.”

Levi looked over at you, studying, gauging your reaction and feelings. You caught his eye and smiled, nodding.

“I hope you accept it. Accept both of us enough to take it.”

He didn’t know what to say at the time, all he did was say thank you. But now he’d wished he’d said more. Did more. He wished he’d told you both how much he loved you. He’d wished he’d held you close. Kissed you. He’d never been a man of many words, but he wished he’d found it in himself to let his actions speak for him that night.

Levi held the chain in both hands, bringing them and the silver band up to his lips. His eyes closed, and he told himself he’d get the chance to do it in the future. That it wasn’t too late.

Out of everything he’d felt over the last twenty-four hours - the dread, and pain - he hadn’t felt like mourning. He hadn’t had the wash of sadness that had come over him in the past when the world had taken someone he’d loved.

No one he loved had died yet, and he’d bleed himself dry before he let that happen.

As it turned out, Erwin’s story wasn’t as long as he thought it would be. Considering most of it was either spent buried underground or walking, he didn’t know what else he expected.

However, that didn’t stop the urgency that suddenly started plaguing your father.

Erwin had never met the man before - he was present at his wedding, but there wasn’t exactly an option to mingle at the ceremony, and there were too many other people prying him of his time to have sought your parents out at dinner that night. Even so, Erwin was surprised with how different he was from your portrayal of him.

With the news that his grown child’s life was in danger, he gained a sense of hostility, urgency. Commanding, yes - Erwin had always pictured him as a pillar in your entire hometown - but being able to muster farmers and stall managers and the blacksmith to fight for him in your name? That was the quality of a king. Erwin had seen his own father do it many times.

He could only see that you’d inherited your knack for ruling from your father, instead of observing and learning it from your husband.

“Can you fight?” Miche appeared at his side, his crutch traded for a pole-axe, and a longsword in his other hand.

“Can you?” Erwin asked, taking the sword after it was offered, and testing its weight while side-eying the blond.

“Probably better than you, your majesty. Even if we’re both cripples I’ve had a longer time to practice.” Erwin smiled, happy to know whatever snark Miche had before he lost his memory was still intact.

One of the women in the town came up to them both, a bow was hanging off her shoulder, and in her arms were jackets. She offered one to Erwin first, and he took it gratefully, before she turned to help Miche put the other on.

“Thank you, Nanaba.” He smiled down at her, watching as she nodded and walked off again. Erwin grinned.

“You like her, don’t you -” Miche shushed him as quickly as he started talking, but he could only turn away to hide the smile on his face at being caught.

“Your highness,” your father called, already seated on a rusty brown horse, “We have to go if we want to make it by nightfall!”

#broken with gold #eruri x reader #erwin smith x reader #levi ackerman x reader #zeke jaeger x reader #medieval au #royal au #knight au #attack on titan x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #aot x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x y/n #snk x you #attack on titan x you #shingeki no kyojin x you #erwin smith x levi ackerman

[julek]

my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

+

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.���

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

+

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

+

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I���ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

#mywriting #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfic #geraskier fluff #jeff buckley lyrics my beloved

[kythed]

circus mirrors & stereo hearts

sugawara koushi x reader

this one goes out to my new friend, @twat-101 :) it’s a bit long, but I hope you still like it ! sending lotsa love your way <3

synopsis: (y/n) is struggling with her mental health so her best friend suga-san invites her over to study. general chaos and dumbassery ensues.

warnings: some swearing, mentions of mental health struggles, suga’s tone deaf singing.

word count: 4,226

--

Koushi always kept his windows open. Always.

In the winter, this transformed his room into a tiny Antarctica, replete with stray snowflakes, but in the summer, it meant cool tradewinds cutting through the typically stifling heat, creating a little pocket of the ideal climate. You often found yourself there in these warmer months, perched on the corner of his bed, contently listening to him blithely gossip about his teammates or playing a giggly game of Connect Four rife with not so subtle cheating.

Today, a sunny August Saturday, was no different. Koushi sat cross legged on the carpet. Sprawled out across his pale blue comforter, which smelled of fresh linen and that familiar Old Spice he’d been wearing since the eighth grade, you listened to him recite a chapter from your history book, something about post World War II foreign policy. Struggling to remain attentive, however, you found yourself spiraling into those cheerless resignations of hopelessness that had been far too frequent for you lately.

“--which resulted in Europe’s economic recovery chiefly in terms of raw materials, food, and fuel. The Soviet Union soon attempted to replicate a similar plan but ultimately-- hey, (Y/N)?”

You blinked hard and sunk back into reality, turning onto your cheek to look Koushi in his big brown eyes full of rather matronly concern. “Hmm?”

“Do you know what we’re learning about right now?” he asked, sounding both amused and disapproving. A strand of grey fell in front of his face and he quickly blew it away, smiling slightly. “Because it seems like you’ve been zoning out for the last ten or so minutes. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but Mr. Shishido specifically said this chapter was going to be on the test.”

“Uh… something about muzzer Roosia?” you joked with an exaggerated accent.

Koushi rolled his eyes and flicked your forehead. You yelped and glared at him reproachfully. “We were talking about the Marshall Plan. The United States’ recovery aid program for Western Europe after wartime devastation.”

“Right, right, I knew that,” you protested as Koushi tugged on your forearms and you toppled off the bed, nearly landing right on top of him. With a soft laugh, he extracted his limbs from yours and plopped his head into your lap like he used to when you were kids, resting beneath the boughs of that little oak tree in his backyard, listening to a choir of cicadas croon under a late afternoon sun. The ghost of a grin flitted over your face as you looked back on those halcyon days of your childhood. Usually Koushi’s mom would come out onto the porch with a couple of already-melting lemon popsicles in hand, and the two of you would scramble out of each other’s embrace and tear towards her, breathlessly racing for a priceless reward of sweet smiles and sticky hands.

What you wouldn’t give to go back to that time of gleeful oblivion, before your world became characterized by that all too persistent self-consciousness and excruciating anxiety. What you wouldn’t give to once again feel worthy of Koushi’s innocent adoration…

“--(Y/N)!”

For the second time today, you shook yourself awake. Koushi gazed up at you, brows furrowed. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was asking if you needed to take a little study break. Obviously, you do. I swear, your attention span gets shorter every day.” He pointed somewhere behind you. “Mind grabbing my phone? It’s on the bed.”

You leaned over as far as you could without disturbing Koushi’s position, head still nestled in your lap, and swept your hand over the covers before it bumped into his phone, which you promptly snatched and dropped onto his stomach. He gave a soft “oomph” at the impact before pulling up his Spotify and selecting a playlist, the cover of which was a selfie of the two of you at last year’s spring carnival. A blurred sakura tree provided the perfect backdrop for your smiling faces pressed cheek-to-cheek to fit in the frame. Sugar dusted the corners of Koushi’s mouth, the last trace of the powdered donut you’d shared right before.

“What’s that? I don’t think I’ve listened to that one before.” You reached for the phone, but Koushi held it out just out of reach as music began to play, batting your hand away. “I look awful in that picture; you could’ve chosen something a little more flattering.”

“Oh, shush. You looked pretty that day, wearing that blue sundress with the little flowers on the hem… blue really suits you, you know.” Koushi smiled fondly at his screen, and you blushed despite yourself. “It’s a compilation of all our songs. I listened to this a lot last summer when you were in France with your family for a month. Whenever I missed you. You were off climbing the Eiffel Tower or making croissants and I was lounging around here, bored out of my mind and wishing you were home so we could be bored together.”

“You sappy bastard,” you said, though you really felt quite touched. “I didn’t even realize we had a song.”

“Not just a song,” he corrected. “Songs. Plural. Most of the songs we’ve ever listened to together, I reckon. Anything that reminds me of you, I put on here.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” you asked, aghast at his effort.

Koushi laughed at your surprise. “You’re my best friend, (Y/N). And believe or not, you mean a lot to me. I just like remembering the stuff we’ve done together.”

You nodded slowly, letting your fingers rest on his forehead and gently play with his grey locks. His eyes closed as you settled into a brief, comfortable almost-silence, tainted only by the soft, muffled melody trickling from tiny phone speakers. You cocked your head. “What song is this?”

“You don’t remember?” Koushi asked, sounding almost offended. He turned the volume up a few notches and held the phone closer to your ear.

Let's Marvin Gaye and get it on

You got the healing that I want

Just like they say it in the song

Until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on

“I don’t know if--” you cut off as it dawned on you. “Wait… no way. This isn’t…?”

“It is.” Koushi laughed as your face flushed a vivid crimson. “Uchimura’s party.”

Though embarrassed, you grinned, remembering that night. “The song that played at her twelfth birthday while we were in the closet during seven minutes in heaven.”

“We were way too young for that dumb game,” Koushi said with a smile, shaking his head. “God, I was so nervous. That was my first kiss, you know.”

“It was mine too,” you admitted. You remembered sitting on the carpeted floor of Uchimura’s rather cramped closet, knees touching, just barely able to see the outline of Koushi’s face illuminated by the smallest sliver of light shining through a crack in the door. He’d leaned forward, taking your hand in his own small clammy one. “It was really just a peck, though. It might not have counted.”

“It counted,” said Koushi firmly. “Whenever I get asked about my first kiss, I say it was ours. I say it was the best one I’ve ever had, too.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “Now, I know that’s a lie. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“Neither did I,” agreed Koushi. He caught your eye, crinkling his nose cutely. “That’s what made it so sweet. It was innocent. I tasted your bubblegum chapstick on my lips afterwards.”

“Bubblegum chapstick, huh?” You rolled your eyes and poked him softly in the ribs. “I couldn’t look you straight in the eyes for like three weeks after that.”

“I remember. You kept running away whenever I tried to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not sure we would’ve even stayed friends if Ms. Miyato hadn’t partnered us up for the volcano project at the end of that month.” You recalled those afternoons spent in Koushi’s kitchen, newspapers covering every visible surface and a huge, paper-mache volcano resting on the dining table, splattered with orange and yellow paint and smelling strongly of Elmer’s glue and vinegar. Oftentimes, work sessions would dissolve into paint fights, staining your school uniforms with small, colorful hand prints.

“Nah,” said Koushi confidently. “I wouldn’t have let you go that easily.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” you said under your breath.

Koushi stared at you for a second, sighing. Then he reached up to grasp your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and softly stroking his thumb across your palm. “You know, it was Uchimura’s eighteenth last weekend. You didn’t come.”

“Yeah. I had to study.” That was a lie. You just hadn’t thought anyone really wanted you there. Uchimura had been a friend of yours for years, but she had plenty of other friends to celebrate with. Probably didn’t even notice you weren’t there…

“She asked me where you were,” Koushi continued. “I said I didn’t know because you didn’t answer my texts that night.”

“Sorry,” you said quietly, avoiding eye contact. “Studying.”

“On a Friday night?” You didn’t answer, and Koushi squeezed your hand. “I had to choose Daichi for my charades partner… do you have any idea how shit he is at charades? He flopped on the ground and started convulsing, so I guessed ‘epilepsy.’ Guess what the word really was.”

“What?”

“Orgasm. The word was orgasm. You’d think he could just execute a simple pelvic thrust and make a face, but no, he had to go ahead and act like my great uncle Kaito when he had that heart attack at his ninety-fifth birthday last year.”

You cracked a small smile, imagining Daichi violently wiggling on the floor like a fish out of water. “Sounds like I missed out, then.”

“You really did,” said Koushi, eyes twinkling. He suddenly got solemn. “I missed you. Would’ve been a million times more fun with you there.”

“I doubt it.” You fiddled with the edge of your shirt, smile fading. “I can be a real killjoy sometimes.”

“Not to me,” said Koushi. “Whenever you walk into the room, suddenly that’s the only room I wanna be in.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you swallowed thickly. “Koushi… why are you telling me this?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said simply. He took your hand again, the one that had been playing with his hair, and held it to his chest. You felt his heart beat erratically beneath your palm. “You’ve been avoiding all our friends in general.”

“That’s not true,” you protested, though your heart sank. He had noticed. You wished you didn’t have to drag him into all your problems. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy with what, (Y/N)? Homework? Our physics teacher came and talked to me at my locker after school, asking if you’ve been struggling with any personal issues, because apparently you haven’t been turning in your assignments.” Koushi glanced up at you. “It seems like you’ve just been locked away in your room whenever you’re not in class. Not doing work, not going out. Remember a couple weeks ago, when I asked if you wanted to go see that movie with me at the drive-in? You said you had a family dinner in town, but later I passed by on my bike and your bedroom light was on. And today, it took four separate phone calls before you finally picked up and I managed to invite you over… I’ve been worried.”

“Maybe I’m just changing,” you protested weakly. “That’s a thing that happens. People change.”

“I agree, you have been changing. Just not for the better.” Koushi squeezed your hand again, his skin warm on your own. “I haven’t seen you smile, really smile, for ages. You’re always faking these days. What’s going on?”

“I…” you trailed off, trying to think of some excuse. The last thing you wanted was for Koushi to see what was really going on inside your head.

“The truth, (Y/N).”

You relented, shoulders sagging. “Just been tired, I guess.”

“Tired of what?”

“Tired of…” Your eyes grew moist despite your best efforts and you fought to keep from choking on the sob rising up your throat.

“Tired of…?” he pressed on, eyebrow raised.

Your next words tumbled out in a rush. “Just tired of being me, okay? It’s like… it’s just like, whenever I look in the mirror… I don’t like what I see. I don’t like myself, so I don’t want to be me anymore. I’m so tired of it. And I feel like everyone else is, too. Everyone is tired of my shit, so I thought I’d just do you all a favor and disappear.”

Your words stunned Koushi into silence. He remained resting in your lap for a few long seconds before he felt something hot and wet roll down his cheek. A tear. But not his own.

He looked up just in time for another one of your tears to land on his face, right underneath his eye. Quickly, he sat up and tenderly cupped your face in his hands, gently brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “Oh, (Y/N)... c’mere. That’s such bullshit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you hiccupped as he pulled you into his lap by your waist-- facing him-- and gingerly tucked your head into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this. It’s gross, I know.”

“It’s not gross,” said Koushi, fiercely hugging you to his chest. “It’s much better than watching you try to pretend like you’re fine. I don’t care if your snot gets on my shirt-- that’s a small price to pay. So long as I can be there for you right now.”

You cried harder, immense guilt racking your body at his inexplicable kindness. “I’ve been treating you terribly these past few months, but you’re still so good to me. Goddamnit, Koushi. I don’t deserve you.”

Koushi pulled you back by the shoulders, narrowed eyes searching your face, though tears continued to stream down your cheeks. “(Y/N). You don’t have to earn my love.”

“I-- love?” you asked, eyes wide. You snatched a tissue from Koushi’s bedside table and blew your nose loudly.

“Yeah,” he said firmly, without missing a beat. “I said it. I love you. And don’t ask if I mean in a friend way or a girlfriend way, because the answer is neither. I love you like you’re the person I wanna spend the rest of my life with. I don’t care if that means as, like, your husband or just as your best friend. Whatever I can get, I’m happy with, because I love you like you’re a part of me. Unconditionally. I thought you knew that.”

“Please, don’t say that,” you sobbed, covering your face with your hands. “I’m not good enough for you. I’m really not.”

Koushi pulled your hands away so he could look you in the eye. “What don't you understand about the term ‘unconditional love’? It’s unconditional. There is literally nothing you nor anyone else can say or do to change that. Unconditional love is not a feeling, it’s a choice, and I’ve made that choice. I’ve had nearly two decades to think about it, so now I’m telling you I will love you no matter what. I always have, alright? This isn’t exactly how I wanted to say it, but it’s true.”

You stared at him, disbelieving. You hadn’t known he’d felt this way. Of course, you two had been partners-in-crime your entire lives, and you couldn’t count the number of times he’d materialized at your side as soon as you were in the slightest bit of trouble. Whenever you were a dollar short at the canteen, he’d stuff a five in your hand and push you towards the front of the line. That time you went camping with his family and you forgot your sleeping bag, he’d given you his and spent the night shivering. He always carried an extra pen for you because yours often inexplicably ran out of ink in the middle of a test. He’d been there for every crush, boyfriend, and breakup, cheering you on and drying your tears when the time came. He’d been there when your pet dog died and you planned a funeral in your backyard, complete with a little cardboard headstone, holding an umbrella above your head when it began to rain but you weren’t done mourning. He’d just always been there when you needed him.

You’d tried to be there for him, too, because, as you had begun to realize, his pain was your pain and vice versa. That time when you were six and he’d lost his favorite stuffed animal (a giraffe) it had felt like you’d lost yours too. That day in junior high when he fell out of the oak tree trying to retrieve a stray frisbee and broke his arm, you swore you felt the same pain in yours. Last year when he got dumped outside the gym on Valentine’s Day and you found him sitting in a corner, trying to hide the fact he’d obviously been crying-- you’d stayed late to crack stupid jokes and eat the chocolate he meant to give to his girlfriend, because he deserved a girl who would eat the damn chocolate. Not stomp on his heart and leave it to bleed. I love you like you’re a part of me. You understood.

“It’s okay to not be okay sometimes, but it’s not okay to bundle it all up and bury it deep inside when you have someone right next to you wanting to help you bear that burden.” Koushi’s voice shook just slightly. “It just… it hurts to see you like this, okay? (Y/N), if you love me back, then let me help you. Let me be there for you. Please.”

You were silent for a moment, staring into his pleading eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes.

Then you took a deep breath and started laughing through the tears. You were sure you looked insane, puffy eyes, red nose, and mascara running down your cheeks, but it didn’t matter. “I do. I love you, too. I love you. I didn’t know I loved you before, but now I do, because if you were torn away from me that heartbreak would probably kill me. No, it would definitely kill me. And it would hurt like a motherfucker while it did.”

Koushi let out the breath he’d been holding then, after a brief pause, began to laugh with you as you laced your arms around the back of your neck. “Oh, yeah? Well, losing you would probably hurt like a father-fucker to me.”

“Is that worse than a motherfucker?” you asked, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. Here you were, bawling on the floor of your best friend’s room while you confessed your love to one another and cussed each other out at the same time.

“For sure. It’s a million times worse than a motherfucker. It’s like, if something hurting like a motherfucker is the equivalent of getting shot by a Nerf gun, something hurting like a fatherfucker probably feels like getting run over by a tank.” Koushi intertwined his fingers with yours yet again and smiled.

“You’re a dumbass,” you said, but you laughed anyways as Koushi looked proud of himself.

“I know,” he said softly, affectionately. “But I’m your dumbass.”

You sighed and shook your head. “I’d love you to be. But you could still do so much better than me--”

“Will you stop saying that, already?” Koushi took your face in his hand, stroking his thumb right beneath your eye. “You’re the most radiant person I’ve ever met. Notice how I didn’t say ‘beautiful’ because the word beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it. Although you are that, too.”

“Oh, goodness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again-- you’re so sappy.”

Koushi rolled his eyes with a smile. “Yeah, I am. You like it though.”

“You caught me,” you said as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You leaned into it, savoring the warmth of his lips on your skin. “I do.”

“But really, (Y/N),” he said seriously. “It astounds me that you don’t realize that.”

“Don’t realize what?”

“That you’re cool! You’re so cool and fun and awesome. And a zillion other adjectives I could sit here and list out for hours. You’re the only person who can make me laugh when I cry, and you make the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted, and you’re a literal god at Mario Kart, and you’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever had the privilege to look into.” You flushed as Koushi thought for a moment, chewing on his lip before his eyes widened. “It’s kinda like a circus mirror, I think.”

“What?” You furrowed your brow.

“The way you see yourself is like someone looking into one of those circus mirrors. It makes you look too tall, or really squished, or just bent out of shape in general. And if that was the only mirror you’d ever looked into, you’d probably think that ugly, distorted reflection is how you actually look in real life. You can’t see yourself for how amazing you really are-- but everyone else can.”

“Well, aren’t you just full of relevant analogies today?” you teased. A circus mirror. Now that was something new. You had to give Koushi credit for the comparison-- it actually did kind of make sense.

“What can I say?” he said, puffing out his chest. “I’m a poet.”

“So I guess that would make you my real mirror then?” you offered shyly. Koushi looked confused for a second. “If the way I see myself is supposedly ‘distorted,’ then you can reflect to me how I supposedly really am.”

“Oh, yes!” he said happily. “I’m the mirror. I like that. Quit talking like you don’t believe me, though. You’re incredible. A little thick-skulled sometimes, yes, but incredible nonetheless.”

“It’s going to be hard for me,” you said quietly, gently running a hand through his hair. “Really hard. I haven’t liked myself for a long time.”

“I know. I know. But someday, you’ll be able to understand what a beautiful human being you are. I’m sure of it. I need you to promise you won’t give up until that happens.”

He held out his pinky for a pinky swear, something you two did frequently as children. You smiled and laced your pinky with his. “Alright. I promise.”

“Good.” Koushi stood up, brushed the wrinkles from his pants, and offered you his hand. You took it and he pulled you up. “Listen. Do you remember this song?”

His little playlist had been playing this entire time. You hadn’t noticed. You strained to catch the lyrics. “Turn it up a little, I can’t quite hear.”

...a stereo

It beats for you, so listen close

Hear my thoughts in every note

“Koushi.” A slow smile spread across your face. “Tell me this isn’t Stereo Hearts.”

“Oh, this is Stereo Hearts alright!” he responded gleefully. He took your hand and spun you around like a ballroom dancer, catching you before you tripped over his bedside table. “You remember when we--”

“When we performed it at the junior high talent show and got booed off the stage?” You giggled, remembering that awful night that was somehow hilarious in retrospect. “I still have nightmares about that.”

Koushi continued to swing you around in some sort of clumsy dance, pulling you this way and that while you laughed wildly. “It’s ‘cause you were such a shit singer.”

You gasped in mock offense. “No way! You’re a much worse singer than I am. At least I can carry a tune.”

Koushi just rolled his eyes and grabbed a hairbrush from his shelf, using it like a microphone. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and began to serenade you in his terrible, tone-deaf manner.

Make me your radio

Turn me up when you feel low

This melody was meant for you

Just sing along to my stereo

“God, you really do suck at this,” you said, but he just smiled and kept singing. You had to admit, it was sweet. As silly as the memory associated with the song was, it remained a nostalgic favorite even now. You had to join in a few times, just for memory’s sake.

I only pray you never leave me behind

Because good music can be so hard to find

Koushi sat down next to you and wound one arm around your waist, leaning close.

I take your hand and pull it closer to mine

Thought love was dead, but now you're changing my mind

You turned and leaned in too, nearly touching noses.

“Hey,” he said in an almost whisper. “(Y/N) (L/N), I love you.”

“Hey,” you whispered back, gaze flitting down to his lips and back up again. “I love you, too, you sappy bastard.”

...so sing along to my stereo

“I know.” He closed the remaining inch of distance. Your hand tangled itself in his hair while his tugged your body a little closer.

The kiss was almost as good as the one in Uchimura’s closet all those years ago. Almost.

#haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #anime #sugawara #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader #sugawara koushi x reader

[needs-to-stop-looking-at-yigas]

Camping double date with Miphlink and the Yiga Husbands??

This is a TERRIBLE idea. Why? Because Kohga loves to live like a king, so camping is something he HATES. Unfortunately, Sooga got to pick the double date idea, and he LOVES camping. So, let's go!

 "We could've gone sunbathing on a beach. Could've even gone to the shores of Zora's domain. But no. You just. Had to pick the FUCKING woods!"

Sooga chuckled as he checked the sturdiness of the tent. Mipha and Link often went on double dates with them(to show their support), and the four of them took turns on where to go. It was Sooga's turn, and he picked a camping date. Not JUST a camping date, but a camping date up on Satori fucking mountain. It meant they had to fucking HIKE. And Kohga was hating EVERY moment of it. It must’ve been obvious, given the fact that Mipha was staying with him as Link and Sooga lead the pack. Sooga was grinning as he walked backwards, clearly not trying to sound giddy.

“Master Kohga, this is a nice change of pace, is it not? The smell of trees, the plentiful resources? It’s lovely. I mean, not as lovely as you, but still lovely.”

“You’re using flirts to keep me from going home.”

“Is it working?”

“...kinda. But don’t push it.”

Sooga nodded. Him and Link were having just a ball during this little trek, and it was JUST because of that, that Kohga wasn’t making him pick him up. Mipha chuckled, lightly nudging Kohga.

“Do be patient. Love is full of that. I’m sure he appreciates being out here.”

“He better, I’m taking all his future turns.”

The climb was slow, exhausting, and Kohga was SO goddamn happy when Sooga and Link started to unpack their things, ready to set up camp. It was near the top of the cliff, and a number of trees decorated the rocky land. Kohga sat down on a log, groaning. Kohga wasn’t in bad shape, but hiking was just AWFUL compared to working out at home. Dirt, animals, all of it just sucked to him. He’d MUCH rather be working out at home (Kohga could name other ways he could work a sweat with Sooga).

“Why THIS spot? There’s BARELY any stable ground, and these trees barely leave us rooms for the tent.”

Sooga nodded as he finally undid all of his prep work.

“It’s true, but this spot is special, I swear. Now, if you’ll excuse us. Link, you first?”

Link nodded, and started to clear the trees and bushes. Not all of them, but enough to give them actual stable land to pitch tents in. Kohga watched as Link and Sooga chopped the trees, tossing them in the corner for firewood. Mipha chuckled as she sat next to Kohga.

“Hey. At least we can watch the boys do a little bit of labor.”

Kohga gave her a bit of a side eye. Mipha was really starting to know him.

“I mean, true, I do like watching cute guys do hard work. Think Sooga’s showing off for me?”

“Absolutely.”

They both shared a bit of a giggle, and immediately Kohga felt just a bit better. Even if a fuck ton of bugs kept hovering around. They both finally finished, pitched their tents (one for each couple, for privacy of course), and Sooga immediately started to make a fire. He was pretty good at it, getting it ready and roaring just when Kohga was starting to lose patience. Sooga patted the dirt from his hands, and walked over, grabbing Kohga’s hand and kissing the back of it.

“I left some food for you in the pack, but I’m going to catch something more...lively. I will come back in a moment.”

He turned to Link, who was already starting to unpack the food bags. 

“Link, keep an eye in my stead. Precious cargo here.”

Sooga walked off to god knows where, and Mipha smiled her precious little smile.

“He loves you very much. I can tell.”

“Yeah yeah. Makin’ me trek all the way up here, all sweaty and shit. He loved me, he would’ve picked an ACTUALLY good trip.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Mipha, I love ya, but stop being right about things.”

Link even seemed to smile about that, bringing a bunch of bananas over to Kohga. At LEAST he packed him something good to eat. Link helped a bit too, going to a nearby tree to pluck some fresh durian fruit. Link gave them both fruit as he tended to the fire, and Kohga SAW that swoon on Mipha’s adorable face.

“Hey, I saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“You swooning over your man, you little minx!”

Mipha stammered, but as Link looked over, shooting her a wink, she knew she had been had, hiding her face in her hand, and trying to hide at Kohga’s side. Kohga laughed, shaking his head.

“You two! Got it SO bad! It’s precious! You two really deserve to be together.”

Mipha peered past her hands, to make sure Link wasn’t looking anymore, before looking back up at Kohga.

“Well thank you. Father appears to think so, as does Sidon. Can I uhm...tell you a secret?”

“Shoot little red.”

Mipha covered the side of her mouth with her palm, keeping her voice low.

“I made Zora armor for Link. I’m planning on giving it to him this week.”

That was Zora lingo for ‘marriage’ essentially, and Kohga nearly jumped off his seat, hands thrown about wildly.

“YOU’RE SERIOUS?!”

The sound of his scream made Link miss his shot, about to shoot a bird for dinner. Upon missing, he turned to scowl rather heavily at Kohga, who muttered an apology. When he turned away, Kohga finally found his heart back in his chest, rather than his throat.

“You’re gonna get MARRIED?”

“I’m planning on it, yes!”

“Mipha, lil’ red, I love you to bits, but you’re SO young! How could you want to get married NOW?”

Mipha turned to look at Link, gently cocking her head in a loving, adoring fashion.

"I'm certain I'll never find another for me. I adore him with all my heart. I want to marry him. Very, very much. Do you...not think it's a good idea?"

"No no! I mean, great that you wanna settle. It's great. I fully support you both. I just...the idea of getting married is weird to me, I guess. But I mean, so long as I get to be the best man."

"That's my brother."

"Okay fair. What about flower girl?"

"Riju."

"Ring bearer?"

"That's Midnight."

Kohga threw his arms in the air, in total disbelief. 

"Who's Midnight?!"

"Link's horse."

"...That's actually super cute."

"Isn't it? If it helps any, you can help me pick my wedding outfit."

"Deal."

They both shook hands, satisfied with the deal. Kohga held onto her hand for a moment, clearing his throat.

"But uh...don't tell Sooga, yeah? He's wedding crazy, and if he hears you're gonna get hitched, he's NOT gonna let me hear the end of it."

"End of what?"

They both turned to see Sooga, carrying an entire honeyvore bear over his shoulder. Kohga should've been surprised by his man carrying a whole ass bear like a sack of flour, but he really wasn't.

"Nothing. See you got dinner."

"I did. I was going for a mountain goat, but this one didn't seem to know how to behave. I trust Link has been taking care of you in my stead?"

"Totally. Cut us up some fruit like a good boy and everything."

Kohga pinched Link's cheek as he came over, eager to show his arms full of freshly killed pigeons. Sooga chuckled, rustling Link's hair.

"Quite the provider you have here, Mipha. Should you two marry, I can assure you'd never go hungry."

Kohga tried not to groan. Marriage ALWAYS came up with his ass. It seemed to make Link a bit nervous too, as his face turned dark, and he went back to tending the fire. Mipha giggled into her palm.

"Thank you, Sooga. That's sweet of you to say. But I'm not looking on proposing here and now, so."

Sooga shrugged as he started to cut through the animal's hide, getting it ready for the flames.

"The future is fickle. Who truly knows?"

There was a smirk in his tone, even Mipha seemed to catch onto it. Kohga rolled his eyes. The idea of marriage was so ridiculous to him. Being tied down to one person forever? Fucking ONE piece of ass forever? Not his thing. But hey, he wasn’t Mipha. He scooted over next to Sooga as soon as he put the meats over the fire.

“Sooga, how much longer till it’s ready, you think?”

Sooga chuckled. His Master LOVED to eat, and while he was no chef, he could cook some good, fresh meat over a campfire. He cut a piece of the meat, showing Kohga just how raw it was.

“It’ll take a good minute, Master. Unless you’d like it raw, then I can serve you a piece now.”

Kohga stuck his nose up at it, and Sooga, for some reason, found his face so charming.

“Who wants to eat raw ass-”

Link snatched the piece from his hand, stuffing it in his mouth. Kohga sighed.

“Right. Link. The guy that will actually eat ANYTHING. You remember the time he just, ate some fucking rocks?”

“I recall, yes. Yet, he makes a VERY good fish pie.”

“Hey. Bad enough we HIKED here, don’t you even bring UP fish.”

Sooga gave a light shake of his head, even as Kohga smacked at his tit. He was lucky he was fine, else Kohga wouldn’t put up with his nonsense. They spent a good moment in idle chit chat (how restoration to kingdoms were, recent training practices, new dishes, the usual stuff you’d talk about with folks you more or less considered family), before Sooga handed Kohga a healthy plate of food. Fried wild greens, and spiced meat skewers (Kohga ALWAYS had Sooga bring goron spices whenever they went out. Kohga put it on EVERYTHING, especially meat). Kohga helped himself, digging into his meal hungrily. Sooga was a shit cook in a modern kitchen, but when it came to spicing and cooking meat out in the wild, Sooga was damn good enough. Juicy insides, and a nice, crispy outside. Him and Link didn’t talk as much, in favor of eating ravenously and enjoying their meals.

“Sooga, you don’t like goron spice?”

“Not especially. I always give my portion to Kohga, who loves it. But I prefer mine lightly salted. And I'm not the only one, it seems."

A raven seemed to trot over to them, eyeing Sooga curiously. It welcomed the slices of meat Sooga tossed its way, and Sooga noticed Kohga’s look of interest.

"Birds always did seem to like me, for whatever reason. Watch."

Sooga brought his hand down, and almost immediately, the bird jumped into his hand, eyeing everyone curiously. Kohga leaned over and lightly poked its head, making it squawk.

"Huh. That's why Revali thinks you're hot."

Sooga shook his head, as if something smelled. 

"I wish you hadn't told me that. Makes me wish birds hated me."

"What if it was Teba?"

Sooga took a moment in hesitation, before lightly nodding.

“I like Teba.”

“EVERYONE likes Teba, can’t say I blame you here.”

Sooga gave the crow another scrap of meat, before motioning for it to leave, which it did, but not before looking back at Sooga once more. Mipha handed her plate to Link (who always ate whatever she couldn’t finish), before softly nodding.

“That’s honestly quite charming. I’m personally really good with fish, though it might be a Zora thing.”

Then the most odd thing happened. Link put his plate down (with food STILL on it), and nearly leapt towards Mipha, clearly excited. She seemed surprised for a moment, before chuckling.

“Oh, you want me to show them, don’t you?”

Link nodded again, wildly. Mipha held onto her head fin, and the spots on her skin seemed to glow, which seemed to glow brightly as the sun soon seemed to die down. 

“Woah. Since when could you do that?”

“Always. It’s made to attract fish, bugs...Hylians.”

Link was just enthralled in her spots, fingers carefully brushing against her skin. She sat there, as flattered and flustered as a young princess could be, while Link just sat there, adoring her like something out of a story book. Sooga looked down at Kohga, who was enthralled with them both. With the moon gracing the sky, now was just as good of a time as any.

“Master Kohga, I think these two need a moment of privacy. Could I...show you something?”

Kohga nodded, quietly helping them sneak away. This somehow ended with Sooga leading Kohga god knows where, covering his mask with his hands.

“Sooga, why can’t I just close my eyes?”

“You peek.”

“I won’t this time! Maybe!”

“Relax, Master Kohga. We’re almost there. Now, be silent.”

Kohga stopped talking, and just trusted Sooga to guide him. He was about to take another step, when Sooga stopped him in his tracks. His voice was in a hushed, low tone.

“Open your eyes.”

Kohga did just that, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Blupees. Blupees , surrounding a lake, littered in cherry tree petals. They all sat there, hopping about, grooming their long, orange feelers. They hadn’t been noticed yet, and it was incredible. Some sipped at the lake water, some seemed to hop amongst the piles of petals. Kohga kept his voice low, in disbelief.

“You...knew they’d be here.”

“I did. This trip was the perfect opportunity to show you something as beautiful as you are. I take it you’ve never seen them up close?”

“No. Only in books. They’re...so different in person.”

Kohga took a step forward, making a branch snap. They thought it had been the end of it, when one of the blupees turned to look at him. But then, it chose not to run. Rather, it hopped right to Kohga, standing on its rear legs and eyeing him curiously. Kohga glanced at Sooga, before looking back towards the creature.

“Thought they were skittish?”

“They’re supposed to be. Unless they consider you not a threat.”

“W-hey! I’m plenty threatening! Go on, get!”

Kohga knelt down and pointed at it, only for it to bump against his hand, and snuggle into it like a stray cat. Kohga grumbled in a mixture of confusion and amazement, before another blupee walked over. Then another. Then another. They all scattered about him, clearly fascinated and eager to rub their little faces against him. It made Kohga fall on his ass, trying not to step on them. Sooga knelt down to him, ever ready to be of assistance. Though, it seemed the only thing his master was in danger of, was getting a permanent scowl. He chuckled.

“I don’t think they find you too threatening. Foolish creatures, honestly.”

“I should be making these bunnies shake in their boots dammit.”

Kohga raised a hand in accusation, before a blupees seemed to fall right into it, desperate for a good petting. Sooga took a small step forward, careful not to spook them, before he clunked his mask against Kohga’s.

“You...never cease to amaze me, Master Kohga. You’re incredible. These creatures thrive on purity. I can only imagine how much of it is in your heart.”

Kohga scoffed, playfully pushing his face away with his hand.

“It’s nothing like that, these things are just dumb. But… this is sweet. YOU’RE sweet. And as much as I hated the hiking, the bugs...this was nice. I don’t ever think I’m going to forget this, Sooga.”

“So I did good for my turn?”

“Good enough to try again, yes. God you’re so dumb and pretty.”

Sooga chuckled. He parted his mask, as well as his master’s, and was about to lean in for a kiss, when suddenly a shadow peered over them. Both of them jumped a bit, scaring a few of the blupees. Kohga stood aghast at the creature, while Sooga looked stiff.

“Is that...the Lord of the Mountain?”

“Yes. Aka, one that brings curses upon the land it walks.”

Sooga brought out his weapon, and aimed it right between its faces. The creature stared at him, before slowly walking past Sooga, and stopping right in front of Kohga. It slowly brought its head down, right into Kohga’s lap. It looked at him with it’s intense, bright eyes. Kohga looked unsure of what to do, before he slowly, carefully, brought his hand right next to his face. Kohga motioned wildly with his free hand, totally in disbelief.

“I’m petting it! I’m THIS cool! Can you SEE this?!”

The Lord seemed comforted by his hand, eyes lidded as Kohga’s hands nestled and scratched at it’s fur. It was brief, but it was enough to leave a lasting impression in Sooga’s mind. The creature pulled away after a moment, before dipping its face into the water, taking a sip. Then it took a step towards Sooga, and promptly spat water at his face. With a snort, and a stomp of it’s hoof, it turned, and started to graze within the water. Sooga turned to look at Kohga, who was trying VERY hard not to laugh.

“Pffft! It spat water at you! Holy CRAP, he does NOT like you!”

Kohga lost it at that point, pointing at Sooga and just losing himself in laughter. He only stopped once Sooga knelt down, and held his hand in his own.

“I’m. So in love with you, you couldn’t even fathom it-”

“This shit again.”

“Say the word and I’d be your husband IMMEDIATELY.”

Kohga groaned, using his other hand to smack his forehead. It wasn’t entirely Sooga’s fault that he was so lovesick though.

Not when the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, got to pet the Lord of the Mountain.

#asks #kohga #sooga #lord of the mountain #mipha #link #listen #seriously if it has hooves it HATES sooga and loves kohga #also all birds are pretty much attracted to sooga #rito women? sucker for him #the only one who has a REMOTE chance with him tho is teba

[ninbayphua-moyan]

Where The Harvest Moon Is Brightest

Sweat trickled down my back as I lugged my suitcase behind me along the five-foot ways of Penang. A sense of Saturday afternoon languidness hangs in the balmy air like a soft, heavy blanket, lulling you to sleep. A gentle breeze fleets through the walkway, pleasantly cool against the slight stickiness of my skin. I paused and took a deep breath, head tilted back with eyes closed, listening to the faint rustling of palm leaves. The air was steeped with the fresh, earthy petrichor of a recent shower, and tinged with undertones of the alluringly sweet scent of frangipanis.

          Loud giggles. Shrieks of laughter. Opening my eyes, I turned towards the sound and saw a group of children playing a game of ‘The Eagle Catches The Chicks’ on the street. They dodged and ran with unabashedly childish grins plastered onto their mud smeared faces, eyes twinkling with youthful glee and carelessness. I smiled. It wasn’t that long ago when I too was a little rascal playing on these very streets without a care in the world. I remember the days when the neighbourhood kids and I would play in the streets until our mothers called us in for dinner. Oh, the adventures we had! Climbing up trees; playing in the rain; racing the roti man down the street as he rides by on his bicycle. Ah yes……the roti man……how we used to wait for him to make his rounds each evening after school……The tinkling sound of the metal cup-like object being struck with an iron rod signalling his arrival…our short legs running, shouting ‘roti!’ until he stopped by the side of the road…the chaos that ensues as we crowded around him like hungry chicks waiting to be fed, coins held tight in our sweaty little palms……

          Then, I heard it. The familiar ‘Ting! Ting! Ting!’ of the roti man echoing down the street, as if summoned by my reminiscence of it. The children had heard it too. They ran towards the roti man shouting ‘roti!’, their game abandoned without a second thought. Instinctively, I started running as well, fumbling around my pockets looking for loose change to pay for the bread. I joined the little gathering crowd just as the roti man was getting off his bicycle. A tantalising aroma of freshly baked breads and buns wafted out the minute he undid the catch on the little glass framed doors of the meat-safe seated behind his bike. I couldn’t help but groan internally at the heavenly sight and smell. I watched as he slathered the savoury margarine and rich kaya onto thick slices of roti benggali, mouth watering uncontrollably. After a few minutes, he handed me a big bag of the bread to me and I dropped the money into his outstretched palm. He flashed me a quick grin before returning his attention to the next customer.

          Making my way back to the five-foot way, I stuck my hand into the plastic bag and brought out a piece of warm roti banggali. Biting into the bread, I felt my tongue melting. The crispy, golden crust and soft white crumb of the bread served as a fragrant base, a sacred chapel where the buttery saltiness of the margarine and the rich, creamy sweetness of the kaya sang, each in their unique tune before harmonizing into a heavenly choir and melding into one savoury mouthful of bread. Before I knew it, I had already finished a third of what I’d bought. Realising that I wouldn’t have any left by the time I reached my destination if I continued eating, I quickly knotted up the bag and hurried along.

          Ten minutes later, I came to a stop in front of a shophouse at the end of the five-foot way. A large ebony plaque hung regally above the doorway, my family name engraved upon it in golden Chinese characters. U-shaped terracotta tiles covered the roof and three full length louvred windows lined the upper floor of the two-story building. The pillars were adorned with painted, three-dimensional decorative plaster of beautifully crafted flowers. Majestic peonies and tender lotuses blooming, their elaborate and delicate carved petals unfurling elegantly. Majolica tiles lined the dado façade on the lower quarter of the walls, adding yet another splash of colour to the otherwise, dull and plain exterior. The carved timber ventilated doors stood wide open, each of its panel depicting legendary creatures of ancient Chinese folklore. The exquisitely detailed carvings of phoenixes never ceased to amaze me, even after all this time. Perching nobly on golden branches, their wings were spread wide as if to take off at any second as I gazed, entranced. Then, as the late afternoon sun shines upon their gilded bodies, it was as if those carved mystical beauties were suddenly brought to life. Their once dull sheen now aglow in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange and gold, almost as if they would burst into flames at any moment, just like in the myths of old, and be reborn from the ashes.

          The sound of fluttering wings and clear melodic chirruping snapped me out of my daze. Looking up, I saw a family of swallows roosting in their nest at the corner of the roof. Ah…it was that time of the year again wasn’t it…the swallows always left the nest as the harvest moon approached. I remember how excited I used to get when they came to roost in the spring and how sad I would be when they’d left as autumn drew near. A-Poh[1] would always pick the nest once the swallows had flown, clean it and turn it into a bowl bird nest soup. She always told me it was good for the skin as well as health but I was never sure how true these claims were.

          Peeking my head through the door, I announced my arrival home out of sheer force of habit. There was a loud clanging and scuffling from the kitchen as I heard a delighted shout. I had barely stepped across the threshold into the house before I was pulled into a tight bear hug by A-Poh, immediately enveloped by the familiar scent of incense and rice powder. She was strong despite her age and sometimes I couldn’t help but wonder if all her stories about bird nest soup were true. Pulling out of the hug, she gave me a quick look over and pinched my cheeks, complaining that I’ve lost weight again even though I hadn’t. I tried protesting but she shushed me with a fond pat on the cheeks and shouted for A-Gong[2] who instantly came wobbling out of the ground floor bedroom, a large toothless grin on his wrinkled face. He wrapped me into a warm hug whilst A-Poh hurried off into the kitchen, determined to stuff me up with food before anyone could stop her. I shook my head in resignation whilst A-Gong just laughed and ruffled my hair, amused.

          Pouring some pu-erh tea into two clay teacups, A-Gong motioned for me to sit down, asking about my time abroad. As we sipped on the earthy fragrance of the pu-erh, I told him about my time in the UK; about its miserably wet weather; its tasteless food; its strange customs; and how much I had missed home whilst I was away. Upon hearing that comment, he chuckled heartily, a knowing look in his eyes. He too had left the comforts at home at a young age, sailing the seas to unknown lands to avoid the war. When I asked if he ever missed Hainan and his childhood home, he would always smile a little wistfully but would then shake his head saying home for him was where my A-Poh, a content look upon his wisen face. Even after all this time, they were still as in love with one another as they were back then, just like the butterfly lovers from Chinese folklore.

          Halfway through our conversation, he suddenly stood up as if he had just remembered something. Giving me a wink, he disappeared out the door. I grinned, knowing exactly where he was headed off to. As I sat by the round wooden table in the living room, I gaze absentmindedly at the sparrows fleeting about A-Gong’s potted plants. The afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the lightwell, brightening the otherwise dimly lit interior. I remember still how my siblings and I would play hide-and-seek in the interior courtyard amongst those potted plants. Ah, those really were the days……

          Shifting my gaze, my eyes were immediately drawn to the majolica tile floor. Its kaleidoscope of bright colours a stark contrast against the plain wooden and rattan furniture. Come to think about it, those mosaic pattered tiles were probably what triggered my interest in art in the first place…oh, the afternoons I’d spend on those cool, smooth floor drawing and trying to mimic their intricate patterns and colours…..

          I was brought out of my reminiscence when a bowl of steaming hot pork dumplings was placed before me. Ahh…A-Poh’s pork dumplings. How I’ve missed it while I was away! Eagerly, I picked up the chopsticks and took a bite, my mouth immediately exploding with flavour. The saltiness of the pork meat marinated with soy sauce and sesame oil, the refreshingly sweet spring onions contrasting the meat’s saltiness, the delicately wrapped flour encapsulating it all, the slight bitterness of the herbal broth…this was my definition of heaven. Seeing me happily wolfing down the dumplings, she smiled and returned to the kitchen.

          I was only halfway through my bowl of dumplings when the intense aroma of spices and chili came wafting out of the kitchen, making my mouth water. There wasn’t a need to look. I already knew what it was A-Poh was preparing. And sure enough, she came tottering out of the kitchen a few minutes later with two big bowls of hokkien-mee. Taking a seat next to me and we both dug in. I took a big slurp of soup and my tongue was instantly set on fire, the spices clashing as they performed a tango on my tongue. I had forgotten how potent the chili at home were. My lips were turning a numbing red within seconds but that didn’t stop me from downing down the entire bowl of noodles. After all, no self-respecting child of Penang would ever be caught dead bested by a bowl of spicy hokkien-mee. A-Poh chuckled as she watched me switching comically between fanning my tongue and slurping down the spicy soup.

          Just then, A-Gong came walking in through the front door and I squealed in delight. He grinned, handing me the little plastic bag in his hands before sitting down. Like a child who was just given her Christmas present early, I happily started munching on the packet of ais kacang. The frozen sweetness of the shaved ice instantly cooled my burning mouth and I quickly took a few more mouthful. Content, I glanced at my grandparents and started noticing things that had previously escaped my attention. A-Poh’s once salt-and-pepper hair was now silvery white and her hands seemed more worn and wrinkled than I last remembered. The wrinkles on A-Gong’s face seemed deeper now and his hands, especially the one with a missing finger, shook a little more than they used to whenever he held something. Since when had they aged so much?

          Realising that I had stopped eating, A-Gong pushed the plate of pandan cake closer to me, urging me to eat. Now, I was never much of a sweet tooth but I was particularly fond of this green coloured sponge cake that just melted in your mouth like a piece of cloud. The mild, aromatic sweetness of pandan and the light, fluffy texture of a chiffon cake, a beautiful fusion between European cake-making techniques and locally grown ingredients.

          As I continued munching on the cake, I couldn’t help but smile, having realized how beautifully diverse my hometown was. Just like the pandan cake, it was a place where cultures of the East and West collided and coexisted in harmony. Yes…this little culture cocktail of an island was what I called home and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

NOTES:

[1] ‘A-Poh’ means ‘grandmother’ in Hainanese

[2] ‘A-Gong’ means ‘grandfather’ in Hainanese

[3] ‘Where The Harvest Moon Shines Brightest’ is a play on  月到中秋分外明，每逢佳节倍思亲 meaning the moon is brightest in mid-autumn; homesickness multiplies during each festival

Author's Notes:

Back with Part 4 also known as the final part of the short story slash prose pieces from uni series (this was the earliest piece I wrote in first year lol). The story takes place a year and a half after Part 3. A-Yun has finally graduated uni and has now gone home. All is well ends well. Yes I am aware that there is a slight glitch and A-Gong shouldn’t exist at this point but I wrote it before I wrote everything else so we’re bringing him back to life OuO Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading Part 4~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3  

Since exams are over and graded and I've officially graduated, I can finally post my work online without having to worry about Turnitin picking it up as plagiarism because apparently you aren't allowed to plagiarise yourself according to university which is absolutely ridiculous but I'm not the one making the rules here so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, please don't reupload my works without permission.

#ninbayphua 墨彦 #prose #short story #constructive critisms are always welcomed #please don't repost without permission

[johaerys-writes]

Fandom: The Song of Achilles Pairing: Achilles/Patroclus

Chapter 11: Woven Garlands, Made of Flowers, Around Your Soft Throat of High-Flying Birds is up! This is first of the chapters that will cover Achilles’ time in Skyros, from his own POV :)

Read here or on AO3! Or read from the beginning

*****

“I will not do it.”

Achilles tilted his chin up in defiance, crossing his arms before his chest. His mother met his gaze levelly, dark eyes sharp and shining like the flashing edge of a sword against a burning sky.

“You must.”

“Says who?”

Thetis' lips tightened at his insolence, but Achilles did not care that he displeased her. His anger was bubbling steadily beneath his skin, sending blood pumping through every vein. He had fallen asleep at dawn in his bed, by Patroclus’ side, yet when he had woken up, he had found himself on a foreign beach, with his mother standing over him.

They glared at each other for a long while now, the rhythmic susurrus of the waves beside them and the distant cries of seagulls the only sounds between them. “I will not stay here,” he declared. “Take me back to Phthia.”

“No.”

Achilles gritted his teeth, huffing like a caged lion. His patience was running thin, only to be replaced by worry. It was spreading fast within him, like poison, at the thought of Patroclus being alone. Achilles had to return to him. Somehow.

“You have to take me back. I am leaving for Mycenae in two days with Father. All the kings and generals of the Danaans will be expecting us. I have to be there.”

“This is why I brought you here,” she said, unrelenting.

“Why?”

“Because the Danaans want you to fight their war, spill blood for their ends. If you go to Mycenae, they will not let you return to Phthia. They will take you with them to Troy.”

“Even if I refuse? They cannot make me.”

“They have their ways. Mortal men are weak, but their cunning is not to be underestimated. They will use every trick at their disposal to bend you to their will.” Her own anger flashed in her eyes, her mouth curling in contempt, and something else, like despair, that sent her words flying through her lips much faster than normal, with unusual urgency. “You must not go to war yet. It is not time.”

“And you thought to abduct me?” His pulse thrummed in his temples, swelled in his throat. Patroclus would have woken up by now. He would have risen in an empty bed, and he would be searching for him. The thought of him on his own, worrying and fretting, of his warm, gentle eyes filling with tears—

No. He could not allow this. He would not allow this.

“You cannot keep me here,” he said, his jaw set in grim determination. “I will swim back to Phthia if I have to.”

“If you go to war, Patroclus will go with you. You know he will have to, as your therapon.” His mother’s eyes hardened to stone. Is this what you want? they seemed to be asking him.

That gave Achilles pause, dampened his rising temper. He did not relish the thought of going to war, not when Patroclus would be bound to follow him. He had heard the tales and the songs, he had listened to his father’s and his friends’ stories about the bloodshed of battle, the dangers it harboured. Achilles would not take his sweet Patroclus there, not before he was ready. He himself might have been born for it, but Patroclus had not. One day he would have to, but that day was still far away.

“Cowards flee,” he said testily, his hesitation softening his voice and the sharp edge of his tongue. “I am not a coward. Neither is Patroclus.”

“Your time to fight and claim your glory will come, Achilles. There is time for that yet. This war is not worthy of you.”

Achilles took a slow, steadying breath. “What if they take Patroclus to Troy while I’m away?”

“They will not. The Greeks care not for the oath he’s given, they do not even remember him. It is you they care about."

“But—”

“There is no other way, Achilles. Patroclus has to stay in Phthia, and you have to remain here.” His mother’s expression softened when she sensed his hesitation; the waves stretched towards her bare feet, lapping at the golden shore like lamb’s tongues. “It will not be forever.”

“How long?” he asked, and already he could feel his resolve slipping away from him.

“Only for a short while.”

Achilles opened his mouth, closed it. To be anywhere without Patroclus, for however short a while, was unthinkable. Patroclus was his first friend and best, his beloved, his sworn companion. An essential, inextricable part of him. He had promised him never to leave him, never to let anything come between them. How could he break that promise now? Yet if he did not, then they would both have to go to Troy. Patroclus’ hands would be stained red with blood, and his soul dark with the atrocities of war, the cruelty. He thought of his Patroclus standing in a battlefield, caught in a war that he neither cared nor wished for, the ground beneath his feet bloody and torn asunder by chariots and spears. He could not bear it.

He clenched his jaw as he grated out a weak sound of acquiescence, his voice hoarse in his ears. For Patroclus. He would do it, for Patroclus.

~

The mountain that rose before them seemed barren and empty save for the palace that was built upon a wide terrace in the stone. Achilles let his gaze glide over the short and stubby trees that lined the coast, the dry brush that stubbornly clung to the rock, the intricate lacework of beaches that spread far below them as he followed his mother through the winding paths up to the palace of Skyros.

Before they reached the palace, she veered off the narrow path and into a small grove, concealed by the branches of short fir and pine trees. She produced a small bundle from beneath her rich cloak: a woman’s white dress with thread-of-gold embroidery along the neck and sleeves, a wide crimson belt and golden pins to keep the fabric in place, soft leather sandals, a brightly coloured scarf to bind his hair. “You must wear this.”

“These are women’s clothes.”

“The king of this island is known for accepting daughters from wealthy and noble families, and raising them as if they were his own. It is safe here, safer than anywhere else I could take you, but rumours spread fast. If this is to work, no one can know who you are.” She tried to push the bundle into his arms, but he took a step back.

“You wish me to deceive this man, who will be accepting me in his hall and extending his hospitality to me?” He shook his head. “I cannot. It is not right.”

“Achilles,” she said when he opened his mouth to refuse, her tone almost pleading. “You must trust me.”

Achilles snapped his lips shut, plucking the bundle from her hands with more than a little reluctance. The path ahead of him was filled with thorns, it seemed, but if by walking it he could keep Patroclus safe, at least for a while…  then Achilles would walk it, a thousand times over.

Patroclus would have done the same for him.

~

Skyros’ palace was humble, its decorations simple, the banners that swayed with the wind before the gates faded with time and bleached by the sun. The hem of the dress whispered around his ankles as he and his mother crossed the empty courtyard. The guards at the entrance did not seem overly impressed by their presence; one young man was leaning lazily against the side of the door, while two others were tossing dice on a low table. Achilles returned their bored glances with cool and detached curiosity. If the guards back in Phthia’s palace had slouched and whiled about like this, it wouldn’t have taken long for Agesilaus, the captain of the palace’s guard, to whip them into shape. His father offered a lot to his men, but expected order and firm discipline in return.

The guards' gaze stayed only for a moment on him, before sliding to his mother. Then, their eyes widened and they scrambled to their feet, their game of dice swiftly forgotten. She stood tall amongst them, her skin gleaming bone white and her black eyes sparkling like coals as she regarded them with thinly veiled disdain. The old and dusty hall looked pale and drabber still in her presence.  

“We would see your king,” she told them, her voice ringing with the natural authority of her divinity.

The guards hastened to lead them into the palace, their eyes kept firmly on the ground to avoid Thetis’ icy glare. Faint music and song drifted through the long and narrow corridors, louder the deeper they ventured. The throne room, when they finally reached it, was as lacklustre as the rest of the place but it was brimming with people, sitting at the tables that lined the hall. Two high backed chairs stood at the far end of it; on one of them sat an old and weary man wrapped in soft leathers and furs, his form diminished underneath them. His white-yellow beard reached down to his chest, the wisps of it disappearing into the fox-fur pelt that was draped around his shoulders. His tired eyes were following the movements of the group of dancers before him, young women with their hair bound with purple cloths, the hem of their long dresses lifted slightly to expose their slender ankles. Around their necks hung garlands woven with flowers, and the golden bracelets around their wrists clinked as they moved.

The rest of the people in the room were watching the girls as well, sipping on the wine that the servants were mixing in large brass bowls. The smells of cooking meat and spices were thick in the air, as well as that of fresh blood and incense; a sacrifice must have been made shortly before they’d arrived. A celebration for Pallas Athena, he realised soon after, noticing the goddess’ priestesses that sat in places of honour at the high table.

As soon as the dance had finished, all the dancers retreated to the side of the room. All except for one, a young girl with her dark curls falling in glossy waves down her back, who took her place beside the old king. His daughter, possibly. His mother stepped forward, and every pair of eyes in the hall focused on them before she had even uttered a word.

“King Lycomedes,” his mother said, addressing the man formally. “I thank you for accepting us in your hall on this holy day.”

Achilles blinked, taken aback. The name was familiar, told in age old stories and songs. It was said that Theseus, the mighty hero that had slain the minotaur in Crete, had been killed by Lycomedes after losing the favour of the Athenians and sailing to his distant island to seek refuge. Had Skyros been that distant island? And had this Lycomedes been the one under whose hand Theseus had perished, pushed him off a high cliff to his death? This... shrivelled old man? Even in his youth, he couldn’t have been tall and strong, like Achilles imagined heroes to be, and his old and forgotten hall was nothing to reflect or warrant that fame.

His mother, tall and bright enough to cloak everyone in that room in shadow, continued. “I present to you my daughter, Pyrrha. It will be an honour to have her reside here, amongst your foster daughters.”

Achilles tensed with the false introduction, but kept his silence as the elderly king’s and his daughter’s gazes fell on him. He wanted to rip that dress off of his shoulders and put an end to his mother’s ruse, to declare himself for who he was: Achilles, son of Peleus and the immortal Thetis, who had nothing to fear or to hide.

For Patroclus, he reminded himself as he cast his eyes downward, like his mother had taught him before taking him to the palace, and curtsied before the old king.

Lycomedes rose slowly from his seat, holding his daughter’s hand for support.

“Thetis, daughter of Nereus,” he started, speaking with slow and deliberate formality, “I welcome you and your daughter Pyrrha in my hall. She will want for nothing here, for as long as you wish her to stay with us.”

At a swift nod from the princess, one of the maidens stepped forward and placed a garland of flowers around his neck, delicate white roses, crimson cyclamens and violets, marking him as one of the dancers. Achilles turned to glance at his mother over his shoulder as he was led away, to sit with the rest of the young women at the far side of the hall.

Her eyes met his own, onyx flecked with gold, pained but unrelenting.

~

After the celebration, the princess —Deidameia was her name— led him to the women’s quarters. The corridors they passed through were dark and labyrinthine, with no light other than that from the torches that cast trembling shadows on the walls. The marble floors were worn smooth by the passing of countless feet, their surface matted and dull instead of the glossy white marble of his father’s palace.

“Have you ever heard of the dancers of Skyros, Pyrrha?” the girl asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. She had a fine voice, the kind that carried cleanly through silence and noise alike. It bounced and echoed around the corridors as they walked, coming back at them in a multitude of noisy whispers. “Kings and nobles send their daughters here, begging my father to foster them. Word of our skill in dancing has reached every corner of Hellas and beyond. Did you know that?”

“No. I did not. I have never heard of the dancers of Skyros in my life.” His words were uttered swiftly, quick and sharp, like a knife. More abruptly than he’d wished, but he could not help the unease that had taken hold of him. It was a dark and sunless place that Deidameia was leading him to, the rooms barely large enough to fit a narrow cot. Was that where he would have to stay now, for gods knew how long? Without Patroclus? The thought of him, alone in Phthia, searching for him, was enough to carve a hole in his stomach.

Deidameia stopped walking and blinked at him for a moment, then lifted her button nose. Her features were small and graceful, and she might have been considered beautiful by many, but she only reminded Achilles of a curious fox.

“Where did you grow up?” she asked, her dark brown gaze keen and inquisitive. “Where do you come from?”

Achilles kept his silence. He wasn’t sure how much his mother had revealed to them, and however much he longed to admit the truth to her and flee, he bit the words back.

“Is it Phthia you come from?” Deidameia pressed on, tilting her head to the side. “I've heard it said that Thetis is often seen there, in Peleus’ palace. She goes to see her son, Achilles. Have you seen Achilles?”

He just stared at her expressionlessly.

“Is he your brother?” she insisted. “Your half-brother?”

Achilles wetted his lips, his heart thumping in his throat with the barrage of questions that he wanted to answer but could not. “No,” he said at last. His answer didn’t seem to placate Deidameia. If anything, it urged her on.

“There are a lot of rumours about him. Some have even reached us here! Not that we don’t get travellers and traders,” she added quickly, “but we’re a little far removed from the thick of things, you understand. Father says it is better this way. Skyros is the island of the gods, a small paradise, rich and plentiful. The gods often come here, too. Have you seen our horses? Skyrian horses are known the world over. My father has many stable-fulls, all over the island. It is said they were blessed by Poseidon himself, that’s why they’re so clever and swift.”

“I have not,” Achilles shook his head. He wanted nothing more but to drop all conversation with her and retreat to a room as far away from her as possible, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What rumours have you heard of him? Of… Achilles?”

Deidamia’s eyes flashed brightly at finally having stirred his interest. “It is said that he is strong and fleet-footed, faster than any man alive. That no one has ever seen him fight, because your mother, Thetis, will turn him to stone on the spot. That he can cross an entire stadium in the blink of an eye. I heard he has been the victor of many games; running, discus throwing, wrestling…” She ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke, her plump lips pursing in thought. “He has competed in Phthia and Opus, they say. Pagasae as well, has he not? You must have seen him! Oh, you’re no good,” she scoffed with a dismissive wave when Achilles once again did not answer. “I expected you’d bring us news from the mainland, but you barely speak!” She placed her fists on her hips, her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “I’ve also heard he’s tall and fair. That his hair is golden and bright like the sun. In that, at least, I think you are somewhat alike.”

She reached out, tugging a lock of hair free from his scarf. Achilles tensed, but did not draw away. Deidameia curled the strand around her finger, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“I will find out all your secrets, Pyrrha,” she said with a wicked grin as she let him go. “I always do.”

Achilles let out a breath of relief when she turned around and started walking again, tossing her perfumed hair over her shoulder.

The dancer’s hall, as it was called, was the only room in the women’s quarter that had a window. A small one, from which only a streak of sunlight slithered through, but it still allowed a hint of a breeze to drift into the otherwise stifling space. Tendrils of incense coiled lazily towards the ceiling from the lit braziers in the center, giving off a thick and heady scent of sandalwood and frankincense. Two girls were practicing their dancing, their bare feet gently tapping the ground, their slender arms sweeping over their heads in wide arcs, like birds. Another cluster was sitting on the long and narrow pillowed bench by the window, braiding each other’s hair. The sweet notes of a lyre reached him from the far end of the room, the sound almost drowned out by the girl’s chatter and their hushed whispers.

Achilles’ heart was gripped in a tight vice. He hadn’t had the chance to bring anything with him from Phthia, not even Patroclus’ mother’s lyre. Patroclus would find the lyre in its usual place, by the wall next to the bed they shared, and he would think Achilles had abandoned him.

A little while, he told himself. Just for a little while, and then we’ll be together again.

Deidameia crossed the hall, ignoring the other girls who ceased their talk to peer curiously at them. She stopped before a room and pushed its door open.

“Your mother has asked for you to have a room of your own,” she informed him. It was much smaller than his room in Phthia, with a narrow bed and a pelt spread on the marble floor. He stared at it for a long while, reluctant to step inside. He had the oddest feeling that he’d been dreaming all this while, and that once he stepped in that room and the door closed behind him, it would all become real. He would be alone in this dark and windowless place, that was barely wide enough for him to pace three times and back. He could pretend that Patroclus was there with him, and he could speak to him, but he knew his voice would simply bounce off the walls back to him, dull and hollow.

Deidameia stirred him out of his thoughts. “You should come and practice with me and the girls this evening. Do you dance?”

Achilles’ nod was a slow, reserved one. When he practiced with his spears, it was a little like dancing, he thought. Besides, anything would be better than staying in that room on his own. Deidameia smiled brightly at him, reaching out to take his hand in hers.

“You’ll have a wonderful time here, Pyrrha. You’ll see.”

#the song of achilles #tsoa #achilles x patroclus #patrochilles #achilles #patroclus #tsoa fanfic #high-flying birds #johaerys writes

[charlie-sloane-art]

The Fair Play

Summary: After the death of your paramour Ser Caspian Hightower, you couldn’t bear to love again. But while you, the Lady Mormont, grieve, others conspire behind the scenes to set you up with your close friend Jaime Lannister. Things seem to work in their favour until you meet Caspian’s maternal uncle at his funeral: Oberyn Martell.

Tags: @bluegalaxyprime​ @zeldasayer​ @beaferni @thewaythisis​ @edwardsj81​ @hollandhiddles​ @mandahoe @btsbodyguardforever @refrigerated-omelette​ @theshiftylibrarian​ @azulasgf​ @vikingqueen28​ @justnancydrewthangs​ @heatherlynn25​ @c-ly-g​ @discogrrl​ @no-thanks-lol​ @yxorebeloxy @jeahyunniespeach @coffeeandtodd​ @reesestwizzlers25 @the-universe-stars-and-sun​ @zanasharm​ @venus-calum @cielphantomhixe​ @everything-lost-and-unsaid​

The Stranger sits on her altar, shrouded by the silken, lilac-colored scarf of Ser Caspian Hightower, covering her eyes with her hands. She sits among rose petals and burning candles, the air around it tinted with the aroma of cyprus bark infused into the candle. Here is where you now kneel, a private moment in a sea of unwashed and bald-faced betrayals and heart-wretches. Here you are allowed to mourn, with your back to the locked door of your rooms. Leaning backwards, your hands catch the blanket ripped from your bed frame less than a few hours passed. It still smells like him; like amber and sticky sweet fruits of the Reach. You had started to worry when your incessant paramour hadn’t shown his face in nearly a week. It wasn’t like him not to come bounding up to you every morning with a new flower to present you by the dozen, one you had never seen from the icy grips of the North. Now you know why he hadn’t shown his face. He couldn’t. It had been left rotting at the bottom of a hang-cliff, having just missed its gradual slip and slide into the sea a few feet below. A cracked skull was all that had been left of him, all that could be recognized. Whatever other traces of his previous humanity that he had taken with him on the fall to his death the seagulls and other maritime creatures had taken from him quickly. Even those deep, bottomless pools of dark ichor he had for eyes had been pecked out, leaving raw and red gashes in their wake. A cracked skull and some fractured teeth.

The maester had told you his fall was as swift as his death, a candle extinguished nearly as quickly as it had been lit. The flowers he had in hand when he fell had dried, shrivelled, and blown away. You would never see what specimen he had carried with him ever again. Whichever it had been, he had been proud to show it, surely. For that must’ve been how he had lost his step. He had always been so sure and light-footed, trained by his uncle for a few months at a time in his childhood. He fought like the Red Viper, but with a romance unparalleled. 

Surely,  you would never find another romance like his. Spending hours in the gardens picking wildflowers to put through his dark hair that brushed his shoulders, his fingertips digging into your thighs ever so often enough to remind you he wasn’t a lifeless doll. That smile when his gaze graced your own grew like the opening of a lily in spring. His skin was always warm, tanned and only rough around the hands where he’d grown calluses from working to be the best second son of a secondary house. To be Caspian Hightower was to be alive, and so to be dead and to be Caspian Hightower was to cease being. Not even he could change that, not with that quick wit and adorable wink could death bring back what it had stolen from him.

Someone was speaking your name. Someone was touching your shoulder. A familiar touch, you noted. Jaime Lannister had come to rely on these touches between the two of you. You’d made him soft around the edges, he thought, but didn’t have the courage to sandpaper those edges back on. He liked the softness too much. Watching you weep was another feat of softness. You were bent over at the abdomen, face in your hands, and shoulders shaking. When you came up for breath it split his heart in two. His closest friend was in such agony and there was nothing he could ever do about it. “Please,” He whispered, pulling you into his gold-plated chest. You had learned how to make yourself comfortable against such a harsh material since arriving back at King’s Landing. He used to hold you with a warm bare chest or at the very least covered in some sort of soft yet dirty cloth. You’d fallen asleep under the stars so many different times this way. “Please stop crying.” He murmured against your hairline, his green eyes fluttering closed as you turned to wrap your arms around his neck.

“It isn’t right.” You sputter against his neck.

“No,” He agreed “It isn’t fair.” The thought of saying ‘I warned you’ nagged at the back of his brain but he reigned it back in. The capital had been cruel enough to the Lady from Bear Island “You can’t stay in here all day.” Jaime leaned over and extinguished the candles, letting more smoke waft into the room “At the very least keep your window open.” He helped you up to your feet and wiped your tears away, taking advantage of the necessary pause between your sobs as you caught your breath.

“I don’t want the fresh air. It smells like shit.” You seethed at him, grabbing the blanket from the floor and stuffing your face in it, sitting on the side of your bed.

He tutted your name and knelt in front of you, careful to brush your hair behind your ears. Another familiar gesture. “It’s better than choking on smoke. Come on, at least go to the kitchens with me. Have something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Of course not. But still, you must eat.” Jaime’s patience had never been his virtue and you were starting to hear it in his voice.

So, you acquiesced “Fine. But I want wine. Lots of it.”

“As much as you like, Lady Mormont.” He offered his arm, a golden hand sticking out at the end of it. It occurred to him, as he walked down the halls with you, that he must look like a wizened pervert next to you: a lady half his age and freshly heartbroken leaning on his arm.

“Food for the Lady!” He called out as you both found your way to one of the many kitchens in the Red Keep. 

“Whatever is on-hand will work just fine.” You added, less accustomed to being a commanding force. You remembered a time when you had to ask the kitchen staff nicely for your food or you starved at the end of the table with the other Stark ward and their bastard.

“You’re a Lady, Mormont.” Jaime reminded you under his breath as he led you to sit down at the sturdy oaken table in the middle of the grand kitchen. “Just because the Starks beat you to submission does not make your status any less.”

“I wasn’t beaten.” You mutter under your breath, taking a roll of bread and picking at it.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I wasn’t beaten, you prick.” You rolled your eyes and threw the bread roll at him. Jaime remarked you may be the only person in the world who could do that to him without consequence.

“So what were you then?”

“I was a ward.” Your chin pointed higher “To Lady Catelyn Stark.”

“Not a very good one.” There was a pregnant pause before he managed to make you laugh.

“No, I suppose I wasn’t a very good ward. I let you out, didn’t I?”

“I am thankful for it every day, Cubby.” Cubby, another familiar touch. Of course, your house sigil was a bear, but to denote your youth Jaime had taken up calling you a cub, his cub. Lion’s had cubs too, after all. 

Food arrived, an assortment of beans in a thick stew of some sort, breads with an array of different spiced butters, and wine to wash it all down. “Perfect weeping food. Come on, eat up.” Jaime said despite you staring daggers at him for the comment.

“Do you think,” You spoke between spoonfuls of beans “that the funeral will be here or at Hightower?”

“Surely it’ll be at Hightower. Besides, it’s bad luck to have a funeral precede a wedding. Cersei wouldn’t stand for it.” Of course, Caspian had only been at King’s Landing in the first place to attend the long-awaited wedding of King Joffrey Baratheon and Lady Margaery Tyrell. It was still highly anticipated. Half of the guests had yet to arrive, including Caspian’s own family from his mother’s side: the Martells of Dorne.

“Is it?” You rose a brow.

“Is it what?”

“Is it bad luck?”

Jaime shrugged “I don’t actually know but I’m sure that’ll be the party line. Besides, it’s not like there’s much of him to transport back.” Jaime said it and as soon as he did he regretted it because then he had to watch your bottom lip quiver and your eyes blink quickly “Cubby, I...I apologize. That wasn’t...That was not what you needed to hear.” He took your hand in his across the table and sighed, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb- another familiar touch.

“I might go.” You sniffled with a shrug, splitting a piece of bread in two with your hands “I might follow the procession to attend the funeral.”

“I can not follow.” Jaime spoke, his voice tinted in concern “Are you sure that is wise? You will be on your own.”

“Why won’t you follow?” Your question was cut off short by a presence in the kitchen, a tall mass of a woman with bright blonde hair and eyes of azure, glinting like her silver armor. “Brienne.” You smiled but she averted your gaze. “Brienne,” You stood, but she made her way back out of the kitchen from whence she had arrived in a clamor. You sat back down, head bowed.

“Found out you lied, did she?”

“The truth has its way of making itself known. If I really had been pregnant when I told her, my belly would be the size of a wild boar by now.”

“You can’t just tell her you lost it?”

“That would’ve been a bright idea if I had not already confessed, Jaime. Thank you.” You rolled your eyes. “At least you can pretend you weren’t in on the lie. Be as shocked as she was.”

Jaime shrugged and met your gaze with a small smile “It doesn’t matter to me that much.”

“Why would it? Brienne isn’t angry at you, is she?” You all but stuck your tongue out at him. “It’s not like I had much of a choice anyway. She was going to bring me back for execution!”

“You don’t have to convince me. I would have done the same.” Jaime finished his bowl and pushed it to the side, leaning on his elbows over the table “She’ll come around, Cubby. You shouldn’t worry yourself over her opinions.”

“She’s my friend, of course I worry about her opinion. What sort of advice is that?”

“Fine.” Jaime stood, grabbing a kitchen towel and wiping his mouth and hands with it “She’ll come around.” He said, making his way to your side of the table. He leaned down, holding the back of your head, and pressed a kiss to your brow “You’re too fragile, Cubby. You break at the slightest of wind changes.”

You bit your lip and held your head higher, meeting his gaze “I do not.” A fragile little girl wouldn’t have survived a year in the wilderness of Westeros, knight present or no. “Jaime,” you caught his attention as he was leaving the kitchens “why won’t you come with me to Hightower?”

“The king needs me here.” The knight spoke, still resigned to his post with the white cloaks.

“No, he doesn’t.”

Jaime sighed and closed his eyes, shifting on his feet.

“She needs you, though.” Cersei. It was always going to be Cersei, and no other. Poor fools, the both of you.

“Yeah.” He nodded and walked out, a bit of a stormcloud brewing over his head.

#game of thrones #Oberyn Martell #Oberyn Martell fanfic #Oberyn Martell fanfiction #Oberyn Martell x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fan fic #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #Nikolaj Coster-Waldau #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones fanfic #Jaime Lannister #Jaime Lannister fanfiction #Jaime Lannister x reader #jaime lannister fanfic

[thumbgarden]

What is Thyme (Thymus mongolicus Ronn)

Thyme (Thymus mongolicus Ronn), semi-shrub, oval leaves, head-shaped inflorescence, tubular bell-shaped or narrowly-bell-shaped calyx, corolla purplish red, purple or lavender, pink, flowering from July to August, small nuts nearly round Shaped or oval.

It can be used as an ingredient. It is commonly used as a spice in European cooking. It has a spicy taste and is used to add to stews, eggs, or soups.

Traditionally in Europe, thyme is considered a symbol of courage, so in the Middle Ages, it was often used as a gift to the enlisted knight.

In the Yuan Dynasty of China, there was a book called "Complete Collection of Things to Use at Home", which remembers that it was seasoned with thyme and camel hooves.

The famous Chinese medical scientist Li Shizhen’s "Compendium of Materia Medica" records: "The taste is slightly pungent, and the natives cook lamb to eat, which is delicious." Thyme is native to Southern Europe and is widely cultivated as a gourmet spice.

The appearance characteristics of thyme

Semi-shrub. Many stems, creeping or ascending; sterile branches emerging from the end or base of the stem, creeping or ascending, pubescent; flowering branches (1.5) 2-10 cm high, densely curved downwards or slightly flattened under the inflorescence Hair, the lower hair becomes short and sparse, with 2-4 leaf pairs, the base has the first leaves that fall off.

Leaves are ovoid, 4-10 mm long, 2-4.5 mm wide, apex obtuse or slightly acute, base wedge-shaped or tapered, whole or rare 1-2 pairs of small serrations, both sides glabrous, lateral veins 2- 3 pairs, slightly protruding underneath, glandular points somewhat obvious, petioles are obvious, the petiole near the lower part is about 1/2 of the leaf, and the upper part is shorter; the bracts are the same shape as the leaves, and the edges are ciliated in the lower 1/3.

The inflorescence is capitate, more or less flowered, and the flowers have short stalks. The calyx is tubular bell-shaped or narrowly bell-shaped, 4-4.5 mm long, sparsely pilose on the lower part, nearly glabrous on the upper part, the lower lip is longer than the upper lip or nearly equal to the upper lip, the upper lip has shorter teeth, and the teeth do not exceed 1/3 of the total length of the upper lip, Triangular, ciliate or glabrous.

Corolla purple, purple or lavender, pink, 6.5-8 mm long, sparsely pubescent, crown tube elongated, 4-5 mm long, slightly enlarged upward.

Nutlets are nearly round or oval, flattened, and smooth. Flowering from July to August.

The growth habit of thyme

Thyme likes a warm, light-loving, and dry environment. It does not have high requirements on the soil, but it grows well in well-drained lime soil.

Loose and well-drained land, facing the sun. Born in rocky mountains, slopes, valleys, ravines, roadsides, and weeds, 1100-3600 meters above sea level.

The main value of thyme

1. Ecology Thyme plants are relatively low, with stolons that grow along the ground surface, extending nearly horizontally.

The adventitious buds on the stem can germinate many root systems and form a very strong root network, which can effectively prevent soil erosion.

Because thyme has outstanding cold tolerance, drought tolerance, barren tolerance, resistance to diseases and insects, as well as fast growth, large flower volume, long flowering period, and pleasant fragrance;

It has become a rare and excellent ground cover plant in urban landscaping, and because of its strong resistance, wide ecological diversity, and clonal growth characteristics;

In many fragile habitats with severe soil degradation, natural dominant plant species or single superior groups can be formed, and they play an important ecological function in desertification community composition and ecological succession.

2. Medicinal Thyme can treat many diseases, with a sweet and herb-like smell.

The medicinal records of thyme in China can be traced back to the Northern Song Dynasty. There are records in various Chinese medicine classics.

"Shaanxi Chinese Herbal Medicine" records that it can cure indigestion, general body pain, dispel wind and analgesia, abdominal distension, toothache, and cure stomach cold pain;

"Jiayou Materia Medica," said that it is the main source of swelling and pain; "Xinjiang Handbook of Chinese Herbal Medicine" records the effects of treating colds, dispelling wind, strengthening the spleen and eliminating food, relieving cough and resolving phlegm, warming the middle and dispelling cold, and "Selected Chinese Herbal Medicines from Shaanxi, Gansu and Ningqing" Stomach relieving vomiting and clearing heat and reducing fever;

"Chinese Medicine Plant Illustrated Book" records that it has antispasmodic, expelling wind, and strengthening effects, and is mainly used for inflammation, spastic cough, whooping cough, and sore throat.

Modern medicinal use uses fresh or dry samples of the above-ground part or whole plant, which has the functions of dispelling wind and relieving pain.

3. Edible The whole thyme plant has a fragrant odor. It appeared in people's lives as a spice vegetable and nectar plant for a long time. It is one of the natural flavoring spices used by humans since ancient times.

It was first recorded in China that thyme was used as a seasoning spice in the Yuan Dynasty. When cooking seafood, meat, fish, and other foods, add a little thyme powder to remove the fishy smell and increase the flavor of the dishes;

Adding thyme to pickles and kimchi can improve their fragrance and grassy aroma. In 1970, the International Standard Organization announced that thyme can be used as a food spice.

Tips Comparing and analyzing the nutrients in thyme and common vegetables, it was found that the content of carbohydrate, protein, vitamin C, selenium, iron, calcium, and zinc was higher than that of common vegetables;

In particular, thyme contains a large number of volatile components such as monoterpenes, which have extremely high edible nutritional value to the human body.

Thyme honey has a high concentration, a strong aroma, and a light amber color. Studies have found that thyme honey has a higher amino acid content, which is of great benefit to the human body.

Thyme facts

1. Flower language

Courage, you who like this flower are broad-minded, brave to face difficulties, and have a lot of self-esteem, and will not give in easily.

You believe that tomorrow will be better, make a rational analysis of everything and not be blindly optimistic.

Because of your strong self-esteem, your relationship will not be very intense, which is a type of rational communication.

In addition to its charming fragrance, thyme has a romantic and beautiful meaning-"good luck".

The scarves given to brave knights by women in the Middle Ages in Europe are pierced with thyme, which means to bless everything.

2. Legend

One of the legends There is a legend in ancient Greece that as long as a girl who thinks of spring embroider a thyme pattern on her clothes, or wear thyme on her body, it means looking for a lover and waiting for the love of the suitor.

For a shy men, as long as they drink a cup of thyme tea, I heard that they can pluck up the courage to pursue what they love.

Legend Two Also known as "The Favor of Provence". In Greek mythology, Aphrodite (the god of love and beauty) shed tears when she saw the cruelty of the Trojan War. Her tears fell into the mortal world and became the lovely leaves of thyme.

Another theory is that Troy’s tears of Helen turned into thyme drop by drop. The English word for thyme comes from Greece, which means "courage".

Interesting story

A song poet in the 16th century called the scent of thyme "a paradise at dawn" because it smells fresh and charming, natural and comfortable, and pure and beautiful like heaven.

According to legend, thyme is related to the most glamorous and beautiful Princess Helen of Sparta, who caused the historic Trojan War.

In Greek mythology, thyme is Helen's tears. Princess Helen, who is all over the country, is the daughter of Queen Rita of Sparta and the god Zeus. Because she is very beautiful, countless princes and nobles pursue her.

Helen's adoptive father, King Spartan, in order to avoid everyone fighting for Helen, married her to the new Spartan King Menelaus and became the queen of Sparta.

Not long after the peaceful days, a handsome Trojan prince Paris came to Sparta. After seeing Queen Helen, he was deeply fascinated by her. He tried every means to get close to Helen and confided in love with her. Helen was also attracted by his handsomeness and fell in love with him unconsciously, so the two met and fled to Troy.

However, how did the two young people know that this elopement led to the ten-year Trojan War?

When Troy finally perished and Paris died in battle, Helen couldn't help but shed crystal tears and turned into thyme on the ground. The expression of tears falling gently on her face caused many Trojan warriors to be overwhelmed and swear to protect her.

Therefore, since then, thyme has been given a symbol of courage and vitality. Women will send a sprig of thyme before their beloved samurai goes out to convey their love and encourage each other's courage.

The girl of Sichun embroidered the thyme pattern on her clothes, or wears thyme on her body, which means looking for a lover and waiting for the suitor to show love;

Benefits of thyme

1. Protect the liver Thyme has a natural aroma. It contains a large amount of oleanolic acid. This substance can directly act on the human liver to improve liver function, prevent hepatitis and cirrhosis, and promote liver cell regeneration. It can be eaten regularly. Reduce virus damage to the human liver.

2. Anti-inflammatory and sterilization Thyme contains a variety of natural anti-inflammatory components, especially the high content of linalool and cymene. They can eliminate a variety of bacteria and viruses in the human body. Usually, it can be used for human oral inflammation and tracheitis. The prevention and treatment of upper respiratory tract inflammation such as pneumonia are particularly effective.

3. Relieve pain and itching Analgesic and itching are also important functions of thyme. Its medicinal ingredients such as linalool and paraffin can eliminate inflammation and sterilization and can eliminate a variety of skin fungi. People usually grind thyme directly and take out the juice when people have dermatitis and eczema. Applying to the affected area can quickly reduce the itching symptoms caused by dermatitis and eczema.

4. Prevent high blood pressure Thyme can prevent high blood pressure. The baicalein and apigenin contained in it are all-natural antihypertensive ingredients, and they can reduce the activity of carcinogens in the body, promote blood circulation, and improve the contraction of the heart. Not only do they often eat It can prevent high blood pressure and also play an important role in preventing cancer.

5. Resolve phlegm and relieve cough Thyme contains a lot of volatile oil and some natural aromatic substances. These substances can expand the trachea and speed up the discharge of sputum. People can use it to prevent coughing and sputum. It can also be used for the treatment of human cough and asthma. The effects are very special obvious.

#Perennials #Edible #Botanical #garden #Herb #Fresh #Herbal #Healthy #Spices #Treatment #Benefits #Planting

Author: Ms.Geneva Link: https://www.thumbgarden.com/what-is-thyme/ Source: ThumbGarden The copyright belongs to the author. For commercial reprints, please contact the author for authorization, and for non-commercial reprints, please indicate the source.

#perennials #edible #botanical #herb garden #thumbgarden #garden #herb cookie #herb seeds #herb #fresh herb #herbal #healthy #spices #treatment #benefits #planting

[efrmellifer]

Abenteuer

Wolmeric Week May 2021, Day Five: Adventure

“Come home and pack a night bag,” Etien instructed, barging into Aymeric’s office.

Before he could stop and formulate a proper response, he had already blurted out a less-than-dignified “What?”

“You said you wanted to come along with me on an adventure. I figure we’re never going to get the time if we don’t take the time. And you could use a vacation. So come home with me and pack a night bag. We’ll have you back here, quill scratching, by tomorrow afternoon.”

Well, it was hard not to trust her, when, to boil it into one sentence, it was Etien. And she was right, he did need a vacation. A change of scenery for a night might do him some good.

He looked her over, taking in the dark blue coat she wore (a gift from Lord Edmont, he thought?) and the soft, unarmored hempen leggings she had on underneath, tucked into boots that were equally stylish and practical.

She couldn’t have extended her hand to him any more obviously without physically doing so. So he laid his hand in hers. Metaphorically.

“Where are we going?”

“You like The Churning Mists, don’t you?”

_

They walked through the Chocobo Forest, packs on their backs and hand in hand.

“And you cleared this with Lucia?”

“Lucia wanted to evict you from your office. I was the one with the kinder idea to order you to come home and pack some things.” Etien stopped walking, looking up at Aymeric as he laughed, a tiny, fond smile on her lips.

“That was kind of you. I don’t know what I would have done for one night.”

Now she rolled her eyes and kept walking. “I know it’s been worse in the field before. But this is supposed to relax you at least a little bit. Thought you might be more comfortable in fresh clothes tomorrow.” She kept walking. “Though I suppose you could have just prayed for rain, and chewed some tree bark for oral hygiene.”

“Does that work?”

She nodded. “At least, it always does for me. Got the smell of wine off my breath once, too.”

“The smell of wine? That’s not like you.”

She grimaced. “It wasn’t indeed.” She squeezed his hand a little tighter, leading the way along the path.

“Remind me what that large structure is again?” he asked.

Studies had been conducted on the architecture that remained in the Dravanian Forelands since the end of the Dragonsong War, in an attempt to understand what about these ruins had helped them to endure for so long. (The help of the dragons, was the conclusion they had come to so far.) But Aymeric hadn’t been involved in much of those investigations, and Etien knew little about architecture. She could identify the rocks used, and she recognized the style as similar to that of Ishgard, but even combining their knowledge, they didn’t know anything much, other than…

“Anyx Trine. A fairly large dragon roost, from what I understand?” she said, squinting into the late afternoon light as she tried to remember. “We’ve been here before.”

“I did think I recognized it.” Recollection washed over him. “You do not plan to take me through Mourn again, do you?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, no. I just prefer going to Moghome from here. The distance is shorter.”

Aymeric nodded. “Again, your kindness is appreciated.”

Two masses of aether shimmered, and then they were gone.

_

“I don’t want to talk to Chieftain Moglin right away,” Etien groaned when they appeared again at Moghome.

“Etien, did you bring me up here to do chores for the Moogles?”

“No. Well… no. I brought you up here because it’s a pretty place to spend a night. But I knew we were going to be caught wandering around anyway, so I thought we might as well get our obligatory act of service out of the way, kupo.”

Aymeric heaved a heavy sigh. “Fury have mercy. All right. I can do the talking.”

And with that, they were sent wandering all the way to the Landlord Colony, gathering spices and flowers.

“What do they even do with these?”

Etien ran her scythe through the stems of the flowers Aymeric was holding upright for her. “I assume they cook with the spices. The flowers”--she sliced down some more blooms-- “I have no idea.”

“Have you never eaten Moogle food?”

“I doubt they’d feed us. But no. I haven’t. Ysale cooked when we…” A shadow passed over them, and they both looked up. “Were here.”

Then the thud of a dragon landing.

“Friend of Ysale! What bringeth you to the Churning Mists?”

“Vidofnir!” Etien chirped, doing her best to embrace the dragon’s neck. “Ah… visiting. We were hoping to enjoy a night out here. You remember Aymeric, right?”

“Indeed I do. Welcome once more to my father’s home, son of Thordan.”

Etien winced, but relaxed as Aymeric thanked Vidofnir.

“We had best get this plant matter back to the Moogles. I expect they’re waiting, tapping their little paws,” he whispered.

_

Finally, night had come and the Moogles were satisfied with the services rendered.

“I thought they would never let us go,” Etien mumbled, handing over a plate. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Aymeric scoffed. “But they did. And not a moment too soon; if I had had to wait much longer for this, I’d have started eating grass.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied, sitting down, waiting for her food to finish cooking.

“It was through no fault of yours, dearest. In fact, I find myself impressed you managed to get this done so quickly.” He bit into the roast fowl. “And well.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she chided with a smile.

“Aw, but this is my vacation, surely I can be a little less well-mannered?”

Etien rose from where she’d been sitting, carefully stepping around the fire, and sat down next to him, leaning against him. “I suppose so. For a treat.”

He held out a carrot for her. “Here, have some.”

“Mine is still on the fire. I’ll be okay.”

“Eat, Etien. You do not have to wait.”

“Oh, all right.” She bit into the carrot while he held it still, then took it from him. “I’ll just give you my parsnip when it’s done, then.”

When she’d sat down again, with her food, she jumped, as if she had sat on something.

“A rock?” Aymeric asked.

“No. I just remembered.” She dug in her bag, pulling out a small bottle. “I brought wine for you.” She uncorked it with her teeth, and handed the bottle over. “Hopefully drinking directly from the bottle is one of those less than well-mannered things you feel like doing.”

He snorted, sipping at it. “This is good. Where did it come from?”

“Out in the Sylphlands.” She sat down again, handing over her parsnip as promised and tucking into her food.

Aymeric tipped the bottle toward her before he finished it. “I couldn’t forgive myself if I failed to share.”

Etien reached out, then her hand curled, as if she were rethinking it. Finally, she took the bottle and had a tiny sip. “There. The rest is yours.”

“I appreciate you making an effort,” he murmured, draining the bottle of its remaining contents, and rolling it toward her bag again.

She leaned against him again, purring. “For you? Always.”

_

Unfortunately, Etien had forgotten that dragons weren’t the only danger of the Churning Mists, and that the others hadn’t gone away when the chorus of the dragons was a peaceful chorale.

So she was taken utterly by surprise when she saw a Melia stalking Aymeric back toward their little campsite from the Moogle residence a short distance away that he’d wandered off to.

She called to him, already nocking an arrow (of course she’d brought her bow), and telling him, “move toward its back quickly, but do not get its attention.”

He did as she said, and watched as an arrow lodged itself in the bark of the creature, then another, this one with a sickly scent to it. He backed away from the Melia and the dangerous arrows, one whizzing by his ear with the force of a gale.

“I didn’t know you were moving, sorry!” she called.

But the creature collapsed, withering as it did so, and Aymeric trotted back to Etien’s side.

“Well. That was an adventure.”

“I always deliver on my promises,” she replied, putting away her bow. “Are you tired? I’m tired.”

“I am,” Aymeric answered, rolling out their bedding for the night. “We don’t expect rain, correct?”

“Aye, should be clear skies all day.”

“Wonderful.” When the bedrolls were ready, she lay down, staring up at the sky. Aymeric joined her, and before he could reach out to pull her to him, she was already scooting closer.

They both looked up at the sky.

“So… all those years ago, when you had me go to Silvertear, and Midgardsormr dulled Hydaelyn’s blessing,” Etien began.

Aymeric hummed, not quite inquisitively, but to indicate that he followed where she was leading, and he was listening.

She continued. “Had you actually seen the Dragon Star get brighter?”

“I have to believe that the astrologians did, for the sake of my own understanding of everything that came after. Why?”

“I just wondered if you had said that so you could take a measure of the Scions. Of me specifically.”

“No, I always thought that what was said about you was true. What Haurchefant had to say most of all. The first time I actually doubted stories about you was—I was going to say it was when they claimed you poisoned the Sultana. But it was actually when people whispered that you were… how did they say it? Sweet on me?”

Etien snorted and giggled. “Shame. Imagine how much faster things might have gone if you’d trusted that rumor above any other.”

“Aye, but it does no good to dwell on the past and what could have been,” Aymeric conceded with a sigh, pulling her closer still to kiss her forehead. “And now, even though I would think the Dragon Star hasgotten brighter, seeing as Midgardsormr is among us again, I cannot tell.”

She tipped her head, struggling to look at him. “Why’s that?”

“Because having you with me, every star burns more brightly.”

#Aytien #wolmeric week

[samayla]

An Utterly Impractical Magician

Chapter 10

A Jane Eyre/Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion fic.

Also on AO3

Summary: When John Reed burnt Thomas Godbless’ book of magic to spite his cousin, he had no idea how drastically he would alter both her fate and that of English magic.

@majorxmaggiexboy @shygaladriel @bookhobbit @wolfinthethorns @kaethe-nicole @warsawmouse @cassandravision @mythopoeticreality @jmlascar @seriouslythoughguys @isawatreetoday @rude-are-food @the-stars-above28 @the-candor-shadowhunter

Let me know if any of you would like to be added/removed in the tags list. I know updates have been super sparse, so if any of you want to be removed, I'll totally understand.

10

A Child at Hurtfew

Hurtfew Abbey, July 1805

Jane could smell Lowood School. Its muddy, sickly stink clung to her clothes and skin and closely-cropped hair. It had gotten all over the mossy-green bed linens in the night, and the damp cloud of it surrounded her and marred the clean, soapy freshness of the servants’ hall and the warm, exotic spice of the cinnamon Mrs Porter had just sprinkled over Jane’s porridge.

“Eat up, dear,” said the cook, adding a handful of raisins to her bowl for sweetness. “I daresay you’ve missed quite enough meals already.”

Jane obeyed, though the stench of mold was making her ill, and her fingers were stiff and sore around the handle of the spoon. Mrs Porter stayed to watch her eat several bites, then returned to her work in the kitchen as Childermass lurched into the hall, looking nearly as haggard as Jane felt. He took a seat across from Jane and bid her a good morning. “I hope you slept well, Little Miss, or at least better than you did in the carriage last night.

“I did, sir. Thank you,” was her quiet reply, though in truth she had slept very ill indeed. All night she had been plagued by disturbing dreams of Mr Norrell storming into her room in a fit of rage. In some dreams, he transformed into Mr Brocklehurst, red-faced and spitting sparks, lording over her as the damp smell of that rotting chapel clogged her nostrils. In other dreams, he became Childermass, his hair a churning thunderstorm, come to say that his cards had been mistaken, and he’d have to take her back now. Then he’d become Norrell again, lamenting time and effort wasted, and he’d open the door to a library, but instead of bookshelves, it was the yellow-white lambs on peeling green plaster. They grew jagged teeth as she watched, and he’d shove her through to be consumed, starting with her hands.

Childermass appeared skeptical of her polite lie, so Jane made herself eat another bite of porridge, hoping that would appease him. He watched the clumsy way she managed the spoon, then swapped his plate of buttered toast for her bowl and spoon. At her clear bewilderment, he made a pinching motion with his free hand. “The toast’ll go easier for now, until the swelling’s gone down some. Tuck in.”

He took his own advice and made short work of the porridge, leaving Jane to nibble nervously on the toast. As he’d predicted, the toast was indeed far easier to manage than the spoon, and she quickly discovered that it settled her churning stomach as well.

“Good morning, dears,” Hannah chirped as she bustled into the servants’ hall with a tray of used breakfast things from upstairs.

Jane and Childermass chorused their greetings in return.

“Mr Norrell is in the library, Mr Childermass,” the housemaid said. “He expects you and Miss Jane presently.” She offered Jane a warm smile, but Jane found she could scarcely return it. Her last bite of toast sat like lead on her tongue. She tried to keep her sudden anxiety off her face, but Childermass caught it.

“Easy, Little Miss,” he said soothingly, pushing her cup of water closer. “I know he gave you something of a fright last night, but you’ll learn soon enough not to put too much credence to Mr Norrell’s moods. My master is the sort of fellow who likes nothing better than a good, righteous vexation — and me disappearing on him for nigh on a fortnight, then turning up —”

“— at the wrong door —��� Hannah put in with a sly smile.

Childermass smirked but continued earnestly, “— with a stray child in tow… Let us just say I gave him enough cause to be well and truly vexed, and it should have put him in fine spirits this morning.”

“He’s a bit quarrelsome yet,” Hannah offered, setting her tray down beside Jane’s place at the table, “but that’s just his nature. You make it through this morning, and I expect he’ll mostly forget you’re even here, unless we march you through the library once a month to remind him.”

Jane giggled at the mental image of the short-sighted bogeyman of last night’s dreams peering dazedly up at her over a heap of books. Her hands flew to her mouth in horror, but Childermass was smiling as if he could see it too. “That’s the spirit, love.”

Hannah gave Jane’s shoulder a squeeze. “Would you like me to come along, dear?” she asked in a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “We can’t count on these foolish menfolk to think of everything that will need doing now that you’re here.”

Jane smiled in earnest, even as she glanced up to make sure Childermass still hadn’t taken offense. He caught her looking, and she blushed. “That’s a fine idea, Hannah,” he declared.

They made an awkward procession as they made their way through the big, empty house. Childermass took the lead, and Jane followed with Hannah, her arm laced through the maid’s, leaving her attention free to wander and take in her new home. The whole place had a strange air about it. Not quite neglect — it was far too clean for that — but disused, Jane decided. Like a pressed flower, it was perfectly beautiful, but at the same time brittle and somehow faded in something other than color. Like the memory of a place.

“This is the way to the library,” Childermass said, drawing Jane out of her musings to find herself standing in front of a heavy oak door in a richly appointed parlor. “Mr Norrell is quite particular about his library, Little Miss, and he will not take kindly to anyone venturing into this hall without his permission.”

“I understand, sir,” Jane said, her voice choked by both nerves and anticipation. This was where her books had gone! She remembered Childermass’s words about his master’s collection, back at Gateshead. If she were very good indeed, perhaps she might even be permitted to choose a book to read. She hadn’t had a book in her hands since leaving Gateshead all those months ago, and she felt the loss like that of a limb. Its ache grew even sharper as Childermass led the way through a long hall that meandered around far more corners than should have been possible.

Jane’s skin began to prickle like the air before a lightning storm, and she drew in a shuddering breath at the thought of having one of her fits here and now. Images of the fire in her dormitory at Lowood sprang to mind unbidden. She’d be thrown out. She’d have nowhere to go. She’d —

“We’re nearly there, Little Miss,” Childermass said suddenly over his shoulder. He looked pale and unsteady in the dim hall, and it occurred to Jane that he was nervous. The realization was terrifying, but she resolved to do him proud. He had come halfway across the county to claim her; she would be brave enough for a walk to the library. She pictured her books, held the image of them steady in her mind as a talisman against the sparks she could feel gathering at the edges of her vision, more than ready to erupt into chaos.

A dull crash sounded somewhere up ahead, and then, so suddenly that Jane nearly ran right into him, Childermass brought them up short at another door. He glanced once at Jane, seemingly as startled as she and Hannah were at the door’s sudden appearance, but then he pulled it open, and they leapt back as a great pile of books cascaded into the hall. Mr Norrell stood on the other side of the heap, looking quite startled and more than a little alarmed.

Jane bent to retrieve the nearest book — Tott’s English Magic — but Mr Norrell’s voice rang out like a slap. “No, no, no! Can you not smell the mold? The damp? I will not have it so close to the books, Childermass! I cannot! Out! Out to the parlor, if you please!” And whether they pleased or not, they were herded out of the library, back down the strange hallway — which seemed somehow much shorter and strangely lacking in corners in this direction — and out in to the parlor beyond. Mr Norrell slammed the heavy door behind himself. He stood, wig askew, handkerchief over his nose, and glared at his servants.

And quite unexpectedly, Jane found herself crying.

“Do-do not cry, child,” Mr Norrell said softly, his voice almost that of a different man entirely. If Jane hadn’t known any better, she might have thought she’d imagined his outburst in the hall. He lowered the handkerchief with clear reluctance, and Jane felt even worse. The air in the parlor felt too close, the rotten stink of Lowood consuming all the air in the room.

“I did not mean to distress you.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jane choked, trying and failing to get her emotions under control. She knew she ought to dry her eyes and behave as a respectable young lady, but she found she could not move. Her hands were wound so tightly into the back of her skirt that her palms stung and her fingers throbbed in time with her runaway pulse.

“Oh, sweetling…” Hannah pulled her close, and Jane buried her face in the fabric at her hip. Hannah’s clothes smelled of lavender soap, and Jane drew in great, heaving lungfuls of the scent, releasing them on high, thin cries she could not control. She was horrified. They would send her away, surely, cast her aside like a broken doll.

But Hannah’s fingers were gentle in her hair, stroking through the uneven stubble over and over again as she murmured soft reassurances. Slowly, Jane came to realize that Hannah was not angry with her. And if Hannah was not yet out of patience, then there was yet hope for the gentlemen, if Jane could calm herself and do something to repair this ghastly first impression. With a monumental effort, she stepped away from Hannah’s side. She clasped her shaking hands in front of her, though her every instinct was screaming at her to hide them safely away.

If anything, Mr Norrell appeared to be even more discomfited by her efforts. He shook his head when she opened her mouth to repeat her apology. He offered his handkerchief, which she accepted at once, pathetically grateful for the excuse to look away for a few moments.

“I only…” he began, sounding even more unsteady than Jane felt. “I only meant that mold is a pervasive beast. Your clothing and things from that… place… are already compromised. They will have to go.” He began to sound more sure of himself as he continued. “I would not tolerate such an abominable lack of care for my books, let alone a child. Such environments breed illness like a dung heap breeds flies. It is a wonder you have not succumbed to such conditions long before now.” At Jane’s stricken look, he caught himself and withdrew at once from such dire pronouncements. “B-but fear not, child: we shall order you new things. Fresh, clean dresses. And a new bonnet free of vermin, so you might have lovely, long hair — i-if you wished it, of course…” Mr Norrell trailed off uncertainly, and Hannah took pity on him.

“You shall be pretty as a doll, sweetling,” she said, laying her warm hand on Jane’s shoulder and offering another squeeze. Tears flowed anew. She wanted her doll. Sad, crumbling thing that it was, she missed it fiercely. Sparks crackled at the edges of her vision, and Jane rubbed her eyes in an effort ot make them go away. Hannah knelt and pushed Jane’s hands away, instead using Mr Norrell’s handkerchief to dry her eyes. “For now, though, I think perhaps it would be best if you came back upstairs for a bit more rest, hmm?” She smiled encouragingly, and Jane nodded.

“Yes, yes, an excellent notion, Hannah,” Mr Norrell said, looking quite relieved. “Childermass had you out inexcusably late, Miss Eyre. It is no wonder you are overwrought this morning. I myself have something of a headache after all the excitement, though it is nothing a warm cup of mint tea will not cure.”

“I’ll send Lucy along with a pot of tea presently, sir,” Hannah offered.

“Yes, Hannah. Thank you. A cup would do Miss Eyre wonders too, I should think.” He looked quite pleased with this pronouncement. “Childermass, I’ll have your help in the library. I’ve half a shelf’s-worth of books on the floor. It was the strangest thing —”

But Childermass, who had been fiddling with something in his pocket while the other adults dealt with Jane, cut him off. “I’ve one more matter to attend to with Miss Eyre, sir. I’ll join you in the library after you’ve finished your tea.”

Jane cringed. If any of her Aunt Reed’s servants had spoken so impertinently, the would have been let go on the spot, without references. But however irritated Mr Norrell might have felt at the interruption and proposed delay, he did not argue. He merely nodded and retreated back through the door that led to the library, muttering to himself about dresses and shoes “and bed linens, no doubt.”

A cup of tea and rest in her own room. Not a switch. Not even a reprimand for toppling the books — for she had little doubt that it had been her fault somehow. She could scarcely believe it.

Jane started and nearly fell as Childermass appeared at her side and tucked her free arm around his own. “I’ll deliver her to the kitchen for her tea shortly, love,” he told Hannah as they all left the parlor. Though she was confused and more than a little frightened — for she was keenly aware that Childermass had come off worst in their encounter with Mr Norrell, even if it hand only amounted to an indirect scolding over the lateness of their arrival — and she would much rather go downstairs for some tea with Hannah, Jane held her tongue. She had been quite childish enough already, she decided, and it was time to prove how well-mannered and mature she could be, even if she was still struggling not to cry.

Childermass led her through the smaller, more intimate rooms along the back of the house — all well-preserved, but just as forlorn as those they’d passed through at the front — and out into the back garden. “I owe you an apology,” he said conversationally as they walked down a manicured gravel path between some low hedges.

“You cannot be held responsible for the speed of the carriage, sir,” Jane said quickly. “And you did warn me to sleep along the way.”

Childermass blinked, then chuckled a little sadly and drew to a stop. He knelt in front of Jane, who was growing more alarmed by the moment. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the crumbling ruin of Jane’s doll. “I’m afraid I stepped on her back in the chapel, love.” He laid the little bundle in Jane’s outstretched hands. “I’m sorry. I don't know how she got to be in my pocket this morning, but I thought you should know what had become of her."

Jane just nodded and sagged down to the gravel as it began to rain out of the clear, blue sky. She had known Helen’s sad little doll wouldn’t last forever. The leaves had been dry and fragile when she had died, but now they were mostly jagged stems, and the acorn face was split nearly in two.

“What’s her name?”

“Derwen,” Jane whispered. Helen had told her it meant oak.

“Well, Little Miss,” Childermass said, standing and ignoring the rain that was steadily soaking them both, “let’s you and me and Miss Derwen take a walk, shall we? Up you get.” He helped her to her feet and led the way in among the low, carefully trimmed hedges. He soon abandoned the path entirely and lifted Jane over those hedges that they could not walk around, until they stood in the very center of the garden, in a near-perfect circle of neatly cut grass.

To Jane’s utter bewilderment, Childermass knelt in the center of the circle and plunged his pocket knife into the ground. The rain slowed to a drizzle as he dug, first with the knife, then with his hands. The mud caked itself beneath his nails and around the cuffs of his jacket, but Childermass continued to dig with complete unconcern. “Got to be deep enough to keep the squirrels from smelling it,” he said when Jane leaned closer to get a better look.

“Smelling what?”

“Miss Derwen.”

Jane lurched back, shoving the doll behind her back, and the skies opened wide once more.

“Easy, Little Miss,” Childermass said with perfect composure. He sat back on his heels. “I mean you no harm, but your doll is broken and quite beyond help. But —” He extended a hand for the doll, and Jane, who had been at Lowood far too long to ignore such a clear command, handed her over. Childermass took her gently and tipped her to the side, his filthy fingernails prizing gently at the split in the acorn. “Look just here.”

Jane looked, and she saw to her amazement that inside the ruin of the acorn was a tiny shoot of pale pink and white.

“She’s trying to put down roots,” Childermass explained. “She may be done being your doll, love, but we can plant her out here, water her, and see that she gets plenty of sun, and one day, she’ll be a great big oak.”

“But Mr Norrell does not like me,” Jane blurted. “After the way I’ve behaved today…” She gestured helplessly at the steady, soaking rain that stopped abruptly three feet in every direction. Part of her was glad for the rain, for it hid her continued tears. “He does not mean to keep me. I know he does not, and so I will never see the tree grown.”

Childermass reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew one of his cards, careful to shield it from the rain. Two pairs of wands crossed at the center of the card. He glanced at the card for a moment, then smiled to himself. “This tells me you are to be with us a good, long time. Plenty of time to see Miss Derwen grow.”

He tucked the card away and then just waited, hand outstretched in offering, as if it was up to Jane to make the decision. Jane stared at him, kneeling there in the muddy grass as if he had all the time in the world, Jane realized it really was up to her. She had a choice, and suddenly, all she wanted in the world was to see her sad little doll grown into a great, towering oak. She nodded silently, unable to speak the words for fear of jinxing them.

Childermass asked if she’d like to keep the lace, imagining quite rightly that it was important. “I daresay Hannah could find a place for it on your new bonnet, or one of the dresses, and she’d have it looking good as new. She’s a wonder at such things.”

Jane hiccuped and shook her head. She took back the doll and ran her fingers over the sodden lace, the last piece of Helen she had. She kissed Derwen’s acorn face, then laid her gently in the bottom of the hole, careful to arrange the precious lace just so. “It is Derwen’t dress, and Derwen shall keep it.”

Childermass helped Jane fill the hole, and by the time they had finished and patted the little piece of sod back into place, the rain had stopped for good.

“Come along, Little Miss,” Childermass said, climbing back to his feet and helping Jane to do the same. “A cup of tea and a seat by the fire are calling your name.”

#Eyre/Strange Fusion #Jane Eyre #Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell #jsamn #kate writes #my writing

[willow-salix]

Little something that wanted to come out for the Sensory Sunday prompt of "Smell" by @gumnut-logic

Witches rely on their senses more than anything else. Witches see the world differently to other people, they see, they feel on a different level. They feel, they notice, they pay attention. A big part of their gifts, the magic that they weave is linked to their senses, it’s linked to the conjuring up of energy which they shape, they mould to push out towards their goal. The real power lies within the heart of the witch, not in the tools, not in the elaborate rituals, not in the clothes or the magic words, but in their very essence.

For Selene her sense of smell is second to none, as finely tuned as a bloodhound's. She could identify herbs in a jar by smell while blindfolded, she was more likely to be roused from sleep by the scent of coffee than an alarm call.

Scents can be pleasant, energising, calming, comforting, arousing, alluring, insulting, horrendous, vile and nauseatingly horrible. They are many and varied but each and every one serves a purpose to her.

To her everything had a smell that was unique to it, things, people, places, they all had a scent she associated with them and they could affect her mood and her energy in both positive and negative ways.

She loved the smell of old books, they relaxed her, calmed her as she flicked through the dusty pages and felt the paper crinkle beneath her fingers. Incense was something she used every morning and evening, setting the tone for the day or helping her wind down after a hard night, lavender, rosemary, sage, nag champa, patchouli, fruits and herbs, she loved them all. The smell of baking cakes and bubbling soups could invoke calming memories of her Grandparents, the smell of the sea made her senses tingle, energising and empowering her. She was ruled by her nose as much as Scott was ruled by his stomach.

One of the first things she had noticed about her John, apart from that voice that just rubbed against her senses like a purring cat, was how he smelt. He smelt like the night, like the sky, like stardust and moonlight, all combined with a soft, calming scent of some kind of aftershave or shower gel that she couldn't identify but immediately wanted to buy shares in. She’d buried her nose in that little dip just below his ear and breathed him in, her eyes closing in pure bliss. That scent conjured up memories of late nights in quiet woodlands or on a solitary hilltop, the full moon shining in the sky. 

Whenever she inhaled that scent she imagined that if she tipped her head back she’d see a blanket of stars twinkling up high, pinpricks of light in the darkness, as sure and everlasting as the earth itself. That was where she was most happy, soaking up the energy, soaking up the magic that danced in the air and he was the human embodiment of that. 

She’d known from that first moment that he would be important to her, that he was destined to be in her life and to make it so much better.

She’d sat in the back of a massive craft, overwhelmed, dizzy and weak, she was shaking from adrenaline and fatigue, the gorgeous spaceman that smelt of everything that was good in the world wasn’t there anymore and for the first time in a very long time she felt vulnerable and just wanted to be at home.

She'd closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a few deep breaths in an effort to calm down and stave off the panic attack that had been threatening since she had been thrown into that blasted tree. The big machine smelt like any other mechanical device, like hot metal, grease and for some strange reason, undertones of cheeseburger. But then, mixed in amongst those nose offending scents had been the boys, comforting and friendly to her nose.

Gordon always smelt like chlorine and saltwater, which was hardly surprising given that it was him, but he also carried the warmth of sunshine on him like it was ingrained in his skin along with something tropical, almost coconutty. He gave off a happy, buzzing energy that you just couldn’t help but be drawn to, cheering you up in your darkest moments.

Virgil was a contradiction of smells wrapped up in a big, cuddly bear package. He smelt like engine oil, turpentine, paint and all sorts of manly smells, but he too had undertones of something more. He smelt of woodland forest and the earth after it rains, something fresh and natural that soothed her soul. She could imagine that he would be the very best person to send to anyone that was panicked and scared, anyone that was in need of calmness and comfort.

He’d spoken to her so kindly, had made sure she was OK and had been respectful of her tools even though he probably thought she was crazy. He looked like he should be gulping beer and watching football but had settled in his seat and lifted the big machine into the air with the bare minimum of effort. He’d checked on her one more time and then politely inquired if she minded them listening to some music. Of course she’d said no, thinking that music might be a nice distraction for her. She’d expected something with a hard beat, or energetic workout music because no one got those size shoulders without hitting some serious weights. The last thing she’d ever thought to hear oozing out of the hidden speakers of his console was the soft strains of Vivaldi. 

It was Virgil and Gordon that knew her secret and had been sworn to secrecy, it was them that knew the big, tough witchy had one very real fear, a fear that could paralyse her and turn her into a blubbing, sobbing, shaking wreck. She was terrified of needles. It was Gordon and Virgil that she had grabbed hold of at the hospital for her tetanus shot and refused to let go of, it was them that had stayed with her the entire time. It was Gordon that had distracted her with an endless stream of stupid jokes as the doctor had readied the syringe and it was Virgil that had wrapped his arms around her and tucked her head in against his chest telling her not to look and that it would be over in just two seconds. Virgil that smelt like comfort and kindness, Gordon that smelt like warmth and cheer. They had navigated her fears, calmed her hysterics and not held it against her when she had sworn at them more times than she could count.

Scott had two layers to his own unique scent. He had the freshly washed, impeccably groomed, shower gel, antiperspirant, spicy cologne and hair gel of first thing in the morning and by evening, after a rescue he’d have the chemical tang of jetpack fuel, and his skin smells slightly of the material used in their uniforms with just a hint of sweat that the material hadn’t managed to soak up.

She remembered the first time she had caught a wiff of that unique Scott smell and had an inkling as to the man that was standing before her. He’d been watching out for her all night, joking and being the perfect companion but the second he’d gotten her alone had been the moment he’d made his stance perfectly clear, hurt my brother and you’ll have to deal with me. She wouldn’t say he’d radiated hostility, more of a warning, letting her know that family was everything to him. Luckily she’d passed the Scott test.

Scott had quickly become one of the most important people in her life, one that she was closest to. He was an immovable force of nature, a solid, dependable, strong presence in her life that she couldn’t do without now. Scott was strength, Scott was the protector, the one that everyone deferred to to fix everything, even when it seemed impossible. Scott gave off an aura of carefully controlled energy but with an edge of hardness that he never showed to his family only to the people that really pissed him off.

Kayo smelt almost the same as Scott in that high octane way, she didn’t wear perfume, she didn’t bother with fancy hair products or highly fragranced antiperspirants, she was a simple one, a wash and go type. Her hair always smelt of shampoo, her skin often had the same residue of jet fuel and uniform material and she had the same idiot repelling energy as Scott though she was harder to get close enough to to feel it.

Then there was Alan, gods she adored that boy more than life. She remembered the first time she’d hugged him, having known him less than four hours, having watched him fear for his brother's life but still be so brave about it. He smelt soft and warm, with a sweetness like a hint of chocolate under the usual teenager smell. He smelt faintly of soap, but it had faded over the course of the day, maybe two, since he’d showered. He had the same sunny warmth that Gordon had, with a buzzing energy of pure happiness. He was adorable and she just wanted to keep hugging him, like he made the world better just by being in it.

Everywhere she had walked in the Villa had held faint traces of their unique scents apart from John’s unless you were in his room or he’d recently vacated the couch. But it had smelt homely, welcoming, comforting, that was until Grandma started cooking and the smell of burning spices permeated the air. 

Grandma smelt comforting, like flowers and cookies even though her baking could count as a nuclear disaster. Her ever present leisure suits smelt like washing powder and fresh air as she often insisted on drying clothes outside after she blew up a dryer. Her hair smelt of the same hairspray that Selene's own grandmother had used and the same lily of the valley perfume was liberally spritzed about her person. In short she smelt like love in a way that only Grandmas could.

The air of the island itself was unique, it mixed the fresh ocean air with the damp coolness of jungle plants, along with the earthy, ashy smell of the volcanic rocks. It was a smell that was hard to describe but even harder to forget once you knew it.

For her there was nothing better than walking into a room and catching the scent of moonlight and stardust in the air, that tingling of energy that signaled her love was home. 

She was now used to there being an unlimited supply of hugs, warm bodies to relax against, heavy arms slung around her shoulders and the comforting scents of the people she loved more than anything. Any time she needed strength, energy, happiness, calming or love she'd focus on them, she'd smell them on the air, she'd breathe them deep into her lungs and she'd hold them close to her heart, weaving that love into her own unique magical essence to conjure up the most powerful of magic. 

To Selene home had always smelt like the lingering scent of incense, coffee, warm candle wax and burning sage. She was a witch, it came with the territory, but now the thought of home was mixed in with the island and all the family that came with it.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #sensory sunday #smellsamazing #Smell

[toartemis]

Come on Love, Draw Your Swords - Part 5

Read on Ao3. Check the notes there for more details.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 & 4.

Summary: 

Sing to me, Moonlight For you, dear, are honey-tongued I dream just for you.

Or: The one where Jude finds out she's pregnant, and Cardan begins collecting a thousand plants.

Word Count: 4,039

Warnings: Non-penetrative sex while pregnant. That’s all I’m gonna say. If you don’t feel comfortable reading this, please don’t! I’ve gone into detail about the potential dangers of sexual activities while pregnant on Ao3. 

Preview: 

He looks so eager as he kneels before her, like she’s an altar and he’s preparing to worship.

-------

The next week, Jude receives a message from one of her guards that Madoc is requesting to see her. In person. In the Tower of Forgetting.

She debates it the entire day. Cardan says he can accompany her, but in the end, she’s alone in a carriage with two of her most trusted knights. His calm facade is transparent to her when she leaves. She knows he's concerned. So is she.

Jude knows why Madoc wants an audience with her. He’s had to have heard by now, somehow, has probably known since the beginning when it was announced. It fits his ego that he would only summon her when she is nearing her final month of pregnancy.

They arrive promptly, the journey feeling like nothing at all, as if time had skipped just to screw with her. One of the knights, Mivian, a tall, thickly built fey with glittery green eyes and one of her closest friends, takes her hand to help her out of the carriage. Jude wears a billowy, plain, yet luxurious dress with a short train that cinches above her stomach and ties together in the front. The sleeves stop just beneath her elbows. It’s the color of red wine, and her most comfortable formal attire. Her crown sits daintily atop her brow, her hair falls in waves down her back.

When she looks up at the tower before her, she tries to remember the last time she was here. Two years ago, maybe three. She avoids visiting often. It reminds her of nightmares.

More royal guards line the entrance and stairway, each and every one she knows by name and trusts. She passes cells as she ascends the stairs, bars separating her from the creatures they hold inside. Jude gives no mind to the whispers that carry after her, trying to put herself together and prepare herself for what's about to come. It doesn't help much at all; she's scatter-brained and restless, thoughts like elusive cats that refuse to be herded. The only thing she can manage is steeling her features into her perfected mask of a queen. Her shoulders roll back, chin held high.

Madoc’s low chuckle reaches her before she steps in front of him. It's chilling to hear after so long.

“Daughter,” he says, malicious and hollow. “You came.”

Jude says nothing, hoping she comes across as unbothered as possible, and just stares at him. He looks older, somehow. His skin sags around his mouth, hair grown out. He looks pitiful, the shell of the general he once was.

He deserves this, Jude reminds herself.

Madoc’s eyes rake her form, unforgiving, lingering on her belly. “Years ago, when you were small, I would think about how alike you were to your mother. You always had her fire. Wild and untamed. Now look at you,” he grits out, meeting her gaze. He looks as if he wants to carve her heart out. He probably does. “You look just like she did when she ran.”

Jude’s stomach drops, but she keeps her face neutral. He openly scowls at her.

Madoc says nothing more to her. They hold each other’s eyes for long enough that Jude loses track of the minutes. Separated by bars and years of spite, a battle rages silently between them. In the end, Jude never says a thing. She feels like if she speaks, he will know just how his few words have unsettled her. She rests a hand on her belly, trying with all her might not to project what she’s thinking.

I hate what you did, but no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to hate you.  

She steps away from him and feels herself truly breathe since the guard first told her of his request.

When she leaves, it feels like letting go.

--------

As she waddles back through the palace, Folk skirting out of her and the swarm of guards' way, she’s still bothered. The feeling lingers even when she’s back in her chambers, loosening the strings of her gown after sending her attendants away. She pulls on a thin, flowing dress that she wraps around herself, one side tucking into the other, and she begins to pace—to the best of her ability—with her hands pressed to her lower back. Lately, she’s had nothing much else to do but pace.

Jude barely sits next to Cardan while he’s on his throne, anymore, finding herself too uncomfortable in her own. She attends certain meetings, but mostly, if she needs to hear something, someone will visit her in the parlor of their apartments and inform her right then. Thus, she’s usually in the her and Cardan’s private library, or in her garden, or in bed. It’s starting to annoy her, not having much of anything to do, being banned from certain activities by the midwives. Having the sense of being helpless and restless at the same time is not on Jude’s list of acceptable feelings.  

She begins to feel dirty thinking back over her visit with Madoc, so she goes to one of the bowls in their room filled with fresh, warm water. It has sweet-smelling flower petals floating on the surface, and she dips a cloth in to wash herself after slipping her dress off. When she wipes the fabric over her stomach, she makes sure to take extra care, smoothing it over with swooping motions. She hums a random tune to her baby without thinking, and feels a flutter near her ribs. Jude smiles. She imagines It’s like her baby is telling her to keep going. For a minute, the thought helps calm her spiking emotions.

Cardan finds her soon after, dress back on, pacing once more. He looks as alarmingly pretty as always, and for a reason she can’t hope to fathom, it annoys her the moment she sees him. Pregnancy hormones, Vivi would say. Jude can clearly hear what tone she would use.

He’s wearing red, much like she was earlier, and gold hangs from his ears. As she looks him over, she sees there’s nothing especially extravagant about the clothes, it’s just... him that has her heart racing in her chest. Still, it’s annoying.

Cardan only glances knowingly at her before walking to a tall vanity set against a wall and begins removing various pieces of jewelry. And, with his back turned, he asks, "Are you alright? What did Madoc want?" Jude knows he's approaching it gently, purposefully giving her a wide space, completely nonthreatening, but she wants to scowl anyway.

"I'm fine, he just wanted to taunt me. I was prepared." She wasn't, really.

Jude catches his eyes in the vanity mirror for a moment before he looks away. She continues to pace.

"I thought as much," he says cautiously.

“You have look perfect every single second, don’t you?” Jude blurts. She's momentarily embarrassed before she remembers how annoyed she is. Cardan pauses in the middle of removing a fine gold chain from around his neck, turning to face her, small traces of amusement in his eyes.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?” He tries smirking, taking the necklace off, then his many rings, placing them at the table in front of him.

“No,” she says curtly, still pacing. Cardan looks perplexed, then understanding crosses his features. He approaches her slowly.

"Are you truly alright?” He stands before her, watching her strut back and forth.

“I’m fine,” she says. Then, with some effort, “I’m just... anxious.”

His hand closes gently around her elbow the next time she crosses in front of him.

“We have discussed this,” he says, thumb brushing over the crook of her arm. “We will be together through it all.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jude snaps halfheartedly. There’s no real bite behind it. Cardan raises a brow, gaze searching her face. Her pulse thrums where he touches her. She runs one hand over her belly absentmindedly. “I know… I know we’ll get through… this, and we’ll do it with each other.”

For a second, she almost laughs as she thinks of how ridiculous this would all seem to her teenage self, before the great game of kings and princes, of queens and crowns even began for her. Jude cannot imagine what her younger self’s reaction would be if she found about what her life would be when she got to be twenty-five-years-old.

“But that doesn’t erase the doubt I have about myself,” she continues. Cardan sighs. Jude glares at him, but lets the look fall almost immediately after. Before she can swallow it down, she forces herself to say, “I have never felt more vulnerable in my entire life. Madoc said so little to me earlier, yet managed to make me feel small from inside a cell, and I just…” She gestures to the air in front of her.

Cardan folds her into his arms and Jude lets him do it, not even trying to pretend that it doesn’t instantly affect her, limbs shivering at his touch. She places her hands on his chest and rests her cheek above them. He murmurs to her, hands stroking against her spine and shoulders. Though she’s not paying much attention to his words, what he’s doing is just what she needs.

Jude realizes that she really only wants to be held. She doesn’t need his perspective on the matter, or his anger at Madoc, or anything of the sort. She just needs him to hold her, because there’s nothing he or anyone else can say. It’s a comfort to her simply that he knows. They stand there for some time, barely swaying.  

“Jude,” he says, pulling away to look at her. “When was the last time you felt relaxed?”

She snorts and doesn’t answer, closing her eyes instead. The press of his lips against the corner of her mouth causes here to jolt. She couldn’t sense it coming. He places small, feather-like kisses against her cheek, then her nose. Jude feels a blush spread across her face. Cardan smells like the forest on a fresh day, like soft spice and the first breeze of Spring. If she let it, being this close to him could make her dizzy. Usually, she does not allow that. Usually.

Cardan steps around her, then, and Jude would deny instinctively leaning after him if she were younger. His chest presses against her back, solid and present.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, fingers dancing lightly over her arms. He places more kisses against the crook of her neck, then against her jaw. Jude tilts her head to the side, baring her throat for him. Every part of her sings yes to him, but Jude can’t help but glance down at herself, belly blocking her view of the floor. She frowns, and Cardan follows her line of sight closely.

“Do you know what I see?” he says, nose brushing her temple. “Each time you enter a room, every eye is drawn to you. All of Elfhame succumbs to lust at the mere sight of you.” He smiles against her skin, fingers nudging at her chin, guiding her face towards his. A flush takes over her at his words.

That can’t be true, but it must be if he’s saying it.

“I want to ravish you, Jude. You’re so beautiful that I ache, and I am not the only one that feels so. But you are mine. This—" he splays his hand on her stomach, “I did this.”

Jude’s heartbeat pounds so loud in her ears that Cardan must be able to hear it too. Part of her is self-conscious at his words, but another, deeper part preens. She can’t meet his eyes anymore, so she looks over his shoulder at the wall instead, feeling the tips of his fingers at her throat when she swallows.

“You carry my child,” he says, voice low, releasing his hold on her and leaning in to her neck again from behind. “The thought fogs my mind every moment.” He nips at her shoulder, places a hand on her hip, and Jude’s thoughts turn to puddles.

“I can’t think of anything else but you. Your skin—” he presses his lips to her cheek. “Your hair—” he begins unraveling strands from the braid she has it in, and she just has to look at him, nerves forgotten. “The flush of your cheeks when I—”

Jude turns around, then, and sees him smiling in a way she can only describe as… goofy. Childish. It’s entirely endearing and arousing at the same time and she struggles against the laughter bubbling up in her throat. Part of her wants to smack him on the arm like a teenager. It’s so rare that he acts this way, and Jude is so, so gone, like putty in his hands.

“I’m afraid I might be losing my sanity,” Cardan laughs, eyes bright. “I want to—” he runs his fingers along the junction of her thigh, his other hand cradling her face. Jude trembles. Her skin has never felt this sensitive before, and he’s mostly touching her through clothes. “Let me take care of you, Jude,” and he kisses her, hot and open. It sears through Jude like sweet acid, burning her throat, coaxing a sound from her that she barely manages to choke back. He pulls away too soon.

“Please, I want to make you feel good,” he sighs into her mouth, and Jude’s doesn’t even feel herself nodding her head.

Then she’s saying, “Okay, yes, yes—”

Cardan’s hands grip her arms while her fingers fist in his crimson shirt and he’s walking her backwards. She would normally be afraid of falling with all of the extra weight of her stomach throwing her off, but she knows she doesn’t have to worry when he’s so near. He’ll catch her if she falls. He always will.

His hands unwrap her loose dress from her body and she shivers from exposure to the cool air. The intent set deep in his eyes is overpowering; she can't look away, torn between wanting to kiss him again and wanting to be lost under his stare forever. The backs of her legs touch the side of their bed and he lifts her onto it, the thing too tediously tall for her to hop onto with the position she’s in. She sits at the edge, wondering for a moment what’s going to happen, then he’s reaching for the pillows at the head of the mattress, snatching a plush one and sliding it behind her at her lower back.

“Lean back on your hands,” he says, sounding breathless, eyes not leaving her body. She does as she’s told, finding the normal pressure she would feel in her back lightened immensely thanks to the pillow. Then his hands are on her, spreading over her chest, on her waist, caressing her thighs, and he sinks to his knees in front of her, sitting back on his heels. He’s slack-jawed, eyes hooded as he presses a kiss to her knees.

Cardan is turned on by this, she realizes. The thought makes her want to scream. He looks so eager as he kneels before her, like she’s an altar and he’s preparing to worship. Another open-mouthed kiss is pressed to her leg, his tongue gliding over the sensitive area at the crook of her knee, and he bites, the shock of it sparking through her.

Again, she has to hold back a moan. The sensitivity of her body is like nothing she’s ever experienced, every touch she feels like strikes of lightning.

When Cardan slings her legs over his shoulders, her arms begin to shake from anticipation. He presses more kisses to her inner thighs, scooting himself forward, and Jude lets her head fall back, waiting, waiting, wanting. She feels him suck a bruise into her skin, then another, and another. He switches to the other side before Jude can process it, and she gasps.

The room feels dense, a cloud swirls in Jude’s mind, blocking out anything but the sensation of what he’s doing. A well-placed nip over her bruised skin has Jude jolting, breath coming out heavier and quicker. She throbs when she feels him hover over her, and he’s so close to where she wants, so close, so close—

Then his mouth is back at her thighs and Jude sighs shakily. It most definitely does not sound like a whine.

A sheen of sweat covers her and she subconsciously tries spreading her legs, but Cardan’s hands wrapped on the outside of her thighs keep them in place. His palms slide underneath, and her legs shift wider just barely, then his thumbs knead into the soft flesh near her center and Jude bites her lip so hard she almost breaks the skin. His tongue presses into the marks he leaves, and everything feels so good that for a moment Jude thinks she’s going to fall apart just from this, without him needing to touch her where she needs him to most.

Her hips twitch forward, trying to catch his mouth, and he sinks his teeth into the junction of her thigh in response.

Jude can’t hold her moan back, now. She feels so incredible. Somehow, her back doesn’t hurt, and the swell of her stomach makes her feel sensual. The way Cardan is being so attentive makes her feel precious and wanted, if only he would just—

His hands shift in more, thumbs spreading her folds, and he licks one long stripe up her middle. Jude feels it in her entire body. Her thighs tremble, one sliding off of him before he catches it, and she locks her ankles together, leaning further back onto her arms, stretching her torso. She’s so, so close already, right on the edge, toes curling where her feet hang behind his back.

He places his mouth against her in an open kiss, tongue rolling over her clit, and has tears springing to her eyes. Pleasure scorches through her, and he does it again, kissing her and sucking lightly when he pulls back. His mouth feels so warm and wet and she can feel his hair grazing the soft, tingling bruises of her inner thighs. Then his thumb presses at her entrance, adding just the right pressure as his mouth moves over her again and that’s all it takes for her thighs to squeeze around him, muscles tightening, face screwing up, a stream of curses leaving her mouth.

Cardan groans against her, working her through it.

She comes back to herself slowly, fingers unclenching from the coverlets, legs falling from her husband’s shoulders. She feels Cardan rest his cheek against the top of her thigh, and when she opens her eyes, his gaze pierces hers, mischief twinkling in his midnight eyes. One hand brushes against the swell of her hip, the other grazes over her dripping, sensitive middle, causing her to jerk.

Jude sits up straight, flexing her wrists, hands going to Cardan’s hair and yanking his head up to hers. Even as he stumbles to his feet, he still manages an ethereal grace. His mouth crashes to hers, wild and hot. She can taste herself on his lips and it sends a thrill through her. Jude slides her tongue against Cardan’s eagerly, gasping when he tilts his head and leans her back just so, exactly the way she likes.

They break apart, foreheads resting together. Jude makes to pull away, but Cardan moves with her, his lips attaching to her jaw and moving down her neck. It steals whatever air she had left in her lungs from her. He slides a knee onto the bed with her, the mattress dipping underneath him. His arm wraps around her back, hand sliding into her hair at the nape of her neck, and with the other, he pulls her sideways, up and into his lap.

Jude still can’t catch her breath from just a minute ago. Cardan pants over her skin, his nose brushes against hers, fingers sliding over her waist.

“I love you,” he says, that and nothing more, and it strikes Jude fiercely. Years spent together and he still doesn’t say it often. He spells it for her through actions, sings it to her with his eyes, but he knows she secretly craves to hear the words. They’re saved for moments like this.

Jude relaxes into the hold he has across her back, keeping her propped up. She traces the point of his ear and fiddles with the jewelry there until he kisses her again. She feels a bit like a child with the way she’s in his lap, legs on the other side of him, but the thought leaves her quickly when his fingers dip between her legs.

When he runs them over her clit, she shakes against him, mouth hovering over his, much too sensitive from her orgasm, but pleasure spreads through her nonetheless. Cardan watches her face closely as he moves a bit lower, pressing just right, two long fingers slipping into her. Jude shudders, eyes slipping shut because it feels so damn perfect.

Her legs shift open of their own accord, making room for him, and she reaches to twist her hand in the shirt at his chest.

Cardan kisses her again, sweet and slow, and he curves his fingers inside of her, wrenching a gasp from her. Jude accidentally bites his lip.

He just kisses her harder, and it’s like the sun dripping onto her mouth, heating her from the outside in. His fingers start a push and pull within her, curling and slipping in and out, and it’s heaven to Jude. She's so wet from earlier and her walls feel so good clenching around him. Her hips shift over his lap, grinding onto his hand, and it’s his turn to gasp, now. The line of his cock is hard and hot beneath her.  

Sweat drips along the indent of her spine as he slowly takes her apart, massaging into the spot that feels so right inside her, coaxing a warm, overwhelming tension into her belly. When his thumb presses against her clit, Jude’s sanity goes out the window. She writhes in his arms, hand sliding from his chest, around her stomach, to grip his wrist beneath her, trying to anchor herself.

“Look at me,” Cardan says. And she does, finding his face flushed just like it is after too many glasses of wine, his eyes like pools of ink she wants to bathe in forever. Jude can feel the muscles of his forearm flexing as he moves, and she struggles to keep her eyes open. Heat coils in her, building and building, and she loses herself in the rhythm he sets.

Cardan lets out a shaky breath when she squeezes his wrist, pulling his hand harder towards her. He gets the message, pumping his fingers faster, thumb circling tighter, and Jude’s back arches, thighs clamping around his arm. Her sensitive bruises twinge in pain at the pressure, but she can’t help it. It only makes it all more intense.

Jude feels her second orgasm rise in her, cracking like a whip, and she shatters with it, moaning brokenly, vision blurring as she tries to hold Cardan’s gaze, inevitably failing.

It’s one of the fiercest things she’s ever felt, her whole body tightening. She doesn’t feel Cardan stop or hear him say anything, but the next thing she knows she’s lying on her usual side of their bed, Cardan’s weight pressed behind her.

A pillow is tucked in her arms and between her legs. Something soft brushes her outer thigh and she registers that it’s his tail. He must have changed clothes. She doesn’t remember him moving her, but she doesn’t really care, too exhausted to think much about it.

His knuckles drag over her waist and on her belly, and, to Jude’s delight, Cardan is humming in her ear, deep and pretty. A sleepy grin splits her face. She’s so comfortable like this; positively content.

“I love you,” she whispers. “So much that it hurts.”

He buries his face into her hair and continues to hum. She can hear the smile in his voice.

-------

Okay, it took me years to post this on here, but what matters is that I’ve finally posted it. Thank you so much for reading, didn’t think this fic was gonna lead to this scene though ahhh. 

#literally could not wait to post this so i dont have to think about it anymore #kind of hated this but what can you do #tfota #tfota fanfiction #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #the cruel prince fanfiction #jurdan #judecardan #jurdan fanfiction #jurdan smut #tcp #twk #tqon #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #my work #my writing

[starswallowingsea]

Secret Santa Time

I have been waiting to post this forever!! I don’t normally write shippy stuff but I think this turned out pretty cute. 

This is a gift for @lestis, for the event hosted by @opsecretsanta2019, who I think is pretty great and a really sweet person that y’all should follow! That said, here’s my gift! 

Waking Up 

Fandom: One Piece 

Word Count: 1623 

Ship: SanUso 

Notes: CW for nightmares, see the end of the work for more notes

He was running again, the buildings around him familiar but strange. That didn’t matter now though. He saw his friends sailing away, towards their next adventure without him. 

He shouted at them, apologizing for acting the way he did, but they couldn’t hear him he thought. So he yelled louder, his words becoming more jumbled and mixed with sobs that he could barely understand himself anymore. But they kept sailing. 

And suddenly he was falling. Falling? Or drowning? He couldn’t breathe all the same.

---

Usopp awoke with a start, drenched in sweat and breathing heavy, he knew he had another nightmare. They had become so normal to him that when he actually got a good night's sleep it meant he didn’t dream at all. 

It was the same every night, reliving Water 7 and begging to be taken back by his friends and being left behind anyway. He tried every trick in the book to get them to stop but nothing worked.

But at this moment he knew he couldn’t go back to sleep, not yet anyway. His heart was beating too fast and breathing ragged, it would be endless tossing and turning in his hammock which would probably do more harm than help right now. 

So he swung his legs over the side of the hammock and jumped down quietly to avoid waking the others. He tiptoed out of the room and carefully opened and closed the door, cringing at the slightest sound he made and hoping it wouldn’t wake anyone else up. 

Instantly the cool night air began to calm his nerves. He stood still, just outside the door for a minute. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Breathe in. 

Breathe out. 

Breathe… 

He pulled his hands to his face and stood like that, taking deep, calming breaths. It helped a little, but not much. 

He turned to walk onto the grassy deck, lay down and look at the stars. Maybe he could get better sleep out here. It couldn’t hurt to try anyway. 

---

Once on deck, it appeared he was alone and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Usopp walked over to the railing and stared out at the sea, just thinking, trying to calm himself down. It was so quiet, the only sound coming from water hitting the side of the ship and the gentle breeze that rocked it back and forth. 

He heard footsteps approach from behind and jumped a little as someone stepped up beside him.

“Relax, it’s just me.” 

Usopp looked over and saw it was Sanji, who was putting a cigarette to his lips and pulling out a lighter. Usopp wondered how Sanji could smoke like he did but not fall into a coughing mess all the time, but he shoved the thought aside, saying he would ask about it later. 

“What are you doing out here so late?” Usopp asked. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

“Something like that,” Sanji said, moving to put his shaky hand on the railing, using the other one to take a drag of the cigarette. 

“Me too, if I’m being honest.” 

They stood in silence for a moment, just letting the wind brush past them, leaving smoke trails from Sanji’s cigarette. 

“Hey, uh, can I ask you something?” Usopp said, breaking the silence. 

“Sure,” Sanji responded, taking another drag. 

“Do you get nightmares? Like of your past or anything?” 

Sanji put his hand with the cigarette on the railing, shocked at the question Usopp had asked him, unsure of how to answer. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer, I was just wondering is all. Y’know how it is ri—” 

“Yeah.” 

Usopp paused for a second at the answer. He had expected it in all truthfulness, but hearing the confirmation come from Sanji shocked him. He always seemed so put together, like nothing could make him lose his balance in life. 

“... How do you deal with them?” 

Sanji took another drag of the cigarette, knowing that his habit had developed as a response to both trauma and working with food. The nicotine helped calm the brain down when he was stressed over something and kept him from feeling hungry in the kitchen. 

“Cooking, I suppose.” That was the easier answer. 

“Could you maybe show me how to cook? I… 

“I... had a nightmare.” 

--- 

Sanji paused at Usopp’s confession. He had also suspected that Usopp hadn’t been sleeping well. He was more irritable in the morning than normal and seemed spaced out more often than not. But he wasn’t a doctor so he didn’t want to ask him directly, although he had told Chopper that he thought Usopp might not be getting enough sleep. Turns out he was right. 

Sanji pulled out a mini ashtray, stubbed out the rest of the cigarette in it, and put it away before answering. 

“Can’t hurt to try. Come on.” He said, turning and waving for Usopp to follow him. He, too, had been having nightmares recently and maybe cooking with someone else would help distract him enough to get a few more hours of sleep tonight. Just enough so he wouldn’t fall asleep standing at the stove again. 

--- 

They agreed on making a carrot cake, since that was Usopp’s favorite dessert and there was really no better way to help calm down than eating a little comfort food. 

He tried to recall the recipe his mom used when she had made the cake for him as a child, but he quickly realized that he could only remember small parts of it; helping shred the carrots and mix in the nuts and spices. 

Sanji took the information Usopp gave him and used his own knowledge of carrot cakes to make the batter. Sanji would mix the dry ingredients together and Usopp the wet ingredients. They both shredded carrots and portioned out the various nuts and mixed them all together with the rest of the batter and poured it into a cake pan. 

Once the cake was in the oven, Sanji began to work on a cream cheese frosting while Usopp worked on cleaning the dishes. He would rather do them now than after they had already decorated and eaten the cake he said. 

Sanji pulled the cake out of the oven and gently took it out of the pan and onto a wire cooling rack. Usopp took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the carrot cake fresh from the oven. He felt like a kid again in Syrup village running around the kitchen while his mom made dinner. It was a nice feeling. 

Sanji and Usopp both sat down, wanting to take a little bit of rest while the cake was cooling enough to frost it. Usopp closed his eyes and leaned his head back, feeling a little more relaxed than he had earlier, and let his mind wander to his mom, the Usopp Pirates he left behind, his home. 

And they stayed like that, in peaceful silence, for a minute. 

Sanji took a drag of another cigarette now that the cake was baked and cooling, letting the nicotine calm his senses again. He really needed that, joking with Usopp in the dead of night while they made a cake together, allowing him to forget why he woke up in the first place. It felt nice, he thought. 

“Feeling better Usopp?” he said. 

“Yeah, a bit. Thanks.” 

--- 

Sanji put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table and stood up again. 

“We should frost the cake and see if we can catch a few more hours of sleep.” He said, already moving towards the bowl of cream cheese frosting he had made. 

“Oh, yeah.” Usopp responded, feeling a little disappointed that the moment was over so soon. He could stay like that, just him and Sanji in the soft glow of the kitchen for hours. Maybe they should do that more often. 

He also stood up, moving to the fridge to see if there was anything he could maybe use to decorate the cake with. 

Meat, milk, meat, cheese, more meat, some fresh fruits and vegetables, carrots maybe? No, that’s just too much carrot. Hmm… 

He scanned through the shelves when something bright purple caught his eye and he pulled it out. They looked like flowers, but why were they in the fridge? 

“Hey Sanji, what are these?” He said, holding the bag of purple and white flowers up for him to see. 

“Hmm? Oh, those. Just some edible flowers I picked up at the last island. Thought they might bring a bit of color for desserts. Did you want to try them with the cake?” 

Usopp’s eyes lit up at that. He had tried a few flowers while he was at Greenstone, including some that looked similar to the ones in the bag. Orchids, he thought they were. 

“Yeah!” 

He placed the flowers in a circle on top of the cake, carefully trying to space them evenly so everyone would get to try one. He pulled out one more after all the ones he wanted were placed on the cake and plucked a petal off it. 

“Do you want to try it together?” Usopp asked, holding out the rest of the flower to Sanji. 

Sanji nodded and took the flower from Usopp’s hand and plucked out another petal. 

“I had a lot of fun tonight and it really helped calm me down. Thanks, for real,” Usopp said, holding his petal up. “Cheers?” 

Sanji chuckled a bit at the gesture but raised his own petal nonetheless. “Cheers.” 

---

“Not as much flavor as I was hoping for,” Usopp said, swallowing the petal. 

“Most flowers don’t have much of a taste, they are garnishes after all.”

Bonus gift: A playlist I decided to make last week on impulse after hearing one whole song that I thought fit Sanji and Usopp 

#opsecretsanta2019 #opfics #opfic #sanuso #one piece #black leg sanji #god usopp #shay speaks #shay writes #the last few weeks have been me staring at @lestis' blog mentally going #'LET ME IN LET ME IN' and wanting my asks answered but oh well #i think this turned out good tho! gotta keep it positive right? #im just gonna. schedule this now and go do something else ig

[jynxlovesluck]

Rotted Heart

"I'm so tired."

"Why don't you sleep?"

"Because I'd rather die than see you again."

"And I did die to see you again."

-

You could only be a bystander so long before you relapse.

It wasn't his fault. It was. It wasn't. It couldn't have been.

But it was.

He made the deal hadn't he? Traded the world for the four of them?

Roman roared, like a demon ready for revenge.

But God, who was he to get revenge on? This was his burden, and now everyone who came to close felt his desire to shred.

He crept on them, and lovingly tore their ideas out. Keeping them all dumb, ready like pigs in a slaughter.

That's what they had become because of his selfishness. Pigs. Cattle. Food.

They smelled of sweat and shit and hate. Fear.

And maybe he was violent. Maybe it wasn't their faults.

But his love cried when they remembered. And they laughed together when they feasted.

It was much easier to pretend they weren't people once too.

-

He licked his lips. They had no taste, but the after effect was sweet.

There were pleasures in life that had tasted sweet, too. His lovely darling, with striking blond hair and a passion for smiles.

Had Logan killed him too? Was that why the taint of souls tasted like honeysuckle in the summer?

He curled his fingers. They had daggers as nails. Logan saw the little white scars on his hands.

Were these there before? Were they present when Logan was.

Was.

What has he been? Critical. Analytical. Fierce.

Not animatic. Not driven by food. Not a God.

He didn't want to be a God anymore.

But as he stole the souls of the next batch of meat to feed, he thinks to himself, "I've never been a God."

After all, Gods had some love of themselves.

-

He tried to warn them. Through the cracks in their closets. Through their children's screams. Through the corner of the eyes they hold dear.

Virgil hadn't had eyes in days. Or maybe, years. Not real eyes anyway.

Those were given away. They were gifted. And if he let them go to save lives when he out of all of them should have been the one most filled with hate, well. It is how it's supposed to be.

The world will end, and he is the beginning of the end. He is the begging bloodied angel of the corpse. He tasted salt, and realized he was drinking his own tears from eyes that no longer existed.

Virgil in old times was a poet.

He, as he is now, doesn't deserve to be called a poet. He is a creature. A burning fire. A force that screams "run you idiots. Run away because we are coming. And you will not be spared."

But like a mother croon, he is ignored.

And if he laughs when they scream? When they ignore him just like every God left nasty little being left on earth?

They should have listened.

And well, he rather enjoyed listening to their bones crack.

-

Patton had spent his days in sunshine and laughter. He watched the village kids. He planted flowers for the ladies in town who couldn't bend as well as they could years before.

He had loved, he had lost, and he went on.

His friends were breaths of fresh air. They provided the missing spices of life that had been stolen from him.

It was his fault they were cursed. Patton was a good soul. A loving person.

That doesn't excuse murder.

But what of it? Hadn't he suffered enough? When he figured out the awful truth of it all, what could he do but eat the heart of that disgusting man? Loving words on the knuckles of your hand, kisses on the tears on your cheeks, rapid puffs of air from desperate hands didn't change these facts.

He had eaten his family. So Patton ate his heart and cried as he buried the body.

Love is cruel. Love is kind. Love will last you an entirety, a lifetime.

Maybe that's why now, he eats their bones and blood and brains. Why feast on thoughts, on dreams, on fears, on souls? The smooth and gummy texture of organs, the tough and grainy texture of muscle, the adrenaline of eating the disgusting parts of a human was the only way a monster deserved to live.

Patton remembered when she had looked down on him.

"I'm so tired."

A loving hand on his cheek melted it away into yellow gushing puss. "Why don't you sleep?"

His face was melting away. And she did too, looking down at him with the eyes of the person who should have loved him. "Because I would rather die than see you again."

His eyes were brown, then. Brown and perfect. But in death, would red dirting his whole body in drips, "And I did die to see you again."

Patton stepped away and laughed. "Maybe next lifetime, don't be a cannibal."

His ghost followed behind. "All considered, I'd tell you the same." His body grew brighter. And brighter.

"But it seems our next life is coming closer than expected."

Patton stopped. And turned around, seeing his body glow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," and lips kissed his head, and Patton raged against the world. "It seems it's time to pay for our sins, dearheart."

The next day, Patton ate every lifeless body in the village.

And all he ever was, is hungry.

-

They were damned. They were together.

And by the light above, they were fucked.

----

I hope you guys liked it! This was pretty fun to do, and honestly I really like writing creepy stuff so if you enjoyed give a like and or a reblog!!! A comment is awesome too

Taglist: @raiseafuckingglass @thewritingasexual @theincediblesulk @nyarsenic @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @romansleftshoulderpad @hanramz-the-fander @madly-handsome

If you would like to be tagged in my more creepy writing or the damned series in general, just ask!

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #thomas sanders #logan sanders #jynx awakens #jynxed stories #sanders sides writing #the damned series #part 2 #2 curse words #tw cursing #horror writing

[therkalexander]

The Good Counselor - Chapter 2

Seventy years have passed since Elysion was created, and Persephone’s efforts to conceive a child with Hades have been in vain.  But a secret rite on Samothrace might bend the Fates and give them all that they have ever dreamed of, or pave a path of untold suffering.

Chapter 2

Thesprotia was warm, even in the early evening. But that warmth didn’t penetrate the caves near the river. Here the chill of winter still clung to the rocks like moss .

In the palm of one hand, Persephone held an herb rooted in loose soil; her other hand trailed along the cool stones and damp roots of the cave walls. She followed the bend of the cave, the echo of a single drum’s steady tattoo joined by a lone piper's melody. A light flickered from the entrance of a great hall, and the smells of burning pitch and roasted venison wafted from within. Neither scent masked the stink of sex and sour wine. The tittering of dryads and naiads mixed with the braying laughter of satyrs, the pervasive chattering punctuated now and again by loud moans. The court was smaller than it once had been, so many years ago when mortal men and women had made the mistake of trusting its king— when Minthe had made the mistake of trusting her own father.

She reached the door, and the drum stopped, the pipes faltering a moment later, their last notes shrill. Whispers, then silence. Then the shifting and uncoupling of half clothed bodies, and knees dropping to the floor. Persephone didn’t look at the heads bowed to her, her gaze fixed on the dais at the rear of the hall. Her bare feet padded against the tile as she approached. “Kokytos.”

The king descended the dais and bowed low to her before resuming his place on his throne. “Well! An unexpected pleasure, Queen Persephone. When I heard you had been seen about Thesprotia I’d hoped that our paths might cross. Delightful to finally—”

“Leave us.” Persephone said.

With the barest murmur, Kokytos’s court, his musicians, and his servants gathered their instruments, their clothes, and cups. Most shuffled out of the hall; some disappeared in flashes of green— high order nymphs vanishing into the ether— until only the river god and the Queen of the Underworld remained.

Kokytos spied the bright green sprig in her hand. “So it’s true then? What Minthe did?”

“It is. Though not all of what they say.”

“Well, you can’t believe everything that gods and humans say. Gossips, to the last. Everyone worth knowing knows that Aidoneus is faithful to fault. And my sympathies for what befell you and your lord husband at her hand.”

“I was expecting something more akin to an apology. Not sympathy.”

Kokytos scoffed. “I had no part in what Minthe did. She brought her schemes with her, whispered in her ear by your illustrious mother, obviously.”

“Did she?”

“I took her in. That was all.”

“You let the men of your court violate her. They warped her, twisted her mind.”

He held up his hands. “Nothing she didn’t agree to. She knew the price of staying.”

“Your own daughter…”

Kokytos rolled his eyes. “One of many. If she was mine at—”

“She was,” said Persephone. “I know all souls, living and dead, just as my husband does.”

He shifted in his chair.

“You have much to answer for.”

Kokytos threw up his hands. “So I whored my daughter! What of it? Are you going to condemn the father of every hetera in Hellas along with me? Who’s next?”

“No.” Persephone said, with a soft smile. “She is the means by which you and I are unfortunately acquainted, but Minthe is not the reason I am here.”

“Then what?”

“There were human guests in your hall nearly fourscore winters ago…”

Kokytos paled.

“During the Great Famine. Do you remember them?”

“Humans— once, per-perhaps, long ago? H-how could I possibly recall? Decades have passed. And so have they, most likely.”

“Indeed they have. To the last soul.” She took a step forward. “You murdered them. You dined on their flesh. Your servants and guests feasted on them at your behest.”

His voice cracked dry as he choked out a laugh. “What nonsense… who in the world would tell you such a story?”

“The men and women you killed, Kokytos.”

His face fell.

“It took years for me to find them all in Asphodel. Decades, even. At first, there were rumors, nymphs who whispered to other nymphs, until those rumors reached my ears. I, too, doubted their awful tales. But the dead cannot lie.”

“My Queen, please… you know better than anyone that food was dwindling. Those mortals would have died anyway. I would have faced revolt from my men once my stores ran out… My court—” Kokytos coughed, and pulled at his mouth. He withdrew a mint leaf.

“Kokytos, son of Okeanos…”

“I am one of the ageless! Mortals are livestock. Flecks of dust! Only they need live by your father’s petty laws. I am your husband’s vassal! You cannot cond—” He spat out another mint leaf.

Kokytos choked around a sprig of mint clawing at his throat. He yanked it free, then stared at his hands, mint blooming from under his fingernails, the roots twisting through his veins. He stood with a shriek, his throne tipping backwards. Kokytos beat at his arms as though they were aflame, tearing leaves and buds from his skin, but the more he raked from his flesh the more grew in its place.

“Abandon all hope, Kokytos.” He fell and tumbled down the stairs of his dais, his cries choked and muffled, and crashed to the floor of the cavern. Kokytos writhed, flailing as fresh clumps of mint sprung from his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. “For your part in the murders of your guests and the consumption of mortal flesh you are condemned— not to Tartarus, but to oblivion.” The screams were buried under a wellspring of green along with his twisted features. Mint burst through the fabric of his robes, the still limbs beneath a tangle of roots and soil. Roots wound about his fallen crown. “So say I, Persephone Praxidike Chthonios, Queen of the Underworld, Carrier of Curses cast on those who live, by the dead whom they harmed in life.”

Kokytos’s outline was indistinguishable. Only a sprawling patch of mint remained, pungent leaves overpowering the lingering headiness of the orgy that had raged in the hall only minutes before. Mint crept between the mosaic tiles as Persephone left the chamber, the single sprout still resting in her left hand. Persephone curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist as she walked out the tunnel. Rocks tumbled from the ceiling and dust billowed behind her.

She didn’t travel through the ether. She owed Minthe the walk to the poplar grove where her mother’s tree stood. Mud caked her bare heels. Her green peplos swished in the breeze and she sheltered the mint plant in her hand. The soil in her palm was warm.

“I forgive you,” she whispered to the sprig as she walked. “I hope that you can forgive me, wherever you are.”

The grove loomed ahead, and she slowed her pace, listening to the songbirds and crows. She reached a tree at its center, with great branches towering overhead. This tree had been here far longer than the others, and it didn’t sway in the wind the way the rest did..

“Leuce?” She stared up at the branches. “I come to return your daughter, and to atone.”

Persephone knelt and scooped aside some of the loam near a broad root, and dug into the earth. She gently planted the cupped handful of soil and mint next to the outstretched base of the poplar. The tiny sprig leaned against the tree in a spot of sunlight. As she stood again, she spoke to the outstretched branches above. “Please forgive me. Forgive my husband. Forgive my mother, and Hecate. That’s all I ask.”

Hera sprawled inelegantly on Hestia’s divan, her fingers plaited under her chin. She drew in a long breath, then sighed dramatically. “Why must I entertain that sea witch again?”

Hestia tittered and shook her head, then ladled a boiling cup of water from the cast iron pot sitting on the hearth, carefully weighing and swishing it until it stopped bubbling. “Oh, come now. She isn’t all bad.”

“Isn’t she though? All she talks about is the strumpets that she drags to her marriage bed. If I have to hear her extol their bedsharing one more time—” Hera’s face had grown flushed. “Fates preserve me. She’s worse than that eastern whore who wormed her way into my son’s heart.”

“Than Aphrodite? Surely not,” Hestia laughed. She shook her head, then emptied the ladle over a mix of ambrosia, sideritis, sage, and a bit of hemp flower. “Here. Calm yourself.”

Hera held the clay cup to her face and inhaled deeply. She closed her malachite dusted eyelids and every thought of Amphitrite evaporated. There were only the licking flames of Hestia’s hearth, the shadows dancing on the multitude of carefully arranged alabastron jars on the shelves, and her white-veiled sister tending to the flames. She took a sip of the tisane, and gone was the fury that still brewed over Zeus’s latest conquest, a dark-eyed Theban princess. Here, that harlot didn’t exist. Olympus itself could crumble to its foundations, and she wouldn’t care a whit. “How do you always know the best remedy for my mood?”

“Aeons of practice, dear sister.” Hestia smiled warmly.

Hera sipped. “It doesn’t get dull? Tending to the fire day after day?”

“I prefer it,” Hestia said, pouring herself a cup. “The quiet of the hearth suits me. The mortals offer me the first and last herb and drink of every meal, and I am free to peruse and take what I like. And roam further afield without a man’s permission.” She sipped from her cup, her gaze resting on a jar containing her latest acquisition— a sweet spice from the islands beyond the Valley of the Indus that curled up like a scroll and didn’t resemble any leaf or seed known.

“You could have been a queen, Hestia.”

“I could have. But the intrigue and theatrics of court are not for me. And wedding Poseidon… living at the bottom of the sea would be intolerable. Better he has that sea witch, as you call her, by his side.”

Hera nodded. Her sister had always been drawn to warmth. The ocean would have chilled and rotted everything that made Hestia content. She wondered what life might have been like had she too had decided to take the path of a perpetual virgin. A visit from Zeus, disguised as an injured bird, had ended that possibility…

“Why is Zeus summoning Poseidon to meet in private?” Hestia asked idly.

“He demands another needless report on Ilion’s wall; what else? Fates have mercy, it’s been millennia— aeons— and still my lord husband cannot let bygones be bygones with that man.”

“You know how he loves to stay on top,” Hestia replied. Hera looked over her cup and cocked an eyebrow. Hestia continued without noticing. “Surely he worries that letting them be bygones might precipitate another rebellion.”

“Of course he does.” Hera rolled her eyes. “It feels strange to even say these words, but I wish Zeus and Poseidon could be more like Hades.”

Hestia sputtered, nearly choking on her tea.  “What?”

“He stays where he ought, and performs his duties with all the steadfast dullness we’ve come to expect of him. No scheming, no power games… Fates, he never showed his face until he came to claim his bride. He’s been so…” Hera scrunched her face thoughtfully.  “Perfectly reasonable.”

“Reasonable? Hera, he plunged the world into famine and darkness over a girl. Courtly intrigues are tiresome, but never so disastrous as that.” She spoke low, as though the words themselves were a grave curse. “This flame nearly went out.”

Hera scoffed. “That was all Demeter’s doing. Had she behaved like a proper mother, not a stalk of wheat would have withered. The Stygian betrothal had been in place since the war. It was her folly not allowing Persephone to marry the husband chosen for her. A king no less…”

“Yes, perhaps if she’d considered what a fine queen her daughter would make. And what a faithful husband Hades would be.” Hestia set down her cup, her eyes sparkling. “You should send a summons.”

“Invite Hades?”

“No, not him… Zeus would feel upstaged. I mean Persephone.”

Hera ground her teeth. “Demeter’s bastard.”

“Did you hear about what she did to that girl who tried to—”

“Yes.” Hera said. “I know. She scared my poor Hephaestus with her theatrics. Nevermind the spectacle she made of herself in Ephyra!”

Hestia winced.

Too sharp, she scolded herself. She set down the cup and stood, brushing her peplos back into place. Hera meandered through the chamber, eyeing the various herb filled pithos as she went, taking in each heady scent. She searched along the wall and found a familiar jar, then glanced at Hestia contritely. She was Queen of Heaven, but this was her sister’s domain.

Hestia nodded and Hera pulled an alabastron of rosewater from the shelf, flecking some into her tea, then rubbing the rest on her wrists.

“Perhaps inviting her would make your afternoon less of a chore.”

“What, tomorrow? To Olympus? She’s not one of us. She’s a byblow—”

“Perhaps not, but neither is Amphitrite an Olympian. Persephone is Queen of the Underworld, and equal in rank to Amphitrite.” Hestia smiled wistfully. “A meeting of queens…”

Hera sighed, but then narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “All I ever heard after the Pomegranate Agreement was Persephone this, Persephone that. Most, if not all of them falsehoods. What do you know of her?”

“Only a little. But you may have more in common with Persephone than you know. You could learn more of her; ask her about this Elysion that she and her lord husband have built. Perhaps you could even strengthen the bonds between the Lands Below and the Heavens.”

Hestia had struck upon something, Hera realized. The rulers of the dead had only grown in influence since their marriage. With Persephone as her friend, the two queens could easily overrule Amphitrite. And if Hera proved her worth in forming a powerful alliance with them, what would Zeus say then?

“If I brought her into my circle, it would only strengthen us. And prove to him once and for all that I can make peace with his baseborn spawn.”

“You remember how he welcomed you back after… that ill-gotten plot with Apollo and Poseidon? It was a very long time before he strayed again”

“Sixscore years.” Hera allowed herself a smile of grim satisfaction. “The longest he’d been faithful since we were newly wed.”

“Less time you have to spend chasing a wandering husband, then.” Hestia ladled another cup of water over her herbs. “Another thing I don’t mind missing out on.”

“Ha! I should be so lucky,” Hera said. “If all goes accordingly, that would mean Hades would be Zeus’s closest example of proper marriage.”

“And we do know how he likes to be on top.” This time, Hestia smirked.

“I know him. He’d try instead to best his brother at the game of fidelity… He’d lose, of course, at first, but that would make him far less brazen about his exploits. Cowed, even. And who knows? Perhaps chasing flesh would lose its lustre one day.” The Queen of Heaven set down her cup and stared at the flames. She laughed softly to herself as the solutions to Amphitrite, that Theban harlot, and any whores that would follow fell into her lap.

Hestia shrugged. “I leave the marital intrigue to you, dear sister. It will be a royal event. The first meeting of the Queens of all three realms.”

“My lord won’t like being upstaged.”

“Oh, don’t hold it in the symposium. Invite them to your villa. If Zeus protests, just remind him that your hospitality is long overdue.” Hestia’s serene face cracked into a sly smile. “And remember, your home is your domain. You would have the last word.”

“I’d hardly have to get his permission. In his mind, nothing would humiliate Poseidon more than coming second to a meeting of goddess queens.” Hera wrinkled her brow and grew solemn. “What if Persephone is more trouble than Amphitrite?”

“I shouldn’t think so. They say she is closer to your temperament. She’s a quiet but strong ruler. I’m sure she has just as low an opinion of Demeter as you, given their circumstances. And she’s practically a paragon of wifely virtue.”

“So I win her over, and the feared Praxidike becomes my loyal pet. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Perish the thought. Finish your tea, and then send her an invitation.”

#the good counselor #hades and persephone #hades x persephone #receiver of many #rachel alexander

[riffrcffed-a]

Jas misses Al so she’s just going to hug him really tight

He hasn’t seen Jasmine in days.

That’s not an exaggeration: that’s the truth. Between Aladdin having to learn how to be a prince and Jasmine having to handle her own royal duties, they’re whisked away from one another at breakneck speeds. He tries to catch glimpses of her as they pass one another in the hallways, but they’re each always surrounded by a gaggle of people, and he can never see her face clearly.

When he isn’t trying to sneak glances at Jasmine, he’s being talked at by the tutors that trail him wherever he goes. The lessons he has to learn seem never-ending: he has to learn geography and art and culture and astronomy, yes, but he also needs to learn how to walk and talk and eat like a prince (and what’s the matter with the way he eats anyway?) The lectures are fast paced, brutal things, and they only get worse once the tutors finally realize that though he can read, Aladdin cannot write.

(Not that they’d assumed he could do either. It wasn’t until he’d told them (rather defensively, but that couldn’t be helped) that he wasn’t utterly illiterate and had proven it that they’d backed off slightly and left him to his own devices.)

They natter him, constantly. They correct his posture as they walk from council room to council room; interrupt him when he’s speaking to criticize his speech. Aladdin can’t help it: he’s from the slums, and he’s lived there all his life. They’re not going to be able to change his dialect any more than they can change the color of his hair.

Oh, but they try. Whisked away on that first day to be fitted for new clothing, Aladdin tolerates being trussed up and down like a rag doll, ignoring the pitying looks that the servants give him as the lessons continue throughout the fitting. They’re demanding: the tutors ask questions that they know he won’t know the answer to, and then deliberately humiliate him. You’ll remember that next time, they say, sickly sweet and patronizing as they roll up their scroll, and Aladdin wants to scream.

Palace life isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Jasmine was right.

Jasmine. He misses her like a flower misses the sun. He misses her smile, her easy understanding. He misses being able to be himself, cracking awkward jokes under a starry sky as the carpet flies lazy circles around the kingdom.

He’s daydreaming about it as he sets his quill to parchment, forcibly retracing the letters. His hand is cramping and the skin of his fingers is sore from the quill — who’d have thought that jumping rooftops would be easier than this? 

It’s late. He’s here late. He knows it, and he knows the tutors who set him to retracing know this. It’s a punishment for not being the prince they feel they deserve, and it hurts even though Aladdin knows it shouldn’t. He’s been called a street rat for years. This shouldn’t faze him so much.

Suddenly, arms encircle him, squeeze around his middle so tightly that it pushes some air from his lungs. Still, he’s not upset: it can only be one person, and it’s swiftly that Aladdin spins into a standing position, faces her, and hugs her just as tightly. She smells like fresh air and spices, and Aladdin realizes with a pang that he yearns for the feeling of fresh air, the breeze on his face. All this time he’s been cooped up. Caged.

Trapped, just like Jasmine said she was.

A lump forms in his throat that he tries desperately to swallow down. “Jasmine,” he breathes, not quite managing it. “It’s — it’s so good to see you.”

#⁽ ✧ ° · 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 ! ━ 𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅. ₎ #⁽ ✧ ° · 𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 ! ━ 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆. ₎ #this is sad #finestprize #save