#the fic linked here is the post-s2 fic i have been LONGING FOR

[werewolf-transgenderism]

colorful tactile ribbons on the knee brace to make it fun and sensory…. @piratecaptainscaptainpirates your mind…… (read the fic!)

#rainbowed him again also I’m having fun with this magic pencil brush #ofmd #our flag means death #my art #ed my beloved #the fic linked here is the post-s2 fic i have been LONGING FOR

[dandylovesturtles]

Using a random number generator for the angst prompts: 20 Starved + 30 Dangerous Temperatures

... and Leo, of course.

OH GOD OK

uh so. I had an idea. and I decided to write it for this ask I got forever ago. And then, uh.

it really

really got out of hand.

This is a pretty dark fic (even for me) and at the current moment in time it is hurt/no comfort. I do intend to write a part 2, probably tomorrow, but as of the time I'm typing this author's note I've been writing for around 5+ hours straight and I need to take a break! So please, if you don't want to read all this without the comfort included, feel free to wait for the next part before reading! I'll link it and the end once it's posted.

Content warnings: Kidnapping, confinement, psychological torture, nonconsensual voyeurism (I guess this is the best way to put this; Leo isn't doing anything sexual but it's still violating), mild violence, HEAVY ANGST, Leo just having the shittiest time possible.

I HOPE?? YOU ENJOY??? hahahaha....

btw this is set between S2 and the movie (though tbh its canon compliance is... /waves hand)

-----

When Leo imagined himself getting captured by some kind of shady, quasi-governmental agency intent on imprisoning mutants, it was never anything like this.

When he let his mind go there, he always pictured that he would be strapped to a table. Maybe muzzled. That scientists would stand over him, scalpels and drills in hand, and start to take him apart. That they'd examine him piece by piece, and wouldn't give him any anesthesia while they did it.

But there is no table, no muzzle, no restraints at all. He's just in a room.

Well, a cell, technically - the steel door is locked, and there are no windows, no furniture but a bare cot in one corner and a lone toilet in another. But it doesn't really look like a cell. It looks like a room.

A very, very white room. White walls. White ceiling. White tiles (with white grout, even). The toilet is white, a roll of white toilet paper on the floor next to it. The only things that aren't white are the cot and the door and Leo himself.

They took his gear and his weapons, because of course they did. Since the door is steel, he already knows he's not breaking it down; he gives it a half-hearted slam anyway, just to say he tried. He should be able to just portal out, except he hasn't learned how to use his portals without his swords to channel his ninpo through, and there's nothing in here with him that he can use to make new ones.

So he's stuck. He's going to have to wait until someone opens that door for some reason. Or, of course, until his family swings by to pick him up. Though, if possible, he'd like to escape before that happens. The image in his mind, of sitting outside his cell and grinning at them as they arrive to rescue him, is too cool to pass up.

He's not sure how long it's been already. He knows that they knocked him out after ambushing him, and he doesn't know how long he was unconscious. The heavy molasses feel of his head and arms when he woke up suggests that he was drugged. It's wearing off now, though, which means he has a clear head to take in the all of nothing that's in the room with him.

He sits on the cot he woke up on and waits for something to happen.

There's no way for him to tell time, but he thinks it's an hour or so later when there's a sudden beep, and then the sound of a metal panel sliding up. It's a slot near the door that has just opened - inside the revealed alcove is a bottle of water.

He comes to it curiously, taking a long look around the bottle. The slot doesn't open straight through, and even if it did, it's not big enough for anything more than his arm or a foot to fit through. He thinks it must function like an airlock, or maybe they slid the bottle down from somewhere above - he feels around just in case, and finds that the slot is enclosed on all sides but his. Probably his airlock theory, then.

As soon as he removes the bottle, the panel slams shut again.

"You're really determined to keep me in here, huh?" he says to whatever hidden cameras are watching him. He carries the water bottle back to his cot, but doesn't open it, instead setting it down on the floor by the wall. The paranoid part of his brain, the one that doesn't miss a trick, is reminding him that drinking the water is probably a bad idea. Who knows what they might have put in it?

He sits on the cot for awhile longer. Still, nothing happens.

"I'm getting pretty bored in here," he says for the audience that must be somewhere. "Come on, you have a one of a kind turtle in here, and you don't even want to talk to me?"

Time passes, slow and quiet. Leo goes through periods where his anxiety spikes and he starts to wonder if he's been abandoned by whoever brought him here, before the boredom eventually numbs the anxiety back out. Another bottle of water is eventually delivered, and this one he keeps in his hands after retrieving it. It's completely unlabeled, not even a "Use by" date printed on the bottle itself, so it doesn't provide much mental stimulation. He spins the bottle to make little whirlpools inside, because it's something to do.

He's trying to make the fastest whirlpool he can when he hears a sudden click, different from the beep of the water bottle hole, and he looks up just in time to see a large section of the wall in front of him turn black, and then light up to show the room beyond his cell.

He jolts, setting the bottle aside. He knew they must be watching him, but somehow he didn't catch that part of the wall was a whole window.

His audience isn't very large - five people, unless there are others he can't see. Two wear lab coats, two wear fatigues... but the one who comes to stand directly in front of the window is wearing a black suit, with steel rimmed glasses. He leans forward, and speaks into a small microphone.

"Inmate 24365," says the suited man. "I am Agent Bishop, of the Earth Protection Force. My subordinates tell me that you can speak and understand the English language. Is this correct?"

"Qué?" Leo asks.

Bishop does not look amused. "Inmate 24365," he says, "you have two options. You can cooperate with me, answer my questions, and we will make your stay here more comfortable. Do not cooperate, and we will make your stay uncomfortable. Do you understand?"

Leo pretends to hem and haw over this. "How comfortable are we talkin'?"

"I'm sure you would like some dinner."

"You know, I'm not really hungry." He says it to be difficult, but it's actually true - the uncertainty of the situation has put his stomach in too many knots to want to eat anything. "Maybe if you offer me some comic books? Or a TV?

To Bishop's credit, his face doesn't so much as twitch. He keeps his steely eyes locked on Leo. "Answer our questions, and you will receive food. Do you understand?"

Leo stays noncommittal. "What are the questions?"

He's expecting Bishop to ask about his family. He's not expecting what comes next.

"How many gateways are there between New York City and the hidden yokai enclave?" he asks. "How are these gateways accessed? What kind of defensive capabilities do the yokai have?"

Leo keeps the surprise off his face. Bishop thinks he's a yokai.

This is, overall, a good development. Bishop might not know about Leo's family, then, or at least not know that they live on the surface. This means the Earth Protection Force likely isn't pursuing his brothers, which means they will be safe until they can help Leo get out of here.

He doesn't let the relief show through, either. Bishop doesn't know anything, and now Leo just has to ride out the next few hours until the calvary arrives.

"You know," he says, "I think I'm good with my current levels of comfort."

If Bishop is mad or frustrated or dismayed by this choice, he doesn't show it. His expression stays stony as he stares in at Leo, sizing him up.

"Very well," he says after a few more seconds. "I will see you tomorrow, then."

The window goes dark, and then turns stark white to match the walls. Leo wants to go over and tap at it, see if it feels different when he touches it, but knowing that Bishop is surely still there, watching him, keeps him rooted to the cot.

He goes back to making whirlpools with the bottle. If they aren't going to entertain him, he isn't going to entertain them, either.

-----

Another water bottle comes some time after his talk with Bishop. He finally opens this one and takes a cautious sip. Nothing tastes off or strange, so he drinks more. They don't want to feed him, but they're fine keeping him hydrated. No reason to stay thirsty, then.

He wishes the water calmed the anxiety still roiling in his stomach, but if anything it just makes him feel even more energized. He bounces his foot and surveys his room again, looking for any weak spots or access points. He can't see anything, though, other than the areas where he knows the water bottle hole and window are; even the vents that relentlessly blow cold air into the room are well hidden.

Knowing that there are people standing just outside his cell watching him, like some kind of zoo animal, puts him on edge. The window is so big that he's pretty sure the only blind spots are either directly underneath it or right by the door on the same wall. After debating it, he leaves his cot and sits on the floor underneath the window, surveying the room from a different angle now and still coming up empty. At least they're going to have a harder time staring at him.

His eyes catch on the toilet in the corner, directly across from the window. It's not in the blind spot, and realizing this makes his insides lurch uncomfortably - hopefully he has a chance to bust out before using it becomes necessary.

Though, he's not sure when that chance is going to come. If they have a slot to pass him water, they could use that to pass him food, too, so it's unlikely that anyone is going to open the door unless they need to take him out.

So maybe his fantasy of being outside when his brothers arrive isn't going to happen. Well, that's okay; he'll just be sure to make some other part of their escape totally rad. That will make up for the embarrassment of getting kidnapped a block from Run of the Mill.

(Seriously, some kind of ninja he is, to let a bunch of human soldiers sneak up on him.)

He drains the water bottle, then starts to roll it back and forth across the floor, like a cat batting at a toy. Leo's not sure what's worse right now: the worry or the boredom. There's nothing to look at and no one to talk to, just an empty room with him and his water bottles.

He's too keyed up to sleep, and the fluorescent lights are still on, anyway. He has no way of telling what time it is, so maybe it just isn't that late yet. And even sitting here, in the blind spot, the idea of closing his eyes while people are watching makes unease crawl up his spine. Staying awake is the easy choice. He'll sleep after he's out of here.

So he sits under the window and rolls his bottle back and forth, back and forth, with only the sound of plastic on tile to keep his thoughts company.

-----

The first three water bottles came pretty regularly, but now there is a very long stretch where nothing is delivered. Leo is starting to think maybe it really is night now. They don't turn off the lights in his cell, though, and he has no controls to do it himself. At least it helps with the whole "staying awake" thing.

Just in case they've decided to suspend his water privileges along with the food, he holds off drinking any more for now.

Speaking of food, his appetite has finally decided to return. His stomach starts to growl at him after several hours (he thinks) of sitting in the floor, an annoying emptiness in his stomach. Knowing there's no food accessible just makes the hunger sharper, but he puts it out of his mind the best he can with nothing else to focus on. He can eat once he's free.

Which should be soon. Seriously, his brothers have to be on their way by now, right?

He's pretty sure it's been the better part of a day, if not a whole day, since he was kidnapped. And, okay, he's willing to give them some leeway; it's understandable if they got a late start. He did storm out of the lair after his latest fight with Raph, and no one ever came to check on him when he did that. Understandably, he thinks, because who wants to be around Bad Mood Leo? Not even Leo wants to be around Bad Mood Leo!

But he'd already turned back into Good Mood Leo by the time he left Hueso's, so surely they knew it had been more than enough time. They would have noticed when he didn't come home. They would have realized something happened. They would be looking for him.

And if they're looking for him, they'll find him! Obviously.

His stomach growls again, and Leo leans his head back against the wall behind him. Maybe he shouldn't think of being at Hueso's. Now he just wants pizza. Pepperoni and mushroom, maybe, or Hawaiian. Mix it up a little with the barbeque chicken.

Another growl. He groans out loud.

He stays awake, twisting and crinkling the empty bottle in his hands, until another full one finally arrives.

-----

No chance to escape comes before using the toilet is necessary.

He tried to hold out, he really did, but he ended up drinking more water to stave off the growing hunger, and it's lowkey cold in here, which doesn't help. Still, the issue of the window sends an uneasy shiver up his spine, doubting that any people outside will feel the need to turn away and give him some privacy. Maybe he should have gone while he suspected it was nighttime.

(Maybe he shouldn't assume they ever aren't watching him.)

He stands up and walks over to the cot, giving it a light nudge with his foot. In a stroke of luck, it isn't bolted to the floor, and it's light enough that he can lift it. The black mesh it's made of is tightly woven, enough that not much is visible through it. It will have to do.

He picks it up and drags it over in front of the toilet, propping it up on its legs so it makes a small wall between himself and the window. It's hardly ideal, but the semblance of privacy makes him relax somewhat.

(He can't think about how there are surely cameras in the room watching him from all angles, making his attempt at a barrier moot. He knows better than anyone that sometimes pleasant lies are necessary.)

After he does his business, he leaves the cot propped where it is; it's not like he's sleeping on it. There's no sink for him to wash his hands, but he's never been the strictest about it, anyway (much to Donnie's disgust). He returns to his spot under the window, squeezing the water bottle to the rhythm of the first song that comes to mind.

Only two verses and a bridge later, the window above his head turns black, then goes clear. Thinking that Bishop might have been watching him just now makes a cold, slimy feeling roll down his spine. Creepy!

"Inmate 24365," comes Bishop's voice through the unseen speaker. "Stand."

Leo doesn't. He stays right where he is, under the window.

Bishop waits only a few seconds. Then Leo hears him say, "Temperature down two degrees."

He gets up at that, turning and leaning his arm against the window. It strangely doesn't feel like glass, even though it must be. "It's already cold enough in here," he says. He wonders how they can hear him, when he doesn't see a microphone on his side.

"You were told your conditions would only be made comfortable after you answer our questions," Bishop informs him. "The same as before: how many gateways are there between New York City and the hidden yokai enclave? How are these gateways-"

"How about you answer my questions first," Leo interjects. "You keep calling me "inmate," but I haven't been charged with anything. Pretty sure you can't detain me without cause."

"The EPF is authorized to detain non-human inmates for as long as deemed necessary for the security of the United States," says Bishop smoothly. "Probable cause doctrine does not apply in this case."

"That's gotta be unconstitutional."

"The constitution does not recognize the rights of yokai. You have no right to counsel, no right to a speedy trial, and no right to protections from cruel and unusual punishments." Bishop's stare is colder than the temperature in the room. "But I am not an unfair man. Answer my questions, and I will provide you with food and clothing."

Leo tosses a glance over his shoulder. "How about a private bathroom?"

Bishop's expression stays ever in place, unimpressed and stoic. "Food and clothing," he repeats.

Leo gives his head a shake. "Then nope," he says, popping the "p". "I plead the fifth."

"As I have already explained, the Bill of Rights does not apply to you."

"That's such crap." Leo bangs his fist on the window. "You can't just keep me here forever for no reason!"

"I do have reasons." Bishop leans closer to the window, his eyes narrowing. "Let's try a different question. What is your relation to Baron Draxum?"

The surprise is fast and sharp, but Leo just manages to keep it from showing on his face. "Who?" he asks innocently, even as the panic sets into his chest. If they know about Draxum, what else do they know?

"We know you are acquainted with him," says Bishop. "What is the nature of your relationship?"

Leo knows they aren't bluffing - why would they bring up that very specific name otherwise? There's no lie he can tell that won't reveal something.

So he doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns his back to the window and sits down, staring resolutely at the opposite wall.

Bishop clicks his tongue. "Very well," he says. "I am a patient man. I can wait." Then, more muffled, like he's facing away from the microphone, Leo hears him say, "Temperature down two degrees."

The window goes dark, then turns back to white. Leo doesn't move for a long time.

-----

The third water bottle arrives, so he guesses that's the end of day two.

He's shaking as he gets up to retrieve it, adding it to his growing water bottle hoard. He's gone through three and a half by now, but he's trying not to drink them too fast.

As promised, no food is delivered, and his stomach growls and rumbles in protest. The water helps, but only slightly. He needs to eat.

He also needs to sleep.

The panicked adrenaline spikes that have kept him awake this long are starting to die down, with more and more long stretches of exhaustion between them. The shaking is near constant, bringing with it the weird jittery feeling he gets when his insomnia gets particularly bad.

The window is still unnerving him. The idea of sleeping while they're watching him feels staggeringly unsafe.

But he doesn't think he can hold out now until his family gets here. Sure, they're probably getting close (they have to be getting close), but they're sure taking their sweet time. And he's just so tired.

After a long internal debate, he lays down on the cold tile floor. It's not at all comfortable, but somehow he doubts the cot would be any better. Besides, even if he moves the cot under the window, he thinks it would be easier to see him if he uses it. So on the floor it is.

He presses as close to the wall as he can, curling up into a ball for warmth. He wishes he had a blanket.

He wishes he was home.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and forces back the sudden wave of overwhelming homesickness. There's no reason to feel this way. It's only been two days! What is he, a baby?

It's fine. It's all fine. They're definitely on his trail now. Raph is leading the team. Donnie is using some kind of invention to blah blah blah nerd stuff. Mikey is razzing his tazz. April is using her investigative journalism skills to find clues.

They're on their way. He just has to hold out a little longer. He can do this.

He sleeps, and in his dreams, something grabs him tight and drags him down and down and down where he can't escape.

-----

The same routine plays out over the next two days.

Leo gets two water bottles delivered, spaced, if he had to guess, about five hours apart. Bishop comes to visit him some time after the second bottle. Leo refuses to answer his questions. Bishop turns the temperature down and then leaves. A few hours later his last water bottle comes. Then nothing for the whole night.

They still don't turn off his lights, but exhaustion is starting to win over the brightness.

More than a few times, Leo tries to summon a portal on his own, without his swords. If his family is going to take their sweet time in coming, he might as well try to help them out. He tries to summon his ninpo (without glowing), tries to feel the tug inside of him that he always does when he teleports, tries to envision the place he wants to go and tunnel through space to get there.

Nothing. Always nothing.

(Donnie can make his constructs independent of his bo staff. Raph can send his projections away from his sai. Mikey's learning to use mystic powers without his nunchucks. So why does Leo need his katana? Why is he the only one this useless?)

It probably doesn't help that he's so damn hungry. It's a constant companion now, a low and hollow ache that chooses inconvenient times to turn into white hot stabs of urgency, into seizing cramps that steal his breath. The water only helps so much - it keeps him alive but doesn't satisfy, doesn't soothe. In some ways it just makes the feeling worse.

And he's always shaking, too, but he doesn't know if that's the hunger or the cold.

Maybe the cold wouldn't bother him so much if it were at least still. But the vents blow fresh air inside relentlessly, and no matter where he goes he can't seem to get out of the direct stream. The cold wind batters his tired body, and there's places his skin is starting to turn dry and flaky. His nose won't stop running, and he's allowed himself a small section of his one roll of toilet paper to blow it, already stiff and congealed and disgusting.

It's miserable.

And there's still nothing to do.

He stacks a pyramid out of his empty water bottles, knocks it down, then stacks it up again. He tries to come up with some new and exciting ways to demolish it, but it's only new and exciting for so long.

He spends a few hours of day three singing karaoke as obnoxiously as possible. He hopes everyone outside enjoys the performance.

He recounts every issue of Jupiter Jim he knows to himself, then the plot of every movie. Then he goes through Lou Jitsu films, then anything else he can think of. That eats up a good chunk of day four.

By the time he gets his first water bottle of day five, he's out of ideas to entertain himself. He's never been good at this. He doesn't know how introverts like Donnie can go multiple days without talking to someone.

But when Bishop comes back with his daily offer of conversation, Leo once again impolitely declines.

-----

Something new happens on night five.

It's been a long time since the last water bottle. Leo has been trying to sleep, but it's not coming easy; he's exhausted, but the floor is so cold and he's so sore from staying on it night after night. Not to mention, his nightmares have been getting worse, and he isn't eager to return to them.

Add on the hunger, and sleep is elusive.

Suddenly, there's the telltale shadow of the window above him turning dark - this time, though, it doesn't light up as much as normal. Confused and curious, Leo sits up and takes a peek.

The room beyond is dim, only the glow of a green EXIT sign and a small desk lamp lighting the space. But it's enough for Leo to see a man standing there, looking inside. It's not Bishop - in fact, he doesn't recognize this person at all. They're wearing fatigues, but it's not anyone he's seen in the room during Bishop's normal interrogations.

The man catches sight of Leo, and the grinning leer on his face makes Leo regret looking.

He beckons for Leo to stand up. Warily, Leo does, unable to help but keep his arms folded tight over his chest. Not for the first time, he wishes he had some clothes - his gear, at the very least. Anything to not feel quite so exposed.

The man reaches down and picks something up, holding it aloft for Leo's inspection. "Want a sandwich?" he asks into the microphone.

The sandwich looks like white bread and bologna. No cheese, no other toppings that Leo can spot. Maybe some mustard, if anything. Overall, the most boring possible sandwich he could have been offered.

Leo's mouth is watering.

He has to swallow hard before answering. He doesn't trust this. Even if his stomach is slamming up and down at the promise of food, food, food.

"I'm not hungry," he lies.

The man laughs. It's not a kind sound. "Sure you ain't," he says. "You spend every night curled up on the floor like the dumb animal you are. Can you even eat this?" He waves the sandwich for emphasis.

Leo doesn't answer. He takes a step back from the window, like that will put any kind of distance between them. Like that will save him.

The man watches him with a sleezy grin. He waves the sandwich again.

"You want this," he says.

Leo shakes his head.

"You really sure?"

Leo shudders. Stands tall. Nods.

The man watches him for a long, long moment. Leo fights the urge to hide.

Finally, with a shrug, the man says, "Suit yourself."

Then he starts eating the sandwich. Right where Leo can watch.

Leo's stomach growls, loud and angry in his ears, and he has to physically hold himself back from crumpling.

After several bites, the man suddenly reaches out and taps the window, indicating the cot stood up in front of the toilet.

"That," he says, giving another tap for emphasis, "doesn't do shit."

Leo wants to crawl out of his own skin.

The need to hide is suddenly too great. He rushes to the cot, grabbing it and dragging it back to the blind spot under the window. He sets it down on all four legs, so it's as close to the floor as possible.

Then he lies down on his belly and wriggles underneath. It's a tight squeeze, and the cot ends up pushed up by his shell, suspended in the air, but he doesn't care.

He curls up in his pleasant lie of privacy and bites his hand to keep from screaming himself hoarse.

After an eternity, the window above him turns white again. It doesn't matter. Leo knows he's still there. Still watching.

-----

"You look tired," Bishop greets him. Leo answers with a dead-eyed stare.

"I keep telling you, if you want your conditions to improve, all you have to do is answer my questions."

Leo says nothing. He just stares, arms wrapped tight around himself to try and keep his body heat in.

"How many gateways are there between New York City and the hidden yokai enclave? How are these gateways accessed?"

For a moment, Leo considers just... telling him.

His family doesn't live in the Hidden City. The yokai have never exactly greeted them with open arms. What does he care if these military guys go after them? At least then, maybe he can finally eat something.

That's not what a hero does, Leo! echoes Mind Raph disapprovingly. Innocent people will get hurt!

Right. He's a hero. And heroes don't give into the demands of shitty guys like Bishop.

Leo swallows hard. "No comment."

Bishop's face changes ever so slightly: his brow creases. Leo wonders if that's good or bad for him.

"You understand that Baron Draxum is a known threat, don't you?" he asks. "We are aware of his plans to commit mass murder on the human population. We also know that he has been dormant for some time, and we need information on what he is planning."

Leo thinks of Barry's ambitions to be recognized as the best lunchperson in all of America and can't help but laugh. It comes out cracked and wheezing.

Bishop's furrow gets deeper. "Do you think this is funny?"

"Little bit," says Leo.

Bishop has a chasm to rival Raph's now. Leo knows he shouldn't, but he grins. It's his one moment of triumph - only he can be this aggravating.

And then Bishop says, "Temperature down seven degrees," and that wipes the smile right off Leo's face.

-----

The plastic of the water bottles is soft and pliable and feels weirdly good under Leo's teeth.

He chews the top of the bottle, gnawing at it until it's completely flattened out, pockmarked with little tiny indents from his incisors. It's not eating - it won't fill his belly or ease the persistent hunger pains. But something about the motion is soothing. The place-bo effect.

Pla-ce-bo, corrects Donnie's voice in his mind, sounding testy.

Where are you? Leo thinks back.

There's no answer.

He's gnawed his way through four water bottles. There's eighteen in total now, two and a half still full of water. He thought about using one to wash up a bit, but decided against it in the end. He knows he stinks, but the last thing he wants right now is to be wet. Not when he's starting to see his breath.

Oh well. It's not like he has anywhere to be.

He turns his attentions to the lids next. These are harder and thus tougher to chew. Still, if Leo uses his molars, he can eventually crack the lip, and then bend the plastic in and in, chewing until he ends up with a flat disc.

It's just small enough that Leo could swallow it, if he wanted to.

He thinks he remembers watching some kind of wildlife documentary. Or maybe he didn't watch it himself, but Mikey told him about it. Or maybe April? He doesn't know. His thoughts swim in and out and get lost on the way.

Point is. Sea turtles in the wild die all the time because of plastic in the water. They cut open their stomachs and find trash inside.

Well, Leo is a turtle in captivity. Maybe that means he's immune. Maybe he could swallow this plastic lid, and then he'd finally feel full and the pain pain pain of his empty stomach would go away.

He does not swallow the plastic lid. But it's more tempting than he'd like to admit.

It's going to be okay. When his family gets him out of here, they'll have a big pizza to celebrate. Maybe he can even talk them into letting him have the last slice.

It has to be any moment now, right? It's been a week. They have to be closing in. Any moment now, the door will open, and there they'll be to take him home.

The air conditioning blows relentlessly against his skin. He sneezes, then rubs the snot on his arm. He's given up on the tissue paper.

It'll be over soon. It has to be. Just hang in there, Leon, just a little longer.

He picks up another bottle and starts chewing.

-----

He's playing a mindless little game with his flattened bottle lids the next time Bishop comes.

"I'm surprised you still have any energy at all," says Bishop, and Leo wants to punch him.

(Really, he wants to do more than that. But those kinds of thoughts always make him feel weird and bad, so he pushes them away.)

"You should have learned by now," he says, pushing to his feet and trying not to show how badly he's trembling, "you can't keep me down."

"This is all unnecessary," says Bishop. "I'll feed you as soon as you answer my questions."

Leo barks out a laugh. "Sure you will."

"I will," says Bishop. He turns and says over his shoulder, "Bring it here."

One of the men in fatigues steps forward and hands a tray with a covered plate over to Bishop. Bishop uncovers the tray and holds it where Leo can see.

Baked chicken, broccoli with cheese, mashed potatoes.

Leo's stomach twists and cramps so painfully he has to bend at the hips and clutch his midriff.

"This is yours, as soon as you answer my questions."

Leo pointedly keeps from looking at the food. He shakes his head. He can't. He can't.

"Such persistence." Bishop's voice is scolding now. "You understand that you are a known accomplice to a terrorist, don't you? But if you become a cooperating witness, you will be granted some leniency."

Leo barks a laugh, lifting his eyes to look at Bishop's face, and pointedly not the food. "What's the point?" he asks. "If I'm not... protected by the constitution, or whatever. Are you going to let me go?"

"No," says Bishop. "But as I have told you, your conditions will become more comfortable." He waves the tray of food.

Leo stares at him, before a manic smile splits his face.

"You... stupid bastard. I can't even answer your questions." He slams a shaking hand against his plastron. "I'm not even a yokai! Do you get that? I'm not a yokai!"

Bishop looks skeptical. "Obviously you are."

"I'm not!" Leo rages. "I'm a mutant! I'm from New York! I don't even live in the Hidden City!"

Bishop's eyes flash. "I see," he says, "so you do know of it."

Leo falters, his body going slack.

What an obvious, stupid mistake.

(Some face-man he is.)

It takes Leo a long moment to answer. Bishop stays right where he is, holding the food so tantalizingly close and yet still out of reach.

"...I don't know about the gateways," he says finally. "I don't know about their defensive capabilities. I don't know what Baron Draxum is planning."

"Your lies are obvious," says Bishop. "You really don't want this? It's your last chance today."

Leo stares at the food. His mouth is watering so hard it might start to drip. Would it really be so bad to answer? They don't live in the Hidden City. And Draxum dropped him off a roof.

Draxum is trying to change, says Mind Raph. You see what these guys are like. You can't turn the yokai over to them. They'll hurt them!

What about me? he asks. Is it okay if I get hurt?

You're a hero, Leo, says Mind Raph. You can deal with it for a little longer. It's just a room. Just a little cold. Just some hunger.

He's a hero. He can deal with it. He can. He can.

He'll make them proud. Show them they can trust him.

It takes everything he has, but he shakes his head.

Bishop tuts. Then he throws the entire plate in the trash.

"Tomorrow, then," he says. Then the window is gone.

Leo collapses on his cot and tries not to cry.

-----

After his third water bottle on day eight, one of the fluorescent lights over his head flickers and then dies out.

It's not surprising, since they keep them running twenty-four seven. The blessedly dimmed lighting is actually nice, for once. Leo thinks maybe he could get some sleep, if the gnawing hunger and the constant shivers don't keep him awake.

He's just closed his eyes and snuggled up under his cot when it occurs to him: they may come in to fix it. If keeping the lights on day and night is part of their plan to torture him, to keep him exhausted and anxious and on edge, then they have to.

Which means his chance is finally here.

He has to be careful about this. He has to be ready to move, but he can't let them know he's ready to move. He has to let them think he's too weak, too exhausted, to make an escape attempt.

(He can't let himself think that, though. He can't give up before he tries.)

So he stays under his cot, but subtly shifts it so it won't restrict his movement. He has to be ready to burst out as soon as he gets a chance. Get past whoever comes in, then get out the door. It's after the last water bottle, so it's nighttime. There will be fewer people. He can do this. He can do this.

Find his swords. Make a portal. Get out.

Just as he was thinking, after a long time has passed, there is a loud warning beep, different from the water bottle beep. An automated voice says from somewhere unseen, "Inmates clear the door. Security personnel entering. Stay still and you will not be harmed."

Then the door slides open, and someone comes in.

It's a man wearing fatigues. Leo thinks this is the one who "offered" him a sandwich the other day. He's holding some kind of gun with a long barrel. He does a sweep of the room with his eyes, coming to rest on Leo under his cot. He gives Leo the same leering grin, and waves the barrel of the gun in his direction.

"Now you behave, and we'll get along just fine," he says.

He steps to the side, and another man enters, this one wearing the kind of jumpsuit Leo sees janitors in on TV. He's carrying a stepladder in one hand and a long tube in the other. Is that what fluorescent lights look like? Leo didn't know.

The man walks to the middle of the room and sets up his stepladder. Then he walks up and pulls off the light casing. When he unhooks the old bulb, it causes the other bulb to flicker, just for a few moments.

Leo explodes out from under the cot, grabbing the man in fatigues by the legs and yanking as hard as he can. The man yelps in surprise, and Leo hears the sound of the gun going off in a random direction. The janitor shouts and drops the light bulb - the sound of shattering glass joins the cacophony.

Leo jumps to his feet and runs out the door they had been too stupid to close, sprinting toward the EXIT sign. He's exhausted and shaky but he's coursing with adrenaline, and he leans on it hard to keep him moving. Don't stop, don't stop, get out of here. He'll figure out what to do next once he's free.

Past the exit sign there's a large open room with desks and computer monitors. Most of them are off, but one lingering woman in a lab coat, seated at her desk, screams when she sees Leo dash through the middle of the office space.

"Security!" she screams into a device on her chest. "Inmate is escaping! Inmate is escaping!"

Leo doesn't have time to shut her up, he just keeps moving. He pushes through the next door and arrives in a hallway; he only has time to glance one way and then the other before scrambling to the left, hoping it was a good choice.

He rounds a corner and sees another green EXIT sign up ahead. It's not where he meant to go - he meant to find where they're keeping his swords first. But he hears shouting behind him and doesn't stop. Fine, so no portals - he'll figure out something else once he's away from here.

He throws himself forward into the exit door, which leads him into yet another hallway. Another long sprint, with shouting and slamming doors at his heels, and then finally, finally, a third EXIT sign, and he crashes outside.

Where there's snow on the ground, snow on the trees.

It steals his breath away. There shouldn't be snow. It's May.

Where is he?

He takes a breath of air so cold it seizes his lungs, then takes a step forward. He'll worry about that-

BANG!

A piercing pain in his shoulder nearly sends him toppling over. Leo shouts, grasping for the wound and feeling something sticking out of his skin. He grabs it and yanks, pulling it free.

It's a dart.

Damn it, he thinks, before his vision goes woozy, and he collapses into the snow.

-----

"Are you proud of your little escape attempt?" comes Bishop's voice.

Leo looks up from his cot. Bishop has to get so close to the window to see him that his nose is pressed flat against it. It should be hilarious, but Leo doesn't really have the energy to laugh. Or to do much of anything.

He's hungry. He's tired. He's cold. He's still sluggish from the drugs.

And they threw away all his water bottles. Fuckers.

Leo rolls over on the cot and covers his ears.

"What a childish response," says Bishop, and that's funny, too, because Leo literally is a child. Or a teenager, anyway. He doesn't feel like it will help him much to point that out, though.

"All you have to do is answer my questions, and all this will be fixed."

That's the funniest thing of all. The idea that he spills his guts and Bishop treats him to a five course meal to make up for all the pain up till now. Hilarious.

He says nothing.

Bishop sighs.

"You are likely still affected by the tranquilizing agent. I'll return tomorrow."

Before he leaves, he says, "Temperature down five degrees."

-----

The same man is back that night. He opens the window and looks down at Leo with the same leering smile. Leo can't even take satisfaction in the bandage on the side of his head.

"Neat little trick you had yesterday," he says. "Almost got me fired."

Leo wishes it had gotten him fired. But he clearly has no luck in this situation.

"You know, I respect the attempt. And you probably would have gotten farther with a little food in your belly." The man reaches down, then retrieves a sandwich, as mouth-wateringly unappetizing as the last time. "You sure you don't want this?"

And Leo knows he shouldn't trust this guy. Leo knows he should say no.

But he's just...

so...

hungry.

So he gets up. And he turns to the window. On shaking limbs that can barely hold him upright anymore. With a body that is laced with pain and aches and cramps.

And he nods.

The man's smile gets wider. "What do you say?" he asks, in the sing-song tone of a parent scolding a child.

It makes a sick nausea rise in Leo's throat. But he wants the sandwich.

"Please," he gasps out.

"Mmm... not good enough." The man waves the sandwich. "You want this? You beg for it."

Leo stares, eyes wide. But the sandwich... the sandwich...

He gets down on his knees. Feels a searing flush of humiliation. His stomach is rolling and gurgling and cramping with pain, a hollow, empty chasm inside him desperate to be filled.

He lowers his head.

"Please," he says. "I... I want the sandwich. I'm... begging you, please."

The man laughs, loud and long. When Leo finally finds it in him to raise his eyes, the sandwich is already half eaten.

"Hey, good job," says the man, licking a bit of mustard off his thumb. "That was real convincin'."

And then he takes another bite.

Just like that, Leo forgets about the pain, the aches, the cold, the hunger. All that's left is pure, white hot, screaming rage.

Leo lunges at the window and slams his fist into it so hard it cracks. Not enough to break the glass. Not enough to free him. But enough that the man startles and steps back.

And Leo starts to laugh. High and manic and unhinged even to his own ears.

"I'll kill you," he says, and his voice sounds almost joking, and yet- "I'll kill you. You're dead. You're dead, as soon as I get out of here, you're dead, I'll kill you, I'LL KILL YOU!"

The man has dropped the rest of his sandwich. He fumbles for his gun, left somewhere on a table to the side. For one satisfying moment, Leo sees a flash of genuine fear on the man's face.

"Shit," he says, his voice far away the further he gets from the microphone. "Pretty scary, frogboy."

Then he slams a button, and the window goes black, and Leo gets a glimpse of his own reflection.

His face is gaunt and drawn. His eyes are ringed by deep circles, so dark they look like bruises. His body is shaking like a leaf.

And his stripes...

His stripes are lit up like when he uses his ninpo, but they aren't their usual Neon Leon bright.

They're almost black.

Leo gasps and stumbles back just as the window goes white. The full body quakes he feels now aren't from the cold or the hunger or the exhaustion.

He turns and sinks onto the cot. Puts his face in his hands and tries to breathe. Tries to will his ninpo to stop rolling and snapping and to go back to normal.

This isn't what he wants. This isn't him.

This place is breaking him. He's letting it break him.

He pulls his legs up onto the cot and buries his face in his knees. Wraps his arms around them and rocks gently, the way Donnie used to do when things got overwhelming. Maybe he understands that better, now.

This isn't him. He's Leonardo, Neon Leon, the face-man, the jokester! The one who's always ready with a quip and a laugh. The one who can do anything!

Except portal out of his room. Except escape from this building. Except resist begging for a sandwich like he's a dog.

Leo's breath hitches, and for once he doesn't stop himself. He knows the guy outside is probably watching. He knows there are cameras recording this. He hates giving them the satisfaction.

But he's tired, and hungry, and he...

He wants to go home.

He cries, silently, until he's completely rung out.

-----

Maybe they aren't coming.

That's the thought that pops into his head, just a bit after the first water bottle of the day.

He knew they would have gotten a late start, because he stormed out. And he knew it would take them awhile to figure out who took him - he hadn't heard of the EPF before, so why would they? And he knew it would take them time to figure out where he had been taken, which must have been pretty far out if it's snowing outside. But the EPF got him here within a night, he's pretty sure, so unless they have a super fast jet, he must still be on the continent somewhere.

So... so surely they must have figured it out by now, right? Raph is leading the team. Donnie is doing science things. Mikey is razzing his tazz. April is using her investigative skills.

Unless they aren't coming.

Maybe... maybe it's true. Why would they want him back, after all? Leo took Raph's leader position, and since then all he'd managed to do was piss Raph off. Mikey and Donnie hadn't been happy about it, either, and he'd noticed that they'd been avoiding him more and more. April claimed she wasn't taking sides, but she always seemed to be on Raph's anyway. And Dad... well, he was probably disappointed that he made Leo leader only for him to do nothing and then get himself kidnapped.

He doesn't bring anything to the team. He doesn't bring anything to the family. And no one likes his jokes.

So. Maybe they just... aren't looking. Maybe they aren't going to come.

Maybe he's held out this long for no reason. Maybe he's been cold and starving for no reason at all.

Maybe it's time to give up.

---

Don't give up, says a new voice in his head.

You are not alone.

-----

He has no energy left to stand when Bishop comes. The man looks down at him, lips pressed into a thin line.

"You don't look well," he observes.

No shit, Leo wants to say.

"This has gone on long enough. Answer my questions, and we will provide you with food, clothing, and medical care."

The list is getting longer. Leo's fuzzy eyes stare up at Bishop. Medical care. Does he need that?

"You already know what I want to know." Bishop has a furrow between his eyebrows now. "Will you talk to me?"

He could. He could do it. He could finally have some relief from all the pain. All the hunger. All the cold.

But they might hurt the yokai in the Hidden City.

They might hurt Draxum.

They might hurt his family.

And maybe, if nothing else... if Leo could just keep his mouth shut, just this once...

Maybe that would finally make Raph, Dad, and everyone proud of him.

Maybe they'd finally trust him.

Maybe, at least, he can have that much.

Leo shakes his head.

Bishop scowls.

"Temperature down ten degrees."

-----

Leo isn't shivering anymore. That's probably a bad sign.

He can still see his breath, each time he exhales. It rises like smoke, before disappearing into the air.

He doesn't have any energy left, not even to chew on his new water bottles. He hasn't even collected the last two, and they sit crowded together in the slot, untouched.

He kind of wishes they had just dissected him from the beginning. It would have been faster. Freezing to death, he's decided, is a real zero out of ten. Starving to death isn't any better. No stars.

Even though the damn lights are still on, he feels extremely sleepy. It's probably the cold. He wonders what will happen if he brumates. He's never done it before, not like his little cousins, and he has no idea if it's even safe.

Probably not, given he has no calorie reserves left. All it means is he won't be drinking water, either.

But he's so sleepy.

It's going to be time soon for Bishop to come back. Leo doesn't know what the point is anymore. Maybe he'll just sleep through it. Yeah, that would really make him mad. And making Bishop mad is all he has at this point.

And he'll get to sleep. It's a win-win.

So thinking, Leo rolls himself over onto his belly. Then, one by one, he pulls his limbs into his shell.

He doesn't do this much anymore, not since he started growing. His body just doesn't seem to fit his shell like it should - a side effect of the mutation, probably. It's not really comfortable to be inside for long.

But Leo is sleepy. And his shell feels like the best place to be.

So he pulls in his legs, then his arms, and then, finally, his head.

It's not any warmer in here. But at least it's dark.

At least he's not shivering.

Leo sighs, content, and closes his eyes, and drifts to sleep.

-----

(Outside his cell, there's a bang, and shouting, and a gunshot.

The sound is muffled, and Leo sleeps on.)

-----

Part 1 (here) | Part 2

#rottmnt #rise leo #agent bishop #cw: psychological torture #dandy fanfiction #I want it to be clear that any time Leo is hearing “Mind Raph” #that's just his own inner voice manifesting #please don't be mad at Raph himself lol

[jesperfaheys-defenseattorney]

Beau

Wesper 60s AU

I've been writing this fic for a while. I do love it though, it's my baby. I'm over half way done and very excited for the actual plot climax. I don't remember where I got the 60s idea. I think from Umbrella Academy s2 because that's around when I started writing this? I guess I was in a Wesper mood too when I started hehe. Anyways, here it is. I wanted to make an actual post about it instead of it just floating around in rumors on my blog. Check it out? 👀

Characters: Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenick, Colm Fahey, Aditi Hili, Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker, Matthias Helvar, Marya Hendricks, Jesper's Grandparents (OCs), Alys Van Eck, Numerous Townsfolk

Antagonists: Jan Van Eck, Society?

OCs: Ora Hilli (OC), Virgil Hilli (OC), Mart Genserov (@violets-and-books's).

"Back of Book" Summary: It's the summer of 1962 when Jesper and Wylan meet. Civil Rights and the conflict in Vietnam are on the rise, and to add more to their plates, Wylan and Jesper both have to worry about Highschool graduation. Wylan offers to tutor Jesper after an accidental rescue, and Jesper eagerly agrees. The longer they spend studying, the more time they spend outside of their homework and friend group. Along their way, they feel they can keep their relationship a secret, but their real fear is keeping each other safe from other forces; At least, long enough to see graduation.

Ao3 Link - Feel free to ask questions. Kudos and comments are always appreciated but obviously no pressure 🤍

Playlist - One song per chapter in chronological order. I was feeling organized.

Tag/Collection - For finding any posts about Beau 👀

#beau #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #jesper x wylan #wylan x jesper #wesper fanfiction #wesper fic #wesper fanfic #wesper #soc fandom #soc book #soc duology #soc fanfiction #soc fic #soc #six of crows fic #six of crows fandom #six of crows fanfic #written lore #six of crows #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #nina zenik #matthias helvar #kanej #helnik #colm fahey #aditi hilli #jan van eck #crafted lore

[syn4k]

Finally, I Can Maintag This After Nine Months

Hello everyone! This post is about my very long (80k) Empires S1 fanfiction, (i'll tend to the flame, you can worship the) ashes.

Ashes has been nine months in the making, and the last chapter was just posted today. It is twice as long as my previous longest published work and I made a lot of it up as I went.

The premise is this: The Rapture was three months ago, and Gem and Fwhip are on their way out of the world. They land for the night on the edge of the desert, and stumble upon a certain emperor, who's been missing for eight years and long presumed dead. Which is great! They found him! But... he's strangely quiet.

More details and a general FAQ for the fic under the cut.

Why does this fic have the Graphic Depictions of Violence warning and the Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings ratings applied at the same time? What does that mean?

I explain my full reasoning in a post here, but basically, I wanted to let people know that there was violence while also implying that there were also some other things that needed to be handled carefully that aren't necessarily covered by an Archive warning.

Ashes has the Canon Compliant tag attached, but this is a scenario that I've never seen in canon before.

This is correct. When I started writing this, my tag for this fic was #ashes au because I was pretty sure that I was going against canon with some of the details I was including. I added that tag later after realizing that even though some of the specific details didn't line up, it counted to me. (The tag stuck because I've linked it everywhere by now and don't want to change it.)

As for the post-canon status of this work, Ashes was mainly started because I felt like Pixl's ESMP s1 POV (which ended early because he got busy with another project; this happens to everyone and i do not hold it against him) deserved to be finished and so I set out to write it. Pix later said in an Empires S2 livestream and then in his s2 finale that every interpretation of what happened to the Copper King was correct, so I just went with it.

If I wanted to make fanart or fanfiction of this fanfic, could I do that?

There is a section for that on the website I made for Ashes! (I learnt HTML at 12am for this. I couldn't sleep.) Any questions you have that aren't answered by that, send me a message or an ask and I'll be happy to answer.

#ray's tag #mcyt #empires smp #empires smp s1 #pixlriffs #geminitay #fwhip #esmp s1 #fanfiction #writing #lets fucking GO baby #ashes au #if you find this interesting and decide to check it out and you like it- please reblog this post! i put a lot of effort into writing this

[inevitably-johnlocked]

hey hey steph! good morning or afternoon, wherever you are . just seeing if you have any fic lists that center mainly around sherlock’s time away/sherl in serbia?

Hey Nonny!

Ah, I have made a community post here before called Aftermath of Serbia / Serbia Fics (Dec 2022) that have several fics on it that you may enjoy, as well as some fics on my blog tag here that has some other fics not on the above Community post. AND I also have some similar lists linked below!

I went through my bookmarks and my MFL lists, and did a keyword search and organized them below, so I hope this satisfies the need!

And these aren't meant to be confused with Post-S2 fics! These are fics that deal SPECIFICALLY with Sherlock's time away and the trauma it caused! If you have a fic that fits that bill, please add it! This is a list that's been long-time coming, since I've been asked a lot for them :)

SERBIA / AFTERMATH OF HIATUS FICS

See also:

John Finds Out About Hiatus

John Joins Sherlock During Hiatus

Sherlock Returns from Hiatus Injured

Sherlock’s PTSD 

The Death of Doubt by Gingerhermit (E, 6,584 w., 1 Ch. || Alternate Canon, BAMF John, POV Sherlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Drama, Meddling Mycroft) – Mycroft asks for John’s help in rescuing Sherlock from his Serbian captors.

Both Sides Now by Silvergirl (M, 14,724 w., 5 Ch. || Post-TEH / Reunion Fix-It, Bed Sharing, First Kiss / Time, Undercover John, Couple for a Case, Assassin Mary, Big Brother Mycroft, Norfolk Coast, Angry John, First Kiss, Worried Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Hand Holding, Bed Sharing, Alternating POV, Infidelity, Meddling Mycroft, Emotional Love Making, Matchmaker Mycroft) – Sherlock, undercover on the Norfolk coast, texts that he needs help; John is still seething after Sherlock’s gambit in the train car, and he refuses. When Sherlock goes missing, Mycroft sends John in to pose as Sherlock’s bit on the side.

Your Perfect Offering by CaitlinFairchild (E, 44,609 w., 6 Ch. ||  Hurt / Comfort, First Time, Romance, Angst With Happy Ending, Rape Recovery, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Past Rape/Non-con, Psychological Trauma) – “Sherlock,” John continues, careful and quiet. “I’ve seen your back. I know you were hurt. I don’t want to pry, I don’t want to cause you discomfort but...I’m starting to think something else happened there. In Serbia. ”Sherlock rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, his back to John. “A great many things happened in Serbia,” he says, flat and remote. “None of them were pleasant.”

Winter’s Storm by LoloLolly (M, 51,812 w., 11 Ch. || Canon Compliant Through TFP/S4 Is Canon, Alternating POV,  Established / New Relationship, Parentlock with Rosie, Explicit Torture, Mentions of Sherlock’s PTSD, Mentions of Human Trafficking, References to Child Abuse, Violence, Kidnapping, Captivity, Angst with Happy Ending, Fluff, Case Fic, BAMF / Soldier John, Sherlock Whump, Mycroft and John Work Together, Marriage Proposal, Autistic Sherlock, Lestrade Finds Out, Polyglot Sherlock, Aftermath of Serbia) – Sherlock had buried the past. Shut Serbia away in the attic of his mind palace. Muddy footprints at a heinous crime scene, however, have led him right back to old enemies. And right back to captivity. For God’s sake, Mycroft. Part 2 of the Earthly Pomp (Is But a Dream) series

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns. 

MARKED FOR LATER

And one day you'll see the scars by thepurplewombat (T, 1,550 w., 1 Ch. || Post TEH, Aftermath of Torture, Angry John, Scars, Sherlock Whump) – songofages and I had a conversation about Sherlock's back in TEH, because really, how much must it have hurt to let John slam him into the floor like that after everything he'd gone through, and this happened. It turned out more angsty than I'd intended, and more Mrs Hudson-focussed, but I don't think you can ever have too much angst, or too much Mrs Hudson, for that matter.

English as a Foreign Language by standbygo (G, 1,739 w., 2 Ch. || Post-TRF, PTSD Sherlock, Reunion) – Sherlock is not quite right after Mycroft pulls him out of Serbia.

He Is Different, This One by ASilvergirl (G, 2,691 w., 1 Ch. || TEH Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Serbia, Neuroatypical/Autistic Sherlock, Snarky Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Pining Sherlock) – How would the Serbian "interrogation" go if his captors knew that Sherlock was neuroatypical and had synaesthesia? This is an alternate version of the scene from "The Empty Hearse."

Wounded by Gregorovitch (T, 3,309 w., 1 Ch. || TEH Fic, Aftermath of Violence, Awkward Conversations, Sherlock’s Scars, Angst with Happy Ending) – John accidentally gets to see all of Sherlock's wounds after the Fall. Time for both of them to have a serious talk.

By the Rivers of Babylon by verdant_fire (T, 3,359 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post HLV Canon Divergence, Love Declarations, Exile, Pining Sherlock, Longing, Angst, POV Sherlock, Reunions, First Kiss) – Sherlock goes back to Serbia, and endures exile, boredom/torture, and a certain chemical defect, for the sake of one person and three improbable words.

Maybe I'am amazed by honeybee_motorcyles (T, 3,448+ w., 3/7 Ch. || WIP || Post TRF,  Implied Rape/Non Con, Sherlock’s Not Okay, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied Sexual Content, HIV/AIDS, POV John) – In which what happened to Sherlock in Serbia had a consequence that lasted a lifetime, (literally).

Places in the Mind by Calais_Reno (T, 4,411 w., 1 Ch. || Post HLV, POV First Person Sherlock, BAMF John, Hurt Sherlock, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Memory Loss, Pining, Heavy Angst, Regret, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, Protective John, Love Confessions, Drugs) – John rescues Sherlock in Serbia after he is wounded. This takes place after the Tarmac scene. Part 7 of Just Johnlock

The Great Escape by Castiel_For_King (M, 22,299 w., 8 Ch. || PTSD Sherlock, Sherlock is Not Okay, Unstable Sherlock, Aftermath of Torture, Flashbacks, Protective John, Dissociation, Suicide Attempt, Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss) – Sherlock's mind has ruptured...and he didn't even notice until it was spilling it's contents like a broken jello mold. The lines between what he thought was real and what he wished was real start to unravel and Sherlock finds himself trapped in the clutches of his own broken mind, with no way to escape. Luckily, he has his conductor of light to lead him out of the darkness.

Learn My Scars by meet_me_in_samarra (M, 38,075 w., 31 Ch. || Post-TRF, TEH Divergence,  Aftermath of Serbia, Sherlock Whump, Caring John, Sherlock-centric, Big Brother Mycroft, POV First Person Sherlock, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Injuries / Scars) – After being thrown down and strangled, Sherlock leaves John in the restaurant, angry and deeply hurt. When John follows Sherlock to 221b, he learns that Sherlock's scars have not been acquired by “gallivanting around” for two years.

An Aftertaste Of Memory by Raithwithwings57 (M, 39,009+ w., 20/? Ch. || Post TRF, Rosie is in this Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending, Amnesia (Sherlock), Torture, Scars, PTSD, Divorced John, Divorced Lestrade, Misunderstandings) – Sherlock Holmes was believed by most to have died by jumping to his death. A few people, Mycroft Holmes included believed he died in somewhere in Serbia, tortured to death, though his body was never found. Sherlock Holmes himself doesn't believe either of the above, obviously. After being extensively tortured in Serbia, he suffered a traumatic brain injury that left him with amnesia, and deafness. But the doctors say that the deafness is psychological in nature. It doesn't matter much to him. All he knows is that his name is William, and that he was once (and it seems he always will be) in love with a man by the name of John Watson. John has suffered much in the last eight years. Losing his best friend to suicide, marrying and then later being divorced by his wife, battling for joint custody of his child, and generally trying to forge ahead and figure out what the seemingly bleak future holds in store for him. But what he could never expect is Sherlock's sudden return. Nor the man's conviction that once upon a time they were madly in love.

Not the King's Men by StoneWingedAngel (T, 56,183 w., 25 Ch. || Aftermath of Torture, Swearing) – John finds Sherlock three years after he thought he'd buried him, scared and injured; broken to such an extent he can barely recognise those trying to help him. Battling against too many unanswered questions and his own feelings, John sets out to put him back together, but never stops to consider Sherlock's return may be part of a greater punishment in store for the both of them.

Flesh and Blood and Bone and Heart by SilentAuror (E, 59,990 w., 3 Ch. || Post S3/TAB Fix It, Romance, Terrorism, Bombs, Suspense, Kissing, Indfidelity, Murder, POV John) – As John takes Sherlock back to Baker Street rather than seeing him off to his mission in Serbia, Sherlock decides to reveal how very human he is, after all, and the fall-out will have enormous consequences for them both...

I want to go home. Series by IwillbeReichenbach (E, 82,514+ w. across 3 works || Series WiP || TEH / Post-Serbia, Canon Compliant, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Sherlock-centric, Torture, Violence, BAMF Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Canon Compliant, Mycroft To The Rescue, Dark, Pain/Hurt, Injury, Waterboarding, Electricity Misuse, Rape Aftermath/Recovery, Humiliation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Physical Abuse, Broken Sherlock) – A version of the events that occur in Serbia and shortly thereafter. Sherlock is in for a rough time. I have tried my best to keep it canon compliant. 

Shatter Me by Loveismyrevolution (E, 171,074+ w., 21/26 Ch. || WiP || Sherlock Dances, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Angst with Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Introspection, Mutual Pining, UST, Idiots in Love, Big Brother Mycroft, Implied Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions) – This is a story about two men trying to find their way back into the comfort of their companionship. No easy task in the aftermath of the events of Reichenbach, a wedding and a shot through the heart. They are facing a very rocky road ahead with a lot of introspection, misunderstandings, angst and pining. They each try to cope in their own particular way. Eventually, they'll find a way to communicate and learn about the true nature of their feelings.

Scheherezade by sgam76 (G, 197,576 w., 45 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF/Pre-TSo3, PTSD Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humour, Protective John, Papa Lestrade, Big Brother Mycroft, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Aftermath of Serbia, Past Child Abuse, Childhood Memories, Drunk Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Suicidal Thoughts / Attempt) – Sherlock is home, he and John are returning to cases, and all's right with the world--right? But a series of minor mishaps and injuries makes two things very clear to his friends and family: first, Sherlock's time away wasn't the grand adventure everyone has assumed it was; and second, that time has left Sherlock with a legacy that's bleeding into his life today. Sherlock is Not Okay, and it's not going away. Part 1 of the Scheherezade 'verse series 

Define Vulnerabilty by TheGracefulBlueCat (T, 240,606 w. 97 Ch. || Canon Compliant, Aftermath of Torture, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Scars, Sherlock's Violin, Doctor John, John is a Good Friend, Flashbacks, Case Fic, Sedation, Sherlock is a Mess / Not Okay, Nightmares, Big Brother Mycroft, Asperger's Sherlock, Fainting, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Triggers, Panic Attacks, Hurt Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Blood and Gore, Drugs / Drug Use, Helpless / Vulnerable Sherlock, Protective John, Painful Repressed Memories, PTSD Sherlock, Medical Procedures, Drugged Lestrade, Lestrade Whump, Drugged Sherlock, Recovery, Crying Sherlock, Dissociation, Forehead Touching) – Shortly after Sherlock's return John realises something is very wrong with his friend. He, Greg and Mycroft try to help Sherlock as he falls deeper and deeper into the abyss called PTSD. But Sherlock is not ready to allow anyone in, but then the events of the current case cause him to hit bottom hard. Part 8 of the Lessons in Friendship series, Part 1 of the Hiatus series

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs #aftermath of serbia fics #hiatus fics #serbia fics #sherlock's ptsd

[mykingdomforapen]

spinning silk | writer's commentary

Hello! It has been a long journey but my Link Click fic, spinning silk, has come to a finish. It has been a joy to write and to share with you, and I really hope that you enjoyed the journey. I am so excited for you to read it now in its completion!

I thought it would be fun/interesting to include a writer's commentary about the story, as I've included elements that I'm excited about and would love to talk about the thoughts behind them, the history, foreshadowing, et cetera.

I will try to shy away from explaining too much in case we wanna preserve some level of the Author is Dead skskks . Happy to answer questions on a separate post or DMs though if there is interest! If you are interested in this commentary, please join me! If not, no worries and merrily we roll along.

Spoilers ahead!

The Epigraph

It's easy to miss the epigraph in this story, which is at the beginning of chapter 1 and is very brief. I don't know if anyone here is Chinese-literate, or if you popped it into a Translation app. If you have, you would have realised that the epigraph actually spoils the ending of the story!

A reminder of the epigraph:

君埋泉下泥销骨 我寄人间雪满头。 -Bai Juyi For his friend, Yuan Zhen

Bai Juyi and Yuan Zhen were famous Chinese poets from the Tang Dynasty, and good friends. Bai Juyi would have written this after Yuan Zhen died. The poem's translation is thus:

Your bones are buried under the spring mud; I remain in the mortal world with my hair white as snow.

In the context of this poem, white as snow can indicate someone growing old as they sit at the grave of their friend, therefore their hair turning all white. It can, depending on the translation, indicate someone who sat through the winter until snow layered upon their head , by the time spring comes. Or, in the context of Link Click, Lu Guang's white white hair. Which interpretation should it be? 🙂

Also fun fact I accidentally miscredited the poem for the longest time to Li Bai, another famous Tang Dynasty poet. Oops!

Silk

Ah, this story is built on silk. I think it is fairly famous, the 'red thread of fate' from East Asian/Chinese culture, the concept that you are somehow tied to your soulmate by a long, connecting red thread. I wanted to use the concept of thread as fate, but expand it beyond just about soulmates and relationships. That was the motivation behind depending on silk imagery for Liu Xiao's plan, to play on a well-established concept in Chinese mythology and add my own twist to it. Especially since Liu Xiao was the one in S2 to make the comparison, of people having a thousand parallel fates/threads.

As I was musing on an idea for this fic, that was when I happened to visit an exhibit that included the life cycle of a silk worm. My mother then told me how when she was little, she used to raise silk worms as pets. That got me to muse on the process of making silk--how you have to boil the cocoon and then unravel it slowly until it is a single, long thread. You have to be so careful with it because if it breaks it's kind of pointless, and how magnificent it is that such a cocoon could be so uninterrupted, singular, continuous.

Which brings me to the climax with Lu Guang, when he is trapped in a literal and figurative cocoon of silk. So as Liu Xiao had said (or at least, I think he said it...I forget lol)--when you make silk by boiling the cocoons, you kill the silkworm inside. Silkworms leave the cocoons by chewing a hole through it, which essentially renders the silk unusable because it's all chewed and broken, but now the silkworm is a moth and flies free. The thread of silk, the cocoon, must be ripped and ruined, only then can a silkworm emerge with wings, transformed. Only then can it live.

(Fun fact: one of the first things I knew I wanted from this story was the scene of Cheng Xiaoshi using his threads of fate to sew up all the ripped seams of time. That was, in many ways, the impetus of this story's idea--the image of him so selflessly giving up his own future and life to the act of something as gentle as mending)

Wen Xi

I loved writing chapter 2, honestly. Not only because I get to write about a dive, which is the charm and heart of Link Click, and not only because I get to write about my culture and province (Cantonese represent!) but also because in my eyes, the Wen Xi dive functions similarly to how I interpret the earthquake arc functions for canon.

There was a moment where I almost had a scene where CXS actually interacted with Wen Xi in person. He would have run into her at one point, and of course he can't act like he knows her because she doesn't realize he was the one who did the job for him, but he would have had a moment with her. She was sitting on the curb, struggling with some of the mangosteens she bought. He remembers how she doesn't like getting her hands sticky and wet and how Song Liming used to open them for her when they were kids, so he would have asked her if she needed help and gave her that little bit of kindness. This was ultimately scarpered so that he and Qiao Ling could have that more plot-driven moment of worrying over Lu Guang.

Other Deleted Scenes/changed scenes

Not so much a scene as it is a theme that I wish I could have expounded on more but ultimately couldn't figure it out. Which is to say, I wish I could have played around with Liu Xiao more. Liu Xiao, Lu Guang, and Li Tianchen are the trio who are manipulating fate and the future. They are also three characters who are, in their own way and for their own reasons, trying to use the control of time to answer for a painful trauma that they cannot bear to face full-on. For Liu Xiao, that flashback scene of Liu Min would have played a bigger role in the story. I wish I could have completed this, but at the same time, in my head in order for him to confront it is to own up to it, and find healing from it. He did not want to do that in the playground of my imagination. So I left him be.

Actually, Liu Xiao was supposed to be a little more villainous in this story! He would have been a bit more purposeful about Cheng Xiaoshi, knowing that CXS' abilities are causing the 'knot' in the silk and then intending for CXS to die alone/far from Lu Guang so that Lu Guang would not repeat the cycle. Ultimately I preferred Liu Xiao to be a bit more morally gray. He struck me as someone who didn't have a personal grudge against CXS at the end of the day. All he wants is his own peace of mind.

There was also going to be a moment, although I ended up scrapping it early on, where the photograph of Cheng Xiaoshi and his mother would have played a bit more of a role in the story. There would have been a moment where, upon discovering what Lu Guang was doing with the silks and realizing how much damage it was causing not only to him but to the world, Cheng Xiaoshi would have felt like he was the cause of all of Lu Guang's misery and now also the misery of the concept of time and space, since Lu Guang was essentially destroying the world because of him. In a moment of being in a pretty terrible head space, Cheng Xiaoshi would have half considered diving back into that photo as his mom and straight up Terminator his childhood self to save everyone the trouble. Qiao Ling would have strongly talked him out of it. Ultimately I felt that was, well, a bit dark, and not really fitting to the rest of the story.

Speaking of the photograph's purpose, the opening scene used to be a wee bit different, where Cheng Xiaoshi would actually give Qiao Ling the photo of his mother and ask her to hide it from him. He would never explain why, but Qiao Ling would have a guess as to what the reason was. I changed it because I wanted the story to have a bookend. It begins with Qiao Ling holding Cheng Xiaoshi as he slept to keep him warm. As does it ends.

Culture(???)

I'll be honest, I'm borne of expats, so I'm not the one to break down the traditions and culture of the characters. At the same time, I definitely was raised in Chinese culture and spent formative periods of my life in China, so there are a lot of things I take for granted and not think to explain when in fact it is not actually a universal experience.

But anyway! This is a section to explain my caveat. I am Cantonese. Link Click very likely takes place in a northern city. China's food culture is EXTREMELY diverse, so the food that I have eaten in China, because I spend all my time in a specific province, is probably food that Cheng Xiaoshi, Lu Guang, and Qiao Ling seldomly eat! But I couldn't help myself, so I wrote about my favorite foods. Because I write fic for ME.

That also goes for the daily living aspect as well. For all I know, Cantonese doctor visits, city walking, food delivery, groceries, etc. are the same as Northerners. For all I know, it could be wildly different! I have no idea. I do reckon though that our trio live in a quieter, smaller city than what I'm used to. I mean, look at their neighborhood.

Not regarding shanghuo, though. Shanghuo is everywhere in China.

Anyway, a quick rundown of things:

black sesame porridge: A very Cantonese sweet porridge. Technically considered dessert, but also lauded to be full of nutrition. Technically considered 'soup' but I write fic for me.

Also, black sesame soymilk. Soymilk is great.

Sun Wukong- LG compares himself, or wished to compare himself, to Sun Wukong escorting Tang Sanzang to the west. This is in reference to our beloved Monkey King in The Journey to the West! He is an iconic literary figure dating back to idk I think the 1400s or something and his story is quite long and mythical but long story short his mission was to escort a monk westward, towards South Asia, to collect some important scripts. He had to protect Tan Sanzang from all sorts of demons and devils along the way.

Pixiu- Lu Guang makes a passing comment in his point of view about putting a Pixiu at his doorstep and hoping it pays off Cheng Xiaoshi's debt. Pixiu is a little guy (arguably dragon, probably not) that likes to gobble up gold. If you put a little Pixiu statue in your area, the idea is that he will bring wealth to you. He's got a whole story about him where he ate up all the gold of the heavenly palace and the Jade Empress was so mad she sewed up his butthole so he would have eternal constipation, or something like that. Don't correct me if that's wrong because that's how the story was told to me and I delight in it LOL. I love him. He's my favorite idiot.

Clay pot rice -Also a very Cantonese dish. Frankly, the rest of China is missing out if it is only contained in the Canton province. Rice that is cooked with meats in a clay pot which makes the rice v ery aromatic and deliciously crispy around the sides. Qiao Ling was NOT going to take that out for takeout, that girl was 100% just gonna treat herself in a restaurant and CXS was gonna have to deal with scraps and leftovers.

Zhinü- I'm realizing that Lu Guang makes a lot of references in his internal monologue LOL. This is in reference to the Weaver Girl and Cowherd folktale, one of China's Four Great Folktales (which include Lady Meng Jiang, Legend of White Snake which is my personal favorite, and the Butterfly Lovers). It's a very classic Chinese story about a celestial weaver girl, Zhinü, who is the daughter of I think the Jade Emperor who is like the heavenly king of gods, and her lover the mortal cowherd. Long story short, her father was unhappy that she fell in love with a mortal and so separated her from her husband and children with the Milky Way. One day a year, the birds take pity on the lovers and form a bridge across the galaxy so that they can reunite. Between her and Lu Guang's weaving--or rather, spinning silk--I couldn't pass up the opportunity to make a reference.

yangmei wine - Liu Xiao is drinking some Yangmei wine. Yangmei is a type of fruit in China and I am pretty sure I actually made him drink a different wine than what I'm imagining. What I intended for him to drink is a wine that is made of a particular fruit that isn't strictly speaking edible, or at least not eaten for enjoyment. It's usually always only used for making wine, and you let the little plums (so t ospeak) soak in the alcohol until it is a bright red. Very sweet. Very strong.

Sanmao- At one point Lu Guang compares Cheng Xiaoshi to Sanmao because Cheng Xiaoshi had a small sliver of hope for his parents snatched right from underneath his nose. Sanmao is an iconic Chinese character from a long-running comic that began in the 1930s. He is a poor orphan boy during the era before and during WWII, who is just trying to survive extreme poverty. He is often mistreated by passerbys and is very lonely, often looking longingly at other kids who have food to eat and have parents. Every time someone treats him with kindness and he has just a little bit of hope that he can have a family or some good fortune, some awful circumstance happens, usually tied to tense socioeconomic injustice or war.

One of the less traumatic panels of the comic lol:

Jiuzhaigou- Cheng Xiaoshi mentions wishing that he could go there one day, and then at the end Qiao Ling and Lu Guang say that they will go together. Jiuzhaigou is in the Sichuan province, it is a nature realm that is very beautiful. There are natural deposits that make the lakes ultramarine blue and crystal clear. It's so beautiful! A photographer's dream.

Tangyuan- sweet and sticky rice dumplings that can be filled with sweet filling such as peanuts, black sesame paste, sweet egg, or more! They are often eaten during holidays, both during Winter Solstice and the 15th day after Lunar New Year. Indeed they are symbolizing family togetherness, although less because of stickiness and more because of a pun in their name. But maybe stickiness has something to do with it? Winter Solstice foods in different regions of China are also somewhat sticky, even if they don't typically eat tangyuan. I just know what I'm told lol.

Doraemon-A popular Japanese manga/anime from the 50s or 60s that is immensely beloved by the Chinese to this day. He is a robotic cat from the future with a fourth dimensional pocket full of futuristic gadgets that he uses to help Nobita, a fourth grader in the 50s, with his every day problems. He's wonderful. Also, he has a time machine which is tucked in Nobita's homework desk. Fitting....

Yixiu- Another popular Japanese anime, I believe from the 80s, that was also quite popular in China. It's about Ikkyu-san, a little monk/prince whose profound wisdom solved all sorts of grown-up's shenanigans.

Jiejie- A reader had asked the significance of Cheng Xiaoshi calling Qiao Ling this in the penultimate so I figured I'd bring it up here as well. 'Jie' is an indicator of older sister, or a bit of a respectful but also affectionate term for a young woman. Just like how Lu Guang calls Qiao Ling 'Qiao Ling jie' in the show. When he does it, it's friendly but also not actually meaning that he sees her as a sister sister because it's attached to her whole name. Cheng Xiaoshi in this story, not necessarily canon, refers to her as Ling jie every now and then. To me, this is him hearkening to childhood terms, as that is what his parents would refer to her as when he was growing up.

Take this with a grain of salt because I am a diaspora and not originally from the culture. Qiao Ling referring to Cheng Xiaoshi as 'didi' (little brother) in the show, and in the end Cheng Xiaoshi calling Qiao Ling 'jiejie' (big sister) in this fic are not rare, so to speak, or inappropriate, but you don't typically refer to someone who isn't related to you as your 'didi' or 'jiejie' unless they are blood related to you. You can call your sibling this, or your cousins this, but uuuuusually not someone who is like a sibling to you--singularly, yes, like Ling jie, but not typically Jiejie. Them calling each other this means that they truly see each other as their sibling. Also, those terms are a little bit childlike, so to speak. There are more 'grown-up' ways to refer to your little brother or big sister. In Cheng Xiaoshi's case, someone his age will probably refer to a sister as 'a jie' or 'jia jie'--at least, in Cantonese this is the case. 'Jiejie' is a little kid's way of calling their sibling. Like, up until I was about 7 years old I would have referred to my sister this way. To call someone 'jiejie' now, particularly to their face, I feel is a very vulnerable address. It's like if you as an adult who usually calls their mother 'Mom', in a time of deep distress or sadness and in need of comfort, revert to calling her 'mama' or 'mommy'. Like, you're both probably in tears to get to this point. At least, that is my experience with addresses, and therefore Cheng Xiaoshi's lol. Any fellow sinos out there can correct me but that was my intention for that part of the story. Cheng Xiaoshi is vulnerable, and he is seeking comfort from his big sister.

Mama's nursery rhyme- The story of the little rabbits and their Mama Rabbit is a very well known children's story in China. The story wasrecounted as close to memory as I can, so the only other thing I can say about it is that this is how the song goes.

Well, that's all I can think of right now! If there are any questions or you're curious about something, feel free to send me a message! Otherwise, I hope I didn't resuscitate the author too much.

#LC writes #link click #shiguang dailiren #shiguang daili ren #cheng xiaoshi #qiao ling #lu guang

[revenantghost]

Hey! So i must i adore you analysis on Wolfwood as you compared his story beats to maximum and how they got changed, something that I dont really see people commenting on

I must say however, do you think vash and wolfwood are bound to have the same kind of relationship they had in trimax? I adore stampede like crazy and was enjoying it so much until around ep 10/11 where it got cleared they were very much going a seemingly different route than what we thought. And to be honest the moment i saw they pumped Knives and Vash dynamic like crazy got me thinking tristamp will be completely about them and not also Vash and WW/others (which i think is as important as K and V for trigun to work out) or tristamp will be mostly Vash and Knives and WW and Livio.

You seek to have a super optimistic (lol) look for s2 and beyond so i wonder if you think (either by beats laid out by tristamp, maybe i am too blind or pessimistic to realize them) there may be something similar to vash and wolfwood’s relationship in trimax???

Oh man, thank you so much!!! I’m honestly so happy that people even read that rambling because it’s been driving me absolutely bonkers. (I’m just gonna link that post here in case anyone’s interested)

But tl;dr: I think that it’ll be similar! Honestly, I think the Vash and Wolfwood dynamics have to be similar, because that’s such an integral part of Trimax. I jokingly called it the Vash and Wolfwood show to a friend when I started reading it—and yeah, that sums up a lot. Though I REALLY see your worries about this. I think we got a much heavier dose of Vash and Knives to really make the stakes super personal, but I have a feeling Knives will fall into the more distant role he takes in Trimax because, as he says, Nai is dead. Long live Knives.

Tristamp season one is a prologue, confirmed by the team very purposefully calling the continuing work the final phase despite saying the sky is the limit on future content depending on fan support. It speed ran a lot of stuff, and I think that was knowingly done because the staff has stated multiple times that they needed everything to be as perfect as possible, but they didn’t know how it would do. I don't even know if they thought they could do a second season. Trigun has historically not been popular outside of the cult following ’98 had in the west—Trimax was just an afterthought that many fans hadn’t read before Tristamp grabbed us all by the throats.

To touch on the other relationships, I like that Tristamp is that it's already expanding on characters that I felt could have spent more time in the spotlight. Like, I'm very eager to see where they take the girls! Because Meryl’s falling into the same role but with a vastly different career in this, and she’s already way more present . Why are they following Vash? How present will the girls be? MILLY!!! With Meryl ripping down Vash’s wanted poster at the end of season one, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s her mission to clear Vash’s name, and hijinks ensue. She already has deeper ties to Wolfwood than any other version before, which makes both of them stronger for it. I’m nervous to see how this all plays out because change scares me and I love this story so much lmao, but I do think it’s good! I already went off about how I love how important Meryl already is in the story, she’s a foil to Vash and the faith in himself he never had, and I feel like that only strengthens and reflects against the foils Vash and Wolfwood have going on. And Milly! I’m so excited to see where they go with her.

But this does change everything with Wolfwood. I keep thinking that Tristamp has changed Wolfwood fundamentally and keep needing to go back and rewatch because he is Wolfwood. He’s younger and rougher around the edges, but he’s still that moron I know and love. (Sometimes I’ll be reading fic and I don’t even realize that the person’s only seen Tristamp because they just get him and the dynamic right—Orange is doing a good job even if it scares me deeply lol)

I do have complete faith that they need to and will let Vash and Wolfwood’s dynamic shine just as brightly as it does in Trimax. I think, actually, a lot of that comes from outside of the text, though I could probably do another rewatch to pick up on all the loose threads they’re laying down to grow Wolfwood’s character and his dynamic with Vash in particular.

First, a new bit of info I saw recently is that the director, Kenji Muto? Apparently hasn’t even seen ’98, or at least hadn’t seen it as of making season one. Of course there are other writers on staff, and the crew has admitted to being huge Trigun nerds, but if your only exposure to Trigun is Trimax??? Wolfwood is massively important to Vash. Doing that dirty would be greatest sin you could make against this franchise.

Second, Nightow is so involved in creating this. He was involved way before most manga authors are brought in on anime, and even said that pretty early on he basically gave it his blessing and said that they got Trigun. (Though he still approved everything from then on as well.) And Wolfwood and his story arc in Trimax is so powerful and so moving. Nightow obviously had some significant investment and emotion in it, in Wolfowod and Vash’s relationship and journey. Like, I cry at things sometimes, generally just ooze tears, but Nightow and this damn manga made me sob. I can’t imagine he would tell the crew they understood Trigun without Wolfwood’s character and his ties to Vash being a priority. I know typically Japanese creators won’t throw shade at adaptations like we see in Western realms, but I rarely see the level of enthusiasm Nightow has for this project.

Okay, because this is getting long, and I’m getting into Trimax spoilers next, putting this next bit under a cut, continue at your own risk.

It’s actually funny, because for the end of that Wolfwood post, before I started my rewatch for it, I originally had a pretty specific prediction about what would happen. Then the ‘sky’s the limit’ on future content came out, and idk what to expect. I thought that the next season was going to be the Vash and Wolfwood show ala Trimax, we were going to fall in love with Wolfwood, and we were gonna have him couched at the end of that season. Because the couch is so essential, it’s so critical, but my god do I want this man to survive the narrative, if only once, and have it mean just as much. (Can you tell I’m torn on this every second of every day of my entire life) And after writing up that whole post I’m even more confused because I have no idea where the fuck they’re taking him. But at the same time, we have major plot threads tying us to that scene so much earlier. The vials existing way earlier, Livio and Razlo being introduced, that line about grieving but still deserving to smile and eat that Wolfwood gives Vash in the episode he’s introduced??? We're making everything more coherent and tied together, and fuck, we're screwed.

For now, all I’ve got is that I think some shit is going to happen to Wolfwood during our two-year time skip, maybe something with Chapel, idk how they’re going to inevitably use Livio against us, but we saw a softer Wolfwood in Tristamp. He needs to harden to be who we know. Orange said they’re going to be more like their other selves here, and though Wolfwood already has some faith in Vash, but he does not have faith in humanity. That’s the growth we have yet to see, and that’s what is really at the core of their relationship and development. It’s still there.

Many people who read Trimax are absolutely gutted and wrecked by the couch. That defines a lot of readers’ experiences—Wolfwood’s character arc is an absolute masterclass in writing a satisfying and meaningful conclusion for a character. So for them to change this much about someone who is that important, they have to have a plan, and a damn good one for Nightow to sign off on it. I’ve seen folks talk about how apparently the team spent the most time working on Knives, Vash, and Wolfwood’s characters (this one I haven't seen a source for), but as you said, we can already see it in the brothers’ relationship. They have a plan for Wolfwood. It’s only a matter of time before we’re wrecked by it.

Yeah, they are gonna keep doing stuff that you or I won’t agree with, or that we think could be better. Every version of Trigun is pretty flawed in certain ways imo, even though it might be beautiful or a favorite piece of media. But all of the concerns of mine that Orange could answer in the first season, they did so with flying colors and blew me out of the water. So don’t get me wrong, I’m scared. I’m so fucking terrified. Both Vash and Wolfwood are my favorite characters in Trigun in such different, integral ways to me. I love them deeply. And Orange is changing so much.

But Orange adores Trimax as much as I do. Nightow is 500% on board. So I’m biting my nails about it, but I choose to have faith. We’ll get wrecked by this adaptation, and I’d bet money on it if I had any lol

OOF, THAT WAS LONG. I hope this was actually helpful/useful and not just incoherent feral rambling!

#Trigun #Trigun Stampede #Tristamp #Trimax #Trigun Maximum #Trigun Meta #I guess??? #This feels like rambling more than meta but idk man #All of my 'meta' feels like feral ramblings to me #God I'm so sorry about this #Ask #Anon #Yadda yadda #My Trigun Meta

[annabelle1901]

Lost Frank Castle x Karen Page fic

Hi! So I don't really interact with anyone on Tumblr but I don't really know what else to do, so here we go. I'm back on my Kastle bullshit <3 and I've been trying to find this old fan fiction on AO3 that I started reading years ago. Stopped reading after a certain point but had the tab open on my phone and I thought I'd continue reading eventually.. And then my phone got stolen, and I forgot the title & author name. Not great. I've dedicated the past few days to looking for it and so far I got nothing.

So what I'm gonna do is write down everything I remember like a mad woman in the hope that this jogs someones memory. Please help me this fic haunts me. ANY sort of reference or whatever could potentially help (Tumblr posts, links, screenshots, Google history, etc)

Fandom: Daredevil/ the Punisher obv

Pairing: Frank Castle/ Karen Page

Rating: probably explicit (canon typical violence and eventual smut)

Published: 2016-2017 (started post s2 Daredevil but pre The Punisher s1 because I don't remember any of the plot or characters from that show showing up) might have been deleted in 2020ish

Length: has to be +10 chapters (long chapters as well, don't know if it was finished)

Characters: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil, Foggy Nelson, Claire Temple, Elektra Natchios (I vividly remember them making some sort of appearance)

now let's get really unhinged...

Plot:

Pretty sure the story starts on Karen's birthday but her mood is meh.. She's on her way home or something, gets in her car and Shining Star starts playing which let's her know that Frank was recently there. Something else must have alarmed her because she goes looking for him and finds him in like an alley around her building. He's in really bad shape, bloody practically dying. She carries him to her apartment and either helps him herself or calls Claire Temple.*

*Don't think it was in this part of the story but she helps Frank and makes a joke about him not being healthy enough to be sleeping with Karen anytime soon which makes them blush. Don't think they were intimate yet but tensions were rising.

For the next couple of chapters I remember it was mainly beautifully written angst between them in this contained space while he's healing. Karen doesn't want Frank to get killed while being the Punisher, he resists her care and tries to hurt her by saying "You aren't Maria and could never be" or something.

I also vividly remember a scene where he's grieving and keeps like tugging on this necklace Karen has on while he cries in her arms. She leaves her necklace at his family's graves and the groundskeeper or something tells her not to do that because it'll get stolen but she knows that but does it anyway as a sign of respect.

They sort admit their feelings eventually but don't sleep together yet because they know they can't go back after that. For some reason Frank needs to leave the city for a little while to re-home a dog I believe he found while on a "mission" and the idea is that the time apart will help them decide whether or not they want to be together. They reunite on a sunny, lovely day in the city and go back to her apartment and lots of smut ensues. Daredevil shows up at midnight/ morning to get Frank. Something's going down he needs his help. It doesn't end well somehow Karen gets involved and they both go to the same hospital. Frank is in a coma and Karen visits him when she's allowed and urges him to live sort of mirroring when he first got shot in the head at the carousel. He wakes up but needs to go back to prison. Everything is really bad. The press somehow knows about their relationship as well. Last scene I remember is Karen and Foggy talking about all this and a newspaper printing a picture of Karen's legs with the caption Keys to the Castle? or something. Gross everything sucks and that's where I stopped reading.

So that's about all I can remember, feels like a fever dream. If anyone could help me out I'd really appreciate it. Thx!!

#Kastle #frank castle #karen page #the punisher #daredevil #nmcu #daredevil netflix #foggy nelson #claire temple #fanfic #lost fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #ao3feed #ao3 link #ao3 stuff #help #kastle ff #kastleedit #kastlenetwork #nelson murdock and page #fic finder

[voltstone]

A YELLOW DRESS FORGOTTEN | TWDG Retelling (Remastered - 2024) MASTER CONTENT POST

Hello! (And hello again to the TWDG fandom. At least, to anyone who remembers this fic.)

I'm VoltageStone. Still a shit uploader. I'm trying, and yes, this is one of the fics that has been in the works for...way too long, but at the same time..., glad I waited for my writing to get better?

This, quite simply, is my love-letter to the games, and to my Clementine. It's the one story I've wanted to get right, time and time again.

Especially since the comics have come out. Even though I've come to the conclusion that the comics are divorced from the games, because it's only one person's Clementine (and an...interesting interpretation of her at that), the comics did pull me away from the games for a little bit there.

But now I'm back. And I do intend to get to Season 4 this time. To finish this.

It'll take time, but I do feel ready now. I really have wanted to write out my Clementine's story, and have something that I can read back on rather than whatever Skybound's doing.

And honestly? While most of this is a self-indulgence thing, and it's because I'm bleeding my heart out here...

I do want more people to write about their Clementines. Cuz like... Maybe if there's enough people doing it, writing about their experiences, and not just the character as a whole... We'd get more enrichment from TWDG as a whole.

For anyone who wants to add on or talk about this, or follow along without having to subscribe to me, this fic will have its own tag (#aydf fic). So. If you're interested in just this, that'll be the place. :D

Anyway, now, for this specific update, this is a master post like the one I did for LYCOS (Wenclair fic). This isn't marked dead dove, but it is still a very...gritty fic. And it has a lot of very heavy themes.

It's a dark fic for different reasons, but a lot of the same. AYDF is what got me into writing gore, body & psychological horror, and the like. That being said, it's...also just a different beast.

Largely because I'm building off of what's in the games, so dead dove doesn't feel as appropriate for this.

Still. Might as well make a post here about its content. Any updates I do will be linked back to this.

So, for those who read this story before, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for sticking around through the years.

To any newcomers, to TWDG or other readers from other fics, I hope you enjoy. :)

-- -- --

Walkers. Muertos. Deadheads. Lurkers... The dead which roamed, they wore many names. Monster was yet another one. Though, Clementine knew most monsters didn't decay. Their hearts still throbbed. Their eyes, still with color. The monsters, still with words to asphyxiate.  Because she was one herself: a monster with fire in her breath, and eyes that burned her own Hell. She drank for her life. She drank to forget.

A thank-you to Telltale, a love-letter to Clementine as a character, and a passion project writing out my Clementine's story. Made by my blood, sweat, tears, and probably also mucous from the tears, but it's sanitized, I promise.

AO3 | FFnet | Wattpad | Quotev | RoyalRoad

Fic Layout:

Ep1 | Between S2 & S3. Ep2-5 | S3. Ep1.5 (Interlude) | S1, Between S1 & S2, Between S2 & S3. Ep6 | Between S2 & S3, Between S3 & S4. Ep7 | Between S3 & S4, S4. Ep8-15 | S4.

General Warnings:

Catharsis, Gore, Extreme/Graphic Violence, Fights, Murder, Horror, Body Horror, Angst, Trauma, a very Cynically Religious Clementine, Raider!Clementine, TWDG retelling (aka, a lot of the dialogue and canon-events will be here, or rewritten), (some, not a lot) Sexual Content (because it's a "growing up" thing not a horny thing, I promise, …and maybe sorta a little bit of how BPD and attachment issues do things), Violentine, a lot of homoeroticism, they are touch starved, Some fairytale symbolism, Louis will be protected and grow tf up.

Mental Health:

Alcoholism, Gambling Addiction, Addiction, Withdrawal, Relapse, Suicide Attempt(s), PTSD, Guilt, Survivor's Guilt, Rehabilitation, Psychosis, Child abuse, Parentification, and how that basically fucks Clementine in the head like a lot, and then A.J too because cycles and trauma, Borderline Personality Disorder, Trauma Trauma Trauma, and you'll never guess, a Clementine who really really really needs help and at least one (1) actual breathing adult in her life.

Oh which reminds me.

Finding guidance in adults who are already very much dead, and please Clementine, would you just bury the corpse?

…okay that's verging on dead dove, but if the game (almost) has an 8-year-old eat a dude's leg, and then a bigger dude get his head smooshed by a salt lick (which tastes gross, I dunno), I think it's still safe.

In Summary:

...okay I may have written a Carver's Clementine by accident bUT it was an ACCIDENT. My hand slipped. She's not evil, just a little demented some days, and bitter on the better ones.

I am half-joking. My hand didn't slip.

She does make the comic's Clementine look like an angel, though. So. There's that.

Anyway, if it's not clear, the tldr is this is my playthrough, and thusly my canon Clementine, just with the story tailored for indulgence and narrative reasons. Cuz. …alcoholism. …and stuff.

Not a great person. Very troubled. But you know. Tis how addiction works.

Hope you enjoy. :) If you see my blood, sweat and tears stained in the writing, no you didn't.

#volt's library #aydf fic #twdg #clementine twdg #twdg fic #fanfiction #aj twdg #javier twdg #violet twdg #the walking dead game #the walking dead games #telltale #violentine #alcoholism #this is a genuine fic by the way so the unhinged warnings are…taking the piss out of it a little but i do mean them #it's dark to reflect my playthrough but ultimately to reach a catharsis #this IS my clementine #mycanonclementine #my love letter to twdg and clementine

[noodleofwriting]

Blood Upon the Snow

Word count: 6,814

Summary: The full flashback from Before the End of Time (TVA Loki fic I'm wrapping up). Loki and his love go into the forests of Asgard in the dead of winter to find an Asgardian child lost in the mountains. Ending up in a fight for their lives, both reveal their true selves and come together as one in the heat of battle. The myth of how Loki got his horns.

Warnings: Gore, intense fight scene, angst, bookended in fluff

The playlist I made while writing this linked here

Spoilers: The only spoilers are in the Epilogue, so if you haven't seen Loki S2 E6 just don't read that part.

Author's notes: This kind of just ran away from me while writing a fic inspired by Loki S2 E6 (coming soon!) -- but there are no spoilers for most of this. This all takes place before the first Thor film.

For this, I leaned a little more towards Norse myth, where the love interest/reader is heavily inspired by Skadi, goddess of the mountains and hunting (and skiing, interestingly, but that's not represented here). That being said, if you like the reader to "wear the pants" of the relationship, this one is for you!

This was truly my imagination running wild with easily my favorite fictional character of all time, Loki, as a love letter to him and the myth he comes from. I hope you can feel the love as you go on this adventure with me!

ALSO: Thank you all so much for the support for my first fic I posted a few months ago (linked here)! It means so much to me that people enjoyed it. I'm getting more comfortable with posting fanfics, now, so expect to see more in the future. The fact that some of you enjoy my unorthodox approach to fanfic makes my heart so full and grateful.

Loki held her to his chest. Her smell mixed with the freshness of the air coming in through their window — a cool Asgardian summer night. He could feel her relaxing into him.

She looked towards their bed, where he had put his helmet moments before. The long horns coming from it curled away from the bed, white and streaks of brown matching the rich earth tones of the bed, gold contrasting in a way screaming of the old world and power.

“Do you remember when we got those horns?” She asked.

“How could I forget?”

It had been one of the deepest, most harsh winters that Asgard had experienced in centuries — as if a curse had fallen over the land and made it permanently frosted. The snow had gotten so deep that a child had gone missing, running into the forest to play and not home when they should have been — evening beginning to come over the land.

The child’s mother had come begging to her, as most of the Æsir had gone to battle in another realm. It had just been her and Loki at home, helping to move cattle between fields. Or, rather, Loki was there for moral support while she worked her magic, singing to the cattle and them responding like she was speaking their language, butting each other and blowing out steam as they trudged through snow coming up to their withers behind her.

The mother had come right up to her, casting him a wary sideways glance as his love gently grabbed the woman's arms, steadying her. The mother then described her son running into the forest and not coming back, despite her calling for him and being gone longer than he had ever been before.

By the time she had looked over to Loki, he knew they had already said that they would find the boy.

The mother cast another weary look to him, turning to her and worriedly whisper-speaking to her. He was sure she was whispering something about how Loki couldn’t be trusted with something this important, that he always caused chaos wherever he went.

His love calmed the woman then, walking them over to Loki.

“I would trust him with my life.” She gave him a knowing look. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to you boy,” to which she then looked to Loki expectedly, tilting her fur-enrobed head to the mother.

Loki stuttered over himself trying to get the words out. “O-of course. We’ll bring him home to you.”

After settling the cattle, they moved to the stables to grab their horses.

Loki came up beside her, speaking low.

“Are you sure about this?”

To his surprise, she looked to him with foreboding, no admonishment in her voice.

“This could be dangerous, Loki,” she looked ahead and began to take her draft horse out of its stall, absentmindedly rubbing its muzzle. “We can’t not go out there, though.”

He recognized her demeanor — quiet, introspective, serious.

“A premonition?” Half-whispered as they stood between their horses, fully saddled. Ice crystals blew through the barn, making his horse shake its head, pressing into his back.

She cast him a wary glance. “I don’t know yet, for sure. But we need to be exceptionally careful.”

Looking out to the forest on the edge of the city, where spruce was white with snow clinging. She sheathed a long sword into the scabbard on her saddle, the horse adjusting to the sudden weight.

“This is the kind of forest that doesn’t want to be disturbed,” she spoke, “and we’re disturbing it.”

He took the hint and followed suit, sheathing his daggers. She had always refused to take a weapon into the forest outside of a battle, and it made his intuition twitch to see her doing so now.

When they rode out to the edge of the forest it was exceptionally quiet save for the disrupting of the snow, their horses making paths through it. His horse was struggling, a couple hands shorter than hers, which moved through the feet of snow with ease. She never lost that look on her face, though — whole body tense, eyes moving between the trees.

An owl moved from one tree to another, catching a rodent. The small scream reverberated through the trees, stilled only by its echoes fading.

Loki realized he was holding his breath, then, and gasped to breathe normally again. A billow of his breath crystalized in front of him.

Her horse was suddenly next to his, and she reached down to grab his hand. Looking up to her he was met with an intensity that screamed eternal, screamed ancient in a way he had never seen in her before, as if he were looking into the eyes of a wolf.

“I love you,” she spoke, steam billowing from her lips, “stay alive”.

Loki swallowed hard, looking up at her, in all of her beauty and wildness. He reached his hand up and caressed her head, pulling it down to his, lips meeting. The freezing cold left for a minute while they kissed, her lips full and warm against his, fortifying him.

When she pulled away from him, there was a red tinge to her cheeks. Their faces hovered for a split second.

“I love you,” he repeated, “stay alive”.

They moved into the forest, feeling the difference in light like a cloak as the forest enveloped them. He quickly found small footsteps dredging their way through the snow, leading deeper and deeper into the trees. They followed them.

Loki noticed that he had lost count of how many trees they had passed after a while, all looking identical to him save for the occasional gnarled knot or branch that he would duck under.

A quiet so profound it felt like a blanket followed them, making him jump every time a vole or bird would move by them. She, however, never startled, as if she had known they were coming long before an animal would make itself appear. She would twitch her head, cocking it one direction or another, like a dog catching a sound in its soft ears, pinpointing it.

They stopped after making their way close to a mile, where the tracks of the boy stopped.

Snow was kicked up in a several foot radius, like something massive had come from the side and bowled the child over.

She jumped from her horse. Moving to the disturbance cautiously, crouching down, she ran her fingertips over a few drops of blood, moving it to her lips. The bloodied snow stuck to her lips and her tongue darted out, taking it into her mouth.

Loki had never seen her do this before, but didn’t question it. He sat in the saddle with baited breath waiting for her to say something.

When she looked up to him, her face said it all: it was the child’s blood.

“What do we do now?” Loki spoke, breaking the silence that had lasted between them the entire way through the forest.

Standing up, she looked towards a tree to her left, where massive claw marks dug into the bark, revealing the lighter pulp underneath. Her fingertips ran across it. Immediately she jolted as if struck by lighting; she whipped her head up, back stiff, eyes wide as a gasp choked out of her.

Loki leapt off of his horse and came to her side, grabbing her by the shoulders, fingers digging into the fur of her cloak. He spoke her name, shaking her slightly.

She took in a shuddering breath, turning to look at him. Her eyes were wide and crazed, shaken, as if she had seen a ghost. Her voice came out stuttering over itself in a way he had never seen from her before. For her to be this shaken by something could mean Ragnarök itself was in the forest, a great wolf waiting to swallow them.

“Whatever took him was touched by a dark force — something I’ve never felt before.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

“What do we do?” He asked.

She looked to him again with that intense stare, the look of premonition.

“We kill this thing,” she said, “whatever it is, it a scourge on the land. It won’t stop with one life.”

The massive path of whatever this creature was moved onwards from them, towards the sharp black mountains that were a few more miles out from where they were, uphill.

They mounted their horses and made their way up the mountain, a solemn silence between them.

By the time they were approaching the edge of the forest, their horses were breathing heavily, steam coming from their backs. They had made their way into the upper mountains, where trees mostly gave way to rocky cliffs, creased with snow blowing over them. Ice shards blew into his face, no forest left to soften the wind. It was bitterly harsh and cold, the kind of place that only some of the most extreme and terrifying animals and monsters would reside in — or the land of frost giants, Jötunheim, from whence he came. A shiver rang down his skin at the thought of this birthplace.

Soon after they had cleared the trees and were up into the mountain, a boulder came into view — pressed up against the stone was the boy. His clothes were tattered, a large gash across his chest.

“There he is,” Loki gasped.

She immediately hushed him.

“It’s close,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t have left him.”

Just as the words left her mouth, the rustle of something large came from across the mountainside.

At first, Loki couldn’t see anything.

Then it moved, a mass that had looked like the shadows of many trees making its way towards them. An immense beast, with gaping, blood-coated teeth and several pairs of horns jutting from it. It towered at least fifteen feet above them at the shoulder, covered in snow-white and mottled grey scales. Several sets of reptilian eyes set on them, pupils narrowing as it began to circle them. Its eyes glowed red, a black smoke trailing from them.

A bilgesnipe, but not one like Loki had ever seen before. This beast was several hundred pounds more massive than any he had seen, and it reeked of a dark magic that Loki couldn’t place.

Loki looked over to her. She was looking towards the child.

“Protect the child,” she said, voice flat and low.

Before Loki could say anything, she moved back and ripped her blade free — one of the finest of the dwarves’ creations, a large broadsword forged with several metals, a hilt of gold.

He decided to trust her in that moment, his body flowing warm with his magic as he removed his daggers from his steed and sheathed them. He then ran to the child, concealing himself from the beast in the meantime. It felt unnecessary, though, for as Loki turned from his partner, he heard a guttural yell come from her, beckoning the beast over.

Glancing back, Loki saw their horses disappearing to the trees as she growled to the bilgesnipe, making animalistic growling sounds that he couldn’t recognize. It took the bait, bowing its head low before beginning its charge towards her.

Loki forced himself to turn his head away and focus on the child, fallen haphazardly against the rock.

The boy looked worse than he had from a distance. Blood smeared on the rock behind him, like he had been thrown against it. The wound on his chest seeped blood, soaking his soft wool shirt. Loki carefully moved the boy upright, feeling the warm wetness of blood on the back of his head, kneeling down to cradle the child in his arm. Loki bent his ear down by the child’s mouth, watching his chest for any sign of breathing.

Shallow and labored, the child was breathing. Loki gasped in relief, resting his hand on the child’s chest. Swirls of green emitted from his fingertips and into the wound, beginning to heal it ever so slightly. His magic was limited when it came to healing, but it didn’t matter — this boy was hanging on by a thread and Loki was not going to let him die.

Loki whipped his head towards the battle that was unfolding between the bilgesnipe and her. She moved close to the beast, staying just out of reach, forcing it to careen its head faster past its limit. Knowing she couldn’t take it head on, she was coming down on its back where she could, the hide exceedingly rough and difficult to get through. Her blows barely drew any blood. She had shed her outer coats, leaving a thin shirt and hide pants — also leaving her vulnerable to the beast. The smallest miscalculation in her movements and the monster would be on her.

Bilgesnipes were more a thing of legend than of fact — they were rarely seen and feared tremendously, like a dragon without its wings, lurking in the dark mountains and taking cattle that had lost their way as a snack. Their size alone made it almost impossible to take one down unless you had several men and a ton of luck, even with Asgardian warriors. Seeing her take on the creature alone terrified him — one wrong move and she was gone from him forever, the only person he had ever loved.

Her movements were almost unnatural, leaping away right as it would bring its head around to snap at her. She was taking full advantage of its blind spots, occasionally rolling away to avoid its spiked tail whipping around. Growls shook the earth they were on. The cry that would come from her as she struck the beast was guttural and extreme, the muscles in her arms quivering as she would cut into the massive beast.

He needed to join her in battle — but looking down at the child, he was barely coming out of his death throes.

“Come on, child”, said somewhat impatiently, “your time in Valhalla isn’t upon you yet.”

As if he had heard Loki, the boy choked to life, gasping, and clutching his arm like a lifeline. The small sounds he made brought tears to Loki’s eyes, laughing in relief.

Just as the child’s eyes opened, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the cold air.

The bilgesnipe had landed a massive blow across her torso with its claws, sending her tumbling back into the snow.

He screamed her name across the mountain, guttural and piercing, ringing silence following.

She didn’t move.

Loki sat the child against the boulder tenderly, sitting him up and ensuring he could breathe. He cast an illusion over the child, and he disappeared entirely.

The roar of the bilgesnipe barely registered in his peripheral as he ran over to her, knees collapsing in the snow. Loki turned her over so she wouldn’t suffocate.

Three long, deep gashes tore from her lower hip up to her face, slicing across her lips. Blood poured from her, streaming, staining the snow red — like a freshly hunted deer after you had slit its throat in winter.

Her eyes were closed, but he could see her breathing, laboring and shuddering as it was. Her face was torqued in pain, tears streaming down the sides of her face towards her ears.

This wasn’t happening.

He called to her, voice cracking, desperately trying to bring her back from where she was going. Pressing his palm into the largest wound on her chest, he flowed magic into her like a tidal wave, feeling every cell in her body desperate to repair itself. He had never revived someone before, but damn it all if he wasn’t going to do it now.

The moment his magic slammed into her, she shot up, a visceral scream ripping from her that echoed across the jagged mountains. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot and animalistic, pupils slitted and glowing yellow. Her teeth were bared and he saw that her canines were larger and sharpened, and he felt sharpened claws rip through his leather armor where she gripped it. Loki has seen glimpses of this when they had gotten into particularly heated arguments — the slight sharpness of her teeth, the look in her eyes of something untamed — but he had never witnessed her fully in this animalistic, berserker-like state.

When she looked to him, he saw that archaic thing that he had been noticing from her for years, now at its peak. He truly felt like he was looking into the eyes of a god for the first time, power coming from her that took his breath away.

After she had screamed, a deadly silence had fallen over them, and he realized that the wind no longer blew, the forest no longer shaking or making a sound. A pin could drop in the snow and he could have heard it a mile away.

Then the forest moved.

He couldn't explain it, couldn't contort any part of his conscious mind to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. The trees moved, as if they were shifting the forest forward towards them.

A cacophony of howling so loud that it rang in his ears, blurring his thoughts.

Massive streaks of brown, white, grey and black came bounding from the trees, practically ripping the spruce from their roots, backs breaking branches as they moved underneath them.

A dozen or more dire wolves surrounded them then, the same yellow eyes glowing as they looked to him, looked to her, and then immediately took to surrounding the beast, easily standing half as tall as the bilgesnipe themselves. A couple of them broke away, sending massive amounts of snow flying as they bound to the boulder where the child was, surrounding him and standing guard.

Looking back to his love, he could see the resemblance, especially with her massive head of hair knotted and braided all around her face.

He could feel her power emanating from her as she rose, bending to lift the long sword as if it were nothing. Her blood fell freely into the snow, but she never flinched as she growled, twirling the blade in her hands expertly and making her way back towards the beast. As she did so, the dire wolves reformed rank, nipping and growling, barking and tearing at the bilgesnipe at all sides, clearly distressing it. Now it bore seeping teeth and claw marks on its hide, each attack of a wolf adding more.

He noticed that they were behaving precisely the same way lesser wolves take down large prey, like a moose or wisent — surrounding it on all sides, making small attacks on all sides to exhaust it, making it easier to deliver the killing blow.

But the bilgesnipe came to its wits, lashing out and striking one of the massive furred beasts, where it flew and slammed into a tree, falling limp. Its companions cowered then, growling and moving their heads down.

Even now, the fight wasn't even.

She fought as if this wasn't the case — easily standing among the wolves, she ripped at the beast, now tearing away large chunks of flesh, distracting it and weakening it just as the rest of the pack was.

Loki suddenly felt his magic coursing through him, felt the chill of the mountain seeping into his soul, reminding him so much of Jötunheim. It coursed through him, the snow beginning to flurry and manipulate itself to his will; with the snap of his wrist, it turned it to a long shard of ice.

He felt growing pains with this magic, a familiar and suppressed power that gave away his roots that he had let go of in order to be in his place with the Æsir. He was hesitating, not wanting to allow himself to go into that place entirely — to completely yield himself over to his full power. Transforming back into an older version of himself.

Then he looked to her, seeing her in her warrior-state, blood streaming from her wounds. Entirely unyielding and releasing all of her power that she had suppressed for years, exulting cries and bared teeth. He didn't know if she, too, was of a different blood or not, but she was bearing all of her soul to this fight; screaming and howling, lashing and throwing everything into each swing of her sword, joining the wolves.

When the beast lashed her with its tail and she cried out, falling to her knees, all hesitation left his body.

When the creature turned to attack his love, a wall of ice bolted from the ground, shards of ice shoving into the creature’s gaping mouth. It reeled, letting out an earth-shaking howl, stepping back.

Loki saw her look to him with wild eyes, fully see him in his Jötun state. He froze in that moment, terrified of what she would think — would she realize that he was a monster?

She smiled — what?

No, she couldn’t be — but she was, her bleeding lips bearing her bloodied teeth, eyes crinkling with mirth.

Her voice resonated through him, more in his mind than in the air.

“Come and fight with me in our true forms, my love, my heart!” she waved her arm, beckoning him to her. “If we die today, we die as one in our true selves.”

He had never loved her more than in that moment.

By the time Loki had come up next to her, the wolves were in their full frenzy and the bilgesnipe was beginning to grow desperate — throwing its head and crying out, biting at whatever was near it. Another wolf had been knocked unconscious and others bore intense wounds, but they showed no signs of slowing.

Their cries were growing frenzied, heat rising in the air, the prey getting weaker, the time for the killing blow growing imminent.

Loki looked to her, the leader of the pack, asking with his gaze what the next step was.

She looked to him, smiling wide in the thrill of the hunt.

“It’s our time, Loki,” her words flowed from her like poetry, “when the time is right, we finish this monstrosity”.

Taking a deep breath of the frosted air, he felt it settle into his lungs like home.

The dire wolves then changed their behavior, beginning to take more intense bites, dragging the bilgesnipe by the legs, the hips, the back, throwing their weight into each part and dragging it down. The earth shook as its legs collapsed underneath it, causing so much snow to come up that it temporarily looked as if they were in a blizzard.

Loki to the chance, snow in the air, to bring an immense chunk of ice on the withers of the best, bringing it down completely. Its head trapped under the weight of the ice, it thrashed its head, deteriorating.

She didn’t hesitate. Coming down with her sword, she slammed the blade tip-first through the largest eye of the bilgesnipe, ocular liquid and blood flowing following a resounding crack as the blade was buried to its hilt in its skull.

Its body fell still against the snow, quiet settling over the mountains as its final cry rang through. Snowflakes fell and melted on the fresh blood pouring from it. The black smoke slithered from its slacked mouth and eyes, cascading over the ledge of the mountains and down out of sight.

The dire wolves stood then, howling into the dusk that had settled over the land, snow turning purple against the blue of the sky. The brightest stars and planets began to twinkle. Howling resonated in the air, the differential notes clashing and resounding, ringing and echoing in solemn victory across the wind.

She collapsed into him then, Loki grunting and looping his arms under her shoulders to support her. Her breath was ragged, blood continuing to leave her body from the gashes across her, matching the child’s but lager in magnitude — he could see her ribs between the shreds of her skin.

The boy.

Just as Loki whipped his head towards the boulder, he saw a grey wolf gently nudging the child to stand, another of white gently lifting him by the clothes onto the back of the grey. The white kept its muzzle up for the child to grab onto as he adjusted, falling forward and grabbing the grey fur of the wolf’s neck. They began making their way towards them.

Looking back down to his love, he saw that she came back to her normal form, eyes back to normal, teeth blunted and human. Her breath was ragged, crying out when he shifted his weight to support her better. Her face was dangerously pale, showing how much blood she lost. She gasped with every move she made, but she forced herself to turn and face him regardless.

She lifted her hands to caress his face, shaking and smearing blood on his blue-tinged cheeks, fingers ice-cold. Her face was bloodied, raw, and beautiful, looking at him in pure love and reverence.

“You’re so beautiful as your true self, my love,” she spoke.

Loki Laufeyson, adopted child of Odin, held her in his true form, tears streaming down his face. In all of his life, he had never felt love like this — pure and raw, bloodied and glorious, soft and furred. The love of his life looking at him in his true form and smiling filled a hole in his heart that had been aching for centuries, and the relief of it being filled brought tears to his eyes. She wiped his tears as they came down his face.

He smiled, lifting a hand and caressing her cheek in kind.

“I've never felt a love like this,” he confessed, face serious. “I've never loved anyone as much as I love you. I never will.”

Her eyes widened slightly at this; breath baited.

“Will you take me as your husband?” He whispered, looking to her perfect, scarred face.

She smiled wide in that moment, laughing despite the pain she was in.

“You were mine the moment we came together, Loki.” She leaned in, their lips brushing. “Ragnarök itself could never steal you from me.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then began:

“You will be mine and I will be yours until the end of time,

Under the leaves of Yggdrasil, we will be joined,

Two branches intertwined into eternity.”

She continued the vow:

“Of one mind and body,

Souls bound until the end;

I take you as my one true love,

In war and in peace.”

In unison, they spoke:

“The mountains will echo with our song,

The halls of Valhalla will be warmed by our embrace.

The fields will be fertile from our union,

And our love will battle through Hel itself.”

They were both crying, now, the happy tears of a wedding on a lonely mountain where their witnesses were wolves and the monster they had felled together, pouring blood upon the snow.

Their foreheads joined, breath steaming between them. They looked at each other with pure love, mirth at the edges of their eyes.

They came together as one when their lips met, the pain and ache they were both feeling melting away for that moment. The world disappeared from around them. He felt her lips against him and felt home, felt the rest of this life.

When they parted, she cried out, resting her head against his shoulder.

He sobered, looking over her shoulder to the dark mountains, stars shining over them. Her weakened body sent fear jolting through him, and the thought crossed his mind that he might lose her here.

“You’re not leaving me,” Loki said, voice lilting between a question and a statement.

She strained out a laugh under her breath and into his shoulder.

“Not this time, my love. It takes more than this to kill me.”

He held her face to his neck, arms wrapped around her, holding her warm body to him. She was the only thing in the Nine realms that mattered in that moment.

“I’m guessing we’ll need to postpone our lovemaking as newlyweds a few days,” he joked, starting to feel the deep ache of battle coming to him as adrenaline wore off.

That drew another hoarse laugh from her, making him regret it slightly as she dug her fingers into his sides in pain. Her warm breath cascaded over his neck, giving him chills.

Loki felt his body move back into its Asgardian form, the frost suddenly hitting him much harder than before. One of the wolves came up to their side, coming down on one knee and bowing its head towards them.

Despite his knowing, he still felt prickles of fear when regarding the dire wolves — again, a creature that he had been raised to fear, not fight alongside, ride on the back of. Its fur was bloodied in many places, its mouth dripping with fresh blood and scales.

But when he looked back to his wife, all that he saw was love and respect for the beast. She started moving them towards the wolf, moving from supporting herself on him to the side of the wolf. His body felt cold from the absence of her body against his, already missing her. The blood coating his front added to the chill against his skin.

She turned laboredly, gesturing to the fallen bilgesnipe. He looked to her, confused.

“Take a set of its horns, Loki,” she said, “let them serve as a reminder of our union and your true power”.

Loki nodded, cautiously moving over to the bilgesnipe. He grimaced at the grotesque state of the thing, sword still sticking from its head, eyes bulging.

It had a few sets of horns protruding from its skull, larger than Loki could even carry himself. There was one set, though, that appeared to have just started growing — only a little over a foot long and thin, curving elegantly back around, though not touching back.

He reached out to grab one, taking out a hunting knife and carving it out of the scaled head, trying to remove as much of the flesh as possible. Loki held it over for her to see, earning an approving nod.

After removing the other horn, he placed them both under his arm while removing her broadsword from the skull of the bilgesnipe, sneering at the squelching sounds that came as he did so. Both of their horses had returned a few moments prior, and he sheathed the sword after wiping it off with some snow. It gleamed from its hilt, as if exuberant over its victory. He stowed the horns in a saddlebag on his own horse, which turned to sniff at them curiously.

Loki helped move her onto the back of the wolf. He then leaped up behind her, holding her steady as the wolf rose. Her back was pressed against him comfortably, that warmth he had craved coming back to him. His hands were around her waist, grabbing some of the neck fur of the wolf, noting the mixture of coarse and soft hairs that constituted its coat. She leaned back and rested her head on his shoulder, shuddering a sigh of relief as she let some of the tension in her body relax.

He gazed down at her, still trying to figure out what he had done right to be here, with the love of his life in his arms, her warmth against his. Peace settled over him then, in a way he hadn’t felt before — it settled deep in his bones as her breaths rose into the dark sky, stars shining brilliantly, the starkness of the mountains beyond them.

Two ravens circled above them, coming together and moving out from one another in perfect sync.

They made their way back through the forest, the other wolves beginning to dive into their hard-fought feast behind them. The wolves carrying them and the boy seemed to know exactly where to go, and it felt as though they got back in a fraction of the time, their horses trailing behind. Loki flowed his magic into her the entire way, not caring that it made him slightly lightheaded to focus so much of his power for a prolonged time, working to start mending some of her wounds and relieve some of the pain. She sighed in relief as he did this, her face nodding into his neck.

They eventually broke the edge of the forest and entered back to the plains that surrounded Asgard, the full brilliance of the city on display as warm lights flickered from towers through the cold air.

Loki immediately took notice of the small crowd that was ahead of them. Men and women, most armored, were gathered around in groups, torches illuminating their faces as they began moving battle steeds out and were assembling weapons. Townsfolk, with a nervousness to their stares, watched the group. A search party was being formed, he realized, to come and find them. Even the warriors who had just come from a long battle were there, blood and exhaustion all over them. Loki felt his heart swell at this, that they would come out to find them.

Quickly, Loki recognized the armor and faces of several of the soldiers — his brother, Thor, stood out in his silver armor plates, Mjolnir resting anxiously in his left hand.

The moment they were in sight, a silence swept over the group, turning and looking out towards the two dire wolves, which hadn’t been seen this close to Asgard in centuries.

He knew they were about to call to arms, so Loki waved an arm above his head.

“It’s us!” he cried out.

“We have the boy!”

Thor, recognizing Loki’s voice, started out towards them, torch in hand. The rest of the group stood in an uneasy anticipation, unsure of whether to start readying for an attack or not.

Once the wolves and Thor met several paces from each other, a flash of recognition and bewilderment came over Thor, and he waved back to the others, confirming that it was them. Several others started coming over, then, torches in hand.

Thor came up to the side of the wolf. A slight terror that he was trying to underplay made Loki smirk a little.

“How…?” Thor’s voice was bewildered.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but Loki cut him off.

“I assure you, Thor, these are not illusions of my making.” Loki said.

He looked down to his love, who was resting on his shoulder still.

“These are her beasts?” Thor’s confusion only grew, his voice upturning in disbelief.

Loki nodded, reveling for a moment at having something cooler than his brother. It was childish, but he needed this. Just let him have his moment.

“If you’re done ogling, dear brother,” Loki began to shift her, making her gasp in pain, “my wife is injured.”

Triple-kill on Thor’s confusion, but he quickly focused on her, only taking a small step back as the wolf lowered itself and she slid off. Several rich Asgardian curses flurried out of her mouth as she landed, immediately grabbing onto Thor with a vice-like grip, knees buckling under her. He wrapped an arm around to support her. He grimaced at her front, soaked in blood and ripped.

“You’ve fought a great battle, haven’t you?” Thor asked, looking up to her face, echoing blood and scars. He smiled with sorrow in his eyes at her state.

She grimaced, looking up to him. “It would appear that way.”

Loki jumped down, turning to the wolf that had fought beside them. Behind it, he saw some bewildered soldiers take the boy from the back of the other wolf. The boy was weak, but alive, and Loki smiled as the boy’s mother rushed and clutched her child to her chest, tears of relief streaming down her face as she cried.

The wolf they had ridden in on looked down to him patiently, waiting to see what he was going to do. It was waiting for something form him, glancing over to her and then back. Loki reached a hand out to it, landing on its shoulder.

He felt a response come to him, though he didn’t fully understand it.

“Thank you,” he murmured, “for letting me have her.”

The wolf bowed its head towards him for a moment before turning back to the other wolf.

They bounded into the forest, completely silent despite their massive frames. They disappeared into the tree, back to their home.

He turned and rushed back over to her and his brother. He was doing what Thor did best, making his wife laugh to take her mind off of her gaping wounds. They had stopped bleeding for the most part, some of the flesh threading back together, but they still made him nauseous whenever he would look down at them.

“Loki!” His brother called to him, eyes twinkling.

Loki raised an eyebrow, coming over and helping to support his wife, relieve even just a touch of her pain.

Thor reached out to him, grabbing the back of his neck in the way that he did when really trying to communicate with his brother. Loki yielded, his wife leaning against him.

“She told me the smallest part of what you did up there,” he spoke gently, looking up to the mountains.

Loki gave him a confused look. Where was he going with this?

He noticed tears start to come to Thor’s severe blue eyes, dropping Loki’s obstinancy.

“I’m honored to have you as a brother, Loki.”

Loki couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I mean it,” Thor said, putting their foreheads together.

“I will gladly fight with you until the end, brother, and then we will have our places in Valhalla together”.

Tears were stinging at Loki’s eyes, now, making his whole face ache from exhaustion.

“Thank you, brother,” was all Loki could get out.

When he turned back to her, she was smiling up at him. Her face was still pale, though, and he could tell that she was losing strength fast.

“We need to get you to a bed,” Loki remarked, looking to Thor.

They limped her over to the crowd, where Thor immediately started shouting about their glorious battle and the mighty feast that must be arranged for the two in celebration of their love and bravery. Loki was more focused on getting her somewhere where she could be healed, but there was a warmth in his heart that his brother put there, returning him to that serene sense of belonging, of love.

The official wedding was in the Spring, after she had healed and they had caught up on the newlywed traditions they had missed out on previously.

The ceremony was a true Asgardian ceremony, with lavish decorations and bountiful feasts, drinking and dancing that went long into the night and next morning.

When they repeated their vows to each other, Thor walked up to them, a helmet in his hands. It was a rich gold band with the bilgesnipe horns coming from it, curling back in spectacular fashion, polished to their full beauty.

She took the helmet, turning to Loki, tears brimming as she spoke.

“Loki Laufeyson,

This helmet, made from the finest dwarven smiths, bears the horns of the bilgesnipe that we battled on the day that we were married — on the day that we came together as one body, one spirit.”

She lifted it and set it on his head, the helm fitting him perfectly, black hair cascading out from underneath it.

“May it bear the symbol of our union under the loving branches of Yggdrasil, and your true power, for as long as you wear it.”

The cheers echoed for miles as he leaned down and captured her in a kiss, his love for her aching in his heart.

The merriment echoed far into the trees, bouncing through the mountains, where lay the bones of a mighty beast in the everwinter of the mountains.

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

Epilogue (Loki Season 2 Episode 6 Spoiler!)

Loki sat on a throne of shattered obsidian and gold.

Strands of time — of lives, of deaths, of freedom — came from him in all directions, each one tended by him. They ran down to the roots and through to the branches of Yggdrasil, intertwining with each other, branching into the endless cascading possibilities of time, glowing green with his power, his purpose.

His helmet sat on his head, the horns in their full glory, natural and no longer covered in gold.

He looked up at them, framing the intertwining branches of fate that were brought together by him. Now safe, under him. His true self, in a way that he grasped with an intensity and purpose that aged him, settled into his bones with such truth that it made him sigh.

A tear fell off of his cheek, echoing into the void until it landed on a branch, pulsing green.

#Spotify #loki laufeyson #loki series #loki (marvel) #loki fandom #loki fanfic #loki imagine #loki imagines #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki season 2 #loki finale #loki s2 #loki spoilers #loki x you #loki x y/n #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #marvel comics #avengers #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #marvel mcu #marvel #writing #creative writing #original character #loki x oc #loki x original character #loki fic

[shrinkthisviolet]

talk shop tuesday - outside of your active WIPs, what is/are your next big fic/fics on the horizon, even if they're just outlines for now 🎤?

Oooh 👀 interesting question! This got long, so under the cut:

So ofc the Morgan and Lucy AUs are my active WIPs but…within those, there are some fics that I haven’t written but have been at least vaguely outlined.

For the main Morgan AU, these include:

1x17 and onwards fic. I haven’t decided if this will include the finale or if that’ll be its own fic, but I’ll see how the flow goes

E2 rescue fic. I’ve gone back and forth about having Morgan help rescue Jesse, but I’m more and more in favor of it as time goes on. Her dynamic with E2 Barry is so sweet to think about 🥰 (and E1 Barry being a little jealous of Morgan calling another version of Barry “like her brother”, even tho Morgan would clearly only be saying that to mess with him 😂). Plus, her potential standoffs with Zoom compel me. I’d have to rewatch the episodes to add more detail. In any case, Morgan would definitely use the telepathy link as an excuse to come, hoping she can find some way to reopen it after Jesse accidentally (not that Morgan knows it was an accident) closed it in the last fic

Jesse POV fic. This covers the events of s2 up to [episode TBD] from Jesse’s POV. So we’ll get to see her get kidnapped, her interactions with Zoom, befriending the real Jay (which didn’t happen in canon, but the medallion says that’s dumb, so it happens here)…and the telepathy link. I originally thought of taking it up to 2x16, but…since Morgan’s likely gonna be part of the E2 rescue, I’ll have to fiddle with things 😅

2x16 fic. Eliza survives this ofc, and as I’ve mentioned prior, there’s no split personality. Taking inspo from the comics for this one, and blending it with show canon: she got powers from the accelerator and the constant defibrillation made her powers unstable. She thus created the drug Sharp to dampen her powers. She’s also a WOC like the comics, unlike the show. Beyond that, the rest is TBD 😂

Morgan & Jesse roommates fic! This is the “enemies to besties/sisters” fic. Jesse shows up at Morgan’s apartment when she runs away, and though Morgan is reluctant to help because of how she and Jesse rub each other the wrong way (they’re a bit jealous of each other, seeing the other as the best version of them, etc etc), she ofc does—she can’t let Jesse wander Starling City alone, especially without powers and with Zoom possibly able to find her if he’s hellbent enough on it. Over time, they get to know each other and become close! Exact timespan is unknown rn, but depending on which episode this needs to be wrapped up by, I might artificially extend the time to at least a few weeks

2x17 fic! I’ve thought about this quite a bit :D Barry time-traveling to 1x11, being furious at Thawne and guilty that he can’t help the others…and also also, using Morgan against him 👀 Eowells is a sucky father in so many ways, but if he knows Morgan is in grave danger, he’ll do anything to stop it (after all, she can’t be his treasure if she’s dead, can she?)

s3 arc. This is…vaguely outlined. I’ll have to sit down post-s2 and really go through it, and especially as I rewatch s3, but…I’ve thought a lot about it, especially how I’m gonna rewrite Savitar and his dynamic with Morgan. I’ve been inspired quite a bit by the comics lately, especially a certain blue speedster in them…👀

For Morgan AU spin-offs, these include:

the “daddy issues AU” is starting to be outlined! I’ve written a couple snippets to get in the zone too :D the first fic just covers Barry’s placement with Eowells and meeting Morgan…and it’s delightful to write. That’ll be the only fic from Barry’s POV, I think—the others will be Morgan’s. It’ll cover s1…possibly s2 but I doubt it

CF AU s1 has been vaguely outlined, even though that’s a ways from now 😂 it’ll ofc be Barry’s POV and cover him waking up, realizing Morgan and Iris are hiding something, and trying to uncover it while hiding his own secret. Don’t worry though, everyone is ofc looped in way sooner than canon

I am ofc currently writing the first fic of a soulmates AU, which should be done this week, and although it’s just the intro fic I’ve written (pre-s1), I’ve thought about how the s1 arc will go. Specifically…how Morgan and Barry’s interactions will go 👀 I can’t say too much because of spoilers, but needless to say, there’s a big mystery at the center of s1 regarding Morgan…and she doesn’t realize it for a while

For the Lucy AU…there’s a few:

post-ESB fic, pre-ROTJ. Covers the fallout of ESB, sorta bridges it to ROTJ. This will be when Lucy gets her Jedi training, while Luke is reeling from the Vader reveal and goes off on…whatever quest he goes on (I still need to read those supplemental comics 😅). Lucy is also, ofc, reeling from Lando’s betrayal—she can’t seem to shake it, even while Leia’s able to push through it. Leia gets Lando’s reasons on some level, even if she’s hurt…but Lucy doesn’t. Something else major also happens 👀 but…spoilers!

TFA fic! Which is jumping ahead quite a bit, but…vague outline and all that. Lucy is ofc raising Rey on Jakku, and there’s some growing pains…especially since Rey, unlike canon, wants to go out into the world, because she knows her family is out there. Lucy, however, believes everyone is dead and that they’re safest here. She’s tired of fighting, tired of losing people. They clash quite a few times about this…though ultimately, when Lucy finds out Leia is alive, ofc she and Rey both go. Also in this fic, there’s no fake Poe death, so the ST trio is established from early on!

OH ALSO:

PJO x Flash AU!! How the PJO trio gets to the Arrowverse is still up in the air, but they have their show appearances (their backstory is the books’ story, not the show, though there are a couple things from s1 I’m carrying over). And ofc the central conflict, besides the general events of the show, is that the more Team Flash finds out about these kids’ past, and especially about the Prophecy, the more reluctant they are to send them back. This causes a number of fights between Barry and Percy in particular, because Percy wants to get home to Sally and also take on the Prophecy so Nico doesn’t have to. Barry meanwhile is so angry that Percy has to make the choice between protecting his loved ones and keeping himself safe. There’s also, in s3, some fun Savitar & Percy interaction that furthers these themes…👀

That’s about it as far as vaguely-outlined fics go! Probably a bit of a longer list than you were expecting 😅 but I do like to bounce around

talk shop tuesday!

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@arrthurpendragon @ocappreciationtag @raith-way @vexic929 @ironverseocs @thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce @dream-beyond-the-fantasy @starstruckpurpledragon @angst-is-love-angst-is-life

#talk shop tuesday #morgan wells au #morgan wells au what-ifs #lucy kenobi au #pjo x flash au

[dewdropreader]

❦ ➷ get to know your fellow fanfic writers better ༊ ✧.*

I was tagged by @bebx and @loki-is-my-kink-awakening for this “get to know the writer” tag! Thank you! 😊

when did you post your first ever fanfic?

I believe in 2012-2013? I was around 13-14 years old, so around then anyway (my first one doesn’t exist online anymore as far as I know so I can’t double check.) it was the usual middle school fandom girl era lol. First for my current account was February of 2022!

first character you wrote for:

It would have been Rin Matsuoka from Free! Iwatobi Swim Club! Specifically him and Nitori, they were one of my fave ships in that series!

main character(s) you’re currently writing for:

Basically anyone from the Loki series but especially Loki and Mobius and Sylvie, not necessarily in that order or all together but some combo of them 💚

character(s) you haven’t written about before but plan on writing about soon:

I haven’t written for OFMD but would really like to! I’ve had a lot of feels s2, no solid ideas yet but maybe something will spark some inspiration! Also Red White and Royal Blue! I haven’t gotten a chance to read the book yet but I watched the movie and got hooked and love those boys too 💕 so maybe one or both of them if the Loki series even temporarily gets it’s hooks out of me (with s2 though I’ve been as bad if not worse than before with my obsession so who knows lol)

And for within marvel the ship that got me into fanfic and got me to make this current ao3 account was Stucky so even though I only read for them and never wrote, they always have a place in my heart!

fandom(s) you’re currently writing for:

Also just Loki atm! But who knows for the future.

platonic pairing(s) you currently write for:

Mobius and any of the void Lokis as the best found family ever (Mobius and kid, Mobius and classic, Mobius and all of them my beloveds)

I haven’t written it recently but also wrote B-15 and Sylvie in a non romantic context and even though I think they’re also cute romantically I love them as a platonic pair and want to do more with them too! Similarly Sylvie and C-20, I wish they could have been friends if things had gone a bit differently 🥺

romantic pairing(s) you currently write for:

Lokius and Sylkius! Haven’t written any pure Sylki but who knows (I just like Mobius too much to not include him atm)

your top 3 tags on AO3 (if you post your works on AO3):

Hurt/comfort, fluff, and hugs 😂 sounds about right to me! I like some pain and crying and working through stuff but need the hugs and comfort alongside it/after it for sure.

your current platform where you post your works

AO3 is the same as my name here!

I try to post my fics links on tumblr too but don’t always remember so ao3 is always best bet if you want to read my stuff!! 😍

snippet of the wip you’re currently working on:

Right now I’m most heavily focused on a character study type fic cataloging different moments with Sylvie adapting to her McDonald’s life but specifically looking at her relationship with Jack, I think she would have such a great big sister vibe and they could learn a lot from each other 🥹

“Good job today, Sylvie,” Jack says, his lopsided smile clear even before Sylvie glances his way. He’s always got compliments and kindness at the ready, and he’s young and gentle enough that they’re always believable.

“Thanks, Jack,” she feels a smile curl onto her face. She still, even after knowing Loki and Mobius and B-15, feels like she doesn’t know how to have friends or family or any genuine connections at all. But Jack is the first in a long time to feel so real to her, to feel like a relationship she can stick with, with these new more permanent circumstances and her distance from the trauma of the TVA. She doesn’t remember what it’s like to be a sister, her memories of Thor long gone beyond the occasional glimmers in her dreams, let alone what being the older sister would be like, but this is what she suspects it is. A fierce protectiveness and gentle care, the ignoring of any silly flaws or naïveté because you just care about the person. That’s what she has for Jack, ever since he took her under his wing as an employee, she’s done the same for him as just a person.

“Mind if I stay here for a bit? My ma is going to be a few more minutes.”

Sylvie just smiles softly and scoots over on the wide hood of her truck, gesturing to the empty spot.

Jack nods rather sagely as he awkwardly hoists himself on to the hood of the truck, pushing himself up with his arms and then practically throwing himself on to it.

He pants softly as he adjusts to lay on his back a foot or two away from Sylvie, giving her another boyish grin. “Hey.”

“Very smooth, Jack,” Sylvie snorts.

“Your truck is huge! I’ve ridden in trucks before but yours is massive! I’m not sure how you even get up here, you’re shorter than me!” He laughs.

“My little secret, I guess,” Sylvie shrugs with a slight smile, returning her gaze to the inky sky, dotted with a trillion stars.

I’m excited to keep writing this, I’ve got some Lokius ideas in the works too but this one has been my focus for a few days!!

I’d love to see anyone do this that is interested but I’ll tag my usual group!!

@insert-witty-user-name-here @starport-seven-five @lgwilt @mirilyawrites @cha-melodius @chaos-monkeyy @waterhorseyblues-ao3 @blackbirdofasgard @dreamycloud @queen-of-meows

#loki #lokius #Sylvie #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic questions #ao3 author #get to know me #fic wip

[hydriotaphia]

✍🏻 🚀 🦋 🤩 (🎁 only if you want to !)

Yaaaaay, thanks!

For the Fanfic Writer Ask Game

✍🏻 What’s your ideal writing setup?

Curled up on my couch or in bed where nobody can see what’s on my laptop screen 👀

🚀 Do you write for multiple fandoms? If yes, what is your favorite fic of yours for each fandom?

I have before! I hope you don't mind I answered this in another post so going to link to that one: https://www.tumblr.com/hydriotaphia/735333437575151616/hello-hy-for-the-ask-game?source=share

🦋 Which character is your favorite to write?

I write Anthony more but I think my fave is Kate. All the Kate chapters in This Is Me Down On My Knees actually flowed like they were just writing themselves. I love writing women’s internal worlds.

🤩 What led to your interest in the fandom?

I’ve been in fandom for over 10 years but never very active and never large fandoms. I usually end up getting into a fandom for a pairing and S2 just hit me like a sledgehammer.

I watched Bridgerton s1 and then promptly forgot all about it. But it was 2022 and it’d been a pandemic for 2 years and I heard s2 was going to be out. Then I forgot about s2. Then I got bored the Saturday after it launched and found it and started it at like 8pm. And then IDK I went to bed at 4am or something literally with heart-eyes. The second I saw Anthony minus sideburns I sat up and the second Kate tossed her head smugly after the morning race I just pepe-le-pew’d at the screen. I told my housemate to shhh multiple times when they entered the room and literally started sweating when we got to the wedding. Then I came to tumblr for gifs and AO3 for fanfic, and here we are.

(🎁 only if you want to !) - WIP

Alwayyyys. I am such a sucker for sharing snippets.

This is an out-take from Malebolge (the 'Under Control' universe). Sorry if that's not your thing so be warned for an explicit scene.

This is a good memory:

Tonight he tips his glass so brandy drips down Kate’s collarbones onto the slope of a bare breast, and she moans desperately as it trickles over her nipple into the waiting heat of his mouth. It feels like ice on her skin and fire in her veins — a cold rush for all the liquid burn it carries— and she is gutted bone-deep with pleasure when he suckles.

The crystal rings where he blindly slams the glass onto a table. They are both breathless, shaking against each other.

Kate imagines she could hear secret prayers in the breaths he recites against her skin; the low guttural moan that he breaths into her sternum rattles through her as if she were a hollowed out chalice for this. Long and short, almost bestial as he licks, chases trickling drops like offerings to be consumed. She will always carry these visions of him: between her breasts and between her legs, his fierce dark eyes claiming her for his own.

Her hands tug at his shoulders to pull him closer and push him away, pain like a waiting sword hanging sharp above her head.

Her nipples are so tight they throb, skin crinkled around them as he nips at one with his teeth.

He nearly knocks over the glass when he reaches for it, swills his fingers savagely, and brings them up to coat her neglected nipple, rolling it to a peak between his fingers before he takes it into the wet heat of his mouth.

“Anthony… Anthony!”

Her hips buck fruitlessly where she straddles him and he has to see how she tastes, brandy and musk.

She goes down on her back like a dream, the pale pink Aubusson rugs a thousand pricks of awareness against her skin. She looks like a dryad haloed in a field of flowers, one that he coaxed from her tree with soft promises and caresses, a creature made to be savoured.

Even as he settles himself between her splayed legs, her body stays soft and welcoming underneath him, shuddering at his

weight and the rough brush of his breeches. Trusting, he thinks with a tinge of awe, as though this had not begun because he set fire to the castle and laid waste in a siege that left the very bedrock trembling and cracked.

His hands shake.

The brandy, Anthony thinks, reaching for his courage. He takes in a mouthful to sustain himself but turns to her when she makes a small, lost noise. It is the work of infinitesimal time and instinct, but he is on her, his mouth pressed to her open one, and he is spilling brandy down her throat, messy smears across their chins, and she is drinking from his lips as if he is salvation.

Alcohol simmers in her belly, sending trails of heat through her, and she wants to breathe that into him, watch him burn for her like a phoenix.

She pulls away – breathless – just to look at him. Their eyes lock and they are both Narcissus staring at each other she thinks through the haze of elation and trepidation. He somehow understands, as though it were her own life, and so the buzzing under his skin has grown pliant, she thinks, he has felt the chill of the parapets on which he stands above his family – too distant, too lonely – he wants to be here on the floor with her, basking in remembered laughter from dining table and falling into the silent vows they have made.

And the world goes quiet but for the thrumming in her ears and the itch of buried words under her tongue. She lets her eyes traces the features of his face like a map, the soft brow in peace, the kind lines at the corner of his smiling lips, the easy communion of the endless brown of his eyes. It feels important to commit to memory, this gift of seeing him unfettered and blushed in the candlelight.

The distance he usually keeps, the rigid control he imposes that serves as her anchor seems unmoored, distant like a heavy star. He captures her lips again, tasting brandy and sugar on her tongue, and the quiet intimacy rockets through her.

He loves to kiss her; he cannot seem to stop. He licks into her open mouth and moans when she tugs him closer, swallows his tongue to trap it under her own.

“You will be my ruin,” he confesses when he re-surfaces and licks his bottom lip.

Her hand anchors itself in his hair as she gasps in anticipation. The words tangle on her tongue, urging, urging, begging. “As you are mine,” she says with a great heaving breath.

“Together then,” he says like a promise, and sets his mouth on her.

#asks #writblr #fanfic writer ask game #bridgerton season 2 #kanthony #kate x anthony #malebolge snippet

[electricbluebutterflies]

summer frenzy accountability post

In the name of me having a lot of time on my hands for the next couple months + wanting to vary up my content here a bit... time to post the watchlist I hope to at least cull through if not actually finish all of. This is not in any kind of order and will be updated as I get through stuff, and also isn't all of my planned programming for the near future (there's also one movie I need to rewatch, a few others that will be totally new to me, and a book series I need to get through). The goal is to fall in love with things, write as much as possible, and have a good time.

Housekeeping notes: if a show name is underlined, that means I already have a ship tag for something / that's a link. If it is not, I'm still eyeing some obvious bait unless otherwise noted. I've at least kinda started watching most of these shows and in some cases the "currently on" is a guess because it's been too long for me to remember. Any commentary on why I should prioritize something on this list above the rest will be listened to but not necessarily followed. (There are several things that I dropped because the timing was wrong for me.) Again, not an exhaustive list but posting it anyways so y'all have some idea of coming attractions.

Without further adieu, the list:

Rings of Power (currently: maaaaybe 1x04?)

Wheel of Time (currently: hell if I know, I am aware WHY I quit watching previously but can't remember exactly which episode it was / I do know it was somewhere in the middle of s1)

1899 (currently: no idea)

House of the Dragon (currently: 1x02)

Stranger Things (currently: early s2?) (yes I skipped ahead and watched the Chrissy episode because of the cuteness that is Hellcheer and it somehow made total sense to me but that's not even what I was there for)

Shogun (currently: 1x03?)

The Gilded Age (currently: somewhere in the middle of s1 / I think I finished the ep before the dress that got me interested in the show but I'm not totally sure)

Silo (currently: have not started) (almost definitely not a fic show for me but creative ideas in other directions?)

Foundation (currently: have not started)

Fringe (currently: have not started / if I remember right I did get through about the first season ten years ago but it has been a moment so I'll be starting over)

Fallout (currently: 1x02)

#ebf liveblogs life #ebf summer frenzy #is gonna be a tag as i try to do All The Things here

[blocksruinedme]

Extended flower husbands wip clip cause ao3's down

Final fic - Can't Take My Eyes Off of You

This is 2k and rated T, i think? It's the beginning of the fic, though i'm adding a cute bit about Jimmy's hair, so just know that he has a red streak in his hair he feels silly about. The fic will be rated E and something like 18k-20k long. It was going to be for the final round of Driving After Dark, the 18+ traffic life event, but it just kept getting longer. I won't quote the prompt here, but it's transmasc (but mostly labelless) jimmy at a rave full of LARPers. Here's a link to part of my author's note, explaining LARP and the concept of bleed (player/character emotions bleeding over). Credit to @toasted-cricket for describing outfits and a countertop. <3

(also, smallidarity (and bad boys) post-limited life wip on empires s2 and a silly smallidarity emp s2 one. and a modern SmallEtho fic that is "joel fretting cause he doesn't have a label for his relationship with Etho")

"Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" by BlocksRuinedMe

Jimmy had complicated feelings about clubs, raves, anywhere with heavy drinking and strangers dancing or being boisterous. Jimmy loved to party, he wanted to party, and tonight, like every time, he told himself that this time he’d have a single drink and get out and have fun. He’d take up Joel or Grian or Lizzie or Martyn on their gentle but persistent offers to stay with him, to make sure everything was okay. Or maybe he’d work up the courage to go dance sober.

And as always, Jimmy had gotten to the party, looked at the length of the line at the bar, and sent his friends away to have fun. (Though he didn’t know where Grian was tonight - he’d promised to show up. Must be late again.) Years ago it had been harder to convince people to leave him alone at these kinds of parties, that he wouldn’t rather be dragged out onto the floor by a group, or be at home, alone, when everyone else was having fun. Sometimes he was in a mood to just chat with anyone who wasn’t too close to the busiest parts of the crowd - and sometimes he really did want to hang out on the edge of things, drinking soda and possibly bar snacks. He knew it didn't match his personality at other events, but giant parties were hard. 

Tonight he had a lot on his mind, and kept to himself. He was pleased to be eating a lot of candy and snacks; he had eventually realized this party, or rave, or whatever this was, was in a warehouse people actually lived in (as unlikely and probably unsafe as that seemed). The kitchen – which only had two real walls and was to Jimmy less a ‘kitchen’ and more a ‘weird area with kitchen things’ -- seemed like a reasonable place to hide out. He knew people did that, they hung out in kitchens at parties, and it was full of candy, in bowls that were very… trippy? A lot of things here, especially the walls in the tiny bathroom next to the kitchen, looked “trippy” to him. Jimmy had no plans to ever do trippy drugs, but he couldn’t imagine looking at such intense images while tripping being any kind of fun.

While he ate a handful of chocolate pretzels, Jimmy considered he must be wrong, given they were literally called “trippy”; that was probably the point, somehow. He was wondering if he could find Sausage later to get him to explain how it worked when he heard a very familiar, and welcome, voice close to his ear - closer than he’d let most people get. 

“What’s a handsome guy like you doing at a rave like this?”

Scott.

In real world time, on phones and watches and calendars, in every thing that the outside world could count, it had been barely any time at all since Jimmy had last seen Scott, but in LARP time it felt like years had passed, years since he’d heard the voice of his husband. Jimmy was still switching from one to the other, trying to get through all his lingering feelings (both positive and negative) and make the “default world” feel normal, like it was his only home. He’d never had a husband here, that was a game… but not one he’d be forgetting anytime soon.

Jimmy spun around, grinning and chuckling. 

Scott was… before he could see anything else, Jimmy saw Scott was wearing his flower crown, his red poppy flower crown that looks so perfect resting on his ice blue hair. He was stunned, but tried to not show it, to not stare at the crown, to take in all of Scott. (Everyone knew Scott loved being appreciated.)

Everything about Scott looked perfect, as always - he had a sense of style Jimmy couldn’t even dream of posessessing. Tonight Scott was dressed in a flowing light pink shirt that sparkled faintly in the flashing lights, the waist cinched and showing off his figure. His pants were, of course, too tight, and left little to the imagination. He was gorgeous and far sexier than was fair to Jimmy, and probably many other people. 

But the crown.

When they’d talked during debrief, after all the dead characters reunited as players, Jimmy had said he was happy with the idea of Scott taking the flower crown Jimmy had given him back into the rest of his life, integrating it into his normal wardrobe and life, not keeping it on a shelf like Jimmy had planned to do with his. He loved that it was something special, something he wanted to hold onto, though it was a surprise. When Scott asked about his own, Jimmy had said he wasn’t sure, that he wanted to get back home and decide. Scott had seemed fine with that.

It was good, it was sweet, but Jimmy hadn’t expected him to wear it  so soon , to wear it when they… well, maybe Scott had already put it all aside. Maybe he wasn’t having any emotional bleed from their days of being husbands 24/7, maybe it was just a random fun costume piece and not a costume piece that meant something, the way it did to Jimmy.

Why should it be anything else to Scott? It was just a larp love plot, after all. They happened all the time, they both liked playing them. Bleed happened all the time as well, even when people didn’t see it, roleplay emotions bleeding over into whatever was “normal”. Jimmy had never thought too hard about it, just tried to get back to “normal” as soon as he could. What if he  didn’t want to put those feelings aside, not fully? 

“--Jimmy? You with me?”

 yes of course, always

“Oh jeez, Scott, I’m really sorry, I’m just so tired still, what did you say?”

Scott didn’t seem upset - he simply leaned in and kissed Jimmy on the cheek, which was  not something they’d done before they played 3rd Life - though Jimmy was certainly not objecting.  

“The handsome prince needs his beauty sleep!” 

Jimmy chuckled - even since they’d started LARPing together, Scott never had any trouble making Jimmy laugh. Not that it was hard, and he wasn’t (yet?) as good at it as Martyn, but Martyn had known Jimmy much longer than Scott, and Martyn was the funniest person Jimmy had ever known.

“I said.. well, the moment’s gone.” Scott was mock pouting, wanting to be begged, or something like that to keep going. Jimmy was happy to play his part - it was always easy playing with Scott. 

“No, Scott, please? I’m really sorry, I genuinely promise I really want to hear. ”

Scott sighed in a put upon manner that Jimmy didn’t take at all seriously.

“I said, ‘what’s my handsome husband doing out at a rave like this?’”

Husband?

Jimmy tried not to sound awkward around the very handsome man he had just spent days roleplaying being in love with. (Those romantic feelings that of course were not bleeding through now, and definitely hadn’t been a bad idea to play given how he’d already felt about Scott. Right.) 

“Oh, heh, what’s, um, my husband doing in a place like this? In a rave like this, basically at a rave, I mean. Um, you know?”

Scott laughed, and Jimmy laughed, and Jimmy forgot about trying not to be awkward, forgot about LARPs, forgot about everything except enjoying Scott’s company.

—--

“Do you like the crown? Does it make me look cute?”

“What? Oh, yeah, of course! It’s lovely, you honestly look amazing, Scott,  I would never give you something to wear that I thought would make you – I mean, actually nothing could make you look, not good, right? It looks great, especially with your… Did you touch up your hair?”

Scott beamed at Jimmy’s somewhat awkward compliments, and his very awkward attempt to change the conversation away from the fact that Scott had caught Jimmy staring at his flower crown, probably many times, over the last ten minutes.

“You noticed!” Scott gave Jimmy another kiss on the cheek, and Jimmy resisted the urge to turn his face, to try and catch Scott’s lips with his own. 

 They’d probably just bump noses or something. 

“I thought it looked wonderful, barely any roots!” Jimmy was being honest. You couldn’t even see them in the pictures they’d gotten at Martyn’s little post-game photoshoot setup. Jimmy knew, because he’d looked at them an embarrassing number of times, starting on the drive home.

“Weeeellllll, I wanted to look pretty tonight, who knows who you might find in a place like this? And dressed so… appropriately.”

Scott looked up and down Jimmy appraisingly, apparently approvingly. Jimmy had been perfectly happy to wear a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, like he always did, but his tendency to go along with plans without thinking too hard had left him in... raver clothes. His black tank top was 50% mesh, and his black raver pants… there was just  so much pants. They jutted out and flared at the bottom, giving the silhouette of an oversized, slouched triangle, while the black denim was decorated by crossing straps, buckles, rivets, and chains. This pair had allegedly been worn by several people Jimmy had met – in one case, two at once, by a pair of “terribly tiny twinks” drunk at a party. 

They weren’t uncomfortable, and Jimmy didn’t feel like he was out-of-place… but they didn’t make him feel in-place either. 

Scott, however, had instantly made Jimmy feel very at home. The problem was that Jimmy  knew Scott was flirting, but Scott was  always flirting. Was there any chance this flirting was different? Jimmy had no idea how to even guess, and he was unwilling to try the (unprecedented) “don’t let Scott flirt with you” option. 

To his own surprise, Jimmy decided to go with “try to flirt back for real”. He didn’t have a clear goal; he just… missed his husband. 

“You might even run into your own husband, how awkward!” 

Jimmy didn’t know if his words were any good, but he tried to pitch his voice and hold himself in a way that other people did when flirting. (The majority of flirting in Jimmy’s life had not been  Jimmy trying to flirt; it had generally been directed at him, and usually not noticed by Jimmy until someone told him, or in the most important case, just kissed him.)

Scott stepped in closer, absently putting his cocktail down on sticky vinyl paper that was doing its best to turn some plywood into a countertop. It was covered in gunk and rings from drinks; Jimmy would be surprised if the whole thing wasn’t actually made up of at least 60% spilled beer.

“Hmm, was my husband sneaking out to have fun without me? Looking so hot, off to find some pretty new boy? Honeymoon over, bored so soon?”

Jimmy had no idea what was going on, but he’d do anything to keep it from stopping. Scott was looking Jimmy in the eyes - so intensely, but always with that air of plausible deniability. Jimmy didn’t want Scott to deny himself anything.

He couldn’t think of anything clever to say, so he reached out, adjusted Scott’s only barely askew flower crown, gently pulled his hands back and told the truth.

“Never.”

[End Note: the rest is hopefully coming this month!]

#me #my writing #wip wednesday #on an ao3-less monday #trafficshipping #flower husbands fic #flower husbands #trafficblr #shipping #ao3 is down

[dreamofbecoming]

pale shadows of forgotten names

so people seem to be enjoying my writing lately, and i realized i never properly posted my first witcher fic on here when i first wrote it- i posted a link to the ao3, but i wasn’t super active in the fandom yet and i didn’t make it readable on tumblr. so i thought i would share it here now, in case anyone is interested, and because it’s nice to have all my writing together in my tag on here

pls note i knew even less about the non-netflix canon then than i do now, so everything about spying is just made up lmao

ao3

geraskier, post-s2, getting together

rating: t

wc: 13k

“Might be best if I stay out of Redania for a while, actually.”

“If you get arrested, I’ll just break you out again. There’s a book there I need, the copy in Kaer Morhen’s library was destroyed. Vesemir said he knew someone in Oxenfurt who might be able to get his hands on one.” Geralt’s tone, as usual, leaves very little room for argument. Luckily, Jaskier has never needed much room when it comes to arguing. Certainly not with Geralt.

“It’s not just that, I really shouldn’t get close to Tretogor anytime soon, either. Especially with Ciri being hunted by half the Continent.” He’s hoping desperately that they won’t ask why, but who is he kidding. His luck is never that good.

“And why, exactly, is Tretogor a problem? Not that we would want to parade around a capital city regardless, but I’m curious. Oxenfurt I get, they’ll be looking for the Sandpiper, I’m sure, or at least the twit that broke out of their jail, but what’s in Tretogor?”

Damn the fucking witch, always too perceptive for her own good. And to think he was almost starting to like her. Well, at least the familiarity of wanting to claw her eyes out is comforting.

Jaskier sighs. He should probably be honest with them if they’re going to travel together, though who knows how long that state of affairs will last this time. Still, he’s not going to risk Ciri. He’d have kept his silence if it were just Geralt and the witch- he already has, in fact, and it worked for nearly 20 years, after all- but Ciri is precious cargo. The rules have changed.

Plus, Yen could probably just read his mind now that she has her magic back. Fucking sorceresses.

Speaking of, “Alright, but not here,” he sighs. “Wait until we make camp and Yen can set up wards or silencing spells or something.” He hasn’t noticed any white owls following them, but she’s always been good at avoiding being seen. That’s sort of the point, he supposes.

“Who do we need wards from, Jaskier? Are you being followed? Should I have left you behind? Did I put Ciri in danger by trusting you?” Geralt’s voice is hard, and Jaskier feels hurt pool in his belly for a moment before cold anger takes its place again.

“Considering I just traipsed halfway across the continent and back, no questions asked, and nearly died trying to help stop a fucking demon from killing her, what the fuck do you think, Geralt? I’ll remind you that only one of us has known and loved her since she was small. Do you really believe I would do that to her? To you?” And maybe that last bit wasn’t really meant to come out, certainly not in that small, sad little voice, but Jaskier is nothing if not a master of pushing through slip ups and missed lines. He’s a goddamn professional. He doesn’t let his expression change where he’s glaring up at Geralt’s stupid, angry, handsome face. Fucker.

He’s traveled with Geralt a long time. Almost a quarter century, on and off (including this last year, which was most decidedly off), more than half of that physically by his side. He knows the Witcher’s face better than he knows his own, and he can predict Geralt’s reaction in almost any scenario you care to name. A perceived threat met with scorn will make him double down on his anger, almost guaranteed. Jaskier knew this going in, but he didn’t spend half a year belting his rage and betrayal to every student and passing traveler in a hundred miles (not to even mention the whole ‘living through a massacre’ thing) to be cowed by Geralt’s glower now, no matter how distressingly sexy it may or may not still be. Or how it maybe still makes his stomach twist with something sick and anxious at the idea of having disappointed him. Again. Fuck that. Geralt has no right to be disappointed in him, not this time.

So naturally he’s a little shocked when, after a few more seconds of unreasonably attractive scowling, Geralt, improbably, backs down.

He heaves a sigh where’s he’s perched on (new) Roach, a sleeping Ciri safely ensconced in his arms on the saddle in front of him. His eyes fall shut for a moment, and when they open, the cold fury is gone, replaced with something that looks a lot like…regret? Sadness? It’s hard to tell in the dark, but regardless, the air of melancholy around him right now is out of character for this particular situation, and extremely disconcerting. Jaskier is definitely disconcerted.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Jaskier. I do trust you. There’s a cave not far from here, it shouldn’t be too hard to secure. We can make camp soon.”

Was that…an apology? An actual, genuine expression of remorse, unprompted and freely given? He pokes Geralt’s upsettingly firm calf, staring incredulously.

“Are you really Geralt? Do I need to check you with silver or something? Yen, read his mind. Is he some kind of Doppler? Is this actually our Witcher?”

Geralt’s face is flatly unamused, and he kicks out to swat Jaskier’s hand away. Luckily, Jaskier has decades of practice avoiding Witcher speed for annoyance purposes, and pulls his hand back before Geralt can accidentally break his fingers or something. At least, he thinks it would be accidental. Probably.

Atop her borrowed mare, curtesy of Kaer Morhen’s surprisingly impressive herd, Yen raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Geralt’s obvious irritation. “It’s a fair question, Geralt. Immediate, unsolicited apologies for bad behavior are not exactly your brand.” Jaskier is grudgingly impressed that she manages to keep the arch look on her face despite his current frigid distance from her. Apparently they’re not back to mutual teasing levels of familiarity yet, though he’s sure it will only be a matter of time before they’re back to forgetting he’s there mid-sentence to go fuck like stupidly attractive, scary, powerful rabbits. Won’t that be fun to live through again.

Geralt glares harder. Jaskier can’t actually see his face well enough to be sure, but he can always feel when Geralt is glaring, and the angry face quotient in the air definitely goes up a few degrees.

“Cave’s just up here. Jaskier, start setting up camp. Yen, wards. I’ll get Ciri and the horses settled and find something for supper.” He nudges Roach’s flanks and pulls ahead, aiming for a little gap in the trees near a rocky outcropping Jaskier can just barely make out in the scant moonlight. Conversation over then, at least for now.

Yen looks vaguely affronted. “Is it always like this? Traveling with him?”

“What, the glowering? Or the barked orders and being left behind?” If perhaps those words are a touch more bitter than they would have been a year and a half ago, well. That’s no one’s business but his own.

“Both, I suppose? The time I’ve spent with him has rarely been on the road, but he’s never been quite so…demanding. We didn’t exactly do much talking on the way to Kaer Morhen. I’m quite sure he would happily have killed me, or at least have been actively trying to shake me and leave me in the dust, if he hadn’t been so focused on getting to Ciri as quickly as possible.” There’s something brittle and harsh in her tone that feels uncomfortably familiar. It’s far too much like the heavy weight in his ribcage these days, sharp-edged and desperate and miserable.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” The hurt and dread freezing his blood in his veins, ice cold and inexorable. The awful silence, waiting for him to take it back, to laugh, to say it was all a horrible joke, or even a dream. The yawning pit of heartbreak and despair that started to rend his chest open, as the reality set in that this was actually it, actually the end, after everything-

Nope. No. Absolutely not. He is done with that, thank you. He is quite finished reliving that moment again and again (and again), he has put it behind him, he is a different man now. A stronger man. A man who won’t betray the loyalty he promised so long ago, but who refuses to let his heart back into the mix this time. He wrote a song about it and everything.

Funny how he almost believes it.

“Oh, I’m sure he was always far more…solicitous with you, darling. This is pretty much standard. The apology is new, and I’m a little surprised he’s letting me set up camp unsupervised,” (this is said with an impressively deep eye-roll, of course), “but besides that, yeah.”

He should be offended that he’s surprised to be given that responsibility, probably. He’s actually a remarkably competent traveler, both with company and without, but even towards the end it rarely occurred to Geralt that Jaskier managed to survive by himself for months or years at a time, or that the camp ended up much the same as it started even when he felt the need to redo all of Jaskier’s work, or that he wasn’t the one cooking the food he hunted or patching his own wounds when Jaskier was around. Not even the handful of times their camp was targeted by bandits, and several of them were already dead by the time Geralt got to them, seemed to register. Or all the times he came back addled and injured from a hunt, and Jaskier knew exactly which potions he needed to recover, and where to find them. Jaskier isn’t sure the great White Wolf ever even noticed a difference. He’s once again a little amazed that it took him so long to see it, that those furious words on the mountaintop actually managed to catch him by surprise. Love really is blind, he supposes.

The cave isn’t huge, but there’s enough room for four bedrolls and a small fire pit without having to snuggle up too close to each other, and it’s dry and lacking in horrid smells or angry monsters, so Jaskier has definitely seen worse.

Roach is tied near the cave entrance, under a small overhang jutting out from the rock to provide her some shelter from the elements. He wants to ask what happened to the old Roach, his- well. Not his Roach anymore, he supposes, not for a while, but he was still fond of her. It had taken years to win her over, but they were good friends by the end, he thought. Certainly she was freer with her affection than her rider. (Which, he realizes now, probably had more to do with his dearth of affection actually available than with his crushing emotional incompetence.) It isn’t really his place to ask, not anymore, but he wishes he could. New Roach is fine, she’s admittedly beautiful and probably a lovely animal, but he misses his friend.

Jaskier has the camp fully set up and a small fire going, near enough to the entrance not to fill the cave with smoke, but far enough inside so as not to be easily seen, and Yen has left her mount next to Roach, filled their waterskins, and is finishing up with the last of the wards shielding them from being found or overheard, when Geralt returns bearing…an entire deer. Fucking overachieving cockhead. He’s cleaning that shit himself, Jaskier isn’t interested. It definitely isn’t sexy seeing Geralt stride in, slightly blood-spattered, biceps bulging, thighs flexing, evidence of his prowess slung easily over his shoulders like a king’s mantle…nope. Not sexy at all. Jaskier isn’t even looking. He certainly isn’t biting back an embarrassing whimper.

He turns around hastily to begin rummaging through his pack for his spices and cooking supplies, filched from Kaer Morhen, of course, since all he had on him when Geralt found him in Oxenfurt was his charm and good looks. He wishes he had his lute, but it’s probably in pieces, rotting in a rubbish heap in Redania. He’ll mourn her at some point. Besides, he’s not sure he would be able to stop himself playing Burn, Butcher, Burn just on reflex, so it’s probably for the best.

They eat a decent supper of venison stew, Ciri waking just long enough to scarf down a bowl and collapse back onto her bedroll. Demon possession and Sphere-jumping really seem to take it out of a person.

Yen tosses another silencing charm around Ciri’s bedroll (they’ll fill her in tomorrow- they don’t intend to keep secrets from her but she deserves her sleep) and Geralt gets to work packing the leftover venison in salt for the road, before they both look up at him expectantly with eerily similar, piercing gazes. Violet and gold, a royal combination if ever there was one. Oh, that’s nice actually, there’s a song in there somewhere. Not one he wants to sing, really, but he’ll probably end up writing it at some point anyway.

“Alright, sharing time, I guess. Always figured this was coming eventually. Not that I imagined anything like this, what with the demons and the horrible rock monsters and the dimension hopping and- yes, yes, alright, I’m getting to it. Calm down.” He heaves a sigh. Hopefully they don’t toss him out on his arse after this, or just kill him. He doesn’t think they’d kill him. Would they? No, they wouldn’t. Probably.

“So you know I’m technically Redanian.” Yennefer nods expectantly while Geralt just. Blinks at him. Fucking gods, honestly. “Wow, ok, you really never paid attention at all when I talked, huh? That makes sense, actually. I guess I should have figured that.” He’s staring into the fire to shield the hurt in his eyes, so he misses the matching look on Geralt’s face before he presses on.

“Anyway, yeah, I’m Redanian, from Kerack, Lettenhove to be specific. Seriously? I’ve introduced myself to a dozen people in front of you with my full name, you really never- ok, yeah, right, never mind. Moving on. Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. That’s me. Or, it was. Technically it still is, but I never wanted the title. I never wanted that life. I left for Oxenfurt as soon as I was old enough, and when I graduated I went on the road, and then. Well. Then I met you, and, well, you know. You were there. For the rest. Some of it, anyway. Right. Well, Vizimir, or more likely someone on his council, since Vizimir is about as savvy and creative as a garden slug, and almost as charming, and I’m not sure if Dijkstra was advising him at that point-“ He catches Yennefer’s sharp look at Dijkstra’s name, but barrels on, “-anyway, someone noticed that a minor Redanian noble was doing a lot of very visible traveling all over the Continent and associating with a lot of people the Crown wouldn’t normally have an in with, and figured that would be useful. I think at this point, we’d been traveling together…2? 3 years? Something like that. Long enough that I’d started building a name for myself, definitely. Or, for us, I suppose. That’s why they noticed me in the first place.”

He knows he’s babbling, but there are nerves roiling in his gut like a cauldron, and that feeling has always translated into more words, for him. Like a pressure valve. He pauses and risks a glance at the person whose reaction he’s genuinely worried about.

Yen will understand, she’s been in and out of courts and noble circles and political tangles for decades, she knows how this works. She probably won’t trust him, but he’s fairly sure she doesn’t trust him now, so that’s no great loss. He doesn’t trust her either.

Geralt has a more…rigid concept of morality. In Geralt’s world, there are Right Things and Wrong Things. Sometimes you have to do Wrong Things to prevent Wronger Things, but that doesn’t make them not Wrong. And anything to do with kings and courts is usually Wrong. There’s a good chance Geralt might never forgive him for this, or if he does, he won’t be able to look past Jaskier keeping it from him so long.

Geralt’s eyes are fixed on his face, sharp and intent, and utterly unreadable. Jaskier thought he had gotten pretty good over the years at reading the subtle shifts in Geralt’s expressions- the tiny crinkles around his eyes when he wanted to laugh, the minute furrow between his brows when he was confused, the slight tick in his jaw when he was frustrated- but his face is as blank as new parchment right now, nothing but the glint in his golden eyes that says he’s listening to every word out of Jaskier’s mouth.

What a time for him to start doing that, he thinks bitterly. Decades of tuning him out when he thought they were friends, and now that Jaskier might be driving him away for good (again, a tiny voice whispers viciously), he’s hanging on every syllable.

“I was approached by a member of the royal intelligence service, and told that the king had ordered that I be recruited as a spy. Technically I am still nobility, and as such I’m obligated to obey the crown. And while I would gladly give up all the trappings of my title and never be anyone but Jaskier the bard ever again, at the time there would have been serious consequences for refusing, and not the kind that would fall on me. I’m technically a Lord, and I do have people I’m responsible for. I left people in charge that I trust to take care of them in my stead, but it’s my name they’re working under. And if I refused a direct order from Vizimir, I wouldn’t be the one to suffer for it. It wasn’t an option.”

He doesn’t look up from the fire. He doesn’t want to see the expressions on their faces, so he presses on, heart thumping wildly in his chest.

“I did my best to keep my reports…not vague, exactly, but mostly useless, I guess? Obviously I have no interest in being a part of whatever bullshit Vizimir or any other king feels like stirring up, but I had to send them something. Little stuff, mostly, frivolous gossip from the taverns I played in, details of drama and rivalries I picked up in various courts or nobles’ beds. Sometimes accounts of monster populations or incidents if there was anything especially notable, since they knew that’s a lot of what I was doing with my time. Nothing actionable, but useful enough that I couldn’t be accused of shirking my duties.” He’s suddenly struck with an awful fear, and he looks up desperately into slitted golden eyes. “I never said a word about Ciri, Geralt, you have to believe me. I told them about that night, and I had to mention that Pavetta had magic because there’s no way that wouldn’t get out some other way, but I never said a word about a Witcher claiming a Child Surprise. I would never risk her like that, or you, you have to believe me. Please say you believe me Geralt, whatever you think of me, that I would never betray you like that. Please.”

He knows he sounds frantic, that he must look insane, that he can’t stop his begging mouth like a runaway cart, but the thought of Geralt thinking even for a second that Jaskier would ever put orders from a king he cared nothing for over Geralt’s own life, over the life of a child, is a knife in his gut, twisting and pulling until Jaskier thinks he might vomit if Geralt doesn’t say something.

The blank expression is gone, and Geralt looks somewhat taken aback. His brow furrows a little in what looks like confusion, before settling into resignation, or maybe chagrin. Jaskier thinks for a moment that he sees a brief flash of what almost looks like…grief? That can’t be right…in his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it appeared, and Jaskier thinks he must have imagined it.

Geralt takes a swig from his waterskin and draws in a deep breath before speaking.

“I wasn’t worried that you betrayed Ciri, Jaskier. I know you would cut off your own arm before you did something like that. I don’t love where it sounds like this story is going, but I promise, I’ll never be concerned about that.”

That’s…well, those are more words than he was expecting, surely. And different words than he was expecting, too. He would assume that Geralt is placating him, to calm him down and get him to finish talking, but he can hear the sincerity in his voice. Geralt’s eyes are almost imploring, as if he’s as anxious for Jaskier to believe him as Jaskier had been to be believed. He…isn’t sure what to do with that, actually.

He knows Geralt came back for him, knows he was at least not lying when he said he missed him (though how much is anyone’s guess), knows he trusts him to travel with his…his little family, to help keep them safe or at least not make things worse, but he never assumed it went beyond that.

Geralt was clear, on that mountain. Even if he’s sorry now, even if he missed having him around, he meant those words at the time, and Jaskier has no illusions that he won’t get to that point again. Geralt may have spat those words in helpless anger, may have turned his ire on someone who had nothing to do with the state he was in at that moment, but Geralt doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He says plenty of things he regrets, but he always means them at the time. He did, at one point, believe Jaskier to be a curse and a burden, and Jaskier is fully aware that he will come to that belief again, eventually.

He knows what that particular heartbreak feels like, now. He knows he can survive it, even if he wishes he wouldn’t, sometimes. Mostly, he knows that it will always, always be worth it. Geralt will always be worth it.

Gods but he’s a lovesick fool.

But now, instead of cold distain, or fiery wrath, or, worst of all, blank indifference, Geralt is looking at him like…like he’s sorry. Like he’s desperate for Jaskier’s forgiveness. Forgiveness for what? Jaskier is the one who hid the fact that he was a spy for most of their relatio- friendship. Acquaintanceship. Association. Whichever one wouldn’t piss Geralt off. Geralt hasn’t fucked up here, this time at least.

But he could never resist when Geralt asked him like this for anything, with genuine emotion instead grunted contempt, with even the vaguest hint of affection, like maybe Geralt enjoyed spending time with Jaskier, too. Like maybe Jaskier mattered to Geralt, at least a fraction of how much Geralt mattered to Jaskier. Gods above, he’s so weak for this man.

“Ok. Alright, good. That’s good. I’m glad. Thank you. I know I- anyway. Thank you. Right, where was I? Yes, ok, reports. So I kept myself mostly useless for pretty much the whole time we were together. I mean- not. Not together, obviously, but traveling together. As friends. Or not friends. Whatever. What was I saying?” He’s spiraling, fuck, he’s spiraling, he needs to get out of this, how does he get out of this?

Geralt is looking even more confused than before, but Yennefer is definitely laughing at him in her head. Witch. Like she isn’t just as much of a mess for him. She should be on his side! They bonded over this already and everything!

At least the indignation is enough for him to pull out of the whirlpool of awkward babble and self-sabotage he was trapped in, and he manages to right himself.

“Anyway! Ok! So! Right, well, things changed not quite a year ago, now, after the raid on Bleobheris.” He sobers at the memories, the scent of blood and the sound of screams suddenly heavy in the dry air of the cave. “It was…brutal. I’ve never seen anything like that, not in all my years Witchering with you. I wanted to help. I needed to do something, to…fix something. Anything, no matter how small. That’s when I was contacted by an anonymous benefactor, who offered to fund an effort to smuggle refugees to Xin’Trea. Word had spread about Nilfgaard’s alliance with the elves, that they could be safe there.”

“So the Sandpiper was born,” Yennefer says.

“Right. But I don’t like not knowing where my help is coming from and why. I may not have been a very useful spy in Redania’s eyes for the last 20 years, but it actually takes quite a bit of effort to be ineffective without being useless enough to fire or kill, and as it turns out, I’m actually quite good at it. Call it the performer’s heart in me, or something. So I was able to ferret out that the man behind the money was Sigismund Dijkstra, who had managed to get himself appointed spymaster to Vizimir, which, interestingly, made him my employer, as well as my benefactor.”

Yen looks up sharply again at Dijkstra’s name. Jaskier turns to her, curious.

“You’re familiar, I assume?”

“He’s been causing rifts at Aretuza, riling up the Brotherhood,” she says, brow furrowed. “Pretending to bring counsel and information but really just sowing discord. I’m not clear on the details, but I know elves were mentioned. There are those on the council who take issue with my heritage, so I try to keep on top of the rumors. I wasn’t at Aretuza for long, though, and I…didn’t exactly leave on good terms. I haven’t got many friends left there.” Geralt glances at her sympathetically.

Jaskier nods. “That sounds like him. I wouldn’t trust that man to clean my privy, much less provide thousands of crowns, probably from Vizimir’s coffers, for a worthy cause with no expectations of repayment.” He shakes his head. “I kept my suspicions to myself, though, the network needed the coin and regardless of his motivations, we really were helping people. I wasn’t going to let that go to waste.

“I guess, with me finally settling in one place for so long, and probably Dijkstra feeling like I owed him for the funding, even though I wasn’t meant to know it was him, they started expecting more from me, in terms of intelligence. I didn’t really have a choice, since now they always knew where to find me if they wanted to cause me problems, and besides, Dijkstra was already privy to the network’s efforts anyway as the main benefactor, so I figured it was mostly alright that I’ve had to give more…comprehensive reports to Vizimir the last several months.

“Since Cintra fell, most people know about Ciri, or at least that she’s on the game-board somehow. There are rumors of Nilfgaard searching for a Witcher, so I’m sure some people have put together that you’re involved somehow, but I don’t think too many of the courts, at least, have details. Just that Nilfgaard wants her and maybe there’s a Witcher involved. I made sure not to include too much information that they didn’t already have, but I can’t say for sure what every Northern king knows, or what the Brotherhood knows.” He glances at Yen, who shakes her head and shrugs.

“Anyway, so that’s the meat of it. The concern is that since I became an actual useful asset for them, they’ve been keeping a much closer eye on me. That’s why I was worried about the wards.”

“Alright, I can understand all of that,” Geralt cuts in. “I don’t like that you kept it from me, but I can’t fault your choices. You’re right that we can’t have them sniffing around you, not with Ciri in your orbit.” He frowns. “Would it be possible for you just…fall off the map? Disappear? Redania can’t demand anything from a missing viscount.”

Jaskier winces a little. “I would love to do that, the problem being that Dijkstra works closely with Tretogor’s court mage, who has the charming little talent of transforming into a bird whenever she wants.”

Yen’s eyebrows both go up this time. “Phillipa? She’s quite impressive. A little too entrenched in political intrigue for my taste, but I can’t deny she’s talented. Tissaia speaks very highly of her, certainly.”

She looks thoughtful as she gazes at him over the fire. “You’re worried she’s following you, then? For information on Geralt, since everyone knows Jaskier the Bard is the man to talk to if you want to know about Witchers.”

Her tone is…teasing? Is she teasing him? First hugging, and now teasing? Yeah, he’s not dealing with that right now. He sticks out his tongue at her (he does still have a bantering streak to uphold, after all) before nodding.

“I don’t know for sure  if she was in Oxenfurt when Geralt broke me out. I don’t think so, but I certainly wasn’t combing every tree for owls, and there’s no chance of me noticing her out here in the woods. I’m just hoping that if she were around now, you’d sense her, Yen, and that she wasn’t able to bring back anything about Ciri or Geralt or Kaer Morhen to Dijkstra. Or you, either, since the Brotherhood are so unhappy with you.”

Yen looks surprised and very slightly pleased to be included in Jaskier’s concern. Or at least Jaskier thinks that’s the expression he can parse under her normal very scary murder face, which he finds is almost a relief to see. The soft regret and concern of recent weeks has been…unsettling. The sun rises, the rain falls, Yennefer of Vengerberg is gorgeous, aloof, and terrifying. This is the natural order.

Geralt is wearing a pensive expression, frowning slightly at where Ciri lies, sleeping peacefully. Dear girl, Jaskier hopes she isn’t having any nightmares. She’s been through hell lately, and she’s always had trouble sleeping anyway. Jaskier wonders if he can find the name of that tea Mousesack used to give her to help her sleep. Jaskier even tried it once or twice, when winter nights in Cintra without his Witcher’s soft, even breaths became too much; the stuff worked wonders.

“Alright,” he says eventually, nodding. “I’ll see if I can go to Redania myself, and leave you two with Ciri until I can get back. We’ll keep our campsites warded if we can, Yen, I don’t want you to wear yourself out, but some protection would probably be best. Are you able to see if you can sense anyone from here, or do you need to go outside the wards?”

“I’ll do a lap around the area, but there’s a chance anyone who is out there will sense me as soon as I start casting about. It would be best if you all stayed here, to protect Ciri in case someone actually has come for her.”

“I don’t like any of us going out alone, Yen, especially with the express intention of seeking out danger. I should go with you.” Geralt makes to stand and grab his swords from beside his seat, but Yennefer waves him back down.

“You’d only distract me, and besides, do you want to leave the totally untrained sorceress and the normal human alone here?” Jaskier makes an affronted squawking noise.

“Hey! I’m plenty competent, thank you!” He prudently ignores the minor inaccuracy of his humanity, and instead huffs at the matching incredulous looks he receives. “Rude. Honestly, I get no respect around here. I survived just fine on my own for years, you know! Besides, I traveled with a reckless idiot Witcher for 20 years, you pick up more than you’d think.” He glares at them both until Yen smirks and Geralt looks baffled and vaguely offended, but at least they both look away, which is an improvement.

Until the two of them end up in a stare off, clearly having some sort of emphatic conversation with their eyes alone, and Jaskier has to turn away to start putting away the cooking supplies they won’t need for breakfast tomorrow. He’s warming up to Yennefer, much to his chagrin, but he’s had quite enough of watching the man he loves eyefuck someone else, for this lifetime and the next, thanks ever so.

He hears Geralt huff, a sound he recognizes as him realizing whoever he’s arguing with is just going to do as they please anyway, and he might as well make the best of it.

He made that sound at Jaskier a lot. Usually when he talked his way into coming along on hunts, but really any time Jaskier wanted something from him beyond some seared rabbit, a fire to sleep beside, and monosyllabic grunts in response to questions (if he was lucky)- a night at an inn, a stop at a local festival, an actual hot bath with herbs and flowers and scented oils. Arms to hold him on especially cold nights, when blankets weren’t enough to warm (mostly) human skin.

Jaskier used to think it was cute. A game, just for the two of them, Jaskier pushing, Geralt pulling, or the other way around, always meeting in the middle (or, more often, closer to Jaskier’s side) with what Jaskier had always assumed was mutual amusement and affection. He knows better now.

There’s the telltale swish of Yennefer’s skirts, a strange popping sensation in his ears, and then the feeling of the wards coming back up behind her.

The silencing spell around Ciri is still up, as far as he knows, and she’s dead to the world besides, so it’s just him and Geralt now.

It isn’t the first time they’ve been alone since Oxenfurt, but it is the first time since Jaskier was invited (by Ciri, it should be noted, not Geralt) to travel with them as a companion, not as backup.

That one still stings, if he’s honest. He held out hope for months that Geralt would come back for him, would seek him out with a stuttered apology (or more likely a silently offered ale and an invitation to come with him to his next hunt).  Maybe at a tavern, or the Seat of Friendship, or even a ball or musical competition where Jaskier was playing. He knows how much Geralt hates getting dressed up, how much it would have meant for him to go to that effort just to see Jaskier.

He imagined seeing him sitting silently in the back of one of his lectures one day, watching the lesson with quiet affection and waiting for him to be finished so they could talk. Imagined hearing the sound of Roach’s hooves coming up behind him on some backroad to nowhere while he strummed his lute in the sunshine.

He imagined a thousand different reunions, a thousand apologies, a thousand ways for them to turn back the clock. (During some of the longer nights, when he was alone in his rooms staring out at the moon through the window, wondering if Geralt was lying on his bedroll in a forest clearing somewhere staring up at the same moon, he imagined a thousand different love confessions. But he has no intention of admitting that to anyone but his own foolish heart. He may be a bard, and a hopeless romantic, but there’s no need to bare all of his weeping wounds, especially when there’s no hope of healing them.)

For all his daydreaming, he never imagined that Geralt would seek him out only when he needed an extra set of hands and all his other options were exhausted. Never imagined he would be not just a tool to be used, but the last resort as well.

He shouldn’t be surprised, after everything, but the knowledge that he was never really anything else to Geralt still aches like a broken rib, flashes of pain shooting through his chest with every inhale.

This is the first time they’ve been alone together without an immediate crisis, without a clearly defined mission beyond the open road, just like it used to be.

Except nothing like it used to be, because how it used to be is gone. It will never be that way again. Geralt burned those memories down, with words as sharp as swords and as destructive as dragon fire.

Jaskier has no fucking idea how to deal with this.

“Jas-“ Geralt cuts off and clears his throat. Jaskier can hear him gulping from his waterskin before trying again. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” He tries to keep his voice light, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Jaskier, can we. Can we talk? Please?”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it. Geralt so rarely says please. Jaskier may need more than his fingers to count the times he’s heard it directed at him, but he can still remember each one in perfect clarity. Besides, they had more than 20 years together, “more than 10” is still not exactly a stellar ratio.

Jaskier’s resolve breaks (did he ever really have any? Has he ever had any when it comes to this man?) and he turns, schooling his face into something meant to look bright and open. He’s not sure how well it works. “Of course, Geralt. What’s on your mind?”

“I-“ Geralt looks…lost. He looks like he has absolutely no idea how to get where he’s going, and it’s killing him. Jaskier crumbles.

“You’ve already apologized, Geralt, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve forgiven you. You were angry, you needed a target, I was there. It’s behind us.” He looks at the fire, for lack of anything else that isn’t Geralt’s stupid awful gorgeous face, wishing desperately he had his lute. He never felt awkward with his lute. Never rubbed anxious circles around his calluses for lack of anything to do with his hands. Never sat in a silence so painful he wondered if his ears would bleed.

Geralt lets out a breath like he’s trying to remember how. “That’s not. I mean it is. But. I. Fuck.” Jaskier looks up from the fire to see him scrubbing a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. The adorable fool manages to get his hand tangled in the locks when he forgets about the band holding half of it back from his face.

“Oh for Melitele’s sake- stop moving, you lug, I’ll fix it. You’re going to tear it out in chunks if you keep pulling like that, just hold still, or I’ll have to rewrite all the songs to be about The Bald Wolf instead. Ye gods, Geralt, how did you survive without me? Honestly.” He’s across the cave and kneeling behind Geralt on the other side of the fire before he consciously registers the decision to move. Fucking hells, even his own body is against him.

He has his hands in Geralt’s (soft, silky, gorgeous) hair, untangling it gently from where it’s wound itself tightly around his (scarred, strong, beautiful) fingers. He thinks he hears Geralt’s breath catch, but he’s too distracted trying to keep his own lungs working at all to focus on it.

Once Geralt’s hand is free (and does Geralt seem as reluctant to let go and put his hand back in his lap as Jaskier is to let him?) Jaskier sets to work on the much more finicky task of removing the band without pulling half of Geralt’s hair out with it, which would honestly be a crime against…well, anyone with eyes really. Jaskier may be in love with him, but he’s also seen a truly exorbitant number of beautiful people across the continent, many of them naked, so he thinks he’s fairly qualified when he says that Geralt is one of the most singularly stunning people on the face of the earth, bias or not. Especially now that he seems to be taking better care of his hair than he used to when Jaskier wasn’t around.

Jaskier is actually rather shocked at how well-kept Geralt is. His hair is smooth and soft and clean, and smells like…is that apple blossom? That’s one of Jaskier’s favorite scents. It never fails to make him feel light and warm, like spring sunshine. He uses it in his own hair more often than the other oils he carries.

Back when washing Geralt’s hair for him was an occasional but deeply treasured privilege of his, Jaskier used to use it for him, as well. That Geralt has somehow, for some reason, gotten some of his own to use during their separation…it makes something warm and fragile stir in Jaskier’s chest. Warm and fragile and dangerous. Hope is easily crushed, and when it is, it takes everything else down with it. Jaskier isn’t doing that again. Not so soon.

He finishes detaching the tie as efficiently as he can, and hands it over Geralt’s shoulder before sitting back on his heels and exhaling violently.

“There you are darling, all fixed. Now,-“

“I didn’t.” Geralt interrupts him, whisper quiet but still somehow deafening over the crackling fire.

“What?”

“Survive without you. I didn’t. Or, I guess I should say I did, but that’s all I did.”

Jaskier has, for once, absolutely no idea what to say, so he tries something new, and says nothing. He’s barely even sure he’s breathing, staring at the back of Geralt’s head and all his moonlit hair like he’s staring into the jaws of a barghest as he waits to see if he will continue.

He does, words falling out of him in a rush like a river pouring through a broken dam, desperate in a way Jaskier has never heard him before.

“I knew I’d fucked up, on the mountain. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew it. It’s like. It’s like I was a bottle of juice, gone off, going ranker and ranker until the cork flies right out and takes someone’s eye out. I thought I was angry at Borch, at Yen, at Calanthe, at fucking Destiny, at everything. Even you, who hadn’t done one thing wrong. But really it was just me. I was just angry at myself, and there’s. There’s not. There isn’t anywhere for that kind of anger to go. It just builds up and up and up until it explodes, and you with it, and I knew I was going to let it out at someone. And then you were there, and you were trying to help. Like always. You always help. You make everything better, like you were just trying to make me feel better. But I was so angry, and it was all my fault, it was all my stupid selfish choices, the djinn, the wish, Ciri, all of it my fault, and I didn’t deserve to feel better. I didn’t deserve it and I had to make you stop and so. I did. I did it on purpose. I did it because I knew that was the thing to say that would hurt you the most. That would make me a monster like I know I am. Monsters are easy. Easier than mistakes and bad choices. So I made another bad choice and hurt someone else and decided to be a monster.”

There might be tears streaming down Jaskier’s face, but he can’t tell because he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t hear anything but the rushing in his ears and Geralt’s voice ripping into him with savage, gentle claws.

“Once Yen was gone- It’s hard to think with her around, sometimes. It’s the wish, I think. Everything else gets duller, quieter, a little out of focus. Like in a dream when the only thing you can see clearly is the person you know the dream is about, the person you’re supposed to talk to.” Oh this…this is actually torture. Geralt might actually be killing him because he still can’t fucking breathe and he just keeps talking.

“It’s better now. Maybe it’s Ciri, my Destiny is split between them now so it’s not so overwhelming. Or maybe Ciri is her Destiny too, and now that we’ll always have her, the both of us, the wish doesn’t need to force us to be in love for us to stay nearby. I don’t know. It’s easier now, though. And even easier when you’re here.”

Wait, what? Now Jaskier knows he’s dead, or dying, or hallucinating, or something, because there’s no way that means what he wants it to mean.

“After Yen left, my head started to clear. Things came back into focus. I realized what I’d done, but suddenly I could also see that it wasn’t just what I yelled at you. It was so much more, so much deeper. I had been so awful to you, for so long, and you just. Took it. All of it. Everything I had, all my anger and my fear and my loneliness. You just let me. You always came back. You kept choosing me, even when I was cruel. I was ashamed, but I also thought…” He breaks off with a great shuddering breath, his head hanging.

Jaskier feels a little like he’s floating. Like he can see his body, kneeling there in the dirt behind Geralt, staring at his sculpted shoulderblades with a blind, devastated look on his tear-streaked face. How odd.

Geralt, somehow, impossibly, keeps going. This is more words than Jaskier has heard him say in the last two decades. This is more words than he knew Geralt was capable of saying. Where are all these words coming from?

It’s like all this time, he had been saving these. Stockpiling them, though for what Jaskier can’t begin to guess. A rainy day? An emergency? This? And now the doors of the granary have come loose and the winter stores are flooding the yard and Jaskier thinks he might end up buried alive.

“I thought you’d come back.” Geralt’s voice is thicker, somehow, and oh, gods, is he crying? “I thought you would come back, like before, like always, and it would be ok. And I would try to be better. I would try to be the man you thought I was. And it would be ok. But you-“ He cuts off with another great shuddering breath, and seems to center himself. “You didn’t come back. And that’s when I realized I had finally gone too far.”

Jaskier has been trying to process all of these many, many, many, mostly incomprehensible words, and he’s maybe fallen a little bit behind, because he hears himself cut in with an incredulous “Wait, are you saying that every time you were rude or dismissive to me, it wasn’t just because you don’t know how to conduct yourself in a normal friendship because you’ve never had one, but actually because you knew you were being cruel and you knew you could get away with it because I would always come back?”

Geralt’s head hangs even lower, and Jaskier has to strain to hear his gravelly whispered reply.

“Yes. Maybe not consciously, or in so many words, but yes.”

Jaskier flounders for a moment, wounds he spent the last year trying to close tearing back open even wider than before.

“All this time? You thought so little of me, all this time? I was just a- a- a practice dummy? Something that won’t fight back or feel pain, so you can hit it has hard or as many times as you want?” His voice began at a whisper, to match Geralt’s, but has gotten steadily louder and more tear-filled the more he speaks.

“No, that isn’t-“

“I can’t- I’m not- I need a moment. Please, Geralt I need- Please.” He can’t keep sitting this close to him, feeling his body heat just as warm as the fire he’s blocking Jaskier from, can’t keep listening to his low rumbling voice, like thunder and gravel and home, like a silver sword through the midsection. Not when the pain and the anger and the hope are all bleeding together and he doesn’t know how to feel them properly and he still can’t fucking breathe.

Geralt’s breath hitches, a tiny little wisp of sound, and Jaskier is going to fucking lose it.

“Please, Geralt.” It comes out in a broken whisper, which is more revealing than Jaskier was hoping, but it’s not like he’s managed to hide anything anyway, so it hardly matters.

Geralt nods, back still to Jaskier in front of the fire, and stands smoothly to walk over to a corner near the entrance, where he can see all four bedrolls and the cave mouth clearly. Ready to protect. Always ready to defend. He sinks to his knees and his breathing takes on the familiar cadence of meditation.

Jaskier takes a moment to look at him. At the way his hands are clutched a little tighter on his thighs than they normally would be while he mediates, like he hasn’t managed to purge all the fear from his body the way he has his mind. At the new scars he can see on his forearms and one snaking over his collarbone, scars that Jaskier wasn’t there to bandage and fuss over. At the way his hair spills over his shoulders, still tousled from Jaskier’s fingers. At the single tear track carving a path down one marble cheek.

Jaskier sucks in a breath and turns away before he breaks down and Yen comes back to find him catatonic on the ground.

He ends up standing at the mouth of the cave, stroking New Roach’s neck and petting his hands through her glossy mane gently. Her slow breathing and the familiar warm, earthy smell of horse help ground him, bring him back from that awful frantic-floating feeling, where he was nowhere and trapped all at once.

He chatters to her quietly, just like he did to her predecessor. She, at least, warms up to him much more quickly.

A warm, black nose thumps gently into his chest. “Yes, my love, I know I need to protect my heart. I’m trying! Can’t you see how hard I’m trying?” She nickers softly, more of a puff of breath than a proper sound.

“Well aren’t we feeling smug this evening, sweet thing.” Another thump. “It’s alright darling, I don’t blame you. I think I’m ridiculous, too. I just don’t know how to fix it.” He strokes a hand down her forehead, scritching lightly.

“No, me either. You know what the problem is, don’t you?” She lips at his hair, which he takes as an invitation to continue.

His voice is even quieter now, the barest thread of a whisper, quiet enough that even Geralt might not overhear if he comes out of meditation. “The problem is that I’ve spent all this time coming up with plans and strategies and contingencies for not giving my heart away again, when the truth is I don’t think I ever got it back in the first place.”

He rests his forehead against hers in defeat, tears falling silently again. He’s going to dehydrate at this point, but what does he care when he has a beautiful lady providing him such warm, solid comfort right here?

“I have to say, songbird, this is not what I expected to find when I came back tonight.”

Jaskier does not flail. He is a professional performer, he has immaculate control over his body at all times. And he definitely doesn’t squeak, no bard would ever be caught dead making such an undignified noise unintentionally.

So no, he neither flails nor squeaks, and if New Roach gets very slightly spooked and a lot disgruntled, it was from Yennefer sneaking up out of bloody nowhere like a wraith in the night, and certainly nothing Jaskier did. If either of them say different, they’re lying.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Is this your plan to kill me and make it look like an accident? I’ll tell Ciri, she’ll come after you with her dagger, see if she doesn’t. Ciri likes me. Ciri would avenge me.” He’s  clutching his chest, heartbeat gradually beginning to slow.

New Roach is still giving him a dubious look. That’s rude, this is hardly his fault. It’s Yen she should be grumpy with.

“Well, I was rather hoping that by this point in the evening, you wouldn’t need a miniature Witcherling-sorceress to defend you, since you’d have your big strong Witcher back, but somehow things seem to have gotten worse in my absence. Did he not manage to tell you his real feelings? Bloody Witchers, trust him to be resistant to my recipe, it’s never bloody failed before, if he’s made this worse somehow I’m going to bloody dissect him to figure out where I went wrong-“ She continues muttering darkly while Jaskier stares at her in shock.

His mind is valiantly trying to shake off enough of the lingering fog of tears to pull some of those threads together and figure out what the fuck she’s talking about.

Recipe? Real feelings? Make what worse? Did she…did she dose him with something? Did she put a fucking spell on his Witcher? He might have to have Ciri stab her after all, since he has no illusions about his own abilities to take her in a fight.

“What the fuck are you talking about, witch? What did you give him? What the fuck did you do? I’ll kill you myself you vicious little shrew, see if I don’t!”

She waves a hand dismissively, scoffing at his threats. Admittedly he is not at his best, though in his defense it’s hard to adopt a proper fighting stance when you’ve just spent half an hour kneeling in the dirt while your still-beating heart was slowly diced into bite-sized pieces. Tough on the knees, you know.

“Please, you should be thanking me. It was fucking exhausting, these last few weeks, watching you two throw longing glances back and forth when you think no one’s looking. I’m just trying to help things along.”

“Help- what? What things? Help things along how?” He’s trying very hard to hold onto his righteous anger at her for (possibly?) drugging the man he loves, but she keeps saying things that dredge up that dangerous warm feeling from before, and he’s losing his resolve.

“Nothing sinister, songbird. I’m done with that, I’m on the side of the White Knights now, remember? Have a little faith in me, for Lilit’s sake.” She rolls her eyes, but either he’s getting better at reading her or she’s making an effort to be easier to read, because he can feel the sincerity in her words. “We both know all that nonsense about Witchers not feeling is horseshit, yes?” He nods. Obviously it is, Geralt feels more deeply than anyone he’s ever met. “But I know you also understand how much he struggles to make sense of what he’s feeling, or to make himself heard when he does.”

She’s right about that, too. Jaskier knows the emotions are there, has always known, since the moment he saw Geralt in that tavern in Posada. But he’s watched Geralt get lost in the tangle of feelings inside him so thoroughly that all the words get stuck and nothing comes out. He’s seen it happen hundreds of times. That’s part of why he’s always wanted to badly to sing about him, to tell the world what Geralt can’t, to be the words when he can’t find them.

Yen gestures to the corner where Geralt is still meditating peacefully. “I didn’t do anything to his feelings. Couldn’t if I tried, that’s not really how my magic works, anyway. But I knew there are things he’s been wanting to say, and he’s been suffering for not knowing how. And as antagonistic as we may be, I don’t actually hate you nearly so much these days, and I find myself discomfited by your very obvious pining, as well.” Well, that’s…actually quite sweet. And rather disquieting, if he’s honest.

“So I gave him something to help him articulate himself. It won’t make him say anything he doesn’t want to, won’t force him to reveal any truths against his will or create any feelings that weren’t already there. It just…smooths the way. Untangles all those knots in his head so something coherent can make it out of his mouth. But you two aren’t cuddled up by the fire making me want to vomit, which means it didn’t fucking work, and I have to figure out why!” She looks rather like she would huff and stomp her foot at this, if the great and powerful Yennefer of Vengerberg would ever stoop to something so childish.

Jaskier thinks very hard about the last hour or so of his life. He thinks about Geralt saying “please,” and he thinks about the way all those words fell out of him and just kept coming and coming and coming, like a pot boiling over, piling up in a heap at Jaskier’s feet. He thinks about Geralt crying.

“Well- uh. Hmm. You know, it occurs to me now- it’s funny really, I think you’ll laugh, definitely laugh, not look at me with that petrifying glare you’ve got on right now, no you’ll be laughing I’m quite sure- Alright, yes, ok! Yes! Right, well, um. I think, looking at recent events, fresh eyes and all that you know- I’m just saying, it would have been helpful to have some of this information going in, is all- Ow! Melitele’s tits, that hurt! Do those nails come standard at Aretuza, or were you just born lucky? Ouch! Ok, ok, stop pinching me, witch! Like I was saying, with the benefit of this new information, I think it’s possible your magical intervention whosit thingy may have worked exactly as expected?”

She narrows her eyes. “If it worked, why are you crying to a horse instead of snuggling with your man?” His man. That can’t be right. Can it? Geralt isn’t his. Except. Except for all the things he sounded like he might be gearing up to say when Jaskier cut him off. Fuck.

“I, uh. I maybe. I maybe stopped him partway through and told him I needed a break?” He winces back as her already truly impressive glare intensifies even further- yep, she’s still got it.

“I did not go to all the effort of brewing that fucking potion, tailoring it for Witcher metabolisms, and making it fucking tasteless and odorless so he would drink it, not to mention standing out here in the fucking woods in the middle of the night with nothing to fucking do, just so you could chicken out halfway through getting everything you ever fucking wanted.” Her eyes are glowing violet now, which is. Wow. Scary. She’s so scary. He remembers now why he always thought she was so so scary. She jabs her finger towards the kneeling figure by the wall. “Get the fuck back in there and finish the damn conversation, bard,” she hisses. “I will not deal with this bullshit all the way to the Redanian border.”

She turns to leave again, and Jaskier shoots out a hand to stop her. She looks at his hand on her elbow and he briefly worries he’s going to end the night as a slug of some kind, but she just looks up at him questioningly.

“I just. Fuck. I know- I know this probably wasn’t easy for you. You know I know better than most what you’re feeling right now. But you’re helping anyway, so. Thank you, Yennefer. Even if it doesn’t go like you think, like I hope, you were willing to try even though it hurts, so thank you.” He isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he hopes she can see how genuinely grateful he is.

She smiles a little sadly. “Come on, songbird, We both know he was never really mine. And besides, I’m not the settling down type. Now go, don’t make me curse you.” She shoots him what would be a very passable glare if it weren’t for the slight glimmer of tears in her eyes, then spins on her heel and stalks off into the night.

He turns back to the cave, hesitating for a single moment before there’s an irritated huff, a nip to the sleeve of his jacket, and a frankly unnecessarily forceful shove to his back. He glares back at Roach, who seems unperturbed. “I’ve got entirely too many black-haired gorgeous women trying to run my life right now, do you hear me? Too many!” Roach huffs again. “Fine. I’m going, are you happy?” He takes another step and looks over his shoulder. She looks smug. Of course she does. “I think you’re just the old Roach reincarnated. Never seen another horse look so damn satisfied with herself,” he mutters, but he’s already heading back into the cave, so he figures she’s won this round.

He feels slightly guilty about grabbing Geralt’s waterskin before going to him, but he isn’t sure how long Yen’s potion lasts, or if meditating will have burned more of it off. Maybe it’s disingenuous to give him more without telling him what’s in it, but, weirdly, he trusts Yen when she says it won’t force Geralt to do or say anything he doesn’t want to, and Jaskier isn’t sure he’ll ever get to hear the words otherwise. He’ll tell him afterwards. He won’t keep this secret forever.

He sits down quietly next to Geralt, leaning up against the wall of the cave. He takes one deep breath, then another, and another. He rests his fingers gently on Geralt’s hand where it sits on his thigh. Geralt’s breathing gradually picks up until he’s back to almost his normal, slow rhythm. His eyes open, landing on Jaskier’s hand on his and following the line of his arm back up to his face.

Jaskier hands him the waterskin, and Geralt takes it with a nod of gratitude before taking a long drink. “I’m alright now,” Jaskier says. “I’m sorry I stopped you.

Geralt searches his face, eyes searching Jaskier’s for signs of dishonesty. Apparently finding none, he nods slightly, golden eyes closing again for a moment. When they open, he’s not looking at Jaskier any longer.

Jaskier looks at his hand, fingertips still resting ever so lightly on Geralt’s palm, and considers taking it back. He thinks about what Geralt has told him so far tonight, about the conviction in Yen’s voice when she insisted Geralt had feelings for him. Fuck it, he decides, and lays his hand more firmly in Geralt’s, lacing their fingers together. Geralt draws in a sharp breath and looks up at him in shock, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he grips Jaskier’s hand tighter, like he’s worried Jaskier is going to try to run.

“I know you,” Jaskier says slowly. “I’ve known you for more than half my life, and I know that you aren’t cruel, or callous, or unkind. I know that there is always a reason behind the things you say, and the things you do, even if no one else can see it.” He swallows hard, closing his eyes briefly. Geralt squeezes his hand lightly, which…helps, actually. It helps a lot. “I’m sorry I accused you of hurting me on purpose, for the sake of causing me pain. I was overwhelmed and having trouble processing things, but I shouldn’t have jumped to a conclusion I know wasn’t true. If you still want to talk, I’m ready to listen now.”

“It wasn’t an illogical conclusion to draw. And it wasn’t even completely wrong.” His voice is calmer than before, measured and even. Not as frantic. The river is still flowing free, but it’s calmed, no longer the violent rush of a broken dam. He sighs, a great, world-weary thing. “It was because you’re safe.” Jaskier looks at him quizzically.

Geralt draws in another deep breath before continuing. “I can’t ever show emotion. Not to humans. Not anger, or fear, or sometimes even joy. The myths about Witchers not having feelings…they aren’t just vicious rumors made up by bigots. They’re there to protect us. From them.”

Jaskier frowns. “You mean Witchers put that rumor out yourselves? But why?” Surely demonstrating how human Witchers really are can only help matters, right?

“In a way.” Geralt tilts his head in the way Jaskier knows means he’s remembering something long past. “It’s part of how we’re trained. We’re taught to suppress emotion, to hide it from everyone, including ourselves. It’s how we’ve done things for 400 years.” His thumb sweeps little arcs across the back of Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier’s heart trips in his chest. He knows Geralt can probably hear it, but it must not worry him and he keeps talking.

“The first Witchers were experiments. Men twisted by mages hoping to combat the monsters that plagued the world. The process has been…refined, since then. At first, they really were- well. More monster than man.” Geralt tips his head back against the rock wall. “Humans were terrified of them. One and all, right down to their bones. The first Witchers didn’t take contracts, because no humans would even speak with them. They just wandered around until they found a monster to kill, and then moved on to the next. Eventually, people started to realize that Witchers were only killing monsters, and leaving humans be, so they slowly started reaching out for help.”

“Ungrateful sods, the lot of them,” Jaskier mutters, and hears Geralt’s quiet huff of laughter in response.

“You’re. You’re so special, do you know that?” Jaskier jerks his head up in surprise to see Geralt’s eyes on his face, liquid gold lit like sunrise by the light of the fire, a tiny smile playing around his lips. “You’ve never been afraid of me. Not once. Not even when the only things you knew about me were that I scowled a lot and I had two very scary swords.” Jaskier flushes at the reminder of the babble that spilled out of his mouth the moment he laid eyes on the single most attractive person he had ever seen in his 18 years of life.

He drops his eyes, knowing there’s no hiding the blush on his cheeks but ignoring it as hard as he can anyway. “What’s there to be scared of? You’re a puppy, not a wolf.” He expects a grumble, or a glare, or for Geralt to ignore him completely. Certainly not the bark of laughter that would have woken Ciri were it not for Yen’s charm. He stares at Geralt’s face, firelight flickering over pale skin, honest joy written in the curve of his mouth, and grins back helplessly.

“You’re the only one who’s ever thought that. Except maybe Eskel.” He laughs again, more quietly this time, then sobers slightly. “Humans are afraid of us. They always have been. Less now, since you,” he squeezes Jaskier’s hand again and Jaskier flushes even darker, “but the first Witchers were barely more than feral, and that impression…stuck. Humanity never got past it. Even when new generations of Witchers were made, when we became something closer to men than to monsters, their fear never went away. Any emotion, even the faintest irritation, was enough to make most humans think a Witcher was about to go berserk, to start tearing out the throats of anyone who got too close. So, we learned to shut them down.”

His eyes are downcast now, and Jaskier thinks of a tiny Geralt, just a boy, younger than Ciri, excited about the world, curious and clever and mischievous, thinks about him learning to hide his heart away until even he couldn’t find it anymore, and he wants to scream. He wants to cry, he wants to rage, he wants to find every human who ever judged a Witcher by his eyes and not his deeds and mount their heads on spikes. He wants to tear out their hearts and make them watch as he throws them on the pyre, burning them out like so many boys were made to burn out their own.

Geralt can smell his turmoil, he knows, and he clings to the comfort offered when he holds Jaskier’s hand as tightly as he can without hurting him, still tracing circles into his skin with his thumb.

“It isn’t safe, to have feelings. Humans may spit on a mutant with a heart of stone, but they’ll hunt and kill a monster with teeth they think will harm them. It’s safer to be cold, to be hard. To let all of it roll off of us like snow off a mountain. And after a while, you forget how to be anything else. You forget that it’s a lie, that it’s something you had to learn. You start to believe it too.” There are tears dripping off of Jaskier’s nose now, but he doesn’t dare interrupt again. “I had forgotten, until you.”

He looks at Jaskier with such naked feeling in his fiery eyes that Jaskier can’t fathom how anyone could believe this man has no heart. “You made me feel. You walked into my life and just-“ He huffs another low laugh, the faraway look on his face impossibly fond. “You just didn’t listen to a fucking thing I said. Ever! Not once! And it drove me up the godsdamned wall. I was going out of my mind, I was so fucking annoyed. You never stopped talking, or singing, or playing that damn lute, you never stayed out of the way on hunts like I told you to, you ignored me whenever I said I didn’t have feelings or I didn’t need anyone or we weren’t friends. And you wouldn’t leave! You just kept coming back, no matter how much of an arse I was, even when I acted in ways that would have made other humans shit themselves, or come after me with torches and pitchforks, or both. You just kept coming back, and you kept not believing me when I told you I was a monster, and you never smelled fucking afraid, and after a while I realized that irritated wasn’t the only thing you made me feel anymore.”

He seems to withdraw into himself a little, his shoulders hunching and his head hanging slightly. He tries to withdraw his hand, but Jaskier isn’t sure he can get through this conversation without it, so he hopes Geralt will forgive him for pushing yet more boundaries and simply holds onto him tighter.

Geralt sighs again, but stops pulling away. “But there’s still so much shit in the world. There are so many humans who hate me, or fear me, or try to cheat me, or who end up being monsters worse than the ones they want me to kill, and the problem with having it smacked over my head that I do actually have feelings, is that it makes it so much harder to ignore them. And there’s so much anger in me, Jaskier, and grief, and loneliness. And I can’t ever show it to anyone, or it will confirm everything they think they know about me. It will make me a monster. It will make me the Butcher all over again.” He looks up again, his expression anguished. “You’re the only one who’s safe. You’re the only one I can be angry around, or sad, or scared, or just annoyed, without thinking the worst of me. You’re the only one who ever comes back.”

Jaskier is back to feeling like his heart is being fed through a sieve, but he thinks he understands what Geralt is trying to say this time. He feels a renewed rush of guilt for assuming the worst of him before. Is he any better than the rest, jumping to the foulest possible conclusion while Geralt wrestles with his tongue to try and make him understand? He turns his head away, closing his eyes against the tears and trying to breathe through the shame.

Fingers grip his chin gently and coax his head back until he’s looking into Geralt’s slitted eyes again. The look on his face is so soft, so open, that Jaskier feels like his ribs are being pried apart at the sight of it. “You have no idea how much of a blessing you have actually been in my life, Jaskier,” and those words just crack his chest wide open and bare his heart to the whole room, don’t they? “I took advantage of you. I wanted so badly to have someone in my life I could show all the darkest parts of myself to, without them running away, that I forgot to show you the rest. And I forgot to help carry your darkness in return. I left you with such a burden, Jaskier, and you never once complained or asked me to help. You have done nothing but give, for as long as I’ve known you, and I wish I could show you how sorry I am that I was content for so long just to take.” Jaskier is pretty sure he’s openly sobbing now, but Geralt is sliding his hand up from his chin to cup his cheek, sweeping the tears away with his thumb, so it’s probably ok.

“Let me make it up to you, Jaskier. Let me be the one to give to you for once. Let me carry your burdens for a while. Let me give you a reason to forgive me. A reason to come back.” His eyes are pools of molten gold, wide and dark and shining with- emotion. An emotion. Jaskier isn’t going to hazard a guess at which emotion, because he isn’t sure he can handle the answer.

“I’ve already forgiven you, you great lummox. For all of it. A safe place is all I ever wanted to be for you. I only ever wanted to give you a home. Like you gave me. Just- just share it with me next time, please? The anger, or the fear? Share it with me first, instead of letting it fester and burn us both. That’s all I need from you.”

Geralt’s hand on his cheek guides him forward until their faces are inches from each other, foreheads resting together. Jaskier’s eyes want to close but he can’t bear to look away, too afraid this is all an impossible dream that will disappear as soon as he opens them again. He can see the way the firelight glimmers off his silver hair, the scars through his eyebrow, the tears clinging to his eyelashes as they sweep gently over his cheeks. He’s never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever deserved you, but I would do anything for the chance to try to be someone who does. I’m yours, Jaskier. You need only say you’ll have me.”

Jaskier is a man of words. He’s a bard, words are his trade, his weapons, the blood in his veins. No matter what else is happening around him, no matter what he has or what he’s lost or what needs to be done, there are always words ready to spring forth from him like water from a spigot. He has never, in all his life, been out of words.

Until now.

Fuck it.

Geralt’s lips are softer than he imagined, given that his skincare routine seems to consist primarily of monster innards. But they’re soft and they’re warm and they move so gently against Jaskier’s that he thinks he might simply melt into a puddle, to be absorbed into the earth and never seen again. The kiss is tender, and sweet, and longing, and not at all how he imagined his first kiss with Geralt would be. It’s perfect. Jaskier breaks it with a watery laugh, keeping his forehead pressed to Geralt’s.

Somehow his free hand has found its way back into Geralt’s silky hair, and he threads his fingers deeper into the moonlit locks and hopes he’ll never have to let go.

“You’re mine?” He knows he sounds a little pleading, disbelief coloring his tone, but he can’t help it. He’s had this dream so many times, he needs to be sure it’s real this time. “Really?”

“Really, little lark.” Geralt is smiling just as wide as Jaskier is, his cheeks just as damp. “I’ve always been yours, I was just too stupid to admit it. I won’t make that mistake again. I love you. I’ll never leave you behind again, not for the rest of your life, if you’ll let me.”

And, oh, there’s a conversation they should maybe have, because after all the revelations of tonight, Jaskier is fairly sure Geralt thinks he’s completely human, and is probably in pain over his supposed mortality. At some point before they go to sleep Jaskier will mention it, because apparently Geralt hasn’t noticed that his face hasn’t changed a lick in 25 years, the stubble he wears these days notwithstanding.

Because Geralt is a ridiculous, incredible, oblivious, stupid, wonderful fool, and Jaskier loves him so much he can hardly breathe. So he tells him so. The rest can wait.

#the witcher #twn #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #the witcher fanfiction #my writing #i'll do the same with sleep now eventually i think but i want to finish it first