#Tonality fic
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Title: Tonality [4]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics
The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat.
You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.
“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder.
Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?”
Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations.
“You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.
“You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.”
You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.
“No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”
The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand.
“My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple.
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king.
Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.”
You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.
“You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan.
“It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well.
“You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away.
And the dreams…
You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come.
Your father’s rotting face swims before you again.
Sugar sweet—
You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet.
“What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye.
“And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—
“I am apt to know trouble when I see it.”
The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial.
“Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings.
The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee.
“My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother.
“My Queen.”
“Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed.
“Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.”
To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next.
“We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”
Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.”
You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?
“I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.
“A most precious gift.”
“The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes.
“We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship.
“Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter.
Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”
“And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand.
“I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.”
“Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”
“Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure.
“As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—
“I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone.
“The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.”
—
The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom.
“You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky.
“I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder.
“Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.”
“No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully.
“I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.”
“Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?”
You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips.
“O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you.
“How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?”
“Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly.
“Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.
“Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.”
“Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest.
“How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter.
“My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”
“No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?”
“Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong.
“I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”
“And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”
“I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.
“Highness—”
“I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.”
“At once, My Lady.”
You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back.
—
“How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.”
You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them.
“I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling.
“The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow.
“What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt.
“Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.”
“A bird?”
“Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.”
You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself.
You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek.
Your face is wet with tears.
—
Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown.
“I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body.
It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams.
She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.”
“T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.
“Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow.
“What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively.
“A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside.
“Highness? H-His Majesty is here.”
Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods.
“I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild.
“Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you.
“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment.
“Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely.
The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close.
“I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.”
Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth.
The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall.
The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.
She’ll pluck out your eyes.
to be continued…
Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️
#henry cavill#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fic#henry cavill x reader#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt x you#geralt of rivia smut#geralt smut#geralt of rivia imagine#geralt of rivia fanfiction#geralt x y/n#dark fantasy#dark!fic#darkfic#boxofbonesfic#tonality fic
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If I have to write another Hunter defense post (this time with added Wrecker) I will because the reunion was pretty much exactly what I expected it to be and while I did scream when the screen cut to black it was a good one, I'm so excited for next episode to see the actual fallout.
Crosshair is my darling and I love him but please remember they know none of the Bad things that happened to him, nothing about what he went through, nothing about his internal growth. What they do know is last time they saw him he told them he had no chip with zero indication of when it was taken out even when Hunter asked, meaning for all they knew he tried to kill them of his own free will. He then paused their escape attempt from the apocalypse HE brought them to multiple times to bitch and insult them. And when they finally did escape he refused to go with them and said he was staying with the Empire.
They still care about him. They still wanted to go rescue him when they thought he was in danger. They'd still die for him. But yeah when he comes back it's going to be fucking rough. (And just goddddd the music choice in that scene. I'm not even a music person and I could scream about it.)
#the bad batch#the bad batch spoilers#tbb spoilers#anyway fully fluffy reunions can still be put in for fic that's a free range and id eat them up#but this is tonally perfect for the story we've seen so far
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The Conversation
Final Part of The Interview [Part One] [Part Two] [Ao3]
Steve finishes putting on his boots, shoves a beanie on his head, and grabs his thermos of coffee before heading outside. Robin had texted when they left Pendleton so they should be arriving soon, and he wants to make sure the dogs stay clear of the driveway, and also finish some of the chores he is being lazy about. The mountain air is cold in February, and the snow is deep, but it's still warm for a winter day in Eastern Oregon.
His childhood house had been at the edge of a little forest. His current home is tucked away in the woods, trees for miles, and the nearest neighbor farther still than that. He's lived a lot of places, been able to see the whole of America almost, and in the process, he's learned that he'll always be a small-town boy. The real revelation is how at home he feels in this two-bedroom cabin sequestered away from any town at all. Sure, he's got to drive a little over half an hour to get to the nearest grocery store, but he's learned he likes that.
He's got 1600 acres of woods all to himself and the dogs. He's owned this property for almost four years, but recent events made him finally move out here. Originally, he'd bought it to make it as another flip project, but something in his gut told him to make it a vacation home / safe haven for his family instead. Robin, mainly, as a getaway from the LA life and overwhelming spotlight she'd started to face as her music career took off. He might be turning it into his permanent home and base of operations, but everyone knows they're still welcome.
Anyway, the day might be warm for winter, but the night won't be, so Steve sets his thermos on the top of the wooden railing of the porch and heads down the steps to the woodshed. The plan in the summer is to update the cabin, which includes adding central air and a good heating system, but until then, portable heaters are in the bedrooms and the wood stove gets the rest of the cabin. There's also plans to start the construction on the guest house. It's going to be a busy summer.
He replenishes the woodpile on the porch from the woodshed and debates chopping more but decides against it. That can be a tomorrow chore. Next is cleaning up the snow paths he's made previously. Doesn't want anyone falling on their ass on the way to the house, no matter how funny that'll be to watch. As usual, Pancake makes the task difficult because she wants to play with the snow shovel. Melody cries until he throws snow into the air by the shovel full for her to play in. Chowder, old man that he is, supervises from the porch, front paws hanging just off the top step.
It's rough going but he manages to complete the few chores, even with two dogs underfoot.
Steve is on the front porch, forearms holding his weight as he leans against the railing, thermos of coffee between his hands, taking in the afternoon sun and enjoying the silence when Dustin's work truck slides into the driveway. Almost literally, given the foot and a half of snow still on the ground. The driveway is long, okay. Steve's doesn't have enough time in his day to keep up with salting it all.
It'll be strange to see Eddie after all these years. He still can't believe Robin got him to come. When he'd asked how she did it, she brushed him off with an it's not important.
Speaking of Robin, she's the first person out of the truck, sliding out of the passenger seat and then cursing when she drops right into the snow. She shoots an accusatory look towards the cabin, and therefore Steve, like he placed the snow there himself, when the fault is Dustin, who has left the driver side with plenty of room between the truck and the snowbank.
Dustin gets out of the truck and Steve faintly hears him say this side, man, less snow before pushing his door closed and turning to brace himself as Pancake and Melody rush from the porch to circle like sharks, barely restraining themselves from jumping up. Chowder follows after slowly, taking his sweet time getting to Robin, his favorite human. Steve can't even be jealous about that because Robin is his favorite human, too.
The back driver side door opens, and he watches as Eddie Munson all but falls out of the truck. It's the least graceful anyone's looked getting out of the back of the truck and that's counting Chowder and his old man hips. Seeing Eddie again is- well, it's a lot of emotions all at once, but they're are all overshadowed at the moment by how Eddie looks... well, bad. His hair is longer than Steve's ever seen it, a little longer than mid-back length, but it looks like it hasn't seen a proper hair brush in a couple of days. Even from this distance Steve can see the bags under his eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.
He pushes himself off the railing and meanders down the two steps, waiting for them to notice he's waiting. Robin trudges out of the snow berm and to the front of the truck, where Chowder is waiting patiently for his pets and kisses. Dustin has managed to get Melody to stop hopping in front of him so she can get her side scratches, and Pancake has realized there is a new, third person with a set of hands currently not petting her, and is circling Eddie, waiting for him to reach down and pet her but he just stands completely still, heading tracking her in her circles.
"She's friendly, I promise," Steve calls out, which makes Eddie's head snap up to look for the source of the voice. Well, everyone looks, but Eddie looks like he's seeing a ghost, which. Fair. Steve kind of feels the same way.
"Hello, Dingus," Robin calls as she stands from her crouched position, where she's been cuddling Chowder. As soon as she stands, he starts making his way back to the porch. "I have delivered one Edward Keaton Munson. You are not allowed to ask anything of me for, at minimum, a year."
"Steve! Why didn't you tell me you knew the Eddie Munson?" Dustin shouts.
Robin is scoffing, clearly offended. "Am I not famous enough for you Henderson!?"
"Get back to me when you've run a 24-hour Dungeons and Dragons live stream for charity!" Dustin shoots back, then has to dodge Robin's half-hearted punch aimed for his arm.
Eddie stays silent, looking more pale than when he got out of the truck. Steve's a little concerned he's going to faint.
"You been living under a rock, Dustin?" Steve asks. "My knowing him is apparently the only thing on the internet currently."
Dustin puts his whole head into the eye roll. "You spend a month backpacking with your girlfriend in the southern hemisphere and you never get to hear the end of it. I told you I'd catch up on your drama after I catch up on my DnD Live Plays."
"You also missed me winning a Grammy, you know."
"I thought Steve's thing was more important?"
"You are impossible, Henderson."
"You guys going to argue in the snow all afternoon, or do you want to come inside?" Steve says then places his fingers in his mouth and whistles. Melody and Pancake dash for the front door, where Chowder is already waiting. Dustin, Robin, and a still eerily quiet Eddie fall into line to walk the trail to the porch Steve had cleared.
Steve jumps the steps, grabs his thermos, lets the dogs in, and then holds the door for everyone else. Robin and Dustin breeze past, but Eddie slows, eyes jumping around Steve's face as they just look at each other for a moment. Eddie opens, then closes, then opens, then closes his mouth.
"Hi," Steve offers up, shifting a foot to hold the door open so he can wave his fingers at Eddie.
Eddie swallows thickly, then whispers back, "hey."
"In the house, Eddie. Don't want to let too much cold in," Steve tilts his head towards the doorway.
"Oh, right, sorry," that kick starts Eddie again and he crosses the threshold, Steve close behind.
Robin and Dustin are currently occupying the bench just inside the door, taking off their shoes. Once Dustin has his boots off, he leaves the bench, heading to the kitchen. Eddie seems lost, just standing in the entryway, so Steve takes the spot Dustin just left and proceeds to undo the laces on his boots. He gets one boot done by the time Robin stands, wandering after Dustin once she's hung up her coat, scarf, and gloves. Eddie doesn't move still, so Steve pats the empty spot beside him.
"No shoes in the cabin. Dogs track in enough snow, don't need us doing it too," Steve says, then busies himself with his other boot.
He sees Eddie sit and begin to untie his- jesus, he's not even wearing boots. Just a black pair of sneakers. Eddie unties his shoes in silence, sitting rather stiffly next to Steve.
This quiet, obedient Eddie is not what he expected.
"You want something to drink?" Steve asks, once both of them are free of their shoes.
"No, thank you."
"Alright. Have a seat, then," he gestures towards the couch. The cabin door opens up directly into the living area, which Steve has set up as 3/4th a living room and 1/4th dining room, in that a small kitchen table is along the far wall. Beyond that wall is the kitchen, where Robin and Dustin are undoubtedly helping themselves to his coffee or hot chocolate.
Eddie shuffles off to sit on the edge of the couch, as close to the armrest as he can get. Now that Steve can see him closer, he can see he's added more piercing to his face than just the eyebrow ring he wore in high school. Snake bites, a septum piercing, and a second eyebrow ring next to the original. He's sure that if Eddie's hair wasn't covering his ears, he'd see more metal there. Eddie had hung up the coat he'd been wearing but under that is a hoodie he didn't take off, so Steve can only guess if he ever got those tattoos he'd been planning in high school. His entire outfit is black, which just makes him look sickly in the cabin lighting.
Steve drops himself into the chair facing the couch. It's Melody's favorite chair to curl up in, but Steve thinks she'll forgive him for taking it. There's tension in the room, so he tries to break it. "You look like you've seen a ghost, dude."
Eddie makes a weird nose, almost a whimper or a whine, but before he can say anything, Robin rounds the wall, holding a mug of hot liquid and she says, "Oh, I'm sure he feels that he has. I didn't tell me we were coming to see you."
"Robin!" Steve is shocked.
"What? You said you wouldn't mind getting some closure, so I got him here. Does it matter how?" She takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch from Eddie, making a show of how comfortable she is in the space by sitting cross-legged and leaning back against the couch, in comparison to Eddie who is sitting up completely straight, barely on the couch with how close to the edge he's sitting.
"Yeah, it does! If he's not here voluntarily- if Eddie doesn't want to talk to me you can't-"
"I do," Eddie says. It grabs Steve and Robin's attention and Steve sees Eddie almost wilt under their twin stares. He clears his throat before continuing, "I mean, I would have come still, if she'd told me. I do want to talk to you. Apologize for.... for everything. So much I don't even know where to begin, or how."
"Uhh, this feels like something personal," Dustin says from where he's standing with his own mug, hovering nearby. "Should I be here for this?"
Good question. Steve doesn't care if Robin and Dustin hear what they talk about, but Eddie might. "How about we just relax a bit. How was the drive?"
Eddie scrunches his face, a half confused expression on his face.
"Fine," Robin says at the same time Dustin says, "Tense as fuck."
"Those two things don't seem like they match," Steve says.
Dustin moves to plop himself on the couch in between Eddie and Robin, then quietly curses as his drink sloshes over the edge of the mug. He starts mopping at it with the sleeve of his shirt as he says, "Robin is a liar. The tension in the truck is going to linger that's how bad it was. I'll be feeling the tension every time I get in the rig. Clients will feel the tension when I pull up to their curbs!"
"It was not that bad!" Robin swats Dustin. Successfully this time, since there's no way for him to dodge unless he wants to spill his drink again.
Steve just laughs. "Robs, light of my life, mate of my soul, knowing you and your grudges, Dustin's probably going easy on the description of the tension here."
"Well, there wouldn't be tension if I was allowed to say what I want to say."
"Can we go, like, five minutes without your negativity?"
"My negativity!? I'm not negative, I'm rational and level-headed!"
"You are not sounding very level-headed right now."
Dustin chimes in, "Steve's right. Level-headed people don't have to shout that they're level-headed."
"What say you, Eds?" Steve asks, the old nickname slipping out. He doesn't have time to be embarrassed about it though.
Eddie stands quickly and flings his hands in the air, having reached an invisible limit Steve is unaware of, pacing about the living room as he basically shouts, "Why don't you hate me!? You should hate me! I hate me! I can't- why are you just sitting there, trying to have a-a decent conversation with me? You should be screaming at me! You should be mad! Why aren't you? My fuckin' song ruined your life!"
The silence in the living room is heavy following that, all eyes on Eddie. Even the dogs, who had been in various states of sleep, lift their heads and look in Eddie's direction.
He looks mortified by the out burst, and his face turns red. "I-I'm sorry. I- I'm just, I'm sorry. I need air."
They all watch silently as Eddie jams his shoes back on and goes out the front door without tying them or grabbing his coat.
Steve sighs, deep and annoyed. At Robin and himself. He looks to Robin and she looks shocked by Eddie's outburst. She was watching the door, but turns her head to meet Steve's eye, a small frown on her face.
"Well, it's not like he's going far," Dustin says. "You going after him?"
"I don't know if I should."
Dustin scoffs. "Don't be an idiot, of course you should. We drug that guy to the middle of nowhere to talk to you. He agreed to come to the middle of nowhere even though I could have been a hit man hired by Robin to off him in the woods and he didn't even complain. Didn't even question. I don't know what happened, but I think you two need talk it over."
Steve blinks at Dustin. "Since when did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You just refuse to see it with your ageism. Go. Robin can fill me in on the beef, here in the toasty, cozy cabin, while you two chat in the cold, and freeze your asses off."
"I don't have ageism-"
"Wrong argument to be having, Steve!" Dustin interrupts. "And take another cup of coffee with you. Even if he doesn't drink it, dude doesn't have gloves either so y'know, warm the hands."
Steve does just that. Fills his other thermos with coffee, taking a chance by adding cream and sugar, before putting his boots, coat, and beanie back on. He throws Eddie's coat over his arm and tucks both thermos' against his body with that same arm so he can have a free hand to open the door.
Eddie isn't far. He's pacing back and forth in front of the truck, talking to himself.
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Steve steps off the porch and makes his way to Eddie. "Hey."
The pacing stops and Eddie turns to look at Steve. They just look at each other as Steve approaches. Steve doesn't stop until he's close enough to reach out and touch before he shuffles the two thermos's to his other arm and extends the one with Eddie's coat on it out.
"Thank you," Eddie says, taking the coat and shoving himself into it quickly.
"Brought you coffee, too," Steve holds out one thermos and after a pause, Eddie takes it, too, then almost instantly brings his other hand up to cradle it, warming his fingers.
He looks up from the thermos and meets Steve's eye. "I am sorry, Steve. I'm sorry for how things ended between us, and for the song I wrote, and for-for not thinking about how people would be able to work out that you were the Steve from Hey Steve. You should hate me for that alone. I'm so sorry for everything that's happened because I didn't think of the consequences."
"I don't- I don't hate you man. Not... not anymore. Not for a long time."
"Well, you should!"
Steve frowns. He wants to argue because who is Eddie to tell him how he should feel? But that's not going to help anything. "When Robin called me. During her interview after the Grammy's and asked if she could tell the truth I never- I didn't know what she meant by the truth. But. Well, nothing she said was a lie, but it wasn't the full story."
Eddie stays silent, seemingly waiting for Steve to continue.
"Those first two years after our breakup were- I'm not going to lie, they were fucking awful. I think I received my first bit of hate mail the very same day Hey Steve released. It was harsh. All from the same person, but sent to my Facebook and my Twitter and Instagram. Guess they really wanted me to read it.
"And then, with each passing day, a new person, new message, just as awful. After three days I deleted Instagram and Twitter. Then I locked down Facebook but like- physical letters showed up at my house. I can't lie, it certainly felt like you'd ruined my life."
Eddie makes a wounded sound at that. "That's because I did! What I did was unforgivable and-"
"You don't get to decide for me if I forgive you or not!" Steve snaps. "I haven't actually said I did forgive you, did I? All I've said is I don't hate you."
That gets Eddie quiet again for a moment, then he says, "you ended up hospitalized because of me."
"Robin said I ended up hospitalized, and that's true, but it wasn't- It was more complicated that just being your, and your fans', fault. For people who were supposedly on 'your side' of our breakup, they used a lot of homophobic language. That's how my mom found out. The letters were easy enough to just get rid of because all the bad shit was on the inside, but someone sent a post card, and mom collected the mail that day. It's... I don't like talking about this."
"Then don't," Eddie is quick to say, "you don't have to explain anything to me, or make yourself relive these events. It's- you don't owe that to me."
"I think I need to. I wrote you a song, said I'd do it all again, and I meant that. I want you to understand why. Just. Just give me a minute."
Eddie nods and takes a sip of his coffee. He looks pleasantly surprised and takes bigger drink before his face falls into a frown as he stares down at the thermos and Steve has to look away. He turns and squeezes his eyes shut to continue. "Mom showed the postcard to my father, and he confronted me that evening. It was.... it didn't start off bad. He asked if it was true. That I was gay. I made a choice, then. I didn't have to; I could have lied. I could have told him I was straight and that I didn't understand what the postcard was saying, but I didn't.
"I knew how he felt about queer people, and I told him the truth anyway. I was bisexual. I thought it was a miracle that he didn't kick me out instantly. Instead, he calmly asked me if that meant I liked woman. I said it meant I liked more than just woman.
"Then he told me that didn't matter. That so long as I liked woman, I would be with a woman, and that we never had to speak of this again. And I told him no. He didn't get to decide that for me. He said that he would rather have a dead son than a faggot one. And I thought- I never- surely he was just meaning, like, metaphorically, right? Like, he'd disown me, kick me out or something so I scoffed and said- God, I was so stupid. I knew it wasn't safe, but I was so angry at him, I shouted 'dead or alive, I'm your faggot son so deal with it.' And he- he said 'dead it is' and he attacked me."
He hears Eddie suck in a breath, hears the crunch of snow in what could only be Eddie taking a step towards him but stopping after just one step. Steve doesn't know if he wants Eddie to close the distance and give him the hug he knows Eddie wants to do. Steve doesn't know if he'd welcome the embrace or not. He sucks in his own shaky breath, and continues, "He almost beat me to death that night. The only reason he didn't was because mom dialed 911," Steve turns around, looks at Eddie and sees the tears falling down his own face reflected on Eddie. "As far as I know, dad's still serving time for his attempted murder, so like, at least I don't have to worry about him. And mom... I don't even know what to think of that.
"She called 911, didn't want to see me die, I guess, but also couldn't have a gay son. She sold the house, and everything in it, while I was still in the hospital, and just... disappeared. Robin's family took me in. She told that story during the interview, you knoe, but I wasn't even at the house when that guy with the gun showed up. I was meeting with a lawyer.
"She-Mom was- I don't know what she was trying to do but she gave me the family business. The whole company! It felt like she was trying to buy my forgiveness, except she didn't ask for it and still hasn't contacted me. It's like... she felt guilty about what happened but hated me at the same time. Felt she needed to do something to alleviate her guilt? Or maybe she just wanted to cut herself free of the whole Harrington name; free herself from me and my father. I don't think I'll ever get closure for that one."
Steve quits talking, needs to take another moment. He'd already rambled on about more than he meant to but talking to Eddie had always done that to him. Afterall, before they dated, they'd been friends. He sips at his coffee, not knowing what else to say.
"Jesus, Stevie, I'm so sorry. I didn't know- It's no excuse but I'm just so sorry."
He doesn't think Eddie knows he called him Stevie, but it's nice to hear. "So, see, it wasn't your fault. Your song set things into motion, for sure, so it's nice to hear an apology, but like, if anyone is the bad guy in this situation, it's Richard Harrington."
"But Robin said she just had to help you move to here. That you still get hate mail, and doxxed. That's on me. I saw your list of addresses, Steve! You've had to move, like, eight times a year!"
Steve can't help the cackle that springs from him. He surprises himself with the laugh, and Eddie, too, if his wide eyes and eyebrows hidden behind his bangs are any indication. "I- yeah, I move a lot. And yes, this most recent move was because of a brick with Hey Steve scratched into it broke my living room window, but like, I've only had to move because of harassment like, four times, if I'm counting the whole mom-selling-the-house thing."
"What?"
Steve holds up a finger, adding a new one as he counts them out. "Mom sold house. Scary gun guy at Robin's. The year anniversary of your first album's release. I was still in Hawkins, figuring out what to do with all the money I'd, uhh, inherited I guess, so I was easy to find. And the most recent one. Not sure what inspired it this time. Usually, the hate mail resurges when you go on tour, but it's less and less every time. Anyway, none of those other moves are because of crazy fans."
Eddie blinks at him, a picture of confusion. "But I found a YouTube video and that guy- he showed all your old addresses. He said- I thought..."
"Well, there are a lot of addresses. But not because of your fans. I move for my job. Do you... did you even read the truck?" Steve gestures to Dustin's truck and Eddie steps around to see the printed H&H Project Flip and below that is their website.
Eddie looks back to Steve like that answers nothing. Which, fair, but it would answer a lot of questions if Eddie had looked up the website. "After that surge of anniversary hate, I knew I needed to get out of Hawkins. Robin was graduated, then, and headed to college. I decided I wanted to see more than just Hawkins. I followed Robin to college in Chicago, and uh, bought a house. A real fixer upper but that was fine. I had plenty of money to throw into it. On a whim I thought, what if I try to fix it. I had a lot of free time and if it ended up badly, I could afford to pay a professional to fix whatever I broke. I found that I loved doing that."
He's still just being looked at like he's not making sense.
Steve rolls his eyes, "I flip houses, dude. Me and Dustin. Harrington and Henderson Project Flip. I was in Chicago for three years, lots of addresses for that city. But then Robin pointed out there were a lot of states. That I should see all 50 of 'em by renovating a house in each. She'd moved in with her then-girlfriend by this time, so she said I should go. See the States at the least. So, I did. I find it easier to just live in the house I'm renovating, so I'm not paying mortgage and then rent somewhere else in the same city."
Eddie looks like he's had a rug pulled out from under him and he lets out a laugh that's a little hysterical.
"And moving so much has allowed me to meet so many amazing people, y'know? I got friends in all the states. So, like, yeah, you did ruin my life, but like, just my life from 18 to 20. So, yeah, I'd do it all again. Did you think I've been living in perpetual misery for the last ten years?"
"Robin certainly made it easy to assume that, so yeah!"
"I think she did that on purpose. To hurt you back."
"I deserve it," Eddie says. "I didn't even try to check in on you. Well, once, but when I couldn't find you on any socials I just. Gave up."
Steve shrugs. "I didn't reach out either. And if you'll remember, I broke up with you. Screamed in your face that we were over and went home."
"I don't know when, or even if, Corroded Coffin will tour again, but I swear to you, we'll never play or release Hey Steve again. And I'll release a statement, or go on camera, or something, and address this. I can't make it right, but I can make a change starting now, to do better and be better," Eddie says this while gripping his thermos to death.
"I believe you, and I forgive you."
Eddie nods grimly, then looks from Steve to the cabin, and back to Steve. "Do you think Robin will ever forgive me?"
"I don't know. You hurt her pretty badly, too. We were all best friends in school and when we broke up, you cut off Robin, too. And then, when she started to gain her own fame- I think when she first moved to LA, she thought you'd try to reach out. But you never did."
A silence falls over them, and Steve refuses to break it. He's done enough talking. They drink their coffees 'til they're empty before Eddie speaks.
"Where does this leave us?"
Steve thinks about it before answering. "You were my best friend before you were my boyfriend. You'd been in my life longer than you've been out of it. We don't have to be anything. We can have our closure and go our separate ways, if you'd prefer. But, I think I'd like another chance at being your friend."
"I can do friend," Eddie says slowly, like he's picking his words carefully. "I can. But, full transparency, I think I still love you."
It hurts to hear, after all the pain and the time, and it's a bittersweet kind of hurt. "I'll always love you, Eds. I meant it, you know, every word of the song. But I don't know if we can, or should, try again. We were so good until we weren't."
Tears spring from Eddie's eyes when Steve says he loves him, and they don't stop falling even as he's nodding along with everything Steve says. "No, I know. I know. I just, I needed you to know. Friend is, it's so fucking great. More than I ever expected, and certainly more than I dared hope."
"Come on. Let's go inside where it's warm and chat with Dustin and Robin like civilized people. I need a break from the heavy talk."
"Yeah. Me too. Thank you, Steve. For the chance."
Steve shrugs and shoots him a crooked grin. "Yeah, well, ruin this a second time and Robin will rip you to shreds on live TV, probably."
There's more to talk about. More hurts to heal and things to discuss, Steve knows. And maybe after all the talking, they'll learn they've changed too much to even be friends. But that'll be okay, because if that's how it goes, it'll be because they talked it out instead of screaming at each other in a living room.
If they've changed too much, this time, it'll end gently.
It doesn't stop Steve from letting a little bit of hope in. That this won't end, that they can find a way to be in each other's lives again.
As friends, or more.
#steddie#my fic#the interview#prepare yourself for the whiplash of a full tonal shift in the story as we switch to steves POV#tw: homophobia#tw: assault#Steve discusses his assault/subsequent hospitalization. I tried to not go into too much detail but proceed with caution if thats a trigger#there is also the use of the word faggot as a slur#also! there is a point where steve casually says robin has a girlfriend#this is NOT an accidental outing. Robin is an out and proud lesbian singer/song writer/grammy winner#also.... maybe there will be an epilogue? I am debating.#if you wanna be informed on the epilogue#subscribe to the fic on ao3 cause it'll alert you if i add another chapter
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In the ruins of a once-great city, Harrowhark Nonagesimus must pilot a 40 meter tall weapon in order to save humanity from monstrous Resurrection Beasts. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't have a choice.
3k | Rated E (18+)
Have you ever wondered what it would be like if the Locked Tomb characters did NEON GENESIS EVANGELION? wonder no longer!!! Written for the 2023 TLT Holiday exchange, and featuring:
Harrow as SHINJI, Kiriona as REI, Ianthe as ASUKA, and John Gaius as GENDO
Harrow having mind shattering neural sex with her mech, ALECTO
GRIEF and ANGST and DEPRESSION
#my fic#tlt fic#the locked tomb fic#neon genesis evangelion AU#sorry for incoming multiple posts but my fics for the exchange ars so tonally different i cant put them all in one post LMAO
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umm. i'm a day late but here's this anyway? i saw this and uh. couldn't resist. happy one year since the rise movie (and also sorry)
also donnie's full rant vv
"Nardo I know your WHOLE THING is making poor taste badly timed + unfunny jokes but respectfully WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU I am not saying "cowabummer" '''''for the bit''''' holy SHIT can we NOT DO THIS???"
#rottmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#rise of the tmnt#rise donnie#rise leo#donnie#leo#IM UH . IM NOT TAGGING KAT IN THIS LMAOWHFKLE;WHAEKWLFE#fic art#SORTA.....#my art#cmh#me when i set up a whole tagging system and can NEVER remember it. L#oh id is in the image description thingy btw!!#ummm um um what else#i could say smth abt how grateful i am for rise i got into it bc of the movie and its absolutely SKYROCKETED my previously very stagnant#motivation to write and/or draw#i could say smth heartfelt abt how grateful i am for the ppl ive met in this fandom#but that feels uh... well...... a bit tonally off given the. art#anyway umm. thanks nick for rise. give us season 3 <3
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between the moon’s divide (satoru gojo x reader)
notes: uh. a week ago i thought to myself ‘oh i want to write a kiss scene’ thinking it would take me a day or two but no it took a week of me agonizing over... everything lmao.
contains: gender neutral reader, gojo is taller than the reader (as usual), some kind of tension, and finally kissing!!
wc: 2.1k
It’s sometime past midnight when you run across Satoru Gojo standing in the school’s courtyard.
Unable to sleep, you’d taken to the halls. It’d become a habit by now, wandering the corridors like a restless ghost until sleep could evade you no longer. You’d actually been heading back to your room when you’d seen him, statuesque as he bathed in moonlight. You’d been vaguely aware that Gojo was not much of a sleeper, but you’d never run into him on one of your nighttime strolls.
You come to a stop, observing Gojo as he stares up at the moon. It’s very odd for him; to be still, to be silent.
Naturally, it doesn’t last for long.
“Finally here for our romantic moonlight rendezvous?” he asks, his tone playful, his gaze still fixed on the moon above.
You can’t help but feel mildly annoyed that he’s noticed you at this distance. “As if. I was just wondering if maybe you were thinking about returning to your home planet.”
Gojo hums as you step out onto the courtyard, approaching him. "And leave you here? You'd be lonely without me.”
You wait until you and Gojo are standing side by side to respond, not sparing him a glance as you retort, “Actually, I think you’d be the lonely one.”
At first, you don’t think much of the words that come out of your mouth. It’s habit to take anything Gojo throws at you and hurl it right back at him. The words play back in your mind as you tilt your head up to gaze up at the moon. It dominates the midnight sky, larger and brighter than anything else in the expanse above. Something about it reminds you of Gojo, strong, brilliant, and—
Lonely.
“You think?” he asks, sounding almost amused, as if you’d said something funny.
“Probably?” you answer. "Though, I don't know, maybe your home planet is full of more Satoru Gojos and you would all be one happy collective, feeding into each other's egos and all that."
The thought of more than one Satoru Gojo, much less a whole planet full of them is enough to make your head throb with pain. The world has enough problems with one alone.
"...and what if there's no one else there?"
You blink, and turn your head just slightly toward Gojo. He's still looking up at the moon, his expression almost melancholic. Something in your chest aches at the sight and you look back at the moon as if that will ease the pain.
It makes sense for him to think like that, to think his home planet would be deserted— all your lives you've been told how he's unique, how he's special, how he's the one and only Satoru Gojo. The thought, the notion that there could be another like him is near incomprehensible.
(There was one, someone, who came close and he—)
"Then don't go."
The words are barely audible, escaping your mouth like a whisper in the breeze. You're not even sure if you actually said them because under normal circumstances you'd keep such words to yourself, bury them deep inside your heart like a well-kept secret because in Satoru Gojo's hands those three words are little more than ammunition.
And as much as you loathe the thought of giving him something else he can weaponize against you, you think he needs it right now. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, his hands remain ever empty, ready and willing to take on more burden. If you're going to give him something to hold, it might as well be something he can find some measure of joy in.
You expect Gojo to cut to the chase and start teasing you. Hesitation is a foreign concept to him, especially with the prospect of something new to play with, but he is uncharacteristically silent. Against your better judgment, you turn your head back toward him and find that he is no longer looking up at the moon.
He’s looking at you.
Your breath stills in your chest. The bright gleam of Gojo’s eyes is a curse in of itself, rooting you to the core. You’ve never been good at dealing with Gojo like this. Stupid as that blindfold of his looks on him, it acts as a buffer, as a shield. You want to look away. You have to look away before the shocking hue of his gaze pulls you in, traps you, ensnares you with no hope of escape.
Gojo moves, shifting into a position that brings him down to your height, facing you fully as he unleashes the full power of his stupidly brilliant blue eyes on you. He leans just the slightest bit in your direction. Your heart rate climbs higher and higher as he inches closer. A voice in the back of your mind tries to remind you, to reassure you: this isn’t the first time that Satoru Gojo has pulled this kind of trick on you, and it won’t be the last. He’ll creep closer and closer toward you, taunting you, teasing you, but the space between you will forever remain infinite.
But then he presses his forehead to yours and all bets are off.
You need to get away from him. Now. You take a step back, to put some space in between you. It might be finite, but some space is better than none. But even though you’ve taken a step back you find that you are no further than Gojo than you were before, your foreheads still pressed together.
What in the world? You swear you took a step back.
Something in your peripheral shifts and your eyes flicker down for just a second, catching the corner of his mouth twitch. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Then it clicks. You’re so used to seeing him using his technique to push everything away, to make himself untouchable, that you often forget that it’s not the only thing he can do. HIs power doesn’t only repel.
It attracts too.
Your heartbeat grows erratic at the realization that the once infinite space between you is now all but obsolete. Like this, you’re far too aware of him; aware of his hair, brushing softly against your face, aware of his breathing, echoing loud in your ears, aware of his lips—
“...what are you doing?” you finally manage to whisper after what feels like an eternity.
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you nearly regret them. The question is begging for trouble, inviting it and the inevitable teasing from Gojo. But still you ask— you have to, you need to. It feels counterintuitive, but you need the distraction of his answer and the annoyance it’s sure to bring to cut through the thoughts, the feelings that are threatening to swallow you whole.
You expect his response to come instantly like it always does, but… it doesn't. Something stutters in your chest at the change in routine. Is he being purposely silent? Or is he actually thinking about his words before they come out of his mouth for once?
Finally, finally, he speaks, his voice low and teasing for sure, but there's something else there, diluting his tone, laced in his words. It's subtle, but whatever it is throws you completely off balance. "I thought you said 'don't go.'"
Your mouth opens. You start to speak. But no words come out, instead they are lodged in your throat— honesty and reluctance mangled together in one huge lump. The thought occurs to you to just leave them there, unspoken. But, you wouldn't put it past Gojo to try and rip them free; with that in mind you pull at the words, unraveling them before releasing them into the night air. "…I did."
It's official now: you've gone off script and you both know it.
Gojo pulls back, just enough for you to see his face clearly. You think he's going to tease you for your admission, but instead, he studies you, his eyes probing, searching. You don’t know what for, but with no buffer, no infinity between you, it feels almost as if you are laid bare before the hypnotic glow of his eyes.
Try as you might, you cannot even bring yourself to look away. You are charmed, captivated, enchanted by the spell of his eyes. Any hope for escape is gone and the only things that remain are you and the limitless blue.
Something shifts in Gojo’s expression and you wonder, distantly, if he’s found whatever it was he was looking for.
He surges forward, pressing his forehead to yours once more, angling himself, positioning himself, and his mouth, his lips—
They’re barely there. Hovering as close as they possibly can without even touching. You can feel his breath, warm and intoxicating and it’s suddenly so hard to move, to think, to even breathe with the threat of Satoru Gojo imminent and about to swallow you whole.
He could, if he wanted and you both know it, and yet…
“Not even gonna try and deny it?” he asks, and you can practically feel his lips moving with each word he speaks. His tone is amused still, teasing still, but there's something more to it. It's like a secret, a plea even, interwoven into his words and actions, loud and unsubtle in a way that screams Satoru Gojo.
You don't know why he doesn't just say what he wants right now. Maybe he thinks it's more fun to try and be coy about it. Or maybe he thinks if he actually says it, you'll refuse like you always do, because you never think he really means it when he says it.
But right now, you think Gojo might.
You think he might really want to kiss you.
This is your last chance, you think, your lips parting, your response heavy in your mouth. Whatever happens from here on out hinges entirely on what you say next. It’s not just about trying to deny what you said anymore; it's about denying whatever the hell is actually going on between you and Gojo. All this time, you've been turning a blind eye to things, adamant that there's nothing there— that Gojo is just a colleague and nothing more. And despite that, despite everything, he pushed and shoved his way into your heart like it's where he's belonged all along. Those three little words are undeniable proof that there's something between the two of you and it's awfully kind of him to let you try and deny it.
But can you?
"...no."
The realization settles in your chest, heavy yet liberating as you breathe the word into the air. You can’t— you won’t deny it, deny him.
Not any more.
Gojo’s entire body goes still, but then his hands are cupping your face, long fingers splayed across your cheeks. He’s holding you like a treasure, his touch reverent. Gojo presses his forehead to yours once more; his breath caresses you once more and you think that maybe, for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo knows hesitation, feels it running through his veins as the space between your lips and his grows more and more infinitesimally small.
You like to pretend that you'd never given much thought to how your first kiss with Gojo would go, but you never would have thought that it would be like this— gentle and sweet. But despite that, it feels almost like your chest is going to burst as he fills your lungs, your veins, your entire being.
For just a moment, you think he’s about to pull away, and your body reacts of its own accord, reaching out for him, keeping him close. It’s at this moment that the kiss shifts into something more hungry, more desperate. Gojo’s lips part, his tongue swiping against your lips, begging you to do the same.
You do not deny him.
Eventually, eventually you pull away, dazed and out of breath, but Gojo doesn’t let you go too far, his arms wrapping around you. A silence settles around the two of you as you stand there, bathing in moonlight.
Of course, it doesn’t last for long.
“You’re really down bad for me, huh,” Gojo remarks, his voice infuriatingly smug.
You rip yourself from his grasp... or, at least, you try to. What you manage to do is free yourself enough so that you can look at his face. Naturally he’s beaming, all too pleased by everything that’s going on, his eyes shining brighter than any star in the sky.
The words you normally say, the words you usually say, try to force their way out of your mouth, but you catch them before they do. You’ve decided, you remind yourself, you won’t deny him any more.
“...guess I am,” you answer, as casually as possible, then you add, as a cheeky afterthought, “And what about you?”
The grin on Gojo’s face widens as he leans in and that’s how your second kiss begins.
#gojo x reader#gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo x you#jjk x reader#nikuniku fics#i am not joking about how i agonized over this#agonized about the tension#about the pacing the flow#agonized about the tonal shift#i literally wrote and rewrote sentences over and over trying to get them to work out right#another whole writerussy into it work lmao#so god i hope someone likes it#i could have written a more passionate kiss oh well next time#i did not abuse italics this time and thank fucking god lmaoooo#the cross post will be so much easier#infinite loop!verse
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the real problem with The Silmarillion is that the creative sandbox is SO big, from the literal world map to the many-millennia timeline to the characters who are half historical figure constructed from 6 different half-contradictory drafts, half mythical archetype, and don’t even get me STARTED on the theological philosophy… that there is NO chance anyone else will remotely properly write the fic in your head. In other fandoms, I can be pretty sure that at least the people in the carefully chosen 12-person discord server I belong to all have the same fic in their heads that we jammed together at 2am, with the same interpretations of character and theme which we’ve debated and discussed at length. But The Silmarillion? You can spend 3 hours discussing a single character in like a 5-year period and walk away completely happy with shared headcanons BUT SIMULTANEOUSLY certain that their interpretation of the character is fundamentally different than yours, such that any fic they write would suffer from notable if not severe “he would not fucking say that” disorder…and that both your and their interpretations are completely reasonable reads of the text, so you can’t even be mad.
So you HAVE to write ALL your own fic or it’s AGONIZING.
#the silmarillion#tumblr give me polls so I can ask my audience what they most want to read#so I can focus on something instead of just having wildly tonally different plot bunnies bouncing around my head CHALLENGE#me eight months ago: why do so many people write long elaborate return to valinor fics? it’s gets saccharinely samey surely#me now: I want my blorbos to get A chance to live happily ever after but the nuances of their many characterizations and relationships#as well as changes in elvish society culture and technology; the literal effects of the Oath; the attitudes of the Valar#the involvement and/or existence of certain OCs; and the balance of tragedy joy seriousness humor cynicism and hope must all be CORRECT or I#will at best be ANTSY
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Luo Binghe in hell, from ch. 2 of Heartbreak and Other Foreplay. Gouache on paper.
#this story is the most tonally-jarring thing i think i've ever written. it is so hard to figure out how to characterize it#i feel like everything i can say about it is misleading somehow#is it comedy? is it lurid whump? is it tender domestic fluff? is it a string of case fics stapled together by porn? why yes it is!!!#HaOF#svsss fanart#svsss fanfiction#luo binghe#my art#illustration#tw: gore#tw: blood#svsss
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honestly with Bang Brave Bang Bravern not actually being a Brave show and likely a parody of the genre, it means that the studio doesnt have to adhere to previous brave formulas with the robots which means that Bravern could actually be sus as hell/evil and tbh im so for that. i want a yandere robot in my life so bad
#cjj sayeth#bang brave bang bravern#context: according to a brave fan friend the studio behind bravern is not the studio that has the rights to the greater Brave franchise#the director has worked on brave shows but its not the same#the use of 'change' when he transforms is either a way to avoid takara/hasbro going after them and/or a nod to brave itself#smth smth smth#kinda explains why its so tonally different from most brave shows afaik lmao#anyway evil bravern has a chance of existing and while its a small one it would be so insane if it happened#if it doesnt then i need more fics
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Ok!! Unfinished Miraculous Ladybug animatic based on @peachcitt‘s Metamorphosis!
I wish I could have finished the whole song, but I got covid during the couple of days off I was going to do most of the work on it. Almost didn’t post it its so unfinished, but I’m trying to be better about showing stuff that isn’t perfect!
#Miraculous Ladybug#metamorphasis#ml#ladynoir#my art#IT FEELS TONALLY DISSONANT TO POST THIS#WHICH IS SO IN THE THICK OF ALL THE ANGST AND BETRAYAL#AFTER THE FIC HAS GONE THROUGH ALL THE CATHARSIS LOL#for reference i read it before chapter 15 and 16 came out#ALSO sorry to all the gg people who followed this account this is now a Generalist Art Side Blog
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I COULDN’T NOT DRAW THEM. OK
The Lights of Avalon by @alkalinefrog
#JUST FISHLEGS CARRYING SANDY EVERYWHERE IS A RLLY CHARMING VISUAL#fic: tloa#mine#didn’t post the two doodles together bc they felt so tonally different djdjsja#Fishlegs#rotbtd#httyd#rotg#rtte#sandy rotg
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Title: Tonality [5]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous Chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.
“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.
Your father is to be buried tomorrow.
You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.
“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.
“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.
Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.
“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.
“Please, mother—”
“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.
You cannot stop—
She will not let you.
You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.
“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.
“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.
“Now close his eyes.”
You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.
Perhaps I am mad, after all.
Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.
They stay.
“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.
At least, you try to.
The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.
“W-who is it?”
“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.
Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.
“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”
“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”
“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.
You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.
“You won’t need them.”
The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.
“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.
“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.
“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”
You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.
“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.
“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.
“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”
“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.
“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.
“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.
“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”
“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”
“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.
“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”
In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—
And then burnt their dreams out.
“What did it cost?”
“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”
Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.
But the witch might.
—
The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.
There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.
The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.
You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”
Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.
Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.
The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.
It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.
The thought spurs you onward.
The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.
You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.
The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.
The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.
“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.
“I—I am looking for—”
“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.
She is an elf.
It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.
“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.
“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.
“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.
The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.
“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”
“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.
“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”
Your throat tightens.
“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”
The stone stops.
“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.
“And what do you dream?”
“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”
“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.
“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”
“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.
“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”
“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.
“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.
“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.
“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.
“Please, I—”
“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.
“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”
“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”
“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.
“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.
It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?
Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?
Would he have even wanted to?
Perhaps I can just ask him myself.
The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.
It is by that grace alone that you see the man.
You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.
Nilfgaardian.
You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.
“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.
The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.
“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”
Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.
“No.”
“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.
“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”
“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.
“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.
“I’ve little stomach for lies.”
A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.
“Here, my Lord.”
The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—
No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.
As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.
The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.
“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.
“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.
The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.
“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”
Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.
“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”
The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.
“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”
“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.
“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”
“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”
He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.
“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.
“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”
Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.
“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.
He came for me.
Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.
“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”
In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.
“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”
Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”
You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—
A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.
“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.
“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.
“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”
You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—
The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.
Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.
“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.
I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.
Just for a little while.
to be continued…
#henry cavill#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fanfiction#geralt#geralt of rivia#henry cavill x reader#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt x reader#geralt x you#witcher fanfiction#witcher fic#the witcher fanfiction#the witcher#the witcher fandom#darkfic#dark fantasy#au#boxofbonesfic#Tonality fic
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aromantic/asexual Kaladin. Shallan/Adolin mad horny.
once they realize he's sincerely not interested they back off (not sure if he ever noticed them coming on in the first place) and just, you know, sometimes fantasize. Not making it his problem. maybe they talk with eachother about how unreasonably hot he is, it's ok they're married, if there's anyone you decompress with about inappropriate horniness its your spouse. Not sure who breaks first and pitches the idea of, ah, bedroom lightweaving. But would he be mad? or worse, hurt? It's not like he'd ever find out...but storms what if he did? is it wrong even if he never knows? Can we ask for permission? Would it be worse to ask?? It would so much worse to ask.
I wrote it. They ask. Shockingly wholesome.
#i have more thoughts. might have to fic about it.#stormlight archive#nevertheless cosmere#shakadolin#kinda#two sided shakadolin?#unrequited shakadolin#asexual Kaladin Stormblessed#god i love stupid sex comedy premises with tonally dissonant moral depth
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“You don’t want me to trust you?”
“You said it yourself,” Theo says coldly. “Last time you guys trusted me, I killed Scott.”
“But that was before,” Liam says — the sentence hangs there, complete yet incomplete, suggesting that Theo is a product of change, the after, but without revealing where, exactly, the line between before and after is drawn. Before what? Before he spent months in a Skinwalker prison with only his zombie of a sister for company? Or something else?
post-canon. thiam have a Conversation.
#theo raeken#liam dunbar#thiam#thiam fic#teen wolf#teen wolf fic#thiam fanfic#fic#my fic#my writing#stuff#hiiiiiii#we have fun here#tw#i just rewatched all of 6b specifically to make sure this fic was tonally accurate lmao#so i could FINALLY finish and publish it#and it could stop collecting dust in my drive#voila one ethically complicated kitchen conversation#of course it's in the kitchen this is me we're talking about#what did you expect
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(wait for the season to come back to me tag)
It gets less strange, as time goes by. Eddie doesn’t make any kind of noise about him moving out at some point, and neither do Steve and Robin. Turns out they don't need to store any bodily fluids in the fridge, and in fact if Steve didn't know better, he wouldn't be able to tell that Eddie's drinking blood at all. Steve assumes he's getting animal blood from somewhere on a regular basis, but as far as either Steve or Robin can tell, he never takes it inside the apartment.
Anyway, it turns out Eddie can still technically eat human food, but about half of it tends to come back up afterwards. They’re still figuring out what works and what doesn’t. Robin made a little chart with smiley-face and frowny-face stickers, which Eddie has been gleefully filling out. He’s drawn little fangs onto the stickers with a Sharpie.
That’s another thing: to Steve’s mild surprise, Eddie and Robin have been getting along like a house on fire.
“I really wish I’d known him in high school,” says Robin, slicing bell peppers for dinner. “I think it would’ve made Hawkins a lot more bearable.”
Steve doesn’t really remember Eddie at all from school, which is probably a really good thing.
He can’t imagine the guy he was back then being this obsessed with Eddie. Well, no, that’s not true. He can imagine it, but he’d have been such a jackass about it. Probably would’ve fucked a few girls about it. Maybe would’ve even bullied Eddie about it.
“Did you come out to him yet?” Steve asks Robin.
Robin leans all the way out the kitchen door, practically horizontal. Steve grabs the back of her belt so she doesn’t overbalance. “Hey! Hey, Eddie!” she yells.
“What, Buckley!” he yells back.
“I’m gay!”
“Cool, me too!”
She lets Steve’s grip swing her back in, grinning. “Your turn, dingus.”
Steve’s going to. He is. The longer he waits, the more awkward it gets. He’s got nothing to lose. He—
Robin takes him by the shoulders, spins him around, and pushes him out into the living room.
“Uh,” he says. “I’m—bisexual.”
Eddie actually does, like, a full-body twitch; his eyebrows climb practically to his hairline for a second, and he sets down his book.
“I’m…very proud of you? Thank you for telling me?”
“Why are you being weirder about me than Robin,” says Steve, annoyed.
“Because you’re being weirder about it than Robin was! I don’t know, I don’t have a lot of practice with, uh, this. Also, Robin was a band geek who dressed like Annie Hall, and you were—popular.” He draws out popular like it’s got three key changes in it, waving his hands in the air.
“Yeah, okay,” Steve huffs. “Sorry I wasn’t, like, alternative enough to be a real queer.”
“No, c’mon, Steve, I didn’t mean it like that. I accept you! Buckley, get in here and accept Steve with me.”
“Ste-eve Harrington,” Robin sings out, wandering out of the kitchen to wrap her arms around Steve’s waist. “We accept you and your beautiful bisexual soul.”
“Thanks,” says Steve dryly.
Eddie points at him. “Feel accepted.”
“I feel accepted,” Steve says; daring, he holds out an arm, and Eddie hops up to let Steve pull him into the hug too.
“Good,” says Eddie into Steve’s shoulder. “You should be.”
#steddie#fic: wait for the season to come back to me#I'd been slogging through angst and complaining about it#and today I was like. but what if I didn't tho.#what if I just wrote about the vaguely weird coming-out you do when you spend most of your time in queernormative spaces#and you already kind of know about the other person even if nothing's been officially confirmed#I've literally said 'samesies' to a coming-out bc I'm the woooorst#the other day a straight friend asked me 'when did you come out'#and I was like...this morning. yesterday. last year. twenty years ago.#also I feel I have been focusing too much on the pathos of this story and not enough on vampire shenanigans#I'm making the executive decision not to care about tonal shifts
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deked is a much more amusing word than feinted and frankly I think I should be allowed to use it in a fic without feeling agonizingly and embarrassingly canadian
#it's one of those words that i did not realize was apparently less common in other places#i will use it casually in every day conversation and have received ???? for it#unjust#deke is a fun word. fun to say fun to write we should all be using it#bene speaks#more like bene grumbles because she's editing a fic and realized that this word will probably need to be changed#tonally feels off but it captures the SPIRIT of the scene so much better than ''feinted''#harrumph
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