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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years

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Eccentricity [Chapter 9: Now I Love Your Shadow And I Love Your Curls]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Til I Die” by Parsonsfield.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sex, violence, and drug use.

Word Count: 7.6k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk

Field Trip

“You want to go to Chicago with me?”

I coughed, having almost inhaled a chunk of pineapple off my slice of GrubHubbed pizza. We were sitting on the grass outside Forks And Spoons under the shade of the maple trees, which were turning from jade to ruby to amber to fool’s gold, rejoining the earth they once rose from one fallen leaf at a time. It hadn’t rained in almost four days—was that some kind of record?!—and the leaves littering the ground crunched when I stepped on them, which I did purposefully and often. The breeze was soft and whispery and temperate. I could get used to this whole having actual seasons thing. “What, in like a hypothetical, at some point in my life kind of way?”

Joe smiled. His U Chicago hoodie of the day was black. “No, as in this weekend.”

“Really?”

“The Cubs have a game on Saturday, and it’s supposed to be rainy and overcast the whole time, and I just thought...” He shrugged, toying with a piece of pizza crust before tossing it to the squirrels. He’s nervous, I realized. How the hell do I have the ability to make the sexy undead Italian man nervous? “It might be nice for us to be able to get away for a few days. Away from my family. Away from Charlie. Not that I don’t appreciate the ambient noise of his snoring from the living room couch, it’s super endearing, I seriously consider dating him instead of you at least twice a week.”

“Go for it. Charlie could use a rich husband. His pension is pathetic.”

“You wouldn’t miss me?”

“I am not necessarily opposed to clandestinely seducing my sugar daddy stepdad should the occasion arise.”

Joe crossed himself like a nun passing tattooed, cursing, lip-pierced teenagers on the sidewalk. “Lord, protect me from this harlot.”

A weekend away. No Charlie, no constant and chaotic whirlwind of Lees, no Ben. I hadn’t spoken to Ben since our misadventure in the Lee kitchen; if he wasn’t avoiding me of his own volition, he was following orders to stay away. Joe claimed that they’d talked it out. I wasn’t sure if I believed him. “I accept your invitation. Although, truthfully, I’d rather get hit by a bus than watch an entire real-life, no-commercial-breaks baseball game.”

“I accept your acceptance. And I’ll throw in a visit to the Shedd Aquarium, just for you. They have baby sea otters.”

“Sweet.” I checked my iPhone. “I’m gonna be late for Chemistry.”

“Anything fun planned?”

“We’re doing a lab involving hydrochloric acid. I’m highly concerned that Ben will accidentally spill some on himself. The miraculous instantaneous healing thing might raise a few questions.”

“Hm,” Joe replied. But he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at my bandaged hand. And he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Joe, I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” He took a preoccupied swig of his Dr. Pepper. Solemnity never seemed right on him; it was like he was wearing somebody else’s skin. “You’ve mentioned that.”

“Hey. Mob guy.”

Now his eyes flicked to mine.

“No more sad spaghetti.”

“Okay.” He surrendered, took my face in his hands, gave me a kiss on each cheek and then one quick parting peck on the forehead. “You win. I’m not sad. I’m ecstatic, actually. I’m gonna be eating my weight in hotdogs and mustard-slathered pretzels on Saturday. What’s there not to be ecstatic about?”

“The fact that your license says you’re only twenty and consequently can’t get a beer?”

Joe blinked, remembering. “Fuck.”

I drained my Diet Coke, flung my pizza crust to the skittering grey squirrels—no eerie albino forest friends today—and pulled on my backpack. “See ya. Have an awesome time in Game Theory.”

“Thanks, I probably won’t!” he chimed, waving, grinning compliantly; and yet did I still sense some lingering menace of disquiet, of fear? I suspected I did. Chicago would cure everything.

Ben tensed when I walked into Professor Belvin’s classroom, ran his fingers through his unruly blond hair, peered fixedly down at his notebook and feigned obliviousness. There was already a metal tray of Erlenmeyer flasks, labeled bottles of solutions, burettes, goggles, gloves, and an unassembled ring stand crowding our small table by the open window. Autumn air poured in like seawater through cracks in the hull of a ship.

“Guess who’s gonna see the Cubs play up close and personal this Saturday?” I announced.

He pretended to have just noticed me. “...You...? But that doesn’t sound like you.”

“It was Joe’s idea. I’m acting like I’m not totally thrilled and freaking out about it, but I am. Don’t tell him.”

Now Ben was the one staring at my bandaged hand. His green eyes were large and unfocused.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

“Sure,” Ben returned noncommittally.

I started skimming through the packet of lab instructions and setting up our titration experiment as Professor Belvin circulated through the classroom, observing, commenting, offering suggestions and critiques. My wounded hand—still sore in the lull between Advil doses and relatively useless—was quite the embarrassing hinderance; I fumbled with a large glass flask and almost dropped it.

Ben shook his head and reached out to stop me. “Here, oh my god, this is so pitiful, sit down. Please sit down. I’ll set it up. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks.” I peeked at his notebook. “Your handwriting is atrocious. Haven’t you had like a century to work on that?”

“Penmanship was never at the top of my to-do list, tragically.”

“What language is that, anyway?” The phrases scrawled in black ink in Ben’s notebook definitely weren’t English. Or Italian. “Elvish? Are you a lowkey Lord Of The Rings fan? Magic and self-sacrifice and nearly insurmountable evil, I could see that being your thing.”

He smirked, struggling with the ring stand. “It’s Welsh.”

“Welsh,” I repeated, perplexed. “Welsh...like how Gwil is Welsh?”

“Precisely.”

Professor Belvin checked in on us, nodded in approval, reminded me that I was always welcome to stop by at bowling league activities, and resumed his wandering.

“Gwil still speaks it,” Ben continued. “The rest of them speak it too. At least enough for basic communication.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, fascinated, examining the long, unfamiliar words riddled with Ls and Ws and Cs. “But that must be very useful.”

“It is. Welsh is nearly a dead language at this point. It’s like talking in code. I always refused to learn it on principle...or maybe I was just being difficult. I would study other languages, Arabic, Japanese...but not Welsh. That was always Gwil’s language. Their language. It was a Lee thing. But now...”

“Now you��re sort of a Lee too,” I finished for him, smiling.

“Whatever,” Ben said, hiding behind his bangs.

I watched him as he at last tamed the ring stand, secured the burette, placed the Erlenmeyer flask. Then he began reading the labels on the solution bottles. “Guess what else.”

“What, Baby Swan?”

I grinned, showing off my unremarkable, entirely benign human teeth. “I’ll bring you back your very own U Chicago hoodie.”

That night, after a pleasantly prosaic dinner with Charlie—burgers, one veggie and one of the conventional variety, and milkshakes at Danny’s Diner—I started packing a small, Arizona-sky-blue suitcase as sparse raindrops pattered against the roof and moonlight streamed in through the open window. Then I ticked off my mental inventory.

“Jeans, sweaters, pajamas, socks...”

I pawed through the top drawer of my old, scratched dresser—the same one that had once upon a time been Renee’s—and contemplated the bra and panty options. Would my theme be comfort and practicality, or feral impenitent seductress? Friday and Saturday in Chicago would be our first nights alone together. That had to be significant, right? After some deliberation, I gathered a handful of lacy, transparent, and/or exceptionally skimpy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret that Jessica had more or less forced upon me during a shopping trip in Port Angeles last month. As I dropped them into the open suitcase, I glanced up to see the albino owl outside my open bedroom window.

“You never know,” I told the owl, shrugging.

It leered judgmentally back at me with those gory red eyes.

“Oh shut up. How many eggs have you laid in your lifetime, Casper The Unfriendly Ghost? Probably like a bazillion. Freaking feathery trollop.”

The owl had nothing to offer in its own defense.

“Why don’t you ever come around when Joe’s here? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He’s pale and weird too. Although I like his eyes a little better than yours. No offense, Snowflake.”

The owl blinked, tilted its gaze at me, ruffled its feathers and sent the raindrops that had gathered there flying in every direction.

I slid my iPhone out of my back pocket, spun around, and snapped a quick selfie with the owl in the background. “Say cheese, Marshmallow!”

The owl immediately unfurled its wings and flapped off into the trees, vanishing.

“Huh. I guess homegirl is camera shy.” I texted my selfie to Archer, typing out with my thumbs: I am the Steve Irwin of Forks. Behold, one of my many forest friends.

Archer replied a few minutes later: WOW! Pasty and mildly disturbing. Exactly your type. :)

“Yours too, apparently,” I murmured, smiling in my empty room.

I went to my full-length mirror with the plastic, teal-colored border, briefly appraised my reflection, felt a dull swell of approval for what I saw there. The version of myself that had once been so consumed by fears of inadequacy seemed impossibly far away, maybe even fictitious, a dream so vivid I could mistake it for truth. Three things were taped across the top of the mirror: Joe’s Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!! post-it, his Official Whatever You Want Pass, and a photo of us dressed up together and standing in front of the limo in the Lees’ driveway just before the Calawah University Homecoming dance. I peeled off the Official Whatever You Want Pass, carefully folded it into a neat little square, and tucked it into my wallet.

When the rain began to pour and thunder rolled in off the Pacific Ocean, I closed my bedroom window; but I remembered to leave it unlocked for Joe.

Departure

“Got your license?”

“Yes, Dad,” Joe sighed.

“Got your airport snacks?”

Joe held up the gallon-sized Ziploc bag filled with pumpkin and white chocolate chip cookies. “We’re ready to rock.”

“Call me when you get there safe,” Mercy fretted, hugging me and then Joe. “And Joseph, sweetheart, you make sure you keep an eye on her. She’s never been to Chicago before, it’s a big city, and O’Hare is an absolute nightmare, it’s so easy to get lost...”

“I don’t think he needs any reminders, love.” Dr. Lee laid a hand on her shoulder, stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with the other, watched us with a vague and wistful smile.

Mercy went back to trimming the flowers she had spread out across the kitchen countertop, white calla lilies that she threaded one by one into a translucent sapphire blue vase. “Now don’t forget to say goodbye to your brother. He’s out back feeding the new ducks. And I expect these ones to stick around for a while, thank you very much.”

“Mom, I don’t need to say goodbye to Rami. I’ll just think it. Really loudly.” Joe rubbed his temples with his fingertips and squeezed his eyes shut. “Peace out, you nosy bastard.”

“Joseph,” Mercy pleaded.

“Okay, okay, I’ll go say goodbye. Don’t get all aggressive. Don’t take it out on the flowers.” Aggressive...what a joke. I doubted that Mercy Eleanor Lee, formerly Martin, had a single aggressive bone in her immortal body; not even the infinitesimal stapes of her inner ears or the sesamoids of her feet.

“They’re calla lilies,” she replied dreamily, tending them like children. “And they symbolize love, and beauty, and fidelity...”

My nostrils itched and burned faintly in dissent. “I think I’m allergic to them.”

“You’re allergic to fidelity?” Joe asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s it, now you’re definitely not getting my reclaimed virginity. No ma’am. I am not hit-it-and-quit-it material.”

“Oh sweet baby Jesus,” Mercy murmured.

“I’m going,” Joe said, showing his palms in capitulation and disappearing out the back door. I dragged my suitcase to the front one, politely declining Mercy and Gwil’s offers to help.

Lucy—her bleached hair in a high half-ponytail and wearing polka-dotted black tights, combat boots, a plaid miniskirt, and an extremely Octoberish orange sweater—was sitting cross-legged on the roof of Gwil’s Volvo. God, he’s such a dad. “Have a nice time,” she chirped artfully.

I opened the hatch of Joe’s Subaru and threw my suitcase inside. “Why do you sound like you already know I will?”

“I might have some relevant clairvoyant insight.”

“No way.” I stared up at her, stunned, my hands on my waist. “But you can’t see me, right...?”

“True. But this vision wasn’t of you. It was of Joe. You just happened to be there.”

Interesting. Very interesting. “And what transpired in this vision?” A night full of hot, steamy, blissful vampire sex? A girl could dream.

Lucy closed her eyes, recalling it fondly, maybe even cherishing it. “You were sitting in the stands of a professional baseball game. I could hear the crowd roaring, the umpire’s trumpeting interruptions. Blue and white...everyone was wearing blue and white. And you were there together—Joe a vampire, you human, side by side, almost entwined—shouting to each other over the thunderous noise and laughing and pushing nuggets of soft pretzels into each other’s mouths. So happy. I’d never seen Joe so happy.” Her striking pale eyes came open. “And he’s someone who’s already rather prone to happiness, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“I have,” I agreed.

“He’s never been serious about anybody else. I hope you know that.”

“I know that’s what he tells me.”

“It’s the truth,” Lucy insisted. “I would know if it wasn’t. Rami would know, Ben would know. Joe...he’s kind of the opposite of you. He’s always been the easiest to read. He’s the one Rami hears most loudly, the one who shows up most often in my visions. He’s clear, you know? Uncomplicated. Authentic. And what you mean to him...it’s something everybody sees. It’s a contagious sort of lightness, of joy. So thank you for that.”

And if whatever mysterious genetic switch that renders me immune to your talents wasn’t flipped, I’m pretty sure I’d look the same way. “I should definitely be thanking you,” I said. “You guys have a pretty cool existence going on here. And I’m so grateful to be invited into it.” For however long this lasts, anyway.

“None of us really invited you,” Lucy demurred. “We just let it happen.”

“So everyone knew I was coming? Because you saw it?”

“Everyone but Joe.”

“You never told him?”

“No. Not even now.” Lucy turned sharply towards the trees, as if she heard something in the soaring western hemlocks that swayed drunkenly in the wind. After a moment, she continued. “I’m not sure if I can even explain why. It wasn’t that I feared changing the timeline or something...my visions always come true regardless. Always. But I guess...” She tugged on her short half-ponytail, pondering. “I guess I didn’t want to cloud any of his decision-making, any of his emotions with the specter of the inevitable. I wanted whatever he felt for you to be completely organic. And it is.”

I considered her. “You are extremely thoughtful for someone who spends as much time shopping as you do.”

Lucy laughed in a high-pitched, almost juvenile trill, netting her fingers beneath her chin, her elbows resting on her bent knees. “I do like to shop. I didn’t always though.” She peered off into the trees again, this time pensively. “Did Joe tell you anything about my life before Gwil saved me?”

“Aside from the copious hippie jokes, not really.”

She nodded, her eyes far-away and still lost in the forest. “Gwil and Mercy are inordinately wonderful people. My biological father and mother, unfortunately, were not. And maybe they couldn’t help it, because from what I understand their parents were monsters too. I don’t think of them very often now, not even to resent them. But when I was alive I burned with it, with all that hatred, with all that bitterness. Every bruise was another log on the fire. Every screaming match or hurled plate was a splash of gasoline. So I ran away and found what I fancied to be a new family, and I lived on basement couches and out of vans and in abandoned buildings, and I explored increasingly inventive ways of putting that fire out.”

The October breeze cascaded through the trees, carrying echoes of birdsong and disembodied distant voices and the scent of pine. It reminded me of Joe.

“Chemically speaking,” Lucy said, “that first hit of heroin, that first high...it’s the best you’ll ever feel in your entire life. Nothing else will ever compare. Not skydiving, not backpacking through Southeast Asia on some Pulitzer-prize-winning journey of self-discovery, not winning the lottery, not the births of your children, not falling in love. And once you accept that, what’s the point in stopping? Everything you ever experience will live in the shadow of that needle. You’re twenty-five and you’ve already seen the endgame. You’re born, you suffer, you catch a glimpse of paradise, you pay bills and push shopping carts down the aisles of grocery stores and insipidly smile your way through your husband’s work parties until you die. What’s the fucking point? So I didn’t stop shooting heroin. And the whole time, I knew it was killing me. That’s what they don’t tell kids when they force them to make those idiotic classroom promises to never do drugs. You know it’s killing you, but you don’t care. Because it feels so goddamn good. Because it becomes the only sliver of your existence that doesn’t cut like glass beneath your skin. Sometimes you love things so much you let them kill you, isn’t that ridiculous?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer her; still, I heard my own voice: “Yes, it is.”

“It took dying for me to see that life is worth living. That there’s magic in the mundane and the frivolous. And that there’s beauty everywhere if you bother to look for it.” Lucy uncrossed her trim legs, leapt gracefully off the Volvo, and—with definite but not unkind scrutiny—pulled at the collar of my thrift shop sweater. “Even in your very, very, very misguided fashion preferences.”

The front door of the Lee house swung open, and Joe jogged out, carrying his suitcase. Gwil, Mercy, Scarlett, Rami, and Ben appeared on the porch to wave us off.

“What’d you do?!” Joe demanded, pointing at Lucy.

“Nothing,” she quipped.

“You guys gotta stop doing this!” Joe exclaimed. “You know what you’re doing, you know exactly what you’re doing, you gotta stop cornering people and forcing them to listen to your creepy tragic backstories! Nobody freaking asked!”

Lucy chuckled patiently and stood on her tiptoes to hug him goodbye. “Have fun.”

“You know it.” Joe tossed his suitcase into the Subaru and opened the driver’s door. “Ready, Baby Swan?”

“Almost.”

I walked to the wrap-around porch, climbed the steps, held my hand out to Ben. My stitches had almost completely dissolved over the past week, and the clunky impediment of bandages was no more. Joe crossed his arms and watched from beside the Subaru with an uneasy frown, but he didn’t try to stop me. He nodded to Rami, so subtly I almost didn’t notice. Rami nodded back.

“I will miss your melodramatic brooding immensely,” I told Ben. “Please do some fun family stuff while we’re gone. I’ll see you soon. Dan eich bendith.”

“Dan eich bendith,” he replied, taken aback. And then, after a moment’s hesitation, he ignored my outstretched hand and embraced me, his grasp so strong and yet so careful. His scent like crisp leaves and salted caramel and autumn sieved into a bottle unfolded in my lungs like an opened book.

“I Googled that especially for you,” I whispered. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m in awe.” His words were characteristically sardonic, but I heard warmth in them as well. When Ben pulled away, I saw that everyone else was smiling. Mercy had tears in her eyes.

I retreated back down the porch steps and met Joe by the Subaru. “Okay, mob guy. I’m good.”

He slid on his sunglasses, shook his head, flashed a proud and toothy grin. “You definitely are.”

All the way down Route 101 to the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, we listened to Joe’s classic rock mixtapes and my NOAA Ocean Podcast episodes, reviewed the weekend itinerary, ran through the bare essentials for me to understand an MLB game (“Which I am totally not excited about whatsoever,” I informed Joe, who knew enough not to believe me).

When the Boeing 747 ascended above the clouds and unimpeded sunlight poured in from the other passengers’ windows, Joe put on a black sleeping mask over his sunglasses and reclined his seat, tried to nap, passed the time until he would be safe beneath the curtains of the sky again.

Somewhere over the Dakotas, as I leafed through a book about the Great Barrier Reef for my Marine Botany class, Joe’s hand bumped mine. “Hey,” he said drowsily, seriously; and I braced myself for some emotional declaration, some dire warning, some grave realization of the futility of what we agreed—almost always wordlessly, and yet unfailingly—was love.

“Yeah?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Uh oh,” I replied, smiling now.

“Flag down the flight attendant and get some more of those honey roasted peanut packets,” Joe said. “I’m starving myself back to death over here.”

The Windy City

The bat cracked deafeningly against the baseball pitched at nearly a hundred miles per hour. It was a home run. The crowd erupted into mindless, primal shrieks of conquest; and when Joe jumped to his feet, clapping and cheering and nearly spilling his blue-and-white bucket of popcorn, I found that I did as well. I screamed for the team of a city I’d never lived in, sank back into my seat beside Joe, nestled against his chest as his right arm closed around my waist and hauled me in closer, as his left hand teased me with a soft pretzel nugget hovering just out of reach. And in that moment, I felt like Lucy, snatching Polaroids out of the space-time continuum of the present and the future and the past. There was where Joe and I were right now, of course; the day we had met each other in the nonfiction section of the Calawah University library; the dance floor at Homecoming; the first night he snuck soundlessly into my bedroom window; all those years we still had left to spend together. Not forever, but perhaps long enough.

“I like this baseball thing,” I told him over the roar of the crowd, twirling my fingers around the curling locks of dark hair that stuck out from under his Cubs cap. Or maybe I just like you.

“Whew, thank god.” Joe wiped his forehead with the back of his hand in mock relief. “Now I don’t have to break up with you.”

After the game—a 5-3 Cubs victory, close enough to keep the spectators’ blood pumping throughout—we boarded the L, held onto the metal railings as the packed train car bumped and swerved along, and disembarked in Little Italy. Historic brownstones were interrupted by a freckling of pizzerias, Italian ice stands, and sports bars spilling out shouts of triumph and despair. We were staying in the Four Seasons with a view of Lake Michigan; but we had an hour of daylight—albeit chilled, dreary, and forever threatening rain—left in our Saturday. Tomorrow would be the aquarium, and then dinner before catching our flight back to Seattle, back to the greenery and fog and eternal dampness that I was beginning to think of as my home. Had I really only left Phoenix two months ago? Had I ever really lived there at all?

“So,” Joe said as we walked under shedding green ash and black cherry trees, his arm draped across my shoulders. “Guess what the University of Chicago has. In addition to a killer Economics PhD program, which yours truly will be graduating from in approximately 2027, astonishingly aged not a single day. Maybe he’s born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Hideous sweatshirts?” I guessed.

“One of the best Marine Biology departments in the world. And the affiliated Marine Biological Laboratory up in Massachusetts, where they send their PhDs to do research.”

“Wait, seriously?” I stopped abruptly, the heels of my boots squealing against the sidewalk. “You mean...for me?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, for my other girlfriend who is also inexplicably super obsessed with the ocean. I clearly have a type.”

“You want me...to come to Chicago...with you...after graduation? For like...a five to seven year commitment?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Well, that just sounds...serious.”

“Huh. What do you know. I guess we’re serious after all.” He took my hand and pulled me gently forward, leading me down West Taylor Street. He seemed to have a destination in mind.

“How is this going to work for you, anyway?” I asked, beaming uncontrollably now, trotting along beside him. “Living in a place that isn’t Washington or Scotland or Alaska?” Chicago was cold and cloudy for a lot of the year, true, but few cities were Forks-level wet and sunless. Forks-level tyrannically depressing, I would have said two months ago.

He shrugged, unphased. “Night classes. Sunglasses. Faking a chronic illness so I don’t have to leave our house. I’m really good at that one. Plus I can get a doctor’s note any time I want one. I’ve got connections, you know.”

Our house. He said OUR house.

Joe came to halt in front of a stately yet plain brownstone which now operated as a trendy bookstore, the kind that sold six dollar lattes and hosted anarchist poetry slams on Friday nights.

“Is this where we’re going to crack hipsters’ kneecaps as a bonding activity?” I asked.

“This is where I grew up.”

I looked again, studying the earth-colored stone quarried over a century ago, the wrought iron railings that framed the front steps, the rectangular windows revealing the illumination and shadows of other families’ lives. “Joe,” I said softly, leaning into him, searching for my words.

“There were eight Mazzello kids: Joseph, Charles, Mimi, Salvador, Donna, Lucia, Bianca, and Giuliano.” He rattled them off like a jingle from a fast food commercial. “And I was the oldest. So when my dad dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of his shift at the Zenith Radio factory, it was my job to step up and figure out how to keep everyone fed. I was seventeen and completely hopeless at school back then; Sal was always the smart one, the disciplined one, he ended up as a math professor at Loyola University. I was just some directionless, grieving kid who never shut up. But there was a place for boys like me in Chicago in the 1920s. The mob could get you money. The mob could turn that same incessant chatter that got you bruised at school into something useful. And the mob could give you a family.”

Joe watched the brownstone solemnly, meditatively, his hands in his pockets.

“My mom sobbed for an hour the first time I brought home an envelope full of bills with Hamilton’s face on them. She knew how I got it. But how could she say no, how could she tell me to stop? We’d never seen money like that. All my siblings could finish school. My sisters could have new dresses on days that weren’t Christmas and Easter, my brothers new shoes, Sal the glasses he needed so badly. My mother always had something to put in the offering plate at church. And once you were in the mob, it wasn’t exactly easy to leave. But they took care of their own. After I died, they sent my mother money for years, until her own children were established enough to support her. That’s when I learned that money wasn’t just something that put food on the dinner table or kept the lights on. It’s a way of showing loyalty, of giving people peace and comfort and meaningful choices in their lives. It’s how I’ve been taught to give back to the world. So I guess I shouldn’t have disparaged my fellow vampires back in Forks, because there’s a slice of my tragic backstory, Baby Swan. Now you know. And you should know everything, since we’re in this thing together. Or maybe I just want you to.”

I laid my palm against his cool and flawless face, ran my thumb lightly across his cheek. “You really are serious about me.”

“I am alarmingly serious about you.”

“Even though this thing of ours has an expiration date?” Since I can never become a vampire. Since I will never have the distinction of being a permanent fixture of the Lee coven.

“That’s not a problem for today. That’s a problem for ten or fifteen years from now, whenever you decide you want to settle down and have kids and do the whole Great American Dream bit. You’ll be sick of me by then anyway. You’ll be dying to get away from us. Hahaha, get it? It’s a pun. Dying to get away from the vampires.”

I couldn’t imagine ever being sick of Joseph Francis Mazzello. Still, ten or fifteen years felt almost as good as forever to me. Fifteen autumns, fifteen Christmases, fifteen journeys around the sun that he avoided so deftly. “Why me, Joe?” I asked, incredulous. “You could have anyone. Any human, any vampire. Why me?”

“Because you’re you,” he said simply. And his mystified dark eyes added: What kind of a question is that? “You’re smart and you’re hilarious and you actually care about the world, about where it came from, about where it’s going, about people and places and animals that you’ll never meet. You’re indomitable. You’re fearless almost to the point of recklessness. And yet you’re so kind. You’re even nice to Ben, and humans are never nice to him...they’re either horrified or confused, or they’re too busy fantasizing about him to remember that he’s a real fucking person. But you’ve always tried to see the good in him. Even when he didn’t deserve it.” Joe shook his head, marveling. “And yeah, I’ve...I’ve screwed around, full disclosure. I’ve done the hookup thing. And it was great for what it was. But I never wanted more. I never felt some gnawing, sentimental, Hallmark-channel need for connection, to understand who they were as people. And then I met you, and...I want to know every single goddamn thing about you. I want to know your favorite color, what books you read, what the hell is so appealing about pineapple pizza, what you dream of. I feel like I could never get tired of trying to understand you.”

A refrain circled through my mind like a whirlpool, dragging every other thought down into oblivion: I love him, I love him, I love him. “Blue,” I said at last.

“What?”

“Turquoise blue, like the sky in Arizona. That’s my favorite color.”

The smile, slow and wonderous, rippled across his face. He took my hand again. “Come on.”

Joe led me onwards, down a few blocks and around a corner, as the muted sun receded from the sky and the first stars took its place, pinpricks of celestial light in a blanket of violet, azure, amber, rust. He stopped in front of the Church of Saint Lawrence, established in 1902 according to the sign mounted on the brick wall that faced the street, perhaps the same church that he had once visited with his family as an impatient child, snickering with his brothers and sisters and kicking the back of the pew in front of him with shoes that never fit quite right. There was a fountain bubbling with transparent water, a statue of the Virgin Mary at the center, coins made of copper and nickel and zinc glinting through the water under corridors of silvery luminance cast by the streetlights.

“I lied about not having my own superpower,” Joe informed me mischievously, not at all serious.

“Oh, did you now?”

“Absolutely.” He opened his wallet, rooted around, pulled out a penny and handed it to me. “I can make wishes come true. So go ahead.” He nodded towards the fountain. “Make your wish.”

The penny was worn and nearly indecipherable, but I was just barely able to read that it had been minted in 1928. The same year Joe was turned. “Joe...I can’t just throw this away!”

“You’re not throwing it away. You’re exchanging it for a wish. Now wish.”

I closed my eyes, chose my wish, tossed the penny into the fountain. The plink it made when it hit the water was bright and yet mournful somehow, like windchimes, like flickering candlelight.

“Outstanding job,” Joe complimented.

He was so visibly proud, so content, so faultless. The streetlights threw shadows across the sidewalk, the fountain, the whole world it seemed. I laced my fingers behind his neck, gazing up at him. “What are we doing tonight, mob guy?”

“I’m so glad you asked. You see, we have options.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“Door Number One,” Joe began. “It’s been a long day, and you’re exhausted from the illustrious honor of witnessing a Cubs victory firsthand. So we go back to the hotel, find some shark documentary on tv, order room service, shower, and drift off into a peaceful slumber. Just like last night.”

“Not bad. How about Door Number Two?”

“Door Number Two. You’re tired, but not that tired. We go back to the hotel, find that same aforementioned shark documentary, but totally ignore it and make out instead. Maybe we even round second base, in the spirit of the Cubs. Whatever you’re up for. Then we shower and drift off into a peaceful slumber.”

“Even better,” I said, and I meant it. “And what’s Door Number Three?”

Now Joe became jittery; his eyes darted to the fountain, the church, the cars that rolled lazily by. He was so desperate to conceal his hope, to not impose any undue influence upon me. I felt infinitesimal, almost weightless drops of rain against my cheeks, my collarbones, the downy undersides of my arms. “Well, uh, Door Number Three is...it’s...well...uh...it’s...”

Door Number Three is a home fucking run. “I want Door Number Three.”

“Really? Because you don’t have to say that, you can say no, that’s completely fine, it’s more than fine actually, it’s awesome, it’s totally cool, I’m seriously fine either way, and you can obviously change your mind whenever—”

“Wait.” I broke away from him, yanked my own wallet out of my purse, found the Official Whatever You Want Pass, hastily unfolded it, and presented it to Joe. “I want Door Number Three.”

He barked out a shocked laugh, accepted the pass, studied it in disbelief. “You are full of surprises, ma’am. It took me a hundred years to find a woman like you. And I don’t think I ever will again. Makes one wonder if this whole eternity thing is all it’s cracked up to be.” He tucked the pass into his pocket and kissed me beneath the streetlights, beneath the stars. “So there’s one tiny caveat to my wish-granting superpower.”

“Yeah?”

He smiled impishly, nudging the tip of my nose with his. “You have to tell me what you wished for.” He was joking, as he almost always was; I didn’t have to tell him anything. He wouldn’t press the issue. I doubted that he was really expecting me to answer at all. And yet I wanted to tell Joe; I yearned, for once, to be as clear as Lucy had said he was.

“For you and me,” I replied in little more than a whisper. “And for forever.”

Home

The only thing that startled me was how profoundly unstartling it all was, how wholly uncomplicated, how effortless.

I didn’t feel like a different person afterwards. I didn’t feel that some latent spark of lust, of carnality had been ignited, had singed through me, had left me forever marked like the heights of children ticked off on a doorframe over decades; I felt neither ruined nor awakened, no wiser, no older, no more enlightened as to the incalculable eccentricities of the vast and enigmatic universe. I felt only happiness, and exhausted satisfaction, and a deep, dreamless peace that engulfed me like frothy fingertips of waves dragging pebbles and shells back into the sea. I felt only a homecoming that was measured not in miles but in soul.

We slept in as the morning sun rose over Lake Michigan, bought Ben a hoodie (black, of course, per his usual aesthetic) from the University of Chicago gift shop, strolled unhurriedly through the dimly-lit, relentlessly blue pathways of the Shedd Aquarium. As I stood in the glass tunnel and watched sawfish and blacktip reef sharks soar by overhead, Joe linked his arms around my waist, tucked his chin into the dip of my collarbone, kissed the slope of my jaw.

“What do you think?” he asked, perhaps a touch apprehensively. “Could you get used to the Chicago life for a few years?”

“I would be tempted to kidnap some of these guys and bring them home to live in our bathtub. But yes.”

And Joe murmured, smiling, his lips to my temple: “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

Our flight back to the West Coast took off after dusk, and there was no blinding sunlight for Joe to avoid; only immense glooms of clouds and gleaming distant stars and the unfathomable void of space, cursed with crushing pressure and darkness like the cervices of the ocean floor.

Fifteen years might not be enough, I thought, resting my forehead against the cold airplane window as the city lights died behind us, as Joe’s hand weaved through mine on the armrest. But forever sounds just about right.

Larkin

There once was a boy born in a stone cottage with a dirt floor in a vanishingly inconsequential village just west of Clifden, Ireland. It was February 9th, 1672, bitterly cold, miserably wet, and the sea was murderous with storms. His mother was illiterate, as her mother had been, and as her mother had been as well, all the way back to people who painted mammoths on cave walls with their fingers; she was thirty-three and already exhausted with living, her seven children forever underfoot, her full and ruddy cheeks perpetually smudged with dirt from the field and ashes from the fire. Her husband was a failure and a drunk, but half a day’s worth of work once or twice a week was better than none at all; and as much as she never would have admitted it, he was a tether for her in a world that was often, as she had learned, both lonely and cruel.

She gave the baby boy a name—a strong Irish name, none of that audacious English rubbish—that meant rough or fierce, just like the sea that rose and ruptured against the rocky cliffs outside. He would need to be rough to survive in this world. He would need to be fierce.

He began like all the other children had been: sweet and yet anonymous, yielding, needful, worryingly small. She rocked him absently with one arm as she stirred the stew pot with the other. She sang to him, told him stories long before he could comprehend them, tales of the Lord and the saints and all their malevolent adversaries: serpents, pestilence, demons, dragons. She tossed stray sticks to him so he could carve pictures into the dirt floor and keep out of the way as she labored with the laundry or the sewing. And he grew, and he grew; and there was nothing remarkable about him at all, that boy speckled with mud and soot and the perpetual bruises of children mostly left to their own devices, that boy with pallid skin like his mother’s and black hair like his father’s and eyes so light and vibrant a brown they were nearly gold.

The boy was a baby, and then a child, and then a young man. And his mother realized one day—all at once, as a mother does when their attention is divided among so many other lives, when the children’s analogous faces bleed into each other and even their names sometimes escape her, even those names that she had chosen herself from the stories her own mother once passed to her through threadbare whispers—that people had a habit of following him, of listening to him. That there was an ether of allure that hovered around him like the mists that clung to the precarious, crumbling cliffs that touched the sea; that there was something like what the heathens called magic. And when the war came, that boy who was no longer a boy left his mother’s stone cottage and enlisted in Clifden, lied about his age, signed his name with an X because that was all he knew how to spell. But he was sure to tell the man who handled the ledger that he did have a real name, a good Irish name, a name apt for a soldier, a name that his mother had told him meant rough or fierce: Larkin.

There are men who join wars out of loyalty, principle, love for their homes; and then there are men who join to escape their homes, perhaps to forget them entirely. If you were to consult that ledger signed in a pub in Clifden, Ireland in 1688, you would read that I fought for Ireland, for the Catholics, for Christ the Lord and all his saints. But what I really fought for was my own resurrection: to take that boy stained with dirt and ignorance, drown him in the blood of other mothers’ trivial sons, and dredge up some greater version of myself that I had always known existed, that was hidden somewhere in the netlike darkness of the marrow of my bones.

People follow me, and they always have. I couldn’t tell you why. When I called them to enlist, when I thrusted swords and pikes into their calloused farmers’ fists, when I told them they could fight and live to see their wretched homes again, they believed me. I climbed the ranks like a ladder, like a mountain made of bones. And all those other mothers’ sons laid down for me so I could walk across the bridge of their spines to what I mistakenly assumed was invincibility.

At the Battle Of The Boyne, my horse was shot out from under me. A Williamite caught me beneath the ribs with his dagger. And as I bled out, staring up at the sky and impatiently waiting for the pain to vanish as my consciousness withdrew like low tide, I became aware that someone was lifting me, holding me, spiriting me through the battlefield and then the wilderness; and that my pain, in a disconcerting turn of events, had swelled to a vicious and unrelenting inferno.

Three days later, I woke to find that I was resurrected again, this time as something more than human. The man who turned me was blond-haired, light-eyed, agile and yet gentle, ancient and yet ever-changing.

“I thought you’d survive,” Nikolai said in a thick Slavic accent, standing over me with a kind smile. Then he helped me to my feet. “You have greatness in you. It sweats out of your pores, it’s in every word you speak. What a shame it would be for all of that to go to waste.”

He taught me everything: how to read and write, how to hunt, how to dodge the sunlight, how to survive an existence that was both theoretically endless and yet forever on the precipice of being cut short. He introduced me to the Draghi, to vampires who were remarkable for their ferocity, or their creativity, or their curiosity, or their cleverness, or all those things at once: Victorien, Honora, Elizabeth, Kestrel, Zhang, Sergei, Ana, Gwilym. And most crucially, Nikolai showed me that my human talents were magnified several times over, that his own followers were not immune to them, that there was power in collecting exceptional individuals like pieces of china stacked in a locked cabinet; and that if I could learn to climb immortal bones, the ladder never needed to end.

You never quite get used to the power, to the invincibility, to the promise of eternity. You never take it for granted. It hits you, again and again, in ceaseless and victorious waves. Once I was a barefoot toddler who sketched dragons and Catholic saints from the stories my mother told me into the dirt floor of our drafty stone cottage. Now I live in palaces with marble floors, with spiral staircases and libraries and gold-dripping ballrooms, with unobstructed views of any sea I choose. Now I am the dragon.

My phone rang, and I checked the name on the screen. Then I answered. “Hello, beauty. How’s the other side of the Pacific treating you?”

And Liesl answered, in a soft and astonished voice: “I don’t think Lucy can read her. I don’t think any of them can.”

I could feel it again. Another wave, crashing through me like the ocean, like the unstoppable rolling of time: power and insatiability and exhilaration. I smiled in my twilight-lit study as long-dead stars rose outside and the wind howled like wolves over the East Sea. “You know what to do.”

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bard-llama · 3 years

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WiP List

This is gonna be looooong (like, REALLY long), so I’mma go ahead and give you a cut here. But if you’re interested in what i’m working on, take a look!

Order purely based on the order my tabs are in. I’m only counting WiPs that actually have more than a paragraph written, because if I didn’t, this list would be even longer. Also, pls don’t judge me but what I name my WiPs 😂

Post-Coital Smoke

Kinda what it sounds like tbh. I just wanted Iorveth getting high and admiring Roche’s body and then Roche decided to be a tease. At some point, I assume there will be sex.

Angst: Sex object Roche

Iorveth’s POV of realizing that Roche hurts himself whenever he flirts at Iorveth. Premise is that Roche has been groomed (intentionally or not) by Foltest to be his. So when he feels attraction towards Iorveth, he needs to be punished. And obviously Iorveth helps him learn that no, that’s not okay and idk recovery???

Midwinter Feast

This idea was 100% spawned by me trying to write holiday fics, but Foltest hosts a Midwinter Feast where they close the city for 12 days, leaving Roche to get along with the Nonhuman/Scoia’tael(ish) delegation during that time. Also, Foltest might be using the feast as a delaying tactic to resupply his army. I legit have no idea where this is going, I just thought the idea of Roche and Iorveth stuck at a feast for 12 days was funny.

Solstice Feast aka To Birth a Verdant Future

This was actually an xmas gift for @lutes-and-dandelions, but I havent finished it yet 😓 But the premise is similar to the former in that it’s another solstice feast. But it’s set post-W3 with Emhyr as Emperor throwing a party in the new conquered capital of Vizima. Roche broods a lot about Foltest’s memory and how he hates Emhyr and decides to distract himself by hanging out with Iorveth and suggesting they follow an old elven tradition. And that’s all I’ll say. XD

Next Year (Solstice Feast sequel)

Literally set the next year. This time they merge their lives by merging their people’s traditions.

Lily Preserved in Amber

Okay, haven’t gotten very far in this, but I decided it was an elven rite of passage to go searching through the forest for a sign of your future. And Iorveth finds a piece of amber with a lily preserved inside. I haven’t decided if it purely means Roche or if it means his whole family with Roche and Boussy and Anais and all. So far, he hasn’t even found the amber yet lmao. But he did just discover music!

Character taking control of the other and Character B just letting go and enjoying themselves

Under the subheading “Porn Snips”, so uh, yeah. Starts with Roche and Iorveth fighting to decide who gets to top, involves Roche getting choked, and Iorveth ripping Roche’s pants off. Oh, also, they’re currently at a fancy party hiding somewhere in the garden lmao

Based on @moonlights-ordinance‘s art

Moonlight’s working on an adorable piece where Roche leans his forehead against Iorveth’s back between his shoulderblades. I decided to make it post-W3 with both of them working as paper pushers/administrators under Emhyr’s Temeria. And Nilfgaard does not believe in chairs with backs (or, really, Emhyr wanted to see how long Roche’s pride would make him suffer. It’s a long time). The idea is to show development over time as they slowly get more comfortable with touch and start using each other as backrests. And then the sweet scene Moonlight is drawing.

Eliza for @useless-empty-brain aka Can’t We All Just Get Oolong?

Next is Iorveth’s POV, but I legit cannot figure out where to start. But we’re gonna see some of his thoughts (like how Eliza volunteered him to stay in Vizima for an unspecified period of time and he said yes even though he can’t and now has to commute regularly because he doesn’t want to miss tea with Roche but also doesn’t want Roche’s spies to catch on lmao) and his curiosity about Roche and Foltest and what Roche’s mission is (which I... totally know.)

Roche’s Scars

@moonlights-ordinance sent me a great pic of a mod for Roche where he had some pretty vicious scarring/mutilation. So of course I decided I needed to tell the story of each one. But really, it’s a story about the stages of acceptance with scars. Both Iorveth and Roche start out hiding theirs, but eventually come to reveal them comfortably in public.

Vernon Roche of the Scoia’tael aka The Value of a Man

Does my title give it away? Oops? So, this is a found family fic where Roche is captured by the Scoia’tael and the elves and dwarves slowly come to see him as - well, I was gonna say human, but as a person, I guess. And start feeling really, really guilty, especially when some not great things happen to Roche.

Oh also, Foltest is a giant dick and uh, SPOILERS he does not try to get Roche back. Which leads to a whole subplot that will end with a found family for EVERYONE, because they all deserve to be happy dammit.

All of that was just one document lmao. I have 24 documents, some of which have quite a few WiPs in them. 😱

Kiss Prompts

24. Deep kisses where they have their hands tangled in each other’s hair to pull them closer. AKA How to Fluster an Elf

When I got the idea for How to Fluster an Elf, I decided it was gonna fill the prompt dammit. And then it really, really expanded on me.

33. An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it.

Roche dreams occasionally that Iorveth visits him and watches over him and sometimes speaks, but he can’t understand Elder Speech, so he assumes it’s all gibberish.

Then he finds out it’s not and suddenly he’s not so certain it’s a dream

16. One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

Okay, I literally just need to buckle down and write some good kissing. This is set in (Im)Perfect Strangers and Iorveth is pouting about them leaving the gardens, so Roche makes it up to him.

25. Wet kisses after finding refuge from the rain.

This one won’t actually be published with the kisses ‘cause it’s porn and the rest are T-rated lol. Buuuut Roche and Iorveth are trying to have a secret liaison in the forest when the rain starts. Featuring nature magic, tentacles, and Iorveth getting filled.

Scenes from Another World (aka AU premise)

Old Men in Vergen

Set during Witcher 3, but with an established relationship. Roche comes to visit Iorveth in Vergen to ask for advice on leading an insurgency. Iorveth just wants to feed Roche while he can now that he’s not the one starving in the woods.

Language Aphasia/Deal with the Devil

I wanted to write Gaunter! So I decided that Gaunter is in a mood for some mischief (he calls it being generous) and comes upon a traveling Vernon Roche who wishes that he could be understand Iorveth. Then Iorveth’s Scoia’tael find a passed out Roche in the woods and bring him to Iorveth for judgement. Only somehow, Roche only understands Elder Speech now. He can’t understand Common at all. The Scoia’tael find this very offensive and Iorveth is mostly freaked out that someone who can do THAT was wandering around his forest.

Bunk Beds: The Portrait of Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon

Based on a silly comic, Ciri convinces Iorveth and Roche to try to help her destroy the portrait. Geralt gets pissed and sends them to Bunk Bed Exile. Shenanigans ensue and somehow they start to get along.

Iorveth’s Scoia’tael Giving Him Shit For His Taste in Men aka The Lovestruck Fox

Right now, working on a piece from the POV of a new Scoia’tael recruit who is discovering that Iorveth’s Scoia’tael roast the fuck out of him over his crush on Roche.

Speaking of, anyone have suggestions on prime roast material? I am not this creative.

Let’s Torture Roche!

No, really. This one is pretty dark. And told in kind of a different style than my usual, because I felt like it. So, premise is that Iorveth and Roche were a thing in the past, but then Roche was recalled to Foltest’s side and he went. So Iorveth is understandably pretty hurt and pissed (this was decided for a prompt of someone breaking down as soon as they’re behind closed doors). Buuut what he doesn’t know is that Roche is not with Foltest of his own volition. Hostages, blackmail, and torture are all involved and Foltest is a pretty horrible guy. But of course we need a happy ending, so eventually, Iorveth will rescue Roche and they get to recover together.

Life Debt aka Iorveth is an Asshole

The concept for this was that Roche saved Iorveth’s life and now that they were no longer enemies (set during Witcher 3), his honor demands that he follow Roche around until he can repay the favor. Featuring Iorveth being a trolling asshole, correcting the new Temerian Loyalist’s fighting abilities, and Roche being very, very tired.

In application, it’s mostly angst so far, ‘cause I had to set up HOW Roche saved Iorveth’s life. And then I decided to really hurt Iorveth. But tbh I will probably skip ahead after establishing this stuff, because I just want shenanigans.

King and Country

I’ve got several WiPs for this one, including the Stripes’ recruitment, their decision to change sides, the Stripes being double agents, and of course, Iorveth and Roche’s developing relationship. But hey, I’ve skipped ahead to writing their wedding already, so... you know it ends happily ever after?

Friday Fight Night for Jan 29 (which I did not make oops)

So, this actually turned into a long piece that’s gonna be part of my Chronic Pain series. Basically, King Foltest is treating with the leaders of the Scoia’tael in Temeria and Iorveth is one of them. Unfortunately, he’s having a REALLY BAD pain day, but he’s also determined to be there to represent his people. Roche helps him see sense. Possibly forcefully.

Exhaustion Prompts

“If we’re both in this state, we both really screwed up somewhere huh?”

Iorveth and Roche are trapped in a dream and I got a little stuck creating the creature that trapped them there. But pretty sure Saskia is gonna interrupt their flirting by saving them.

“You were almost dead from pushing it too far!”

In which Roche has a heart attack from too much coffee. Yeah. He’s okay, though! But PT is about to blow a gasket and coffee will very much be disallowed.

Found Family Prompts

Taking Out the Trash for @useless-empty-brain

Literally a story about taking out the trash lmao. We��re gonna see if I can make this intersting.

Touch Starved for @mochii-girl

Honestly, haven’t gotten much done on this yet, but I’m thinking puppy pile cuddles in Corvo Bianco

Coffeeshop AU aka Brewing Romance and Dissent

Ooof I’ve got a lot of bits and pieces of this written, but nothing quite finished, except for the moment when things change from “we flirt as I order coffee” to “I make you special drinks and invite you to come visit me after hours”. Writing a canon coffeeshop au when I know shit all about coffee is HARD.

Curse Breaking

Omg this is one of the first WiPs I started for Iorveth/Roche, no joke. STILL WORKING ON IT! The premise is that Roche finds a feverish and dying Iorveth in an empty Scoia’tael camp, saves him with the power of True Love’s Kiss The Power of Strong Emotions, Like That Which You Might Have For Your Enemy. Then they team up to go save Iorveth’s Scoia’tael from a big bad mage and Roche invites Triss along for the ride, which totally doesn’t make Iorveth jealous. I kinda stalled out at the part where they reach the mage’s hideout and see the results of the mages failed experiments. On Iorveth’s people. It’s gonna hurt. A lot. But afterwards, there might be makeouts. And some sort of implication that they’re all down to do this (minus the horrible, traumatic parts) again.

Roche POV bloodplay

Roche’s POV starting from before his first encounter with Iorveth. Then he has a weirdly sexually arousing encounter with the elf, and tbh, that’s as far as I got. But Iorveth draws blood from Roche’s neck, presses his thumb to it, and then licks it off his thumb. Next, Iorveth was gonna be the one getting Uncomfortably Aroused, but I haven’t gotten that far. No idea where this is going overall.

Iorveth Investigates Roche

This kinda isn’t a real WiP in that idk if I’ll ever finish it. I mostly started it to do some worldbuilding about what public information there would be about Roche.

Voyeurism AKA Eye on You

Yeah, I don’t have much for the next chapter yet, tbh. So premise is that Iorveth accidentally ends up watching Roche get off at the brothel and finds it really, really hot. Hot enough to get curious and go back for more. Next one is going to involve thigh fucking and Iorveth might possibly get pegged by Daph??? idk

Fake Relationship

Poor @lutes-and-dandelions has been waiting forever for this one and I can’t even find a place to end the scene and post what I have so far. Premise is that Iorveth and Roche are both investigating their missing men and the trail takes them to the Murivel Resort for Couples. So they go undercover. Featuring Roche’s POV of being doubtful, Iorveth using the excuse to flirt outrageously, strip gwent, and a magic amulet that hids Iorveth’s scar and that Roche hates.

Competitive Makeouts AKA The Chase

This was kissing practice and it turned into a casefic! Which is awesome because I love casefics even though I haven’t published any yet. So in this one, as Iorveth and Roche sneak off to makeout, they also end up investigating a conspiracy in the Temerian military.

Iorveth/Roche(/Kayran) + Roche/Foltest aka Every Kiss Begins with Kayran

In which Roche accidentally walks in on Iorveth’s monthly fuck date with the Kayran and gets invited to join in. Then, somehow, it starts to turn into a relationship. With an elf and a tentacle monster. And yet, somehow, this relationship is healthier than the one with Foltest. The contrast opens Roche’s eyes.

Pining and Poignards

In which Iorveth stabs Roche with his favorite knife and wants it back and is also maybe pining a lil bit. Meanwhile Roche is rather pissed, but also curious and begins to teach himself Elder Speech to try to read the inscription on Iorveth’s knife. I stalled out in the scene where Iorveth accidentally watches Roche masturbate in the bath.

Iorveth tittyfucking Roche

Look, it’s what it says on the tin. Roche’s POV of Iorveth’s fascination with his chest and how it makes him feel and then there is sex.

Dirty Gremlin Man

Iorveth gets off on Roche being a sweaty, stinky human. Roche pins Iorveth in a fight and Iorveth gets very distracted watching a drop of sweat trail down Roche’s face. So distracted, in fact, that he doesn’t think twice before stretching out his neck and licking it. Then, of course, he remembers where he is. Featuring a very confused Roche, a smidge of jealousy, and Iorveth stealing Roche’s sweaty clothing to do unspeakable things to it. And somehow they get together.

Want me to sit in your lap?

Geralt LEGIT says this to Roche like 5 mins into the Witcher 2 and it’s GREAT. So of course, I had to write a scene where he actually got to. This is set post Witcher 2 while Geralt, Triss, Roche, and Ves are headed back to Temeria. Triss offers Geralt a little stress relief - which involves warming Roche’s cock and watching Triss and Ves get to know one another.

Red is the Rose

So, Chapter 4 is set post-Witcher 2 and Iorveth is obsessing over the fact that the Rose of Remembrance still has not wilted. He wonders what might be possible, so when he hears a rumor that a certain Temerian Commander was taken captive by Dethmold...

Dethmold most definitely dies. But unfortunately, that doesn’t save Roche from the curses he cast. So they go looking for Geralt to find out how to fix it.

This has only been 9 of my documents, y’all. I think I have a problem.

De-Aged Fic aka The language of friendship is not words but meanings

Ugh, I lost my momentum on this one, which sucks, ‘cause the next chapter is so close to done. Iorveth just needs to do a little freaking out first. But then they will both be back to adults and have to DEAL with the fact that they made good friends and would kinda like that again. I think this fic is gonna be purely friendship for them, but they’re gonna get there.

Glory Hole

A fic for the @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo where Roche hears a rumor that some Scoia’tael go to this brothel on the outskirts of town and hey, he may as well check it out, right? By going undercover and working the glory hole, of course. He never ACTUALLY expected Iorveth would come, but his legendary mouth was enticing enough to draw the Scoia’tael commander out.

Snuggling

Thirteen “accidentally” handcuffs Iorveth and Roche together when they capture Iorveth. This leads to them lying on the cot in the Stripes’ holding cell, spooning. There is banter and tickling and escapes not attempted and also maybe some sex with Inexperience Iorveth (i say maybe because I already started the sex, but idk if it will fit in).

Petals and Stripes

A weed is but an unloved flower

Okay, the Stripes are going to attempt to woo Iorveth during a battle. Also, there is a stabbing. And then a kidnapping. And then, miracle of miracles, someone actually tries talking!

One person's weed is another person's wildflower

Ves’s POV! She cleans up the mess her idiots make and terrifies the life out of one elven suitor, but first she’s gotta deal with her own conflicted feelings about her Boss, the guy she relies on to show her the shades of grey in the world, loving the elf she’s supposed to kill.

After that, I’ve got 2 more fics planned in this ‘verse. One is gonna be a fluffy and/or sexy date after Iorveth and Roche have gotten together. The other is a Scoia’tael side story, featuring lots of gossip about the humans sending their Commander love letters.

Love Shack

The Better Part of Valor

Ugh, I’m stuck on the sex again. Roche is having a really shitty day, so he goes to the cabin and signals Iorveth that he wants a round. Iorveth offers gentle (for them) sex and praise. And at the end, there’s a very significant scene where Iorveth removes his bandana. Roche buries his fingers in Iorveth’s hair, but doesn’t actually see his face, as he’s laying on his stomach with Iorveth on top of him.

Medicine

The morning after! Roche wakes up to find Iorveth in the bath, facing away from him, and notices a new scar. Iorveth has to deal with actually revealing his scars in daylight and they discuss the significant differences in elven and human medicine. Hint: I turned my own medical procedures into elven medicine, so it’s pretty fucking good.

PWP Ovi

Set ambiguously late, maybe after Thou Art More Lovely and More Temperate. Iorveth and Roche explore what Roche can take. We start with overstimulation, go into consensual somnophilia, come inflation, breeding kink, and oviposition. Because elves reproduce by laying eggs, which is not at all the case purely because I started this WiP ages ago and was horny.

The Picture Says It All

There’s going to be 5 more pictures that Rinn draws for Iorveth. Next is Roche hard at work, hunched over a desk. Then we’re getting some shirtless Roche, for “research”, of course. Then Roche cuddling with PT and the rest of the team, about which Iorveth is not at all jealous. Then a face study of Roche during a fight and uh, Iorveth is uncomfortably turned on. And finally, a drawing of their cabin with a silhouette in the window. She knows.

Roche & Rinn: The Haunting of Barrack 8B

Oh man, I really want to finish the next chapter, because I already have the one after that done. But first, we get introduced to Adda! This ‘verse is going to feature Adda the White a lot more than any of my others have done so far and I’m very excited. Also, Silas continues to be terrified of the ghost and the ghost and Adda become girlfriends buddies.

Roche builds Iorveth a home

Set late in the ‘verse, after Roche knows his feelings, but they haven’t said them yet (not out loud, anyway). Iorveth takes a trip to go meet Saskia do things off screen and Roche ends up turning to his old hobby, carpentry, to keep himself from pining too obviously. So obviously he ends up builing Iorveth a solarium. And a pillow nest. And a scaffold so that flowers that blossom in the moonlight cover the glass and give them privacy.

I got stuck here because Rinn needs to give Roche a hint to get him to build the pillow nest, but I hadn’t developed Rinn and Roche’s relationship yet, so had to go back and do that. But eventually Iorveth returns and they have wonderful I’m-not-saying-it-but-i-love-you sex in the new pillow nest.

Foltest (WiP): Long Live the King

This is actually the last fic in the ‘verse, so I don’t want to give too much away. But actually, I haven’t figured out what the next chapter is, BUT I have the chapter after that started and it is GOOD, just you wait!! I’m very excited.

Don’t Cry For Me, Temeria

This ‘verse alone, I have 14 WiPs and a dozen more unwritten ideas.

(Im)Perfect Strangers

I am frustratingly stuck on this chapter. Theoreatically, we are going to have a check in on how the mountain and the rest of our cast is doing and then Roche launches his Wooing TM plan (aka dinner, gift, and dancing).

Between Two Fools

Yeah, Roche and Iorveth have very different understandings of what their gifts represent. There is some soft happiness and then a swift rug pulled out from under Iorveth’s feet, I’m afraid. BUT we are almost to the part where the two idiots sit down and actually talk properly.

Unlucky Number Thirteen

Not only do I have more of Thirteen’s story planned, but I have ideas for ALL the Stripes to have stories. We’ll see how that goes. But for now, Thirteen starts spying for Roche. A lot of still-nebulous stuff happens, including Thirteen’s first time, for which he asks Roche to help. Additionally, once we reach the (Im)Perfect Strangers timeline, Thirteen has a special story all his own. It involves learning to read and a secret I shall not yet reveal.

Silas

Like I said, all the Stripes are hopefully getting stories. But Silas’s is coming along nicely. He starts a new life as “Silas”, as a man, and joins the army. Boot camp is rough and awful and he’s not very good at any of it, but one day, Roche comes looking for a recruit. He needs a codebreaker to decipher Thirteen’s scouting reports (another one for pictures). So Silas joins the Stripes, but he’s still terrified that they’ll fnd out and think he’s been lying to them. Fortunately, they’ll be putting his fears to rest.

Stripes Sex aka Earning Your Stripes: The First Time

PT’s POV! The Stripes (pre-Silas) are all still getting comfortable with each other as a team. But Thirteen has known Roche the longest and in a specific capacity. So one evening when he needs to get out of his head, Thirteen asks Roche to dom him. PT is confused and scandalized and then jealous, but he gets to join in soon too. Meanwhile, Finch and Ves have fun with their bratty arsonist and Fenn is loving it.

break (v /brāk/): to destroy someone's resistance

This is very long and entirely build up to porn. And then lots of porn. A question during a random conversation leads Roche to make Iorveth ask him to take Iorveth utterly apart in a consensual non-consent fantasy set when they were still enemies in the forest.

Bath House

This was supposed to be a simple PWP where Roche talks dirty to Iorveth under his breath while the two of them are at the bathhouse with Boussy (who LOVES baths and brought them to the fancy bath house), Anais, and Thirteen (who HATE baths and react to water much like a cat). They kinda took over the story and there has been no dirty talk yet oops.

Iorveth POV: Tutti

Iorveth begins to reclaim his love for music and lets himself improvise and compose again. And he ends up writing a song that is the story of his and Roche’s romance.

Daggers, Dumplings, and Dresses

The Elihal/Hattori side story! Though we haven’t actually met Hattori yet. So far, Elihal is expounding on his past and his relationship with Iorveth (he used to make all of Iorveth’s fancy gowns for concerts). Elihal and Hattori won’t play a HUGE role in (Im)Perfect Strangers, but they will be appearing!

Ves and Ciaran aka The First Rule of Fight Club

Ves is stuck walking a very long way back to Vergen with the memory of Ciaran’s skin against her teeth. And even though elves lie like breathing, she can’t help thinking about what he said about Roche not being worth her loyalty. Slowly, she begins to work some things out.

Sex with Saskia/Dragonfucking

Yeah, it’s what it sounds like. Iorveth tells Roche that Saskia agreed to a threesome and where to meet, but he neglected to mention the rather large dragon that was currently rimming his ass. Roche gets distracted from his confusion by the hotness and watches Iorveth get fucked by a dragon (with 2 dicks to fit 2 holes, of course).

Come Inflation + Piss Play

Um. Yeah, it’s a PWP where Roche asks Triss for a potion that will make him come a lot. And then Iorveth wants more. No idea where it’s going, tbh.

Stripes vs Scoia’tael: Water Balloon Fight

Literally a water balloon fight. For morale.

Baby Mama

Uh, the title is a bit telling here oops. But let’s just say Iorveth and Roche go on vacation to the cabin on top of the mountain again when Iorveth is hit with the sudden extreme urge to breed. Roche is down, but at some point, they do actually need to talk.

King Roche aka fics where Roche is in charge and hates it. Some are more in line with this than others.

Post W3 Becoming Terrorists Together

Ah yes, the murder husbands fic. Literally, Roche gets stuck leading Temeria under Emhyr’s orders and he’s good at it, but he HATES it. Enter Iorveth, who both points out security flaws, joins Roche for a surprisingly unawkward bath, and proposes that they go hunting down war criminals on their own time. How can Roche say no?

Pre-W2 Ambassadorial AU

Different first meeting AU! In this one, Iorveth is sent as the elven ambassador to Temeria and it’s about as much fun as one might expect. Triss and Roche, the other outcasts amongst Temerian court, decide to befriend him. Well, try to anyway. idk where this is going, but it’s been fun. Also, Iorveth wears a fancy braid over his eye, because I said so. Also, I might be planning an OT3 porn scene at some point, because it turns out, elves are VERY sensitive to magic XD

Leap of Faith

Okay, yeah, this has nothing to do with King Roche, but it’s the doc I was working in when I got the idea. In this one, a mage captures Iorveth for Foltest and starts torturing him. Roche, without really thinking about it, decides the mage goes too far, so he kills them. Leaving him with an elven prisoner and a castle full of people who will consider him a traitor for that. They escape the city, but now Iorveth has gotta convince Roche that no, the King really won’t forget that whole murder and prisoner escape thing.

The whole point of this fic was for me to write them jumping off a cliff lmao. When am I gonna get to that? Probably like last or second to last chapter, tbh. Which should be... after the next one? No, I lied, it’s next chapter! I need to get on that!

An ill-favour’d thing, sir, but mine own aka Possessive Sex

Piss Fic

Um. Yeah. Roche is really horny when Iorveth gets home and is on him immediately, which is great, but Iorveth has gotta piss. Which becomes less urgent as Roche is determined to have his face fucks, but after he comes all over Roche’s face, it’s VERY urgent and Roche is a fucking brat and won’t move out of the way. So obviously the response to this is to piss on Roche’s crotch - which Roche is apparently more than okay with.

Cum Dumpster Roche

Yeah, this one doesn’t have much yet, I literally just wanted Roche getting railed and claimed and L O V I N G it.

Possessiveness

Iorveth spends a lot of time thinking about his enemy, his nemesis. He’s researched Roche extensively, spent hours thinking up tactics and strategies to outwit his nemesis. He literally knows what Roche named his stupid weapons, but he’s never actually met Roche.

But he’s dreamt about it. The Roche in reality doesn’t look like the assumptions he made in his dreams, but who cares about looks? Because Roche is his, and certainly not some dh’oine king’s.

Tentacles + Breeding

Gods, this one is SO CLOSE to being done dammit, I just gotta finish it!! But it’s a fun one. Iorveth and Roche are fighting, when Iorveth suddenly starts fighting plants, which are fighting back. Then the plants notice Roche and suddenly he’s tied up with vines and his clothes are getting torn off and uh, he’s not supposed to find this hot, is he? But he really kinda does. And then Iorveth goes and claims him and tries to protect him from a nearly-extinct non-sentient plant that sensed a warm spot to lay its eggs until someone else could come along and fertilize them. Iorveth is delighted to be that person.

Dream: Pleasure Slave

Yeah, Roche really likes getting claimed in these. In this one, he has a favorite dream setting where Iorveth rules some grand elven kingdom and Roche’s only role is to bring him pleasure. Not to deal with politics or nobles or policy, but just to make Iorveth feel good. So far, this features cock warming, come inflation, a leather cock cage (so to speak), prostate milking, and a very nice silver chalice that Iorveth expects Roche to fill before they’re done.

Roche wears a collar

This was gonna be a simple lil thing based on me creating Roche in heroforge and giving him a lil hidden collar. But then Iorveth decided to get really sappy and had to design and create the perfect collar for his enemy. And then, much to his surprise, he gets the opportunity to PUT his collar on Roche. Which is great, except the sight distracts him so much that Roche manages to escape.

But the next time they meet, Roche is still wearing that collar, hidden under his chaperon and armor. Iorveth has feelings about that.

Standalone

Crones fic aka And Ghosts Did Shriek and Shrill

So this is the angsty fic that started from a crack premise. Er, one of them. I seem to do that a lot. But in this one, Roche goes to the Ladies of the Woods and asks for his men back. The Ladies agree, in exchange for 6 lifetimes of service. But no creature can reverse death. Which leads to the Stripes coming back to “life” as ghosts - only Roche is the only one who can see them. Ves can’t (not at first).

Believe it or not, the whole idea behind this was the Stripes roasting Roche as he tries to flirt (terribly) with Iorveth. But uh... somehow it turned pretty dark. Like, it’ll have a happy ending for sure, but it’s gonna be a lot about processing trauma and grief and building families and also curing a plague, because that’s the first assignment from the Ladies.

Stripes fics

Cuddles with the Commander

This is intended to be a sequel to The Pride of Temeria, but I kinda got stuck figuring out exactly how Roche should react. Tbh, I don’t have much of this written yet, but the goal is for Roche to approve cuddles with everyone lmao.

Fire Breating

Okay, this one started as crack purely because I love fire, but it’s actually been really fun. So, Iorveth and Roche are established and Iorveth has been invited to a family night with the Stripes, which is kinda a lil awkward. So they decide to showcase some of their talents - which includes Roche singing musicals and PT breathing fire.

Iorveth is horrified that humans have harnessed this skill.

Iorveth’s missing eye

This is really short and idk if I’ll continue it, but the idea was for Roche to really wonder what was up with the bandana over half of Iorveth’s face was about. And then, of course, to find out.

Iorveth Gangbang

Why is this under Stripes fics, you might ask? Well, I have great news for you. Guess who the gang is?

In which Iorveth and Roche are in an established relationship and Iorveth gets tied up in the middle of the Stripes’ camp while Roche orders his men to take him apart. Iorveth very much enjoys himself, and then when the Stripes are tapped out, Roche shows ‘em how it’s done.

Kink Bingo fics aka that event that I totally failed, but hey, prompts are prompts.

Age Kink

In this fic, Iorveth and Roche both end up captured by unknown forces and end up imprisoned together. I think the Stripes and Scoia’tael are probably working together to find them and save them, but in the meantime, Iorveth and Roche decide to get to know each other a bit better. Featuring muscle spasms, blow jobs, and pain kink.

Eskel/Lambert (okay, a little out of place here, but eh, it’s in the doc and I am still working on it)

Started for a prompt on tumblr, Eskel and Lambert end up fighting and, trying to keep the peace, Eskel casts axii on Lambert. Which leads to Lambert confessing that he bit Eskel because it’s the only way he could get his mouth on him. This leads to some dodged confessions, some frottage, and some snarky banter, because of course it does.

Tempt Not a Desperate Man aka the Fuck or Die series that started with Devour What’s Truly Yours

Fisting

The next part of the series, where Roche struggles with the fact that he’s been high key horny ever since the encounter in the woods with Iorveth and nothing is satisfying him. Iorveth, on the other hand, is jealous and annoyed that Roche keeps going to the whorehouse.

Then Roche decides to make a potentially suicidal move and enters the forest to try to find the clearing from last time. And, as you might guess from my heading, fisting will be happening.

Iorveth POV: The Chaperon

Okay, I don’t actually have much of this written, but it’s really cute so - Roche keeps using his chaperon as a cum rag, so Iorveth knits and/or sews him a new one.

“Human Bootlicker”

PWP where Iorveth jokingly suggestions Roche should surrender on his knees - and then Roche does. And asks Iorveth to take his prize. Featuring Roche coming all over Iorveth’s boots from getting his face fucked, then leaning down and licking up the mess while Iorveth watches and then comes over his face.

One Accidental Proposal and Five Attempts At Accepting

So one of the themes of this ‘verse is gonna be the Elven Baths where the Roses of Remembrance grow. As in, they decide to make the elven baths a place they meet up. This is the first time Iorveth takes Roche there, and Roche does not know what significance the roses have. But he DOES know that Iorveth blushes cutely when he tucks a rose behind Iorveth’s ear, so...

Iorveth would like to accept, only Roche doesn’t know WHAT he’s trying to accept.

The Legend

So in the game, there is a legend around the statue of elven lovers above the elven baths. “Legend has it the lover’s sighs are enchanted within these very stones, though only those in love can hear them.”

Iorveth overhears his Scoia’tael gossiping about the legend and comes to an abrupt realization that Roche and him were the ones they were hearing. Oops?

Standalone Fics

Letters

This is kind of a bittersweet WiP that I mostly wrote in one go and then went to sleep and kinda lost the will for it. BUT the premise is that post-Witcher 3 Roche is in charge of Temeria and his brooding is interrupted when he receives a letter sealed with a forget me not pressed into wax. Iorveth continues to send letters describing his life as a “civilian” in Nilfgaard and how much he hates it and Roche relates a little bit too much. Then Iorveth decides to run away and live on the streets as a musician and he might inspire Roche to start learning the cello and presumably at some point, they meet.

Identity Porn

Iorveth and Roche have a meet cute in Flotsam’s tavern while the elf is listening in for local gossip and Roche is passing through on his way to meet with the other northern kings to get support in fighting against the new emerging threat of the Scoia’tael. Neither knows who the other is, but that doesn’t stop them from starting a relationship where they meet every time Roche passes through Flotsam. But their house of cards can only last so long, and at some point, they will meet as enemies. Who knows what happens then? idk, not me.

Gwent pinup calendar aka Cards Out for Your Country

Hahaha, so I started this series in response to some WONDERFUL art of Roche with his Tits Out For Temeria. And obviously we need more of that, so I created a list of 24 characters who are asked to pose for some pinup art, all in the name of Gwent. So far, I’ve only finished Dandelion’s pose/the introduction, but I do plan to do as many of them as I physically can.

Gwent Game in Corvo Bianco

Wow, I didn’t even remember this WiP, so uh... clearly I haven’t worked on it in a while. But it’s Iorveth’s POV of how surprisingly comfortable he is in Corvo Bianco and Iorveth and Geralt get drunk and play gwent.

Zoltan/Jaskier/Priscilla

A giftfic for Wibbly that involves Zoltan being sappy about his bards and then Priscilla dominates them. Featuring all my headcanons about dwarven genitalia (two holes, one with a retractible dick).

Dijkstra fics

Noticing Roche’s Fucked Up Relationship

Anyone else randomly finding themselves shipping Dijkstra/Roche? No? Ah well. For this one Dijkstra observes Roche and sees a few too many reminders of himself with Vizimir, except Foltest is no Vizimir, and Roche clearly hasn’t learned to set up boundaries. Dijkstra feels weirdly compelled to help him figure that out before Foltest destroys him.

Developing Respect Fic

Also known as “let’s torture Roche 1.0!” This fic switches between the present, where Roche has woken up in a cell somewhere unknown and it brings back far too many memories for him to be entirely sure of what is happening when. In the past, he was captured by Redania while on a mission for Foltest, long before he was anyone notable. Dijkstra comes to visit, curious about this prisoner who refuses to break, to even tell them his name or confirm his country (but he has a Temerian tramp stamp, so they know lmao). So Dijkstra decides that this is not a man who will be broken through torture and decides to try conversation instead. The idea is to show them slowly gaining respect for each other, but like, obviously Roche is still a prisoner. Eventually, he’s returned to Temeria in a prisoner exchange, but meanwhile, in the present, Roche is all alone, with not even guards around and no way to free himself.

and that’s all!! I am... legitimately scared to count, tbh. This post is so fucking long, the number cannot be good for my heart. But, that said, please come talk to me about any ideas you find interesting!! Or anything you have questions about!

And if you made it this far down the list... wow. Thank you, you rock.

#rorveth #iorveth x roche #the witcher #don't cry for me temeria #wip wednesday #my fics #WiPs #yeah it's not wednesday but whatever i finished the list

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