#wren writes
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i was told this is where I would start loving myself
1074 words
etho often wonders what's going on in joel's mind.
a considerable amount of the time, it's because he’s just done or said something so completely bizarre that etho has to stop and recalibrate until it fits in his mind. his maniacal laughter as one of his traps goes off successfully used to make his blood run cold, but watching the way he continued to giggle about it for the next few days has, admittedly, endeared etho to it. it's just- okay, it sounds odd, but there's just something about the light in his eyes; etho would love to see what was going on behind them.
this could be better but I cannot make it better myself HKFHD this is mainly me dumping like. the vibes of a fic out
i just wanted soft boat boys okay im a simple girl (gender neutral)
etho often wonders what's going on in joel's mind.
a considerable amount of the time, it's because he’s just done or said something so completely bizarre that etho has to stop and recalibrate until it fits in his mind. his maniacal laughter as one of his traps goes off successfully used to make his blood run cold, but watching the way he continued to giggle about it for the next few days has, admittedly, endeared etho to it. it's just- okay, it sounds odd, but there's just something about the light in his eyes; etho would love to see what was going on behind them.
but occasionally—and it is a very rare occasion; this is joel we're talking about here—etho is wondering because he has no idea what joel is thinking about. sometimes it's when etho says something offhand and joel takes offence until etho explains specifically what he meant. he hasn't yet figured out what the link is between everything joel was upset about—in all honesty, etho can’t remember it all. something about allies and red rage.
sometimes though, it's when joel isn't saying anything at all, when etho hasn't upset him, when joel just seems to be.. away. or- no, not exactly away. it's like.. he’s here, but there's also something else with him. like his grins and jokes are a veneer to something a little darker, a little harder to say.
etho knows it's not necessarily his fault—mainly because he's had enough awkward conversations that turned into learning something completely new about joel to know that it's usually something joel hasn't told him about yet that's weighing on his mind more than usual. interestingly enough, half of those things are good—like that time etho thought joel was mad at him only to realise that joel was too embarrassed to admit that he'd accidentally put etho's hoodie on one time and then didn’t want to take it off because it smelt like him. that was something that etho never stopped teasing him about- until joel found out that etho did the exact same thing.
in summary, etho is wondering once again, because joel is quiet. to be fair- it is the middle of the night, and quiet is kind of expected at this time, but the kind of quiet is weird.
for a little while now, the two of them have been less nervous when it comes to their affection (that isn't just making fun of each other), and so they usually sleep in each others arms—or at least close. joel, however, is currently facing the furnaces, curled in on himself and very clearly awake, and etho is a little worried. if joel is awake this late into the night, and is not being incredibly annoying about it, there is almost definitely something wrong. etho also knows that there's no way joel is going to be the one to mention it first.
"are you gonna tell me what's wrong, or am I just gonna be in permanent suspense." at etho's voice, joel startles, and etho suppresses a grin at it.
"I- there's nothing wrong." joel huffs, turning over to face etho—who raises a sceptical eyebrow. "there's nothing!"
"okay, there's nothing." etho says. "which is why you’re all the way over there, and now you’re doing that thing with your nose-"
"shut up." joel mutters, continuing to scrunch his nose up in obvious annoyance at how well etho knows him. sucker. "there is nothing wrong, okay, don’t go and psychoanalyse me."
"i'll psychoanalyse you if I want." etho says, a smile ghosting his lips. "besides, you’re easy to read."
joel snorts. "hypocrite. you rely too much on that mask, y’know."
"well, if you’re not gonna tell me, at least come over here." etho says, hoping his anxiety isn’t audible in his voice. judging by the look on joel's face, it absolutely is. "shut up."
"I didn’t say anything." joel smirks, but he shuffles towards etho, who pulls him the rest of the way. "you’re such a dork."
"yeah, you love me." etho says, half muffled through joel's hair.
there's an uncharacteristically long pause as joel buries his face in etho's shoulder. it's extremely odd for joel to be this quiet for this long, especially mid-conversation, but considering how cuddly he seems to be right now, etho has to assume it's not because he’s upset or anything, just.. thinking.
"that's.. I think that's kind of it?" joel says into etho's pyjamas.
"what, you love me?" etho says. honestly, he'd never really thought about that possibility- and immediately continues to not think about it as joel says,
"it- not romantically. but yeah." joel sounds like he’s hesitating, and etho pulls back a little to see his face. joel rolls his eyes. "it's- I sort of just realised. you are the first alliance i’ve had. like- ever. I didn’t- I never really expected how nice it'd be."
etho finds himself blinking back tears, which- okay, he considers that to be justified. "oh."
joel grins at him, and a considerable amount of anxiety seems to have dissipated from his eyes, replaced by a fondness that makes etho want to cry even more, the dick. "etho."
"shut up." etho wipes his eyes and pretends not to hear joel stifling laughter as he does so. "you- so you love me?"
joel's smugness vanishes, replaced by amusing embarrassment. "I- well. yeah." etho snorts and he huffs in exasperation. "you- okay, we don’t remember anything else, do we? so I don't remember- there's never been anyone else." his eyes widen a little as he seems to realise what he just admitted. "it- you’re the only person who.. I don’t know, cared."
etho pulls joel close again, and joel scoffs fondly as he hugs etho back. "I love you." etho mumbles into joel's hoodie, and joel's breath hitches. "what, you couldn’t tell?"
"well, I mean." joel says, a little muffled. etho smiles to himself. "I wasn't- I didn’t expect you to say it."
"i'm gonna say it all the time now." etho teases, and joel elbows him. it's not hard enough to hurt. "you do know I love you, don't you?"
"I know." joel says, and etho can practically hear his smile as he burrows further into the hug. "besides, you remind me all the time; if I didn’t know to begin with, I would after five minutes." etho scoffs fondly. "you’re a sap."
#wren writes#boat boys#trafficfic#trafficblr#double life#joel smallishbeans#smallishbeans#etho#ethoslab
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“Well, I believe we have some power over who we love, it isn’t something that just happens to a person.”
“I think the poets might disagree.”
“Are you a poet, James Potter?”
“When I look at you, I become one, Regulus Black.”
or; the one in which sirius is jo march, james is laurie, and regulus is amy
fic: engraved upon my heart (in letters deeply worn) by inkpot_winters on ao3
#marauders#little women 2019#jegulus#wolfstar#regulus black#james potter#sirius black#remus lupin#marylily#dorlene#rosekiller#fanfiction#ao3#writing#wren engraved#wren writes
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On Doomsdays and Devotion
After the Enterprise’s most recent brush with death, Jim notices that Spock is sticking closer to him than usual. The conversation that ensues is unexpectedly impactful.
This is 2.5k of pre-Spirk feels, rated G. On AO3 here!
Jim was fairly certain that Spock had been following him.
It did not happen all the time. It did not disrupt either of their duties. In fact, it had taken him a few days to convince himself that he was not imagining it, especially since he was still distracted by dealing with the fallout of their most recent incident with a planet-killing weapon. Still, once he started paying attention, the fact remained: when Spock would normally have been off on his own doing science experiments or reports or whatever else Spock did when he was away from Jim, he was, instead, quietly by Jim’s side.
Spock sat next to Jim at meals. He accompanied him in the gym. He sat in the same room as Jim when they were doing reports. Even when they were not together, Spock often found reasons to pass Jim in the corridor, speak to him briefly, or grab something from whatever room Jim was in on his way from task to task.
Jim did not mind this. In fact, he probably should have been slightly worried about just how little Spock’s frequent presence bothered him, but he could not quite bring himself to analyze that part of his feelings too deeply. Suffice to say that he was not irritated by the shift in his first officer’s behavior. He was, however, slightly concerned.
At one point, he attempted to bring it up with the Vulcan in question.
“Mister Spock,” he said, smiling, “Is there something you would like to discuss with me?”
Spock blinked at him. If it were anyone else, Jim would almost have said he looks sheepish.
“No, captain.”
Jim bit back a sigh. He did not expect Spock to simply tell him whatever was going on, not after so many days of silence, but it still would have been nice.
“Very well,” said Jim, and the conversation was forgotten. Jim almost began to ignore the unusual occurrence entirely.
Then, one night, well over a standard week after the incident with their most recent planet-killer, Jim suddenly found that he could no longer hold himself together.
He was off duty, which was fortunate, but that was just about the only thing that felt fortunate about the situation. The events of their most recent adventure — the death of his friend, the possibility and reality of such destruction, how close he had come to his own death — had finally caught up to him, and all he could do was hightail it to his quarters and hope he made it before his crew has to witness their captain having a minor meltdown. He ended up hiding in his room for a good portion of the evening, a few hours which he would rather not talk about, before eventually deciding he had pulled himself together enough to justify going out in search of some food.
After everything, it really should not have been a surprise that Spock was there when he emerged.
His first officer was attempting to look nonchalant, but given that there was very little reason for his presence in this corridor at this time and it was highly unlikely that he simply happened to be here at the moment Jim left his room, Jim thought he was doing a rather poor job of it. He looked distinctly unsurprised by Jim’s presence.
“Mister Spock,” he said, trying to act casual and not as though he had spent the last few hours working through a series of extremely strong emotions. “Is something wrong?”
Spock looked at Jim consideringly for a moment. Jim resisted the urge to fidget under his gaze.
“The ship is in standard working order, captain,” Spock said.
“That isn’t a no.”
“Correct. You are experiencing emotional distress.”
Jim winced a little. “That obvious, huh?”
“To an average member of the crew, likely not. I, however, can make out eleven separate physiological and psychological signs that—”
Jim raised a hand to cut him off. “Very well, Mister Spock, I understand. You’re right.” He quirked a small smile. “Even the great Captain Kirk can’t see his friend die without experiencing any unpleasantness, I’m afraid.”
“You also came close to death, captain.”
Jim blinked. “Yes, that too, I suppose.”
Spock’s lips thinned almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing. For a moment, they stood there in rather awkward silence.
“Well,” said Jim eventually, “I was going to get some food. Would you like to accompany me?”
“I would find that acceptable, captain.”
Spock fell easily into step beside him as they made their way towards the mess hall. They were silent as Jim got some food and sat down with his plate. Spock sat across from him, though he had not taken any food from the replicators. The room was empty due to the late hour and the lights were dimmed. In the silence, Spock’s presence seemed to have more significance than really made sense.
Jim ate in silence for several long moments. Spock considered him from across the table. Eventually, to Jim’s surprise, it was Spock who broke the silence.
“Would you like to speak about the subject of your distress?” asked Spock.
Jim paused. His instinct was to refuse, to focus on the mission instead of his distraction and only talk about it later, perhaps in his logs or on shore leave with Bones and copious amounts of alcohol. He usually did his best to keep Spock from having to deal with any more of his human emotions than is necessary. But Spock was asking, now, and though the Vulcan would deny it if he ever dared to make the claim, Jim could tell that he was worried. He could not bring himself to refuse his friend’s offer.
“It… troubles me, when I can’t save someone.”
Spock’s brows furrowed. “You were not on the ship at the time of Decker’s departure. It was not your responsibility to save him, nor was it possible for you to do so.”
Jim managed a small, sad smile. “I know. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to remember.”
Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement, and they returned to the silence in which the meal had begun. Jim finished his food, pushed his plate aside, and looked at Spock consideringly. Spock returned his gaze, even and unflinching.
“There’s something on your mind, Mr Spock. Care to share?”
Spock considered him for a moment. When he spoke, it was with deliberation.
“It concerns me, captain, that you give such little importance to your own near demise.”
Jim blinked.
“I had no desire to die,” he said.
“And yet you came perilously close to doing so.”
“It was the best way to save the ship.”
“Perhaps, sir, but you must take into account the way your death would have affected the ship and its crew. Productivity would have decreased at a significant rate and the emotional fallout would have affected many of the crew for at least several years.”
Jim frowned. “A grieving crew is better than a dead crew. I wouldn’t be much of a captain if I couldn’t value my ship above myself.”
“You may be correct, captain. However, I would still strongly advise you to utilize more caution in the future.”
Jim’s brows furrowed. “Where is this coming from, Spock? This isn’t the first time I’ve almost died.”
Spock hesitated. Jim noticed, for the first time, a shadow of vulnerability hidden bleeding through the edges of Spock’s mask of Vulcan control. He felt his expression soften.
“Spock,” he said gently, “Why have you been following me?”
Spock looked down at his hands where they were calmly clasped together, resting on the table. “It is illogical, captain.”
“You? Illogical? Somehow I doubt that.”
“Even the best of us have our flaws.”
Despite the strange tension in the air between them, Jim could not help but chuckle at that.
“Very true.” Then, when a moment of silence went by without Spock responding, he prompted, “Well?”
Still looking at his hands, Spock paused for a moment before speaking. “I admit that I would have found it most disagreeable if you had lost your life in that mission.”
“I wouldn’t have exactly been pleased with it either.”
Spock continued as though Jim had not spoken. “Were you to perish, the ship would feel your absence most keenly.”
Jim considered him for a long moment before, throwing caution to the winds, he spoke. “And you? Would you feel it?”
For the first time in several moments, Spock finally looked up and met Jim’s eyes. “I admit that I would, captain.”
Jim swallowed. If Spock were human, Jim would have reached across the table to take his hand, but as it was, he contented himself with holding his earnest gaze.
“I’m sorry I concerned you.”
“Thank you,” said Spock. “Though I admit that I appreciate it more if you refrained from doing so again in the future.”
“You know I can’t promise that, Spock.”
Spock’s brow furrowed slightly. “I am aware, captain. However, that does not mean I am pleased by this fact.”
Jim smiled a little, gentle and a bit sad. “I thought Vulcans were not capable of displeasure.”
Spock looked Jim in the eye, tilting his head slightly. “When it comes to you, I find a great many capable of a great many things.”
Jim opened his mouth. He closed it again.
“I see,” he said, rather lamely.
Spock frowned. “Captain, I do not think you realize the importance of this matter.”
“It’s my life. I’d say I have a pretty good sense of how important it is.”
“And yet you are acting as though you do not realize how significant it is to those around you.”
“A captain’s life is lived in service of his ship and his crew”
“The importance of your existence is not found solely in your captaincy, Jim.”
Jim gave Spock a long, considering look. “Are you trying to tell me something, Spock?”
“It is also found, among other things, in your status as a friend.”
Jim was silent, digesting this. Spock looked at him for a long moment, then, unprompted but with uncharacteristically visible hesitance, spoke again.
“I have been maintaining a proximity to you that is closer than average for the last eight point three days because, unreasonable and improper as it may be, I have found your presence an illogically reassuring reminder that you did not, in fact, perish during our last mission.”
“Oh,” said Jim softly.
This time, he was unable to keep himself from reaching out to place a hand on Spock’s sleeve, just above the wrist. Spock looked down at the place where their skin didn’t quite touch, seeming to consider it, but did not protest the contact. Jim took this as permission to leave his hand where it is.
“I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” he said. It was a testament to the weight of the conversation that Spock only frowned slightly at this, not bothering to protest the implications of emotion in Jim’s statement. “I’m safe now. I promise I had no intention of letting the universe get rid of me this easily.”
Jim paused for a moment, thinking, then forged ahead with all the boldness of the man who had recently faced death without flinching.
“You know I had to do it, though,” he said.
Spock’s frown deepened slightly. “The machine’s destruction was logically necessary for the sake of the galaxy. However, the specific method chosen was perhaps not—”
Jim held up a hand to stop him. “I’m aware of your thoughts on my methods. I’m talking about my motivation.”
Spock’s frown grew less displeased and more considering. “In that case, please elaborate.”
Jim couldn’t help a small, fond smile at Spock’s words. “I knew it had to be destroyed for the sake of the galaxy, but that wasn’t really what I was thinking about when I did it.” His smile faded into seriousness as he spoke. He maintained eye contact with Spock. “I was thinking about my crew. About how my friends— my family would be destroyed if I did not act.” He gently squeezed Spock’s forearm where his hand still rested on his sleeve. “I was thinking about you.”
Spock was silent. Jim studied his face, trying to parse the emotions he could almost feel hiding behind Spock’s Vulcan control. There was surprise, he thought, and perhaps confusion, but also something deeper, perhaps more vulnerable or more tender. He could not make it out.
Jim found that he could not let this conversation stagnate in silence, not without knowing for certain that Spock understood him.
“So,” he said, “I hope you realize that this feeling goes both ways.”
Spock’s brows furrowed just slightly. “Clarify.”
“I… value your presence. Very highly. I, um,” Jim paused, took a deep breath, then forged on quickly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” He swallowed. “Please don’t make me find out.”
Spock paused. He considered Jim for a long moment. For some reason, Jim grew increasingly nervous under his scrutiny.
“I am gratified to know that you understand the sentiment,” Spock said eventually. “I will endeavor to act in the interest of self-preservation.”
Jim relaxed a little, letting a smile slip onto his face. “That’s all I can ask for. Thank you.”
“And you will endeavor to do the same?”
Jim lifted his hand from Spock’s arm and held it out to shake. “It’s a deal.”
Too late, he remembered the vast differences between the cultural norms of humans and Vulcans when it came to touch and fingers in particular. He made to withdraw his hand, slightly sheepish.
Before he could move and without breaking eye contact, Spock reached forward and took his hand.
Jim felt a spark of warmth, almost a tingling sensation, travel up his arm and down his spine at the touch. Spock’s hand was dry and very warm. His gaze was serious, earnest in a way Jim rarely saw from him. Jim found that he could not look away.
“A deal,” Spock repeated, his voice soft and low. Jim found himself fighting back a shiver.
Before Jim could pull himself together and return to his senses long enough to speak, Spock released his hand and stood. Jim looked up at him, blinking dumbly, as Spock nodded at him.
“This conversation has been most profitable, captain. Thank you for your time.”
“It— uh, it was my pleasure.” Jim winced internally, abruptly glad the room was empty but for the two of them. He doubted his suave reputation would survive intact otherwise.
Jim could have sworn he saw Spock smirk at him as he turned to go. He found himself smiling softly in return as he watched Spock leave.
When Jim returned to his quarters, he found that he felt much better than he had when he left them last. The emotional toll of the mission was not completely lifted, of course, but the reminder that he had his first officer at his side made it feel easier to bear. The thought of Spock’s concern for his well-being made him made him feel oddly warm.
And, if it was the memory of Spock’s hand on his — of the warmth of his touch, the thinly veiled feeling in his eyes, the emotions that sparked in Jim’s own chest at the contact, and the promise of, maybe, someday, something more — that eventually lulled him to sleep with a smile on his face, that was no one’s business but his own.
#star trek tos#spirk#kirk x spock#james t kirk#spock#star trek#wren writes#*waves shyly* hello star trek fandom!#this took FOREVER because writing has been really slow lately but i finally came up with a title i'm happy with so here you go :D#there should be more fic for both witcher and star trek on its way soon! <3#also first fic of 2024 let's go!!!!#man it's been ages since i posted a new fic that wasn't a collaboration
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small things to stop doing in your fics
(or any kind of writing, but i live on ao3. we begin with flat-out crimes and then slowly start moving into things that just bug me personally but aren’t wrong)
epithets. if i’ve said it once, i’ve said it a thousand times. you should only be using epithets for characters whose names we do not know. they can also be used VERY rarely to break up the repetition of names/pronouns or to emphasize characters’ relationships/viewpoints, ie “his boyfriend” or “the asshole.”
writing out accents. please stop. you can include a couple of small things, like “somethin’” or “ya” (for “you”), but even keep that to a minimum. specific turns of phrase/references go way farther imo to establish a character’s culture/background/etc. a little goes a long way, and doing it repeatedly can make sentences hard to parse. this also! applies! to children and babytalk! have you ever listened to a child speak? toddlers can enunciate pretty well!
not enough commas. put commas before names and titles. it’s not “Hey John” or “I’m on it captain,” it’s “Hey, John” and “I’m on it, captain.” also, put them after discourse markers/interjections such as “well,” “so,” and “now.” you should be writing “So, how are the kids?” not “So how are the kids?” even if your character is speaking quickly, you still want the commas because of grammar. it can occasionally be acceptable to omit them if you want to indicate extreme excitement/panic/anger/etc, but use it sparingly.
too many commas. i’m a comma fiend like the rest of you so i’m guilty here too, but we gotta at least stop with the comma splices. commas split and independent and dependent clause, meaning that one part of the sentence cannot grammatically stand alone. if all parts are complete sentences on their own, that’s a comma splice. try splitting it into two sentences, using a semicolon, or rewriting. this is usually fine in dialogue, though, that’s just how people talk.
also, using a lot of commas to denote panic is something i used to be HUGELY guilty of and now i hate it. instead of, “I, I, I don’t, I don’t know,” you can try, “I-I…I don’t—I don’t know!” probably not that much punctuation that close together, but for the sake of example. emdashes and ellipses, my beloveds 🫶
roleplay speak. i don’t know what else to succinctly call this? i’m referring to the tendency to be redundant and over-explain, especially in dialogue. it’s a phenomenon i see constantly in rp circles, usually because of post length requirements (and i have little issue with it there, it’s just the culture). things like:
“Surprise!” Adam shouted, popping out from behind the door.
“Oh my god!” Scott screamed, having been completely startled and not expecting Adam to be home yet.
yeah, we can guess that Scott is startled, right? because of the screaming? and clearly if Adam is surprising Scott it stands to reason his presence is unexpected? why are we stating this twice?
i believe this also comes from the mistaken idea that every line of dialogue needs a tag attached, which is….horrible. you can let the dialogue exist on its own sometimes, friends. you can also include an action beat without a tag. like above, i could have just said “Adam popped out from behind the door” and omitted the shouting altogether. we can assume he is being loud because that’s usually how people do surprises. anyway. moving on.
condescending to readers. this isn’t so much about writing as it is author’s notes and the like, and “condescending” may be a strong word, but i’m trying to be succinct. at any rate, please stop telling your audience to not read your fic? “do not read if sensitive to [blank]” or “if you have [disorder] skip this fic!” is a horrible way to trigger warn. people know their own boundaries. tell them what the work actually contains and let them self-select.
i also find “rest stop/check-in” type notes condescending, like “if you are reading this between the hours of 10pm-4am, go to sleep” and “STOP! have you eaten/drank/walked around in the past few hours? go do that!” again, we know ourselves. i’m not your kid, don’t tell me what to do. i don’t mind a polite, casual little “thanks for reading, remember to drink water and take your meds, bye” note, though.
the others in this category? i will straight up not read the fic over that on some days. ESPECIALLY because, in my experience, the people who are most intense about warning for every little thing are the ones with the mildest fics, and that’s not what i’m here for.
complaining about your own wrong tags. this is, admittedly, such a nitpick, and it definitely is more common in certain communities than others. but as longtime followers may know, i’m a bit obsessed with ao3’s tagging system and it drives me BONKERS when people use the wrong tags and follow it with “not actually but there’s no tag for xyz.” here’s the thing: you can still look at all the works that have ANY tag, just the non-canonized ones can’t be filtered on. and the best way to get a tag canonized is, guess what, to USE it! imagine that. also, if you’re using the wrong tag, you’re just going to clog the filter results and get people who don’t actually want to read your fic. just stop.
#writing advice#fanfiction#wren writes#writeblr#this has been in my drafts for a while getting things added to it as i come across them#i think it’s good now#feel free to add your own grievances as long as they’re small#last addition was the commas bc i just dnf’d a fic for having like no commas ever#why is every character talking at warp speed i cant focus#also yes i’m a hypocrite bc you can probably find at least most of these in my fics. ik i have the rp speak one very recently. but thats bc#its a rp turned fic and i’m lazy about editing#i dont mind it in that case i think rp fics are fun its when its clearly Not a rp fic that i get annoyed by it
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Writing my silly writings and my fucking autocorrect decides to rewrite Kanan as Banana
Banana Jarrus
Help I'm fucking dying 💀
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Missing Niffler - Charlie a.k.a. Sir Munch-a-lot
Don’t worry, he’s not lost. He’s in the middle of his afternoon lap in the Ravenclaw Common Room while I’m attending Ancient Runes. I just miss him 💙🧸
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14 is perfect for the season now that it's so dark out, even though you'd have to leave the city to be able to see them
Hi bestie! Thank you for sending this in! This is the first thing I’ve written in months so be kind ya girl is fragile <3
14. kissing under the stars
Anetra’s halfway through her soft pretzel, ripping off small chunks to feed to Sasha while she drives when the rented van starts to sputter and shake. There’s a chorus of protests as she steers them off the deserted desert road and onto the sandy shoulder. They were three hours out of Vegas on a roadtrip to California and according to the map in her lap, twenty miles away from the nearest town or service station.
Aura’s busy shushing everyone when Anetra slips out of the front, motioning for Sasha to pop the hood. A cursory glance over the inner workings of the car reveals nothing out of sorts, the company they used to rent the van having clearly taken very good care of their cars. She’s almost stumped until she climbs back in her spot and leans across the console to take a peek at the dash.
“Is it bad? We’re only an hour or so away from the stop for the night, maybe we can help you fix it enough to get us there?” Anetra can tell Sasha’s worried that it's something she’s done and tries her best to smile reassuringly at her.
“There’s nothing broken per se, we’re just out of gas.” She nods to where a bright light is blinking low fuel next to the gauge that sits below empty.
“Out of gas- we just filled up half an hour ago! How can we be out of gas?” Aura is practically in the front seat with them to get a look at the light herself before turning on the twins that are for once sitting far too quietly. “Spice, Sugar, who pumped the gas?”
“Sugar did!” Spice’s answer is almost immediate.
“No sweetie, I told you to because I had to go to the bathroom. You even asked which one to pick.” Sugar’s rolling her eyes at her sister, already turning back to the others despite the deep breath Spice takes to no doubt argue.
“Well either way we don’t have any gas and unless one of y’all are willing to walk all the way to the next town and back we aren’t getting any tonight.” Anetra cuts in before the youngest two girls can start to argue.
“Why can’t we just call a tow truck or get the others to bring us some?” Spice is practically balking at the notion of spending the night in the cramped van on the side of the road.
“Check your phone, we lost service an hour ago while you both were napping.” Aura rolls her eyes, unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing over Spice’s lap to get out of the van.
“Well where are you going?” Sugar calls after her, twisting around in the seat to watch Aura round the back of their van. She sorts through their bags quickly and comes up with a large black duffel bag.
“I’ve got a tent! We can’t all sleep in the van.” She shrugs like everyone isn’t looking at her like she’s got three heads. “I was a cub scout as a kid. Always gotta be prepared.”
Anetra and Sasha somehow miraculously end up getting the van to themselves, and despite the cramped space Anetra couldn’t complain. She’s got Sasha curled into her side, their heads resting on a few hoodies fashioned into a makeshift pillow.
“What a way to start the summer.” She can just make out Sasha’s grin in the growing darkness of the van.
“Definitely not the way I thought it would start. Remind me next time to get in the car with Loosey and Luxx.” Anetra jokes, tangling their fingers together where they lay on her stomach. “Though it is a little romantic if you think about it.”
“How is getting stranded in the desert with our idiot friends romantic?” Anetra doesn’t even need any light to know Sasha’s rolling her eyes even through the fondness leaking into her voice.
“Because at least for now it's you and I, together, alone. Nothing but the stars above us. Think about it, when was the last time we were somewhere that we could see the stars.”
“You’re an idiot.” Sasha grips Anetra’s hoodie, tugging her close enough to steal a kiss from her.
“You love me.” Anetra teases when they part though she chases Sasha’s lips even as she says it.
“I’d love you a lot more if you’d let me be the little spoon tonight.”
“When aren’t you?”
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Hello! Hope you don't mind but can you write Wraith, Doctor, and or Deathslinger with an s/o that was once blind pre-entity but upon entering it's realm, they're mistaken for a killer due to their... Less then human eyes that the Entity granted em in order to see?
(Also, wanted to say that some your other writings are great!)
Of course my dear! Thank you for your kind words.
I’m going to go with the idea that the readers eyes look similar to Maurice’s eyes, as that’s the only reference we currently have of the entity giving things eyes.
Bhvr give us the horse back. Also I made moodboards for the characters to use instead of gifs :D I think they’re neat.
Tw - a rude comment by Herman.
The Wraith - Philip Ojomo
Philip loomed among the trees, watching intently as the fog rolled unnaturally to reveal a path, breaking open his realm to allow another entrance. The crunching of leaves replaced with the dull thumps of shoes on dry dirt.
He watched you step into his realm, his world. He watched as you instinctively reach your hands out, to reach to feel things you could now see for the first time. It mesmerized him.
Truly, he adored you. He would have adored you as you were just as he adored you now.
He stood from his spot, catching your attention. You flinch and it makes his heart skink. Slowly, he raises a hand to hold it out to you. You ease yourself moving to take his hand, moving your fingers over the scarred, mud caked hands that have caused so much pain. Yet you look at him like he is the sun, marvelling at him in the quiet moments you share. And he watched you carefully, looking over your face and into your eyes.
Your eyes.
They haunt his dreams in the best and worst ways. Pulled to this realm sightless and confused, only for the creature above to pluck your eyes from you and switch them with replacements crafted from the very same fog that imprisoned you.
Philip stepped forward, a hand raising to caress your cheek. The wraith leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your head. He worries for you, worries until he is sick while you are away in trials. He fears that the entity will grow bored in her hunger and steal away your new found sight. His grandmother always did tell him was a horrible worrier.
You leaned into his touch, and he felt himself ease. He would always worry, that he knew. But so long as you were in his arms, would simply adore you.
The Doctor - Herman Carter
The halls of Lery’s Memorial Institute echoed with the sounds of shutters clattering and the idle, ambient sound of electricity humming. Herman sat at his desk, writing down his observations of the day. His eyes flicked to you as you looked around the room from your spot on the edge of his desk.
He was fascinated by you, just as much as he was infatuated. You were a particularly interesting case due to your eyes, unnatural and unnerving in their design yet captivating all the same. He wondered how the world was from your perspective, the deviation between what you had imagined from what was true.
Herman lifted a hand to catch your chin, pulling your attention towards him. He watched you gaze travel along the cables embedded in his skin, twisting and tunnelling the electricity through his body, and to his face. Oh how he must have been a terrifying sight for you, his features pulled taut into a freakish display. Yet you looked at him and smiled. So very interesting.
You had been surprisingly patient with his incessant questions. Droning on and on about how he had this thought or that, you were almost amazed he had gone so long without even attempting to ask if he could remove one for study. You assumed he already knew the answer. You watched as he jotted down more notes, his hand still on your chin, lulling you in a quiet comfort as he worked. It almost startled you when he spoke. “Have your little playmates settled down with your presence yet?”
His question had caught you off guard, was he - checking up on you? Yes the two of you were sort of a thing but Herman was still… Herman. Most of the time he seemed wholly uninterested in your life outside the institute - hell, he didn’t even bother to remember the names of the few other survivors who weren’t too scared to speak to you in the beginning. Simply referring to them by belittling titles or by parts of their appearance. Bill, while being a laughably easy name to remember, was referred to only as “the old one” and on one occasion, while Herman was in a particularly foul mood, as “lung cancer”.
“Most have” you started, fiddling with the edge of your shirt “some of them think I’m not real, like the entity made me to do - I don’t know, something.” He watched you from the corner of his eye, writing your response down before releasing his hold on you. The Doctor folded his hands together and fixed you a look “does that bother you?” It was another odd question. Was he concerned or was he evaluating you? You thought a moment. It was understandable that they would worry, as far as they were all aware you could have been a killer. That didn’t stop that weight in the pit of your stomach from getting a little heavier every time someone scoots away from you.
You couldn’t read his expression but you did notice the way his eyes darted towards one the shelves. One you had been told held all his findings on you and your fellow survivors. Herman stared intensely, watching for a change of emotion. He turned away looking back down to the document laid out on the desk. “Does that bother you?” It was his turn to be examined and it was very clear Herman didn’t like it. Still - he gave it a moment of thought, tilting his head side to side as his ever turning brain settled on a response.
“Yes.”
The Deathslinger - Caleb Quinn
The calls of vultures sounded throughout the arid landscape of Glenvale, or at least the calls of whatever strange replication the entity had created did. Picking away at bodies that never seemed to decay under the scorching fake sun above. Noisy things, even the fake ones.
Surprisingly you had taken a great liking to the creatures. Unbothered by their scavenger ways, and instead watching the how their feathers would stick up right before they roused or how they’d tilt their heads so far to the side you almost worried they’d fall over. You were enamoured by them.
Caleb watched you from his place on the saloon steps, idly chipping at a piece of wood with his pocket knife. He didn’t understand the intrigue of such things. They were just birds, loud, obnoxious, and at times just downright mean, birds. He’d shoo them away if they cared enough to even pretend to fear him. Yet you still would creep up to watch and look back at him excitedly every time one would shake its tail feathers or accepted whatever rotted offering you held.
He almost hated how it made his heart flutter or force a content smile on his face. That black, vile part of his soul that fuelled his hatred told him that he should rid himself of this distraction. He never listened to it of course, it was the same damn thing that had gotten him into this mess. No, Caleb had feelings for you - special feelings that were reserved for you and you alone.
He could somewhat understand the fascination if you had lived somewhere vultures weren’t common, added by the fact that you probably had only seen one the first time you had been brought to trial. So the opportunity to see them up close must have been special. You had even taken to naming them all, more than he could remember but he did know you were currently looking at “Barf”. It certainly suited it.
He could still remember the first time he’d seen you, almost pulling death to Bayshore’s trigger prematurely out of surprise. The fact that you were new wasn’t the thing that had startled him, it had been the otherworldly gaze that stared back. It had scared him to his core in a way that only a man raised on Irish Catholicism could explain, even in this twisted world. Those eyes that had been the first thing to scare him since he had entered this place and yet now they were things that he correlated to the one good thing in this hell.
Caleb returned his gaze to the half finished carving, turning it this way and that in inspection. The wooden vulture wouldn’t be done for a bit, but if you truly liked them, then he would tolerate them.
#dbd imagines#dbd x reader#slasher fic#the wraith x reader#philip ojomo x reader#the doctor x reader#herman carter x reader#the deathslinger x reader#caleb quinn x reader#Hallowsden#wren writes#i’m sorry this took so long#Herman was giving me so much trouble this time.#i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless#<3
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i absolutely completely forgot to post this on here because i didn't know how to promo my fics on here but!! i made a hantora fic last month. read here!
#fanfic#tokrev fanfic#wren writes#kazutora hanemiya#hanma shuji#tokyo revengers#tokrev#hantora#hanma/kazutora
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on deaf ears.
im begging for attention
screaming and banging on the door
my throat tightens and closes up
my voice grows breathy and hoarse
in reality im draining away tears
expectations say im looking up at stars
streaks of red paint my arms and legs
chipped nails claw at scars
sounds echo off bare walls
amplified cries in my head
ignorance is bliss at another's despair
shaking hands rake through hair
i look around the soundproof room
and towards its locked door
my mind spirals away from sanity
bringing me through a fantasy
the irony of the expressive
their anguish masked away
a bubbly voice reduced to a sob
fated to never be heard ever again
Taglist: @multifandomosity @kingly-genderfluid @vampiric-bruce-wayne @anonymousfoz @coffeelovinggayidiot @ashes-to-ashesxx @a-had-matter @writinn @holdmyteaplease
@fatexweaver @da-na-hae @bassguitarinablackt-shirt @none-of-it-was-accidental
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Wren's Info
Advance Warning to save us all some time:
My character is a former Garlean soldier.
I very firmly believe in the separation of IC and OOC, and her character does not reflect my personal beliefs. In that same vein, I am not offended if you are uncomfortable with that and choose not to follow/interact.
Curate your experience.
About Me
18+ Only, No Minors
Gpose, character posts, occasional shitposting and even more occasional writing
Occasional NSFW posting (will be tagged)
CET Timezone
I am physically incapable of being normal about anything ever
Rhela Hatasashi (Lupis)
Carrd
Character Inspiration
The babygirl. You can find her in game bumming around bars and fight clubs on the Crystal DC.
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i used to know (but i’m not sure now)
1298 words
cw: panic attack
maybe joel should talk to scar. it- there’s no way he actually meant for joel to spiral into.. well, whatever joel has begun to spiral into. relatively close to a panic attack, probably, but joel can’t remember any of the techniques mumbo told him about for calming down after he and pearl started freaking out about being kicked out of the mounders- okay, he’s noticing a theme here. that’s- that isn’t the point. he’s just- well, what if he goes to find scar to ask him about what he meant, and scar did mean to reference last life, and he’s- he’s mad at joel, or doesn’t wanna talk to him at all, and then joel has to leave again and he-
joel’s train of thought is interrupted painfully as he smacks the top of his head on his ceiling, and he realises that he’s been slowly flying upwards since he started spiralling. at least hitting his head managed to ground him. actually- can you call that grounding when he’s not on the ground?
or
joel is freaking out about past alliances. turns out, he’s not the only one
if I actually wrote/finished all the ideas I have in my head right now, i’d be posting daily istg
winter is the season of writers block however so you get this <3
if you’re going to like, please reblog!
joel is being dumb.
there’s no way scar was referencing magical mountain—he just saw a mountain and magic was alliterate with the word mountain, so he said magic mountain before he could remember about the almost identically named alliance they had, and by the time he remembered it was too awkward to change it. that’s- it has to have been that. that’s a very scar thing to do- it’s a very joel thing to do, in all honesty. if scar hadn’t said it, joel probably would have, and then he would be having pretty much the same dilemma—just a little to the left.
it was a slip of the tongue, and everyone moved past it, and- it might be their team name now, but that’s fine. is it a team on hermitcraft, or is it like.. a group? it’s not like they’re teaming up against each other this time, so they can’t be a team—or an alliance, on that note. it’s probably a group name then. maybe joel should suggest a different name next.. meeting? okay, he really doesn’t know as much about hermitcraft as he thought he did.
and that’s- well, that’s an entirely different freakout he’s probably gonna have soon, but- what if the naming of this mountain was a kind of.. omen? what if it all goes wrong, and it turns out joel isn’t welcome here anymore, and then he has to go find somewhere else to stay- and everyone has already established their neighbours and their groups and joel will be like the odd one out- and it’s his first season, it can’t go wrong this quickly. joel might be having two freakouts at the same time now- that’s probably not a great sign, huh?
maybe joel should talk to scar. it- there’s no way he actually meant for joel to spiral into.. well, whateverjoel has begun to spiral into. relatively close to a panic attack, probably, but joel can’t remember any of the techniques mumbo told him about for calming down after he and pearl started freaking out about being kicked out of the mounders- okay, he’s noticing a theme here. that’s- that isn’t the point. he’s just- well, what if he goes to find scar to ask him about what he meant, and scar did mean to reference last life, and he’s- he’s mad at joel, or doesn’t wanna talk to him at all, and then joel has to leave again and he-
joel’s train of thought is interrupted painfully as he smacks the top of his head on his ceiling, and he realises that he’s been slowly flying upwards since he started spiralling. at least hitting his head managed to ground him. actually- can you call that grounding when he’s not on the ground?
forcing himself to breathe slowly, joel lands back on the floor. okay. he should probably talk to scar, considering he’s getting this het up about everything. besides, since when has scar actually done anything like that for no reason? never, that’s when. probably.
it takes a moment for him to hype himself up enough for joel to even approach his front door, but he gets there after a minute. he puts his hand on the doorknob, pushes it down, pulls the door open and-
-and finds himself face to face with an equally nervous looking scar.
scar jumps, making a noise like a suppressed yelp as he realises what just happened. “I- joel. you’re- hello!”
joel has seemingly forgotten how to form any coherent words, because all he can do is stare as scar starts to ramble about wanting to give joel something that he must have forgotten at home because he can’t seem to find it on him-
“are you-“ joel says suddenly, surprising both scar and himself. his voice is embarrassingly rough, which- okay, he didn’t actually cry or anything, why does he sound so bad? “is- I don’t know how to. say it.” he huffs in exasperation. “is this about last life?”
“I-“ something akin to fear flickers across scar’s face, and joel immediately regrets bringing it up until scar says, “it’s not.. not about last life.”
for a moment, neither of them say anything—the silence so loud, joel feels like he’s about to lose his mind. then, simultaneously-
“I shouldn’t-“
“you weren’t-“
scar looks like he’s about to cry, and joel wants to hug him but has no idea how he would even try- or if scar would even want that. “you- you can go first.”
“I- i’m sorry. for being so pissy to you after- after I turned red, I mean-“ joel throws his hands out in exasperation. “I was red- those were the rules! you couldn’t team with me, and I just- I took it harder than I should have, and then I took it out on you. and you didn’t- you don’t deserve that.” joel’s voice breaks embarrassingly at the end of that, and he clears his throat.
“oh.” scar has tears in his eyes, and his voice wavers and- fuck, did joel say something wrong? but then the smallest of smiles ghosts across his lips. “I thought- I was gonna apologise for kicking you out for no reason. I thought you were gonna be mad at me.”
joel gives a huff of a laugh, slightly incredulous. “wh- I thought you were mad at me, I didn’t- why would I be mad at you?”
“‘cause- well, it’s a little hypocritical of me, right? me and grian in third life were breaking the rules, and then I didn’t break them for you.” scar’s ear twitches. “are you honestly not mad?”
“I mean- I was.” joel admits. “but not- I wasn’t mad at you, though. I thought- y’know, was it me?” he tries to keep his voice steady, but it wavers against his will, and he glances away from scar’s gaze. “i’d- in third life, I didn’t have a team. and then I teamed with you, and in a week, I was alone again. i just,” he shrugs in an attempt at nonchalance as he looks back at scar. “but then I had boat boys, and then the bad boys, and then the mounders, and- I wasn’t mad anymore.”
scar’s smile turns a little sad. “I.. i’m not exactly a stranger to that feeling. so- i’m sorry I contributed-“
“oh, no- jimmy did this too, you don’t get to apologise for my problems.” joel slaps a hand over scar’s mouth, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “and, on that topic, i’m sorry if I made you feel like that in secret life- no, i’m allowed to say that because I actually did fuck up.” joel says as scar starts to protest. he moves his hand away for fear of being licked. “you always belong with us, you know that right?”
“I- joel, if you make me cry, i’m gonna be so mad.” scar laughs, already crying as he pulls joel in for a hug. joel freezes in surprise for a moment, but before scar can start to pull away, he hugs scar back. “thank you.” scar mumbles into joel’s hair.
“I mean it.” joel says, muffled against scar’s shoulder. “if you ever start feeling like you’re alone on this mountain, my door is always open. it- pretty literally, actually, it’s built so the door is open.”
scar snorts. “you’re ruining the sappy moment.” he tells him, hugging him tighter. “you can’t be vulnerable for one second, can you?”
“wh- okay, i’m working on it.” joel scoffs, and scar cackles. “I only see you guys in death games, give me a break.”
“I forgive you.” scar says, voice soft all of a sudden, and joel smiles to himself. “i’m happy you’re here. i’ve missed you.”
#magic mountain#magical mountain#hermitcraft#hermitcraft s10#joel smallishbeans#gtws#goodtimeswithscar#smallishbeans#wren writes
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Chapters: 5/?
Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021), League of Legends
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane) & Ekko & Jinx (League of Legends) & Mylo (Arcane) & Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn & Jayce (League of Legends), Ekko/Jinx (League of Legends)
Characters: Caitlyn (League of Legends), Vi (League of Legends), Jayce (League of Legends), Ekko (League of Legends), Claggor (Arcane: League of Legends), Mylo (Arcane: League of Legends), Ahri (League of Legends), Akali (League of Legends), Kai'Sa (League of Legends), Evelynn (League of Legends), Mel Medarda
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, fake enemies to lovers, Lesbians, Library Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Semi-Public Sex, There will be Plot, no beta we die like men, Tags updated as needed as chapters post, Yearning, sapphos (poetry), HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Violyn, Piltover's Finest, Timebomb (background), Jinx is Powder, Vi & Jinx are Vander's adopted kids, Vander Lane, Lesbian Vi (League of Legends), LoL Cameos, Background KDA, Color Guard
Summary:
College AU. Entering their Junior year at the University of Piltover, Caitlyn and Vi continue a questionable agreement to ease Caitlyn's stress while Vi's crew gets left alone. Its transactional. Its simple. Until its not.
Basically Cait and Vi fuck around secretly, no strings attached...until someone finds out. Who will it be? Will they squeal to the others? And all the shenanigans attached to that. (I'm really bad at summaries sorry.)
This was inspired by the Heartthrob/Heartache Skins that dropped earlier this year for Cait and Vi but now it's just gonna be a gay little love letter to my favorite (CONFIRMED) Arcane/LoL Lesbians.
I'll update as I write it. So sub to get updates!
c:
#new chapter#ch 5#wren writes#arcane#caitvi#piltovers finest#piltover's gayest#vi#caitlyn kiramman#college au
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Of Magic, Meddling and Mice
When Jaskier leaves his prison cell together with Geralt, Gordon tags along. This changes far more than one would think.
(Gordon may not quite be the ordinary mouse everyone expects him to be.)
This is is the second part, which is about 5k. You can find the first part on Tumblr here or read the whole thing on AO3!
Eskel had been almost certain that he was going to die.
He was tired. He was running out of potions. The fight dragged on for what felt like forever. The leshen refused to be killed. Eskel thought he could best it eventually, but he doubted he could do so without sustaining a very serious injury.
Worse, he was already injured. The leshen had almost caught him several times and he had only barely managed to wrench himself free. He could feel its infection starting to take hold, feel himself becoming a little less controlled and a little more angry. Before long, he knew, his vision would begin to cloud, and unless he could get help or miraculously find another of his potions, he might begin to lose himself.
He was, in short, fucked.
Once again, the leshen lunged at him. Eskel raised his sword to defend himself, bracing for the impact, when—
His vision blurred. The forest floor felt as though it turned to water. Something grasped him, taking hold not of his body but of something deeper, twisted him around their hands, and pulled.
The world shifted. Eskel’s vision went white. His ears filled with discordant music, like the tuning of an orchestra. He thought, though he wasn’t sure, that he was screaming.
Everything went dark, the ground beneath him vanished, and Eskel knew no more.
~
When Eskel came back to himself, he was half convinced that he really had died.
His head was pounding. His entire body felt foreign and aching. Even his breathing and his heartbeat felt strange.
He did nothing for a few minutes, trying frantically to get his bearings. As time went by, his senses slowly returned. He could hear the faint sounds of voices and the distant skittering of small feet. He could feel what felt like strange wood beneath him. He was lying on his side. He could smell old food, dirt, a little bit of piss, and the vague scent of fear and unhappiness.
After a few moments of effort, he managed to open his eyes. The sight that met him was…
Odd, to say the very least.
It took him a few moments to make sense of it. As far as he could tell, he was looking across a mostly-empty room to a door. The sight was sideways, which made sense because he was lying on his side. His vision was strangely blurry and dull in color, but that would not be surprising if he had a concussion. What did not make sense was how incredibly large everything was.
He tried to sit up, wondering if that would help. His limbs did not respond the way he expected. After a few more failed attempts, he managed to roll onto his stomach.
That was when he realized that something was very, very wrong.
He did not have to crane his head to see what was going on. In fact, it felt strangely natural to look forward while lying on his front. He had far more peripheral vision than usual, but his perception of depth was poorer and he could not see as far. He could feel the air in front of him in strange detail.
‘Huh?’ he tried to say.
“Squeak?” he heard himself say.
He froze. He blinked. He tried to move his hand, only to feel something suspiciously like a claw scratch against the wood beneath him.
Well, fuck.
~
After spending an unknown amount of time experimenting — probably about an hour, judging by the movement of the sun through the window of the room he was beginning to suspect was a prison cell — Eskel deduced that he was, for some inexplicable reason, probably a mouse.
He figured this out from a combination of his size, the shape of his body, the nature of his senses, and from the fact that the other mice in the cell seemed utterly unperturbed by his presence. Also, he was the same size as they were. Seeing one of them for the first time had been a very startling revelation.
Eskel had no idea where he was. He had no idea why he was here and not in a leshen-infected forest. He had no idea why he was a mouse. Was this a curse? The effect of the leshen venom? An elaborate hallucination?
He was just beginning to consider an attempt at leaving the room to find out when he heard heavy footsteps and shouting from outside the door.
He did his best to scurry into a corner. He was much clumsier than the other mice, who vanished within seconds, but he made it to a safe place before anything happened. He watched the door warily.
It opened. Two humans who appeared to be guards shoved a third, who looked rather disheveled, into the room and slammed the door closed again.
The third human, who seemed to be a man, shouted at the door for a while. Eskel could not quite understand what he was saying — he had begun to suspect, after spending some time listening to the people outside the room, that mice had a rather higher range of hearing than humans did — but he sounded angry and slightly panicked. After a while, he stomped across the room and sat down against the wall near where Eskel was hiding.
Eskel took the opportunity to study him. He wore a long coat, which would probably have been very fashionable if it weren’t for its strangely muddy yellow-brown color and its general air of dishevelment. His hair was mussed. There were bags under his eyes. There was what appeared to be blood on his face and shirt. He smelled of adrenaline, sweat and a surprising amount of smoke.
The man groaned and buried his face in his hands. If Eskel was not mistaken, a few of his fingers looked as though they had been recently burnt.
“Well, fuck,” he said. Eskel had little trouble understanding those words. They were, given the circumstances, unsurprising.
The man sat there in silence for several long moments. After a time, he raised his head from his hands and leaned back against the wall. He took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said brightly, clapping his hands together and then wincing at the pressure on his presumably-injured fingers, “There’s no point in throwing a pity party.”
He sat up a little. He stretched. He hummed a few notes, winced at the hoarseness in his voice, then tried again. After warming up for a while, he started to sing little snatches of tune.
Eskel relaxed a little. His new cellmate certainly did not seem like a threat. His voice was nice, if a little hoarse. His company was not unpleasant.��
The man continued to sing and talk to himself. After a while, the prison guard returned to the room with a plateful of food. It was only when Eskel caught its scent that he realized how hungry he was. He had not eaten since that morning, before the hunt. Even the mediocre prison gruel smelled appetizing.
Eskel watched as the prisoner ate some of it, then set the remainder aside. He saw another mouse edge slowly towards the plate. He tensed, expecting to see the man shriek and swat the mouse away. The prisoner turned. He caught site of the mouse.
A grin spread across his face, wide and delighted.
“Hello!” he said brightly, shifting to get a closer look at the mouse. It squeaked and skittered away.
“Oh,” said the man. He sounded unaccountably sad. “Sorry.”
He leaned back against the wall again, sighing deeply. For a moment, his cheer drained away. He seemed very tired and very alone.
Eskel was hungry. He was starting to view the prisoner as a sort of companion. Even Eskel, as wary as every witcher had to be, knew that this man was not a threat — he could not bring himself to fear someone who sang in cells and sought companionship in a mouse. He could not bear to let this kind man look so lonely, so lost, and so sad.
He took a deep breath, crawled out of his hiding place, and set off towards the plate of food.
Once again, the prisoner’s face lit up. He was more careful, this time, not making any loud noises. He watched attentively as Eskel reached the plate and began to eat. Only after a few long moments, when Eskel was almost done with the food, did he begin to speak.
Eskel could not make out the specific words, but the prisoner’s tone was friendly and unexpectedly musical. When Eskel had eaten his fill, he sat back and looked up at his companion. The man was looking down at him with an expression that could only be called fond.
When he cautiously reached towards Eskel, Eskel did not flinch. He let himself be picked up and stroked. It was oddly pleasant, and the grin that shone on the prisoner’s face was more than enough of a reward.
The man continued to talk and sing to Eskel and the other mice. Eskel, to his own surprise, enjoyed it. He was a good singer and his speaking voice was pleasant. It was strangely calming.
After a while, the prisoner paused and looked thoughtfully at the mice.
“I can’t just keep calling you all Mouse. It’s not fair to your scintillating personalities.” He hummed to himself, thinking.
“You shall be Penelope, and you shall be Ronald,” he said after a moment, pointing to the two other mice in turn. He turned to Eskel and thought for a moment.
“You shall be Gordon,” he decided.
Eskel couldn’t help but laugh at that. It came out as a squeak.
“I choose to believe that means you like it,” said the man. Then he gasped dramatically. “Oh! Where are my manners? I am Julian Alfred Pancratz,Viscount de Lettenhove, but I am better known as Jaskier, the renowned bard. It’s what my friends call me.” He lowered his voice and leaned conspiratorially towards the mice. “I am also known, in some circles, as the Sandpiper, but that should not become widely known.”
Eskel blinked. The name Jaskier sounded familiar, but he could not quite place it.
“I am here through no fault of my own,” said Jaskier. Eskel gave him a doubtful look. Jaskier puffed up, as indignant as if he had understood what Eskel meant. “I am, I swear! I have done a lot of things that could have led to my being arrested, but for once I am innocent of the particular thing I’m accused of. Anyway, I have more important matters to worry about than your doubt of my perfect truthfulness.”
He started to feel around in his coat’s pockets. After a while, he let out a sound of triumph and pulled a few spoons free from the fabric.
“Now you’ll have a real performance,” he said to Eskel.
True enough, he used the spoons to beat out a percussive rhythm between his hand and his knee. He was oddly skilled at it. With the spoons to accompany him, he composed his song about whoresons more happily than ever.
When Jaskier seemed happy with the song, he began to sing in earnest. It was surprisingly good — the lyrics were simple and crass, but the tune was catchy and the bard sang it with enthusiasm. He was loud and cheerful. He did not let the guards’ protests deter him. He was smiling. Eskel was happy to see it.
He urged the mice to sing along with him. The real mice ignored him, of course, but after a few minutes of hesitation, Eskel decided that he might as well give it a go. He could not be recognized in this form. He had no reason to be embarrassed. It almost sounded fun.
When he started to squeak along to the tune, Jaskier’s grin was almost bright enough to blind. Eskel found himself complemented repeatedly. Before long, “Gordon” was undoubtedly Jaskier’s favorite of the mice.
Eskel tried not to linger on the thought that he had made a friend now, as a mouse, far more easily than he ever could have dreamed of doing as a witcher. Now was not the time for such gloom. He focused on his new companion. To his own surprise, he found that he was having a good time. Aside from winters with his brothers, he rarely had the chance to enjoy the company of someone who could talk to him without fear. The fact that he was unable to talk back was only a minor hindrance.
Things were going oddly well, in fact— right up until Geralt of goddamn Rivia waltzed right in through the prison door.
For a moment, Eskel almost thought he was hallucinating, but Jaskier saw him too. Eskel’s squeak of surprise was lost beneath the sound of Jaskier cursing. The bard stood to meet Geralt. They exchanged a few words.
Then they hugged.
Eskel had been under the impression that Geralt would never hug a human unless under pain of death. Evidently, he had been wrong. He suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Jaskier before. It seemed that Geralt’s bard was not as imaginary as Lambert liked to believe.
It really was Geralt. Eskel could smell his familiar scent. There was no way he could hallucinate something like this. Geralt was here.
Melitele, Eskel was so happy to see him.
This happiness was quickly dampened by the fact that, no matter how hard he tried, Eskel could not get either Geralt or Jaskier’s attention. No matter how loudly he squeaked or how fast he tried to run around on the floor, neither of them payed him any mind. They hugged for a long moment, then exchanged a few more words. Eskel, out of breath from trying to move quickly in his unfamiliar body, barely managed to scramble up Jaskier’s leg before the bard left the cell.
Bouncing up and down in the pocket of Jaskier’s coat, Eskel spared a few moments for sheer frustration. Then, after a while, he made himself poke his head out of the pocket and keep an eye on where they were going.
He tried to keep his spirits up. Jaskier was free. They were out of the cell and on the move. Geralt was here.
Everything, Eskel was sure, would work itself out soon.
~
Nothing worked itself out.
Apparently, Geralt had become embroiled in a frankly ridiculous amount of trouble since the last time Eskel saw him. Going on the little Eskel could hear from his place in Jaskier’s pocket, it sounded as though Geralt had gone to claim his child of surprise, missed her in the burning of Cintra, found her, and then lost her again at the hands of a sorceress who was also his ex-lover. Eskel was almost impressed at the sheer drama of it all.
More concerning than any of that, though, was the fact that Eskel still couldn’t get Geralt to notice him.
It was absurd. Geralt’s medallion must be vibrating — Eskel was very definitely not a mouse, after all, and witchers were supposed to be good at noticing that sort of thing — but he seemed not to pay it any mind. Geralt even held Jaskier’s coat while Eskel was in it and didn’t notice anything was off, for Melitele’s sake.
It was fine. Eskel could handle it. He would simply wait until they found that sorceress they were looking for. Or any other magic user. Or anyone with even a little bit more intelligence than his idiot brother. He could do that.
Things, of course, did not turn out so simply.
~
Geralt found his sorceress and his child, threatened the sorceress, then disappeared with her on some sort of magical quest of which Eskel did not catch the details. The pace of these changes was, quite frankly, exhausting — only Geralt could get himself in this kind of trouble.
Jaskier was tasked with taking Geralt’s child back to Kaer Morhen. For a time, Eskel allowed himself to hope that Vesemir at least might notice that something was off.
Eskel’s priorities underwent a swift shift when he saw Geralt’s child get possessed by some sort of ancient demon.
Eskel had no idea why he could see her when Jaskier and the dwarves so plainly could not — perhaps it was because he was a witcher, or because he had some affinity for magic, or simply because he was a mouse and the demon saw no reason to hide from him — but it did not matter. He had to warn someone.
Jaskier was distracted while they rode. Eskel feared that trying to make the bard understand what had happened would alert the demon to the fact that he knew it was there, so he stayed silent for the moment.
When they finally arrived at Kaer Morhen and no one else noticed either the demon or Eskel’s true nature, Eskel took a moment to internally despair at his family’s spectacular lack of intelligence, then began to plan. The demon could not have good intentions; he would have to hope he would be enough to stop whatever she was trying to do in Kaer Morhen.
It was pure luck that he managed to get there in time.
He suspected that something was wrong when he watched Ciri leave for her room that night, so he followed her. When he saw her sit up, her movements jerkier than usual, and reach for the knife under her pillow, he waited only long enough to see which direction she was headed before going to get Jaskier. The bard was the only one who would pay him any mind — Eskel only hoped he would understand.
After a few moments of frantic gesturing and squeaking, he managed to get Jaskier to follow him. He led him to Ciri’s room, then followed her scent and the acrid smell of strange chaos to Everard’s door. Jaskier’s shriek was only just in time to avert disaster.
Ciri screamed. Eskel went flying across the hall. Swords were drawn. Footsteps pounded towards them. The battle began.
~
After everything — after the battle was over, his brothers’ lives only barely spared from the teeth of the basilisks, the demon banished and half of the keep covered in blood — Eskel stopped trying so hard to be discovered.
His predicament was not life-threatening or dangerous. Everyone in the keep was dealing with things that were just as difficult, if not more so. Some of his brothers were gravely injured and the rest were caring for them. Geralt was evidently in the process of forgiving his ex-lover and caring for his new daughter, who was apparently Cirilla of Cintra herself. Ciri was reckoning with her recent possession and the nature of her power. Yennefer was finding her footing in a strange keep. Jaskier, if Eskel understood what he had overheard Yennefer saying correctly, was dealing with the effects of having been tortured for Geralt on top of everything else.
Eskel was in no immediate danger. Lil’ Bleater was being taken care of by Coën. Eskel saw no reason to add being squeaked at by what would appear to be an insane mouse to the list of everyone’s troubles.
Instead, he split his time between keeping Jaskier’s spirits up and standing vigil over his brothers. He knew he could not help the injured witchers, not in this form, but it made him feel better to watch their chests rise and fall and listen to the beating of their hearts.
And, while he might not be able to help his brothers, he could help Jaskier. It seemed to calm the bard to talk to “Gordon” when he was alone and had nothing else to do. Jaskier told Eskel of how he had been friends with Geralt and how Geralt had left him, of his work as the Sandpiper and his time with the Firefucker. It became increasingly obvious that Jaskier was in love with Geralt and that Geralt had broken his heart. The more the bard spoke, the more certain Eskel became that, if he could return to his true form, he would have to have a very long conversation with his brother.
Then, after almost a week, things finally changed.
He probably should have expected that the sorceress would be the one to notice something strange about him. When she realized that he was not what he seemed, she whisked him off to the laboratory. In the company of Jaskier, Geralt, and Lambert, she set Eskel on the table and asked his permission to look into his mind. He gave it easily.
Hello? she asked in his mind, gently.
Eskel was pleasantly surprised. He had half expected her to simply glance around his thoughts and then leave.
Hello and well met, he said in response. It’s about time someone noticed I’m not a damn mouse.
Yennefer’s presence in his mind felt distinctly amused. Indeed.
Eskel sent her his corresponding amusement and agreement. My brothers are, apparently, much less intelligent than I gave them credit for.
Your brothers? asked the sorceress, startled.
Yes. My name is Eskel. I am a witcher of the Wolf school.
I see. I’ll tell them.
Yes, please.
Yennefer withdrew from his mind. Eskel opened his eyes.
“Well?” asked Jaskier.
“He’s definitely not a mouse,” said Yennefer.
“What the fuck is he, then?” asked Lambert with his customary gruffness. Behind him, Geralt was glaring in the way he did when he didn’t want anyone to know that he was nervous.
“He says,” said Yennefer, “That his name is Eskel.”
Lambert dropped the bowl he had been holding. It clattered to the floor and went rolling into a corner. Geralt’s eyes went wide and he sucked in a breath. Jaskier glanced back and forth between the two of them and Eskel.
“You’re not Gordon?” he asked Eskel, looking lost.
Eskel, for lack of anything else to do, squeaked.
“What does that mean?” asked Jaskier.
“Hold the fuck up,” said Lambert. “What do you mean that’s Eskel? Eskel’s fucking dead.”
Eskel froze. He stared up at his brothers, his eyes wide. He’d thought— he’d known something could have happened to his body after he was taken from it, that it might have stayed behind in the forest, but he hadn’t once thought that his brothers might believe him dead.
Gods, he should have told them. He should have found a way to make them understand. He should have found the sorceress sooner, he should have tried to communicate, he should—
Geralt stumbled towards the table. His expression and scent were enough to rip Eskel out of his thoughts.
“Esk?” he rasped. Eskel skittered towards him and nudged his hand where it rested on the table. Geralt lifted his hand and stroked a finger, with painful gentleness, down Eskel’s back.
“It’s really him?” Geralt asked Yennefer.
“Yes,” said Yennefer softly.
“Fuck,” said Lambert. “Fuck. How?”
“You were here,” said Geralt, his expression torn between grief and confusion and hope. “You— I— you were a leshen. We lost you. I had to kill you, Esk.”
Jaskier made a pained noise at that, somewhere to the side. Eskel had eyes only for his brother.
“Was that him?” asked Geralt, turning to Yennefer again. “Was— did I— was he there? Does he remember?”
“Why the fuck is he a mouse?” asked Lambert. He glared at Jaskier. “Where did you get him? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” protested Jaskier. “Yen, can you turn him back?”
“I think so,” said Yennefer. Eskel couldn’t help but slump with relief. “He can answer your questions better than I can, anyhow.”
“We should find Vesemir,” said Jaskier.
“Fuck,” said Lambert. “What the fuck are we gonna say?”
“I don’t know! He’s your mentor.”
“Boys!” called Yennefer. “Stop bickering and get me my ingredients.”
The next hour passed in a blur of movement, mental conversation with Yennefer, and people coming and going from the room. Eskel lost track of the details fairly quickly. All he cared to know was that Yennefer was making a potion, which Jaskier was expressly forbidden from drinking, that would hopefully return Eskel to his normal state.
Eventually, Yennefer pronounced herself ready. Almost all of the witchers in the keep who were able were present, crowded into the laboratory. A few were sitting on tables. Eskel was in the center of the room on a table he had to himself. Beside him was a shallow bowl of shimmering purple liquid.
Yennefer gestured at the bowl. “Go ahead.”
Cautiously, Eskel walked towards the bowl. He sniffed it. It did not smell unpleasant. He gathered himself, leaned forward, and began to drink.
A moment went by. Nothing happened. Then, just as he was beginning to wonder if it was really going to work, he felt his body seize up. His vision blurred, then went white. The room whirled around him. His ears rang so loudly he could hear nothing else. He could feel himself twisting, reshaping, being pulled, and then—
He was lying on the table, staring up at the ceiling with eyes that very definitely did not belong to a mouse.
Jaskier gasped. Lambert whooped. Vesemir made a wounded noise.
After a few moments of effort, Eskel managed to use his blessedly normal hands and arms to push himself up to a sitting position and take stock of himself. He was human-shaped again. The room was the right size and the right colors. He was uninjured. He was, thankfully, clothed in the same things he had been wearing when he fought the leshen, but his armor was undented. He was back.
“Eskel,” breathed Geralt, and suddenly all of Eskel’s attention was on his brother. Geralt was staring at him as though he was afraid Eskel would disappear if he blinked.
Tentatively, Eskel swung his legs off the table and tried to stand. His legs wobbled, but held. He stumbled a few steps towards Geralt. Geralt let out a shuddering breath, darted towards him, and pulled Eskel into a crushing embrace.
“I missed you,” Geralt rasped as Eskel wrapped his arms around him. “I missed you so fucking much, Esk.”
“I’m here,” said Eskel, rubbing Geralt’s back. “I’m here, Geralt. I’m fine.”
“Fuck it,” said Lambert, and suddenly Eskel was being hugged from behind. The embrace was brief but firm.
“I’m glad you’re alive, you fucker,” said Lambert as he pulled away. Eskel smiled.
One by one, the other witchers approached them. Eskel’s back was patted, his hair was ruffled, his shoulder was shoved, and he was hugged. Geralt never let him go. Once upon a time, Eskel might have minded all of the touching, but right now he could not dream of being bothered. By the time everyone had enough, he was grinning despite his teary eyes.
Eventually, Geralt pulled away. He looked Eskel up and down one last time, then smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “For still being here.”
Eskel hugged him again. “You’re welcome.”
After a few long moments, he pulled away and turned to Jaskier, who was waiting awkwardly off to the side. His coat was actually red instead of brown and he looked less blurry and more awkward than Eskel had ever seen him, but he was otherwise little different than he had seemed through a mouse’s eyes.
“Hi,” said Jaskier, waving a little.
“Hi,” said Eskel with a smile. “Good to meet you properly.”
Jaskier looked rather embarrassed. “You understood everything I said, didn’t you?”
“Most of it, yeah.”
“I see,” said Jaskier. “Um. Well, in that case, I apologize for rambling at you incessantly. And also for not noticing you weren’t a mouse. And for naming you Gordon.”
Eskel chuckled. “It’s fine. I didn’t mind.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
Jaskier seemed completely unphased by Eskel’s appearance. His eyes did not linger on the scars on Eskel’s face. There was no trace of nervousness in his face or in his scent. Eskel probably should have expected it, given the fact that the bard had befriended Geralt of all people, but he could still feel his shoulders relaxing at the acceptance.
Jaskier held out a hand for Eskel to shake. Eskel hesitated a moment. Then, giving Jaskier plenty of time to back away, he stepped forward and pulled the bard into a hug instead. Jaskier made a surprised squeaking sound, but hugged Eskel back after only a moment of confusion.
“I’d still like to be your friend, if you’d be all right with that,” said Eskel when he stepped away.
Jaskier grinned. “You seem much less grouchy than your brothers. I would love to be your friend.”
Eskel smiled back. “I’m glad.”
Lambert and Gwain made indignant noises at Jaskier’s comment. Coën laughed.
“You cannot deny that Eskel and I are the only polite people in this keep,” said Coën. Eskel heard the sounds of wrestling breaking out behind him and a very, very tired sigh from Vesemir. He ignored it.
“Oh, and speaking of grouchiness,” he said, “I think Geralt and I will need to have a very long conversation.”
Jaskier and Geralt both looked rather alarmed at that, and Lambert laughed out loud. Vesemir shook his head. Eskel had to hold back a grin.
It was good to be home.
~
In the training yard at Kaer Morhen, there was laughter.
Cirilla was dueling Coën. Despite the fact that she was losing badly, there was a broad smile on her face. Merek and Hemrik, who were still recovering from their injuries and thus could not train as usual, occupied themselves by providing live commentary of the fight.
Geralt and Jaskier sat nearby, watching and occasionally shouting words of advice to Ciri. Jaskier leaned against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm was slung around his shoulder. When no one was looking, Geralt pressed a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, and Jaskier grinned as brightly as the sun.
Yennefer stood off to one side, discussing herbs and magic with Vesemir. A newly-recovered Everard stood beside them, occasionally chiming in with his own alchemical knowledge.
Lambert was running the obstacle course with Diever. They appeared to have turned it into some sort of a race. Their antics routinely distracted Ciri and Coën from their duel; it was difficult, after all, not to laugh when Lambert fell off a platform and into a heap of snow.
Lil’ Bleater was safely tied to a post off to one side, munching on some carrots Jaskier had given her and bleating happily at anyone who passed nearby. Tolbert carefully gave her a wide berth; he had been cautious around her ever since the Great Pantry Incident of the previous week.
Eskel stood near Geralt and Jaskier, stretching in preparation for when he would inevitably be dragged onto the obstacle course by Lambert. Whenever one of his brothers passed by, they clapped him on the shoulder or gave him a quick hug. They were still getting used to having him back. Every now and then, Geralt would turn away from Jaskier to give Eskel a fond and grateful smile. Eskel always smiled back, warm and content.
Destiny nodded. She sat back and watched the strange little family with a small, satisfied smile.
There, she thought to herself. This is much better.
The End
#the witcher#jaskier#eskel#geralt#twn#geraskier#just a bit but it's there#the witcher fanfiction#wren writes#not entirely happy with this part but it's all right and i want it out of my brain so here you go! :D
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lrb ACTUALLY let’s talk about epithets have i done that yet? if i have you get to hear it again.
so the main rule is to simply avoid epithets at all costs if you know a character’s name. i promise it’s not as noticeable as you think it is. just use the name. it’s okay. even if i DO notice i vastly prefer that to “the black-haired man” every two paragraphs.
but if you must use them, avoid comparative ones (the older woman, the shorter man) because not everyone remembers a canon birthday calendar or height chart—and it’s worse when people use their own headcanons for that sort of thing. confusing all around. stop it.
also, avoid anything longer than 1-2 syllables to help the epithet blend into the prose. “he looked over at his partner,” when we know his partner’s name is Morgan, feels way more natural than “he looked over at the blue-haired woman.”
on that note—in general, go for relationships before appearance, job, etc when picking epithets. you can use this as a way to develop characters! referring to Morgan as “his partner” implies a close, trusting relationship. it could also imply a certain level of possessive/protectiveness, or shock/insecurity (she’s really my partner…wow). all depends on the context and framing. on the other hand, if we chose to refer to Morgan as “the stubborn asshole” (that’s kind of long, but lets assume we only need to use it once and it fits the tone), that implies they might be working together against their will, and this is not at all a close partnership. but it can also be affectionate! again, context.
going for things like appearance or job (unless the character whose pov you’re in has a good reason to care about those things) is just kind of a waste of words when you could be using them to emphasize something else.
and once you’ve realized that you will forever be annoyed at how many fics decide to throw “the powerful blonde” or what-the-fuck-ever into the middle of a passionate romantic scene between a couple that’s been dating for like five years. what’s all this emotional distance? the love of your life just gets a generic adjective and a hair color on your anniversary? rude.
thank you for coming to my ted talk
#wren writes#writing advice#fanfiction advice#look at me. LOOK AT ME. use epithets properly or not at all#going back to dabi this is why i hate ‘the frail man’ for him bc its used almost exclusively#in ship fics by like. his partner. is that how his partner thinks of him? really? nothing better than that?#thats the word youre gonna go with for romance?#its just so jarring#i can accept it if its by someone who doesnt know him well and/or (mostly and) dabi is practically on his deathbed#bc otherwise: what
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Doing that thing again where I write stuff
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