#ambiguous timeline

[wahroh]

Ambiguity works.

[ladysouthpaw1213]

My Bell outline currently(Backstory and Bio still being work on)

Bikosi’s Neka c.c used for visual reference Name: Natalia Novikov(later Adler)

Nicknames: Bell, Kid, Lia, Bluebell or My Bluebell(Russell’s nickname for her),Hell’s Bell

Birthday: September 22, 1950(Virgo)

Place of Birth: Soviet Union

Family: Svetlana Novikov(Deceased), Father Unknown

Love Interest: Russell Adler

Children: Andrei and Svetlana”Lana”Adler ( Born on December 17, 1982)

Hair Color: Dirty Blond

Eye Color: Brown

Skin Color: Pale

Distinguishing Marks: Multiple Scars including a knife scar on right side of face and two bullet wound scars in chest area close together

Height: 5’6

Weight: 127 Ibs

Blood Type: AB +

Casual Outfit in 1981: Blue, grey and white tartan western styled button up, white under shirt, dark blue Wrangler jeans with black belt and sliver belt buckle, black calf length dress boots, dark grey leather jacket, black leather fingerless gloves, sliver stud earrings, sliver watch, black pistol hoister on right leg

Tactical Outfit in 1981: Black sweater, grey green tactical military vest, grey green military cargo pants, black combat boots, grey green wool fingerless gloves , grey green military hat or balaclava

Office Outfit in 1981: White and navy floral button up blouse, navy pleated skirt with black belt, black tights, black high heels, sapphire pendant necklace

Sleepwear: Oversized shirt(Usually one of Russell’s), and shorts/underwear

Psychological Traits: Methodical and Reliable

Skill: Marksman and Deciphering

Dominant Hand: Left

Prefer Weapons: Sniper Rifle and Pistol

Accent: A mixture of American and Russian after the events of Cold War. Russian becomes more pronounced when angry or furious

Associated Flower: Bluebells

Face Claim: Nastassja Kinski

Bonus: Alternate Hairstyles(Created by Bikosi’s Neka c.c)

Hair Down

Hair during Tactical Missions(makes it easier when wearing a Balaclava)

Bonus: Childhood Appearance(Created by Kyoumeikaitou’s Neka c.c)

[ladylilithprime]

Day 31: Hall🎃ween/Costumes

(Set in the same continuity as and after Day 16.)

IT HAD ALMOST felt like tempting fate, putting in an offer when the old farmhouse a quarter of a mile from the Men of Letters Bunker came up for sale. Walking through it, taking stock of what was there and what would need fixing or updating, was just a bit like stepping into someplace both new and achingly familiar. From the way Dean had looked around, his eyes tracing over parts of the building like he recognized it or expected to see something he wasn't consciously looking for, he felt it too. It had felt like a dream when their offer was accepted, and the whole time leading up to the official closing and paperwork signing part of Sam kept waiting for the dream to become a nightmare.

It never did.

The first time Castiel visited them after the sale closed and they were officially home owners, he had looked around the house with a curious head tilt and a spark of recognition. He had let Sam ramble a bit about the areas that needed repair, still, and patiently listened Dean gush about the various upgrades he wanted to make to the bathrooms and replacing the windowbox fans and standing heaters with central heating and cooling, and then simply asked, "How can I help?"

Turned out there was quite a bit that an angel could help with when it came to home renovations. Installing the central heating and cooling system without needing to rip up walls or floors, for one thing, and replacing the old boiler in the basement with a newer model that had a larger water tank and a stronger pump. Repairs to the outside of the house needed to be done the long way to avoid drawing too much attention, but Castiel gamely volunteered his time and efforts sealing up cracks in the windowframes around the box fans and the doors, and patching the hole in the roof with new wood and shingles before snapping away the water damage and black mold that had started growing in the attic.

With a firm home base and official physical address that wasn't a secret bunker no one was supposed to know existed, Jody was able to start shipping them boxes and boxes of stuff that Bobby had kept in storage or that had been rescued from the smouldering wreck that had been left of his house and salvage yard. Things like weapons had to be hauled personally, which Jody and the girls had used as an excuse to come down and check out Sam and Dean's new digs, but other things like books and old keepsakes could be shipped. Much of the time that Dean and Castiel spent repairing the house, Sam spent unboxing things and figuring out which of their new and old belongings they should keep in the Bunker and which could be moved to the house when it was livable. He had actually dithered a bit over whether or not to move the herb garden before Castiel had asked him why he couldn't just have two, one for the Bunker and one for the house.

Frankly, considering the acreage that had come with the house, having a decent sized garden felt almost sensible to Sam. Dean rolled his eyes, but surprisingly agreed so long as Sam was willing to put up with him getting a couple of chickens and a rooster for eggs. Building a chicken coop and fox-proofing it was another adventure, and had eventually resulted in Castiel and Sam putting their heads together and creating a new set of warding stones they could lay down around the coop's boundaries. Further tweaking and they did the same for the house itself, and then for good measure they had added warding to the walls inside the perimeter under fresh paint and stapled thin plastic tubing filled with salt beneath the mouldings on the doors and windows.

The thing about the house was that there were technically four bedrooms and three full bathrooms, but two of those bathrooms were attached to bedrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs. The one upstairs had a walk-in closet attached to it, which made the walk-in closet inside the bedroom itself almost redundant. That closet got turned into a small meditation and spellcasting room for Sam after Dean claimed the "suite" on the main floor closest to the kitchen, especially when Castiel had noted the wooden shelving as "more suited to books and spell ingredients which are part of your personal collection rather than communal as the ones in the Bunker are meant to be". And it wasn't as if it would be needed to be a closet, since the closet in the bathroom was more than big enough to hold what clothes he and Sam had between them.

It hadn't been until Sam was online ordering two new California King mattresses, box springs, frames and linens that he had realized how much of a forgone conclusion it seemed to be that Castiel was moving in with Sam.

"Of course he's moving in with you," Dean scoffed. "I ain't sharing a bed with him! So unless he's decided he wants to lay claim to one of the other two rooms upstairs, just don't make me see or hear anything I shouldn't or wake me up with a thumping headboard!"

"The headboard wouldn't wake him up anyway," Castiel had assured Sam when he had reported what Dean had said. "No more than his headboard hitting the wall would disturb us. I added sound dampening wards around all the bedrooms when we lay down the protective wards before painting."

Well, that didn't precisely answer the question that Sam didn't quite know how to ask, but if Dean was making jokes about the headboards and Castiel was adding soundproofing to the bedrooms, it probably didn't matter too much right just then. The other two bedrooms got set up as guest rooms for Jody, Claire and Alex, or whichever of their friends and fellow hunters stopped by needing space to crash for the night, and that was that.

The house was ready to move into fully just in time for the weather to turn and the new heating system to get its first workout as Autumn kicked into high gear. Their neighbors in Lebanon still didn't quite know what to make of "the Campbell brothers" and "that Novak fella" who very clearly all lived together in the fixed up former Bethswaite farmhouse, but they were mostly friendly and welcoming. It seemed like Sam and Dean were finally getting the chance to actually put down proper roots for the first time since Sam was six months old.

Of course, putting down roots and having a permanent address meant other things as well.

"TRICK OR TREAT!"

"You'd think this place would be too far out to get kids tromping around looking for free candy," Dean grumbled as Castiel once again answered the doorbell, the porch light bouncing off the silver tinsel halo he wore on a wire headband to go with the black feathered costume wings strapped around his shoulders.

"You're just mad because you thought those giant bags of candy we bought were gonna be all for you," Sam rolled his eyes, reaching up to adjust the large curving black horns that were barely held on by the elastic string. "Dunno why since tomorrow it's all going to be half price."

"And picked over for the good stuff!" Dean complained. "Why'd you even get dressed up, anyway? Thought you hated Halloween."

"Thought you didn't want to hear about it," Sam deadpanned, eyebrows jogging up pointedly. He wasn't about to admit that Castiel and Claire both had made puppy eyes at him until he caved and dressed to match Castiel's angel costume, so letting his brother infer something else entirely was the order of the day. From the face Dean made, he bought it.

"Well, now that that image is in my brain, I need another drink," he groaned, leveraging himself up off the couch and heading for the kitchen. "And I'm going to bed. Don't forget the rules, bitch!"

"If you haven't heard anything yet, you ain't gonna, jerk!" Sam called back, smirking as Dean flipped him off.

The couch dipping beside him wiped the smirk from his face to be replaced by a blush, and he cautiously glanced sideways at Castiel. The angel's expression was placidly amused, eyes on the door through which Dean had just retreated.

"He still doesn't know about the two bags of candy you have kept in reserve to surprise him with tomorrow?' Castiel murmured, low enough that Dean was unlikely to overhear him.

"He never goes in my workroom, even if he's still coming into our room whenever he pleases," Sam murmured back, eliciting a small hum from Castiel.

"At least he has finally learned to knock when we have the door closed," he offered, to which Sam could only nod. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

Whatever Castiel was going to ask was interrupted by the rapid thump of tiny feet followed by the doorbell ringing again. The angel sighed and moved to get up when Sam put a hand on his knee to stop him.

"My turn, angel," he said and, steeling his nerves, brushed a kiss to Castiel's cheek as he stood up and headed for the door. He hoped that the flow of kids to their door would stop soon so that he and Castiel could continue their conversation up in their room.

He had a feeling that it had been a long time coming.

-Trick or Treat?-

[pulse-oflife]

Prompt #1 // Steer

"But Papaaaaaaa," whined one of the twins - Keryn wasn't quite sure which one, but the pitch sounded more like Amary than Callum. She could have peeked outside her bunk, but that would likely mean that whichever twin it was would be handed over to her for babysitting. "I wanna drive the wagon!" While she couldn't see her younger sister, she could definitely picture the sulky stance the six year old had taken to try and manipulate their father into getting her way. To his credit, he didn't give in often but it had worked often enough that the twins kept trying. It was unlikely that he would allow such a small child to hold the reins of their wagon, even given the proximity to Ul'dah. Keryn leaned her head against the wall of the wagon behind her while trying to figure out where the rest of her family was. Kaitan was out, away from the caravan with the rest of the scouts. He'd taken to hanging around the hired scouts not long after the twins were born; she couldn't really blame him for it, as much as she missed her older brother's presence. They were certainly a handful, becoming more of one as they got older.

They were at the age to be interested in everything the caravan was doing without really comprehending that they did not need to be involved in everything the caravan was doing. The other members tolerated this behavior, some with more grace and understanding than others. They were not the only children present, of course, but there was definitely something uniquely challenging about the twins. She certainly didn't remember being a problem the same way they were! Speaking of, she couldn't hear her father or Amary any longer and it hadn't sounded like Amary was going to give up on her idea of steering the chocobo along the trail. That was definitely concerning.

She shifted around in her bunk to open the door and stick her head out, trying to listen for the sound of someone's voice. "Alright little flower, if you sit in my lap, you can hold the reins. And then we can let the chocobo know which way to go, alright?" Ah. That was her father, and it definitely sounded like he'd given in to Amary's demands. Sort of. In the most age appropriate way, but still. Keryn frowned and looked down the hallway towards the kitchen, where she could hear the clatter of cooking preparation. Well, maybe he'd done it to keep one child out from under foot while there were knives being used in a moving wagon. That made a certain amount of sense especially since Callum had come down with some sort of stomach bug and Amary's normal distraction was sleeping his illness off. Having figured out what was going on, Keryn made to get comfortable in her bunk again, moving to close her door but not before her mother's voice rang out, letting her know she'd been spotted and that her assistance in the kitchen was required.

[kimium]

I wrote a 10051 snippet that's so short and so fragmented I don't want to put it into my Warming Up in Snippets compilation. So, I'm going to post it here. Let me know what you think if you like this. I might expand on this idea later as it's rare for me to write in Byakuran's POV.

Warnings: Timeline? Ambiguous. Good or bad? Who knows? Established relationship. Usual Byakuran possessive thoughts. Kissing.

~

A bright firework burst against the darkness of the sky in a flash of white yellow light. In an instant the red in Shouichi’s hair glowed and green in Shouichi’s eyes burned, as if an emerald had been set ablaze by a single match. Even behind the glasses that despite the lightly out of style frames, Shouichi refused to change no matter what Byakuran tried to say, the clear lens did nothing to obscure the brilliance of Shouichi’s gaze. A gaze that never wavered or faltered from its destined path.

Another firework burst in the sky, this one louder, brighter, and more colourful than the last. Shouichi gasped and leaned forward, their boat rocking gently in the smooth darkness of the lake. A bit of water splashed up the side and threatened to spill inside, but receded a moment later.

Byakuran leaned into the boat, his gaze never straying from Shouichi. The jacket Shouichi was wearing was dove grey with silver buttons and accents. While unbuttoned and unzipped, the jacket was formfitting and hugged Shouichi’s body in a way that made Byakuran’s heart pound rapidly in his chest and his mouth dry instantly.

Who was this siren, this temptation sent to earth sent to lure Byakuran towards ruin? Why had some divine force decide that Byakuran’s downfall would not be the vices of other powerful leaders that had come before him? When did the threads of Byakuran’s fate slowly unravel at their seams? Which one of the multiple, endless timelines had it been? Did it even matter at this point? What had Byakuran done to deserve Shouichi?

A burst of light filled the sky again, this time in shades of red and orange. It made Shouichi’s lips appear more red, more tempting than any forbidden food described in mythologies. Byakuran lurched forward and grabbed Shouichi’s arm. Instantly Shouichi turned his head and leaned closer, eyes widening. His lips parted and whatever sound lingered in Shouichi’s throat was silenced by Byakuran pressing his lips against Shouichi’s.

Shouichi tasted divine and his moans pierced through the gaps between Byakuran’s ribs, crushing his heart and lungs in a single strike. Gasping, Byakuran tangled his hands into Shouichi’s hair and deepened their kiss.

Byakuran’s chest tightened and his blood sang in his limbs. Sky Ring or not, he’d kill anyone who dared to think they could have Shouichi. His Shouichi. His forbidden fruit. His. His. His.

The boat tilted and their center of gravity shifted. A moment later cold water rushed around them. Byakuran pulled away from Shouichi and gasped for air. Shouichi shot a look that was obscured by his askew glasses which slid off the bridge of his nose. Water dripped from his matted bangs and with a huff Shouichi brushed his bangs aside and adjusted his glasses.

“What was that for?” he huffed.

“I wanted to kiss you.”

“I’m aware of that.” Byakuran couldn’t see it, but he knew Shouichi was crossing his arms. “You have all the power in the world and you can’t stop us from falling out of a boat.”

Byakuran tilted his head. “Did you want me to kiss you while levitating? It shouldn’t pose a challenge.”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Shouichi sighed and began to swim towards the boat. “Guess we’ll have to cut watching the fireworks.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

Shouichi shot a look. It made Byakuran’s blood tingle. “Don’t be obtuse. We’re wet and cold. I’m not sitting out here.” He tried to climb into the boat but it floated away.

Byakuran snapped his fingers and soon they were both in the boat, warm Sky flames dancing around their bodies, drying their clothing. A bit of stiffness from the minerals in the water lingered, but it was a small price to pay for being dry. Shouichi patted his jacket and pulled his phone out, pressing a finger to the screen. It turned on.

“Thank goodness for our tests,” Shouichi muttered. “I’ll have to let Spanner know those hours were not in vain.”

Spanner. Byakuran could see the blond mechanic in the back of his mind, lollipop stick in his mouth, a cold cup of tea at his elbow. Weeks and hundreds of phones had passed and died before their research concluded. Byakuran hadn’t been present for the actual experiments but he’d seen the bill and happily signed off on it. Much to the disapproval of Kikyo who, like any professional right-hand man, held his comments silent but his gaze judgemental. Not that Byakuran cared. So long as Shouichi was happy Byakuran would spare no expense on whatever experiment Shouichi’s little heart desired.

“Even if the experiments were a failure, I could buy you anything you desired.”

Shouichi raised an eyebrow. “I’m well aware of that, thanks. However, I’d never let an experiment end in complete failure.” He pocketed his phone and looked up at the sky. “I think the fireworks are ending soon.”

“Already?” Byakuran glanced at the slowly darkening sky. Between kissing Shouichi and falling into the lake the sound and light had somehow muffled themselves into the background. “Apologies. We seemed to have missed majority of the show.”

“It’s fine. I was able to go out and see some of it.” Shouichi shrugged. “Thank you, for taking me here. Even if you nearly ruined my clothing and phone.”

“My pleasure,” Byakuran extended his hand, his sky ring glittering in the dark. “Shall we?”

Shouichi wrinkled his nose. “I hate traveling by Ring Teleporting Systems.” He still took Byakuran’s hand.

“You say that but you helped me fix the system.”

“I don’t have much of a choice in the matter,” Shouichi dryly said. “I was told we were going to see fireworks. I thought you meant at a local festival in Namimori not in a boat in the middle of a random lake in Italy.”

Byakuran stifled a laugh. “I was told that surprises are romantic.”

“If that was Bluebell, I’ll have you know she has no clue what she’s talking about.”

“Nonsense,” Byakuran said as he pulled Shouichi into his embrace. “Just because she’s young doesn’t mean she is unaware of romance. Now, shall we go home?”

Shouichi leaned into Byakuran until his breath tickled Byakuran’s neck. Byakuran smiled and pressed a kiss to the top of Shouichi’s head. On his ring orange sky flames began to gather, glowing like embers dancing in an inferno.

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober day 13:

"It comes and goes like the strength in your bones." 

Cold compress | infection | "I Don't Feel So Good."

Fandom: Avengers

Prompts used: All

So while I ignore most of the MCU after certain events we shant name, I saw this quote and was like, yeah I can't not. So it has nothing to do with the later movies, its its own timelined thing (obv) and based more off fanfictions I like to read (fix its) than anything. So, please take things in stride. It's sort and basically a sick fic.    ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

….

When the world looks at Tony Stark, they see a spoiled rich boy. 

And it's what Tony wants them to see of course. The Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist. Even Iron Man, the Super Hero he created, has so much speculation because he pilots the armor. Like Tony Stark could never truly be a hero… but he'd been there all his life. No matter how many things he creates to better the world and the people who live in it, he will always be… 

But it's fine. Those who took the time to see past everything, who peeled his layers and stayed long enough to witness what he'd never outright say, they knew who Tony was. And while they were few and far between, Tony knew he was lucky to have any at all. 

So being in a complex, surrounded by stubborn idiots who were not quite in that category yet- or ever with how things were going, but Iron Man could have teammates without having true friends, so long as the world got saved in the end- was quite the task for Tony to handle. And today, that meant a bunch of stubborn idiot heroes who refused to admit they were in fact sick. 

Strange and Loki had assured them- and really it was just Tony, everyone else had been focusing fully on staying upright- that they would find the cure to whatever magical mischief their most recent adversary had cast on them. The two had not been spared so to speak, but they hadn't received the brunt of the attack and were ridiculously stubborn- that's gonna be Tonys word of the day, get over it. So with a fiery look of competition passed between them, Loki and Strange went their separate ways to see who could cure them all first, leaving the rest of them to fend for themselves. 

As anyone could guess, in the ever growing list of assumptions about Stark, there was the assumption he was a needy whiny clingy sick person. Where anyone got that he couldn't tell you, he was tactile and often refused any form of contact from people he didn't fully trust. But as it was, the world saw what they wanted, which included the added fact that surely a spoiled rich boy would know next to nothing on how to care for others when they're sick. 

Which. Rude. 

Tony might not have received the care a child should have, but Jarvis and Ana had tried their best where his parents didn't. And despite popular opinions, Tony did in fact care about people. So with a delirious team, Tony ignored the ache in his chest- when did he ever not?- and readied himself for his hardest task yet. 

He turns, finding them all still staring at where the two magicians had been with squinted eyes, and sighs. 

"JARVIS, lockdown as secretly as possible please. I need these guys contained until this is over." He's glad for his earpiece, talking practically under his breath, to keep the gathered heroes from hearing his order. "And some scans would be great, need to know what i'm working with." 

"Of course, sir." 

"You know Cap, I'm just exhausted, can we do our briefing in the living room?" Tony bats his eyes as if the Soldier can actually comprehend it. 

"Uh," his voice is raspy and he coughs like a dying frog, "sure. Living room…" 

It gets everyone moving, however unsteady it is, Tony brushes from one to another for every sway that's a little too far, keeping everyone on their feet until they can crash onto the nearest soft surface. Or the floor as Bruce so elegantly flops. Shaking his head, he makes his way around, almost too easily removing shoes and draping blankets. He's beginning to think this may be easier than he thought-

Bruce sneezes, tints green and grows several sizes, breaking the table behind him, before sniffing and returning to a slightly paler version of himself. 

"Bless you." Steve mutters, arm thrown over his eyes as his open mouth breathing wheezes in and out of his chest. 

Natasha grumbles, burrowed into Hawkeyes side, face ashen and eyes squeezed closed, she shivers and shifts closer to the archer. Clint, to his credit, does not push her away, despite the sweat clinging to him and red tint to his cheeks. 

Thor is completely out, mouth open wide as he snores around a congested nose. He- like his brother and Strange- was better off, but for a guy who'd never had an Earth sickness- if any, Tony wouldn't know- itd be best to watch him too. If Bruce was breaking things, Thor would too no doubt.

"JARVIS, lower the lighting level a bit, and play something quiet on TV, I'm gonna make some soup." He supposed he should just be glad it wasn't every Avenger, but it was going to be a long day.

He rubs at his chest, joints protesting his movements, and clears his throat to avoid coughing. 

He could do this…

"Steve, I swear to all things, if you do not stop I will have Hulk sit on you."

He shifts the bowl of cool water so he can use a finger to push Cap back down on the couch turned bed. The super soldier goes down with little actual resistance, despite the fact he looks like he very much wants to resist. He's had to force most of them to sit still at least once, Natasha was fine so long as she was against someone warm, Clint wouldn't move if Natasha was resting on him, but had tried to fly when she'd curled into Steve. Bruce's brain still had a million tabs open, but he was also a little worried about the Hulk. The Hulk for his part, was miserable too and just wanted to watch TV one way or another so Tony was less worried about him than Bruce despite the broken table he'd had to clean up. And Thor had also tried to fly, but smacked himself in the face with Mjolnir and promptly fallen into a side table to take another nap… hopefully.

Once he's sure Steve is down for awhile longer, he goes back to his task of pressing cold compresses to heated heads. His hands shake more than usual, but like everything else, he ignores it as he dodges a smack from the red head before pressing the cloth to her neck and tucking the blankets in tighter to appease her. 

Task accomplished, he turns to check on the soup when a whimper- high and sudden- hits his ears. He turns- a little too fast, his head spins with the motion- to find Hawkeye sitting up, one hand on his stomach, the other over his mouth, and wide eyes looking up at Tony.

"I don't feel so good." He utters it a second before he's leaning over the edge of the couch bed and puking whatever the archer had eaten today. 

Tony sidesteps the mess to get to the heaving blond, placing a hand on his back and finding the compress to wipe at his face gently.

"It's okay, breathe. You're okay." Cleaning the cloth in the bowl he helps Clint lay back down, Natasha curling into his side again, and sighs in relief as he relaxes. 

He coughs into his elbow until he can't breathe and he worries about either adding to the mess or falling into it. The comm in his ear beeps steadily, sudden enough to get a breath in, and get the spots to stop dancing in his vision. 

"Thanks Jar." 

"I have re-" "I've found-"

"I really don't care who does it, just fix them." Tony waves at the miserably slumbering heroes as he makes his way towards the elevator. He had far too many things to catch up on to stay around for the aftermath of everything. He rubs at his chest as he leans heavily against the wall, waiting for the doors to open. 

"Tony, are you alright?" Strange's voice sounds far away.

"Fine, there's soup if you guys are hungry." His voice croaks a bit, but he knows if he clears it he'll cough. 

"I believe we should use the spell on you as well." Loki's drawl spins around his ears. 

"S'not the spell. I'll be fine. Just comes and goes," he waves his hand like he can wave the problem away, "like the strength in your bones. Iron bends under heat and stuff… whatever dad said." Hes mumbling by the end, not really caring what comes from his mouth or who hears. "Jar… where's the 'vator?" 

"Running slow sir, my apologies." 

"Tony-" 

"Sir you're-!"

"TONY!"

"....infection in his lungs…"

"...the arc reactor…"

"...pneumonia…"

"...need to flush out the cavity…"

"...irritated and swollen, the arc is…"

"...spell…"

Tony's chest feels heavy, his arms tingle, his head aches and eye twitches, there's a dull pain throbbing throughout his body…

So everythings normal.

But then… why doesn't he remember going to bed, and not his bed in the lab but like a bed bed. 

Shit! The team! 

He sits up quick enough to throw his head for a loop, and to startle the bodies surrounding him. He stares with wide eyes at a room full of heroes, several of which are in web hammocks strung from the ceiling. Dozens of eyes stare back, and he wonders if he missed something he shouldn't have. 

"Are we dead?" 

The collective sigh tells him they aren't, but that there's a lecture in his future.

[therogueheart]

Death Becomes Thee

Jaskier has seen a hundred deaths in his lifetime, deaths of all faces and kinds. His mother was the first–so early in his life all he remembers is the low lilt of her lullabies and the grief on his father’s face at the funeral.

Jaskier has seen all things die; people, animals, plants, ideas and beliefs.

Hope.

Love.

Death comes for everything, in the end, for it is the end. The end of all things. Death will spare nothing and nobody; even stone erodes over time. Death claims all.

Even Witchers.

But not today. Death comes for all but it can be bargained with, sometimes. Cheated, even. Death has a tally but most often it is numbers, not names, and, well.

Jaskier is a number.

There’s no question of it, in the end. No comparison. A Witcher to a human bard. Geralt to Jaskier. The White Wolf of Destiny against one face amongst millions, a bard who’s name and songs will fade the way a flower wilts.

“Life is the price,” the voice rasps, a horrid grate of death and emptiness. The whisper of a blunted sword over a thousand throats.

Geralt would pay it. A hundred times over. His life for Ciri’s; his life for Yennefer’s; his life for some random pockmarked farmer’s in a backwater town in the middle of nowhere.

But Geralt cannot. This is not how Geralt’s story ends; facing down a power older than any of them, the difference in a tipped scale swaying the weight of their lives between them.

Geralt will do anything for his Child of Destiny, and Jaskier…

Jaskier will do anything for Geralt.

Jaskier will do anything; even die, for Geralt.

Because what use does he serve otherwise? What else could he possibly offer? It s a poet’s desired end; to give all in the name of love. History is riddled with woeful romance and tales of sacrifice in the name of the heart’s desire.

It is the greatest gift Jaskier could give. The greatest deed he could ever do.

He got Geralt into this mess, anyway. This is a debt repaid. The greatest apology he could ever offer.

He steps forward.

Life is the price, and he is a living thing. Life is the price but it demands a number, not a name.

And Jaskier is a number.

Geralt says his name.

It is the best possible thing Jaskier could ask to be the last thing he hears. His story began with Geralt’s voice and now it will end with it; that rumble like distant thunder, a calling into the wild and the unknown.

For the first time in his life, Jaskier does not follow it.

He closes his eyes.

He cannot bear for the last thing he sees to be death’s face, and so he thinks instead of Geralt. Of silver hair, shining snow-white in the winter sun. Of eyes that can never decide between being gold or honey. Of the peek of pointed canines the first time Geralt ever smiled at one of Jaskier’s jokes, begrudging and hidden but a smile nonetheless.

Jaskier has seen a hundred deaths in his lifetime, but Geralt’s will never be one of them, and with this knowledge he dies peaceful, quiet, thinking only of Geralt.

[askglassanon]

Reflection

*She sets her sunglasses on the counter and leans closer to the mirror*

*She pulls down her lower eyelid, stretching the scarred skin and focuses on the dark brown of the iris*

*She pulls away slowly dropping her hand to the counter and raising the other to tug on a lock of hair and the illusion doesn't break*

*It's less dark, brown simply a highlight in the grey (or silver) More then before*

*She sighs, a look familiar to her crosses her face and she changed her focus again*

*She pulls back her lips, teeth aren't perfectly aligned, she's missing one and the bottom set are held together with braces*

*The mouth pulls a wobbly frown, corners twitching downwards and the remaining features scrunching in another odd emotion*

*She thinks about the twist in her abdomen that always paired with the feeling of shame or embarrassment. Fitting*

*She goes over the features again*

*Brown eyelashes with accompanied with a few silver. More in harmony then the hair*

*Brown eyes with heavy looking lids, like she's drowsy and odd bruises underneath that she's often seen on others with terrible sleeping*

*The nose isn't unique, scars are deeper in the bridge and the bend remains her of a nose healed incorrectly*

*The lips are heart shaped but small making them appear oddly striking with dark lipsticks or glosses*

*light and pink scars cover the entire thing as well as the rest of the body. She knows despite not being able to see past the black turtle neck of the sleeveless leotard*

*She's been called cute like this. Complimented and even flirted with (which was weird) she usually got strange looks from the scars*

*The scars which she couldn't get rid of and could only cover with bandages because makeup was lost on her*

*She takes in the reflection again, short body, not particularly curvy but the proportions say small young woman and discolored hair is long and wavy*

*A leotard and an oversized jacket going by what she's heard is a Letterman jacket, partially falling off the right shoulder leaving the scars there visible*

*The jacket was different then the other jacket that was created. The leotard was red this time so the jacket was black with white accents

*She tugs the sleeve and then the cuff and is still surprised at how it doesn't break apart and disappear*

*Her hands are equally scarred, the nails a neat oddly enough, mid length and almond shaped, painted in ombres of red, gold and black in different orders*

*She trances the scars with the manicured thumb, remembering how each crack that had ever formed presented itself externally once more*

*Scars doesn't technically away from someone's beauty and she isn't one to criticize someone's looks but it's her. It feels undeserved*

*The thought makes the reflection's eyes glassy*

*The outfit makes the face... makes her smile and it's wrong and endearing and she'd love to dress like the illusion*

*But only people wear clothes and she's not a person. She's a stain, a waste of magic and space, not alive, not real, a mistake*

*She's a Fallacy in every definition of the word*

*She's pretty in the way Naturals are and it's strange*

*It doesn't feel like her. But nothing does. She can't feel. Maybe it does but she doesn't know.*

*Is she hard like rock or crystal as Flint had said she always felt? Soft like flesh is said to be? How far does the illusion go? She still can't smell or eat or breathe*

*The illusion's crying, making artificial eyeliner run, the cheeks flush and it scrunches*

*Despite the ache in her chest she doesn't understand why her illusion displays such strong sorrow*