#and I need a little time to be fucking angry about the whole raw deal

[stardustedknuckles]

I knew updating my information for next year's insurance rates would make me feel ill but boy it made me feel ill. Going from paying $1 a month for insurance I rarely need to paying $142 per month for insurance I will rarely need, when the amount of money I am getting paid only just allows me to break even on bills and such in the first place, is a huge blow. I hate this. I hate it so much. And it's still the better option because if I tried to get insurance through my work it would be $300.

I don't even really get the option of trying to go without insurance because I have a chronic illness and cannot afford to take that risk anymore than I can afford to pay. It's hellish in both directions.

[colloquialcolors]

gonna write a fucking post about the Winter TLOU section and episode 8 because what ELSE am I supposed to do after witnessing that huh.

As someone very very pleased overall with the adaptation from the game to the show, something I have missed a little is, oddly enough- the hard cuts to black and time jumps after emotionally harrowing sequences or intense moments. After Henry and Sam's deaths. Joel collapsing outside the university. This episode, though, made something about that choice click into place.

For more context- in the game, this section comes immediately after Joel's fall and unconsciousness. The entire section with Riley and Ellie panicking was DLC, meaning the original flow of the story does not provide you with that context, and you might miss it entirely. Instead, the game cuts to black as Joel goes unsconscious with Ellie pleading above him-

and you get the title card. WINTER. It was not winter before. And you are Ellie, hunting. You have been playing this whole game as Joel thus far, and you suddenly, after all that chaos, are Ellie. Hunting in a white blanketed forest. Lighter, quieter, agile and a far cry from the girl yelling, panicked, above Joel.

And this Ellie is capable, at hunting- she already has a rabbit or two, and has just shot another- when she spots the deer, she has some idea of how to track and take it down (hindered mostly by us, the player, adjusting to controlling her). Until the encounter with David, where Ellie asks a little desperately about medicine, you have no inkling on if Joel is even alive, and Ellie being so capable is almost its own negative indicator. As the section wears on, Ellie does a lot more killing in game than she does here- she stabs a nonzero amount of clickers, zombies, and people in the neck during various navigation and escape scenes, shoots the rifle and the bow (miss u bow) with her own kind of proficiency, and reflects many things you have to assume she learned from Joel. The game medium lends itself well to a certain level of capability, of course- even for 14 year olds with bloodied hands.

While the hard cuts to black provide a gut punch I do miss a bit, getting rid of those allows the show to fill in some gaps- especially about these characters in their weak moments, low moments, after the dust has settled and they need to pick themselves up again. It does a lot in humanizing them. Shows them rattled and uncertain and shaken and mourning, instead of dropping us back in after they've picked back up their broken pieces, given the dignity of speculation.

Ellie, especially, is more scared here- more uncertain, more shaky, playacting as Joel rather than successfully emulating him. There is no hard cut where we get to assume Ellie has scraped things together and settled in it. We see her fear, playing out, see her desperation firsthand, before she even sets back out. She is so young. She was young, in the game too, but it is driven home in new and more intense ways, here. She is so profoundly out of her depth.

The uncertainty makes these same victories hit harder, too. Ellie, terrified and horrified and angry, sassing back. Ellie with realization and fear dawning- making the play for the keys, snapping his finger. "Tell them Ellie is the little girl who broke your fucking finger." Ellie, telling him- I'm infected, and now you are too. So many of these lines and scenes are almost verbatim, but it lands differently, with this different context, with an Ellie who is much less sure but still so lethal.

Less, and more. David's entire Fucking Pedophile Shit deal was much less prominent, in game. The overtness of it made things so much worse. So much scarier. Bella's delivery of Ellie's yells and reactions carry an edge of panic, of fear, of raw emotion, brings a scene that was always at 150% up to 300%, until Ellie, screaming, swinging down the knife is an almost physical, visceral catharsis.

In the game, Joel finds here there- pulls her off, pulls her into a hug after she fights him for a moment, the music swelling to give their words to each other privacy as they lock gazes and speak. Here- Ellie pulls herself back to reality. She finishes her catharsis. She realizes, on her own, face spattered with blood, what she's done. She stumbles from the smoke to the clean outside under her own power, on her own.

When Joel grabs her- she fights, there is such audible rage and horror and fear, and it hurts more, it cuts deeper, understanding that fear, the depth of it. Before he spins her around, and the comfort scene is only half a minute longer, but there is so much more to it- more that led up to it, and more in the moment, of Ellie's gaze going from panicked to unbelieving to weak with relief to something heavier.

So few cut aways in the show. no dignity of a timeskip and implied fractures, just bleeding characters, holding onto each other in the snow.

[darwinquark]

@kitaspages GORL ever since I wrote that car scene in TKOF where Veronica's going through all his tapes and roasting him the whole time, I've had the biggest impulse to write like a 3-4 chapter post-time jump ficlet where Archie and Betty beg them to come back to Riverdale for the first time since high school for some crazy plot (gargoyles? idk) that's threatening to destroy the town and requires all four of them to stop, and they grudgingly come but are both super estranged from Riverdale and decidedly do not want to be there, and they get sent on some mission where they have to go to some neighboring town and take Jughead's dad's truck, and the whole thing is them full-on Dair sniping at each other until they grudgingly realize they're both dealing with the same bitterness and unresolved feelings toward Riverdale/Barchie and the caustic banter shifts into something a little warmer. And they accidentally start bonding. And then I throw every trope in the book i.e. there was only one bed in the motel i.e. I'm angry that they called and despite how badly they fucked us over we still came running i.e. I just need to DO something I'm tired of being so passive to all this i.e. what if we have sex and take the power back and at first it's like 'lol good one' and then it's like 'you know what fuck them let's do it' except something shifts halfway through and takes them both by surprise and suddenly neither one of them is thinking about Betty or Archie at all and is 100% caught up in the raw, messy magnetism of the other, and then it's the fun awkward aftermath of 'wtf was that and why do I want more?' aka my fave thing to write in the world

but I'm trying to be good and stay focused. one WIP at a timeeeeeee.

[girderednerve]

i am cringe but i am free

i am losing my fucking mind about vegeta dragonball, which is ridiculous. i know it is ridiculous. i am losing my mind about vegeta dragonball anyway. he's the worst. he's the original manlet. he's like if rage had legs & pointy hair. i hate him. he's the only man to me

the thing to me is that he's actually very brave, but it's a horrible kind of courage where he's running risks that no one else sees—goku has a very noble kind of bravery, he's got that heroic detachment where he likes being alive but he is completely fine with dying to save someone else and isn't afraid of that, only afraid of failing to protect those he cares for. vegeta has spent a lot of time being humiliated & failing desperately to improve his circumstances, so when frieza & beerus show up he knows exactly what those situations feel like; he is personally afraid of what might happen to him, because the worst outcome he sees isn't dying in a fight but instead being forced to live miserably, which he can't endure. his ridiculous & nonsensical pride is probably just what he's like, but it's made substantially worse by his being thwarted for years; he's always trying to get his own back, even when it makes no particular sense for him to be doing that. it's great. my fondness for vegeta hinges on a sort of genre adjustment, where one goes "okay well it is a shonen where goku could punch the world in half, everything is always at least one-third a joke, and shenron can just un-kill people no problemo," so i am not taking the mass murder seriously here because who cares in that kind of setting. but there is generally a gap between vegeta's actual ability to hurt the people around him & his perceived ability to control his own life, which often results in him behaving very badly. and his priorities are fucked, but then like, so are everyone else's, what is goku doing ever (i love him). he's very loveable to me. he's just so fucking mad all the time, and he never gives himself or anyone else a break; this isn't good behavior, but it's deeply sympathetic in this strange way.

anyway obviously i think he & goku are married & i like thinking about how that happens, because in dbz when vegeta shows up he's genuinely a scary opponent; i like that little scene of the saiyans eating their enemies raw, because it's very fucked up (dragon ball super, which i am watching for the first time now, is much tamer!). the frieza arc is a great time for people who want to be weird about vegeta, because he has some excellent moments in it—mostly when he dies, actually. i love when he dies in part because goku understands him perfectly, so there's closure. their whole weird deal builds out of being the only two people who share their specific set of pressures. goten & trunks like to fight, but goku & vegeta need it; violence is something else when they make it. goku's key trait is his detachment—there's no artifice to him, really, he strives for infinite accomplishment & the only things holding him on earth are his individual relationships & his willingness to stand between earth & destruction ("i am the light in the darkness! i am truth!"). but really he's just in it to be his best, and he accepts no limit. vegeta is much more grounded & practical in a way—more aware of the idea of limits, but stubborn about them, competitive, angry. i love this about him. i'm not sure he loves it about himself ("he made me what i am. don't let him do it to anyone else").

i had only seen vegeta staring into the rain as a meme and when i watched the scene for the first time i kind of lost my mind, because that's such a ridiculous, powerful declaration. without goku, there's no point in vegeta fighting ever again! he gives it up! and of course that's not what happens in super, but i am charmed by the idea that GT just picked that up and said, "well, what, you think he'd lie? vegeta? the most hardcore stubborn man to ever do it? you think he'd overstate what his relationship with goku meant to him? of course he kept his word." it drives me nuts to imagine! they both die a bunch, but they leave defining patterns behind. persistence to a fault.

but anyway they're also goofy assholes & bad husbands & worse fathers (i forgive goku here mostly but i have no idea how gohan does), so they're a great match! chichi is a difficult character to me because she's just a nagging wife punchline most of the time & it's difficult to see what either she or goku gets out of that relationship. bulma & vegeta make more sense to me, because both of them are vain & petty & hilarious & conniving. i can see how they would like one another. so i sort of want to sit there & poke it, like, okay, what kind of relationship would work for goku & chichi? and the answer to me is platonic marriage where chichi mostly hangs out with bulma & her other friends, piccolo is functionally her coparent (i like this because it is funny to me) and goku & vegeta do their intense thing on the side. when vegeta died the first time goku was like "now there's only me" and it's important to me that there isn't! they keep each other from loneliness. they make each other understood. crunch crunch crunch i hate my job

[journalofsorts2]

i'm getting worse and i know i'm getting worse, but no one around me seems to notice. i mean, i'm not helping the situation much. i'm a pretty good liar (at least in my opinion) and so when i say 'everything's fine' or 'i'm doing good' people believe it. i'm good at lying about the big stuff. with small things i lie and people catch me in my lie and so when they see themselves catching all these small lies, they think if there was a big lie surely they'd catch it, but i only let them catch those small lies so that they'll think that. no one ever catches the big lies until i let them. and i hate it. i want someone to notice how awful i'm doing. i want someone i know to find this blog because i want someone to see how truly awful it is. i lay my tracks so clearly but it really doesn't matter if i hide the entrance well. it just feels so pointless all the time and i want to die all the time but when someone asks me if i'm suicidal all i can say is 'no' and i say it so quickly that they believe me, i say it so often that they believe me. i want to die i want it all to end and i want someone to hold me and tell me it's okay to feel like that and i want them to tell me that they're here for me even if i do end up doing it and i want to tell them that i'm scared, not of dying, but of feeling this way, i'm scared and i don't know what to do and i want them to hold me so tightly that i forget why i'm even crying. and even as i sit here writing this i'm getting that painful, all too familiar lump in my throat as i try to cry but i can't. i want someone to notice, i want to tell someone how i truly feel, i want someone to catch me in these big lies, but i can't. i can't. i scream at myself for not telling the truth all these times but i can't. every time i open my mouth to tell the truth, i can't. and eventually people either believe that my lies are truth or they leave because they're fed up with my lying. all i want is for someone to stay. i want someone to stay with me and ask me what's wrong again and again and again. i want someone to stay with me until i can finally tell the truth. i want someone to accept that i can't get the words out. i want someone to sit with me at the bottom of the stairs and rub my back and hold me. i want to go back to little 4 or 5 year old me sitting at the bottom of the stairs crying their heart out because their feelings are just too big and i want to hold them and tell them that it's okay and that i'm here and that i know they're trying, i know that they're trying so hard, and i want to sit with them until they finally can say what they really want. i want to go to back to little me crying at the bottom of the stairs and yell at everyone just sitting around watching me cry. i want to scream at my mom for sending me to the stairs to cry and i want to scream at my dad for just sitting there and i want to scream at both of them for yelling at me, punishing me for crying. and i want to scream at them that this is not how you treat people, little or not. i want to scream at them that i need attention, that i need someone to just fucking hold me, i need comfort. i want to scream my heart out, i want to scream until my throat is raw and i want to be angry. i want to tell them how this treatment will only lead to a life long problem of me holding in my emotions, of me bottling everything up because i learned from such a early age that my emotions are inconvenient for others and that i should just shut up and deal with it. i want to tell them that that's what they're teaching me, not to regulate my emotions properly, but to bottle it up till i can't feel anything anymore. idk, i need to go to sleep, this made me cry too much. i kinda forgot about the whole stairs thing until writing this so that's fun. idk rant over

[rcksmith]

Rules — Kaz Brekker

Requests: “Your works is incredibly good, masterpiece. Can you please smut with Kaz Brekker and prompts 34, 37, 47? Using your rules, they are wonderful. I will really wait))”

“could u do #39 with kaz???ignore if ur not comfortable with this!!”

“Hello, just binge read your kaz brekker smuts and they are amazing! Was wondering if you could do something with smut prompts 34,84,&72?”

Smut prompts:

34. “You’d better watch your fucking mouth.”

37. “I’m so sick of your voice. Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth to better use?”

“39. “You keep acting like a little brat and I’ll take you over my knee right here, I don’t care how many people are watching.”

47. “You look so good on your knees like that.”

72. “Fuck you.” 1. “I’m up for it if you are.”

84. “Let me show you what happens to little brats who don’t follow the rules.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, NSFW,explicit heavy smut, dirty talk, dom!Kaz.

Word count: 2k.

A/N: All smut requests for Kaz must follow these rules.

Thank you so much for the requests and for all affection 💖 I decided to compile these requests, since they were the same central plot. I added all the elements that were asked for individually, and made sure that all ideas were respected and written down. I hope you like it and good reading.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are closed. Love you❤️

— — — —

There were two types of people in the world. The dangerous ones, with whom shouldn't play or challenge, people who are able to see and set your soul on fire with a single look, who exude power and domination with the way they walk. And there were people who loved to play with danger, with fire. People who felt the adrenaline pump in their veins and loved the feeling of being messing with something forbidden. Overcoming limits, challenging people on power.

Kaz Brekker was the first type of person. And you were second.

He was intimidating, dark and dangerous. An aura of mystery adored him like an underworld selvedge, and his caustic and intense gaze could very well be bought from what Lucifer cast around the world after The Fall. It was amazing how he hadn't left a trail of rubble where that gaze passed. People feared him, obeyed him, responded to his orders with astonishing precision. Everyone, but not you.

The surest comparison to define you would be to buy Jesper. Both with social personality, adrenaline addiction and seduction in their eyes. But you were a little more than that. More impulsive, more reckless, and more provocative. While Jesper knew all too well when to step back and keep your mouth shut, you refused to bow to Dirty Hands. Not because it was proud, but because it was fun, thought-provoking. Addictive. Every cell in your body felt extremely alive when you are under Kaz Brekker's dominant, angry, and dangerous gaze. He giving you a clear warning that you were swimming in turbulent water, but you were just plunging deeper into his waves.

You wanted to push him to the edge, the exasperation, to see what was really underneath that cold face and serious. Kaz could very well be the boss of the famous gang you were part of, but his rank wasn't enough to stop you. Never would be.

"Frankly, I just don't care." You told Jesper and Nina in one night, downing a shot of vodka.

"What?!" She looked at you dumbfounded. "Kaz is your boss and you argued with him about his plan!"

Nina looked alarmed, but all you felt was adrenaline and pleasure.

“Because it was a nonsense plan and…”

“What nonsense plan?”

And there was Kaz. With his height and his black underworld clothes, with his Lucifer gaze and mouth made for sin. You wanted him to sin. But you wanted l him sin with you.

Jesper and Nina soon stuttered trying to make up an excuse, but you weren't given to lies.

“Yours, in this morning.” Jesper looked like he wanted to stick his head in the dirt after your comment.

Then, once again, that fervent gaze was upon you, and every pulse in your body frantically pumped blood through your veins.

“Don't think I didn't notice your inability to follow rules, Y/n.” It was a warning.

“Oh I don't have a problem following rules “You rested your chin in your palm, with your elbow on the table, and held his fervent gaze, “,but only when they make sense. So that's the only way I can be very obedient, Sir.”

You heard Nina gasp, but your eyes didn't leave Kaz's. There was much more to that look than met the world could see. There was war for control, battles and ferocity. Kaz Brekker wanted to break you in half in that eye contact, but you wouldn't budge because a look. If he wanted you on your knees, you would be very happy to do it, but it would have to be the right way.

Kaz leaned toward you, closer enough for no one else to hear what he was going to say but far enough away that his mouth wouldn't touch your ear.

"You keep acting like a little brat and I'll take you over my knee right here, I don't care how many people are watching."

After that, the sexual tension between the two of you was suffocating, so thick it could have been cut with a knife. But nobody did anything to placate it, and you two just let it get bigger. Bigger and bigger. Until it's too late.

And in one night, it was too late.

"I won't do this just because you want to!" You crossed your arms over your chest.

Kaz wanted you to kidnap one of a mobster's kids to act as security when making a deal, but you wasn't going to kidnap anyone.

“You work for me.”

“No, I work with you.” It was a lie, but you didn't budge. “Don't think I'm here for lack of choice, Brekker. You need me as a vital member of this team and don't forget we're on an equal footing.”

His blue eyes turned almost black. Kaz Brekker rose from his office desk.

“Do you really think you're going to tell me how to act? Think you're gonna boss me around? Well, I don't think so.” His speech was slow and hot and dangerous, like that of a hunter prowling his prey and contemplating how pathetic you attempts to fight were.

“I don't give a damn what you think.” Your whole body was throbbing with life in that moment, as if fireworks had exploded in your chest. “But I won't do what you're ordering.”

"Fuck you." His voice was a growl.

A spot between your legs vibrated, and you gripped the taunt tightly. "I'm up for it if you are."

That seemed to be the pinnacle. The air crackled, the world shuddered, and Kaz's eyes roared with the flames of hell. He walked towards your with three long, purposeful strides, grabbed your chin in his gloved hand and brought you close to his mouth like you were just a rag doll.

Your breath burned in lungs, your unrestrained heart grew stronger and your entire body shivered. A low moan caught in your throat, but you could feel the warm, pulsing liquid stain your panties.

"You’d better watch your fucking mouth." Kaz's voice was husky, strong and gruff, like a boss. Your boss.

Pleasure invaded your body like waves of electricity, stealing your breath and making your blood burn in veins like scalding lava. Your whole body vibrated, screamed, begged. You wanted to disobey and be dominated. You wanted to fight and be defeated. You wanted to play rebellious and be demoted to a good girl.

And your desires must have been very explicit and pleading in your eyes, because Kaz let his lips curve into a cocky, smug smile. The smile of someone who knows he has power.

"You are such a hypocrite." He brought his body close to your. "Saying you're not easily obedient, likes others to think you're provocative and rebellious, but you're just a needy kid wanting my attention."

You moaned this time. A broken and delivered sound that gave away your entire game.

"I'm not one of the men you can challenge and get along with."

"I didn't think you was." You tried to rescue the last spark of provocation, your last fire of insolence.

“And yet you test me. Because you know what I can do with you.”

His husky words hit your skin, and Kaz pulled your chin more closer, until your lips were able to swallow his words. “Because you know I can break you.”

The moan came loud this time, desperate and needy. Kaz hadn't even touched you properly and you already felt ready to combust.

“Y-yes.” But if you were desperate, Kaz was burning with dangerous fury.

“I'm so sick of your voice. Why don’t you come over here and put your mouth to better use?”

Then his hand slipped from your jaw and stuck to the silky hairs on the back of your neck, closing his fingers there and bringing you with him to the armchair Kaz had been sitting in seconds ago.

They weren't sweet, affectionate, or kind touches, but that wasn't what you were looking for. You wanted roughness, fury, raw and strength. You wanted something wild, wanted had marks on your body the other day to tell a story. You weren't a woman who settled for the basics and wanted someone able to show you what a real fuck was. You wanted to be broken. And Kaz Brekker could give you that.

He sat down in the leather armchair and pulled you to the floor, settling you on your knees on the floor between his long, masculine legs. The awareness of what was to come filled your mouth with water, with desire, with lust, and you found yourself already leaning your mouth closer and... Kaz pulled your hair back, not hard, but firmly, keeping you away from his dick. For a while.

“Are you so eager to get my dick yet?” His free hand, now ungloved, glided to your face, running his thumb across your cheek in a firm, possessive touch. “Of course you are. Greedy slut."

Then came a slap. It wasn't aggressive, but you could feel the heat on your cheek. Your panties have never been so wet as they are now.

“S-Sir f-fuck.”

It was a plea, a whimper or a moan, you didn't know anymore. All you could feel was your pussy throbbing, mouth salivating and the overwhelming desire to put his cock in your mouth. It all hit you so hard that you wanted to cry with the wait.

Kaz lowered his mouth to your, slamming their lips together in a rough, brutal, dictating kiss. He invaded with his tongue and conquered everything you had, rubbing the hot flesh of your tongue in an erotic, maddening dance.

"Let me show you what happens to little brats who don't follow the rules." It was his sentence after back away his lips from your.

Unbuttoning his black pants with one hand and pulling the waistband down along with the boxers, he released the throbbing cock that sprang out with glory and grandeur. Thick, streaked with veins and with a pink head swollen and leaking with pre-cum. Everything about Kaz Brekker was delicious. Your moan at the sight was an opportunity that wasn't passed up. Kaz pulled your head by the back of your neck toward his dick, sinking into the velvety, warm, wet cavity of your mouth.

You accepted it readily, almost in desperation, tasting its taste with his tongue and sucking on his head like your favorite lollipop. Kaz moaned loudly, letting his head fall back and loosening his grip on your hair. Your eyes lifted to him, and the sight made you clench your thighs to ease the arousal.

His broad chest covered by the black button-down shirt rose and fell faster, his smooth white neck was exposed, and his firm jaw was clenched with fury. Brekker looked like the god of the underworld. And you loved it.

Your mouth suck to his cock better, increasing the back and forth movements and leaving a trail of hot sage. One hand rested on Kaz's thigh while the other aided the movements, spreading all the saliva down the length of his cock.

“You look so good on your knees like that.” His voice was more of a growl, and his grip on your hair went back to being firm.

You brought your eyes up to his once more, batting your lashes gracefully as you let out a few broken moans, sliding your tongue across every inch of his warm skin you could reach. Kaz gritted his teeth with your puppy dog ​​eyes. Losing all control and letting out a loud growl mixed with an aggressive curse, he thrust your head at him, sinking his entire dick into your hot mouth and hitting the glans at the beginning of your throat.

You gasped and he moaned loudly, increasing the back and forth and building with the movements of his own hips, fucking your mouth like it was the most delicious thing in the world.

"Fucking hell, what a velvet mouth!" He locked his teeth into his lower lip, using his free hand to slide his thumb across your cheek and give you a reward in the form of a small caress. "That's right, good girl."

You moaned, squinting your eyes and relaxing your throat. His compliment has done wonders for your feminine ego and your vanity, you've sunk your mouth down to touch the tip of your nose to his pelvis, and the grip on your hair has become rough as Kaz moaned loudly in a session of swearing and gasping.

He held you in that position, his whole body shaking with pleasure and despair, blood pumping like boiling lava through his saturated veins. With one last moan mixed with growl, he cum in your throat. In hot, strong jets, making sure you take every last drop. He tasted like salt, man and lust. And it was a miracle you didn't cum right away. The best liquid you've ever had.

Kaz released your hair with a hot gasp, and the hand on your cheek gently pulled you back. His dick came out of your mouth with a 'pop', saliva and tears mingled in your chin, your lips swollen and as red as roses at their apex.

You've never been so fucking delicious as you are now.

Brekker pulled you into his lap, settling you on his thigh and locking their mouths in a kiss permeated with lust and desire. You whimpered, body sensitive, pussy throbbing and throbbing. Your hands went to his hair as Brekker pulled the hem of your skirt up.

"Now, you're going to keep showing me how much you regret being insolent."

You smiled with teasing and malice. The night was just beginning.

[party-gilmore]

This is still just a half formed thought but @pebblesrus got me thinking bout The Pool Scene and Eliot viewing his body/safety as something to physically exchange for that of others, combined with the commentary about how Eliot was counting the seconds Hardison was without air, like

There's still the thrum of angry tension stretching out from Hardison between them through the night, during Flores's call, on the way in and through the airport... Eliot isn't avoiding Hardison's angry gaze, but he's not seeking it out either. It burns under his skin, a hot coil of discomfort and the sinking sensation of having ruined something unless he manages to make things even.

At some point midflight, Hardison gets up to pace near the bar (because it might have been last minute, but he's NOT gonna make the team fly coach - even though he's still upset with Eliot and may have thought about it for a minute). Eliot follows a few seconds later and catches Hardison on the way back, quickly shoving him into the small lavatory and locking the door behind them.

"Man! What the hell! If you don't get your hands off me, I-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Hardison stops flailing against Eliot's grip around his wrists and just... stares, incredulous.

"...what?"

"You were without air for one minute, nineteen seconds."

"...you were counting." It feels a little like a question, although it isn't. Not really. Eliot's grim expression softens often imperceptibly. Hardison would've missed it if they weren't crammed so tightly in the small bathroom. Eliot answers the non-question anyway, voice uncharacteristically gentle.

"Course I was."

Hardison tumbles that around in his head for a bit. Of course Eliot was counting. Probably to know when it was too dangerous anymore to stay in character. Hardison knows how important it was to gain Moreau's trust at the time. In his head, he knows that. Knew it, even then. He was just... so afraid, at almost drowning, and angry at the secrets Eliot was keeping... but he was counting. He would've gone in for him, if he needed. Blown the whole damn thing.

Yeah the situation just sucked all the way around, sure, and yeah Alec's still a little pissed - why wouldn't he be! He's got the right! - but Eliot was counting. That means even though he'd had to put Hardison's life at risk, he was willing to risk even more - his own safety, the entire con - to pull him back out if needed. That was something, right? That was still-

-Hardison's too busy turning the pieces around in his own head to notice Eliot shifting his grip from Hardison's wrists to his hands. Tugging them closer. Pulling them up.

Alec snaps back to the present when his fingertips graze the warm, flushed skin of Eliot's neck.

"What-"

"One minute, nineteen seconds." Eliot suddenly presses Hardison's hands tight around his throat, guiding his thumbs to the appropriate hollows beneath his jaw.

"You... you can't be fucking serious!"

He tries to pull away, but Eliot's grip holds fast.

"Damnit Hardison," his growl comes rough, grating, as he puts pressure on his own windpipe through Hardison's palm. "You were right! Okay? I risked your life. For one minute and nineteen seconds. So that's what you get. Just... just do it, man! Get it over with, then we're even!"

"Even-... man, do you not realize how fucked up this is? I'm not... I'm not doing this!"

With a growl, Eliot tears his hands away from Hardison's, and Alec snatches his newly freed palms back to his chest. Eliot clearly wants to pace, but can't in the cramped room, so he settles with carding his fingers through his hair.

"Then what the fuck else do you want from me, man!" His voice already sounds ragged, even with how short of a time Hardison (or rather, Eliot by way of Hardison) was pressing around his throat.

"I just wanted you to be honest with us! With me!" Hardison slumps back against the far wall, anxiously rubbing his jaw as he tries to find the words. "Alright, look, I get it, what you had to do at the pool. I do. That doesn't mean my being upset about it is just gonna... go away!"

"I know that!"

Hardison flinches as Eliot slams his fist against the side wall. He knows the strike wasn't meant to be pointedly 'at' him, that in such a small space there's not a whole lot of room to safely lash out in when feeling cornered, but it was still too close to him for comfort. Eliot clocks the flinch, and for a moment the frustration on his face morphs into a clear expression of the guilt he's been masking since the pool.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't... fuck, I'm sorry," he pulls away, shrinking in on himself like he does on the grift, trying to consciously make himself seem smaller. "I just... I just don't want to have ruined us, man. Whatever is we've got... you and me, this team... I just wanna fix what I broke. I want us to be good."

"We are good, man," Hardison cautiously steps forward. He thinks to put a hand on Eliot's shoulder, but that's too close to his throat at the moment, so he goes for the outside of his arm instead. "You don't gotta... let me hurt you to make things even. That's... I don't know where the hell you learned that, but I don't like it. I'm not gonna do it. You just... you just gotta let me feel my feelings for a bit, okay? We'll get Moreau, and that'll feel fucking great, and have a little party, and everything will be fine. "

Eliot looks up at him and the ragged, raw desperation in his gaze about knocks Hardison back against the wall.

"...that's it?" Eliot's almost laughing, with a dry sarcastic bite behind his tone that makes him sound unhinged... well, more unhinged than usual. Although, he did just ask Hardison to choke him, so Alec figures we're not exactly working with the usual state of mind here.

"It's that easy, huh? You just... say we're good, and we're good?"

"Uh, yeah." Hardison shakes his head, tightening and loosening his grip on Eliot's arm in what he hopes is a soothing pattern. "That's how normal feelings work when somebody you care about pisses you off. You talk your shit out, it hurts for a bit while it heals up, then you're good. I don't know who fucking taught you you had to pay for-"

Oh. Oh but then it hits him. The dots finish connecting and he's looking down at Eliot, who's been strung tight and volatile as a clumsily stripped live wire ever since they closed in on Moreau, and in that moment Alec knows who taught him that.

He steps in close, carefully taking the back of Eliot's neck in a gentle grip, and ducks slightly to even out their gazes. Eliot’s whole body is tensed so hard he's almost shaking with it, but his eyes start to lose their sharp edge with Hardison's easy hold.

"I need you to hear me, Eliot. If I say we're good? Then we're good. No strings attached, no games, no doing any 'favors' for me first to prove any kind of loyalty or whatever. You know I don't play that shit. Yeah? You hearing me, man?"

Eliot's body starts to lose a bit of it's tension. A hesitant nod starts, but stops early. Hardison's seen Parker do that before, when she's too nervous to fully commit to a new idea even if she wants to, so he softens his tone and backs up a bit like he does with her.

"You hear me, babe?"

"I hear you," the reply is soft, almost embarrassed, and Eliot's eyes dart away. Hardison let's him go, indulging the gruff 'pretending to shake off the touch' Eliot does a second too late to be any kind of believable, and respectfully ignores the clearing of his throat and wiping at his eyes.

"We, uh..." Eliot turns to the door, fidgeting with the handle for a moment. "So, we'll talk. In San Lorenzo. When it's done?"

"When it's done."

Affirmation granted, Eliot darts out of the room. Hardison takes a few more minutes. Washes his face. Processes all the data thrown at him in the past few minutes as much as he can before filing it away for later. For 'when it's done.'

BONUS:

I feel like later, when they have their actual talk and Moreau is dealt with and both parties are a little more calm about it, Eliot is still like okay, I hear you, I understand that you don't need this to feel like we're square... but I do. Please.

And this time, knowing a little more of the whole story, Hardison is more comfortable accepting that like you know what, okay. If this is what you need, now that we've talked it out in a much less charged scenario and I can trust that you're in (more of) your right mind about this, okay. So long as you know I don't need this, that this is for you, and that if you need to stop early you swear you'll tell me.

Eliot probably rolls his eyes a bit at that like c'mon not even a full two minutes of getting choked out? He's had to go [absurd amount of time] without air in [equally absurd situation] in [obscure country], he'll be fine.

So Hardison sets a timer, and gently presses Eliot up against a wall, hands wrapping round his throat, Eliot's hands around his wrists - the deal is that he holds on for as long as he's good, if he let's go then so does Hardison - and he starts pressing in.

The whole scene is far softer and more intimate than either of them expected. They keep crazy intense but somehow still gentle eye contact almost the entire way through - the only exception being when Eliot's eyelids start to flutter a bit near the end, his grip loosening but not letting go - and when the time's up Eliot almost doesn't want Hardison to let go. He didn't even know that was a Thing for him. It had never been like that before, and like he said it's hardly his first time being choked... but something about trusting Hardison with that level of control... it makes him realize he maybe likes it a little too much. Putting his actual life in Hardison's hands in such a very physical, tangible way.

It kind of scares him, to be honest, how easily he'd be willing to let him do it again. And thinking about Hardison always leads to thinking about Parker, and thinking about Parker always leads to thinking about Parker's hands, and he realizes that he'd even trust "I hang off buildings by my fingertips" hand strength Parker to do it too... maybe even gets excited at the idea of it...

...and realizes he's well and truly screwed.

[forever-emo-phase]

Mission Status: Sick!

Notes: Hello this is my first fic for Sanders Sides! It is inspired by @illogicallyinclined​‘s hockey AU! If you haven’t ever gotten into it, do it! However, you can still read even if you don’t know anything about the AU! Characters: Virgil, Logan

Ship: The whole thing is pretty much just analogical pining Warnings: Panic attack is described Genre: Just guys being dudes being gay. Fluff maybe? It’s not sad and that’s all I can tell you. Summary: Which is how Virgil arrived at his current situation, Logan tensely sitting at his desk in the middle of the night with shoulders so tight he looked like he was seconds away from shattering.

'It's a good thing that my homosexuality is stronger than my pride', Virgil thought as he opened a capri sun and violently squeezed it onto his sheets.

Check it out on Ao3 here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/33804841

Anxiety sucks. Virgil’s nails are always bitten down to the quick, hands never still, and the insides of his cheeks chewed and raw. If Virgil had to find a bright side, it would have to be his ability to read people. With just a look, Virgil could tell by the slump of his shoulders when Roman needed a little bit of extra praise. He would notice the redness around Patton’s eyes and know that he would need more company than normal. 

But the one person Virgil prided himself on seeing was Logan. It was almost second nature for him to sense the tension in Logan’s shoulders without even looking, he could almost feel it in the air. He could see when Logan needed to get out of his head and stop pushing himself before he broke. 

Dealing with Logan’s emotions, however, was slightly harder. If his approach was too physical, like he would approach Patton, Logan would withdraw. If he tried to take the same approach he would with Roman, showering compliments tempered with a light bit of teasing, Logan would get uncomfortable and retreat.

Which is how Virgil arrived at his current situation, Logan tensely sitting at his desk in the middle of the night with shoulders so tight he looked like he was seconds away from shattering.

'It's a good thing that my homosexuality is stronger than my pride', Virgil thought as he opened a capri sun and violently squeezed it onto his sheets. 

The thing with Logan is that he doesn’t care about himself. He will push himself to his limit and keep going, but, if someone else needs something? He will help as much as he can, even though sometimes it may not be overly obvious that he is helping.

“Hey Logan?” Virgil says from across the room, staring at his now soaked bedding. 

“Yes, Virgil?” Logan doesn’t look up from his computer as he sharply replies. For a moment Virgil wonders if this scheme was the best idea, it could fail horribly and Logan could be angry and refuse. But, the wheels were already in motion, his sheets were already wet, and there was no turning back.

“I fucked up.” He said plainly, watching as Logan’s head turned so fast to look at him that he was surprised that he didn’t hear a crack. Realizing how ominous his statement was, Virgil raised his hands and quickly spat out a placating “No it’s okay i’m fine!”

Logan let out a sigh before replying “What did you manage to do that was so dramatic that it required that statement, while I was sitting in the same room, only a handful of feet away from you?”

“Well…” Virgil started, choosing his words very carefully to make sure his plan could not fail. “I was panicking a little bit while I was drinking my Capri Sun and I squeezed it a little bit too hard. It spilled on my sheets and my bed is soaked now.” 

Logan’s eyes assessed Virgil, making him momentarily wonder if his lie was believable. Did his dishonesty show on his face? Was Logan about to get angry and yell at him? His hands began to shake slightly and his breathing picked up and, he thought wryly, at least now he wasn’t lying about being anxious. His fears were eased when he saw the slight softening of Logan’s face. 

“Oh Virgil,” Logan huffed out, his face morphing into an expression of fond exasperation, “You need to stop having drinks in your bed, especially ones of the extremely spillable and sugary type.”

Virgil shrugged, “It is what it is, you know?”

“It does not have to be the way that it is?” Logan said with a hint of confusion sneaking into his voice. “You can very easily change the circumstance.”

A small chuckle escaped from Virgil as he watched his roommate struggle to wrap his head around the statement. Logan was extremely smart, that was obvious, but watching him puzzle out modern slang and sayings struck Virgil as endearing every time. “It’s too late to change it now, you know?”

“You are correct.” Logan intoned and Virgil could already see some of the tension leaving Logan’s shoulders as he began to relax during the conversation. “Do you have a plan for drying your bedding before it is time for you to sleep?”

“Not at all.” Virgil said as he absentmindedly brought his hand to his mouth to bite his nails, but stopped as Logan let out a soft click of his tongue as a reprimand. As he lowered his hand, he absent-mindedly wondered if Logan was even aware that he had made the sound. Either way, Virgil found it incredibly sweet. “I’ll probably just sleep on the floor. My pillow is dry.”

Virgil made a show of picking up his pillow and feeling around for a dry blanket so that he could make a temporary bed on the floor, however, he was quickly interrupted.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan scolded lightly, “You can sleep in my bed. I will be up for a significant while longer doing work, it is no problem at all.”

Everything was falling into place for Virgil and he had to resist the urge to steeple his fingers together like a Bond villain. But his work was not finished, there was still one more task- Get Logan In The Bed.

“Dude no!” He exclaimed, “I’m not taking your bed! You’ve gotta sleep at some point!”

“Virgil,” Logan sighed, “I have a lot of work to do that I need to get done soon. I was actually planning to get up and pour myself some more coffee.”

Shit. If Logan got caffeine into his system, it was game over. His plan would fail and he would just be in Logan’s bed, and while that wouldn’t be the worst thing, it was not the plan. Panicking, he blurted out a quick “No!”

“No?” Logan said with a raised eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

‘Now or never’ Virgil thought to himself, before delivering the line that had inspired the whole plot.

“I wouldn’t feel okay with taking your bed, just in case you decided to sleep. Could we just share for the night?”

Logan looked puzzled, “I suppose, but I have already told you that I am not necessarily planning on sleeping tonight.”

“I know but.. I would feel bad.” Virgil said, his anxiety rising now that he was this far into the plan and there was truly no turning back. “Could you just… Would you just lay down for a minute? It would make me feel better.”

Judging by Logan’s expression, Virgil was convinced that he had lost Logan. His plan had failed and he felt a burn of shame in his chest, clenching his eyes shut. God he was so stupid! He should have just refused the offer to take Logan’s bed and slept on the floor! He should have not even tried this stupid plan! Virgil had not noticed his breathing picking up and his fingernails burying themselves into his palms as his thoughts spiraled into a pit of anxiety. He had not noticed until Logan’s voice washed over him.

“Virgil?” He said, somehow both softly and with authority. “Name five things you can see.” Virgil pried his eyes open, not really remembering when he had closed them. “Bed. Computer. Shoes. Water bottle. Posters.”

Logan nodded his head, with a small smile. “You are doing very well. Now four things you can touch.”

“Uhhh…” Virgil hesitated, eyes darting to Logan, “Sheets. Pants. My hair. Wet blanket.”

“Good job. Three things that you can hear now.” 

“Your voice. The air conditioner. Our obnoxious neighbors.” His breathing had started to slow and he could feel his body relaxing.

“Two things you can smell, you’re almost there.”

“Capri sun from my sheets and your disgusting coffee.”

“Last thing, one thing you can taste.” 

“Toothpaste.” With his breathing regulated and feeling calmer, Virgil smiled wryly back at Logan. “I’m sorry. That was… sudden.”

“You are perfectly fine. I have reassured you multiple times that I do not mind helping you.” Logan said soothingly. “Why don’t we go lay down? You are typically quite tired after these events.”

“Yeah… that sounds good.” Virgil said as he stood to move to Logan’s bed, straightening his sleep pants and he went. “Do… are you going to lay down too?”

Logan hummed, walking to his laptop to shut the lid, as well as flipping the main lights in the room off.  “Yes I suppose that I can for a moment. Just to assure you that I do not mind that you are in my bed.”

Virgil lifted the sheets of the bed and crawled under, scooting over so that he was next to the wall, leaving space for Logan to enter. “Alright. I promise I won’t keep you too long.”

“Well.” Logan said as he joined Virgil under the sheets, “I, in all honesty, could use the sleep.”

Virgil smiled at Logan with a soft “Good night then.”

“Good night Virgil.” Logan whispered, reaching up to turn off the light next to his bed, plunging them both into darkness.

The next time Virgil opened his eyes, the sun was shining through the window of the room and his head was resting on Logan’s shoulder. One of Logan’s strong arms was wrapped across Virgil and Virgil could hear Logan’s soft breathing against his ear.

Slowly reaching into his pocket so as to not disturb Logan, Virgil pulled out his cellphone, which was at 9%, and quickly snapped a picture before sending it to Remy with a simple caption.

“Mission accomplished.”

 (And that is the end! Feedback is very appreciated!)

[jjkyaoi]

okay. so. i’m going to be mostly going back to the scene where he broke a piece of the egg/the monologue before that because that scene is so good it’s just. chefs kiss. immaculate.

he was speaking about the wars before, right? everything that’s happened before, all the wars and the fights and the conflicts, and he said that basically of ‘em had started because he’d done something reckless—he referenced the revolution. he seems to be caught in a state of thinking where he thinks everything up to this point has been his fault, and i wouldn’t blame him, because he was in exile with dream. dream, who convinced him that everyone didn’t like him—who convinced him he was a danger and he causes problems and basically, that he needed to be put away. and that goes back to him being referred to as the “hero” of the story by multiple people: being called the hero really puts things in perspective to him, makes him think even more that everything is his fault, because hero’s are supposed to save the day, aren’t they? but all he does is cause misery. so, i wouldn’t be surprise if he’s shielding himself off from everyone/focusing on the hotel because he believes that he’s the constant source for hurt—that he’s the problem for everything, and he probably thinks that the hotel would be a good way to gain everyone’s forgiveness, because he’s said before that this hotel is for the people of the smp.

it’s been pretty obvious recently that c!tommy doesn’t think very well of himself. he’s made little self deprecating comments that wouldn’t matter, usually, but considering the exile arc/everything that’s happened it matters a whole lot. so, i really wouldn’t be surprised if he considers himself a plague/thinks he’s some kind of monster, especially considering what he’d became during his time with techno. tldr; c!tommy has a bad self esteem and i’m sad about it.

of topic, but i also wanted to speak about his loyalty, because that’s also something i’m thinking about about him rn. c!tommy has always shown unyielding loyalty to the things he holds close to his heart; the disks, l’manberg, people, his friends—he’s always been willing to walk to the ends of the earth for them, basically, and give up everything he has for them. maybe that’s selfish, but c!tommy’s always been a lover; he’s always been a person who’s loved with everything he has him, and he’s gotten attached to the little things very easily. that, unfortunately, makes him very easy to manipulate/betray. c!tommy in general is a very emotional personal. he lashes out in his anger, he makes impulsive decisions when he’s happy, he doesn’t seem to consider what consequences his emotion-fueled actions could have, but that’s 1. because he hadn’t been taught any better, & 2. because he’s a child. he’s in the middle of a wars; his emotional growth has been very stunted because he’s grown up in wars and he’s never ever had a proper way to cope/deal with his emotions properly, so of course he’s going to make bad decisions, because that’s all he’s ever known. he’s guided by his emotions because he doesn’t know any better, and he clings onto loyalty/the loyalty of others because it’s all he’s known.

his relationship with the word “hero”/being referred to as one. you can make the arguement that because of his vibrant personality he’s put himself in the position of hero, but that’s just unfair. since day one, i don’t think c!tommy’s been doing any of the things he’s done to be the hero—i don’t think he’s ever actually wanted to be one. the things he’s done, believe it or not, have always been out of the kindness of his heart; the decisions he’s made that could be considered “heroic” has just been guided by what he’s believed, not because he wants to be a hero, and he clearly doesn’t. all c!tommy has ever wanted was the safety of the people he’s loved/the wars to be stopped. all he’s ever wanted, really, is l’manberg. not the structures, but the time before it all; the time where they were all happy, the time where they were a community, the time where they didn’t have to worry about all this—that’s always what tommys wanted, because that’s when he was the happiest. it’s clear that the word “hero”/being called as one puts a lot of pressure onto him to be the best, and i’ve already spoken about him looking at the references for hero’s, and seeing everything he’s done, and hating that he’s been called one when all he’s done is called others pain.

his relationship with his disks. c!tommy’s always had a very big attachment to them, and it’s always been prominent. he’s always fought for them, his goal this entire time was to get his disks, and even if that’s annoying i’m going to explain why i think that’s so. even if it’s just a couple music disks to some, to c!tommy, when he turned down the position of presidency and instead decision to challenge dream for his disks, that was the last thing he needed in mind for him to be happy—his disks. back then, l’manberg was back, so his home was back, and all he needed was the last missing piece; his disks. in the exile arc they were something he held onto like a lifeline; his disks were the last thing that gave him permission—a mission he had to accomplish, a goal to keep him going, a reason to get out of bed at night and keep going despite not wanting to so badly. in his time with techno, his view on l’manberg was skewed; he view them all as traitors (with techno fueling the fire unknowingly but that’s another topic entirely), and held a lot of anamoisty towards them, and the only thing he wanted was his disks, because back then his disks were the only thing that mattered to him. the people that did—l’manberg, the thing that’d made him happy once had turned his back on him, so he was desperate for something, at least, when he felt like he didn’t have anything else. and he would do anything to get them, which we saw, and in the end he ended up giving them when he found out how unhealthily attached he’d gotten to them, and when he’d found that his last piece to happiness was tubbo.

his time with techno was probably one of his lowest points, as well as the exile arc. he’d come out of exile sore and raw and hurt, everything that’d happened to him like an open wound, and he’d been angry. he was angry, because once again, to him everyone in l’manberg had left him behind; he’d left him behind, so he didn’t have any attachment to anything but the disks anymore, and so he teamed up with techno in a vengeance fueled scheme to get his disks back. of course, he was still a lot hesitant about the destruction of l’manberg, and didn’t really want that to happen, but he was pushing down those feelings because, once again, he was hurt and thought he was betrayed. he went down this hole of being angry and unhealthily clinging to the disks even more, blind to anything else around him because the disks were the only thing that mattered, until he snapped out of it. he snapped out of it when he told tubbo “the disks were more than you ever were”, and seeing the raw hurt on his friends face really put it into perspective—he said so himself. he was becoming like everyone he hated. and honestly, you can have your arguments about how he chose to leave c!techno, but it’s honestly the best decision he could’ve made for himself and i’ll stand by that. he recognized the path he was going down and he stopped himself—it was really, really mature in my eyes.

the exile arc. probably one of his lowest points. ever. he was all alone there: there wasn’t anyone else there for him in that fucking place beyond dream, and he had to pick himself up and survive all on his own. the hurt from tubbo’s betrayal still stung like an open wound on him, and he was distrusting of everyone who visited; determined that he would prove that he didn’t need them, because he felt like they didn’t need him—because he didn’t want to lean to heavily on them because he knew what would happen. he didn’t have anyone else but dream, and dream took his insecurities and fed on him, telling him lies that he believed because they were things he already thought about. his character would wake up every night under water, presumably trying to go back to l’manberg in his sleep. the lava scene exists. and let’s not even talk about the way he kept repeatedly apologizing to dream when he exploded logstedshire, desperate to anything to fix his mistake because dream was all he had. he hid the things he had from dream because dream was his only friend, and sure, even if dream was scary him leaving and tommy being alone again was a lot scarier. he was going to jump off that pillar, but he came to the realization that saved his own fucking life and got out of there. tommy has said so himself, even if he falls he’s always going to get back up, and he did. dude i just wish he didn’t have to do it on his fucking own

i could speak about how he’s clearly got abandonment issues—constantly telling techno to not leave him when he was staying with him, etc—but like. this is long enough and i’d literally go on a tangent for hours and hours 😳

[thearvariblues]

A Man of Easy Virtues

Just another ‘I’m so sorry but I couldn’t resist’ fics I wrote instead of, you know, doing the important things I should be doing.

This time it’s based on @likecastle‘s post about the kind of pants Jaskier should be wearing (and isn’t wearing, obviously) in the show and all the fanfics.

Warning for almost underage slutty bard (don’t worry, though, he’s eighteen, so definitely not a kid) and no Geralt in sight.

And yes, there will definitely be a part 2.

*

“You don’t understand,” Jaskier sighs and looks down at the tiny, fat tailor in front of him. “I just need a pair of pants that stays up without a hundred tiny ribbons.”

“They aren’t ribbons, young man,” the tailor says. “They are actually called–”

“I don’t care what they’re called. I don’t want them anywhere near me.”

“How would your pants stay up, then?” the tailor frowns.

“I don’t know. You’re the expert!”

The tailor sighs and lifts his hands to fix Jaskier’s partially unbuttoned doublet.

“Young man. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Jaskier mutters.

“Eighteen,” the man repeats. “Are you aware, young man, that what you’re asking for is very inappropriate?”

“But very practical. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get into appropriate clothes when you’re in a hurry?”

“There are things you cannot hurry up, young man. This is one of them.”

“Have you ever tried telling that to an angry cuckold?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier bites his lower lip. “Could you at least consider–”

“No.”

“I will pay you double–”

“Still no. There,” the man smiles, straightening Jaskier’s collar. “Much better now. Your chemise is meant to be hidden. You wouldn’t want people to think that you are a man of easy virtues, would you?”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier mutters. “That would be horrible…”

*

“Fuck, yes,” Jaskier moans as a pair of eager hands slip into his doublet. “Please.”

“Mhmh,” his lover’s deep voice answers, impatiently tugging at Jaskier’s chemise. “More skin. Right fucking now.”

“I actually don’t think,” Jaskier murmurs between the kisses, “that it will be possible to… Oh, yes.”

The hands slip lower and try to get into Jaskier’s pants. They don’t succeed. The man – the Witcher, for fuck’s sake – growls.

Which is fair, Jaskier assumes, because while the young student’s fingers are roaming freely over the scarred torso and firm buttocks, Jaskier is still fully clothed. And it is going to take forever before he’s naked.

“Drowner’s shrunken ball sack,” the Witcher swears, tugging at one of the points holding Jaskier’s clothes together. “I’d sooner get into a noonwraith’s rotting cunt than your asshole!”

“Yeah, it’s a little complicated, but if you let go for a little while–”

“Oh, fuck off,” the man grunts and before Jaskier even blinks, there’s a long knife in the man’s hand. And before Jaskier manages to open his mouth to protest, the man makes short work of all the points and unceremoniously throws Jaskier onto the bed, grinning.

“Well, fuck me,” Jaskier whispers, feeling his blood rush straight to his crotch (well, at least the tiny amount of blood that wasn’t there already).

“That’s the plan,” the man nods, cutting Jaskier’s chemise open. “The name’s Lambert, in case you forgot. Because I expect you to scream it until your voice is fucking raw.”

“Yes, sir,” Jaskier purrs.

The Witcher smiles.

“Good boy.”

*

“Melitele’s tits!” Jaskier swears, staring at his pants in disbelief.

Lambert lifts his head from the pillow and raises an eyebrow.

“Problem?” he asks.

“There is, actually. You completely ruined them!” Jaskier growls and throws his currently useless pants at him. “How the fuck am I supposed to get back home?”

“Oh, come on. I was careful not to cut anything but those motherfucking tiny ribbons. It’s not the end of the world. What do you need them for, anyway? I mean apart from driving potential lovers insane with lust.”

“Well, for nothing important. Just holding the fucking thing up,” Jaskier sighs and puts on his doublet, which is his only piece of clothing that’s intact. He’s slowly coming to terms with walking home with his ass bare. Again. Third time this week.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Lambert frowns. “Shit. Sorry, I guess. Would you like my spare pair?”

“Does it have the points, or did you cut them off when you urgently needed to take a shit?” Jaskier smirks.

“I honestly don’t know what the fuck are you even talking about.” Lambert gets up and after a few seconds of rummaging through his bag he pulls out a pair of worn-out leather pants and throws them to Jaskier. “Here. Take them. Guess what. They stay up on their own.”

“They… do?” Jaskier whispers, his eyes going comically wide.

“Honey, when werewolves attack your camp while your Cat Witcher boyfriend is balls-deep in your ass, you don’t have time to tie some fucking ribbons.”

“Cat Witcher…” Jaskier blinks.

As if on cue, the room’s door open and a lean, long-haired blond man rushes in, slams the door closed behind him and starts dragging a large chest in front of it.

“Oh, you’re done. Good,” he says to Lambert. “We need to leave. Now.”

“Aiden, I swear by Vesemir’s flaccid cock…” Lambert groans. “What did I ask you – no, beg you not to do tonight?!”

“I swear I didn’t cheat this time!” the man says, leaning with his full weight against the chest just as someone starts to bang on the door. “It’s not my fault I’m so fucking good at gwent, is it?”

“Good at gwent my ass. I could beat you drunk if you didn’t have another whole pack stuffed into your sleeves.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lambert. It’s not a whole pack. Just like… twenty cards or something, usually.” The man grins at Jaskier. The doorknob rattles. “Hey, Lambert’s fuck of the day. I’d suggest you start getting dressed.”

“Just how many did you manage to piss off this time?” Lambert asks, already pulling his shirt over his head.

“Not many. I could deal with them in a matter of seconds, but you always say your brother doesn’t like it when Witchers murder innocent citizens.”

“You mean my brother the fucking Butcher of Blaviken?” Lambert laughs.

Jaskier looks up from fastening his (well, Lambert’s) pants and gapes at the two Witchers.

“Your brother,” he whispers. “Your brother is Geralt of–”

“Not now,” Lambert says. “We’re in a bit of a hurry. Tell me, Jaskier, have you ever jumped out of a window before?”

“Four times just this week. Mostly to escape jealous husbands. A jealous wife, in one case.”

“Good,” Aiden nods, letting go of the chest supporting the door and grabbing his bag. “Let’s jump.”

*

The tiny, fat tailor is staring at the pair of worn-out black leather pants laid out in front of him with polite disgust.

“Not possible,” he says for the fifth time.

“Let’s be absolutely clear here,” Jaskier smiles and his voice holds just a hint of a promise of some very unpleasant things that could hypothetically happen to the tiny man. “Do you know my name?”

“No, young man, and I wouldn’t care even if you were–”

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Jaskier says calmly.

“Oh,” the man replies and he suddenly seems even smaller than before.

“I am willing to pay you twice your usual fee–”

“Sir, what you’re requiring is outrageous–”

“Three times.”

“I couldn’t possibly sully the name of my shop with such an immodest–”

“Four times your usual fee, and an opportunity to start a fashion revolution.”

The man closes his eyes and nods slowly.

“Four times my usual fee. You can keep the revolution. It’s not as if you can find another man willing to wear something so scandalous…”

*

In a month, almost every young man in Oxenfurt (and several young women) wears the same model of pants Jaskier does. It’s much more comfortable, and also much easier to get into if you happen to get caught naked in a bed you shouldn’t be in, making it an instant hit among the students.

When Jaskier jumps, completely dressed, out of yet another window, this time running from a father whose two sons he just fucked into the bed, he thinks that he definitely has to thank Lambert and Aiden properly the next time he sees them.

Or any other Witcher he meets until then.

They basically saved his life, didn’t they?

[huenjin]

hold me down.

pairing – kim seungmin x reader | secretary!au

word count – 1634 words

ratings – 18+

genre – smut, includes grinding, creampie, slight overstimulation and dumbification (because i love it?), daddy kink, impregnation kink, size kink, bulge kink, office sex

"What are you doing, Y/N?" Seungmin's fingers tighten on the fake gold plated pen in his grip. "We're still in office."

"Yeah and," You push Seungmin back. The pen drops from his hand, falling onto the glass table and making a loud sound. His head falls against the soft rexine covered sofa in your office room. Your secretary, also your doting husband, groans as you climb on top of him, your leg swinging by the side as you sit on him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your pencil skirt rides up and Seungmin's eyes trail your legs. "I run the company and it's already late so–" You drag your index finger over his shirt covered broad chest.

"Baby," Seungmin stresses. He tilts his face to look up at the surveillance cameras in the room. "Cameras and I have to finish going through these paper by today so that my boss," he raises an eyebrow at you, "–doesn't think I'm slacking just because I'm married to her."

"Well, your boss thinks you'd be doing your work even better if you just really listened to what she needed right now."

With a flick of your fingers hooking under his shirt, you tug open his shirt, a single button popping off the material as a result and Seungmin smiles. You press your lips against his chest, and mumble, "So please, Daddy. Do me, else I'll cut your pay."

"What a bad employer," he clicks his tongue. How was Seungmin expected to work in such a situation when his beautiful wife is on top of him, asking of him to have you in your very office. Something about it seemed so scandalous to him that it excites him way more than it should normally have.

"Don't care." You grind on his growing cock, your arms tightening over his neck. Seungmin holds your hips down onto him, helping you rub against him. You moan, voice airy as you inform him, "I got off once in the washroom at the sight of you rolling your sleeves and carrying those boxes into my office."

"You did what now, beautiful?" Seungmin stills your body, holding you fixed on his bulged length that stands through his pants. His eyes darkens and he feels you whimper in his hold. Seungmin has always found this reversal of roles enticing. The fact that you are this powerful CEO of one of the largest cosmetic companies in the country and that you are this dominating woman on the streets, conquering the market one by one and yet here you are – small in his hold and all his to have.

It is how he seems to cover your entire being. You pride yourself in being an average height for a woman but with Seungmin by your side, you seemingly become small by his side. Seungmin has to look down to talk to you, to keep a conversation.

"I couldn't help, daddy," you gasp, trying to move against him in hopes but your husband's large hands hold on to you, strongly. Seungmin's hand trails up your inner leg, fingers hasty to push your panties to the side. His fingers graze your wet lips, dragging residues or your last orgasm and your present arousal all over.

You're so small that it's fucking hot to Seungmin.

He can't help but fantasise about you. All these years, a ring to seal the deal and still he can't stop lusting after his wife. Of how short you are compared to him. Of how Seungmin can easily tower over you, as you look up at him with those innocent doe eyes of yours in the bed definitely turns him on. Of how a person of your size can command an entire room at the very same time. Of how he can hold onto your whole breast with those large hands of his as you moan and mewl on top of him as you are bouncing on his cock, begging for more. All while he uses you for a cocksleeve as he hoists you up and down just by using his bare hands to lift you.

Seungmin wants to do the same right now – to fuck your tiny being and to breed you.

"Baby, you're slopping wet." Your hand grips on the open ends of his shirt, trying to chase after his fingers. Seungmin kisses the side of your lips. "Should I just fuck you raw and stupid? Teach my baby girl to let her daddy work in peace?"

"Please do, daddy. Please. Fuck me stupid. Fuck me dumb."

Your fingers hastily move down to unbuckle his pants. You stand up slightly for Seungmin to pull himself up for you to pull his pants down, along with his boxers; his cock springs out, hot and angry, vein throbbing on the underside. You hold it in your hand, pumping it slowly. Positioning it, you lift your hips to angle it as Seungmin pushes your panties to the side and slowly, you drop your body to allow his cock to push into you.

"Fuck, daddy, you're so big," you groan, barely being able to let words out with the feeling of being stretched out by his cock. Seungmin doesn't let you adjust today. His large hands hold your acetabulum as he pulls you up only to bring you down, his hips thrusting into you. He plunges into you and you gush all over his cock, coating almost all of his length with your arousal. Seungmin is barely in but he is already hitting your spot, hot tip brushing against it vicariously that your hand moves up to hold your breast, softly hitting it over your clothing.

Seungmin thrusts into you again and his hand moves glides against your skin to press against your belly. He laughs, huskily and airy as he watches you squeeze his length. "Feel that, baby? Do you like feeling so fucking full and stretched out around my cock stuffed into you? What a pretty slut to call mine."

Seungmin's hands moved upwards to grab your clothes breasts, kneading it in his grip as he lets go of your hips. You bounce on his cock and Seungmin stares in fascination at how your breasts do the same, even in captive, both by your bra and his hands.

Your arms wrap around his neck once again as your walls squeeze around his cock, bouncing at a rapid pace to meet your end. Moans and loud unperiodic screams leave your lips as his cock stretches you out. You whimper in his hold, already sensitive from your last self-inflicted orgasm.

Seungmin holds your hips again as soon as he knows you're close. Kissing your neck and biting into the skin to make you his, not that the platinum ring on your fingers were a sign enough of branding, Seungmin whispers by your ear, "Going to fuck and cum in you. Going to breed you and have you stuffed with my cum like the little slut you are. Daddy is going to have you so full of my cum that you're bound to get pregnant. I'll do that, baby. You're going to keep it all inside of you."

"What it it slips out?" You gasp out, getting turned on by the thought of having Seungmin's kids.

"Going to fuck it into you over and over again," Seungmin grunts.

He thrusts into you rapidly, hips hitting into you over and over again, squeezing him as you edge closer and closer. "I'm going to cum, oh my god. Daddy, I'm going to cum." His fingers brushes against your clit and you know at that minute that you have come undone.

"No," he says, firmly, as he fucks into you ruthlessly. "Hold it. You're cumming with me."

"I can't, let meㅡ" You cry but Seungmin squeezes your harder harder, warning you. "Daddy! Fuck, please!" Seungmin's cock is repeatedly hitting your spot, your vision blurry in pleasure and you feel like you are going to explode.

"I'm close too." Seunhmin finally says and he thirst upwards faster, sounds resonating in the office room of yours and you don't care if people were to walk in and watch their boss fuck her husband in her office. Fuck, you think that would be hot, in fact.

"Fuck!" He exclaims. "Going to fucking cum inside you. Going to stuff you with my cum till your tiny little belly bulges with all that cum." Seungmin kisses you. It's messy, teeth clashing and desperate for some intimate contact as you soon tug at his lower lip with your teeth before letting go of it.

You scream your husband's name out loud – pretty sure for voices to have reached the corridor. Your orgasm coats his dick that still thrusts into you, staining his pants and your dress.

"Oh, god," you breathe in for air heavily. "Fuck," you whimper, body shaking almost violently, the muscles of your stomach contracting. Seungmin does not stop as he continues to ravage your pussy.

"Stop." You gasp, holding onto his shoulder, nails digging into it. Seungmin doesn't listen and continues to fuck you through your orgasm. "Stop, please! Ah! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Fuck, fuck!" One thrust at an angle and Seungmin releases into you, a small orgasm ripping out from your body simultaneously at the minor overstimulation that takes over your body completely.

You weakly pull yourself up from his cock, pussy clenching at nothing once he is completely out, releasing the mixture of both yours and his orgasm. It slides down your thigh and Seungmin's eyes stares at it before he holds your hips.

In one fluid motion, he pins you down on the sofa, your head against a cushion. Kissing you, he mumbles, "Told you to keep it in. Have to fuck it all back in now."

[keorami]

So you know when you wanna write a funny situation but you realise that you have to come up with said funny situation? Yeah... I forgot that my sense of humor is atrocious, but at least I tried...? I couldn't focus on one long story so I decided to write several short ones instead! Hope you enjoy!

"I have the feeling you're not enjoying this sleepover very much."

Dream did not, in fact, enjoy this 'sleepover', because not only did it remind him that his only way out of this hell was stuck in here with him, but said way out had been nothing but insufferable since he got here.

"Is this about the bell-"

"You could have gotten us out of here."

Oh yeah, said way out also wasted their one chance at escaping on a fucking bell. Dream hadn't felt such anger in... he doesn't remember actually. He didn't get to feel angry often in here.

"Listen, it was a very important matter-"

He stopped listening at that point. It was the same tirade every time about clout and viewership and whatever that he honestly could care less about. Staring at and counting the cracks in the obsidian seems like a very interesting activity.

"Hey, are you listening?"

1... 2... 3...

"Dude."

4... 5... 6...

"How long are you gonna ignore me?"

7... 8- wait, didn't he count that one already?

"Look at me at least."

No, he doesn't think he will. Because then the bell will be within view, and Dream knows that if he wasn't so pathetically weak, either the bell or Techno would have been thrown into the lava by now. But he is, so he'll throw the next best thing: his body. And fuck whatever the pig might have to say about it.

"Dreeeeeam-"

"WHAT."

He whipped his head so fast his neck hurt a little. He was fully prepared to... well now he doesn't remember, because of all faces he expected Techno to make...

The fuckboy face wasn't one of them.

"Nooo don't be angry, you're so sexy haha."

Oh God, he just died and went to limbo didn't he?

He wasn't sure when exactly he collapsed on the floor, gasping for air in a mix of wheezes and coughing, but Techno was now hovering over him in panic.

"Dream please don't die, I don't want the last thing you ever saw to have been that face-"

Oh, if there was one thing he would make sure not to forget, it would have been that face.

~~~~~

"Man, I'm starving. When do we get food in here again?"

"Um, I don't know really. I guess whenever Sam is in the mood?"

"What."

"Yeah."

Sam hasn't dropped food a single time since he was locked in here. Well, add 'food' to the basic human rights Dream isn't getting. They're really treating this like a bucket list aren't they?

"It's... You'll get used to it."

Dream gives him some potatoes from his inventory, to Techno's absolute delight. At least Sam has great taste, he'll give him that. But...

"...They're raw."

"Well, obviously."

Listen. He loves potatoes. He'd say he loves them to death, if he could die. No matter how you cook them, they turn out delicious. But raw? He'd only eat them raw if it was a life-or-death situation AND he somehow had no source of heat at his disposal, and the likelihood of that situation happening is practically zero. So yeah, he doesn't like to eat them raw.

"And that's all you get?"

"If you can't eat it-"

Ah, those famous words. Now, he's fairly certain that Dream didn't mean it as a challenge, but at this point Techno is just too competitive to see it any other way. Look, you don't get to his level by being passive, okay? So it's perfectly reasonable.

What wasn't reasonable was the taste of this potato because what in the Blood God's name is this.

"What the hell is this."

"...A potato?"

"No, this is a fucking travesty."

And what a sight it was, the Technoblade swearing and ranting about potatoes, of all things. Dream could only last until "mossy cobblestone tastes better than this dry ass, stinky ass garbage" before he lost it. You gotta give him credit for lasting this long at least. Technoblade was too busy ranting to care either way.

~~~~~

This can't be happening.

"Dream."

"What."

He tries to sound neutral, but Techno can hear the snicker in his voice.

"You don't have to do this."

Surely he can reconsider-

"On the contrary, it has to be done."

Dream places a single card on the pile, which happens to be his last one. A Wild Draw 4, to rub salt into the wound. Techno decides that ending on that card should be illegal.

"Remember the deal. No bell for the rest of the day."

"NOOOOOOO!"

Unfortunately, that had been the condition he had to agree to in order to get Dream to play. Because apparently he was "ringing it all the fucking time and it was driving me crazy". There's that, and the threat that Dream would jump in the lava again if he refused. So clearly he had a choice in the matter.

He knew that there was a chance he could lose... but he had deemed it low enough to ignore it. How could he not expect the resident chessmaster of the SMP to utterly trounce him in UNO? He was a fool, and now he has to think about how to make up for the lost clout and money.

At least, judging from the quiet snickers, someone finds his misery funny. He finds consolation in knowing that he may have lost the battle but he won the war. In a way.

~~~~~

"So I almost got mauled to death but that was how I met Steve."

Dream stares at him the way Phil does when he does something particularly outlandish and he fails to see why.

"Can I ask a question."

"Sure."

"Why would the first thing you do upon running into a starving polar bear be hugging it?"

Of course he would question it, because obviously Techno's superior intellect is confusing to the common mind. He just really likes animals, okay? Steve's fur looked so soft and fluffy he just had to touch it, he almost got his face torn off and Phil never let him live that down. But he'll sooner accept governments than let Dream know that. He doesn't want to embarrass himself too much.

"See Dream, I live by a simple philosophy."

"Long live anarchy?"

"No. Well yes, but not just that."

Dramatic silence.

"Any animal is huggable if you aren't a coward."

Dream chokes on his potato, the only one he had eaten today, and Techno worries for a second before he realises that Dream is actually laughing.

"Tech- what-" His body is shaking. "-what is wrong with you??"

"It all started when I was born-"

~~~~~

And it's enough to send Dream rolling on the ground. It wasn't even that funny, but he supposes that prison does a number on you, and Dream's sense of humor was already terrible to begin with.

...Okay, now he had to make sure that the teletubby didn't laugh himself to death.

At the end of the day- at least Techno assumes it's the end of the day, he doesn't know how trustworthy his internal clock is anymore- the two inmates of Pandora's Vault are about ready to fall asleep, but Techno has one last thing to do before that.

"Dream, come here for a minute."

Said man gives him such a wary look that he almost feels insulted.

"...Why?"

"I won't bite, ya know."

"That's... debatable."

Bruh.

"Just get over here."

And Dream complies without any further complaints. Techno hopes he didn't sound too harsh, but his cellmate wasn't shivering uncontrollably, so he thinks he's in the clear.

"What?"

Techno lays his cape down on the very uncomfortable obsidian floor. Seriously, laying down for an hour is enough to make his joints ache. 0/10 would not recommend. How did Dream- right, he doesn't have a choice.

"What are you doing?"

"Making this prison less of a living hell. Come lay down."

"...I'm fine."

Why are you being so difficult, Techno wants to ask, even though he can guess the answer. When was the last time anyone did something remotely nice for him without any catch? Especially in here?

"Stop being difficult and sleep with me already."

Silence.

"...Pft."

"You know what I meant."

In his defense, everyone has their moments, and his usually don't happen that often.

"Stop being so difficult and-"

"Just... get over here. My cape is really soft."

"Is that why you wear it all the time?"

"...Among other things."

But mostly because it was really soft.

Dream still seemed apprehensive about the whole thing, and while usually Techno would have respected his wishes and left him be... the sight of his rival curling up in a corner of the cell, obviously trying to not aggravate his injuries as he did, was saddening even to him. Prime, he's really not good at this... but Dream probably definitely needs it.

So he pulls his roommate into a side hug, which is honestly the best he can manage without ruining his image. It's awkward, Dream is way too stiff, and maybe now would be the time to say something before embarrassment kills either or both of them. Something reassuring, comforting to help Dream relax in his presence for example.

"This is gonna be the best sleepover you've ever had."

...But the day he stops relying on humor for any kind of social interaction is the day it'll either stop working or get him killed.

"...This is so stupid."

And today was not that day.

Dream lets out a laugh, shaky but genuine, and relaxes. Techno sees that as a win. Since he's stuck here for a while, might as well make his favorite teletubby's life in here more bearable.

And it's finally over! It only took me... *looks at calendar* ...time is an illusion. Idk if I'm really happy with this, but on the bright side, it's... done? Now I really wanna continue that endersmile fanfic as I got some ideas, hopefully it won't take as long? God I am a writing disaster

Also if you saw any mistakes... no you didn't :)

[callivich]

I love the idea of time travel and I just couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so here’s a little time travel story! Reworked this so it’s slightly different and longer! Planning on a part two soon.....

———

Ian had been standing in the kitchen of his and Mickey’s new apartment. He had been about to make some coffee and take it to his husband who was still sleeping. Everything had been normal and fine - he’d been idly thinking about what they were going to do that day. It was Saturday and Mickey had, the night before, demanded not to be woken early, but other than that, they had no plans. Maybe a dip in the pool? It was sunny, but not too warm, which was good because the slightly cool weather meant less people in the pool.

And, just as he was imagining swimming lazily in an empty pool with his husband, it seemed like he blinked and the whole world had shifted sharply. He felt dizzy and his vision swam, his body felt weak and he collapsed against a nearby wall, trying to catch his breath. It was like no feeling he’d ever experienced.

Blinking furiously, he noticed something alarming - he was not leaning against his kitchen wall, he was somewhere else. Somewhere he never thought he’d ever go again. Somewhere it was impossible to go again, but he recognised it immediately. The Milkovich house. He glanced around at his surroundings, struggling to understand how he could be standing outside Mickey’s old bedroom. What the fuck?? Was he dreaming? Or, worse, hallucinating? If he was dreaming or hallucinating, it was the most realistic thing he had ever experienced, there was nothing dreamlike about it. Everything looked exactly the same as he remembered - the signs on Mickey’s door, the dirt covered carpet, the dimly lit hallway - it even smelled the same - that stale mixture of smoke, beer and sweat.

It was too much - this situation he found himself in, it couldn’t be real, and yet, apparently it was. He felt a sharp burst of panic, his chest felt tight, and he reflexively clenched his hands, trying to calm himself. It was then he realised he was holding something. It was heavy and solid in his hand, and as he stared at it, it took him a few seconds to understand what he was seeing - it was a tire iron. And then everything began to click into place - he noted his worn, hand-me-down clothes and when he reached up to feel his hair with his free hand, his fingers found bangs. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity washed over him, he remembered these clothes, he remembered holding the tire iron and he remembered why he was holding the tire iron. Most importantly, he remembered this day. It was the day that everything changed between him and Mickey - the stolen gun, the fight, the sex - and he was in his teenage body. Shit.

Ian didn’t know what to do. This was impossible. There was simply no way it was possible. And yet, here he stood, years in the past. His mind began to race with possibilities - should he leave? and go where? back to the Gallagher house? or should he stay here and wait to see what happens? would anything happen? would he blink and be back in his kitchen? or was he stuck here in the past forever? He wanted to go home, to his apartment with Mickey, he wanted his husband. Mickey. A thought occurred to him - maybe Mickey, his Mickey, was here too? Not that would automatically fix everything, but at least Ian wouldn’t be alone. He stared at the door, he needed to know either way - either Mickey was also, somehow, here in the past, and they could figure this out together, or he was about to run into angry, teenage Mickey, who perhaps didn’t hate Ian as much as Ian had assumed at the time, but was definitely not his friend.

He paused outside the door, and as he took a deep breath, his hand tightened on the tire iron - unsure if he should just leave it on the floor. He definitely wasn’t going to hit Mickey with it, but if it was teenage Mickey in there, then Ian hoped the sight of the tire iron would stop Mickey from hitting him. Ian pushed open the door, and softly shut it behind him with a click. There was Mickey, laid out on the bed, face down, asleep, just as Ian remembered. It was bizarre seeing this again, at the time he had no idea how this day would change his life, but here it was - the moment that their lives began to become entwined.

This wasn’t the time to reminisce though. Ian gently, much more gently than he had done so originally, poked Mickey in the back with the end of the tire iron. Perhaps too gently, because Mickey didn’t move. This was promising - teenage Mickey was a light sleeper, but in the safety of their apartment, adult Mickey had began to sleep heavily, and Ian hoped that the fact Mickey didn’t move immediately meant that this was his husband.

“Mickey. Wake up.” Ian moved closer to the bed, and tapped him on the back with his free hand.

That did it, there was an annoyed groan, and Mickey turned his head, so Ian could now see his dirt-smudged face, but didn’t open his eyes, only muttering a tired, “No.” This was different to what had happened before, but Ian still wasn’t sure if this was his Mickey or teenage Mickey.

“Wake up.” Ian tried again, this time giving his shoulder a shake.

“Fucks sake, Ian, it’s the weekend....I wanna sleep in.” Mickey mumbled, sleepily. Still, he didn’t open his eyes, just reached out a hand, and when he didn’t feel anything but an empty space, he continued, “Come back to bed.”

It seemed like Mickey thought Ian should be in bed with him, and relief flooded through Ian. This was his Mickey! Now he just needed to actually wake the fuck up.

Feeling more confident, he sat down on the bed next to Mickey, dropped the tire iron on the floor, and ran a hand down his back. “Mick. Open your eyes. But don’t freak out.”

“What am I gonna freak -” And then he was speechless. His eyes were finally open and he looked at Ian in shock. “What the fuck?”

“I know.”

Mickey’s eyes darted around the room, back to Ian, down at himself, and then settled on Ian. He reached a hand out to touch Ian’s face softly, running his fingers over the freckles. “Fuck. What’s going on? How...”

“I don’t know?! I was in the kitchen, I was going to make coffee, and then suddenly I was here and shit, I thought I was dreaming, or hallucinating, but this is all so real. So it must be real?” The words tumbled out and Ian was so glad that he wasn’t going to have to deal with this alone.

“I don’t....the last thing I remember was going to bed with you.” Mickey sat up, and swung his legs around to sit close to Ian. “This is fucked up. It’s fucking impossible.” He ran a hand down his face, before turning to stare at Ian again in disbelief. And Ian couldn’t help but do the same back - he still couldn’t believe his eyes.

“What are we going to do?” Ian broke the silence, they couldn’t sit here staring at each other all day.

“Shit. I don’t fucking know.” Mickey frowned for a moment, as if considering something and then pinched Ian on the arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“In case it’s a dream.”

“You’re supposed to pinch yourself.” Ian grumbled, as he pinched Mickey on the arm. “There. Feel real?”

“Hardly felt that, but yeah.” He looked around his room. “So, I guess we’re in the past. That means -”

Mickey didn’t have time to finish his sentence because the door opened and a ghost entered. Or rather, not a ghost, someone who was very much alive. Terry. Mickey instantly tensed up, his hands balling into fists. Terry made his way into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Ian didn’t think, he just pulled Mickey close, hugging him tight.

“Fuck. Shit.” Mickey let out a shuddering breath. “Ian, we can’t.” He moved away reluctantly. Ian felt his heart clench but nodded, shifting away to the end of the bed. Of course they couldn’t hug, not here, not now. Fuck. Ian wanted to punch the wall. Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, “I can’t fucking be here, man.” He jumped up and threw on some more clothes and some shoes.

Terry stumbled back out of the bathroom, and Mickey froze, his eyes wide, still unbelieving of what he was seeing. He kept staring at the door after Terry left. It was surreal seeing Terry alive, walking around like normal. And if Ian thought it was surreal, he couldn’t imagine what Mickey was thinking. Or rather, he probably could guess. His mind drifted to thoughts of Monica - she was alive here, what would it be like to see her again? Would he felt strange? Horrified? Upset? And Frank....shit, Frank had only just died, but right now, he was alive.

He pushed the thoughts away, they needed to leave. This was all too confusing. Mickey had only just finally come to terms with Terry’s death and this....this fucked up situation was only going to cause him pain. And Ian was still going through some pretty strange and surprisingly upsetting emotions about Frank’s death, it was all still so raw. Neither of them needed to be confronted by their dead fathers (did anyone ever?), especially not so close to said fathers deaths. The room felt too small, too hot, Ian knew they needed to leave. It was impossible to think here.

“Let’s get out of here.” Ian tugged on Mickey’s hand, squeezing it gently, before dropping it.

“Where?” Mickey questioned, shrugging on a coat.

“One of the abandoned buildings? At least then we know we’ll be alone. And we can try and figure out what we’re going to do.”

Mickey gave a whispered “yeah” and flung open his bedroom door, hurrying towards the front of the house, causing Ian to jog behind him to catch up. He was about to reach him when Mandy appeared. Ian’s stomach did a pleasant flip when he saw her - he’d missed her so much and here she was, looking exactly the same as he remembered. He fought the urge to hug her tightly.

“Ian? Are you ok?” Her eyes searched his face curiously, like she could tell something was wrong. But that was stupid, Ian thought, even if she could, she would never guess it was that Ian and Mickey had somehow time travelled from the present back to the future.

“Uh...yeah. I just...” He couldn’t help it - he glanced at Mickey who had paused by the front door, looking over his shoulder at Ian. “I gotta go home.”

“Ok. But-”

“Everything’s fine, Mandy. I’ll see ya.” He could hear the tremble in his voice and he could tell from the slight frown on her face that she was concerned. She looked back and forth between Ian and Mickey, her eyes narrowing and noticing Mickey’s hand on the door. “Where are you going, shithead?”

“Out.” And with that, Mickey practically flung himself through the doorway and made his way onto the sidewalk. Ian waved a hand in Mandy’s direction, wishing he could explain to her but knowing he couldn’t, and headed out, shutting the door behind him. He felt guilty brushing her off, but Mickey was his priority.

“Mick.” He called out as he caught up. He bumped his shoulder against Mickey’s and they began to make their way to one of the more isolated abandoned buildings, both knowing which one they should go to. They walked in silence, both of them struggling to make sense of where, and when, they found themselves. So, it was no surprise that neither of them noticed the figure that followed them.

——

Ian watched Mickey as he climbed the old, battered stairs in front of him, he could see the heavy tension in his shoulders. It was familiar but not something he had seen in awhile. Mickey was relaxed and happy, most of the time, they were finally settling into the West Side and things were good - safe and stable - and their days were filled with kisses and laughter, they just were enjoying being together. But, now, they had been thrown backwards to a time when things were dangerous and unstable and complicated.

There was a splintered door, which Mickey kicked open with his foot. He sighed heavily and Ian grasped his hand, leading him towards one of the walls. They sunk down onto the floor, backs against the cold brick. Ian moved to cuddle Mickey close, but it was awkward. He was used to being able to hold Mickey easily, but here, now, as they were a similar height, it was different. He had never had the luxury of being able to hug or be close to Mickey like this back then, so he wasn’t used to trying to hold him like this. Eventually, with some fumbling, they managed to find a good angle. Mickey slumped down a bit, and Ian put his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, they were pressed close, and Mickey threw one leg over Ian’s, and rested his head close to Ian’s neck.

“This isn’t fucking fair.” Mickey whispered. “What the fuck is this shit and why is it happening to us?”

“I’m scared.” Ian replied, using his free hand to grab one of Mickey’s. “What if we’re stuck here?”

“Your meds.” Mickey squeezed Ian’s hand. “What are we going to do about your meds?”

“I don’t....” Ian faltered. He hadn’t even considered that. What was he going to do? He hadn’t been diagnosed back then, now, so what did that mean in terms of his illness? The fear that had been bubbling under the surface suddenly began to overflow. What the fuck was he going to do? “I don’t know. Shit. Mick. I don’t-”

“We’ll figure it out.” Mickey put his free hand on top of his and Ian’s clasped ones. Ian wanted to believe Mickey but he didn’t feel convinced, and as confident as Mickey sounded, Ian could hear the worry.

“Ok. Yeah. We’ll figure it out. But, what are we going to do, like right now? We can’t stay here tonight.”

“I can’t go back there. I can’t see-”

“I know. I know. We’ll stay at my house.” Ian cut him off before he could say his father’s name. It felt strange saying that - my house - because it wasn’t, not anymore. His house, his home, was the apartment he shared with Mickey.

“And how the fuck do we explain that? And what about Frank? You gonna be able to deal with seeing him again?”

“Don’t care.” He heard Mickey snort. “I don’t care Mick, you’re my fucking husband, and I love you and we need to-”

“Holy fucking shit! What the hell is this?” A shocked voice cut through the air, startling both of them.

Ian and Mickey jerked their heads up at the same time to see Mandy standing in the doorway, a look of complete and utter disbelief on her face. They had been so wrapped up in their problem, that they hadn’t noticed her following them or heard her making her way up the steps of the building. They slowly disentangled from each other in a way that Ian noted would not have happened in their teenage years. Mickey would have shoved Ian off back then, but now, he was so used to not hiding or feeling afraid that he didn’t. As much as Ian would like to focus on the growth Mickey was showing, he knew he couldn’t. Because right now, the stakes were too high.

Ian’s heart pounded, he knew they needed to say something. He could trust Mandy. He had done so before. But fuck, there was so much more he knew in hindsight. So many more terrible, violent things that he knew he could not let any of them go through again.

Which is why he blurted out the first thing he thought of, “It’s cold. We were cold, so we were just warming up.”

Ian didn’t need to look at Mickey to know he was probably rolling his eyes.

“Cold?” Mandy folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Thank fuck I’m not a cop Ian because you would not last-”

“What the fuck are you doing here? You follow us?” Mickey interrupted. “Go away.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Mandy pushed off the wall and walked to towards them. “Ian, what’s going on? I thought you and Kash-”

“Fuck him.”

“Shut up, Mickey. I’m talking to Ian.”

“Mandy, please. This isn’t what it.....can you just forget you came here? Please? And please don’t say anything. To anyone.” Ian pleaded. He needed her to go. He loved her, and he loved seeing her again, but fuck, this was not the time. He couldn’t think with her here. All he kept thinking of was when Terry found him and Mickey - that horrible morning that always made his stomach churn when he thought about it. He didn’t think Mandy would tell. But in that moment it felt like it was too much - someone else knowing - he just couldn’t handle it right now. He just wanted to be with Mickey. “I’m begging you, Mandy. Please.”

Mandy bit her lip, in the same way Ian had seen Mickey do a thousand times. She looked back and forth between them, uneasy and suspicious, Ian realised he had tears in his eyes and he could see the exact moment Mandy noticed. “Fine. But you owe me an explanation Ian. And so do you Mickey.”

“Yes.” Ian breathed in relief. And he watched her turn on her heel and leave. They stood in silence until they were sure she was gone.

“So, what now?” Mickey pulled Ian close, his arms winding around his waist.

“Maybe if we fall asleep, we’ll wake up back home?” Ian hoped more than anything that would be true.

“Thought you were awake when you came here. Back? Now? Whatever.”

“I was but....who the fuck knows right? It’s worth a try.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But we can’t sleep here.”

[tg-headcanons]

CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE BESTIE!! Honestly you are a credit to this fandom. For the alphabet may I please have 💕Urie💕 pretty please and thank you! Could it be female reader please? Or if you prefer GN. TYSM!

In the words of the greatest poet of our time: ✨come on fuck me emo boy✨

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex): he’s not very big into aftercare, and he’d need to be told to do it since he doesn’t get that his partner might be uncomfortable moving on right after it’s over. Even if he bottomed and obviously got a little hurt, he’s going to try to get clean and dressed. Though since the quinx surgery, he gets a little depressed after leaving right after sex. He obviously doesn’t know that ghouls really need cuddles after that to avoid a drop, so he probably won’t figure out that he needs aftercare until his partner makes him

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): he likes his biceps, he’s worked on them quite a lot and will check them out in the mirror if no one is looking. On his partner, it’s abs. He just likes the way a good set of abs looks, that’s understandable

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically): he’s a bit of a clean freak and doesn’t like dealing with cum. He wears condoms and if his partner is a Penis Owner he won’t do anything until they do as well

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs): When he was a horny 16 year old with even worse judgement then he has now, he looked up porn on the computer provided to him by the academy, panicked when he realized the server would remember this, and scrambled to delete any evidence. Just to be safe, he downloaded some software that said it would clear this search history from any attached engine, and he ended up giving the whole school a virus. To this day he’s never told anyone that he was the reason for that massive crash because he doesn’t want to explain why

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): You wouldn’t expect it, but he’s a virgin. He never cared to seek a relationship since he had better things to do, and he doesn’t like the idea of a random hook up because the thought of catching an std or just dealing with a body that isn’t perfectly clean grosses him out

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying): if he’s topping, butterfly. If he’s bottoming, cowboy. He always wants to be in control, and it takes a great deal of coaxing for his partner to ever be physically on top of him

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.): he’s very serious. Never joking as he’s too deep in focusing on his sensations and performance

H = Heat (what are heats like for them? How do they handle it?): since he’s a quinx and not a half ghoul, his heats are extremely mild in comparison, so it’s just fever, muscle fatigue, slight brain fog, and of course the horny. He tries to go about his routine like normal but is ordered to rest because Bro You Have A Fever and in addition to the symptoms, he’s pissed at being stuck in the house and is very repressed. He’s angry at his superiors, he’s uneasy from the interrupted routine, he’s worried since he doesn’t know what this is and he’s frustrated because his dick isn’t going down. He ends up taking a lot of cold showers, and takes care of it

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): he’s not very intimate on the outside. He goes about sex like it’s a competition, trying to show that he’s good at it, that he can make his partner feel good easily, and he can get his pleasure from his work. Though with all the harsh motions, he can find himself with odd emotions cropping up. He always thought of himself as being above getting attached, but when he fucks he does feel affectionate, just struggles to show it

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon): he tends to get hard after workouts. Something about blood flow from what he’s read online, and it doesn’t look like there’s antidote or anything so he just has to deal with it. He does it in the shower after his workouts, leaning against the wall

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks): hair pulling. Not much to elaborate on, whether he’s doing it to his partner or they’re doing it to him, it adds some spice

L = Location (favorite places to do the do): Shower. He doesn’t like feeling dirty, and sex can be sticky and sweaty, so doing it in the water let’s him alleviate the worry of filth and focus on his partner

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): sparring. Something about fighting someone with his bare hands is exhilarating. It’s primal and raw, and seeing an opponent really using that muscle and speed makes him appreciate their body even more. Makes him want to pin them down and continue fighting for dominance in place of foreplay

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): Degradation. He can take aggressive teasing, curses and insults, but if they say anything that suggests he’s inadequate, disappointing, or a failure in some way, it gets to be too much for him. Normally he’d hate to hear it but be able to get past it, but he can’t take that while so exposed and vulnerable

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): he prefers to receive. He gets a little grossed out by having someone’s genitals in his mouth even if they’re using protection unless they’ve just bathed

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): he’s fast. He seems to think he has something to prove, and prioritizes looking like he knows what he’s doing over… actually knowing what he’s doing. He’ll start off immediately rough, and won’t slow down unless he’s firmly told to. If he’s riding he’ll rush into it and keep going even if he clearly isn’t prepped enough, he’s too eager to feel good that he tries not to show that he’s in pain and his partner would probably have to make him stop before he hurts himself badly. The guy’s a bit overexcited when he gets down to it

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): they’re not his thing. There isn’t enough time to be sure he and his partner are clean or shower when it’s done, he might not have condoms on him, there’s a lot of planning that goes into sex that he can’t account for in a short time. Unless he and his partner have thoroughly talked out what would need to be in place for him to be comfortable with it, he won’t do them

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): he’s down to try new kinks so long as he sets firm boundaries for them, but doing anything at work is a firm No

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): one or two rounds, but he can go hard for a long time. He can keep a brutal pace for way longer than most can

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): he has none, but wouldn’t shy away from getting some of his partner wanted to incorporate them into their sex lives. He would be nervous if they wanted to use one on him that’s bigger than what he’s used to taking, but wouldn’t let them see his unease and let them go ahead with it. The only thing he won’t let a partner use on him is vibrators, he doesn’t like the way quick vibrations feel on his hands when operating machinery, let alone anywhere near his dick

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease): he doesn’t like teasing. He wants to get right into the act

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): he’s very quiet, heavy breaths, shuddering exhales, and a low moan when he comes is all you’ll get from him

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character): he had no idea how sensitive the soft underside of a koukaku is until Ginshi grabbed him by it to pull him out of the way of an attack. Before he knew what he was doing he let out a quavering gasp, then pretended that he doesn’t know what Ginshi was talking about when he asked what the hell that was. When he got home that night, he tried touching it again, and since then he often strokes it when jerking off. He got past the weirdness of it after awhile and it became routine

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): 5.5-6 inches, and very girthy

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): not that high. He’s content to fuck once or twice a week, but can go for more if his partner wants

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): he’s not tired when it’s over, it wakes him up more than anything

[jaskiersvalley]

So I just discovered your maned wolf Jaskier and I thought I might add something I know about them. As the original person mentioned they are not foxes or wolves but more like a wild dog but not. They are their own thing. Also their pee smells like marijuana. I've seen some at the the national zoo in D.C. they do better in pairs or with company then on their own. The last one they had before the pair of brothers they had when I went didn't do good on their own. Their legs are sk long because they are made to see over tall grass. I love manned wolves they are so unique.

This is such a delightful bunch of facts about maned wolves! Thank you for sharing your knowledge, I adored finding out more about these fascinating creatures. As thanks, here’s a slightly different take on maned wolf!Jaskier for you.

True Colours

It was rare for graduates of Aretuza to get together. Mostly because their motives and goals were rather at odds with each other usually so it wasn't a good idea to get together. Things could get rather unpleasant. But, once in a while, they could set their ambitions aside and enjoy each other's company.

"I'm telling you, she was scum," Yennefer giggled, leaning into Fringilla's shoulder. "You can do miles better."

"I just wish I'd known what she was like before I wasted all that time on her." Nursing a freshly broken heart, Fringilla was eager for any kindness her peers would show her. "Humans are scum."

All too eager to agree, Yennefer nodded along. Humans were rather unfortunate creatures, she couldn't really help with that, ridding the Continent of them was quite unethical. But the thing about true colours, she could most definitely help with that.

"I've got the perfect spell! We can reveal the whole Continent's true colours." Laughter went up around them at the declaration and Yennefer sniffed as she straightened up. "You can all help. Or watch and learn."

It was quite amazing, how much power five drunken sorceresses could harness. The spell took a considerable amount of rather raw, unrefined Chaos and they all sprawled on the ground in a sweaty pile by the time it was done. Alas, in their drunken stupor, they noted that the spell had done nothing other than make the sky flash and rumble in an ever spreading wave until it moved out of sight.

The next morning they were all suitably hungover and more than ready to return to their usual duties. There was only so much time they could spend with each other before the truce ended and they were at each other's throats again.

Somewhere else on the Continent it was another beautiful day for Jaskier to follow Geralt around. He said follow because he'd once again managed to piss his boyfriend off and sent him stomping off ahead.

"Look, all I said was that you'd look better if you just glowered a little less," Jaskier grumbled. The lute case bounced against his back like it always did when he did a little jog to keep up with Geralt. "You do give the wrong impression sometimes. I swear you do this deliberately, hide the fact you're an absolutely cuddly sweetheart under all those onion-y layers of doom, gloom and...I have nothing that rhymes. Broom? Shroom? Groom? Fume! Because you're fuming!"

Funnily enough, it did nothing to ease Geralt's sulk but Jaskier was undeterred. This was nothing more than a blip in the journey of their love. A bit of bad weather, not even a storm.

They wandered in a manner Jaskier would call aimless while Geralt described as optimal in the hunt for a contract. At least it got them to a town in decent time, the soft summer light enough to get to an inn for food and a performance. Jaskier was ecstatic.

His set was going great, everyone was merry, having a blast as he belted out shanty after drinking song. Ale flowed, as did the coin. The sun was setting and he set his lute aside for a quick break. One moment he was staring out over the tavern and the next the world lurched. He was shorter, on all fours and everything looked and smelled different. Especially the patrons. A variety of animals stared back at him before pandemonium exploded. Most creatures reared back, staring in terror into the corner Geralt had been in, which was quite glaringly empty.

"What has that bastard done to us?" The cry went up and the dogs and foxes in the tavern rallied, ready to hunt Geralt down.

"I did nothing." A familiar voice rang through the room and everyone backed away as a harvest mouse climbed onto the table. Cute and defenceless, Geralt stared out at the tavern from the top of the table, nose twitching.

From his vantage point on the stage, with his long legs, Jaskier could see how the villagers weren't convinced. In fact, they saw an easy target and looked ready to exact revenge on an innocent party. Snarling, he raced to the other side of the room and hopped onto the table, towering over Geralt.

"He's innocent." Sharp teeth were bared fiercely at the crowd. When it didn't look like they would back down, Jaskier did the only thing he could. He picked Geralt up in his mouth and pretended to swallow while the tiny harvest mouse clambered out the side of his mouth and got lost in Jaskier's thick mane.

The villagers didn't look all that appeased but Jaskier didn't allow them to get out of control.

"Tasted like disappointment. Now. Shall we howl at the moon?" For some reason it seemed to do the trick and the shock of being turned into animals turned into a celebration.

In the morning, everyone was back to their regular human form, including Geralt. They had to make a hasty run from the village before the angry mob punished them for their existence.

"Whew! That was exciting. But also, what the fuck happened?"

There were no answers. Each night, as the sun set, they changed into animal form. Jaskier a maned wolf, Geralt a harvest mouse.

"I can't work like this," Geralt growled. "We're getting to the bottom of this."

Only, there seemed to be no help. Everywhere they went, the whole Continent seemed to turn into animals from dusk until dawn. Most villagers were wolves, bears, cats and other animals that could be tamed but the wild, aggressive undertones of predators were still there. A few were goats, cows and sheep, a few bulls. By contrast, courts were full of snakes and birds. Rarer, less straightforward to deal with. In Geralt's opinion, less pleasant to deal with. And no court's sorceress would give him a straight answer. They had to know something, Geralt knew when he was being lied to. But he didn't know what they were hiding.

With no other option, he headed home. Each night he climbed into Jaskier's mane, allowed his boyfriend to keep him safe from owls - some natural, others transformed humans who enjoyed the hunt. At the base of Kaer Morhen, he ran into something most unusual. A hyena gave Jaskier a flat stare from where it was curled in the overgrowth. By its stomach was a capybara and a hare, both looking a bit patchy and weathered. Even more interestingly, there was a cockatoo on the top of its head, eyes closed.

"Friends," Jaskier called, "we come in peace."

Never before had Jaskier felt more threatened than when a capybara and hare looked ready to tear his throat out.

"Eskel. Lambert," Geralt called and climbed to sit on the end of Jaskier's snout. "You made friends."

The hyena got to its feet, looming over the transformed Witchers protectively. "You know these two?"

"Geralt you fuck," the hare growled. "Is this your doing?"

"Would I be here if it was?" Jaskier didn't have to see the harvest mouse's face to know Geralt was rolling his eyes. Still, he tried.

It made the cockatoo screech out a laugh. "Crossed eyes do not become you, weird wolf thing."

Puffing up, Jaskier wanted to object but Geralt cut in. "Leave Jaskier out of this. Who are you travelling with?"

"I'm Aiden," the cockatoo replied, spreading his wings wide and bobbing down in a bird equivalent of a bow. "Cat Witcher by name, cockatoo by nature."

That, Geralt could have guessed, he was much more interested in the hyena who seemed keen to be forgotten. He stared at him until it got awkward.

"Cahir." The name said nothing but there was a broad, southern accent to it. Intrigued, Geralt wished he could take a better look at the man. He would be able to do so in the daylight.

Introductions out of the way, Geralt climbed down, only to scuttle across the gap and climb onto Eskel's back. The capybara grunted sleepily and settled back on the ground.

"Sleep. We've got quite the climb ahead of us tomorrow." At least it was warm, meaning the trek should only take a day without snow impeding them. They'd be home by evening.

They staggered through on four legs the following night. Mostly because Jaskier had insisted on stopping and admiring every angle of every view, sighing wistfully. Finally, they arrived at the door which had been left open a crack, only needing to be nudged open on silent, freshly oiled hinges.

"I was wondering when you'd get home," a voice greeted them. Vesemir did not look impressed as he looked over them. A gopher stared at them with a rather done expression. "Aretuza had a lot to answer for."

[rentsturner]

Bruised Knuckles | Mark Renton

Warnings - Reader has punched a wall, mentions/descriptions of injury, mentions of (non-specified) scars, alcohol and drugs, content that some people may find as very similar to self-harm, reader is paranoid and insecure. If any of this triggers you pls don’t continue to read. I’ve tried to note all the possible triggers.

wc - 1.7k

a/n - I’ve had a pretty shitty few days tbh and I still feel the lowest that I’ve felt in months. So I’ve channeled all of that into this fic. It’s quite angst heavy but there’s fluff at the end (what can I say, hurt and comfort is my shit). You may find the reader’s emotions a bit dramatic but I’ve basically self projected on to this and I’m not rlly arsed. Read the warnings and if you don’t like it, don’t read it. I don’t want any shit over this

It’s a cold day in Edinburgh, the skies grey and cloudy over the city.It’s been a long day without Mark. He’s been out since the early hours with Sickboy, no doubt dragged into another of Si’s infamous schemes, leaving you to spend the day alone in your tiny apartment. As much as you don’t want to admit it, the isolation has gotten to you - you slipped, more than once. Yeah, you regret it, but also there’s that nagging need for more at the back of your mind. You try to push it out, to forget about it, but the cold in the air doesn’t help to ease the ache in your knuckles.

The door to the apartment shuts with a click and a jangle of keys, footsteps heading towards the door. He’s back. A wave of relief, before you remember and your chest clenches in panic.

‘Alright, love?’ Mark flops onto the bed with a lazy grin, stretching his arms up over his head.

‘Yeah, fine, you?’ Keep it simple. You busy yourself with a stack of books by the bed, straightening the pile of novels so it’s not about to topple over. Keep the hand busy.

‘Yeah, alright. Si led us on a fucking wild goose chase but we got there in the end, y’know?’

You didn’t know, but you nodded along anyway and let him recount the story. You’re admiring the way his lashes flutter against his pale skin and how his arms flex as his hands come to rest behind his head, when you realise that Mark’s stopped talking. And you’ve stopped moving.

‘Your knuckle...” his eyes dart down to the hand you’ve been trying to hide ever since he walked through the door. Busted.

‘Oh.’ You move to get up, anything to get his eyes away from your swollen knuckles, red lines criss crossing over the flowering purple bruises where your hand collided with a solid wall. Multiple times. The open cuts are still weeping, even though it had happened hours ago.

‘It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ You offer a small smile, but it doesn’t fool Mark.

‘No.’ He moves as you do, standing in front of the bedroom door to block your escape. His arms are crossed over his chest, stance serious , but the worry in his blue eyes betrays him. ‘Love. Let me see it.’

He holds out his hand, pale fingers reaching out to you, his skin just as scarred as yours - different actions, same result. He knows how to help. The hand reaching,an offer of support, reassurance, love, all those things that you crave but can never admit. Emotions aren’t your forté - never have been.But Mark knows that. There’s no secrets between you. You almost laugh out loud at the thought. No secrets, but you won’t even show Mark your hand.

Mark would do anything for you, you know that - he tells you all the time. Days spent in bed chatting shit to each other.

‘I’d run to John O'Groats and back for you, y’know?’

‘Would you now, Mark? What about down to Land’s End?’

‘In a heartbeat.’

Bright eyes, wide smile. Your Mark. He’s joking, of course, but his tone is so serious, his answer without a second of hesitation. Your heart skips a beat.

So now, you give him your hand (and your heart).

He takes it tentatively, one cold hand underneath, the other poking at your raw knuckles gently. When one of his prods reaches a tender spot, you wince and he moves his finger away, meeting your gaze in apology.

‘You punch something?’ His brow creases, a hand running instinctively over his closely cropped hair, before scratching at the back of his neck. He refuses to grow it out, no matter how much you try to persuade him, still getting his razor out every other month like clockwork.

‘It’s easier this way.’ He insists. Less hassle in the morning is what he means.

The sting in your hand brings you back to the present.

‘No.’ You look away from Mark’s gaze, knowing that in doing so you’ll give yourself away, but not having the energy or willpower to stop yourself. Much like the ‘incident’ earlier in the day.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ Mark huffs, not in anger, but in frustration - frustration that he wasn’t there to help, to calm you down. ‘Let me clean it up, give me a sec.’

His hand rubs at his eyes, scrunched shut for a moment. There’s dark bags marring his pale skin there - he’s tired too. He goes to move to the bathroom, but you grab his arm with your good hand, gripping it as tight as you can. Don’t leave.

‘No, Mark, it’s alright, I’ll sort it.’

But he shakes his head. He doesn’t look happy. Not that you’d expect him to, but...he’s frustrated with you, you can tell.

‘You can’t clean yourself up with one hand. Just wait here, alright?’

The inkling is worming its way in now, from your subconscious to your conscious, until its at the forefront of your mind. He’s angry, he’s disgusted, he’s going to leave. He’s not going to the bathroom, he’s going to the front door so he can get out of here. You’re sure of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ The whisper escapes you and you have to bite the inside of your cheek so no tears will spill. The words are almost silent, your hand dropping Mark’s in defeat.

But Mark turns his head at your weak apology, stopping in his tracks.

‘What? Why -‘

With a jolt, he notices the way you’ve changed - unable to look at him, arms beginning to wrap around yourself, one fist clenched. He knows what’s happening.

‘No, no, love, I’m not angry.’

He’s back at your side in a heartbeat, bringing his hand up to your chest, thumb carefully wiping away the rogue tear that’s tracking a salty path over your cheekbone.

‘I love you. I just want the best for you, alright? I don’t like seeing you hurt, just like I’d fucking hope you wouldn’t like seeing me hurt.’

His face breaks into a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you realise he’s right - of course he is. You don’t want to see him hurt, he’s been through enough, but that’s what you’re doing. He’s hurting just from seeing your hand, it’s obvious from the crease in his brow, the blue of his eyes dulled and flat. Mark’s got too much to deal with already, you’re just one extra problem to add to the mix. You don’t want to be his problem.

And suddenly it’s all coming up to the surface, ready to combust, explode, these emotions that you never really have a grip on. You bottle them up and push them down, so far down that the only way they can escape is through a rush of anger, jagged and uncontrollable.

But instead of that, you bury your face into Mark’s neck and let it out as slowly as you can.

‘I’m sorry, I was angry, I just wanted to feel something. Some pain. I don’t want to make you feel like this. I’m sorry.’

You’re clutching onto the worn fabric of Mark’s shirt like your life depends on it. You can’t possibly let go of him, the only one you have left.

Mark is steady, your rock in a storm of emotions. He listens, stroking your hair, pale fingers threading through the strands to knead at your scalp, knowing it tends to calm you down.

‘You’re alright, I promise. I promise you, love. I know you get angry. I know you. And I know what it’s like to want to feel something, trust me. We can get through it together, or we can be a mess together. I don’t care, as long as we’re together, honest. I’m not going anywhere.’

And the sincerity in his eyes, those familiar bright blue eyes, it convinces you. He means it.

You stay like this for a few minutes, your good hand clinging onto Mark’s ratty jumper, the other grasped tightly (but not too tightly) in Mark’ grip. His right arm is around your waist, pulling you closer, as if in doing so he can pour all of his reassurance, all of his love, directly to your heart. He knows it’s not possible. But he tries anyway. Because he’ll do anything for you. Your Mark.

Mark helps you clean your hand later, shushing you everything you wince (though that isn’t often). His hands are steady and practiced as he dabs at the cuts with alcohol, wrapping the gauze over your knuckles and securing it with some tape, humming to himself as he works, the steady tune in time with his deft movement. He doesn’t look up until the job is done - and a good job it is too. He knows what he’s doing, probably after years of wrapping Sickboy’s hands up in the same way - late nights out in the rough streets of Leith, fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines (and worse)

Mark kisses the bandages gently when he’s done - a silent ‘I love you. I care for you and I love you.’

And you smile, a smile that fills your whole body with warmth, a smile that drowns out the demons, if only for a little while. Because how can you not, when you have Mark. He tries his best and so do you - neither of you can ask anymore. You’ll be a mess together.

‘Let’s order Chinese and watch Dr No, eh?’

Or you’ll get through this together

*~*~*~*

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