#and i hate standing around doing nothing while im at work it makes me restless

[saturnsuv]

[x-lovely]

[Restless Corpse].

Summary: Corpse continues to play Among Us even though you try to convince him to get some rest. (shitty summary, i’m sorry) 

Pairing: Corpse x (Female) Reader

Genre: ALL FLUFF

Warnings: None? But… sweet fluff? 

Word Count: 902 words (I tried to make it 1,000 but fuck it I was so tired) 

A/N: After working for 10 hours today, I decided to write this story at midnight while drinking a red bull and listening to a lowfi remix of e-girls by LLusion on a 1 hour loop. Pls enjoy. 

Link to part 2: https://x-lovely.tumblr.com/post/638546269242097664/restless-corpse-part-2

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Another day, another livestream of Among Us. 

As Corpse walked into medbay, he overheard Dream talking about cinnamon raisin bread and wished for some himself. He was tired after staying up all night as per usual but still wanted to play the game with his new friends. Sighing once again, Corpse fixed the eyepatch over his eye and continued to focus on the game. 

You frowned upon hearing this because you have been with Corpse this entire weekend but he had not gotten much sleep at all. As you got up from the bed, Corpse muted himself and turned around to face you. 

“You okay? How are you feeling?” He asked, smiling softly. 

You pouted. “I should be asking you that. I’m worried about you, Corpse. You must be so tired.” 

Corpse let out a sigh and there was silence. After a moment, he motioned for you to come over to him. As you moved closer, he opened his arms and happily embraced you, wrapping himself around your waist and resting his head on your cute pudgy tummy. Even though you were standing beside him, Corpse was still tall enough to reach your stomach while sitting down. You welcomed his hug and chuckled as your fingers ruffled through his soft curls. He sighed blissfully as you continued to do this. It was as if time had stopped and nothing else mattered. Before pulling away from his sweet embrace, you planted a soft kiss on the top of his head and lifted his chin up so that he could face you. 

“Why did you stop? I was enjoying it.” He said, frowning once again as your fingers moved away from his hair. 

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to. It just felt like you were going to fall asleep on me if I continued to do that.” You said, chuckling as his eyebrows furrowed at what you had just said. 

“Hey! Fix your eyebrows. Your chat already thinks you don’t have any,” You exclaimed as you were tapping his eyebrows with your fingers. 

Corpse laughed loudly and brushed your hand away from his face as he continued to wrap his hands around you. 

“What you said earlier…” He said softly. You could barely hear him because his face was practically glued to your stomach at this point once again but you managed to hear his thoughts.

“I’m okay. I just don’t want to disappoint my new friends and my fans, you know? I feel off whenever I don’t post anything or do a stream so this is just me making up for it. This way, everyone would be happy,” Corpse said. 

This time, you did not hesitate to pull away from him. “Corpse…” You said. “Your friends and fans support you. They’re not going to leave you just because you don’t post. I know I’m in no position to tell you what to do, but I do know that you’ve been tiring yourself out over these past couple of months. I know there’s a social reputation to uphold, but you definitely deserve a break, even if it is for a couple hours. We all respect you. I respect you. No one is going anywhere. I just want you to know that.” You explained, wishing that he would understand. 

Corpse was quiet for a moment before letting out another sigh. “I wish I could believe that. I really do. I appreciate everyone for being there for me, and you, for being my number one supporter but I just want to give them the best of me.” He said as he turned back around to face his computer. He had forgotten that he was still playing with the gang. 

You approached him once more and cradled his head to your chest. “Tell you what, Corpsey,” You said, petting his hair softly. “I’m going to go run some errands while you finish the game.” 

��Okay… Where are you going though? He asked. You guys usually run errands together on the weekend, despite the fact that Corpse hates going outside. However, he feels safe when he’s outside with you. 

You smiled at him. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Okay.” Corpse said. 

You cradled him for a moment, basking in the warm embrace of his scent. You trailed your lips down to the side of his cheek, planting a soft kiss on his right cheek and another on his tiny ear. 

It was an infinite moment that felt like eternity until the discord server started blowing up with notifications. 

“They’re calling for me,” Corpse stated as he prepared to resume the game. 

“Okay,” You said. “I’m going to get dressed and I’ll be back in a few.” 

“Alright. Be safe. Text me if you need anything and please don’t forget to wear your mask.” Corpse was always worried whenever you went outside without him. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget.” You said, smiling at him. 

“Okay, baby. I can’t wait until you’re home again with me.” Corpse said, wishing that he was cuddling with you instead of playing the game. 

As you walked into the bedroom to get dressed, Corpse unmuted himself on the game server and apologized for being away for so long. 

He wondered where you were going, but he knew that he could always trust you. 

Little did Corpse know that you were going to surprise him with what he loves the most: food. 

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A/N: DO YOU LIKE ITTTTTTT?? DO YOU WANT A PART TWOOOOOO. I’M SORRY ITS SO SHORT ): I deadass left you hanging, I’m sorry LOL. It’s currently 1:30 AM. I have so many ideas but I get so lazy to write but this time, I was like I HAVE TO WRITE FOR CORPSE. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK. Should I make a separate tumblr for Corpse content? Because bet. I apologize for any grammatical errors. Also, I think I used “you” / “said” / “sighed” a lot. I personally do not like using “Y/N” because idk… it makes me feel disconnected from the story and it doesn't feel real. THAT IS JUST ME THOUGH, MY PERSONAL PREFERENCE. Anyhoo, I really hope that you liked it because I enjoyed writing this. Xx I’M ALSO REALLY NERVOUS THAT THIS ENTIRE THING SUCKS AND EVERYONE HATES IT omg ok bye im leavin

[frogtanii]

hi! noah anon here again, um ahaha, i may have been inspired to write a part 2 to my previous atsumu hurt/comfort drabble, i hope that's okay! ive been living for protective!y/n ever since they fought meiko for suga, so i wanted to sort of portray that!

-

from the way atsumu's breathing had evened out, you assumed he'd finally fallen asleep. exhaustion from the rough night he had taking over as he laid in your bed, wrapped up in your comforting embrace. atsumu's forehead rested in the crook of your neck and his nose pressed up against your collarbone, soft breaths tickling the sensitive skin. his arm laid across your stomach, keeping you close. for the first time since he walked into your room that night, he looked peaceful.

you on the other hand, were pissed; still stewing with rage over the events of the night. the main target of your aggression being none other than miya osamu himself. how could someone be so cold to their own twin?

the more you thought about it, the more restless you got, a pit of frustration growing and twisting uncomfortably in your gut. laying still was starting to prove a difficult task. with all of this frustrated energy you just needed to move — do something, before you went insane. so as carefully as you could, you slipped out from under atsumu, gently pushing a pillow under him for support.

shutting your door as quietly as possible you padded your way into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and an aspirin for atsumu. he'd probably need it for when he woke up, and it was the perfect excuse to get up and move around. however, as you neared the kitchen, you noticed a figure searching through the snack cabinets, grey hairs poking out into your field of vision. of course now of all times you'd run into the object of your current frustration. did you universe hate you or something?

just ignore him, you thought to yourself, no sense in getting into a conflict tonight.

as quietly as possible, you pulled a glass cup from the cabinet and filled it up with water. you had asprin in your room, so there was no need to grab any from the common area. your next objective was to exit the kitchen as quick as possible before your urge to punch osamu in the face increased any more. at this moment, his mere presence was enough to up your anger levels.

however, the second you spun on your heels to leave, osamu was also making his way out of the kitchen, causing the two of you to almost collide. luckily osamu reacted quickly, stepping back and preventing anything from being spilt.

"fucking watch it!" he spit out, expression twisting into one of contempt.

you scoffed at his outburst, ready to hit him with a few choice words, but by the time your lips parted he was already storming out of the kitchen and into the living room. a high pitched voice could be heard when he entered, sending another wave of fury coursing through your veins. "thank you 'samu, you're the best!"

"of course baby," osamu responded, "now let's start our movie."

the noise of some cheesy romance movie soon filled the living room and all surrounding areas, way too loud for this late of an hour in your opinion. it only added to your irritation, and without even thinking you were marching yourself to the living room with conviction, glass of water left behind on the kitchen island.

usually you never sought out trouble, and you weren't too fond of confrontation when it could be avoided. in the beginning of your time in the hyper house, maybe, but as time passed you soon learned nothing you said would change anything. so to save some sanity you resorted to short quips and just plain ignoring your housemates, once your contract was up none of it mattered anymore anyway. but after holding atsumu for an hour while he sobbed, and osamu's entitled attitude, something in you snapped. fuck being the bigger person.

so with your shoulders back and head held high you stormed into the living room, snatching the remote from coffee table to pause the movie playing.

that certainly grabbed their attention.

"the fuck is yer problem?" osamu vetted, standing to square up to you, fists clenched at his side and jaw tense. meiko followed suit, but took her position slightly behind osamu, nimble fingers gripping his bicep.

"my problem? hmm let's see, maybe my problem is the fact that i just held your brother as he cried himself to sleep while you were out here cuddled up on the couch!"

meiko snickered from behind him, and you had to stop yourself from lunging at her. how dare she laugh at his pain?

"'tsumu's fine, he'll get over it. now leave so we can watch our movie." your eyes went wide at osamu's response. did he really not care?

"he's your brother, and you hurt him." the annoyed expression on osamu's face fell slightly at your statement, but he quickly recovered, expression morphing into one that could kill.  "don't act so innocent, you were probably in there twisting his mind with your little lies. you know everything that's happened between us has been your fault? you're the one that turned him against me!" his voice was gradually increasing him volume and malice, you obviously getting under his skin.

"oh please, you're still telling yourself that?" you inched closer to the pair, chin lifting up to meet osamu's steely glare, your attempt at intimidation working only on the small woman behind him.

"'samu, shes scaring me, please make her leave," meiko whimpered. Osamu placed a protective arm around her, pulling her into his side, "don't worry baby, i won't let her near you." you rolled your eyes at meiko, her feigned fear sending your patience over the edge.

"oh shut up, meiko," you snapped, causing her to coward further into osamu.  "hey, don't talk to her like that!" he shot back at you, eyes darkening as he towered over your form, but you refused to back down.

"i'm texting iwaizumi, he can make her leave." meiko began typing furiously on her phone.

you chose to ignore her, prioritizing getting in your final words before iwaizumi could come to their resuce. "you've got your head completely up your ass if you think anyone but yourself is to blame for your broken relationship with 'tsumu!"

"you have no right to—"

"what the hell is going on here?" iwaizumi stormed into the room, large arms crossed over his chest as he placed himself between you and your victims.

"iwa, thank god! me and 'samu were trying to watch a movie when y/n just came in here and started attacking us! it was so scary, please make her leave!"

you scoffed at meiko's fabricated story, but before you could even begin to defend yourself iwa spoke, "y/n, go back to your room before im forced to take action." despite his dagger sharp gaze, you refused to shrink. you were going to get your point in regardless of any threats iwaizumi threw your way. so shooting him a quick and dismissive glare, you turned your attention back to osamu and meiko to get in one final blow.

"look, i don't know what your problem with me is, and frankly i don't care. but leave atsumu the fuck out your sick little games." the venom in your voice was enough to strike real fear into meiko, who was now completely hiding behind osamu for protection. even osamu's intimidating demeanor faltered at your protectiveness over his brother.

iwaizumi was the first to break the tension, "y/n, go—"

"yeah yeah, i got it, im leaving." your cut him short, giving osamu one last glare before exiting the living room, stopping to grab the glass of water from the kitchen before heading back to your room.

in your frustration you'd completely forgotten atsumu was asleep, accidentally shutting your door back with a little too much force. "angel?" atsumu's sleep drenched voice pulled you from your stewing thoughts, and you felt any and all anger melt away when you locked eyes with him.

"where'd you go off to?" he asked, rubbing at his eyes and sitting up. you snatched a bottle of asprin from your night stand and extended it to him along with the glass of water, "figured you'd want this when you woke up."

the corner of his mouth lifted up into a lopsided smile as he accepted your offer, downing a pill and half the water in one go, "yer too good to me, angel."

you offered up a soft smile as you took the glass and pill bottle back from him and set them on your nightstand. you took a seat on your bed next to atsumu, pushing back his disheveled hair back with one hand, prompting him to let out a content hum.

"i'm sorry for waking you," you whispered, letting your hand trail down the side of his face before coming to rest against his jaw, "how are you feeling?"

atsumu leaned into your touch, "much better, thanks to you. but, can we lay down again?"

you nodded, falling back to a laying position with atsumu following suit. however, this time he pulled you into his chest, holding you in his arms. you sunk further into him, finding it much easier to sleep this time as his warmth surrounded you and calmed your nerves.

-

i got a little carried away and this ended up a little longer than i intended, oops, oh well! i hope you like it!

— noah anon

hhhh,,, BESTIE OMFG UR SO SO SO TALENTED WTF???? do u have a blog cs if so sharty drop the @ ahaha (jk only if u feel comfy!!) i just mean WOW WOW WOW WOWIE

[miyaniacs]

Mafia AU - Bokuto x fem!reader

A/n: uhmmm sorry for not updating ... i haven’t been motivated to continue this and then i did and forgot that i had this update lol... so here you are. The beginning of the downfall is here. Sooo Tbh it will Kinda depend on your responds to this chapter if it will take months for me to continue it - or days 🙇🏼‍♀️

Chapter 12 - A decision is made

Index ; masterlist ; Chapter 11 - The encounter

Warnings: uhhh... violence? Mentions of guns

Bokutos POV

Monday 12 am

I want to punish him. I want to hurt him the way he hurt her, by messing up her life.

He looks at Ushijima with hate filled eyes, his whole aura shifts when he sees his arrogant smirk.

Why is he so sure of himself?

Does he really think that he, Bokuto, wouldn’t beat the shit out of him, right here in his office?

“Oh and Bokuto - hope you have fun with that hoe.” Ushijima smirks and now Bokuto fully breaks.

“Call her a hoe one more time.” Bokuto hisses. Furious wasn’t enough to describe what he was feeling right now. He was boiling with pure hate, his fist was ready to collide with this arrogant face of the male in front of him. He was ready to sent him straight into the hospital, hell he was even ready to kill him right here.

The one thing that was holding him back was the fact that such a quick death would be way too ‘nice’. He needs to suffer, he wants to break him, makes him feel all the pain in the world. Slowly peeling the skin off his body, until he begs him to finally kill him.

“And what are you doing then? Huh? I’m just telling the truth. She would have went to bed with you straight away the first time you saw her, just to get close to you and get informations.”  Ushijimas face is now almost touching his, sparks flying, both ready to beat each other up. “That’s only because you’d force her to do so.”

He laughs again. What is so funny, was it all a joke to Ushijima? A joke that he ruined your life, forcing you to throw yourself at random man, just to get information out of them? And for what? A small amount of money, comparing to what Ushijima probably owns? Oh he has to deal with the consequences at some point, he has to ... feel the consequences.

He can already see him hanging on a wall, blood dripping off the several cuts on bis body, his arrogance long gone as he looks up at him with eyes, showing that Bokuto did it, that he broke him.

Suddenly he feels someone tugging on his arm and he spins around, taking a few seconds to understand that he is still im the office. The fire in his eyes burning up again as he sees the fearful look on your face. He wants to comfort you and ask what happened, but then the shook took over him. You’re afraid of him.

He takes a few steps back, giving you some room to breath.

He couldn’t talk to you, the knot in his throat hindering him from telling you how sorry he is. Bokuto is lost in his thoughts the whole way back to the car and during the drive.

He is filled with guilt.

He hates himself for showing you this side of him.

All he ever wanted was to be a save space for you, to make you feel home and at peace.

He never wanted you to feel fear when being with him.

He has to do something and he knows exactly what.

“Go inside, I have to discuss something with the boss.” He says without looking at you his eyes still fixed on the street.

“Kou… let me explain… please.”

His heart breaks, you really feel the need to explain? To apologize? When he is the one that hurt you?

“Later.” He says way to cold for his own liking, but he couldn’t start crying now, even though he feels like it. He swallows the emotions that start to well up inside of him “I promise we talk later.” Placing his hands on your face he softens. You’re so beautiful.

He frowns when he sees small tears rolling down your cheeks.

No, why are you crying? He slightly starts panicking inside but tries to not show it. “Don’t cry my love.”

“I’m sorry.”  Here you go, apologizing for nothing, at last he doesn’t see a reason why your should apologize to him.

“No, don’t apologise. Non of this is your fault. I should have known better. You already told me how you’ve met Ushijima. It was my fault.”

Regret fills him up again.

Why was he so stupid?

He walked right into Ushijimas trap.

And now you were afraid of him.

He wasn’t good for you.

He wasn’t the right one for you.

The life he lives wasn’t one for you.

He had to get you out of this whole mess, you deserve so much better than this.

Even if that means, for him to leave your life completely.

He leans in for one last kiss.

“No. Don’t say anything. I promise you, you will never see me like this again. I can’t bear knowing that you’re afraid of me, even if it’s only a tiny little bit of you fearing me.” He mumbles before kissing you again. “Now please, get inside. And I hope to find you in one of my sweatshirts when I get back home.”

He hated lying to you.

But he had to.

“Okay, I can’t promise not to take your Vetements one tough.” You laugh and he smiles.

“Whatever I own is yours.”

My heart, my home, my car, my everything, he’ll make sure that you are save when he wasn’t with you anymore.

His cheerful smile dropped the second you were out of sight, he speeds through the city, not caring about the red lights or the other cars.

Monday 3 pm

“Sorry the Boss isn’t here right now.” One for the guards says.

Bokuto rolls his eyes and walks around in the empty office.

“What are you-“ the guard begins, “ I write him a note.” Bokuto huffs and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

“Make sure to keep Y/n save.”

He storms out of the building.

The Adlers really think they could simply tick him and the others? By putting Y/n in his life to spy on them? Are they really that desperate to involve such an innocent and pure soul as you into all of this?

The hate he felt for them just increased the more time he got to spent with you. Your pure soul lightens up his day, he smiles whenever he looks at you, his heart warms whenever he sees your smile, when he hears your laugh it’s the sweetest sound he has ever heard. All those days he got to spent with you for now, have been the best days of his life.

And how can such a beautiful person like you, work in such a dark world.

This isn’t a world that’s meant for you.

Sure he knows that you’re strong... but he isn’t stupid.

He can see that all of this is just a mask, you got used to this life, but it is not the life you wanted to be involved in. All your sarcasm, the cold look in your eyes, the raised eyebrow with that light smirk playing on you lips, whenever someone is saying something that could definitely get them into jail.

It is all an act.

And he knows that you know that he can see right through it.

Those nights he spent awake next to you, making sure to reassuring you that everything is alright and that he is right next to you, trying to keep all those nightmares away from you. He sees how you turn in your sleep, how your face frowns, he hears all those small no’s. And it breaks his heart whenever he feels your hands grabbing his shirt, clinging on him, burring your face in his chest while you whimper something only you can understand, your whole body shaking out of fear of whatever hunts you in your dreams.

Sure, you play tough, but he knows that deep inside your heart you want to leave all of this behind.

Enough was enough and he certainly had enough.

He takes his phone and type three small words before getting out of his car.

Opening up the trunk he pulled off the flooring revealing countless of guns and knifes.

It was a true old fashioned kamikaze mission, but he didn’t care.

Putting two of the small guns in the back of his pants, he grabs the loaded submachine gun in one hand, takes a deep breath and opens the door.

I’ll get you out of all of this, you’ll be able to live a normal life again, with or without me.

And he pulls the trigger, shooting the first guard.

Your POV

You stand in front of the big window, looking down at the passing people and cars, always looking out for one specific black one, but you couldn’t spot it. The longer you wait, the more restless you get, Bokuto was away for way too long now, he would have told you if it would take longer right?

So why haven’t he come back home now.

Your phone vibrates, before you could check it, you hear the door burst open.

“BOKUTO?!” You can hear Atsumu call out.

“Atsumu?” You walk over to him.

“Where is he?” The person next to him, Sakura asks.

“I was about to ask you the same thing, he dropped me off and told me he has something to do... but that was hours ago...” you mumble the next part, “ You... you don’t know where he is?”

“Does it look like we do?! The Boss is sending all of us out to find him!” Atsumu growls.

“Tell us everything that happened today.” Sakusa demands and you begin talking, describing the whole situation that happened with Ushijima and how Bokuto behaved slightly strange the way back to his.

The three of you stare at each other after you’ve finished and your attentions shifts to the TV.

“BREAKING NEWS - Countless of shots have been heard from the Casino, related to the infamous Adlers, we’re live - Cassie, what do you know?

‘ We all know nothing, civilians could all leave, all of them are talking about only one men, entering the building. The police is still clueless, but a few minutes ago, the shooting stopped and -“

“FUCK!” Atsumu screams and he and Sakusa run out of the door, “YOU STAY HERE!” He shouts before pulling out his phone already calling someone.

No. No. No no no. This can’t be real.

Your mind is racing while you collect your things and rush out of the apartment.

If there is one small chance that Bokuto is still alive, you have to take it, you had to save him at all costs. Even if it means breaking his heart and revealing everything... you just have to everything you can.

Looking down at your phone, you remember the message you got.

From: Bokuto

Please remember that I will always love you.

@tendouthighs ,  @lilacshouko​@softhourswithseb​ ​@theperksofcoffee ​@cuddlesslut @shhhlikeme​​, @kynyta​​ @yammmers​  @asahi-is-jesus-periodt​​ @hxnni-bxnni​​ @theduvetpirate​​ @chromaticstudio​​@gywjd0131​​​ @haikyuusimp91​​​ @kara-grayson04 @saucysamu​​ @brokeyiam​ ​

[teentitwns]

soooo, as you know i wrote some bbrae fanfictions and, this one, especifically, called “all you had to do was stay” (yes, taylor swift’s song) was published in 2017 but i deleted after sometime because im little lazy and the history always seems easily in my mind.

anyway! i decided to rewrite this fanfiction and the first chapter is already posted on the brazilian website that i use (spirit fanfics), so why not put in here too?

please, remember that im brazilian and my english is a little broken - sorry for the mistakes you’ll find on the text.

well, thats it. im really nervous right now and insecure. i hope you like it and, maybe, i can post the fanfiction on ao3 or another website.

_______________

The protective dome around Raven was totally useless and, like her friends, she knew it.

She was there, standing in the middle of the contraption built by Cyborg, with all her vital signs being recorded on the computers that occupied a large part of the room, beeping together with the devices that showed her brain waves.

Everything had been perfectly assembled and positioned so that she had the best protection that anyone could have in the face of what was about to happen, but all those technological tools made her feel like a laboratory rat, studied in vain to discover that in the end the experience had gone wrong again.

She sighed loudly and propped her elbows on her knees, resting her face in one hand; she no longer cared about floating.

She felt physically and mentally drained to use her powers in something as unnecessary as floating, and she didn't need to be inches from the ground at that moment.

In fact, it was better to have contact with the earth, with the concrete floor. At least she would be sure that she was still alive, that the world was fine and whole.

Raven let out a loud snort and huffed impatiently, her eyes roaming the room until they found the door, waiting, miraculously, for one of the other Titans to enter. She had been inside that dome for hours and she couldn't take it anymore - loneliness was good when chosen willingly, not out of obligation.

To her despair, in addition to the blatant private prison that was happening there, the kidnapping, or anything else of that level, the situation made terrible flashbacks go through her head, making her remember Slade, the brand of Scath , the end of the world and, consequently, Trigon.

Why did everything have to be so similar? It seemed that karma was acting exactly the same as it had on her sixteenth birthday, creating a tedious and scary looping. She never considered herself a fan of automatic repetitions anyway.

Unconsciously, she took her left hand into the pocket of her midnight blue cloak in hopes of finding a specific object inside it, but this time, she had no lucky coin to cling to and consider as an amulet. She was alone, forgotten, practically left to die, just as she should have been two years ago, on the fateful day when Trigon’s Prophecy almost came true.

The empath, a “witch” as many called her, allowed herself to laugh with mockery. She hated feeling sorry for her own tragic life, but she couldn't escape the pitiful thoughts she was having. She probably didn't think differently from what her friends had in mind - she was just a poor girl, victim of circumstances, who was not to blame for being the fruit of the forbidden, unhealthy relationship between a human and an interdimensional demon. She was not to blame for being “Daddy's darling”, the one chosen to bring him to Earth for the second time, since she was a poorly raised daughter and prevented him the first time.

Now, at eighteen, she wouldn't be as lucky as she was at sixteen.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos… Azarath Metrion Zinthos…”, she closed her eyes and started to meditate, with nothing else to do. “Azarath Metrion Zinthos…”

“Raven!"

She opened her eyes with a start, facing Beast Boy. Awkwardly, he spread his hands on the thick glass of the dome, breathing heavily.

“Great.", She thought. “Of all the people that Robin could send, he chose the most restless."

" What are you doing here?", she asked.

“Dude, isn't it obvious? We’re doing it wrong! ”, Beast Boy waved his hands compulsively. “I mean, it's your father! There is no one better to stop him than you!”

“If I leave here it will be easier to get to Earth."

“I really don't want to be pessimistic, but he's already here, mama."

“Beast Boy..."

“It worked last time, didn't it? What good will it do you to be stuck in that dome? The world will end anyway!”

“Weren't you the one who was upbeat until two seconds ago?"

“I still am!"

“Does Robin know you're here?"

“…yes."

“I don’t believe that."

“Of course I told him,", the shapeshifter scratched the back of his head, causing his newly acquired muscles to start filling his uniform to appear. “I just don't know if he paid attention.”, He gave a nervous smile.

“It doesn't count as a warning."

“Have you never been told that what counts is the intention?"

Raven rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs, standing up. She walked over to where Beast Boy was, touching the dome with her fingertips. He smiled broadly, running to the nearest computer and typing in the code that would free her.

When the dome barriers disappeared, Raven adjusted the hood on her head, thinking about the possibilities that surrounded her. Beast Boy was right, after all. Trigon was already on Earth, like the first time, and she would not be of much help if she were trapped, safe and sound, while her friends killed themselves to save the world.

“I knew you'd be up for it!" He celebrated, approaching her.

“It wasn't your worst idea."

“I'm smart, you underestimate me too much."

“I must have my reasons for that, right?

“Taking into account my discussions about tofu being the best food in the world can’t be considered as a reason.”

“No?”

“We all have our childish moments.”

“And you have your adult moments.”, she said.

“Nothing for having released you, I’m at your service.

“Where are they?”

“Downtown.”

“Excellent.”

“Raven”, Beast Boy called her when she started to leave. “Are you ready to go?”

“You don’t?”

“It's just… You have nothing to bring you luck.”

“I don't believe in luck.”, she lied, ignoring the thought that she had been wishing for a lucky charm a few minutes ago.

“Why not?”

“I make my own luck.”

“But it's always good to have help, isn't it?”

“Come on, Beast Boy.”

He shook his head negatively and approached her, holding her arm firmly and preventing her from getting away. The difference in height between them remained almost nil, with Raven looking a little taller from a distance because of the hood.

She frowned and looked at him without understanding, trying to pull her arm out of his grip, uncomfortable with the position they were in.

“It's just…”, Beast Boy started to speak. “I shouldn't be here and I know it. You are always so focused and correct that you even embarrass me for acting that way, but, last time, you had the coin I gave you and we won.

“I don’t know where it is.”, Raven lied, lowering her head to hide the blush on her cheeks. Some of her emotions were manifested in Nevermore, reminding her of the small passion she held for him. Passion, that, that she was sure that she would never be reciprocated. He was not a philanderer, he had never dated anyone after Terra, but he was not unaware of love affairs like her. She had a little more experience, even though she was also small. “We can't keep others waiting.”

“I can't let you go without an amulet.”

“There is no such thing as luck, Beast Boy! How many times have I told you that we need to run after what we want?”

“Many.”

“And none of them fixed on your brain?”

“Apparently no.”

“I should have imagined.”

“Why can't you give me a credit?”

“You are acting like a child who believes in Santa Claus.”

“And you're being cruel to me.”, he complained. “I thought you stopped that a while ago.”

“I stopped. Are we going to battle or not?”, Raven asked impatiently. “The world is about to end!”

“I know!”

“Then let me go!”

“I can't let you leave here without an amulet!”

“So give me this shit!”

Raven's words echoed around the room, and Beast Boy smirked, as if he had been waiting for this ever since they started arguing.

Such nonsense fights and quick discussions were not new to them, who were used to being awkward a few times a day, always for stupid reasons. However, that time, the shapeshifter had a purpose and, knowing that Raven would play the game, he put his idea into practice, which ended up working very well, thank you.

Raven shook her head and shrugged, silently asking if he wouldn't give her anything. She was waiting for a frog charm or other coin, but all she received was a warm kiss on the mouth, which made her blow up the nearest computer monitor.

The touch of Beast Boy's lips on his made her close her eyes instantly, her body and mind embracing the fact that she wanted that kiss - she had even been waiting for him for a long time, having fantasized the moment several times in the stillness of his. room.

On the other hand, Beast Boy didn't explode at all, but he felt his whole body vibrating. Her cheeks were as flushed as Raven’s, and it had taken him a long time to have the courage to kiss her.

The kiss could not be considered "worthy of a movie" because the two were too tense to give themselves up completely. They did not know where to put their hands and neither should they do it; A light in their heads blinked incessantly, reminding them that the world was ending while they were kissing, and billions of people were at risk.

It could be considered an ordinary kiss, but for Raven and Beast Boy, it meant much more than that.

They separate after a few seconds, unable to exchange a direct look. Beast Boy cleared his throat and Raven clung more tightly to her cloak, almost disappearing inside it.

“Raven”, Beast Boy smiled, making her look him in the eye quickly. Without breaking eye contact, he simply stuck a five-cent coin in her hand. Like old times. “Good luck.”

—————————————-

ok, i had no idea that the text would lose the diagramming!!! i wrote this on my iphone notes, sorryyyy

[gladerwolfstarkimagines]

Azula x female reader series: Part 4

Azula hatches a plan to keep you closer to home than Ozai intended and disrupts her friends lives in the process. Initially happy with her plan as time goes on Azula grows more and more frustrated at what it means for the two of you. 

Part One here

Part Two here

Part Three here

Part Five here

Part Six here

Tagged: @saucy-sapphic @justastranger-passing @azulasprincess @888-rising​

@sighsam​

-----

Your POV

You were stood in the dining room watching as the royal family and Mai ate their dinner in uncomfortable silence. Your last few hours as Azula’s maid would end tonight and you wondered when Azula would announce who she had assigned you to. As if reading you mind Azula put her cutlery down and sat up "Ive made my decision father". Your breath caught even though you knew this had been coming. You thought back to the conversation you’d had with Azula after you’d accepted her offer to share her bed when she told you her plan and your part in. You understood the reasoning behind who Azula wanted to assign you to but it didn’t make it any easier.

Ozai looked towards Azula with a small frown, probably annoyed she would bring this up when guests like Mai were present, even though Mai was hardly a guest by now.  "What decision?" Zuko asked but his father ignored him looking to Azula "Very well...close to the dealine too". You saw Zuko and Mai look at Ozai confused and several of the servants too risked a confused glance with one another. You knew Azula would need you to act like you hadn’t planned this so too put on a mask of open confusion and stared at Azula with the others. Azula ignored Ozai’s snarky comment and smiled aware the whole room was watching "although y/n’s skills are not needed by me I can think of someone who needs it, Zuko". You felt the atmosiphere in the room turn and you pretended to look at Azula shocked. Azula smirked at Zuko who looked as shocked as you, he stared at Azula and then looked to Mai. You followed his eye and couldn’t see any change in Mai’s face but never could anyway. "What..why?"? Zuko asked. "Father said i could choose who to send y/n to and I choose you brother, lets face it you need the most help being kept up to standard and y/n’s one of the best so y/n is your new maid". Zuko glanced to where you stood behind Azula and then to his father as if seeing if this would be allowed, women maids were not often allowed to serve male masters so closely and when they did it was always surrounded by rumours and gossip. Ozai didn’t really seem to care he just sighed "don’t argue Zuko, Azula recommends her, your sister is helping you". Zuko went to argue and Ozai slammed his fists down "I will not waste time arguing over the help at my own dinner table” he yelled glaring at Zuko “y/n is your maid now, fire her if you care that much". You could tell by Zuko’s reaction he would not be doing that, he lowered his head in defeat and Azula smiled catching your eye. Her plan to have you spy on Zuko was now in motion. 

As soon as it was possible to be dismissed Zuko and Mai stood to leave and reluctantly you stood up too. Mai glared openly as you followed but Zuko ignored you. You looked back to Azula aware this could be the last time you’d see her for a while as her and Zuko largely avoided each other. Azula looked down as you left and you just wished she’d look back up. You’d do as she asked and spy on Zuko but you couldn’t get the night you’d spent together out of your head or deny how it made you feel. You’d told yourself Azula had given you this mission because it gave her an assoication with you, a reason to keep in contact with you, because she cared...but as you walked out of the room she didn’t even look up. This deal was just buisness that’s all.

You followed Mai and Zuko a respectful distance away. They headed towards the royal wing before stopping near the exit for Mai’s house. You hung back so she and zuko could say goodnight and lowered your eyes blending in like you’d been taught. Mai turned and walked towards you glaring right at you, she barged your shoulder as she passed and disappeared out of the palace. You righted yourself and followed Zuko. He reached his room and allowed you inside after him but was clearly uncomfortable. The door closed and he looked at you and then away again unsure what to say or do. He kept going to speak and then stopping so you took over "Prince Zuko shall i help you prepare for the night?". Zuko coughed blushing "Well I can do that myself". “It’s my job” you told him "I am your maid now”. Zuko rolled his eyes “thanks to Azula, this is all part of her plan to screw with me I know it”. You didn’t react or comment on Zuko’s speculation you just stared at him. “Still that’s not your fault” Zuko shrugged and you looked away. Silence fell again and you hated the tension so tried to make it less awkward “Shall I do what I usually do and tell me if there’s anything you wish to change?". Zuko nodded and you readied the room as you would any room and then turned to him. "Is there anything else you require Prince Zuko?". He shook his head looking at his room "no thank you y/n you are dismissed". You bowed "goodnight Prince Zuko I will return in the morning" and left the room.

Azula's POV

It had been 3 days since Azula had assigned you to Zuko on your mission and four more days before the date you’d agreed to meet to discuss what you had found but Azula was growing impatient. Azula had felt uneasy since you’d left with Zuko and she hadn’t seen you since, it was as if her brother was hiding you, she thought bitterly. Azula had thought assigning you to Zuko was a clever plan, she trusted you and now had a spy in her brother own staff who would report on anything and everything she wanted. It was a good plan so why did she feel so restless? Azula pretended maybe it was because after having you serve on her for years you were gone and it was just the change in scenery that disturbed her but she knew it wasn’t, it was specifically because you were gone. In the deepest parts of her mind Azula acknowledged a care or fondness for you but Azula figured all she felt for you came from physical attraction. Sure you’d been nice and kind to her but Azula had felt an attraction to you long before she trusted you so it must just be a physical fondness. Azula had been aware of her growing want and attraction of you that’s why she gave you the offer to share her bed on your last night. She thought one night with you would satisfy her curiosity and solve all her problems surrounding you. She figured afterwards, her thoughts and ideas finally fulfilled, she’d send you on your mission and no longer think about or admire you, the fun chase of the unknown would be over and so she’d no longer have a want or need of you. She had it all planned and it should have worked but why didn’t it? Why did she still want you around?  

"Azula!" Ozai snapped and she jumped "what? Im listening"? "You weren’t!” Ozai spat and Azula gulped. She’d been thinking about you again for what felt like the 100th time today but this time in the middle of Ozai’s war meeting. The fact she hadn’t been able to think of anything apart from you since you’d left her company drove Azula crazy, how could it be physical if even after spending an amazing night with you Azula still wanted more?

The door opened saving Azula from another rant from Ozai who noticed her staring off again as Zuko came into the room. "Sorry I’m late" he said bowing and Azula shot up in her seat as if zapped by lightning. You were there behind Zuko, head down eyes low like you’d been taught but Azula desperately wanted you to look up, to look at her. But instead you followed Zuko and came to stand at the back of the room with the other servants. Azula felt a twinge of anger as you stood obediently near Zuko and not near her as you used to, just another reminder you were his now and not hers. Azula knew this was her own fault, she'd assigned you to Zuko and failed to see this potential problem but Azula never admitted when she was wrong and she wasn’t going to start now. Her plan to have you spy on Zuko gave her a good advantage and besides she could hardly undo it now, she’d just have to see it through and endure the anger she felt seeing you follow Zuko around. She just had to remind herself no matter who you “served” you were still hers, you still reported to her! You were still working for her, zuko was just a cover nothing more. Azula told herself this and found it brought her some comfort and appeased her anger. Azula glanced to where you stood and an idea formed in her head. She would come see you tonight, your meeting wasn’t due yet but so what? She was in charge, if she wanted to push the date forward she could. This way she could assess you and Zuko and use the excuse to see you again, see how she felt in your presence and if it made her feel better...if it did, well she’d take it from there. Yes she would do that, comforted she say back and began to finally listen to what Ozai was saying.

Your POV

You were woken up by someone shaking your arm. You groaned opening your eyes and jolted to see it was Azula. "Princess" you gasped flushing, the Princess was here in your room. She had come here in the middle of the night to see you. You were furious at yourself for not tidying your room before you’d gone to sleep or for wearing better quality night clothes but Azula didn’t seem to mind. She smiled and sat next to you on the edge of your bed "yes it’s me y/n, have you forgotten what I look like already?". "Of course not" you replied and she smiled again "good, i came to see how your time with zu zu is going?". You felt disappointed, that’s why she was here but what else did you expect? Just because your mind hadn’t left Azula since the moment you’d been seperated didn’t mean hers hadn’t either. You frowned and answered her question "it’s going as you said it would, he is very awkward at the moment but polite and kind I suppose". "Does he trust you yet?". You shook your head "no I think it will take more time". Azula frowned but then nodded "yes that is to be expected..but I’m sure considering it is you it will not take long". You frowned unsure if this was a compliment “may I ask why you think that?” you asked seeming to catch Azula of guard. She looked up at you before shooting her eyes away, she looked conflicted. “Well my brother has shown preference for you before, he chose to flirt with you at the Ember Islands over anyone else, there was a whole room full of potential girls but he chose you to make Mai jealous”. You paused as many argument sprung up in your head to counter Azula’s claim but then stopped noticing Azula seemed angry, she spat the statement Zuko liked you and was glaring at the floor. Even if she was wrong about Zuko liking you that didn’t mean she knew that, she honestly believed he liked you and that angered her. It was ridiculous but you wondered if that belief was why Azula chose you to assign to Zuko. “Azula you told me you wanted me to get close to Zuko how close?” you asked warily. Her eyes narrowed and she wringed her own hands at the comment “I’m not sure y/n” she admitted “for you to learn his secrets I need him to trust you, to be fond of you and to let you in” she explained and you nodded “I understand Princess”. “But the two of you will be nothing like how our relationship is” Azula said fiercely and you smiled slightly. “Or was I suppose” Azula trailed off and you frowned. “How have you been?” you asked “I have wanted to enquire about you to the other servants but didn’t want to ruin my cover”. Azula smiled slightly “I am fine, your replacement is a complete idiot however” Azula cried “she has no idea of my schedule or how important is it for me to be punctual! She gets my food orders wrong and booked my training rooms for the complete wrong days! And she doesn’t arrange my room the way you did!” Azula carried on and you grinned. Azula blushed and looked down “I suppose you can say I’ve noted your absence”. You smiled sadly and hardly thinking place your hand on top of hers “I’ve missed you too Azula”. You expected her to yell at you for touching her or for insinuating she missed you but she did neither. She shifted and you moved your hand away but Azula didn’t move away “If you have missed me as you put it” she said looking down “you may like my proposal”. You watched Azula waiting for her to continue and nodded when she looked up “I am listening”. “The last night you were my servant...the deal I offered you”. You sat up now fully alert and stared at Azula noticing the slight blush on her cheeks. "I know I said it was a one time thing but..." Azula trailed off and you stared at her, willing her to continue with what she was saying but she seemd to need encouragement. "Pri...I mean Azula...". Azula looked up as you corrected yourself and she smiled. "Azula" you carried on "if you wish to do what we did again, I wouldn’t object". "You enjoyed it?" Azula asked smirking smugly, her nerves now apparently gone and her voice alone sent shivers up your neck. "Of course" you nodded "I haven’t stopped thinking about it honestly". Azula felt excitment but also intrigued, you hadn’t been able to get her out of your head either? She shook away the leaping thoughts and smirked "so really I’d be helping you focus on your duties? If I did this you’d stop daydreaming about me and do your work?" She asked tilting her head to one side as she leant backwards on her arms. You looked up at her and saw how cocky she was, she oozed confidence and ease and you loved it. "Yes princess" you gulped out of habit and she tutted "Azula" she corrected you before kissing you. The sensation was soon becoming familiar and you smiled as azula pushed you to lay down, if this became a regular thing like Azula said you’d be the happiest servant alive,who cares if you got caught?

Afterwards you both lay recovering in comfortable silence before Azula spoke. “Your room needs redecorating” Azula commented and you looked to where she lay beside you staring up at your ceiling. You were still in a daze and weren’t sure you heard her right “I’m sorry?”. Azula sat up and smiled at you over her shoulder ”Your room, It is plain and ugly”. You shrugged “It’s the same as all the servants rooms” you replied and Azula smiled “yes but you are not just any servant are you? You are my servant” making you blush. Azula smiled and continued “and if I am to be spending more time here I would have it look nice”. You paused as Azula surveyed the room “I think some nicer drapes, new furniture and of course some softer bedding” she smiled making you blush. “I will see what I can find..” you started and Azula shook her head “No i will have it all sorted” she told you getting back dressed “I will show you the plans before I do anything of course but I am sure you will like my taste”. You redenned again but smiled “whatever you wish”. The room had never bothered you before, you didn’t care if Azula changed it, if it meant Azula would be visiting more you’d install a hole in the ceiling. Azula nodded “I will have it all ready by my next visit, now I must be leaving”. You nodded and rushed to stand, it was stupid you just done things that definitely went against the formalities required of a servant but now out of the moment you were back to formal mode and the thought of Azula showing herself out was preposterous. Azula seemed the find it amusing too and smirked as you rushed to escort her to the door “this was most enjoyable” Azula told you stroking your cheek “you thought so too?” she asked. “Definitely” you nodded “you are welcome any time”. Azula’s smirk wavered and was replaced with a genuine smile and her eyes softenned “thank you y/n” she said quietly and you smiled, making sure not to make a big deal of this and scare her off. Azula coughed looking down and removed her hand from your cheek “I will see you again in 2 days time, same place and time”. “I look forward to it” you smiled and Azula smirked “good night y/n” and exited your room.      

You weren’t sure if anyone else noticed it but you thought both you and Azula changed after that night. When you saw Azula in the throne room or the coridoors of the palace her gaze always lingered on you when nobody was watching and when you looked at her she’d smile slightly. Just a twinge of her cheeks but you knew Azula well enough to read those minute movements all her family didn’t notice. You were sure you were actually making Azula happy and not like how winning a war or humilating a person made her happy but purely happy, innocently happy. All you had to do was trick Zuko into trusting you, cover up Azula’s visits to your room, avoid the suspicion of Mai, Ozai and your fellow servants all while doing your daily jobs! Shouldn’t be too hard.

----

I know it’s over used but I had to play on the jealousy between Azula and Zuko, I think Zuko defo brings out her jealous side more than anyone and would make her finally realise her emotions for the reader. I kind of felt like this was a awkward part storywise as it didn’t really advance too much but I tried to make the relationships Azula and Zuko have with the reader progress naturally. I’m planning on only making two more parts so don’t worry the story will esculate and be much more fast paced from now on!

[alittlewhump]

Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 8

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Content warnings: death mention, possible minor body horror with regards to injury

It had been a fortnight since Andariel. Morgan was adjusting to his new reality, one where speaking much louder than a whisper for more than a few sentences made it feel like he'd been screaming his throat raw. Where pain was out of proportion to the damage that caused it. Where his left arm was all but useless. Although he felt well enough to get up and move around, the wound on his arm showed no signs of closing. An inky colouration had spread out from the puncture, extending up above his elbow and down to his wrist. It turned his stomach to look at it. Any remaining strength in the limb was negated by the pain that shot through it at the slightest jostle or pull. Akara's expertise in the healing arts was not sufficient to handle a wound like this, caused by a demon queen and determined to linger. She had offered her sympathies and a supply of bandages, which at least allowed him to bind the damned thing so he didn't have to see it. His own limited knowledge of medicine did not extend to this manner of injury either, so simply keeping it covered and clean seemed like the best option available.

Morgan had been spending most of his time and energy on meditation and geomancy. Physical pursuits were not very attractive at the moment, so instead he focused on improving his magic. He would need it more than ever now, given the state of his arm. Eventually he would return to the graveyard he'd marked, to check on the restless spirits there, but he wasn't yet well enough for that journey.

The ground around the encampment was largely untended, but the soil was good. Morgan had been using it to flex his magical abilities cautiously, not wanting them to suffer from disuse. He turned small patches at a time, shuffling the richer earth up toward the surface bit by bit, until eventually there was a respectable area prepared. Nobody had asked him to install a garden, but it felt like it might be a useful contribution. It also helped to ground him. He had often tended the gardens back home, and found now that he was missing that work.

Short forays into the surrounding fields were still within the scope of Morgan's ability. Over the course of about a week, he'd managed to successfully transplant a reasonable variety of usable plants. Comfrey, feverfew, yarrow, and chamomile had all been easy enough to spot, and each had at least one medicinal use. They also had the benefit of being reasonably hardy, taking root well in the freshly turned earth. He had also experimented a little with some preparations of other plants he'd found - an outcrop of sway grass by a small lake, some sage nestled in among a patch of bright trefoil, a little bark from the willow just outside the encampment - but despite following standard procedures for preparation, none of the resultant concoctions did anything to relieve the pain of his injury. He took some fruits from what looked like an oleaster, intending to dry them for another attempt in the future, but he kept his expectations low. If the wound wasn't going to heal properly, it stood to reason that the other effects would also linger.

Cain had been good company, stopping by often. He inquired about the garden as it was talking shape and seemed legitimately interested in the various applications of the plants filling it. Morgan took care not to speak at too much length on any one topic, endlessly interesting though they were. Equally fascinating were the tales Cain had to share in exchange. The story of Tristram had been a sobering one, between the king's corruption by Diablo and the destruction it had wrought. And it seemed that it was not yet concluded, given the hero-turned-dark-wanderer who had fled. It would be worth pursuing that tale to its conclusion; Morgan's original request had been duly fulfilled, but the evident threat to the Balance was more pressing than returning to the Necropolis.

He'd also been alternating between meditating on ways to improve his clay golems and creating small versions to test the changes he'd thought of. So far he had come up with a lot of failed designs, going too far to the extremes to test the boundaries. A build with above average mobility that would crumble in combat, a strong and sturdy make that could absorb a great deal of punishment but would be too slow to hit anything that wasn't standing still. Now it was time to rein it in, to tinker with proportions and the flow of magic through the construct until something better emerged. Morgan slipped easily into the in-between state, retreating into his mind while his body rested in a comfortable cross-legged position. A pleasant breeze ruffled the leaves of the tree he was leaning against. Today would be good for focusing on the smaller details. He lost himself for a time in the contemplation of his designs.

A crawling, prickling discomfort pulled him back into reality. The sun was getting low in the sky. Someone had put their hand on his shoulder, and they were speaking to him.

"- word I've said, have you?" It was Blaise, looking annoyed.

Morgan shifted away from her, and she let her hand fall. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't hear you. I was meditating." The rough sound of his voice was another thing he was still getting used to. He rubbed his throat gingerly. Should have thought to keep some water nearby.

"Of course you were. I said, I talked to Kashya and she's agreed to give you some training. If you're going to keep fighting monsters and demons, you'll need some help. With your swordplay. It's not very good."

She was right, of course. Now that he could no longer hold a shield, his sword would have to be defensive as well - and magic had always been his strength, not actual physical strength or coordination. He'd been planning to refocus himself entirely on the magical side of things, but this was undeniably a good idea even if he didn't relish the prospect of physical training. Any formal instruction in the use of a sword would be useful.

"When?"

"You're welcome. Whenever you're ready. As soon as tomorrow." Instead of turning to go, she sat next to him. He expected her to keep talking, but she didn't. Maybe she was working up to something. The silence stretched uncomfortably. She didn't like him, she'd often said as much - so why was she staying so near? He'd been doing his best to be avoidable, true to his word. She hadn't been taking advantage of it, instead crossing his path at least once a day. Probably some sort of sense of obligation. The Sisterhood had been treating him with a cautious, grudging respect since Andariel's defeat. It was... strange.

That reminded him of a question he'd been meaning to ask. Now seemed as good a time as any, so he turned to study her. "Blaise. Why did you tell everyone I killed Andariel?"

She startled visibly and raised a hand to shush him. "What the hell, Morgan," she hissed, "you can't just say-" she cut herself off, looking around furtively. Apparently satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping, she continued in hushed tones. "Look, if Akara and Kashya knew I killed that big ugly bitch, they'd never let me get away from this backwater. It's different for you. They're expecting you to go. And when you leave, I'm going with you. At least until I'm well away from here. This place... I'm not really cut out to be part of something like this."

"Ah." That explanation made enough sense. He hadn't realized she wanted to leave, but then he often didn't realize things about other people. Perhaps he'd misinterpreted her loyalty as fondness. There wasn't always a correlation there. She hadn't exactly been talkative during their time together - not to him, not about personal wishes and desires. It also explained the closeness; by spending time around him, she was putting on a front, laying the groundwork that would justify her departure. Satisfied, he turned away to look at the sky. It was starting to be tinged with pink, and it was lovely to see.

"How do you do it?" Now it was her turn to scrutinize him. She was staring intently at his face as though it was going to hold anything other than confusion. Do what? Had he slipped back into his thoughts and missed part of the conversation? "I mean, doesn't it bother you?" That clarified nothing. He stared blankly, and she huffed. "People don't like you. As a necromancer. I mean, we didn't exactly give you a warm welcome. But there's no way it's just us. Your kind are... well, hated."

Oh, that. It was just a fact. He'd come to accept it easily enough. People didn't usually take kindly to him even before they knew his particular area of specialization. He shrugged, wondering idly what had lead to the question. She didn't seem to like that response.

"It's normal," he offered.

"It's not normal! How could you think that's normal? How do you... live with it?" She gesticulated, as though the waving of her hands might clarify her meaning. It did not. How else would he live? He took a moment to search for the words to frame it.

"As followers of Rathma, we are driven by pursuit of the Balance. What others think of us is not important."

"Not im- Morgan, of course it's important! The way people treat you matters. You have to rely on other people all the time."

"I try not to."

Blaise pinched the bridge of her nose as though the conversation was giving her a headache. "Yeah, I know you do. But sometimes you don't have a choice. Like - there's no way you could have gone up against Andariel alone, she would have killed you in a second."

"Mm." While certainly true, it didn't change much. Alone, he would have been more cautious, planned better. Probably died anyway. Others would have come to take his place. His individual life only held value in the contribution it could make toward the Balance. Death came inevitably to all things; to die in service was at least honourable.

Blaise seemed agitated. "I don't think you understand - this is life and death stuff. For fuck's sake, you nearly did die! When-" she lowered her voice, which had risen in frustration. It shook a little. "When I brought you to Akara, she argued with me. She didn't want to waste her supplies on you. She was just going to let you die on her doorstep, because she doesn't like you. That's not normal. You can't just think that's okay."

It certainly wasn't extraordinary. That was why necromancers generally brewed their own potions, not that he'd had either the time or the forethought to reach for his own during the encounter. He started to shrug again. Akara had been pleasant enough since - oh. All the pieces came together suddenly, but the picture they formed didn't quite make sense. Blaise had lied to save him. She'd decided, probably on an impulse, out of desperation, to frame him as the hero because the healer wasn't going to touch him otherwise. She had wanted him to live, and had sacrificed her own part in the story to ensure his survival.

Of course, that type of instinctively selfless behaviour was part of the reason he'd decided she was a genuinely good person. But having that kindness extended to him - that was new. He didn't quite know what to make of it. People weren't kind to him, as a rule. That was familiar, at least, predictable. It didn't feel like he'd done anything to earn this special treatment. He'd have to tread carefully.

"It's what I'm used to," he said quietly. "Death comes to all things. We do not expect others to delay it for us. But you... are extraordinary." It didn't really feel adequate, but he would need some time to process this new information, and the moment would be long past by then. "Thank you," he added. That also felt shallow. He had no reference to draw from - what was the appropriate way to convey this tangle of feelings? Indebtedness, surprise, gratitude, admiration, and those were just the aspects he had names for. He purposely held her gaze for a moment, hoping she would be able to glean something from that since his words weren't doing the job.

Blaise opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Instead, she stood and stretched. "I bet you haven't even eaten today. Come on, Charsi made these beautiful rabbit pies. You have to try them." She extended her hand toward him. He didn't especially want to join a communal meal, but it would be rude to refuse such a rare offer. And he had, in fact, neglected to eat. He took her hand to pull himself up. Tomorrow he would attempt to train with Kashya, but right now he wouldn't worry about it.

[softlyjiminie]

black swan | two.

⇢ pairing(s): professional dancer!park jimin x figure skater!reader.

⇢ word count: 4K.

⇢ rating: 16+, mature.

⇢ genre: angst, eventual smut, fluff, e2l, fake dating!au, corrupted idol!au, dancer!au, figure skater!au.

⇢ summary: a life of skating was all you’d ever known, your heart craving the feeling of ice beneath your feet and the light brush of cool air against your skin under thousands of sparkling lights… what a shame, if only you’d known that one night, one accident could rip you from the life you’d grown to love, leaving your career in the unsteady hands of the prince of ballet, park jimin.

⇢ warning(s): please read for this chapter! angst, taetae on the verge of tears, angry joon, soft jungkoo, yoongi cursing and emotional distress rip.

⇢ author’s note(s): hey everyone!! chapter two is finally here, im so sorry for the delay :( i had a run in with t*mblr and they were hiding all my works from tags! it should be okay now so i hope you like <3

⇢ previous | series masterlist | next

taehyung sits quietly as he watches the tea cup to your left, lose its steam— the heat fading like the light that usually emanated from you. eyes falling to his lap, the skater’s fingers curl in the paws of his— joon’s... black sweater as a guilty feeling settles in his chest. his fingers were itching to reach out and take hold of your hand, but taehyung knew that you would only push him away, locking yourself behind a door and falling away into an empty shell. part of him was glad that you wouldn’t let him touch you; in fear that he’d break you again just like that day on the ice, whilst the other half missed his best friend, whom he’d drown in his arms and fond touches. he missed his YN.

taehyung was grateful that namjoon didn’t mind your affectionate relationship, how tae’s large palm would settle on the small of your back or how his lips would brush against your cheek or your hairline. it was something that gave you both comfort, and namjoon understood that— after all you had been there for each other in the darkest of times while the man himself was studying in the US. nonetheless, taehyung was restless. he needed to know if you were okay, he needed to hold you to tell you it was going to be okay.

but you were too far gone in your own little world, trapped in your chair that was tucked away in a corner by your old fashioned TV (in which he’d begged you to  replace because he hated the static noise it made on certain channels), watching old performances of yours on vhs from when you were younger— you’d switch to your laptop from time to time to watch more recent ones. the chair had become your safe space, since you refused to walk around on your new crutches, all motivation lost with the end of the skating season approaching.

taehyung was worried, really worried.

he knew you ate less, a tired grey tint to your skin casting a shadow over your usually glowing tones. he knew because he’d brought all the teas and pastries you loved to snack on, with each of them growing cold. “please eat baby,” the boy tries, quietly prompting you to take a bite of the cream puff he’d brought this time. “just a little.”

you tilted your gaze from the tv to your partner, irises dull and heavy with an unimaginable amount of sadness. the expression read no, causing taehyung to frown sadly but he perked up as your lips twitched in order to speak. “toe loop, ina beaur.” you whispered, as the latter’s eyes fell to the screen behind you where your younger self followed the streams of classical music into the moves that trickled from your drying lips.

your partner slumps in his seat, defeated and heartbroken as you turn back to the screen, solemnly. “please... just eat something YN. it’s been days since joon or i last saw you—“

your fist slams down on the table where your pastries sit, jolting the china teacup taehyung knows that you love. he lurches forward to steady it, although his heart beats rapidly and he flinches at your sudden actions. “would you eat?” your question burns at your lips with a dark poison that stings your friend. “would you eat if everything you knew and loved had been ripped from you because of one stupid accident? i don’t think so.” you know better than to scold tae and put the blame on him, but anger at the world and your situation burns brightly behind your logical senses—clouding you’re judgement. “what if all you could do is sit and watch, sit and watch, sit and watch until your mind went numb? could you focus? breathe? eat? sleep? no! so stop asking me and leave me alone.”

you regret your words as soon as they’re said, turning back to your tapes as tears brim in the corner of taehyung’s treacle eyes. he withdraws from you completely, dabbing at his eyes quickly to rid then of  his salty tears as the front door to your apartment opens and closes. namjoon steps through, carrying rustling bags full of essentials that you might need. your friends have been good to you, so good but you can’t help but be mad, be sad and hurt.

your best friend stands abruptly to help his lover put away the groceries, tucking cans and jars away— while hiding his soft whimpers. but namjoon is not a fool, the elder can feel the thick cool settling over the room as he tilts his head towards taehyung. “are you okay, love?” the blonde asks lowly, tilting his gaze between yourself and his boyfriend, immediately sensing that something is wrong. “what happened?” he says louder this time— as if he’s trying to gain your attention too.

“nothing, baby—we...” tae whispers quietly, clenching his fists and unclenching them. he’d always hated conflict between three three of you, he was too sensitive whilst you and joon were head strong and stubborn. “it’s nothing...”

“are you crying?” the elder slices through taehyung’s words as smoothly as a butter knife— making you flinch in your seat at his rough tone. your coach was never one to get angry, his temper was often cool and calm but one poke of the wrong button would start something you didn’t want.

“n-no joonie-!”

“what did she say to you?”

guilt trembled in your grip, hating that you were the reason taehyung cried, the reason that namjoon was angry. for goodness sake, YN, you were friends and this is how you were treating them? joon mutters to the younger about packing up his things before turning his steaming attention to you. thick arms and firm palms sink into the arm rests of the chair, making your gaze turn to your lap. the thing about kim namjoon is that, in away, when you were in the wrong— he made you feel like a child for doing so. “this is the last straw, YN,” he scolds, running a hand through the thick of his dyed hair. “tae and i have tried to be there for you, tried to support you in this time but all you do is push us away.” the anger that bubbled in your chest before has faded to a dull sense of hurt, mad at yourself for paining your friends. “it’s been weeks and you haven’t attended a single physical therapy session, we’re afraid that if you don’t— you’ll never skate again. we all know that’s not what you want, YN. so get your shit together and we’ll be back when you do.”

taehyung appears in the doorway leading to your bedroom just as his boyfriend ends your lecture. you feel your own tears burn in the corner of your eyes at the ultimatum you’ve just been given but swallow them down as your best friend gives you a weak smile. namjoon makes a non-committal grunt, prompting his lover to scurry out of your now open, apartment door. “think about what i said,” he mumbles, tone much softer now.

they leave not long after, leaving you to think about your choices— just as the award ceremony appears on screen while younger you wins her first olympic medal.

there’s a quiet knock at your door, just two days later. part of you hopes it’s taehyung as you hop over on your crutches— but you know namjoon better than that, you won’t get to see them until your coach sees that you’ve made some improvement , he was pesky and annoying like that. you also know that it’s to give each other some time to get ready to apologise, you for upsetting tae and joon for being so harsh. your friendship had always worked like that.

“noona, are you there?” you recognise jungkook’s voice from the other side of the door, struggling to open it with just one hand  while you use your other to cling onto your crutches. it’s been hard, but you’re slowly learning how to use them better, joon would get a kick out of it for sure. “noona— oh!” the cherry haired boy beams brightly as you swing the door open, a matching hue adding further warmth to his melanin rich skin. “you’re here.”

the younger skater is wearing a heavy, oversized sweater despite the warming spring breezes that carry cherry blossoms outside, and black combat pants and matching boots to complete his outfit— his signature large backpack hangs loosely over his shoulder as he stares down at you, being at least half a head taller than yourself. “kookie,” you breathe, hugging him instantly. his sweet, floral scent brings comfort to your racing heart almost instantly as you bury your face in his broad chest. “what are you doing here?”

chuckling quietly, jeongguk pushes you back into your apartment and closes the door behind you both, being careful not to knock you off your unsteady feet. once you’re inside, he fully wraps his arms around you and buries his nose into your neck— finding comfort in your own simple vanilla scent. yourself and the boy always had something unspoken flickering in the air between you, ever since he’d joined your company at seventeen (there was only a year between you both, and jungkook had been a novelty skater until then). your partner always joked that the boy was into older women, whilst you argued that you both admired each other or found one another’s presence highly comforting.

nonetheless, you would be a fool to say you hadn’t noticed how nicely jungkook had grown up since joining you at namjoon’s agency but you could never make your feelings known, not when you were both well known competitors.

“ah— well, namjoon hyung sent me. he said you’d need a fresh face to keep you company...” the younger mumbles, sending shivers down your spine at his proximity. being the sweetheart that he is, jungkook mistakes your shiver for something of pain and guides you to sit on your small fabric couch, pressing a shy kiss to your hairline with burning cheeks as he pulls away. “is it alright if i use your kitchen, i brought some ingredients to make us— i mean you... some dinner!”

“knock yourself out, kookie!”

he nods appreciatively, moving off to your kitchen as you turn back to your tapes, watching over more of your older performances. this time, it’s one from an event just before your first olympics— crisp in quality allowing you to see your skating more clearly. you remember the day that yourself and taehyung qualified for the south korean team, the joy you felt put into every competition since then but now you looked on them with a forlorn expression, wondering what you did wrong? were your movements sloppy? did you bring taehyung down? why did your legs look like that when you jumped?

jungkook fumbles with a frying pan not far from your left as he cooks the meat, a question passing from between his lips that you miss due to lost focus. “hm?” you blink once and turn to face the boy. “what was that?”

“i-i was just asking how you were!” jungkook stammers as his doe eyes catch yours, he blushes deeply, almost as red as his hair before his gaze drops to the broth he begins to serve for the two of you. “unless...of course... that’s a dumb thing to ask...” he bites his lip, dishing out a healthy portion of meat into either of your bowls as he makes the meal look presentable. jungkook places both of your bowls onto a tray before bringing it to your coffee table with a set of chopsticks. “forget i said anything, eat up!” he concludes, taking a seat by your side and handing you your meal.

you smile to yourself, scooping some of the noodles into your mouth and humming at the salty taste. “it’s fine kookoo,” you comment warmly, wiping at your mouth. “i’m just... feeling a bit out of place, not myself... you know?”

the boy only nods, falling silent in favour of watching a younger version of you skate across the ice on screen. the pair of you sit quietly for a while, nothing but the sounds of bowls and chopsticks clanking together, and ice on skates resonating throughout the room. “you’re triple axels were always my favourite,” jungkook whispers before your figure even tumbled into the move, piqueing your interest just a bit. “you were how i leaned to do them.”

“how did you know that was next, though?”

jungkook blushes, setting his dish on the coffee table and thumbing his knuckles shyly. your heart warms at the gesture, causing your smile to broaden. “i-i watched you at the olympics... i’d never taken skating seriously until then so i used your routines to get better, good enough to qualify at the same company as you...”

you fall into yet another silence after squeezing the boy’s hand appreciatively— the red hue to his cheeks only darkening. the cherry haired skater excuses himself to the bathroom and in that time you decide to clear up as a thank you to him for keeping you company. the kitchen is only a short walk, you only have two dishes to carry, it should be fine. except it’s not, like a baby giraffe you are still unsteady in your feet— taking steps without your crutches has proven to be difficult, especially with an armful of kitchenware. if you could just make it to the doorway, at least. at least then you’d know, you weren’t completely useless.

but your concentration slips as the unused muscles in your leg choose this moment to  seize up and suddenly you’re falling to the ground. ceramic bowls clatter against your hardwood floor, smashing into pieces while you use your hands to brace for impact— one that doesn’t come. warm arms encircle your waist, jungkook having returned just in time to stop your fall, and pull you closely into his chest. you can feel your body tremble from fear, from anger at yourself for thinking you were even near ready for something like this— so you end up crying before you notice.

“noona, baby please don’t cry,” jungkook lets the pet name slip without realising, clearing the broken shards away with his foot as he sinks to the floor with you in his arms. “it was an accident... you weren’t ready yet...” he coos into your hairline, kissing it gently as he tugs you into his chest.

you feel suffocated, trapped at home and trapped in the mindset that you’ll never be a skater again but jungkook is jungkook, he knows you more than you might have let on— dressing you up to leave the house and taking you to the one place that might soothe you.

the rink.

jungkook’s sweater swaddles you to warmth as you watch him enter the rink from the stands. it’s eleven pm and you have no idea how he got the keys— especially when namjoon closes early on a sunday. your finger tips are cold so you slip them underneath the sleeves, tucking your nose under the collar of the black cotton fabric as it heats up your cheeks and remind you of what it’s like to be in koo’s arms.

he waves at you from down below and truth be told your heart stops for a second before the younger skates to the middle of the rink. you don’t even know how he managed to get the music playing and the lights set up just for him, but jungkook has always been good at everything so you don’t put it past him. the song you recognise as  ‘wild’ by troye sivan fills the empty rink and the hairs on your skin prickle with familiarity— a song you had used in your first ever competition with taehyung. it shakes you a little, in a meaningful way, to know that jungkook went to the depths he did to learn from you and develop his own style of skating— one of gentle touches but locked down movements. he was everything and then some.

‘been a while since i’ve been a fool, for you...’

just as the high not ends, jungkook takes off, leaping into a perfected quadruple axel that you didn’t even know he’d learned to do. he loops four times in the air but lands a little shaky, they were a risky move and very rarely completed in competition but seeing that he’d taken your signature move and completed it better than your own abilities makes you smile. with a spark in his eye he mouths the words of the song to you ‘leave this blue neighbourhood, never thought loving could hurt this good,’ as he extends his right leg behind him and twirls across the ice.

this easily allows the boy to adjust his position into a camel spin, his legs parallel to the ice as he falls in tune with the lyrics before pivoting. you remember the routine and it’s every element, tracing them in your head as jungkook executes them perfectly right into the climax of the song, he’s perfect— maybe even better than you. nothing going wrong as he falls to the lower ice for a hydroblade, finger tips just brushing over its surface while he sweeps past.

‘you’re driving me wild, wild wild,” your mind drifts away with the music— convincing you that the younger skater is better than you, hes clean and sharp and— what do you have on him now? a pathetically broken leg with you unable to stand on two feet. you barely realise when the song ends and jungkook has made his way to middle of the rink to close because you’re too distracted with the emotions that clog your throat and tears that litter your galaxy eyes.

you cry, pathetically because what else is there to do.

the younger looks up from the ice, lose long sleeve shirt is littered with sweat from his exertion but he pays no mind as he noticed your tears. they shine under false light while jungkook kicks off his skates as fast as humanely possible because he hates the way your tiny body shakes as if you’re cold, he hates how your soft cheeks dampen and how you’re going without his hold for far too long. dashing up to the gallery with only socks to warm his feet, the young skater slides into the seat beside you— immediately pulling you into his heated embrace.

“baby,” he coos gently, cupping your head as you whimper into his neck. “please don’t cry, not anymore...”

you clutch at his shirt with the finger tips that peek through the sleeve of his jumper. “i can’t...it hurts not to be—be on the ice with you, that’s where I—“ you cut yourself off as a sob crawls from between your chapped lips, you crave the tight squeeze of leather skates on your feet and the cold beneath your arms, they would console you more where jungkook couldn’t.

throat burning with heartache, you nuzzle further into the boy and let him toy with your hair. “i think you should go to physical therapy noona,” jungkook whispers quietly, as though not to startle you. “you’re hurting not being out there, i see that...but if you don’t try and heal— you’ll never get back on your feet.”

jeongguk is annoyingly wise for someone  just below your age, so you nod and lace your fingers with his— tracing over the small tattoos that paint his knuckles, silently agreeing to his plea. you let him drive you home that night, clinging to him as he carried you through the door of your apartment.

he doesn’t leave, sliding into bed with you as he holds you close— comforting you once again.

“son of a motherfucking bitch,” you mumble through gritted teeth, as you attempt to step back up and down from the false steps yoongi (your physical therapist) has set up for you. he’s more of a dance therapist than anything, but his exercises are well known in your industry  for rehabilitating skaters and namjoon did say he would get you the best. the pain subsides fairly quickly, unlike the months prior when you had first started with yoongi but you’ve learned well and gotten better— even making up with your coach and best friend.

“yes ma’am?” yoongi answers from a whiles away, causing you to chuckle whilst deciding to sit down for a break. you wipe the sweat from your brow and take the bottle of water that your therapist hands to you, gulping it down to ease your ragged breathing. “you’re doing so much better than when you first came in.” you look to yoongi as he sits next to you, a short ish man (compared to jungkook, taehyung or namjoon) but still taller than you, with warm brown hair and honey eyes along with a gummy smile that makes your heart melt. he’s strict on you, but also caring in the smallest of ways— he knows your limits but when to push you too and has helped you make a pretty fast recovery.  “you’re even laughing more.”

you push at his shoulder, watching the hair fly from yoongi’s face despite his bandanna. “i laughed before!” you defend yourself with a smile.

“barely! i’m just saying, that i’m proud of you YN-ah. i’m glad you came to me in the end, it’d be a shame to see such talent go to waste.” his voice is smooth, not as deep as tae’s but soothing enough, your smile still falters at his words while he locks and unlocks his fingers, staring at the ground.

“you make it sound as if you’re leaving me,”

yoongi looks up at you with a cheeky smile, but his eyes remain slightly dimmed. “well, technically i am...” he sees the confusion on your face as your brows push together.  “an opening came up for a dancer who’s pretty big in the states and over here too, he’s korean so his fan base is large over here and—“

“but you can’t leave me!” you practically yell, shocking both yoongi and yourself— he couldn’t go just yet, not when you were so close. “i’m almost fully recovered and if you leave? a-all my progress could come undone and i’ll never get back on the ice, let alone back in time to train for the olympics!” you feel the familiar emotion of panic bubble in the pits of your stomach, tightly gripping onto yoongi’s wrist as if he’ll disappear into thin air.

the older boy puts a hand over yours, looking to you fondly. “you know that’s not what our end goal is, we want you back on the ice remember?” he reminds you calmly but you slip free from his grip anyways— feeling defeat settle heavily over your heart. if yoongi left now, there’d be nothing for you to work towards and no physician would compare to him. “besides, i already talked namjoon into letting me bring you with me...” you perk up at his words, eyes lighting up brightly at the thought of not being separated this far into your progress. “figure skating is like dance for the ice and your leg is strong enough for you to move on it in that kind of way...”

you figure yoongi is right, it’s not like you hadn’t danced— ballet lessons were almost necessary to become a figure skater, aiding with the grace and light movements you needed. if yoongi was offering you an opportunity to use dance to get back onto the ice, who were you to pass it up. dance therapy would advance her recovery much faster than your regular routine.

yoongi can tell your answer by the look of joy on your face. “so is that a yes? you’re coming with?”

“of course it is, asshole... you should’ve lead with that!” you scold him playfully, pushing the older boy with a roll of your eyes.

a feeling of hope settles, comfortingly amongst your bones— this could be it....

this could be exactly what you needed.

⇢ taglist ! ( comment, like or dm to be added! )

@periminkle​  @ggukkieland​   @aishots​ @ownthesunshine​ @codeinebelle​ @taeass​ @trviahope @singular-itae​ @preciouschimine @yoongismykink @idiakh @honeyspillings @kimsdior @chimshoe95​ @cypherft-v @tangledsparkles​ -@ultraanonymousey @rjsmochii​ ​  @thenoblr 

[guccybangtan]

Pull Me In - Jung Hoseok

pairing; hoseok x reader

word count; 3,058 ( a lil baby compared to some of these other fics 🥵)

genre; fluff, smut, non idol! au

warnings; semi public sex, spanking (like once maybe), blow job, daddy kink, unprotected sex, shower sex, impreg kink/breeding kink; let me know if anything needs to be added

a/n; I know I haven't posted since blue side chapter 10  (which was like three months ago??? I'm so sorry???) 

but!! im back with this small fic for ‘The Summer Bucket List Collab’ hosted by @jamaisjoons​

now, usually my fics are longer and better but on top of my issues with my college(long story) my dad is also in the hospital with some serious health issues so its been a whirlwind of the last few months

I hate making excuses but I wanted you all to know what’s been up but im hoping to get some more of my wips done now that I have classes again :)

regardless pls enjoy this fic I enjoyed writing it even though its not the best 

(also I still haven't written that much smut so pls don't crucify me)

shout out to Maggie - @kimtaehyunq​ for helping me with the wonderful banner for this! pls support them in their works 

enough blabbering, here we go :)

In the heat of the summer, there's nothing more relaxing than relaxing than a nice trip to the water. Since your little brother's birthday fell right at the height of summer, your family frequented the local water park to celebrate, effectively hitting two birds with one stone. Everyone got to cool off and your brother got to have an amazing party.

This year Y/B/N was turning ten and he took special care in selecting which of his friends he wants to attend. Your mother permitted him to bring along five friends, not counting you and the family.

Much to everyone's surprise, the first person he asked for was Hoseok.

Hoseok was your boyfriend of three years, and he and Y/B/N hadn't always gotten along. You and your little brother were very close, and when Hoseok first started coming around Y/B/N felt like he was taking you away from him.

Even though things eventually lightened up and Y/B/N became like a second shadow to him, Hoseok still worried that Y/B/N harbored hatred for him in secret.

"He really wants me there?" Hoseok asked you, fingers halting their ministrations.

The two of you had been settled on the couch nestled among the pillows even though it was sweltering, and Hoseok had been gently massaging you as you laid on top of him.

"You were the first person he asked for. Must be all that energy you have.'' You poked, causing your boyfriend to begin shaking with laughter.

Silence ensued once more and as Hoseok continued to run his fingers across your skin, you found yourself drifting closer and closer to sleep.

Just as you were about to fall over the edge, the rumble of Hoseok's voice in his chest woke you.

"What should I get him?" He voiced his out of the blue question.

You chuckled, shaking your head.

"He'll love whatever you decide on regardless.''

"Well what about..'' As Hoseok prattled on, you let sleep come again.

Before you knew it, it was the day of your brothers party and you were trying to decide which bathing suit you wanted to wear.

"Should I wear this one?" You asked your friend, light blue bikini in your grasp.

"Didn't you say Hoseok liked red, though?" She began digging through the pile on your bed, "wear this.''

From the bottom of the pile she produced a bright red bikini, complete with lace details around the straps and waistband. It wasn't too sultry, but for a birthday party, it seemed to be a bit much.

"It's a ten-year-old's party, Y/F/N! Not a strip club,'' You snatched it from her hands, tossing it to the side, " not to mention my little brother's party.''

"You wore that exact bikini at Namjoon's the other day?"

"That was different...'' You countered, cheeks now as red as the bikini.

"Sure it was, because you knew you were getting laid.'' Y/F/N rolled her eyes, kicking her feet up on top of the pile of discarded suits.

"I don't know what else to tell you then,'' She shrugged,'' you said no to all of these.''

"I'll figure something out.''

Sighing, you began to dig through the pile again. Hoseok was going to be at your place in 10 minutes, and then the two of you were going to be meeting the rest of the group at the waterpark.

You needed to think fast.

Just as you finished adjusting the straps of your top, knocking could be heard on the door of your apartment.

"Would you mind getting that?" You asked Y/F/N, packing the last few things you needed into a bag,"it's probably Hobi.''

"I would but...'' She trailed off, motioning to the chips that were on her lap.

"You're a piece of work,'' You rolled your eyes, dropping the bag on the floor and heading toward the front door, "I don't know what Joon sees in you.''

"My big brain and beautiful face.'' She called after you.

Sighing, you flicked the lock on the door and pulled it open revealing Hoseok.

"Well hello there.'' He spoke, eyeing you up in down as he pulled you toward him.

"Nice to see you too, lover boy.'' Giggling, you fell into his embrace.

"You know I love this bikini on you,'' Hoseok whispered into your ear as he toyed with the spandex material, pressing a kiss against the side of your head," red suits you.''

Before you could respond Y/F/N's voice rang through the air.

"Okay kids, have fun, time to go!'' Y/F/N came around the corner with your bag in hand and began ushering the two of you out the door.

"You don't want to be late! Tell Y/B/N I said happy birthday! Be sure to use protection!'' She continued shouting as the two of you approached the car.

"Use pro- What is she talking about?" Hoseok furrowed his brows as he settled in the drivers seat.

"Haha, she's just joking.'' You blurted out nervously, flicking Y/F/N the finger as Hoseok reversed out of your driveway.

All you got in return was her cheeky smile as she retreated back into your apartment.

The waterpark was near the edge of town. Considering how much space it took up, it was a miracle the city hadn't decided to demolish it yet to build another shopping mall.

The drive to the waterpark wasn't long, but with the windows down and the music blaring as the two of you drove down the open road, you couldn't help but feel relaxed.

Summer wasn't your favorite season, but you didn't care what you were doing as long as you had Hoseok by your side. The two of you did most things together but you never got tired of him, and he never got tired of you.

You were like peas in a pod and you wouldn't change that.

"Here we are!" Hoseok sang with a smile on his face as he pulled into the nearest parking spot.

You could see your family and Y/B/N's friends waiting near the entrance of the park.

After greeting everyone, the group made their way inside of the park and looked for an empty table everyone could place their things at.

Y/B/N and his friends immediately ran to the tide pool and rushed into the water, splashing around and trying to dunk each other.

You laughed at their antics as you sat at the table under the umbrella, reaching into your bag for the sunscreen.

"Can you spray me?" Hoseok asked, pulling his shirt off and setting it next to your bag.

"Yeah, uh, yes. Turn around,'' you nodded, gulping as you uncapped the bottle.

Hoseok was definitely fitter than the average man, and seeing him bathed in the golden sunlight was enough to have your mouth run dry.

"Are you coming or not Hoseok?" Your brother shouted.

"You're keeping the little man waiting, baby. Help me out here.''

Shaking your head to rid yourself of the stupor, you mumbled an apology and quickly applied the sunscreen, making sure he had a nice even coat to protect his skin.

"Keep your mind out of the gutter,'' Hoseok smirked at you as he made his way toward your little brother. "You ready to get dunked?"

For most of the afternoon you sat with your mother and talked while tanning and watching the boys roughhouse. Eventually Y/B/N decided it was time to move to the area that has the big wave come crashing down over everyone and he was adamant that you were coming too.

"Who's gonna stay with mom if I come?" You tried reasoning.

"I'll be fine, go have fun,'' She waved you off, reaching into her bag and pulling out a book," I always come prepared.''

You groaned internally, but didn't fight when Hoseok pulled you out of your chair and began to drag you along behind him.

"Y/B/N and his friends seem to be getting tired," Hoseok whispered to you as the two of you trailed behind the pack of ten-year-olds," we'll probably end up leaving sometime after this for the pizza place.''

"Good, I'm starving.''

Generally, you were a good big sister. Being older you often had to watch out for Y/B/N and make sure that he never got into too much trouble. Since the age gap between the two of you was also so large, you were also often bending to every whim of the little boy.

Waterparks were fun, and you enjoyed spending the time with your little brother, but if there was one thing you hated it was the big wave.

For some unknown reason (definitely not your lack of balance) you always managed to get knocked down and swept under the water when the recurring waves came crashing over everyone.

“I’ll be right here,’’ Hoseok spoke,” you’ll be fine.’’

Sure enough, for the first few waves you were okay. With Hoseok standing behind you, you managed to stay on your feet. But with each oncoming wave, you felt him becoming more restless as he stood behind you.

“Are you alright?” You turned around to ask him as the water calmed.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well you just seem to be wiggling a lot.’’

‘Oh, yeah…’’ he trailed off, “ about that.’’

You followed his gaze as he glanced down and noticed the bulge forming in the front of his shorts.

“Really? Now?” You asked incredulously.

“You’ve been rubbing up against me for the last ten minutes. What did you expect to happen?”

Oh. The waves had been pushing you back into him, but you hadn’t thought anything of it.

“Shouldn’t you go take care of that?”

“Me?! You started it!’’

Looking back over to where your brother and his friends were, you saw that they were still enamored with trying to dunk each other.

‘Perfect time to make a getaway,’ you thought.

“After the next wave you need to head back to mom to get ready to leave,’’ you called out to your brother, “Hoseok and I are gonna go get rinsed off and change.’’

A chorus of ‘okay’s came from the group of boys.

Grabbing Hoseok’s hand, you told him to just follow you.

The good thing about this place was that there was an abundance of showers and they were fairly large, so fixing Hoseok’s- issue- wouldn’t be a problem.

As soon as you were safely in the shower, you threaded your fingers through the hair on the nape of Hoseok’s neck, and you smashed your lips to his.

“We’ll have to be quick.’’

You nodded, groaning as he fondled your breasts through the swim top.

"Careful baby girl,'' Hoseok smirked as he tugged at the waistband of your bottoms,"don't want anyone to hear us now do we? That would ruin the fun.''

Reaching over, Hoseok turned the shower to full blast, the only sound that filled the small cubicle being the water beating against the tile.

"Maybe we shouldn’t.'' You shook your head, realizing how risky the situation actually was.

You couldn't deny that you wanted Hoseok to shove you up against the wall and fuck you like your life depended on it, but you couldn't help but be worried that someone would barge in on you.

The sheer embarrassment that you would have to deal with, especially if it was one of your parents that walked in, was enough to deter you from the railing that you so desperately wanted.

"C'mon, Y/N. We'll be okay as long as you keep quiet? Can you do that for daddy?" Hoseok hummed, hard cock rubbing against your back side.

“Yes,’’

“On your knees then.’’

Without a second thought, you dropped down, knees chilled by the tile floor; a stark contrast to the warmth of the water that was raining down on you.

Shimmying out of his shorts, Hoseok’s cock was red, precum smeared over the tip.

“Open.’’

You complied, the familiar salty taste spreading across your tongue as he slid his cock into your mouth.

“Now suck.’’

Wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, you mouthed at the tip, fisting the rest of his length in your hand.

Quiet pants fell from his lips, droplets of water racing down the front of his chest as he dipped his head.

“The things you do to me Y/N.’’ Hoseok growled, gently rocking his hips forward, pushing his cock further into your wet mouth.

Letting him take control, you felt the tip of his cock nudge the back of your throat.

“Relax for me,’’ he cooed, fingers brushing across your throat.

It didn’t take him much effort for him to force his cock past your tonsils, beginning to trust once more.

Reaching down, you slipped your hand into the waistband of your bikini bottoms and ghosted your fingers across your clit.

Sighing around Hoseok’s cock, you applied more pressure, making small circles over the bud to provide some relief.

Hoseok pulled out of your mouth muttering something about how he wasn’t gonna last as he helped you up from your position on the ground.

“These gotta go.’’ He pulled on your bottoms, sliding them down your legs.

Hands planted firmly on the wall, Hoseok tapped your hip signalling you to spread your legs.

“Ready for me, baby girl?”

“Yes daddy, please.’’ you mewled, wiggling your ass at him.

“Remember, you have to be quiet.’’

Lining his tip up with your entrance, Hoseok pushed into you in one swift motion, causing you to cry out.

Clamping a hand over your mouth, he pulled your head up so it was resting against his chest.

"Ah ah,'' He shook his head,"what happened to silence, baby? You know the rules, bad girls don't get to cum.''

"I'm sorry, daddy,'' you choked out,'' your cock just fills me up so good, I-''

“What? Can’t seem to follow instructions? If that’s the case you can just suck me off and we’ll go.’’

“No! No, please. I’ll be good.’’ You pleaded, already feeling the tightness winding up in your stomach.

Hoseok had that effect on you. Sex with him was the best you’d ever had. Somehow he just knew your body so well he could play you like a fiddle.

“Fine,’’ he tsked, pulling out to the tip and thrusting back in,’’ but next time I won’t be so kind as to give you a second chance.’’

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room, moans intermingling with the sound of water continuing to hit the tile.

True to your word you managed to keep your moans in, tiny gasps being the only sound that escaped you as Hoseok continued to pound into you at a steady pace.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over how sweet your pussy is.’’ Hoseok growled, running his hands across your back and over the swell of your ass.

“Only for you.’’

“Damn straight,’’ He panted, words punctuated by a particularly hard thrust, "So good to me, baby.''

" 'M close.'' You whimpered, letting your head loll backwards against his shoulder.

Hoseok picked up the pace, fucking into you at a brutal rate. His deft fingers reached down to your clit and started rubbing circles over the bundle of nerves much like you had been minutes ago.

It was like you could feel his cock in your throat, he was so deep in you.

"Wanna put a baby in you.'' Hoseok growled, thrusting getting sloppier.

"Do it then. Cum inside of me. Want you to fill me up.’’

"God, Y/N, when you talk like that,’’ Landing a swift smack to your asscheek, he kneaded the supple flesh.

“Oh, fuck,” You bit down on your lip,” I’m gonna cum! Please, daddy.’’

“Let it go, baby.’’

Hoseok continued rubbing small circles on your clit, pushing you over the edge. Stars clouded your vision as your eyes clamped shut, walls clenching around Hoseok’s cock as he continued to pound into your cunt.

“I’m almost there.’’ He moaned, fucking into you with a newfound fervor.

After a few brutal thrusts, he was spilling his load into your cunt, gently rocking his hips to milk himself for everything he had.

“You better keep that in.’’ He panted, pulling his softening cock out.

“I’ll do my best.’’ You rolled your eyes, body feeling the affects of the day.

“I love you, you know that right?” Hoseok mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips as he let his bodyweight rest against your own.

“I know, why do you think I let you fuck me in the shower of a waterpark?”

“Shits and giggles?” He shrugged.

“You’re an idiot.’’ You laughed, pushing his shoulder.

The two of you stood there for a moment, letting the warmth of the water run over you both.

As you stood there, you began running your hands over the expanse of Hoseok’s back, figuring it would be best to actually wash off the germs from the park water.

“I guess it’s smart to actually wash off.’’ Hoseok leaned up from your shoulder, leaning in for another kiss.

“It’s probably almost time to go eat anyway. I bet the others already left.’’

“Oh, crap!” You exclaimed, swifty pulling your bottoms back on and shutting off the water.

The two of you stumbled out of the shower to your bag.

After drying off and slipping on your actual clothes, you reached for your phone to check the notifications

“We’re gonna be late for dinner!” You cried, frantically shoving all of your stuff into the bag and rushing out the entrance of the waterpark.

Hoseok just moseyed along like there wasn’t a care in the world.

“Why are you being so slow today?”

“It’s funny to watch you get all worked up over pizza.’’ Hoseok said, signature grin plastered on his face.

“I’m hungry.’’ You pouted, reaching for his hand to pull him along.

“What, earlier wasn’t enough?”

“Shut up, you nasty!’’ Smacking his chest you dropped his hand and started walking again.

“I’m just joking. You should see the look on your face.’’ Hoseok was doubled over with laughter.

“The pizza won’t be there forever, hurry up!’’

“Race you?” He offered.

“You’re on.’’

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Dating Jason Todd would include

-YOU ARE LITTLE PRECIOUS BUNNY I SWEAR YOU BRING OUT THE SOFTEST PART OF THIS BROKEN MAN

-like this dude will literally let you get away with ANYTHING and no one better stop you

-“Hey Jay I just robbed a bank and took a lollipop from that kid next door.”

-“Aww you’re so cute, Doll. Let me put out this cigarette and I’ll help you count the money, okay?”

-“Jay, Dick said I can’t have anymore ice pops!!! I really want some, it’s not fair!!”

-“ He said what?! hOld On iM gEtTinG mY Gun nO OnE TelLs mY lItTle Babe sHe caNt haVe anY iCe popS.”

-wearing his thick leather jackets that smell like cigarettes and expensive scotch 

-Stealing his 1/16263819827 Red hoods and waddling around the house while he’s out on patrol

-“Hey I’m RedHood and I have DaDdY IssUes, prepare to diEee!!! *pew pew*”

-“is that how I sound to you?! Because I don’t *pew pew* I *brrraaatratratatataaa* get it correct Y/N”

-Your tough edgy boyfriend 

-If he has an off day, he’ll take you on a ride on his motorcycle to wherever you want to go. If it’d make you happy, he’d drive to Paris for you if he could.

-You guys usually end up drifting by the waterside, taking in the longing smell of the sea, feeling the subtle warmth of the setting sun and melting into the welcoming breeze

-There’s this really good Sandwich stand by the oceanfront and you guys always get a large one, and share it with a nice cold bottle of Coke. There’s also this really nice private beach that you two have no business being on, you guys would sometimes just sit on one of the lifeguards stands for a while and just enjoy each other 

-“Hey Jay Jay?”

-“What’s up, Love bug?

-“Your eyes have a hint of Aqua Green in them. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. I just wanted you to know that, that’s all.”

-IN HOME CONCERTS EVERY SATURDAY AND OR FRIDAY. 

-every week you guys make a list of your favorite classics and you build a Spotify playlist and dance around the house screaming *cough* I-i mean singing on the top of yalls lungs.

-weird adventures around the city! Like you guys sometimes go to weird parts of the city to see some weird crap to laugh about later on. 

-“Why is he wearing a tutu and dirty socks-“

-“keep walking baby girl don’t question it.”

-monthly movie nights where you guys watch a movie that has crappy 1 star reviews while eating a bunch of unhealthy garbage all night.

-“but why did he do that?”

-“according to ‘moviecridictbooiiii12’, he’s an uncultured swine who has no Character development, 1/10 trash person totally.”

-If you guys are just sitting in a comfortable silence, just cuddling, he might open up a bit about his childhood or maybe talk a bit about how he’s feeling. But that’s a rare rare occasion he doesn’t like talking much about it.

-This sometimes can cause a bit of a rift because it almost feels as if there’s a lack of trust but you understand he’s been through a whole lot and if it were you, you’d probably be the same way

-he does not like pills in the house but if you have health issues and have to take them, he won't crucify you because of it, but he will monitor you and make sure there is no drug abuse. He wants to make sure history doesn’t repeat itself. He doesn't wanna lose you that way.

-He’s a depressed crackhead 

-“Hey Y/N, can you tell me what’s in the drawer in the kitchen. The one next to the sink”

 -“Hmm? There’s nothing in here Jason.”

-“Nothing you say? Just like my relationship with Bruce haha.”

-“Are you okay?”

-“No I am not and neither is my sleep schedule.”

-Oh yeah this Poor boy barely sleeps. Mainly because he’s out on patrol all night and when he finally gets home, he’s being called back out. Or sometimes he’s just so restless thinking about everything he needs to do. Other times he’s just scared to sleep.

-Yeah he’s pretty reluctant to go to sleep. He’s scared to have a bad dream and wake up in a vulnerable state. Or to accidentally wake you up from tossing and turning and wails of agony.

-You lost a lot of hours of sleep already do to comforting him at night so as much as he can function without a nights rest, he’ll do it to spare you

-You hate when he does this because you actually don’t mind comforting him, it makes you feel like he trusts and can rely on you.

-nightmares about the joker or the pit. Cryinggg this boy is really traumatized

-“Shhh, Jason it’ll be alright. I’m right here love.”

-Even though he avoids sleep at all costs, this doesn’t stop him from napping on the recliner or at the kitchen table from time to time.

-He’s a bit self destructive with drinking, smoking, betting himself up, not sleeping or eating properly. You really have to help him and work with him. Be patient and kind pLz.

-He doesn’t like exposing you to the stuff he does, he doesn’t like you seeing all the gore or what not so he doesn’t try to come home bloody much actually. He might stop at dicks house or some other friend’s house to clean up a bit before coming to you

-Todd doesn’t like you to see and be around all that. He wants to keep that life very very separate, he even tries to keep the news off and away from you. Although you already know and if it bothers you it not, it’s not much you can do to stop him.

-The only time you might see him bloody or hurt is when he can’t make it to a friends house and he needs you to patch him up and put him to bed quickly.

-argurmentssss

-Yeah you guys do little annoying antics back and forth but it’s not something super crucial. The only time where it heats up is like if something he’s doing really really bothers you, like his killings or if he does something super reckless. The arguments usually end up with

- “I’m sorry Doll, I’ll do better for you.”

- “Sorry JayBird, I wasn’t being fair” 

-The worst an argument had ever gotten was when he didn’t come home for weeks without telling you he was out on a mission and you were scared out of your mind and ended up cursing him out for scaring you. 

-You didn’t talk to him for about a week and he was a wreck

-“JASON DONT YOU DARE TRY TO KISS ME OR HUG ME I THOUGHT YOU WERE F*CKING DEAD OR WORSE! YOU COULD'VE TOLD ME SOMETHING LIKE I LITERALLY HATE YOU RIGHT NOW I COULDN'T SLEEP FOR WEEEKS JASON I WAS WORRIED SICK-“

-“Hey, it’s okay Y/n- I’m here no-“

-“NO IT'S NOT LITERAL I DON'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU ANYMORE, GET AWAY FROM ME.”

-He cannot stand when he breaks your heart or makes you upset like he beats himself up a whole lot. He will apologize to you and do anything to make it up.

-“Stupid Todd? How can you upset the one person that seems to be so patient and loving to you? Ugh you idiot.”

-yeah he literally kissed up to you for months he felt so bad even after you apologized for overreacting and told him he didn’t need to do anything 

-Yeah speaking of kissing up to you, he Buys you anything you want just ask. Looking at that super nice outfit in the mall? Check your room, it’s on your bed with a cute little note. Want an ice cream sundae? Yeah he got extra fudge/caramel for his princess. 

-He just loves you like so so much he doesn’t care what you look like, how big or how skinny, how light or how dark you are. He literally adores you and wants to protect you with all his heart. He’d buy the whole world for you.

-“Jason, literal listen to me. 600 dollars for a charm bracelet I liked in the mall is too much, go return it”

-he’s a bit overprotective with you. Not in a “HEKDJEHEHEHINEEDTOKNOWWHEREYOUAREATALLTIMESSENPAI.”  Kind of way but in a like “Check in every once in a while will ya babe? I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

-He doesn’t let you go outside after a certain time for ANYTHING unless it’s an emergency. It’s too dangerous in Gotham for you to be out scrolling going to a convenience store at 10pm at night. So if you need something from the store he’ll go get it for you or already have it in the house.

-Will 100 throw hands for you

-actually makes sure you can defend yourself and trains you a bit every month to make sure if trouble comes and he’s not there, you can protect yourself

-Intimacy

-Honhonhon. Although what many believe Jason has a high sex drive and wants it a lot or what not. I don’t think it’s 100% true

-I believe that like if his partner wasn’t the type of person who wanted it, or didn’t feel comfortable with it, he’d be okay with it. Like he doesn’t need it to survive although you look hecking good in that outfit today

-I feel like he’d be more kissy and rough touching than the full 100 yards with a more soft/standoffish sexually significant other. 

-Yeah if he gets from a stressful mission or just needs to feel you, he’s gonna wanna kiss and touch on you but if you’re not into all that then like he’d back off because he respects you enough 

-neck kisses and thigh kisses 

-“jaybirdy I wanted to wear that new skirt I got yesterday, now I got your bites all over my legs.”

-he's a totally Dom and that’s on that period boo

-dAdDy KiNk I’m sorry

-His voice somehow becomes super raspy when he’s aroused?!?!

-He will tease you to a point you moan out his name and then turn around and act innocent 

-“let’s watch Frozen! What’s with that face dear? You didn’t think I’d let you have it that easily now did you?”

-*wears anything short*

-”WOOOOO DAMMNNNN Y/NNNNNN LOOKING FOINE TODAY I SEE YOU! CAN I GET YOUR NUMBER?!?! YOU GOT A BOYFRIEND BECAUSE I KNOW HE'S DAMN LUCKYYY!”

-Highkey finds it so hot when you sit on his lap like damn it feels so nice to him like you know you’re his and that’s like arousing to him. Will play with the hem of your skirt if your wearing them and your thighs aren’t safe

(Anyways I ain’t trynna make this NSFW but I might do a little something for my 200 follower special)

-On a softer purer note, you guys are like the roasters of the fam, okay! Like no one is safe, especially Damian.

-“Tch- Todd and his little pet.”

-“Dami, didn’t know you’d be here, and apparently your hairline didn’t know either.”

-*Jason, Tim and Dick were dying*

-“Hey you little accident, why you standing like that, you look like you’re bout to enlist in the army.” 

-“shut up Todd, at least I have good posture unlike you.”

-“Hey leave Damian alone, Jason. Dami just has a pole in his ass that makes him stand in first position all the time. It’s a serious condition, y’all need to stop laughing.”

-“Hey Selina! Your Sugar Daddy is in the kitchen, try not to steal anything though because he might cut down your weekly allowance.”

-“Haha Y/N and yours is in the living room getting drunk, careful he might end up with me tonight.”

-“Hmm, a gold digger and a cougar? Wow you got your careers set don’t ya! Ooops you should check in the mirror tho! I think your Botox is drooping.”

-yAlL CAnT sTop ROaStinG PeOpLe anD it’S wOrse When yaLls DruNk

-You’re actually pretty close to The BatFam and like Bruce Adores you he thinks you’re a wonderful influence on Jason like you changed him a lot. Dick sees you as a baby sister and like he literally baby’s you so much it’s sad. Tim and you like to joke around a bit and talk you guys get along decently. Although Damian would NEVER admit it, he actually is kinda fond of you even though you guys insult each other. He might stab someone for like hurting you or something. But watch your back because he might stab you as well.

-going to Bruce’s Galas and charity events like by force. 

-“yYyyYYyyY/NnnNnNnNiEeeeEEee PLEaSE COmeEeeee sO iWOnT DrInk MySelF ouT oF tHeRe!!!”

-“Jason let go of my leg.”

-You don’t actually mind it too much, you’ve made some nice connections and plus it’s a little date night with Jason so Win Win!!

-He actually wears a nice Tux and styles his hair real nicely. Might even be wearing that nice watch Bruce gave him a long time ago on his birthday.

-*sniff sniff* is that Cologne? *sniiiiiiffffffff* *HIGHLY* Expensive cologne he’s wearing?! And *pat pat* HAIR GEL OH BOIIII

-He actually picks out a dress for you to wear. One he’s been dying to see you in. The super expensive one he found while shopping with Dick and Bruce one day.

-If some rich guy try’s flirting with you, it’s over for them. Jealous Todd Mode activated!

-“Doll Face, I found you. Love wandering off don’t you babe? When we get home, I’ll make sure you won’t want to wander off again,” He kisses into your ear hungrily “wHo’s tHiS, Y/N? Is he bothEriNg yOu?” He asks like he didn’t see him there

-“No but Jason you are.“

-“:o”

*later*

-“I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT I DID WRONG Y/N!! HE WAS FLIRTING WITH YOU AND I HAD TO INSERT MY DOMINANCE.”

-“JAY HE WAS A BUSINESSMAN LOOKING TO INDORSE ME AND MY WORK! YOU JUST EMBARRASSED ME AND MADE HIM FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE!! LITERALLY NOW HE THINKS I HAVE AN OVER POSSESSIVE BOYFRIEND.”

-“oh-“

“YEAH ‘oH’! serIouslY I CanT stAnd yoU.”

-Jason’s drinking and smoking. Let’s just say you’re not the biggest fan of it because of his health, you’re so worried about it. He’s already taking shots and stabs but like the drinking and smoking on top of that? You’re worried about him

-You always voice your concern and he’s never too phased and he’s always like 

-“Don’t worry L/N, I’ll be okay. If this kills me, don’t let Dick take my meat stash in the freezer. Tell him I’m coming back to life in like 3 months give or take and I’ll be hungry for steak.”

-Actual best boyfriend! Like if you’re insecure about anything he’ll make you feel so much better, in every way possible. He makes it so know how much he loves you it’s so sweet and super cute like I’m crying.

-makes weird faces at you randomly and it somehow gets you to laugh?!?! 

-cooks breakfast or dinner for you every once in a while but messes up a few times 

-“sorry y/n I accidentally burnt the cookies I was trying to make for you. I-I can go run and ask Alfred to make some? I know how long you’ve been waiting to have some.”

- Did I mention he’s best boi? Like ugggghhhh he’s so blind to all that superficial mess people get caught up in. You talk down about yourself and he’ll like attack you in love I swear he will. He doesn’t like the self deprecation you do. He completely detests it.

-“Say you’re ugly one more time I’ll slap you with this heart of mine. Don’t make me do it Y/N. I’ll give you so much love, the only thing you’ll be able to say is “Omg I love myself so much like damn I’m so sexy and so fine and my personality? Perfect! thanks  to my totally handsome boyfriend, I see myself so clearly now.”

-You guys Also like spend his birthday with just each other. But it’s really special to him and he always looks forward to the small marble cake you make, that has strawberries on top. He loves when you sit on his lap with your face in the crook of his neck, whispering into his skin ever so gently telling him to ‘make a wish old man’

-something about the birthdays you spend with him, brings him back to a happy place he once felt as a child. Or wanted to feel. He always wishing for the same thing…..to always see you happy

-“Jay I love you.”

-“I love you too Y/N. Remember that okay?”

(Request open)

[dessarious]

Misconceptions, Miscommunication, and Misinformation Pt70

Inspired by @ozmav Maribat AU

AO3   Beginning   Previous   Next

Marinette woke slowly, smiling at the steady heartbeat under her ear. She couldn’t explain the feeling, but waking up warm and safe with her girlfriend just made it seem like everything was right in the world. That feeling only lasted until she tried to stretch and couldn’t.

Her memory of the days events came back in a rush and she felt tears at the back of her eyes. She pushed them down, refusing to feel sorry for herself. Today was a good day. All of Paris was likely celebrating and she should be as well. Turning over was a bit of a challenge since she had to reach down and untangle her legs from Chloe’s. Even sitting up was different. You don’t think about how different muscles work to complete an action but as she struggled up to lean against the headboard she couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much she’d have to get used to.

It wasn’t like she’d never be able to walk again though. When she was Ladybug it would be like this never happened. Granted she wasn’t certain if that was good or bad. It would help to keep her legs from atrophying but she had to wonder if it would just make it harder to adjust overall.

Chloe began to get restless in her sleep, probably a nightmare, so Marinette began combing her fingers through the other girls hair to help them both calm down. There were so many things that would change. Everything in her civilian life was going to turn upside down and she knew that she couldn’t even guess half of the things that would change.

Her home was now completely inaccessible to her as Marinette. Even if her parents had the money to renovate, and they didn’t, there was no room. Chloe, she was sure, would insist she stay at the hotel until things were sorted out. But at the same time the only real solution would be to rent or buy somewhere else for her to live. She had enough money from her business to manage that at least, but she wasn’t sure how her parents would react to her having to use it. She was already forming arguments in her head for when they suggested they sell the bakery to cover her expenses. She was pulled out of her head by a light knock on the door. Definitely not Damian at least.

“Come in.” Tim poked his head in and she saw concern on his face but not the pity she’d expected which was a nice surprise.

“How are you feeling?” She frowned at the question, knowing she was going to get sick of hearing it quickly, but also because she wasn’t sure how to answer. She didn’t really feel any different yet.

“Fine, how’s the city handling the news?” Tim blinked at her, obviously surprised at the subject change but he shrugged.

“It seems to be a city wide holiday. Businesses and schools shut down so people could celebrate, or something. A lot of people seem to be using the time to grieve loved ones that happened to die while Hawkmoth was active since they couldn’t before, or just having nervous breakdowns. They’ve set up quiet spaces and tents where people can go talk to counselors and such for free. I realize now that I really didn’t understand the type of terror Hawkmoth was really imposing on this city.” Marinette could only hum in agreement. It was going to be a long adjustment period as people slowly let themselves feel properly again. She hoped people would continue to take other people's feelings into consideration before they acted though. It was one of the few good things that had come from this situation.

“It still doesn’t feel real. I don’t think I’ll stop waiting for the next Akuma attack for quite awhile. After being under constant threat for so long it’ll take my brain a while to really grasp the new reality.” The way Tim was looking at her she thought he knew she meant more than just the reality of Gabriel being imprisoned.

“I don’t know how much detail Damian’s gone into about our team but Oracle was paralyzed after an incident with the joker so if you need someone to talk to or ask questions we’ve got you covered. Honestly I think it would do her some good to have someone to talk to that understands as well.” Marinette smiled sadly, and a little guiltily at him.

“This must bring up some painful memories for you then, I’m sorry you had to be here for this.” Tim was looking at her like she was insane but she couldn’t figure out why. That concern was replaced by a more pressing one. “I hate to ask but I really don’t want to wake Chloe before she’s ready and Tikki still hasn’t eaten either…” She felt her face heat up and couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Do you need me to get something for you?” She had to take a few deep breaths and still could only make her voice barely audible.

“I need to go to the bathroom. Would you mind carrying me over there?” She hated the thought of being dependant on people for something so personal, not to mention something she’d been doing since she was two. She’d have to start a list of basic things she needed to find new ways to handle to avoid situations like this. Tim however just took it in stride.

“Of course. Here, put your arm around my neck.”

------------------------------------------------

As Chloe woke she could feel Plagg and Tikki still sleeping on her chest. Poor Tikki had been so distraught about what happened she hadn’t been able to eat to recharge. Mari had tried so hard to cheer the little god up but then Master Fu said there was nothing to be done and the Kwami broke down completely. She blindly reached over to where Marinette should be and hit nothing but air and mattress.

She shot up, earning an annoyed hiss from Plagg while Tikki blinked at her in confusion. Marinette was gone. How could she be gone? Even know that Hawkmoth wasn’t a threat Chloe’s mind jumped to the worst possible conclusions.

“Calm down kit, breathe and listen.” Plagg was suddenly hovering in front of her face and she tried to do what he said. At first she could only hear her own heartbeat but soon that gave way to the sound of voices in the living room, specifically Mari’s distinctive giggle. It took her another few minutes to completely even out her breathing but at least she knew everything was alright. Well as alright as it could be. Once she was certain she wouldn’t worry Marinette with a panic attack she crossed to the door to see her and Tim sitting on the couch with his computer.

“See? They make wheelchairs so you can basically be standing if you need to Might even give you a few extra inches or more in height since you’re so small. That way you can reach cupboards and medicine cabinets and such. I’m sure we can make any necessary changes to whatever you order to make it as useful for you as possible. Hell we added a mini missile launcher to Babs’ once before she made us take it off.” Chloe was tempted to run over and hug Tim for the consideration he was showing. He acted like all this was perfectly normal, and in a way she supposed it was. At least it was Marinette’s new normal. It worried her that Mari hadn’t really reacted to the change yet though. Eventually there would be a breakdown of some sort and Chloe silently promised them both that she’d be there for it.

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[the-darklings]

can i request for march blurb night in advance?? like a santi/v au where they meet after a few years of v being manager and santi being married (and expecting a kid)? im really curious about how the conversation would go down👀👀

—IN MY PLACE;

⤫ pairing: santino x reader!V

⤫ wc: 2.9k+

⤫ notes: BRO. For context, please read this first. Also, blast “In My Place” by Coldplay for extra feels.

“I’m afraid that I cannot—”

Your head snaps up, the pen in your hand stilling as you raise your head towards the door of your office. Charon’s voice is familiar to you but you rarely hear it anything other than soothing monotonous. The unease, the reluctance—those are not things that you hear often, if at all.

Has that dreadful individual arrived already?

No—no, Charon would have rang to inform you first. The Adjudicator is distant in their ruthless professionalism, but they won’t force their way into your office. They better not.

The door slams open and your fingers rest against the comforting weight of a sharpened blade, tensing. Your role now may be to keep order but very few do it as efficiently as you do. There is a reason why you have become such a renowned manager and it has little to do with kindness.

But—

Something clenches around your heart, your spine, dragging you years back at the sight of the face in front of you.

You haven’t seen him since—

Since Santino came to you personally after the news about his engagement broke—not since you told him face-to-face that the only way to keep his power was to follow through with it. Camorra council was getting antsy for heirs, for the security that comes with a continuous line of succession. He could not delay any further without risking an outright rebellion or attempts to take his power.

The power that’s been in his family since Camorra was founded centuries ago.

He hasn’t changed. Same hair, same irritated expression, same arrogant posture, same fancy suit.

Same intense eyes that latch onto you like he’s been starved for the sight of you.

You try to ignore the stab right into your heart at the glimpse of a golden wedding band around his finger.

You try to ignore the way he exhales slowly, like some invisible weight has dropped away from his shoulders now that he’s in front of you.

“My apologies, Miss,” Charon begins and you drag your eyes to your right hand, rising to your feet. “But I’m afraid Mr D’Antonio was rather…insistent on seeing you. I told him you were busy and unavailable—”

Santino’s lips part, his expression dark, but you speak before he can. “Don’t worry,” you reassure Charon, giving him a measured look. “This will not take long. Please continue with the preparations.”

A polite dismissal.

Charon hesitates. Behind his glasses, his dark eyes slide towards the Italian—one of the most powerful men in the world, now—and if you didn’t know any better you would say that Charon gives Santino D’Antonio a warning look before he nods at you. 

He obeys without another word, closing the office door softly behind himself and all is silent.

You have no idea what to say to him. You told him that he should never see you again. That it would be for the best; a clean break. His presence here, now, is like a knife—a slow, dull, searing knife you could spend days twisting inside your heart. Always just a bit more, just a tiny bit longer; you would hold onto him till you can almost pretend that you’re both happy and free. 

“(Name).”

He seems to choke on your name; exhale it from deep inside his chest, soft and loving and hungry. His eyes journey over your features and you see, feel, taste his longing for you in that simple gesture alone. In turn, you chain your own longing tighter. Chain that part of you that wants to do nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and—

I’ve missed your stupid, sleepy face. 

“Congratulations,” you whisper gently instead, trying to keep the pain from your expression and voice by injecting coolness into your words. “It’s wonderful news. I hope it’s an easy pregnancy—”

“Don’t,” he snarls, his expression twisting with rage as he cuts the distance between you but you step back before he can touch you. “I am not here because of that. I’m—”

“Then why are you here, Santino?”

He exhales loudly, the frame of his body restless as it is tense. Upon closer inspection, you realise that you were wrong. He looks miserable. The bags under his eyes are so deep and dark, he looks at least ten years older. Like the cocky ease with which he’s always held himself has crumbled away into nothing. 

“Why?” he breathes unsteadily, and tries to reach for you again but you pull back again, the back of your thighs almost brushing against your work desk. “Why won’t you let me touch you, amore? Let me. Let me.”

His voice is a wrecked whisper as he steps closer, leaning his face closer while his fingers come to cup your cheeks. He’s as frantic as he is hollowed out, unsteady, and you both exhale when your skin meets his. A shudder rolls across your limbs and you have to swallow down your own relief. You know him intimately; the heat of his palms, the tickle of his breath, the scent of his cologne and the security of his presence by your side.

For a moment you simply stand together, your foreheads almost touching, your breaths mingling. You breathe. Deep, haggard breaths. A part of you wonders if this is the first time in a year since either of you has been able to breathe properly. 

“Mi manchi,” he exhales in the space between you, his voice thick, warped. His fingers trace over the curve of your jaw, breathless, and your palm settles against his chest and the thundering beat of his heart alone betrays him. “So much I can’t sleep at night. Every minute, hm, every minute of every day, you haunt me. Tell me—tell me I am not alone in this sickness. This longing. Please, amore.”

Your fingertips hover over the round curve of his cheek, his chin, and you only offer him a pained, “You’re not.” 

You’ve been just as sick with longing for him as he’s been for you but—

He slams into you. The back of your legs crash against the desk but you don’t care because he’s kissing you and god—

It tears through you like a bolt of lightning, just like the first time you’ve kissed and all the times that followed. All those secret, stolen moments between you. The overwhelming heat that explodes through you every time.

His hands are cupping your face, his tongue eager and desperate as it refamiliarise itself with the taste of you and you lean into him too. Your nails scratch against his neck and he groans—that deep, rumbling sound—his hips pressing against yours and you can feel every inch of him. Every exhale and the heat and the taste of him—

You’re burning. You’re not drowning. You’re burning and you want to burn till there is nothing left of you at all. Till you’re both ash and can blow into the wind together, never to be controlled or dependant on the wills of others ever again. 

Your fingers slip into his hair, and he caresses your cheek, jaw, neck. His other hand trails down your neck and the curve of your breast before settling against your waist, greedy and selfish. His movements are barely controlled—like he wants to rush but knows that he needs to savour this—and you grind yourself into him, making him hiss out a breath when you break apart for a second. 

His self-control has snapped long ago, and his fingers snake around your thighs, coaxing and sensual, and your body knows his, so you obey. With his help, it takes only a tiny boost for you to settle on top of your desk. His slender fingers trace up your skin and your legs part for him, making all the room he might want or need. He slips between them easily, without hesitation; a dance and a play you have done a thousand times before. An effortless shifting and coiling of your limbs and—

And his lips are on your neck, the hollow of your throat, the cut of your collarbone. His burning fingers rest against the back of your neck and you sigh at the hotness of his mouth on your skin. Ravenous. His lips and tongue turn the blood in your veins into liquid flame as he explores. Your own fingers are in his hair again and that welcoming, warming heat in your lower stomach blooms—

“Ti amo così tanto.”

You crash back into reality. 

And with it, you push him back so hard, he stumbles.  

You get off the desk at once, smoothing your clothes as you gasp for breath, trying to not look at him. 

“We can’t—” it sounds like you’re talking through a mouthful of crushed glass but ignore the weakness of your own heart. “We can’t do this anymore, Santino.”

“Why not?”

He barely sounds coherent, but you still don’t look in his direction. Because he has such a way of ripping those walls down. Ever since he’s found a way to do it, he can do it with a blink and you hate him for it. You have to be strong now, more than ever, and you resent the fact that it’s you that has to be strong for the two of you.

You douse the heat in your veins, the inferno in your heart that only he has ever managed to ignite to such a degree, and lift your head.

Santino is breathing so heavily, his shoulders are moving with his inhales and you ignore the wild look in those green eyes of his.

“Because you’re married,” you spit out, pained, forcing the words out even as they shred your heart into ribbons, leaving a gushing, bleeding mess behind. “Because you’re expecting a child. Because there are lines we can’t cross anymore. I’m not that kind of person. We—we can’t be together. It’s time to accept that. Let me go. For your own sake just—”

But he’s shaking his head, his fingers flexing, and he approaches you purposely. Fury deepens the line of his face, sets his jaw into a rigid line. “Never.”  

“Please, Santino. You have a wife—”

“I don’t love her,” he snarls lowly, and stalks even closer, his eyes flashing. His gaze is merciless, almost cruel, as he murmurs his next words to you like a confession. “I will never love her. I can’t stand the sight of her, do you understand that, hm? She repels me in every way. On our wedding night, I imagined it was you.”

God, you don’t want to hear this. You can’t—

“Stop.” 

Your plea goes unanswered as his digits settle on your forearms, and he stares at you imploringly, still effortlessly cruel.  

“When I kissed her, I imagined that I was kissing you, tasting you,” he continues softly, and you shake your head, your eyes squeezing shut like you can block his words out if you don’t see the despondent look on his face. “When I fucked her, I imagined that it was you underneath me, amore mio. I imagined that it was love when I forced myself to touch her and make her feel good. And when I came it was with your name on my lips, not hers. How lucky for me that it only took once, no?”

“Stop,” you growl harshly, and shove him away from you again, your blood roaring in your ears. “Stop it. I don’t want to hear this. I—”

Your eyes burn as you turn your head away, trying to control the tsunami of emotion battering against your heart. 

You don’t want to know about a woman—his wife—who exists in your place now.

Santino is silent, his expression drawn, empty. 

It’s so unfair. It’s so fucking unfair. 

“Do you still love me?”

Your heart stops in your chest for a second, your throat closing up as your head jerks back towards him. 

“You know that I do.”

But it doesn’t make a difference. How you feel never makes a goddamn difference. Life never allows you happiness—not really. It throws you scraps of something good before its torn away from you again and again. 

Alone. Always so terribly, awfully alone.

“I don’t want to see you again,” you tell him quietly, and you feel your heart tear itself into tiny pieces. But it needs to be done. It needs to be. “And I forbid you from ever touching me again.”

He’s so still, he doesn’t look like he’s breathing. His expression frozen, his eyes wide, and lips parted in disbelief.

You place your hand against the back of your desk, gripping it so tightly your fingers ache. Something to anchor you to reality, something to help you ignore the lost look on his face, the bob of his throat as he forces himself to swallow. 

“You have your new life, and I have mine,” you tell him, your words devoid of emotion. “We finally got what we both wanted. Power. Don’t you think we should stop ruining each other’s lives? We should both move on and be happy.”

His gaze is frantic. 

“Don’t do this—” 

A sharp knock interrupts him. Santino’s mouth snaps shut and you turn towards the door.

“Come in.”

The door swings open before you’re even done speaking and Charon’s guarded stare goes straight to Santino as he enters. The tall man regards the Italian coolly for a moment before his head tilts in your direction respectfully. 

“Miss, the Adjudicator has arrived and wishes to see you at once.”

Santino is still staring at you, and every second of silence that stretches between you just leaves you colder and colder. 

You both have power now. But there is a price to pay for everything as he’s always been so fond of reminding you. 

Santino straightens, his chin tilting in that painfully familiar, proud manner and you almost crumble then. He empties his features of that longing and desire. Empties himself of everything till you’re left staring at the shell he projects. 

“This is not happiness, amore,” he says, his voice tinted with resentment, and his hands slip into his pockets. “This is not—”

His eyes go to Charon and he looks up the silent man up and down before his eyes cut back to you. 

“Lo sceglierò sempre te,” he states coldly, and you suck in a breath, gripping the table tighter. “Keep that mind, cara mia.” 

With that, he turns around and stalks out of the office, taking your heart with him. 

His footsteps disappear down the corridor and the silence left behind is so dreadful, you can’t bear to look at Charon.  

Minutes drag, but you can’t seem to get rid of the burn in your eyes. You hiss an angry breath from behind your tightly clenched teeth, and press your palm over your eyes. 

“Am I—”

The lump in your throat won’t let you speak, and you work to get rid of it for another few moments before you finally articulate your thoughts. 

“Am I really that undeserving of happiness, Charon?” you wonder in a fragile, wet whisper. “First John, now Santino. Am I really that awful that I can never be h-happy?” 

Crisp steps draw nearer and you lower your hand, staring at the floor. Charon pulls out a serviette from his pocket, offering it to you but you only shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“You more than deserve happiness, Miss,” he says quietly, almost kindly, and your watery stare raises to his face. “After all you have been through, it is not selfish to desire for such a thing.”

He puts the serviette back into his pocket and seems to hesitate. “Permission to speak freely, Miss?”

Your eyebrows knit. “Always.”

Charon sighs faintly, his head tilting slightly as he gives you a piercing look. “I do believe that if Sir were here, he would tell you to the hell with the rules. Go with your heart as they say.” 

You chuckle weakly, glancing towards the floor before your eyes lift back to the man before you again. “Winston cared about rules above all else.”

Charon’s eyebrow arch into a pointed line. “I do believe, Miss, that it would not be presumptuous for me to say that he cared about you even more. This hotel has always been more than a job, more than a duty to him—it was Sir’s legacy and he entrusted it to you because he believed you could lead better than anyone. But not at the expense of your own happiness.”

Inhaling deeply, you clear your throat, pressing your fingertips against the corners of your eyes. 

“Would you like me to contact Mr D’Antonio—”

“No.”

Charon’s expression slackens with surprise, and you give him a firm look. 

“We have business to attend to,” you tell him resolutely, wiping your face of emotion, of vulnerability you showed him because you trust him just as Winston once did. “Like you said, we have a legacy to uphold. Let’s go and show that terrible, annoying Adjudicator what we’re made of.”   

Charon stands taller, his posture ramrod straight, and he inclines his head with that cool professionalism. “Of course, Miss,” he says, but you see the sadness buried deep in that dark stare. “As you wish.”

Santino has his new family. 

And you have yours. 

It’s time to wake up and live in reality. 

… 

an: AS IF I WAS GONNA WAIT FOR A MONTH FOR THIS PAIN FEST. I would have written this sooner but this ask came through in the middle of my 48 hour COA 11 lockdown and then I had work. But maaaaaan. The pain of this AU………it hit differently. We are here to suffer and suffer only. Hope you “enjoyed” it!!!     

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 4: City Of Dreams]

Series summary: You are an overwhelmed and disenchanted nurse in Boston, Massachusetts. Queen is an eccentric British rock band you’ve never heard of. But once your fates intertwine in the summer of 1974, none of your lives will ever be the same...

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, not really angst but you can FEEL that the angst is coming, pre-angst???

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​  @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

He calls you at home, at the bare-bones flat you share with two Imperial College nursing students; he calls because he knows you want to see the world. He can’t give you the world yet, he can’t quite afford that. But what he can afford are two tickets to the British Museum, which are, incidentally, free.  

Roger shows you the Rosetta Stone, a column from the Temple of Artemis, the Black Obelisk of Shalmaneser III, the River Witham swords, the Benin ivory mask of Queen Idia, Chinese jade, Incan gold, portraits of Anne Boleyn, bronze busts of Hadrian and Claudius, Rembrandts and Da Vincis and Van Goghs. He shows you the treasures of the living and the ruins of the dead, their currency and their gods and their flesh: skeletal mummies of people who walked the earth a millennium and a half before the Mayans, three thousand years before Alexander.

He’s uncharacteristically patient. He takes his time. He studies the maddeningly small words on the displays and asks you which relics you like best, whether they speak to you, what they say. He doesn’t want to leave even when you offer, even when you can see he’s restless for a cigarette, when he drums his fingers against his hip and gnaws his lower lip with those tiny canine teeth. Maybe there’s something else he’s even more ravenous for.

Roger wants to show you everything. There are alabaster-white, echoing corridors roped off for renovations, but that doesn’t stop him. He sprints with you down dimly-lit hallways—your fingers interlaced with his, your hair flying—and raises curtains and murky sheets of plastic to reveal marble faces, Anglo-Saxon helmets, Viking blades, fifth-century scrolls. He keeps watch as you look; and when he hears the footsteps of security guards he pulls you into the shadows, presses you flat against the wall, giggles in whispers as he clasps his palm over your mouth and begs you to be quiet. I’m trying, your gleaming eyes tell him, and when he lifts his hand away his burning sapphire gaze drops to your lips, and you think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him. But at the last moment you turn away, pretend you hadn’t noticed, tell him you think the footsteps are gone.

And the words ricochet perilously through your mind like shrapnel: I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

That once felt like a promise; now it feels like a plea.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have a deeply philosophical question for you.”

“Go ahead.”

John is laying across the studio couch on his back, using your maroon-tights-and-golden-sundress-clothed thigh as a pillow, holding his notebook with one hand and a dulling pencil with the other. You’re working through a pile of the band’s outfits that need mending, denim and leather and knits and polyester strewn over your lap; you are excellent at stitching, whether in fabric or flesh. Every once in a while you twirl a lock of John’s feathery hair, and he doesn’t seem to mind. “If Brian was a superhero, who would he be?”

“Spider-Man,” you reply instantly. “The limbs.”

“Ahhhh, of course! He’s a regular daddy longlegs, isn’t he?” John begins sketching. “I already have Roger as Thor—blond and ragey, likes to throw things—and Freddie as Iron Man. Innovative and unstoppable. Fearless leader. Shamelessly opulent.”

“How about you?”

John smirks, but maybe he winces a little too. “Doctor Strange.”

You frown down at him. “You aren’t strange, John.”

“I am,” he says simply. “But that’s alright. I make do.”

“I don’t find you strange.”  

“Yes, well. You’re accustomed to patching together damaged things.”

Freddie explodes into the room, his tall black boots clopping on the linoleum floor. He waves his arms hysterically and thrusts his notebook towards you. I need your help, he’s written.

“Sure thing. Ask away.”

He scribbles another line and turns the notebook so you can see. Tell Brian he’s a twat.

You sigh. “Freddie, no.”

Behind the soundproof glass, Freddie, Roger, and Brian have been working on In The Lap Of The Gods: first Roger’s falsetto parts, then Freddie’s piano. This has been no easy task. Freddie is on complete vocal rest after being diagnosed with laryngitis, Brian is recovering from a duodenal ulcer (on top of his residual fatigue from hepatitis), and they’re all ready to strangle each other. Freddie opens his mouth to protest.

“Don’t you dare!” you cry, leaping to your feet. You start a fresh pot of tea on the hotplate and grab the flashlight from your bag. You’ve registered with a London-based travel nurse agency and, after heavy lobbying from Freddie and Roger, have officially been signed with the record company as Queen’s tour nurse. Assuming, of course, that the next tour ever happens. “Let me see.”

Freddie reluctantly plops down onto the couch so you can shine the flashlight down his inflamed throat.

“I better not find out you’ve been bitching at people,” you tell him. Freddie winks and flips his hair.

From the other side of the glass, you can see Roger jabbing an index finger at Brian, shouting, swearing, needling until Brian flings his hands into the air and stomps out of the studio.

“Well,” John says. “I’m glad that’s going well.”

You aren’t terribly alarmed; you’ve seen this before. Brian will spend a few minutes outside, pacing and muttering to himself under the sweltering August sky, and eventually he’ll right himself again—like a sailboat gaining traction in a storm—and return for round two or twelve or twenty. You pour Freddie a cup of piping hot tea with honey and slip into the live room, Freddie and John following behind you.

“How are things?” John asks cheerfully.

Roger is wearing a half-unbuttoned leopard print shirt, tight black leather pants, and black sweatbands on both wrists that he tugs at when he’s frustrated. He snorts in reply and rolls his eyes. Then he glances over at Brian’s Red Special. The guitar has been left unattended on its stand, shining and forbidden. Oh no.

“I wouldn’t,” John cautions.

But Roger does: he pulls the Red Special into his lap and begins to pluck away at it. You recognize the mournful intro riff of Stairway To Heaven. John whistles nervously. Freddie crosses his arms over his chest and taps the heels of his boots against the floor in disapproval.

“Roger, please,” you say. “Don’t stress the man out, you’ll give him another ulcer. You realize if he sees this he’s going to murder you. Hack you into tiny bits. We’ll never find all the pieces.”

Roger laughs. “Calm down, nothing’s gonna happen—” And then, as soon as he begins to adjust it, a tuning key pops off the head and rolls away. Freddie’s teacup shatters as it tumbles out of his grasp. Roger gapes at you and John and Freddie, horrified. “Oh no.”

“Roger!” you yelp, palms cupping your flushing cheeks.

John scoops the tuning key off the floor and rushes to Roger’s side. “Give it to me.”

Roger shoves the Red Special into John’s outstretched arms and begins hyperventilating, yanking at blond hair that you’ve learned is the product of cheap boxed dye. “Oh my god, Brian’s gonna...he’s...he’s...he’s gonna...”

Freddie bolts through the door and disappears outside, still clutching his notebook; he’ll try to delay Brian as long as he can. You wonder if you should join him, if that would make Brian even more suspicious, if there’s anything you can do. Roger paces like a lion behind iron bars.

John says softly as he works: “If I can’t fix it before Brian comes back, I’ll tell him I did it. He already hates me.” That’s not exactly true, and you all know it; but Brian and John clash better and connect worse than any of the rest of them. You marvel, momentarily, at how it can be possible for you to care so consumingly for four men who are so astronomically different. Ah, but perhaps you don’t care for them all in the same way.

“I can’t let you do that, Deaks,” Rog replies. Beads of perspiration are springing up along his temples, his collarbones, his neck. Don’t look, you tell yourself, feeling something scalding and hungry rippling through your skin like goosebumps.

“What can I do?” you ask desperately. “John, can I help...?”

“Almost there.” John is twisting the tuning key. You hear thumping against the door.

“Freddie, move!” Brian is shouting outside. “Move! What are you doing? What are they up to in there?!”

There’s a frantic commotion as John and Roger rush for the guitar stand. You spin to watch the door as it opens. Brian steps inside, his hawkish eyes narrowed. A frazzled Freddie materializes behind him. Your gaze darts back to the Red Special. It’s resting on the guitar stand where Brian left it, orderly and fully intact. Roger and John are chatting nonchalantly by the drum kit and trying to conceal the fact that they’re gasping for air. Oh thank GOD.

Brian peers back at Freddie. Freddie flashes an innocent grin. Brian props his hands on his waist and examines the room, taking long determined strides, fidgeting with the beaded choker around his neck. “Roger,” he says at last.

Roger bats his long eyelashes and casts you a knowing smile. “Hmm?”

“Why is there tea all over the floor?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Summer bleeds out, and autumn floods in like the tide. With dying leaves and cutting evening gales come other eventualities as well: a release date for Sheer Heart Attack, Killer Queen’s roaring reception as the album’s lead single, radio play and fanfare and the announcement that Queen’s first world tour will begin on the day before Halloween. So I might finally see some return on investment, you teased Freddie when he told you. He shot back: Just keep my vocal chords humming, bitch.

Tonight you’re at Top of the Pops with the rest of Queen’s usual entourage: Chrissie and Mary, Josephine and Veronica, assorted representatives and assistants from the record company Trident. The show has laid out a spread of fruit and meats and cheeses and cookies—biscuits, you remind yourself, you have to call them biscuits now—and alcohol...including Moët & Chandon, of course. You circle the table with Chrissie, piling free food onto your plate and sipping champagne, chattering mindlessly to distract yourselves from how petrified you all are. Freddie and Brian are still in hair and makeup; Roger is berating the producers for forcing Queen to perform to playback; John is compulsively snacking in some shadowy corner somewhere and avoiding the crowds, presumably with Veronica. You don’t dislike Veronica. She’s polite and gentle and undemanding, if a bit reticent around the band. You don’t think she would ever try to exploit John for the novelty of being with a musician, nor for the possibility of money and fame. But you sometimes wonder how much of John she really sees.

“Is this white cheddar?” Josephine asks as she stabs a cheese cube with a pink foil-tipped toothpick. “Or maybe gruyere? Monterey jack...?”

“I think it’s halloumi,” Chrissie offers.

“Ohhh, exotic!” Jo takes a bite. “It’s good, whatever it is.”

You pop a sliver of pineapple into your mouth. “My goal is to eat at least three of everything. And wrap extras in napkins to smuggle home. It’s a hard life, you know. Roping one’s fortunes to an almost-famous rock band.”

Jo smirks and shakes out her hair: dark, full, freshly trimmed. “I’ll have to live vicariously through you. I’m watching my figure.” She glances pensively down at her svelte body, which is sheathed in a silvery mini-dress.

“Love, you look amazing,” Chrissie says, somewhat pained. You’ve learned that when anyone suffers, Chrissie aches right along with them.

Jo just wrinkles her nose and shrugs. Jo is wilder than Veronica, edgier than Chrissie, less saccharine than Mary, more glamorous than you. She’s the only match you could imagine for Roger; and this brings you down some days, drags you low, sinks you into indigo melancholy. But lately Josephine has been the blue one, the quiet one. And you suddenly find yourself wondering if perhaps there is no match for Roger at all, no perfect counterbalance, no one soul that could tame his anywhere in the world.

“You’re flawless, Jo,” you tell her, but it feels hollow and anemic.

Mary appears, stroking her large gold earrings restlessly. “Fred’s almost done. They want to start in twenty minutes.”

You toss your empty plate into the garbage—rubbish, you amend mentally—and shake the crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go get John.”

You scuttle around the set, checking gloomy forgotten spots and the dressing rooms and broom closets. As you search, Roger finds you.

“Hey,” he says, mostly confidently, a dash apprehensively, his hands buried in his pockets.

“Hi. I’m trying to locate your bassist so you can pretend to perform in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s kind of you. I just passed him, though. He’s with Freddie. Everything is as it should be. Can I talk to you?”

“Um.” You stare at him, confused. “We’re already talking, aren’t we?”

“Yes, alright, true, but I have something important to say.”

“Okay.” You study him warily. Roger clears his throat and glimpses around. The two of you are standing in the shadow of a monstrosity of a lighting rig and are very much alone.

“I just...I wanted to inform you that...um...I’ll be...ah...well, you see...” He shakes his head and forces it out. “I’ll be breaking up with Jo soon. And I just wanted you to know. For you to be the first to know.”

You recoil, stunned. “Why would you break up with her?”

He smiles. “So I can take you out, of course.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god. A furious barrage of images cascades through your mind: touching him, being touched by him, whispers in the darkness, rings, chapels, children, and then: Josephine. What it must feel like to be Jo, what the beginning looked like for her, what the end will: scorched earth and desolation. “I’m not interested,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the steadiness in your voice.

“Sure you are,” Roger replies, undeterred. “We’re going to be travelling all over. It’ll be museums and monuments and libraries and natural wonders galore. I can show you the world.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why wouldn’t you be interested?”

“Because I’m not looking to get played. And you seem like someone who might play me.”

Now he’s wounded; those massive pale eyes are glossy. “I most certainly would not.”

“Roger, I’m completely enchanted by you. You’re brilliant and fun and caring and so much smarter than people assume you are—”

“Thanks...?”

“—And you’re a fantastic friend. But if we do this and it doesn’t last...which, let’s be real, it probably won’t...I’ll lose you forever. And the band. And my job. The math just doesn’t work for me.” But, oh god, I’d do anything to rearrange those numbers.

Roger mulls that over, shuffles his feet, lights a cigarette. “I have a list, you know. Not a written list. It’s just in me, a part of me. Here.” He points at his chest. “It’s not long. It’s only things I can’t live without, or things I wouldn’t want to. There’s becoming a musician. There’s leaving Cornwall. There’s finding a band worthy of me. Check check check.” He takes a drag and exhales smoke into the air. “Next there’s becoming a famous rock star, seeing the world, providing for my family. That’s all coming together presently.” His eyes find yours. “You’re on that list now. And once something’s made the list, it never comes off.”

“Not until you’ve had it.”

That knocks Roger back, makes his brow furrow, makes him blink as it rolls through him; because maybe that cuts just a bit too close to the bone. Then his face clears like a cloudless sky and he smiles, brightly, blissfully, as he always does. “I’ll just have to change your mind.”

“You can try.”

He takes your left hand, skates his teeth lightly over your knuckles, grins mischievously. “I’m going to need one last toast for good luck.”

Roger leads you back to the snack table and pours three flutes of champagne: one for you, one for him, and one for Chrissie, who’s waited for you. John, Freddie, and Brian are testing their equipment on stage; Mary, Veronica, and Jo have commandeered spots with the best view and refuse to abandon them. The three of you toast, drain your champagne, and watch the preparations from afar. John is bopping around the stage as he strums his bass, lost in the music in his head.

“Such a strange man,” Chrissie murmurs, although not unkindly.

Roger immediately bristles. “He’s only strange if you don’t bother to try to understand him.”

“Oh hell, Rog, come on, I didn’t mean it like—”

But Roger pushes by her and breezes away. He swipes a pint of beer and a bunch of grapes off the snack table, saunters over to where John is playing, and gnaws the grapes messily as he points and asks John questions.

Chrissie sighs and turns to you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You know I adore John.”

“I know it.” And of course, you adore him too. But you have something else on your mind. You tilt your champagne flute towards Roger. “What was he like when he and Jo first got together?”

“Why?” Chrissie asks, eyebrows raised. “You mean...was he the same way he is with you?”

You twirl your empty glass morosely. “Sure. If I am in fact that transparent.”

Chrissie chuckles and rubs your shoulder reassuringly. “Now now, don’t be grumpy.” She lights a cigarette and thinks. “Honestly, no. He’s different with you. More himself, less dramatic. Less always trying to be the dashing playboy. Just pure energy, that enthusiasm he has that’s almost childish. He’s happy. Really happy.”

You nod. “So you think I should give him a chance if he asks for it.”

“Absolutely not.”

You startle and whirl to her, not understanding.

Chrissie smiles tenderly, sadly, wishing she could change it. “He’ll ruin you. He ruins everyone. Now if he asked you in ten years? Fifteen years? Maybe. But if you say yes now, he’ll burn through you like battery acid. He’ll love you until you can’t imagine a world without him, until everything you were before is quarried from your bones. And then he’ll move on. He can’t help it, that’s just who he is. Reckless and wonderful and insatiable. And good luck trying to find anything on this whole fucking planet that can replace Roger Taylor.”

“I understand,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

You watch Queen up on the stage as they count down the minutes until showtime, how Freddie fluffs his hair and checks his eyeliner, how Brian meticulously rehearses his notes on the Red Special, how John and Roger exchange comments and jokes. And it occurs to you how symbiotic they are: Roger bringing passion and dauntlessness and fire, John tempering that when necessary and contributing something so dissimilar and yet vital, something steady and pragmatic and immutable. Brian’s a willow tree, Fred’s a lightning storm, Roger’s wildfire...but what is John?

You can’t decide. Roger is tapping away at the hi-hat and it sounds like a metronome, like something hypnotic, like a spell older than the pyramids.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him.

[vanityloves]

Storm and ivy + medic

@septemberlove i have. no excuse for how late these are but uh. thank you for sending these in 💕.

[word count: 1.8k+ with the longest 'authors note' bc im mentally ill]

sfw, mmm comfy cozy, general sick hcs,

storm - what are cozy days in with your f/o like?

Whenever I think of cozy days, my brain immediately goes to rainy/chilly weather where we can cuddle up together and my brain short fuses. I'm gonna assume this is just like a day off or something though!

How I visual them together vs how I write them is odd because they technically don't act or accept they're 'together' until after the comics but I always write them like they're in a Steady Relationship while on base. I'm always writing a slight AU if you will. Or maybe it's after they get their jobs back at Mann co - I should highkey adjust that but No ♥️. No more thinking, just content based off my idealized universe.

There's definitely a point in their relationship where it's like 'I think I have to put in a little more work here'. I'm not saying either party is slacking but they're slacking ♥️. Neither of them really take action. Chef doesn't blame him or really complain about it because that's their nature, plus they don't know how romantic relationships really work or flow, especially with a person like him. Medic doesn't see an issue with anything and continues on with his normal business. 

What I mean by slacking is, there's not a lot of quality time being spent together which would be fine if it wasn't both of their strongest Love Languages, which could help them strengthen their relationship. It's odd because they're 'romantically involved' but they don't spend a lot of time together for either of them to consider it romantic, simply because it's on company time. 

ANYWAYS THATS JUST ME BEING CONVOLUTED. FEEL FREE TO JUST IGNORE ALL OF THIS.

Medic goes to bed pretty late and wakes up at a fairly early hour. Chef is a late sleeper and forced to be an early riser because their Actual Job is to make at least 2 or 3 meals a day (if they want something else, they're on their own but hate when anyone messes up the kitchen and will honestly, stand there and watch said person).

There's minimal time they can spend together if they want to do their own activities - for Medic, it's tinkering around with organs or in Engie's garage, for Chef, they're typically meal prepping or trying to tend to an animal or plant of some sort.

Medic is actually more direct about wanting attention and it's never been a problem because he's cautious about it. Chef is more emotionally inclined and willing to drop hints that they want more attention. 

Chef probably has one day off where it's a complete free for all, for the rest of the team, which would be the perfect time to spend with Medic - If he wanted to stop working, that is. Just don't picture it but, Chef will literally sit in the medbay for hours just to be near the guy, but it isn't bad? The drone of machinery or the scratching of his pen is relaxing, or having his doves nearby is always sweet! Plus, he's prone to talking their ear off when he finds something interesting, so they'll chime in and have some back and forth.

But, yknow - sometimes having someone's undivided attention is nice and Chef is pretty dense when it comes to that and wonders why they feel so upset.

They swallow their pride and ask Medic if they sleep in his room one night and Medic's not as dense as Chef, he understands that they'd never ask for something so out of the blue for no reason and he promises to finish up his work early so they could head to bed together. Chef had nothing planned, they literally just needed that affection and closeness - since it was their day off Medic takes the hint and puts his work aside for the time being.

They'd probably sleep in and stay in bed a while longer before getting ready together - no uniform required. Chef isn't so talkative in the mornings, Medic's noticed, but they were happily fiddling with his buttons and tie, humming in thought before answering his questions. Medic's seen them out of uniform of course, but it's always funny seeing them in just a button up and jeans like … mom on the go vibes. Medic leaves his coat behind before making his way to the kitchen with Chef. 

The kitchen usually has a couple people loitering around, grabbing their coffee or honestly, waiting around for Chef because they always make extra and these bitches are lazy. But the kitchen has now become A Medic Supremacy Zone and he has first dibs - the benefits of being w/ Chef I guess. The two would work as if the others weren't there, keeping their conversation between each other even if that means Medic tilting his head down while Chef leans in closer to reply. There's a high possibility the other have left them to their own devices, seeing as the couple was ignoring them / knows they won't be getting anything. Breakfast isn't extraordinary but it feels special since they actually get to sit across each other and share the morning today.

It's possible that they'd go out and run some errands today, but it's a cover to window shop and walk around. I'll be honest, they probably haven't had proper dates so it's refreshing. You could ask Chef what they liked the most and they're just like :] Yes. 

Other times, they like to curl up and catch up with some reading (well, Medic at least) while Chef rests against him and skim over the words. They're not too invested in what he's reading but likes to have some idea of what he's talking about so they don't ask too many questions. (Very 'these words are big and english/german is not my first language + I can't read as fast as you can so I got lost 7 pages ago). Medic likes to watch Chef garden and tries to help them tend to whatever they're able to grow in the goddamn desert. He overwaters a cactus and looks away if it dies. Chef talks ab how they're growing mint and how it really took off while Medic's standing there like :] Oh, lets make tea with that. Because they're Old People (read: Medic is old)

🕊🐁

ivy - how do you take care of each other when you’re sick?

Chef is easier to take care of when they're sick. They continue working until they're pretty beat but once they feel sick and a break doesn't work, they'll try to finish up what they can before turning in early. They see themselves to bed and inform whoever's near that they won't ne there at dinner and if they really cant figure it out, then come get them - other than that, they're barricading themselves in their room.

When they're sick they're REALLY sick but recovery time is usually a few days (depending on how bad it is). They basically hibernate and don't like being disturbed. They're used to not fending for themselves since they've been on their own for a while but really appreciate all the check ins Medic does w/ them, especially when they're all better. 

Medic, being...their Medic, he definitely gives them a check up when they first begin showing symptoms and he can be a stickler when it comes to drinking fluids and eating properly. Chef usually has a  finicky stomach as it is so Medic really urges them to drink soups and easy foods like bread and crackers. He checks in on them A LOT, even if that's just peeking in to see if they're asleep or not. He backs off when Chef gives him a cold stare from under the covers and minimizes his intrusions/tries to be more sneaky about it. He has colder hands and they let out a sigh when he puts his hand to their cheek or forehead to check their temperature. 

Chef doesn't hesitate to take any medication he has for them, mostly bc they aren't fully coherent but they also don't have energy to care, in fact they have the thought that if he accidentally kills them, maybe respawn will cure them. Unfortunately, Medic debunks this before they can even muster up the energy to ask.

Overall 7.5/10, very good patient. Will refuse to get up and accidently falls asleep in the shower which scares the shit out of him.

Medic on the other hand is very stubborn and doesn't like to stop working unless there's something that physically stops him (ex: vomiting, serious injuries [unlikely bc medigun], etc). If he tricked the Devil, surely the man can beat the common cold or flu! Unfortunately he gets those full body shivers and feels terrible. He can be pretty dramatic when he's sick and everyone's subjected to his bad attitude. 

It's Chefs turn to play doctor - they can tell by looks alone that he's under the weather. His face is flushed and he's a bit sloppily put together, which isn't *too uncommon* but his tie isn't tied and his glasses lamely slide down his nose. They tsk a bit while taking his temperature just to keep track of it before ushering him to his room.

He can be dragged to bed if persistent enough. Chef's firm hold on his arm is enough for him to get off his chair and have them tug him along. He doesn't have any room to argue with them as they look up at him, so he relents, stating that a short break would definitely do him good, but he'll be up and at em by tomorrow. 

Chef is doting and becomes a bit of a helicopter parent when checking on him. This mostly consists of peeking their head in but not really stepping in the room. Every so often they'll wake him up to drink water and either hand him an ice pack or offer a cold towel and move to dab at his forehead and neck.

Medic hasn't been too keen on having others taking care of him bc that's HIS job, and he often tries to shoo Chef away by saying he's more than alright now. Sometimes he's caught sitting up in bed doing work or taking notes on something bc he's a bit restless when he's sick and stationary for too long.

But he's right. He's very good at taking care of himself - when Chef offers him food he'll force himself to eat some of it and he's drinks plenty of fluids without needing reminders. He kinda bosses Chef around, telling them to grab certain medications from the Medbay. They trust his judgment on his own health and bring him what he asks for but Chef keeps a mental note of what he takes and when. Don't need the doctor accidentally taking too many pills today!

Overall 6.5/10. It's hard to get him into bed and becomes restless fairly easily. He is persistent that he's ok after one day of rest only to be found sneezing himself away in the Medbay. 

[ahh-fxck]

Warrior’s Blues Chapter 10: Glass Windows

The next chapter has finally arrived, lovelies! In this chapter, a lot is revealed but only a little bit happens. Geralt has been disassociating, and he is slowly coming up for air. Certain truths are revealed about him, his family, and his past. We also meet Eskel for the first time. WARNING: Mildly graphic homophobia, child abuse, and homophobic child abuse.

Huge, huge, enormous thank you to @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog​ who is the co creator and beta of this fic. You keep this fic on the rails, friendo, I adore you for it. 

Please let me know if you’d like to be (un)tagged from the tag list!

@astouract​ @ladyknight-keladry​ @yes-im-the-violin-girl​ @smolpoe​

Rating: E

 Geralt hits the blue mat with a violent thud, a whuff of air escaping his lungs. Yennefer stands over him triumphantly with her violet eyes glittering. He blinks, shaking off his disorientation and regaining his bearings. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her legs, using his vantage point to conceal his scrutiny as he carefully calculates. Then, with a sudden movement, he grabs at the back of her calf. She slips out of the way and kicks him in the ribs as she goes by, just hard enough to be felt. Grunting, he rolls away from the kick. Then he jumps to his feet and begins to playfully stalk her again.

 The hotel’s gym is open 24 hours, and at this time of night it is deserted. As they circle on the blue mat in the back of the room it is possible to see treadmills, weights, bikes, and a large red exercise ball arranged neatly nearby.

 Luckily, the laundry room had been deserted as well. A little earlier, a puppy fight had broken out between Geralt and Yennefer up in their hotel room. After hitting a lamp, they had decided to be proper adults and go down to the gym to settle the score. On their way, they had tossed his new clothes into the washer.

 Counting the last time Geralt had hit the mat, Yennefer had taken him down four times to his one, and he was finally starting to break a sweat in the air-conditioned room.

 “Getting slow, old man!” Yennefer crows, dodging in towards him. He grabs the back of her neck and tries to force her down, but she brings up her arm and blocks his other hand from getting a grip, careful to be gentle with his healing bones. Then she shoves into him, setting her feet rock-solid into the floor. While Yennefer is tiny compared to Geralt, her body is strong and sure, and she knows how to use it.

 Geralt growls and shoves harder, making the mistake of leaning just too far off of his center of gravity. Yennefer suddenly drops, diving up under his arm and spinning behind him. This time he manages to avoid her grab for his neck by just a hair, twisting away and righting himself. Then, as she is recovering her balance, he ducks down. Using his long arms to his advantage, he makes a quick grab. Geralt lands a grip on her heel as Yennefer dodges away, and this time he yanks her leg up and brings her crashing down to the mat.

 “You’re older than me.” He points out with a wicked grin, ducking out of the way as her other foot comes flying at his head. She uses the shift in his gravity to slip away from him, kicking off of the arm holding her and springing upright. He bounces upright with her, just a moment too slow to get his arms in place.

 “Yes, but I have clearly been putting in more hours on the mat,” she retorts primly, then lands a spinning kick high on his chest that knocks the breath out of him. “Amazing what exercise will do. I’ve been up and moving instead of laying around getting head.”  

 Geralt grunts at the impact, staggers, shakes it off, and squares up with her. “You wouldn’t let someone suck your dick even if you had one, Yen,” he observes with a teasing smirk, circling her again.

 “I could if I wanted to,” Yennefer replies archly, feinting towards him and then ducking the other way, trying to land a playful blow on his ribs. Geralt swiftly dodges, light on his feet, and grabs her hand. With a smart yank he pulls her off balance and steps behind her. With his arm wrapped around her waist he bears her carefully but quickly to the floor, pinning her beneath his bulk. She squirms, cursing.

 “Had enough?” He grins crookedly against her ear.

 “You wish,” she pants, worming her legs free. She twists suddenly and slips out from under him, rolling rapidly away out of his reach. Growling, Geralt follows her up. Yennefer grins wildly and taunts him, beckoning ‘come at me’, and he’s just annoyed enough to fall for it.

 When he grabs for her she tries to pull him off balance again, but this time he’s ready. He drops his center of gravity low and plants himself in a solid stance, and Yennefer suddenly feels like she’s trying to uproot a big oak tree. As she loses her own center for just a fraction of a second, Geralt seizes his moment. Yanking his arm back with her still attached, he puts his hand on the back of her neck and swiftly steps around her, bearing her to the ground again. Yennefer goes down with a grunt and immediately elbows his ribs.

 “Wanker!” She laughs breathlessly.

 “Every night before bed.” Geralt snarks, eliciting a cry of mock disgust from Yennefer.

 “Oh gross! I don’t want to hear about your dick!”

 “You’re the one who brought it up,” he chuckles wickedly, dodging out of the way of another flying elbow. Then he very carefully lets Yennefer up, springing back out of her reach. As she gets back to her feet, laughing, Geralt takes a quick moment to wipe the sweat off of his face with his shirt. His hand aches from the exertion, but he and Yen have been careful with it and it’s still in good shape.

 Yennefer looks at the clock, then back at him. “Lucky for you, it looks like your utter destruction is going to have to wait until after the laundry is changed over.” She walks across the room to towel herself down. “Do you remember where it is from here?”

 “I’ve got it,” Geralt grunts dismissively. “Back in a minute.” She nods and grabs her water bottle as he turns away. He pads quietly over to his new athletic shoes, examining them. They’re similar to what he used during physical training exercises while still enlisted, and they’re easy enough to get on, but he hates the fact that they’re not broken in yet. He flexes his feet as he stands, a stormy expression on his face. The shoes feel like his life now; stiff, uncomfortable, and new.

 He walks out into the hallway towards the laundry room, swiping up his water bottle and wallet on the way out. The fluorescent lights of this floor buzz and flicker overhead. They are grindingly loud to his senses, where other people might barely notice them. The bottle is cold and damp in his hands, and the hallway itself is sparse, a long stretch of cream wallpaper and grey triangle patterned carpet. Geralt pauses at a junction, scanning, and spots the sign for the laundry room. Turning the corner, he heads in that direction.

 His body crawls with uneasy energy as he walks, making him feel restless and uncomfortable. The last day or so that he’d spent with Yennefer had been good, grounding. He’d had a nice breakfast with her, and she had filled him in on the rest of the conversation she’d had with Jaskier. When they had come back to the hotel they’d had a long nap curled together, and a quiet dinner in the hotel room. After that he’d tried to go back to bed, his body feeling heavy and emotionally depleted.

 Yennefer hadn’t been impressed. They hadn’t loved each other for two decades for nothing, and she could spot a depression nap a mile away. Instead of letting him sink into it, she had followed him into the bed. There she had sat on him, pulling at his face and poking him in ticklish spots until he’d finally broken into an exasperated growl and tackled her to get her off of him. They had rolled around the room like puppies until they bumped into the lamp, almost knocking it over. At that point, by mutual agreement, they had moved downstairs to the gym.

 It had been nice to spar with Yennefer. They had started doing hand to hand combat training together when they were working in the Middle East, and had continued even after Ciri was born. They made sure during Geralt’s short visits home to spend a little time together on the mat. It had been one of the constants in his life.

 Normally, he loved training with his wife. Right now he half-hated it though. The rush and flow of their gentle, playful combat was so familiar and safe that it was dragging him out of his protective fog. Reality felt harsh by comparison. The last few weeks had felt like a distantly remembered dream, like Geralt had been there but hadn’t really been participating in it. Now, as he padded up the hallway, the dam cracked. Memories began trickling in, then they rose in a great flood and swept him away.

 When the military police had come for Geralt in his office, it had been a surprise. Five men had come into the room, one of whom had announced he was under arrest. Geralt remembers feeling like he’d been dropped into the cold deep of an ocean, his body going numb with creeping shock. By the time that he’d walked out of his office surrounded on all sides, his memory was already starting to go fuzzy. The intervening days were a blur.

 Three quiet days in a cell, a court martial held swiftly on the third day, and he had been on a plane back to Fort Morhen by around dawn. Geralt hadn’t spoken a word in his own defense. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He’d already broken everything. Somewhere on the flight back to the States he had realized there was no way he could bring himself to call Yennefer or Coën, and had started slipping into a black despair.

 On the plane he had slept, trying to avoid overhearing the voices of the soldiers around him. The energy around him had been ugly, but no one had touched him. When he’d gotten into his car, there was another long, smeary blank where memory should be. There was the park with the children dressed in fairy wings, the parade… Jaskier.

 That part was like a bright smudge of light across the darkness. Kind eyes, tender hands, and beautiful long limbs. Food. Gentleness. The bar too, wood and darkness and rainbow fairy lights splashed across a backdrop of fuzzy emptiness. Geralt remembered feeling weirdly safe, installed behind the bar. Like he’d fit in someplace, for just a minute, for the first time in his life. It made him ache, because it was something he’d never felt before. He was afraid of it. He longed for more of it.

 Being surrounded by queers had been the best and worst part of the whole experience, what little of it Geralt could remember. His whole life had been consumed in one long effort to blend in. Vesemir had been obsessed with his performance as a soldier, tying it closely to his performance as a son. The consequences for failing to please him had always been harsh.

 Geralt had started attending military schools at twelve. There had been other gay boys in school, and later, other men who had served alongside him in the service, most of them hiding in the same misery that he was. It had been desperately isolating, living alongside other men like himself but unable to connect. They’d always felt like they were on the other side of a glass window, like they were in some other world he wasn’t meant to touch. The burning loneliness had caused him to withdraw, but it had never soured him or made him hateful. Deep down, he had a soft spot for queer people and had always looked out for them as best he could.

 Inside the bar, Geralt still felt like he was on the other side of a glass window, but what he was seeing was finally  good. Men in love taking their ease. Women flirting, touching each other’s hands over baskets of fries. Not to mention that he’d seen more genders in one room that night than he’d ever seen in one place.

 Geralt wakes from his reverie for long enough to duck into the laundry room, squinting under the gnawing buzz of the light overhead. This one is flickering badly now. It hadn’t been when he and Yennefer were in earlier, but now it is causing the whole room to dance unpleasantly. His nerves dance with it, jangling and rattling. Geralt grits his teeth and gets the quarters from the machine, switches his laundry over, and ducks back out into the hallway. As Geralt heads back towards the gym, he becomes lost in thought again.

 It was hard to square the pain and self-loathing inside of him with the peace he felt around the queers he’d been serving. The other queers that he’d been serving, if he was going to be honest. And the honesty burned like ice under his skin, making even his bones ache. He twisted between the contradictory feelings, unable to face them.

 Vesemir had frequently told him that adopting him was the worst mistake he’d ever made, a worthless investment and a failure. And when another boy had been caught kissing Geralt at school at around eleven, Vesemir had thrashed Geralt within an inch of his life. He had used a belt, whaling him with the buckled end and leaving huge welts and gashes. Geralt had been forced to sleep on his stomach for weeks, his back covered in sticky wads of gauze that Vesemir had placed. It hadn’t been the first beating Geralt had received, nor was it the last, but it was certainly the worst. Then, the long list of shortcomings gained another epithet: faggot.

 After that, Geralt had been terrified. Everywhere he turned there was some kind of reminder that he was in danger, from the casual slurs thrown around the military bases to the harassment, beating, and rape of the more incautious (or merely unlucky) men around him. The world he lived in had a rapacious cruel streak, and he would have done almost anything to avoid bringing it down on himself.  

 When Geralt had turned 24, homosexuality had finally been removed from the DSM in the United States. He had just been starting his career when it was removed. That meant that he’d grown up in a world that looked on people like him like they were ill at best, less than human at worst. He rarely heard gay men spoken of in anything but the harshest of terms, and had internalized the urgent need to hide in order to survive.

 It had meant lying to everyone, including himself. When a boy managed to smuggle a titty magazine or postcard into the middle school barracks, Geralt had learned to ape the sweaty-palmed admiration for the images. In high school, he had learned how to brag just enough to keep the other boys out of his hair.

 In college, Geralt had learned to attend at least a few of the weekend parties every year. Learned how to allow himself to be seen with the women who flirted with him, let them crawl into his lap. If he drank enough he could push aside his indifference when they kissed him, and if he drank more, when one of them would pull him into a broom closet or a quiet bedroom for a blow job, he could close his eyes and let it happen. He’d even learned, as insistent women had drawn his hands up under their skirts, to use his dexterous fingers to please them. It protected him. Kept him safe.  

 On the other hand, college had also been the first real crack in the armor he had built for himself. During his sophomore year, his boyhood friend Eskel had been assigned as his roommate. It had been the year their relationship changed.

 Eskel was the first person that had made friends with Geralt when he’d started attending military school in the United States at twelve. Geralt had been an awkward and quiet child when they’d first met. His pale coloring and foreign accent, together with his stiff demeanor when meeting new people, meant that he was ostracised from the start. Eskel hadn’t cared, though. He was easygoing where Geralt was taciturn, charming where Geralt was unintentionally rude, and he’d made friends with most of his yearmates within a fortnight of arriving at the school.

 The fact that Geralt was standoffish merely sparked Eskel’s interest, and he’d made it a special point to try and charm him. The odd, surly boy was clearly intelligent, and had a knack of being well-liked by the teachers, although Eskel could never quite figure out how he did it. Whenever Eskel made friendly advances though, bounding across the quad to try and start a conversation or genially cornering him in between classes, Geralt had shut him down.

 It had taken Eskel six months to figure out that all he needed to do to get Geralt’s full attention was ask for help. Well, to be precise, he had to be blatantly wrong about something and      then     ask for his help. The first time it had happened, Eskel had accidentally made an incorrect assertion in class right before the bell rang. Behind him and off to his right he’d heard a scoff, and turned to see Geralt scowling incredulously at him.

 Much to Eskel’s surprise, the boy had stalked out of the classroom after him. Geralt had cornered him to tell him      exactly     how wrong he was, in precise and categorical detail. Flustered, Eskel had said, “If you’re such an expert, then why don’t you help me study?”

 The look on Geralt’s face had been priceless. He was so taken aback that he forgot to be angry for a moment, and then his eyes lit up. Eskel found himself getting a full run down on the subject immediately, right there in the hallway. It had been like drinking from a firehose, he’d later told Geralt, but he hadn’t cared, because it was so gratifying to see Geralt finally engage with him.

 Eskel would say that the friendship started right there, but Geralt saw it a little differently. To his eyes, Eskel, who had seemed a boy of normal intelligence, suddenly became very stupid. It had exasperated Geralt to no end, but he’d set to work helping the other boy out. No matter how many lectures he gave him though, or how detailed they were, Eskel always seemed to find another dumb question to ask. It was genuinely astonishing.

 It had taken him months to start trusting the other boy enough to actually warm up to him. By that point Eskel had taken a genuine liking to Geralt, and soon they were fast friends. Eskel made it a point to help Geralt socialize with the other boys, which made Geralt’s life quite a bit easier. In turn, Geralt had been happy to continue helping Eskel study.

 They’d been lucky enough to attend the same high school. By then, they were often mistaken for brothers. It hadn’t hurt that they looked so similar, with their rangy, broad-shouldered frames and golden eyes. Eskel’s hair was dark where Geralt’s was ice blond, but they had the same cupid’s bow lip and high cheekbones, and they were almost always seen together when they had a moment to spare. Eskel’s project of helping Geralt be more sociable had more or less been a success, but Geralt’s attempts to enlighten Eskel were met with a continued charade of stupidity and ignorance.  

 When they had graduated high school, they’d applied to the same set of military colleges. Through a stroke of luck, they’d both been accepted into one of the premier colleges in the nation. The first year split them apart, and Geralt had rarely felt lonelier in his entire life. They saw each other in the halls, and Geralt sometimes was able to make time to help Eskel study, but there was a rift between them that grew as each busy month passed.

 The following year when they’d been assigned as roommates, Geralt hadn’t known how to feel about it at first. The loss of contact the previous year left him feeling awkward around his best friend, not quite able to trust the idea of opening back up to him. But Eskel, ever good-natured, had won him back over in a matter of weeks. It was a comfort to have someone nearby in the middle of the night when nightmares struck, not to mention a co-conspirator in mischief.

 One night, Eskel had managed to smuggle in a truly generous portion of hooch. They had knocked it back quickly to hide the evidence. Then they discreetly cleaned the vessel and snuck it back into its proper place. That having been accomplished and feeling very clever indeed, they had collapsed together in a fit of giggles on the bottom bunk. Eskel’s bunk at the top of the ladder felt like it might as well have been on the moon.

 They’d melted into a puddle on the bed together and had one of those long, rambling conversations that you can only have when you’re young and drunk and it’s the middle of the night. Eventually the topic had turned to sex. Eskel, who had a great deal more freedom at home on holidays, had already taken lovers by the time he was sixteen years old. He’d had the time and safety to discover that he was bisexual, and he’d been more than happy to tell Geralt about his exploits with people of both sexes. Normally Geralt at least tried to make up stories of his own, fictional women indistinguishable from the brags of the other young men his age. That night he was so silent that Eskel, even though he was blind drunk, had taken notice.

 It had piqued his curiosity, and Geralt for once was too hammered to lie about his love life, at least insofar as women were concerned. It turned out that he hadn’t ever properly made out with a girl, much less gone any further. As to his feelings about men, he was silent.

 The idea that Geralt had survived to the age of 19 without ever making out with someone had blown Eskel’s mind. He’d known how few opportunities Geralt had to meet women in military school, but he hadn’t realized exactly how strict Vesemir was about Geralt making outings on his visits home until right then.

 Gallantly, he had offered to do the only thing a real friend would do in this situation, which was to kiss Geralt and correct that imbalance in his life. He wasn’t a girl, Eskel had explained earnestly to him, but at least Geralt could get some practice in. That way he wouldn’t be so hopeless when they finally attained off campus privileges next year, and the co-ed parties that entailed.

 At first, Eskel hadn’t understood the weird flash of pain in Geralt’s eyes. But his friend had tipped his chin up, inviting him in to brush lips, soft as a butterfly. That tiny touch had been like a spark to tinder, kindling a wildfire. Their tongues slid together, then their hands were fisting each other’s shirts, and within breathless moments they were grinding together like they’d die if they couldn’t get just a little closer to one another. Sloppy kisses with clashing teeth turned into a frantic flurry of discarded clothing, and they had tangled together on the floor amongst their pajamas to avoid the shrieking of bedsprings. They’d fucked against the cold linoleum breathlessly, mindlessly, cocks pressed together between their bodies as they writhed.

 Lying together on the sticky floor afterwards, sweaty and panting, Eskel had turned and blinked at Geralt. “You don’t like girls, do you.” It was a statement, not a question. Staring at the ceiling, sweat cooling on his chest, Geralt had shaken his head. Eskel had grunted, but he’d been content to leave it at that. Geralt was Geralt. Eskel didn’t mind keeping his secret.

 After that, their friendship had transformed. They had no romantic leanings towards one another, but they were young and hungry. They became lovers. Geralt had many memories of tangling together in the dark with Eskel; hungry, silent, frightened memories. Their encounters had slaked the sheer physical brunt of his loneliness and craving for touch, but they’d also left him feeling so much more isolated and lost. Eskel had other lovers, and was able to show his classmates pictures of his occasional girlfriends. Geralt was always afraid of discovery, though. Always alone.  

 When Geralt started the service alongside Eskel, he had become more discreet than when he was in college, but occasionally his longing would boil over. Geralt would find himself tangled with Eskel in deserted places, desperately seeking a moment of relief. There were other men around the bases too, sometimes. Rare sparks of heat hidden guiltily in back rooms and motel suites, the little joy they derived swamped by the fear of being caught.

 Then had come Yennefer. She had given him hope, for a while. He’d never been more attracted to a woman in his life. Part of him had hoped that he could redeem himself by falling in love with her. And in a way, he truly had. After their first drink together they had exchanged poetry, novels, long hours of discussion that led into a kind of emotional intimacy he’d never had before. Their relationship quickly became a deep source of strength and support for them both. They ate together, slept near one another when they could, and sparred like puppies. Sometimes, he was even able to convince himself that the surge of adrenaline from tangling with another warm body was desire.

 The magnetism between Geralt and Yennefer was intense. For both of them it had presented an opportunity to escape their identities, a chance to pretend at normalcy and hide from harassment. It was possible to maintain the illusion that they had a crush on one another, at least in the company of other people. Even in private, sometimes they pretended to each other, to themselves. Brief brushes of lips, sweet caressing hands on breasts, halfhearted fingers dipping into waistbands but never following through.

 They maintained the facade of attraction to one another for years, each in their own way wishing it was real. It had all shattered when they finally fucked. They had been laying around a hotel room in Tel Aviv during one of Geralt’s month-long periods of leave. Coën had gone out to find a lover, and as far as Geralt knew he’d been successful because it had been rolling around to 3 am and there was no sign of him. Yennefer had procured some surprisingly smooth arak, and together they had been steadily demolishing it for hours.

 Suddenly she had rolled over with a twinkle in her eye, and announced that she thought it was time for them to fuck. Everyone already thought they were doing it, she said, crawling up along his body. Why not see what all of the fuss was about? And Geralt had felt a rush of longing, and he smiled and pulled her close. He had tried, and his heart had been in it… But he had been unable to perform properly, despite rallying at the very end, and Yennefer had looked bored out of her mind the whole time. When they parted, they discovered that the condom had slipped off.

 That night, they cemented the suspicion that Yennefer was asexual. She’d never been more attracted to a man in her life, but nevertheless, fucking Geralt had left her as cold as all the others. In a way, it was a relief. There was no pretending anymore, not even for herself. It was also the night that Yennefer figured out that Geralt was gay. She’d had suspicions, but the utter despair he’d had on his face when he hadn’t been able to stay hard was telling. When she’d rolled over and locked eyes with him, asking him point blank, he hadn’t been able to answer her. The bleak, lonely expression he’d given her had been answer enough.

 Yennefer had laid at his side, replaying all of her memories of their life together back to herself. Suddenly, a lot of things that hadn’t quite fit snapped into focus. The way Geralt didn’t spent much time around other women, despite bragging about them like every other soldier she’d met in her fucking life. His absolute refusal to keep porn mags around,      unlike     basically every other soldier she’d ever met, Coën included. The amount of time he spent with Eskel… When she’d asked him about that, he’d turned bright red and rolled over, hiding his head under his pillow. Upon further interrogation, he’d finally admitted that they were lovers. More things clicked into place.

 Next week Yennefer had taught Geralt how to find a call boy safely. Seeing prostitutes was better than risking everything with his coworkers, the way she saw it. At first, she’d been there to escort him, to help keep him safe as he learned the ropes. Later, after Cirilla, he found them on his own. Yennefer’s skills as an investigative journalist had been invaluable, and Geralt was able to keep his affairs discreet.

 When he and Yennefer had realized she was pregnant, they both panicked. Neither of them was prepared in any way to be a parent. Yennefer had inherited a genetic condition from her mother that caused growths in her uterus- she had been told she’d never have a child. She had told Geralt about how, as a teenager, the pain had been so bad they’d nearly removed her uterus. She’d refused to let them do it. It was her choice, and she wasn’t about to let it be taken away from her.

 Geralt remembered sitting next to her staring at the positive pregnancy test as clear as day, as if it had just happened a moment ago. He had seen a look of crushing certainty cross Yennefer’s face that had frightened him to his marrow. He knew before she’d even said it that she couldn’t give this surprise child up. It didn’t matter how afraid Yennefer was of being a bad parent. It felt like the only chance that she would ever have, and she told him so. Deep in his bones, beneath the terrible fear of fucking up some helpless scrap of a being, Geralt had known it was his only chance, too.

 After some discussion, he and Yennefer had gotten married. It was a sensible choice, providing Yennefer with access to the benefits of being a military spouse, and Geralt with clear rights to see his daughter should something unexpected happen. The ceremony had been a simple one, held by a military chaplain. After that, hiding had been a great deal easier for both of them. Yennefer no longer felt the pressure to ‘find someone,’ as it were, and Geralt finally had an excuse as to why he wasn’t seeing other women. The marriage had protected them, concealed them both.

 Over the years the hiding had eaten at Geralt though. Worn him thin. And at the very end, he had started to get sloppy. Freezing when he should have dodged. Ducking out of cover too soon, or back into it too slow. Allowing Eskel to up the ante as they drowned in numbness, escalating because they were both desperate to feel anything, anything at all. Something was going to break, and eventually it had.

 Which led Geralt, in a circle, back here. To Rhode Island, to the hotel, to Jaskier and Yennefer and the rest of his small family waiting in London. To the raw light raking across the pain, kindness where there shouldn’t have been any, to hunger and craving and satiation. For the first time in his life he was free to want what he wanted, and it was terrifying.

 Jaskier had been like heat after a long trek in the deep cold, warming his bones. Kissing him had felt like dying a good death. Intimacy with him had been like bathing in light, radiant memories searing through the haze surrounding them. Spending quiet time in Jaskier’s company, eating, discussing meaningless things, had been full of peace, like Geralt’s feet were touching the earth for the first time in a life of freefall.  

 Even more disorienting was the fact that Yennefer had hunted Geralt down. He genuinely hadn’t believed Yennefer would come looking for him. He barely felt like he had a right to his family before he’d been discharged, and he couldn’t understand why they would still want him now. The money he’d been making was gone, he was a terrible father, and he’d brought danger and shame to their doorstep by being publicly outed as gay.

 The fact that Yennefer had spent weeks hunting for him in a foreign city spoke more than words ever could. The unwavering love that she’d shown when she found him had stricken him to the quick, something he had no armor for and no way of coping with. Yennefer didn’t care that he was gay. She didn’t care that he’d lost his job and couldn’t support her anymore. All she’d wanted was the same thing she’d wanted all along. To know that he was safe. To know that he was happy. She and Coën supported him in ways that he couldn’t even fathom, and they weren’t about to let his public outing destroy their family.

 In fact, if anything, Yennefer had been relieved. To her, it meant a chance to knit their family back together and connect Geralt to his daughter and brother. It had been a long time since he had spoken on the phone to either of them, but Yennefer had finally talked him into making a call with her tonight. The family were worried sick about him, and she’d convinced Geralt that hearing his voice would do them a world of good after the scare he’d given them.

 Reluctantly, he’d agreed. Yennefer had told Geralt she called Ciri every night at around 0300 (0800 in London) to greet her after breakfast. Coën had already informed Ciri that Geralt had been found. Tonight he was going to hear the voices of his brother and daughter for the first time in months. He isn’t sure he wants to. The guilt of that is the final straw that breaks his composure.

 A wave of overwhelming emotion crashes slowly down over Geralt, leaving him just enough time to get himself someplace safe to discharge the energy. He pushes blindly into the gym, downs his water bottle, and climbs onto a treadmill. Yennefer rises to greet him and he ignores her, keying the treadmill into motion with numb fingers. Then he ups the pace until he is running full-tilt, straining to keep himself in place.

 Yennefer’s face darkens with concern, and she approaches him slowly. She moves up to the side of the treadmill and examines Geralt’s face, his body. They are stiff, blank, a carefully controlled exterior of utter calm that belies the explosions happening underneath. With a grim look, she presses her lips together and nods, recognizing a meltdown in progress.

 His face has a peculiar way of turning off when he hits the point of meltdown, like a book being slammed shut. The first time it had happened, she hadn’t understood what she was seeing, but that had been years ago. Now, she can recognize them from a mile away. At first, she’d thought he was having some kind of tantrum while they were arguing. It took her a lot longer to understand that his meltdowns were, in fact, a physical expression of being totally overwhelmed. Not something he chose, but something that happened to him without his consent or control. 

     Yennefer slammed the binder down onto the shitty motel bed, eyes flashing. “And you know what else?” She snapped, beginning to rifle through it with short, sharp motions. The binder bounced on the tan and white duvet under the force of her ire. “I don’t give a rat's ass what order the battalions had their platoons in! Not! Fucking! Relevant!”  

     “But-” Geralt said, trying to get a word in edgewise. His normally pale face was almost white with distress, the muscles around his jaw tight. He was sitting on the edge of the single bed in the hotel room, a few feet from where Yennefer was abusing her binder.  

     “No! I’m sorry, was I not clear just then? Do you want me to write it on your dick? Maybe you’ll see it down there.” She snarled, slapping a page down so hard she tore part of it.  

     “But the-” Geralt tried again, growing increasingly agitated. Unusually for him, he was panting, his body compressed and stiff. Normally even when he was annoyed with her, there was a steadiness about his presence that she’d come to rely on. The fact that it was now mysteriously absent wasn’t lost on her, but it only served to pour fuel on the fire. Anything that made Yennefer nervous usually made her angry, and this was no exception.  

     “No!” Yennefer shouted, cutting him off with a sweeping motion of her hand. They’d been arguing about picayune details of troop movement for over an hour, and she couldn’t understand why he was so obsessed by certain things that she, frankly, found irrelevant. She’d personally hit the last straw about ten minutes ago. Normally Geralt had the sense to leave off when she got too angry, but he seemed stuck this time, like he just couldn’t let it go. She rounded on him just in time to see his face switch off. One moment he was engaged with her, agitated but paying attention. The next, his face was a carefully controlled blank, stiff and empty.  

     In the two years that she’d known him, she’d never seen this particular facial expression on Geralt. At that moment she was too angry to think about it rationally though. Under the impression that he was switching argument tactics to give her the silent treatment, she stalked over to him. “And another thing!” No movement. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes didn’t even flicker.  

     Exasperated, she tried again. “Geralt, I swear to fuck, you aren’t five years old. Don’t ignore me!” When he didn’t move, she shoved his shoulder. “I don’t think so, asshole! You don’t get to treat me like that!” With a sudden, explosive motion, Geralt violently shrugged her hand off of his shoulder and rose from the hotel bed. Yennefer hopped back, sheer surprise derailing her anger. Geralt had always been exquisitely gentle with her, even at play.  

     He began to stalk stiffly back and forth across the room as if she wasn’t there, hands folded at the back of his neck, his breath coming in short pants. She stumbled out of the way as he pushed past her, making a restless circuit of the whole room. At first, she continued to try to get his attention, to no avail. Finally, as the restless movement continued, she found herself retreating to Coën’s room across the way. This was now officially out of her league, and she wanted backup.  

     Coën was asleep when she found him, and she gently punted him in the ribs. He awoke with a start and squinted at her blearily, then at the clock. It was late afternoon, but he’d gone to bed at around dawn, so it wasn’t surprising that he was still down. “Gfqukx?” he muttered irritably, scrubbing his face.  

     “There’s something wrong with Geralt. I think I broke him.”  

     Yennefer’s face hanging over his head was surprisingly anxious, which wasn’t like her. Normally when presented with a problem, she jumped straight to anger and then razed whatever obstacle was in her way down to smoking rubble. Coën gave her a long, puzzled look, then startled as he heard a ‘thump’ from across the way in Yennefer and Geralt’s room. He swung his legs out of bed quickly, grabbing his pants out of the air as Yennefer tossed them to him. “Wha’d you do, Yenna?” he slurred irritably, still half awake as he tugged his pants on.  

     “Argue with him! All we were doing was arguing! I don’t know what the fuck his stupid problem is but I think he’s mad that I’m right.” Yennefer tossed her hands in the air, then glared over her shoulder at the door.  

     Coën snorted. That was a very Yennefer take on the situation. Another thump caused his head to jerk up, and he stuffed his feet rapidly into his scuffed old boots. It sounded like Geralt was hitting the walls. He normally hated drawing attention to himself, even when he was angry. Yennefer was right, something was off.  

     The sound of a door opening in the hall made Yennefer start. She opened Coën’s door just in time to see Geralt take off down the hall, face still blank and unreadable. He was moving at a light jog, and as she watched, he pushed out of the door at the end of the motel hall and onto the dusty street outside. Something about the strained way he was moving, the stiffness of his face, alarmed the hell out of both Coën and Yennefer. They looked at each other.  

     “You call Eskel. I’m going after him.” Coën announced, thinking quickly. “I don’t know what the fuck that just was but I don’t like it.” And without another word, he booked out through the door and followed Geralt up the street. They might not be best friends or anything, but his buddy Geralt looked like he might not be able to take care of himself just then and Coën wasn’t about to let him get hurt.    

     Back in the little motel, Yennefer’s stomach gave a nervous twist. She poked her head out the door and watched Coën vanish, then looked back at the little black phone sitting on the dented bedside table. She didn’t know Eskel well enough to like him yet, but he was Geralt’s best friend. They’d known each other forever. Coën was right. If anyone would have insight into what the fuck just happened, it would be him.  

     Praying that he’d actually get back to her, Yennefer sat down on Coën’s rumpled bed and dialed Eskel’s pager number. She keyed in the number for the motel room, her name, and ‘911!’ then hung up and waited. Realizing the door to her own room was still hanging open, she got up, closed it, and came back to sit amongst the tangled blankets. The phone rang a moment later.  

     With a rush of relief, she answered. “Hello?” She had a habit of picking on good-natured Eskel, and now she slightly regretted it. What if he hadn’t picked up?  

     “Hello? Lieutenant Úlfur speaking.”  

     “Eskel. It’s Yennefer. Do you have a minute?”  

     “Not a long one, why? What’s going on?”  

     “It’s Geralt. I think I broke him.”  

     There was a long pause in which Eskel could almost be heard choosing his words carefully. “I think you’re going to have to tell me the rest.” And Yennefer did, rushing through a description of the incident as quickly as possible. When she finished, he snorted softly into the receiver. “He’s probably fine. He never goes far. It might not look like it, but he’s usually still pretty aware of his surroundings when he freaks out.”  

     “What, he’s done this before?” Yennefer asked, astonished. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing a big strong guy like Geralt would do, much less do frequently. In the privacy of her own mind she thanked Coën’s quick thinking intuition. If she’d been on her own, she’s not sure she would have thought to call Eskel about this.  

     “Yup. Used to hide it by running on the track at school. I bet he just went out for a run, he’ll be back soon.” Eskel sounded calm, his voice gentle as he tried to reassure Yennefer. He didn’t like her much yet either, but she was important to Geralt, so he was going to do his best to be kind to her.  

     “We’re in the middle of Tel Aviv! Where the fuck is he going to run?” Yennefer snapped. She stood, grabbing the phone base and going to look out the window with the cord trailing behind her. There was nothing but dusty, crappy parking lot beyond the brown and orange curtains. It was deserted, save for a few cars.  

     “In the middle of Tel Aviv, probably. If Coën’s with him, they’ll be fine.” Eskel replied, a note of amusement in his voice. “Look, is this the first time you’ve seen him freak out like this?” If Geralt had been alone with Yennefer, Eskel might have been more concerned, but he’d seen Coën in action around Geralt before. The photographer might be into causing mischief on his down time, but he was a steady ally when things got serious, and Eskel had faith in his ability to wrangle Geralt.  

     “Do you think I would have called you over something I’m used to, asshat?” Yennefer paced back to the bed and stuffed the phone back onto the bedside table. She sank onto Coën’s bed, looking around the ugly little motel room. Brown carpet. Cream colored walls, yellowed by smoke. She began to pick at a tiny rip in the duvet.  

     “...Fair. Fine. Listen, he must like you. He doesn’t usually feel safe enough to lose it around anyone but me.” Eskel shifted, and she could hear a crinkle in the background.  

     “That doesn’t make a fucking lick of sense.”  

     He snorted. “Maybe not, but look. I’ve known him since we were twelve. I’ve never once seen him crack unless he’s someplace where he has a gut feeling he’s safe. So. He likes you. Good for you.” Eskel paused, and she could hear the scrape of a lighter in the background, then a slow exhale. “I don’t know why it happens, but sometimes he just… I don’t know. Gets overloaded or something. It always passes.”  

     “How the fuck did he make it through military school?”  

     “Like I said.” Eskel paused to take a drag of his cigarette, then puffed it out. “He doesn’t crack unless he’s someplace safe. When he was a kid he’d just wait until no one was watching. Or he’d wait til he was alone with me. I think it scares him, to be perfectly honest with you. He doesn’t like talking about it at all. Mm. Speaking of which, if you tell him you called me about this, that’s on your own head.”  

     Yennefer snorted. Geralt would be mortified if he knew she and Eskel were discussing him like this, but that was the least of her worries right now. “If he wants to fight me over it I’m sure I can handle it.” She paused, nibbling the inside of her lip. “If this happens again, is there anything I can do?”  

     “Ehh. I’ve tried to talk to him while he’s freaking out but it doesn’t seem to do much good. He’s like… it seems like he’s mostly aware, but he doesn’t have a ton of control over what’s going on with his body. He can’t talk to you no matter what, so don’t try asking him anything that isn’t a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’.” Eskel paused, as if deliberating something. Then he added, “It’ll make it worse if you yell at him, though. You gotta talk to him real soft and slow.”  

     Yennefer frowns, about to voice a complaint, but breaks off as Eskel keeps talking. Her stomach churns with nervous anger, and she picks even more ferociously at the blanket. Geralt was a grown man, she shouldn’t have to lift a finger to help or protect him. It wasn’t fair. It was even less fair that she liked him enough that she was probably going to do it anyway.  

     “When you’re trying to get through to him after he’s freaked out, sometimes nonverbal communication works. Hand gestures, gentle touches if he sees ‘em coming, like that.” Eskel continues, his voice soft and even. “I figured out through trial and error that getting overwhelmed seems to be what kicks this problem off. And uh, after fucking around with it a little bit, it turned out the quickest way to cool him off was getting him someplace dark and quiet away from people. So you could try that.” He pauses, taking a puff from his cigarette as he thinks. “If he hasn’t got anywhere safe like that, I used to take him for a run. The point is to get him away from noise and people as much as you can.” Another pause, another slow exhale of smoke. “Have you seen him do that funky rocking thing yet?”  

     Yennefer narrowed her eyes. “I’m going to go with no, because I don’t think you mean that little bopping thing he does when he’s thinking deeply.” She pulled a long thread out of the duvet cover, then gritted her teeth when she realized she’d caused a run in the cheap fabric. With a quick movement she snapped the thread, then balled it up into a little knot and flicked it irritably into the trash can.  

     “I definitely don’t. He uh, he has this thing he does where he’ll rock his whole body back and forth and like. Hit himself. Tap on himself with his hands. I don’t know, it’s hard to describe, I’ve only seen him do it a few times. It looks freaky, but it’s harmless. I don’t know what the fuck is happening there, but it seems to really calm him down. If he ever kicks off with that, just let him do it, it’s helping him.”  

     “Do you know why?” Yennefer asked, frowning.  

     Eskel blew out a breath. “Nope. No clue. Just one of those things about him. I do know if he tries to hide the movement or stop it, it makes it worse though, so uh. Don’t make him stop if he starts, I’m really serious about that.”  

     Yennefer bit her lip. This was way out of her league, and she was    not       happy about it. Still… she thought back on Geralt’s warm presence in her bed the night before, and something in her softened. “Okay. Anything else?”  

     “Ehh… I don’t think so. Well, wait, no. You guys are pretty close nowadays, right?” There was a note of hesitation in his voice, a catch that Yennefer at the time hadn’t understood. She’d found out later that it wasn’t because Eskel was jealous, precisely… More that it was bittersweet for him to see Geralt beginning to deeply bond with another person, especially one as aggressive as Yennefer. It made socializing as a group difficult, and he’d been spending less time with Geralt as a result. It was good that Geralt was happier, good that he was maybe even falling in love, but Eskel missed his best friend.  

     “Close enough. Why?” Yennefer replied, her voice guarded. If Eskel was about to say something impertinent, she was happy to rip him a new one.  

     “Well… he drops tells when he’s starting to wind up. I figured out years ago if I could get him someplace quiet fast enough sometimes he’d chill out and we wouldn’t have to do the whole… thing, whatever it is that he does. From what he says about you, it sounds like he trusts you a lot, so you might be able to herd him away when he’s winding up.”  

     “What, I’m his mother? No! That sounds like a pain in the ass, he can take care of himself.” Yennefer growled. She was hitting her limit with suggestions of ways to care for a grown ass adult. This shouldn’t be her fucking problem. It’s not like any other man she’d been close to needed this kind of care.  

     Eskel went silent, exasperated. Occasionally, she could hear a shift, an exhale. Finally he said, “You asked me if there was anything else, this is the anything else. Do you want to know or not?” She could hear a note of carefully concealed anger in his voice. Eskel might be calm, even sweet, but when it came to Geralt’s wellbeing his patience for other people’s foibles was limited.  

     Yennefer hesitated, torn. She had something approaching zero interest in acting like Geralt’s damn caretaker, but on the other hand, he had become important to her. She didn’t like picking up after other people’s emotional messes, but she found that she liked the idea of letting him suffer alone even less. She wavered, then said, “Fine. Yes. I want to know.”  

     Eskel gave a soft grunt, and she could hear a note of grudging approval in it. “All right.” He said, and his chair creaked as he leaned out of position for a moment, then again as he relaxed back into his spot. “Hmm. All right. So first thing you’re gonna want to look for is the way he moves. It’ll depend on whether he’s in a public place or not what you’re looking for.”  

     “Why the difference?”  

     “Trust. Safety. Out in public if one kicks off he’ll clamp down on it and hide it, it looks different than when he’s alone in a room or, you know, with someone he trusts.”  

     Yennefer chewed her lip, thinking the last two hours over. Now that Eskel mentioned it, Geralt    had       been moving differently. “Okay. I’m listening.”  

     “All right. So. Out in public, he gets real still and stiff.”  

     “How the fuck am I supposed to differentiate that from how he usually moves?” Yennefer snapped, annoyed. Geralt wasn’t exactly the most expressive person when he was around people he didn’t trust, which was almost everyone.

     “Hey. I’m not with him all the time anymore, you are. I don’t know how to describe it, you’re just gonna have to look for it. You’ll see what I mean.” Eskel replied, stung. Yennefer had a way of getting under his skin, and he didn’t always know how to handle it.  

     “Fine.” Yennefer glared unapologetically at the dirty, ugly wallpaper covering the motel room walls. “And in private?”  

     “You’ve seen him flick his fingers and crack his knuckles and stuff, right? All those little repetitive movements he makes when he thinks no one’s looking?”  

     Yennefer snorted softly. As a matter of fact she knew exactly what Eskel was talking about. It was one of the more unusual things about Geralt, but she found it charming. “Yes. I know exactly what you’re talking about.”  

     “Well… he gets stiff in public ‘cause he’s trying to hide those. In private, if he feels safe enough, he’ll start doing a lot of those movements. Rocking. Pacing, too. You’ll see different ones as well, not just the uh, publicly acceptable ones like knuckle cracking. When you see it you’ll know it. He starts doing it really intensely when he’s upset and about to blow.”  

     Feeling uneasy, Yennefer scooted up to put her back against the headboard. This was way out of her depth, and what’s worse, she didn’t really understand any of it. There was no good reason she could see for Geralt to be like this. The fact that she couldn’t make sense of it and couldn’t name it made her nervous and angry. She hesitated for a moment, again considering hanging up on Eskel and washing her hands of the whole mess, but something kept her on the line. After a moment she said. “Okay. What else?”  

     “Uh.” Eskel paused, blew out a drag of his smoke. “Okay. Tone of voice. He uh, his voice flattens out even more. Starts getting clipped. It sounds like he’s getting snippy but it’s a little different.”  

     “That… actually I did hear today, now that you mention it.” Yennefer admitted, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Okay. Anything else?”  

     “Yeah. You know that thing he does when he’s fed up with everyone’s shit and wants to bail?”  

     “Yes. I know exactly what you mean. He gets squirrely. Starts looking for exits and making excuses about his grandmother being on fire, so to speak.”  

     Eskel gave a low, warm chuckle. “Exactly. You see that paired up with him getting stiff and short-tempered, chances are he’s on the wind up. It’s… different from when he’s mad. Once you spot it, I think you’ll know what I mean. You’re pretty sharp.”  

     Yennefer blinked, then relaxed slightly, mollified by the compliment. “I probably will. Is it safe for him to take off like he just did? We’re not in a familiar part of the city.”  

     “Ehh… not really, no. I mean, generally it’s been fine because he avoids people, but he can get pretty agitated if they try to touch him or get him to talk while he’s like this. If he’s out in public that could go real bad, real fast. So uh. Try to keep him from booking it out of there in the future. But since Coën’s there with him, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Betcha they’ll be back any minute.”  

     Staring at the dingy bedside table, Yennefer thought it over. Her eyes traced the bubbles in the varnish, the scuffs and scratches in the wood. “Okay. Has he… do you know if he’s ever been to a doctor about it?”  

     Eskel snorted smoke and coughed. The cough very quickly became a chuckle. “No. Fuck no. Our boy wouldn’t go to a doctor over shit like that, he doesn’t want anyone to know.” He coughed again, clearing his throat and settling back down. “Man. Don’t ever try and talk him into it, that’s the fastest way to get him mad I’ve ever found.”  

     “Personal experience?”  

     “Mm. Yup. He doesn’t like it when there’s something different about him. Likes to hide it.”  

     “I’ve noticed. Has he always been like that?”  

     “Yup. His old man is a piece of work. Always wants him to be the perfect little soldier boy. Anything that woulda kept him from success in the Army was a non-starter.”  

     Yennefer grunted, frowning. “He doesn’t talk much about him.” By this point she’d seen the scars. They’d horrified her and filled her with unspeakable anger, but she’d never been able to get Geralt to talk about them. He didn’t like talking about Col. Vesemir at all, not if he could avoid it.  

     “Nnnope. Don’t expect that to change.” The chair creaked again. “Listen, thanks for calling. He ever gets in trouble and you need me, I’m there. No questions asked.”  

     “I know.” She hesitated, frowning, then added. “Thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”  

     Eskel chuckled. “No problem. I figured you wouldn’t call me unless something was on fire.” His chair creaked again. “Look, I gotta get off to work soon. Are you guys going to be ok?”  

     “Yes.” Yennefer replied with conviction. She wasn’t actually certain that they were, but she knew that she didn’t want to have to juggle Eskel’s feelings on top of everyone else’s when Geralt and Coën finally turned back up. “Talk to you later, Lt. Úlfur.”  

     “You’ve got it. Be safe out there.” Eskel hung up, leaving Yennefer sitting alone on Coën’s motel bed. She hung up the phone and stood, heading back out into the hallway. For a brief moment she considered going out to find her boys, but she very quickly realized that she was going to find them faster by staying put. With a sigh, she went back into her hotel room and began to tidy away her binders. Even if there was still work to be done, it would have to wait until later. She couldn’t focus anymore.  

     It wasn’t long after that when she heard the outside door slam and the soft noise of Geralt’s footsteps coming back up the hall, followed by Coën’s heavier tread. She raised her head as they came into the room.  

     “No.” Geralt said, the second he saw Yennefer. Behind him, Coën rolled his eyes.  

     “Ger-” She began, but he cut her off with an angry gesture.  

     “No! I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.” He began stuffing his things into his bag, meeting her look of angry astonishment with a flat glare.  

     “Going somewhere?” Coën drawled laconically, leaning against the hallway door. He didn’t look particularly interested in letting Geralt leave again, but his body was relaxed, his expression amiable and unthreatening.  

     “Finding someplace else to sleep. Leave me alone.” Geralt snapped, burning with embarrassment. Behind him, Coën snorted.  

     “Chill, asshole. No one’s mad at you. Settle in, I’ll go buy us a couple of six packs or something. You cool to hang out?” He sauntered over and got into Geralt’s face, gently backing him away from his bag. Geralt growled, annoyed, but he allowed Coën to maneuver him into an ugly little chair in the corner of the room. “Yenna promises not to pry, doesn’t she? We’ll deal with it some other time. No big deal.” He patted Geralt on the shoulder, unimpressed by his stormy expression. Then he turned, fixing Yennefer with a long, quelling look that said, ‘You know you wanna play ball, don’t you?’  

     Geralt shrugged Coën’s hand off, but remained in his chair. He turned a somewhat more uncertain look on Yennefer, who up until that point absolutely    had       been planning to grill him.  

     Yennefer, having the courtesy to look slightly guilty as Coën stared her down, nodded. “Maybe there’s some shitty movie on the telly. I’ll get it on, we can finish up our work later.” She glanced at Coën, who nodded.  

     “Sounds like a plan.” Coën said, pleased that Yennefer had decided for once to simmer down and help Geralt out. The two of them could be like toddlers sometimes, kicking off irrational arguments at the slightest provocation. He stepped out from between them carefully, observing their body language for cues of further aggression much like a zoologist might study two angry animals. When he felt assured that they were finally settled and done with fighting, he grinned. “Okay. You kids be good while I’m out, I’ll be back in a few.” He sauntered out of the room, leaving Geralt and Yennefer sitting in awkward silence.  

     When he came back some time later, bearing a huge box of falafels and a case of beer, Yennefer and Geralt were perched stiffly on opposite ends of the bed, watching a movie. Ignoring the obvious tension between the two of them, Coën kicked off his boots and tossed each of them a cold beer. Then he shoved Geralt aside, forcing him to the middle of the bed so that Coën could sit on the outside edge.  

     By the end of the night, Yennefer and Coën were drunk and leaning companionably against Geralt, one on each side. At first he’d looked put upon, but by now he was full of food and beer, sleepy and comfortable. Tentatively, he relaxed between the two of them, a look of bemused affection on his face. They spent the rest of the night that way, screen flickering across their faces until they fell asleep.  

 Yennefer retreats to the door of the gym and looks around the hallway, then settles herself in a chair near the entryway. Nothing to do now but wait, and stop him if he tries to take off before he’s worn himself out. Sighing, she takes a long pull from her water bottle and gets comfortable, dropping into a light meditation while she studies the wall opposite. Out of the corner of her eye, he continues running.

 Over the years, Yennefer had gotten used to Geralt’s seemingly endless series of little quirks. By the time their daughter had been born, they were almost invisible to her. That’s why it had come to her as a surprise when Coën had first drawn the parallel between Geralt’s quirks and Ciri’s needs, after Ciri had been diagnosed as autistic when she was a toddler. At first, she hadn’t wanted to see the similarities, but before long the parallels were glaring. It hadn’t taken her and Coën long after that to figure that Geralt was likely autistic as well, though they both know there would be hell to pay if they actually tried to point it out to him. Geralt could hardly cope with being gay, it didn’t make sense to add one more thing to his plate. The insight had been good, though. It had meant she and Coën were at least better able to understand Geralt and meet his needs, especially during the stressful visits home every year.  

 Running himself out takes the better part of an hour, but eventually Geralt wears himself down. The energy begins to dissipate, and his legs and arms begin shaking as he runs. He carefully slows the pace to a more manageable rate. Then he runs the rest of the trembling out of his limbs before keying the machine to a stop. He’s dripping with sweat, panting with the exertion, emotionally spent.

 When Yennefer comes up to his elbow again, Geralt barely notices her. She exerts gentle pressure on his arm and he goes where she leads, the scent of lilac and gooseberry cutting through the stink of stress and sweat. He would have been able to find the room on his own, eventually, but he trusts her to guide him.

 Silently she leads him through the hotel and back to their room, communicating with gentle touches. Keying the door open, she uses her hand to gently urge him inside. Closing the door behind him, she hands him a clean towel and points to the bathroom. She knows speech is not as effective when he’s dazed like this, so she relies on gentle nonverbal cues. He blinks dumbly in the direction of the bathroom door for a moment, waiting for meaning to become clear. Yennefer waits patiently with him, watching his eyes trace the space between her finger and the bathroom door. Eventually, understanding dawns. Nodding, he takes the towel and pads off to shower.

 When Yennefer is sure that the shower is running and he is inside of it, she quickly exits the room and heads back downstairs to retrieve the laundry. Normally she insists that he care for it himself, but tonight, she thought it better to just get it done. Hurrying back, she manages to return before he is out of the shower.

 Geralt emerges some time later, his eyes clearer, clean-shaven, a towel wrapped around his waist. Yennefer is hanging the last of his shirts in the hotel closet, keeping them from getting rumpled. She smoothes the wine-red one out between her fingers, then turns to face him. He stills while she gives him a considering look. His eyebrows go up as she walks over to him and cups his cheek in her hand, then draws him down for a brief, chaste kiss. Her hand slides down to the back of his neck and cradles him close, forehead to forehead, then she releases him.

 As Geralt straightens, he runs his hand over her hair in a gentle gesture of affection. A quick smile plays across her face as she looks up at him. “Everything all right?” She asks, knowing that it isn’t.

 “Thinking about Jaskier,” Geralt admits, in a moment of unusual honesty. “And my old man. Remembering a lot of stuff. Thinking about Ciri and Coën, too.”

 Yennefer’s face becomes more serious, and she nods. “We’re going to be calling them, soon. We should talk about it before you and I get on the phone.” A lost, hurt expression crosses Geralt’s face. He nods, and she reaches up to cup his cheek, trying to will love into him through the palm of her hand.

 “I know you’re still upset about what happened last time we were all together, kochany. I know it’s making all of this awfulness about the discharge so much worse. But running more isn’t going to fix anything.”

 Geralt grimaces and pulls away from Yennefer, his expression becoming stiff and guarded. He walks over to the bed and picks up the fresh underwear and new soft black pajama pants that Yennefer has set out on the bed for him. Normally she doesn’t set out clothes for him, but tonight he finds himself grateful to not have to think about finding the damn things in an unfamiliar room. He pulls on his underwear and pants, glowering, and then picks up the shirt.

 Yennefer looks over him as he turns away, her eyes running over his naked body. It was a familiar sight to her, almost as familiar as her own. He’d never been shy about changing in front of her, or frankly, lounging around in his underwear when he was off duty. The countries where they’d spent most of their early lives together had been deadly hot, and they weren’t always lucky enough to have air conditioning.

 Yennefer’s girlfriends exclaimed about how lucky she was to see him naked like that on the regular, but to her, Geralt’s body was simply… his. She had never felt particularly stirred by it, aside from a certain unavoidable aesthetic appreciation. Her eyes run along his long limbs as he dresses, scanning for new injuries. There’s a few more scars on his calves, shiny patches where skin had been abraded or blasted away. More alarmingly, there’s a jagged new gash of a scar on his back, pink and shiny where most of the rest of them have faded to white. She frowns as he finishes putting on his pants and picks up his shirt.

 Geralt tenderly lifts the t-shirt from the bed to examine it. It’s another one from home, and it still smells like Ciri’s favorite essential oil, made from orange blossoms. The oil has a tendency to get all over everything in the house, to the point that he associates it now with his visits home. As he picks it up he hesitates to put it on, his heart pulling painfully. The last time he had seen Ciri had been a mess. He sinks into a reverie as he plays with the shirt carefully, moving the fabric in a gentle, rhythmic fashion across his fingertips.

 Geralt had been in and out of her life unsteadily since she was born. He wrote her letters every month, and sent gifts as often as he could. Every time he was shipped to a new place, he would take the time to hunt down a new book of pictures to show her where he’d been. They were huge, glossy professional pieces, meant for adults and their coffee tables, but Yennefer and Ciri had told him that they treasured them. His actual physical presence in her life had been spotty, though.

 He’d been able to take leave to stay with his new wife Yennefer after her pregnancy had become unstable. Coën and Geralt had gone with her back to London, where she knew people and would be able to resume work with the AP after Ciri was born. Between him and Coën, they had managed to get her through her difficult and medically complicated pregnancy.

 Ciri had been born in an NHS hospital in London. She was a tiny little scrap of a thing, but healthy and strong, with lungs that could sustain a shatteringly loud wail. It had felt like the Universe had hit Geralt between the eyes, watching her emerge into the world. Her first cry had broken him open in a way he didn’t even know he could break, and he had fallen instantly and powerfully in love. The hospital midwife had whisked her away to be cleaned and weighed, as he and Yennefer and Coën had huddled together on the hospital bed in stunned silence.

 When Ciri had been brought back some time later and placed into Yennefer’s arms, he had wondered how anything so red and wrinkly could be the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. But she was. And when Yennefer had placed her in his arms, overwhelmed, he had begun to cry, silent tears leaking down his cheeks and dripping onto her little blanket.

 Hours later, in the dark of the night, Geralt’s Army pager had begun to blow up. When he’d stumbled off of the cot and out into the hallway to find a phone, Ciri had woken in her little bassinet. He remembered hearing her crying as he wandered away from the room.

 By the time he’d gotten off of the phone a few minutes later, his newly tender heart was shattered. His leave had been canceled. There had been an emergency, and his entire battalion was being mobilized as quickly as possible. They’d given him the information about his flight booking, and he’d realized that he had to leave within the hour if he wanted to make it back to the apartment to pack and then out to the airport.

 Saying goodbye to Yen, to Coën, and especially to Ciri, felt like Geralt was ripping his whole heart out and leaving it with them. As he’d left the hospital he’d felt like his chest was on fire, like he couldn’t breathe. He’d wondered idly if this is what dying felt like, but he knew that it wasn’t. Walking out of the hospital door, Geralt felt it glide shut behind him. As it closed, a crushing wave of self-hatred had come over him. His parents had abandoned him, and now he was no better. Even years later, even when he knew better, the feeling had never really left him. Simmering with rage and crushing guilt, he had gotten into the taxi and driven away.

 That Christmas, while he was deployed, the letter with the lock of hair had arrived from Yennefer, letting him know that he was still loved, still part of a family. And nine months later, he had been able to take leave and come home to see his family. Ciri was a year old by that point, and he had been able to stay for a month. She had been learning to walk, and Geralt had been able to see her take some of her first, hesitant steps. At that age, she also loved to bounce. He had been happy to hold her and let her bounce on his legs as long as she wanted to. His arms were more than strong enough to handle it.

 The next few visits were hard. Ciri was a toddler. Her complex needs, different than most toddlers, had caused Yennefer and Coën a great deal of confusion and stress; finally, she had been diagnosed as autistic. While Yennefer and Coën had managed to adapt quickly once they had support, and with surprising grace, Geralt hadn’t. He’d felt helpless, out of his depth with a child who needed things he couldn’t provide. He loved her more deeply than he’d ever loved a single living soul, but she needed a father who was a stable presence, one who was part of her routines. A father with a deep reserve of calm, and lived insight into her needs.

 Geralt had been able to stay for a month each visit, but it hadn’t ever been enough. The visits were a blur of Ciri’s screaming, tantruming, and meltdowns. Though he doted on her and was exquisitely gentle, she nevertheless threw a fit every time he got too near. She was calm enough around her mother and Coën, who she was familiar with, but her father was basically a stranger to her.

 Coën and Yennefer had tried to convince him differently, but deep down Geralt had the suspicion that he was doing something wrong to set her off so badly. He quickly became withdrawn and circumspect around his daughter. Ciri had kissed his cheek as he left though, and he still remembers the feeling of her chubby little hands patting his face as he said goodbye each visit.

 On Ciri’s fourth birthday, Geralt had been able to make it home. Sometimes he felt like it was the worst timing of his life, even though he had been grateful to see his family. He had been jet-lagged, traumatized, and exhausted, and the usually quiet house had been filled to the brim with toddlers. The noise, sudden movements, and unstable tempers of the children filling the house had overwhelmed him. He had found himself full of a sudden, blinding rage. It had terrified him. Instead of staying for cake and presents, he had gone for a run. Ciri had been crushed.

 Even though Geralt hadn’t harmed a soul, the fact that he was even capable of that kind of anger around children shattered his trust in his ability to be a safe father for his daughter. The rest of the visit had been brutal. Unable to convince himself anymore that he could keep his cool around his daughter, he’d tried to protect her by withdrawing from her. This frightened Ciri and made her try harder and harder to get his attention.

 While Geralt was mostly able to maintain a gentle air with her, there were several incidents where she had thrown things or bitten him and he’d barked at her. What he’d said had been harmless enough, if too loud, but it had caused his deeply sensitive daughter to scream with terror. Yennefer had intervened each time, and Coën had taken him for walks, but he’d never really recovered his confidence.

 The visit in 1989 had probably been the best, despite all of Geralt’s misgivings going into it. He had made it home in time for his birthday, and they had managed to have a quiet and fun celebration for him. He had received a new mixology manual and a book about horses that his daughter had picked out for him, after Yennefer had told her how much he used to like them as a boy. That had set the visit off on the right foot.

 By then Ciri was six years old, and a great deal calmer as long as she was safe in her home. She had loved books, and horses, so much of their visit was consumed by trips to the library and long hours curled together on the couch, reading under a warm blanket. There were still the occasional conflagrations and blowouts when they both became overwhelmed at the same time, but Yennefer and Coën had gotten much better at heading them both off at the pass. They did their best to support Geralt as he learned new emotional skills to keep up with his daughter. When he had walked away from their door to the taxi though, Ciri had a terrible meltdown. Her howls of distress had followed him up the street, haunting him.

 After that, two years had passed. By 1991, Ciri was eight years old. He had come home in time for another birthday, but this time it was an unmitigated disaster. Ciri had been hostile from the get-go, which he accepted privately was his own fault. (It was not, but nothing Yennefer said had been able to convince him otherwise.) She had been struggling with changes in her schooling and routine, and the disruption of her frequently-absent father’s visit had been the final straw. By now she was old enough to hate how often he was gone, old enough to miss him terribly. With everything else going on it had all turned to anger, the way it sometimes does in children.

 The birthday dinner itself had consisted of Ciri refusing to sit at the table with him, ripping the present she’d picked for him out of Yennefer’s hands and throwing it on the floor. The struggle had knocked Geralt’s drink into his lap, despite Coën and Yennefer’s best efforts to de-escalate the situation. When Ciri had clawed Yennefer across the face, mid-meltdown, Geralt had totally lost his composure. Much to his shame, he had reacted on instinct, hollering at her to treat her mother with some goddamn respect or he’d give her something to be sorry about. The silence had been ringing afterwards. He had pushed away from the table, apologized, and quickly exited the apartment. Coën had glanced at Yennefer and, when she nodded, he ran out the door after Geralt to talk him down.

 The rest of the visit wasn’t much better. Despite everyone’s best efforts to keep them both calm and regulated, Ciri’s absolute merciless eight year old anger and resentment and Geralt’s uneven, exhausted temper had boiled everyone raw by the time he left a month later. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had the emotional resources going in, but he had arrived traumatized and jetlagged, and Ciri had a way of getting under his skin that literally no one else in the world could.

 Geralt loved children, always had, and around other people’s kids he had felt confident. That made it all the more devastating when Ciri would crack his composure and he would snap; It was easier to avoid if he was well-rested and on a routine, but on his visits home he didn’t have that. Though he was always physically gentle with her, and had never touched a hair on her head, the way Ciri would scream after he raised his voice made him physically ache. He hated himself for being the source of any of her pain.

 Worse than any of that, though, was when he tried to leave for the airport. Ciri had clung to him the whole day before, suddenly switching from rage to tearful neediness, which he also had no idea how to handle. He had let Yennefer pack his bags for him so that he could take the time to curl up with her on the couch under a blanket, like they had years before, and read her books about horses. It had been a tiny blip of peace and he still treasured the memory.

 But when he brought his bag to the door the next day, Ciri had a truly epic meltdown. She had clawed his baggage apart to prevent him from leaving, and when he insisted on putting it back together, had come for him, trying to rip and batter at him to keep him home. He still had a long vertical scar on his face, under his eye, from where one of her nails had ripped his skin. And when Yennefer and Coën had gently bundled Ciri up between the two of them to keep everyone safe, she had yowled at the top of her lungs that he should never come home again, that he was bad, bad, bad! And he had never forgotten the look that Coën had given him, a cool look of warning, as if to say:  Add one more thing to my plate and I will deck you. What Geralt saw instead was: You have hurt this child too many times, get the fuck out of this house. Stepping back from the knot of them on the floor, he had said his goodbyes and fled.

 He hadn’t been back since.

 Partly that had been the fault of his career, which had picked up at that point. His responsibilities had escalated, and if there wasn’t time for leave, well, he wasn’t going to push. And if he’d fudged it with his commanding officers so that he could stay on duty longer than he should have… well, that was on him. It was the most cowardly thing he had ever done. As a result, he had already been afraid to face his family before the court martial even happened. The dishonorable discharge had just felt like the final straw.

 He feels the bed sink next to him as Yennefer sits by his side, reaching out and gently touching the t-shirt in his hands. It’s from the London Zoo, something Ciri picked out for him when she was about five. Her elegant hand covers his, gently stilling his fidgeting.

 “She misses you, you know.” Yennefer says quietly. Geralt nods mutely, eyes tracing the pattern of elephants all over the shirt. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, then clears his throat.

 “I miss her too, Yen.”

 “You could talk to her,” she reminds him gently, and he nods again.

 “I don’t want to,” he mumbles.

 “You’re afraid to,” she corrects. He shrugs and grimaces, then nods.

 “It would do her some good to hear your voice… she’s been terrified since you went missing. I told her it was just a mixup, but she really needs you, Geralt.” Yennefer reaches out and slides her arm around his waist, squeezing him close. “And I know you feel bad about what happened… but you’ve been making it worse by running, kochany. Time to stop.”

 Geralt’s throat tightens into a hard knot, and he looks down at the shirt in his hands. He glares at the elephants, as if spending his ire on them would make any sort of difference. When he realizes how ridiculous that is a moment later, all of the fight goes out of him and he sags. Flipping the shirt open, he slides it on over his head.

 He lays back on the bed afterward, feet still on the floor. Yennefer reaches out and strokes his stomach thoughtfully. As her hand traces idle, firm patterns she wonders what to do. Letting his eyes slide half shut, he ponders as well.

 "It's probably best if we keep your conversation with her short," Yennefer says a while later, breaking the silence. She had found that giving her daughter and husband clear scripts for short phone interactions reduced anxiety for both of them. She’d gotten it down to a science by now. Geralt would never admit it, but he was just as anxious on the phone as Ciri was when he made his calls home. Yennefer had quickly gotten sick of having to juggle both Ciri and her husband losing their cool, so she’d worked out a system. "I can let her know exactly what is going to happen, that way. Keep any surprises from happening."

 Geralt nods. In this matter Yennefer has always been the expert, and he defers to her without question. He has zero trust in himself to be what his daughter needs, but Yennefer has always done her best to help him bridge the gap. Having her present, having a clear plan, makes the interactions with Ciri so much smoother. As much as he hates needing it, as much as he craves to be a normal father with normal skills, he appreciates how she always works to keep him and Ciri connected.

 After being raised by a man with a harsh tongue and a harsher outlook on life, Geralt had spent his whole life in the military. It left him ill-equipped to speak with the kind of gentleness and forethought that his daughter deserved to hear. As a result, he felt he had a tendency to put his foot in his mouth around his daughter. Yennefer’s scripts were the magic that kept him and Ciri talking during his long stretches away from home.

 "I think what I’ll do is this. I will call her, do our morning greeting conversation like we always do. Then, I will tell her a very short version of how I found you. I’m going to leave out Jaskier, because I think that’s your story to tell.” Geralt flushes awkwardly and nods again, his stomach tensing under her hand. The fear of being known by his daughter as gay is still deep and immediate for him. She glances at him and he gestures for her to continue, not wanting to talk about it.

 “Then, I am going to tell her that you are here. I will tell her that I am going to put you on the phone, and that you will tell her that you are OK and you love her. Then, I will tell her that you will hand the phone back to me, and I will finish our usual morning call. Does that sound manageable?”

 “That sounds fine,” he rumbles quietly, his voice calm even though she can feel beneath her fingers the stress he’s hiding.

 “Do you want to talk to Coën?” She asks, letting him avoid her gaze. He shifts away from her, and after a moment, rolls upright.

 “Sure,” Geralt replies uneasily. And he does, but he’s also worried about how his friend will react to all the shit he’s pulled over the last month. Coën loves him, but he isn’t one to mince words when he is upset.

 Yennefer reaches over and gently squeezes Geralt’s leg, picking up on his concern. “He’s going to be with Ciri, mój drogi. If you’re worried he’s going to pick a fight with you, you are absolutely correct, but he’s not going to do it in front of our daughter.”

 Geralt grimaces, shaking his head. “I really did it this time, didn’t I?”

 “No, kochany. We still love you. But you did scare the hell out of us, and he’s very angry about some of your choices.”

 Geralt turns to look at Yennefer, examining her face. His own is guarded. “I guess that’s fair,” he admits reluctantly. Turning away with a shrug, he turns to look at the patterns on the carpet. As he does so, he rubs his fingers across the pink new scarring on his knuckles. The bones underneath still ache, but he barely notices it anymore.

 “At least you didn’t get into a fight,” Yennefer says, eyes falling to the movement of his fingers. “When I saw the x-rays I didn’t know what to think.”

 Geralt grunts and shakes his head. “No fight. Just fucked up and lost control.”

 She reaches out and grabs his hand, intertwining his fingers gently with hers. “I think just about anyone would have been overwhelmed, Geralt. That was a bad day.”

 He frowns. It galls Geralt that Yennefer knows how weak he’d been, and he doesn’t want to talk about it any more. Even if she is being kind. He grimaces, but despite his instinct to pull away he stays still, letting her squeeze his fingers. Her cool skin against his feels good, a reassuring, kind feeling.

 Eyeing him, Yennefer debates whether or not to pursue the subject. In the end, she decides not to. There would be time to talk about that day again later. Instead, she says, “Ciri’s gotten a lot calmer since you last saw her. She’s been working very hard. She’s figured out a lot of her own sensory triggers now, did you know that?”

 Geralt nods cautiously. “She writes to me about it. I think she thinks about it a lot,” he observes, squinting at his hands and avoiding looking at Yennefer’s face. “I’m surprised she trusted me enough to write to me about it.”

 Yennefer sighs, heartsore and exasperated. “You’ve been writing her a letter every month since she was born. Our house is filled with insane knicknacks, some of which-” she points her finger warningly at him, “have been totally age-inappropriate.”

 Geralt snorts. “Sorry,” he apologizes, cracking a rueful smile.

 “Don’t be, she still loves them. I just put them up on shelves where they won’t break,” she smiles, squeezing him affectionately again. “And she loves the movies and audio recordings of yourself that you send for her birthdays. She even has a lot of very positive memories from your visits, believe it or not. You’ve built this idea up that you’re terrible for her, but to her? You’re her hero. Of course she would trust you enough to write to you about that.”

 Geralt sinks into an uncomfortable silence, his face falling. The kind words feel wrong to him, but he knows better than to argue with Yennefer about things like this anymore. Reaching his arm out he pulls her in against his side, craving her warmth and gentle touch.

 Yennefer looks up at him from his shoulder, giving him a long, thoughtful examination. He squirms and turns his face away after tolerating it for a short while, and Yennefer snorts softly. The tension in his body is coiling tighter and tighter again, so she nudges him until he begins to rock. Better than another blowout. She keeps her arm around his waist and they sway together. At first Geralt’s breath is harsh, too quick, but as time passes the rhythmic movements work their magic and the tension slowly bleeds back out of his muscles. Eventually, she glances at the clock and pulls very softly away.

 “It’s time.”

 Geralt nods, shifting aside so that Yennefer can fully disentangle herself. Golden eyes follow her as she pads softly over to her purse and pulls out a calling card. She dials a number, waits, enters a PIN, and dials another number. As that’s ringing, Geralt rises and sits at the round grey table across from her. Yennefer reaches out with her free hand and grabs his, holding it in a reassuring grip. The look he flashes her is raw, vulnerable, and he tightens his hand in hers.

 The phone picks up. He can hear a man’s voice and recognizes it immediately, even though he can’t pick out every syllable. “Hello? Who’s this?”

 “Just me, Coën.”

 “Oh hey, Yenna, good morning! Nice to hear from you! Is everyone there today?” Coën inquires. She can hear him moving, and assumes he is on his way to bring the phone to Ciri.

 “Yes.” Her voice is warm, and she flashes Geralt a smile full of love. “Everyone’s here today.” She gives Geralt a gentle squeeze, and he gives her an awkward, hesitant smile in return.

 “Great. Great, that’s really good to hear,” Coën replies, his voice full of relief. Though he was loath to admit it, Geralt’s disappearance had been the worst scare of his life. “Ciri honey! Your ma’s on the phone.” Over the line, Yennefer can hear a rustle and the sound of Ciri approaching. “Got your dad today, too. C’mere, baby. Ready to talk to her? She’ll fill you in.”

 Yennefer’s smile widens as she hears the phone exchange hands.

 “Mum?”

 Geralt’s heart flips as he hears his daughter’s voice from across the table. Ciri’s voice pierces to the heart of him, and it always will. It’s good to hear. It wakes something in him that has been sleeping, a ferociously soft, all-consuming love. When he’d been discharged he’d gone into despair, believing that he’d never see Ciri again. Thinking that he was no longer a father, he had packed this part of himself away. To his shock and relief it’s still right there, the second he hears that muffled word.  

 Yennefer takes in the suddenly intent expression on his face and feels the tension in her shoulders ease. The light is back in his eyes. His beautiful golden eyes are one of her favorite parts about him, always fiercely alight, full of intelligence and hidden humor. It had frightened her to the core when she’d looked into them in the hospital and found them dull and dim. It’s a relief to see him rekindled, and it reassures her that she’s doing the right thing putting them on the phone together.

 “Hello love.” Yennefer replies. “How has your morning been?”

 Geralt listens, heartbroken and enchanted, as Ciri and Yennefer talk back and forth. They discuss Ciri’s previous day, and her plans for today. The cadence of their voices speaks of a comfortable routine, a script repeated until it’s well worn and full of solace and love. Then Yennefer tells her a heavily edited version of how she came to find Geralt.

 Geralt’s heart speeds up as Yennefer prompts Ciri with the script she’d made for her loved ones. Then, violet eyes lock with his and she gives him a serious look, as if to ask if he’s ready. He blanches but nods and takes the phone from her with a steady grip, bringing the receiver to his ear.

 “Hey, Cirilla. It’s your dad. I’m okay, I’m here with your mom.” Her name on his lips has a distinctly Polish sound, ‘Tseereellah.’ His throat feels like it’s frozen over and his fingers and lips numbly tingle as he speaks to her for the first time in months… but his voice is warm, the love he feels coming through in his tone. A soft rustle is all he can hear at first.

 Then. “Hi, Dad. Are you ok?” Ciri’s voice is soft in his ear. His heart melts the instant that he hears it, and Yennefer can see his face soften. He looks bewildered, befuddled by the affection he feels for her, frightened by how vulnerable that makes him feel.

 “I’m ok,” he reassures her. “I’m here at the hotel with your mom safe. I love you very much, Ciri.”

 She giggles on the other end of the line. “Tsee-ree,” the girl imitates happily. “I like it when you say it like that, Dad. I love you too.” To Yennefer, it looks like he can’t tell if he wants to laugh or cry. He pulls his hand back from hers to rub his face, hiding his expression from her.

 “Have a good day, kochany. I’m going to hand the phone back to your mom now,” he rumbles gently, his voice suspiciously thick, then hands Yennefer back the phone. Every fiber in him wants to go run, but he has already committed to talking to Coën, so he fidgets uncomfortably instead. Yennefer makes eye contact with him and makes a little circle in the air with her finger, then holds it up as if to say ‘once.’

 He understands immediately. It wasn’t always possible to run, so he’d adapted some of his physical training exercises for small spaces as a way to compensate. He nods and goes over to the middle of the room, dropping to his stomach and then starting to do a series of movements that put deep resistance into his joints. He has to favor his healing hand, but it’s not hard to compensate. The routine itself is familiar, easy to vanish into. The pressure and the burn of his muscles gives him something tangible to focus on. As he moves, the uneasy energy coiling in his body rapidly settles.

 Yennefer eyes him for a moment, then, satisfied, returns to her conversation with Ciri. Unlike her daughter, Geralt has an overwhelming fear of meltdown. As a result, it is easier to convince him to ground himself out than it ever had been with their daughter. Seeing that the tension is going back out of him, she’s able to put her full focus into the last few minutes with Ciri. When she sees Geralt begin to wind up his routine, she says her goodbyes. Then Coën gets on the line and she turns to look at Geralt. He rises and returns to sit with her, his cheeks flushed, the set of his body relaxed and steady. When Yennefer hands him the phone, he takes it and cradles it against his ear.

 “Hey, brother.” Coën’s voice cuts across the distance from London, grave and gentle. “How’s it going? We missed you.” Geralt can hear the gentle reproof in the last sentence, and he winces.

 “I missed you too,” he says quietly, then falls silent, his throat constricting. There were too many things to say. He couldn’t say any of them. If he started, he was going to fall apart.

 Coën waits for a while to see if there will be more. When there isn’t, he says, “How’s everything going out there? I hear you’ve had some crazy luck, buddy. You’re going to have to tell me about it next time I see you.”

 Geralt gives a low chuckle, his voice rough. “I will. You been taking good care of our girls?”

 “Nothing but the best, man. You know it. Been taking care of yourself?”

 “Sure,” Geralt replies noncommittally. “You?”

 “Sure, I do pretty good. Got a nice place to run out here. Ciri’s starting to join me, that’s been fun.”

 “That sounds really great,” Geralt replies, feeling a twist of longing and regret. It should be him out there running with Ciri, not Coën. Unable to bear continuing the conversation, he says, “I won’t keep you, Coën, it sounds like you and Ciri have a busy day ahead of you.”

 “You know it man, gotta keep those young minds growing. Listen, Yenna tells me things might go well out there for you. Good luck, right? She’s gonna keep me updated. You got my number if you need anything, ok brother? I’m always here.” Coën speaks carefully to avoid giving too much away to Ciri, but it warms Geralt to know that Coën supports him. Yen must have told him about Jaskier. He cuts a quick glance at her, wondering how much Coën knows. Given how close Coën and Yennefer are… probably everything.

 “Ok, man. Thank you.” Geralt says quietly. Then, “Give Ciri a hug and kiss for me.”

 “Will do. Talk to you soon.”

 “Yeah.”

 Geralt hands the phone back to Yennefer and goes to the bathroom, running the sink so that he can’t hear the rest of the short conversation. He washes his face with cool water, runs it over his hands. His insides feel like they are racing, short and gentle though the conversation with his brother had been.

 Even though Coën is a few years younger than both Yennefer and Geralt, he has always been a kind and grounding presence for both of them. Hands down, he is one of the most positive relationships Geralt has ever had. Knowing that he’s disappointed and frightened Coën leaves Geralt feeling scared and sad. He waits until he hears Yennefer’s voice stop before turning off the taps and drying himself. When he emerges from the bathroom she looks up at him, violet eyes softer than usual.

 “Everything ok?”

 He shrugs, heading for the bed and crawling into it. Her eyes flick over him, then to the clock. It’s well past 0300, and he’s been in the States longer than she has. He’s probably exhausted. Her own body clock hasn’t recovered from jet lag yet. Part of her is still in London, waking up and starting the day. The part of her that’s here, though, is exhausted. Rising, she joins him in the bed. They reach out and turn out their bedside lamps, then curl together in the thick darkness just before the dawn.

 “Are you okay?” she repeats, her voice breaks the silence. She tucks her head under his chin more comfortably, then slides her hands up under his shirt to rest on his warm skin.

 Geralt’s stomach jumps at the unexpected contact, then relaxes into the comfort of her touch. He heaves a soft sigh, nuzzling the top of her head. “It was good to hear her voice. Him too.” He still feels heartbroken, crushingly lonely. But for the first time in a long time he also feels hope, a little tiny light kindled deep within his heart. His family is still his, they still love and want him. Maybe everything isn’t quite as broken as he thought it was.

 Yennefer smiles against his chest, tracing an idle circle on his back under his shirt. “I’m glad they got to hear you. They’re both happier now… they love you so much.” He huffs into her hair, shifting again to try and deal with the discomfort of that statement. She squeezes him gently, letting him process in blessed silence.

 A while later he says, “What are we going to do? If…”

 “If things go well with your idiot?”

 “Stop calling him that,” Geralt snorts, mildly annoyed, but she can hear his smile in the darkness.

 “I will when he shows me more than a glimmer of intelligence,” she teases gently. She can feel the tiny movement of a silent chuckle. Shifting back a little, she tips her head back to look at him. Her violet eyes study his face in the darkness.

 “If things go well, Coën thinks we should just move Ciri here. Keep the family together.” She kisses his chest. “I’ve been thinking about it, too. We could get a month to month for us to start… and if things take off between you two, we can scale up to a larger one and bring them over. Besides, if things don’t pan out, then we’ll all be together to figure it out. Ciri’s been all over the world with us. Another move isn’t going to throw her nearly as much as not being able to see you.” Under her fingers, Yennefer can feel Geralt’s body tense again. He looks at the curtains behind her, studying them intently.

 “Okay,” he says cautiously, after a long moment. “I want to think about it before I decide.” He presses his face back into her hair, pulling her close.

 She relaxes, pressing herself against him. “I do, too. We have some time to figure it out, there’s no rush just yet. Let’s sleep on it, moj drogì.” Heaving a tired sigh, she nuzzles his collarbone and breathes in the scent of him, clean from the shower and mingling with the orange blossom smell on his shirt. A peace rolls over her, and she closes her eyes. She can feel him nod, and she smiles sleepily, squeezing him one last time before allowing herself to begin to drift.

 In his arms, Geralt can feel Yennefer’s body go heavy and limp, her breathing evening out. Though he’s exhausted, sleep evades him. He mulls on the recent events, allowing the feelings and images to flow through him, working on allowing them to integrate. It’s slow going. Eventually, somewhere around true dawn, he finally falls into a deep sleep.

 Geralt awakens later that day to find that he is alone. He has a vague recollection of movement earlier, of feeling cold as Yennefer had left the bed, but she tended to wake before he did and he’d learned to tune it out a long time ago. The room is rich with the smell of coffee from the coffee maker. As he sits up on his elbow, he can see a neatly folded pile of athletic clothing atop which sits a brightly colored package. Interest piqued, he pushes the rest of the way up off of the bed and walks over to inspect it. The package turns out to be a small gift bag laying on its side with a note on top of it.

     Geralt-  

     Gone to do a few errands. I will be back by lunch time.  

     Go to the gym. Enjoy your present.  

     See you soon.  

     Love,  

     Y  

 Geralt smiles and opens the package, curious. Inside is a green leatherbound book bearing the title,  A Bon Vivant’s Companion Guide on How to Mix Drinks. He flips open the first page and sees a used bookstore business card tucked inside, then scans the page itself. The guide, it turns out, is a replica of the first cocktail book ever printed. This particular one is the 1867 edition. His smile broadens to a grin.

 Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Geralt sits down and begins paging slowly through it, savoring the old book smell and the soft rustle of the pages between his fingers. Happily diverted, he spends the better part of an hour drinking coffee and reading through recipes and commentary from more than a century before.

 When he finishes his coffee, he reluctantly sets the book aside. His whole body is still heavy with depression and full of a dull, gnawing ache. The prospect of exercising is daunting, but he knows that if Yennefer gets back and finds him still sitting on his ass, she will find ways to make him regret his life choices. She may be deeply loving, but her patience is limited and he’s been burning through it like kindling lately. He does need to exercise and he knows it, so this is one battle he’s not going to pick.

 Heaving a sigh, he gets up and shuffles off to the bathroom. He washes his coffee cup conscientiously, dries it, then comes back into the main room and sets it back near the coffee maker. Then he sweeps the maker itself off of the grey counter and returns to the bathroom. He sets it on the counter, delicately pulls it apart, and cleans every piece with precision. The damn thing is filthy with old oil, and it’s been making even his good coffee taste like burnt store brand grounds.

 The final piece slides onto the coffee maker with a comforting ‘click’ a few minutes later. He places it back on the counter, pleased. Then he dons his new athletic clothing, grabs his room key and water bottle, and heads to the hotel gym. It’s mid morning by then, and the gym is busier at this time of day. There’s a few scattered people, but not enough to bother him. He takes a long pull from his water bottle before heading to the mat in the back to do his warmups. Occasionally he feels a set of eyes on him, but he steadfastly ignores them until they turn away again.

 When he is done warming up, he moves through the rest of his exercise routine, methodical, slow, precise. It helps him wake up, helps him blot out all the unwanted thoughts and emotions that he’s unable to process. He finishes with a long run on the treadmill, slow and steady, eating up miles under his long legs. As he runs, he feels some of the distress and tension finally beginning to work its way out of his body, leaving him clearer headed than he’s been in months, possibly longer.

 By the time he returns to the room, Yennefer is perched at the little round table in the back of the room. She smiles when she sees him and points to the shower. He grins, walking towards her and holding his arms out, playfully threatening to hug her to his sweaty chest. Crying out in mock disgust, she grabs a piece of hotel stationery off of the table and wads it up in a ball. It hits him in the shoulder and he stops with a laugh, bending over to pick it up and toss it into the trash can.

 “When you get out of the shower,” she pauses pointedly, wrinkling her nose, “Let’s get some lunch.”

[ahs-requests]

Hey would you be willing to write something with Michael where him and the reader meet while he is still in Hawthorne (and she is also a witch) and he is really into her because she is one of the only girls who doesn't swoon over him and eventually it leads to smut with sub! Michael. So sorry this is confusing lol

not confusing at all! this ran a liiiiittle longer than expected 😬

*edit: i just saw this said sub michael and not dom im literally blind ugh sorry

WC: 2.6k                    

Pairing: Hawthorne!Michael x Witch!reader

The witches of your coven are in the midst of their trip to Hawthorne. You’ve spent your days practicing spells, working with the boys, and begrudgingly listening to all of your fellow sisters gushing about the Boy Wonder. You try focusing on the work at hand, helping out a class of young warlocks, but your friend talks your ear off. “Have you seen his eyes? Or his plump lips? How does he keep his hair so perfect throughout the day? Have you heard he’s slept with half the witches?” You’re one more comment away from losing your mind and casting a spell to make yourself permanently deaf.

Michael Langdon. Just his name is enough to make you roll your eyes nowadays. All the witches sit in their lunch circles talking about all-things-Michael while the boys sit and talk about how Michael may just be their new Supreme. You’re sick of it all and count down the days until you return back to your coven. Three days, you tell yourself, just three more days.

You sit alone at lunch, picking at your food. The chatter in the lunchroom comes to a halt when the door opens and Michael saunters inside. Everyone falls silent, Michael never usually comes in at this time. With him here, they have nothing to talk about. You watch him as he looks around like a lost puppy, holding a polished red apple in his hand that’s as pristine as his overall semblance. His light blue eyes meet yours and he grins, starting to walk to your empty table. Shit. You shift in your seat and return to picking at your food, pretending you hadn’t noticed him.

He slides into the seat across from you. “Pretty quiet in here,” he comments, his voice sounding a bit shaky. You just nod, refusing to look up at him. You’ve formally met him when you came here, you couldn’t avoid him since the warlocks treat him like the second coming, but nothing more than that. You never wanted to get to the “small talk” stage, you came here to keep your head down and do your work.

A pretty witch from a different coven sits at your table, she’s never talked to you before. “Hey y/n, what’re you eating there?” she asks with an overly enthusiastic smile.

You lean back on your seat and look behind the girl, her friends are all staring at her and whispering amongst themselves. “Food,” you respond dryly.

“Cool! How do you two know each other?” she jumps on your answer. She leans over the table; her whole body is twisted towards Michael. You can’t help but let out a snicker at her desperation, she doesn’t even acknowledge your existence.

“We don’t,” Michael responds for you, taking a bite of his apple. She’s about to open her mouth in response, but Michael puts up a finger. “If you don’t mind, I want a moment with y/n.”

Your heart drops and you feel the pretty witch shoot you a dirty glance before excusing herself from your table. Michael lets out an exasperated sigh when she leaves. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. Again, you press your lips into a line and respond with a nod. You can see him become restless in his seat at the corner of your eye. “Did I offend you or something?”

You finally look up at him; his eyebrows are furrowed in confusion and he wears a small frown. You never thought that the talk of the town would be so concerned about your opinion of him. “No,” you respond shortly. You get up to throw out your, now, cold food. He stands with you and you naturally roll your eyes. “Don’t you want to hang out with them?” you ask, nodding towards a group of witches that are practically eye-fucking him.

“No,” he shrugs. He follows you to the garbage. “Y/n,” he sighs and grabs your arm; you look up at him and he lets go. “You seem cool, you’re the only witch here that hasn’t talked to me just because…” he trails off.

“Because you’ve got a big dick?” you joke.

His face knots in embarrassment. “Who told you that?” he keeps his voice low. You shake your head and walk away, but he continues to follow, keeping up with your pace and walking beside you. “So, how are your classes going?” he starts up with the small talk again.

You stop in the hallway, the other witches and warlocks are starting to notice you and Michael together, you don’t want them to get the wrong idea. “Look, Michael, this isn’t going to work out between us,” you explain, gesturing to the space between the two of you.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets with a shrug. “We can’t be friends?” he presses.

One of the higher-up warlocks walks in between the two of you and you scratch your head, peering around the room for other witnesses. Your coven sent you here because they trusted you, doing a good job could move you up in the coven, you wouldn’t want to jeopardize that because of Michael. “I know you, I’ve heard stories about you,” you whisper-shout. “I know it’s not ‘just friends’ with you.”

“Come on, you don’t have to be so straight all the time,” he laughs, “loosen up a bit.”

“Can we talk about this another time?” you ask, still worried about people seeing the two of you.

“No. You’re leaving in a few days and I’d kick my ass if I didn’t shoot my shot,” he explains, taking a step closer to you. You take a step back, still anxious of what others would think. “Y/n,” he nudges, “come on.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal or a strong excuse to get him off your back, your mind keeps drawing blanks. And a single thought whispers: maybe it’s because you want to go with him. “Okay,” you break down, “let’s talk about this somewhere else. I have a class to teach in twenty.”

A shit-eating grin plasters on his face and you’re instantly regretful. He puts his hand on your back to guide you to a room, but you keep shimmying him off. When he opens the door, there’s a neat king sized bed and papers that are tidily stacked on a desk in the corner. It’s clear that this is his room. He shuts the door behind him. “This isn’t what I meant by somewhere else,” you try backtracking. The little voice whispers again: you knew he’d take you here.

“Where else would I take you?” he asks. “This is my only room; I don’t own the school.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, “it was a mistake to even give you the time of day.”

You’re about to leave, but he blocks the door. You don’t try much of an attempt to maneuver around him. You have a spell to whip him out of your way, why don’t you use it? “I like you, y/n. You just need to chill out a bit.”

“Chill out?” you cross your arms over your chest.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “loosen up. I know the perfect spell.”

You step closer to him; you’re only inches from him, feeling the warmth of his body radiating onto yours. “And what’s that?” you whisper back, slightly tugging at your bottom lip with your teeth.

He takes in a deep breath. “I think you know,” his voice drops. He takes a finger and hooks onto the strap of your lacey bra. He runs his finger down the strap, getting closer to your breast with each anticipating second. “And I think, deep down, you love to loosen up,” he whispers, letting go of the strap and snapping it against your skin. You jump a bit and he smiles.

You’ve spent this whole trip hating Michael. You hated hearing about him and listening to other girls drone on and on about him. Maybe you’re just another notch in his belt, maybe somebody bet him to sleep with you. At this point, you don’t really care. Now you see the pillowy softness to his lips they all rave about; the softness to his skin, his impossibly angular jawline, wavy golden locks curled to perfection, and his captivating cerulean eyes. You were enchanted, just like the girls who’ve irritated you these past few weeks.

Michael can see in your eyes; he can see you falling for him by the second. “I haven’t loosened up in a while,” you finally admit. He tilts your chin up and leans down to give a soft kiss on your lips. When he parts from your lips, he cocks an eyebrow as if asking if it was good. You roll your eyes, feeling like they’re never stagnant with him. “Is that all you got?” you tease.

He smiles. “That-a girl,” he praises, snaking an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. He ravages your lips with his kiss, biting slightly on your bottom lip with each possessive smack. He walks you over to his bed, tugging at your clothes to come off. Your mind is in such a whirlwind that you’re not even questioning your obedience to his childlike vehemence. You start undressing yourself, but Michael’s so hungry that he rips your button down off, unveiling your scanty bra.

As soon as your shirts off, he’s clawing to undo the hooks and expose your bare breasts. His hands are thirstier for you then his lips; picking at your clothes, eagerly grabbing every curve, he can’t get enough of you. You pull your black skirt off for him and start unzipping his pants, he works on his shirt. “You’re the quiet witch,” he says, finally undoing the last button on his shirt, “the quietest witch always likes to get fucked the hardest.”

“Mhm,” you agree, biting down on your bottom lip.

He pushes you onto his bed, crawling on top of you and locking onto your lips again. His large hands grab at your breasts, harshly massaging them with his greedy grip. Michael pulls out your tits and leaves your lips to suck on your nipples, lightly biting at the tip of the stiff peaks. You gasp at his fervor and he smiles against your breast. His hand discovers your wet pussy and starts rubbing your clit in small circles, your breath becomes uneven. His charming blue eyes look up at you as he plays with your cunt.

He leaves your breasts to kiss down your torso, but stops when he reaches your pussy. He pauses in front of it, his hot breath teases you and makes your whole-body tingle. He inserts a finger in your hole and you moan in pleasure as he works his finger in and out of you, slowly adding in more fingers to loosen you up for him. “Baby, you have such a pretty pussy,” he sighs, kissing the inside of your thighs.

“I want you inside me already,” you beg, fighting not to crush him in between your legs.

You don’t have to ask him twice. He stands up and pulls himself out of his pants, discharging the longest and thickest dick you’ve ever seen. You can’t help but wonder what flaws this man has. He holds his cock in his hand, spitting a stringy wad of saliva on the tip and working it down his shaft. You prop yourself on your elbows, aching to taste him, but he pushes you down back onto the bed. “I’m in charge here, baby,” he reminds you, keeping a sturdy hand on your chest to keep you in place.

You accept his dominance and lay down, waiting for him to enter you. He presses himself into your folds. You gasp when the head grazes your raw clit. He stands over you, getting amusement at how desperate you’re crave his cock. He holds himself in one hand and massages your breast in the other. “I want to hear you beg,” he asserts.

You moan, feeling your body tense up with any pressure added to your cunt. “Please, I want to feel you inside me, Michael,” you whine.

He brutally smacks your tit and you weep a surprised yelp. “You can beg better than that,” he mocks, the head of his dick is trying to force itself inside of you, but he denies you the satisfaction. He waits, hand held up to give you another smack.

“Please, Michael,” you beg, throwing your dignity out the door completely, “I want your thick cock inside my tight pussy, please, use me like the whore I am.”

He smirks, “If you insist.” In a matter of seconds, the head of his cock is pummelled into you. Your breath gets caught in your throat as he moves himself deeper into your tight cunt. He climbs over you, slowly entering you, revelling at the dick-stricken faces you’re making. You don’t even try to entertain him; you can’t manage to make any other faces but shock at how much he fills you up. His dick gets deeper and your pleasure grows stronger.

You grab his arm for support, digging half-moon shapes into his skin with your nails. “You take me so well, baby girl,” he praises, starting to push himself into you faster. You feel him getting so deep that it feels like he pushes on your belly. Michael shuts his eyes, driving himself into you balls deep and letting out a guttural moan. You moan with him, still trying to adjust your spasming cunt to his fat cock. You let out louder moans, feeling a wave of ecstasy pour through you as he drills you harder. He puts a hand over your mouth, suffocating your moans and saving the two of you from getting caught.

You reach for his hand, yearning to let him hear your screams, let him hear what he’s doing to you, but he keeps his hand firmly against your mouth. You can see he’s also holding back on his moans, rolling his eyes back and letting out stifled groans. You lose feeling in your legs, you feel your cunt convulsing, fingers scratching. You know you’re about to cum. “Mmm mm mmm,” you try to warn Michael, but he still covers your mouth. “Mmm!” you scream.

He takes his hand off of your mouth. “What’s that, baby?” he asks you, wiping the matted hair from his forehead.

“I said I’m gonna-” you’re cut off buy your own orgasm. You grab his back and pull him onto you, your face burying into his bare chest. You feel him let out a choppy laugh. With his chest heaving over your face, he continues pounding into you and your fingers bore into his skin, ripping his back to shreds. Your legs tense up, toes curl, breath hitches; your world stops for a moment. Then, all at once, everything starts again, you let out a loud groan and your pussy spills all over his bed. You loosen your grip on his back and he gives a quick kiss on your lips.

By how quick Michael’s pace picks up, you can tell he’s also close to release. He puts a rigid hand around your throat, squeezing as he uses your pussy like his own sex toy. “Give me all your cum,” you prompt, your voice squeaking from his grip around our neck.

This sends him over the edge, he rolls his eyes and lets out an animalistic moan from his chest. He pulls himself out of you, cock practically twitching in his grip as he jerks himself over you. “Give it to me,” you beg, “please I want it right in my dirty mouth.”

“Mmm,” he moans. You open your mouth for him and he presses his head to your tongue. “You’re such a dirty slut for me, baby,” he admires, giving long strokes to his hard shaft. He leans over you when he’s coming, his face twisting in pleasure. He shoves the pink tip of his cock into your mouth and spills his seed on your tongue. You let it lay on your tongue for a moment, showing him how good you’ve been to him, before swallowing it up.

He sighs and falls onto the bed next to you. He puts his arm around you and you swat it off, jumping to your feet and dressing yourself with your clothes littered on the floor. “C’mon stay for a sec,” now he’s the one begging.

You throw on your clothes and steal his shirt since he ruined yours. “No time,” your voice is raspy from his incessant choking, “I have a class to teach.”