#but the ending I have never had my soul so thoroughly SNATCHED

[devilry-revelry]

Debauchery | Hancock x Female!Sole Survivor

An (ancient) fill from the (ancient) fallout kink meme. I've had a couple of requests for Hancock, so here is one of the better ones I've done.

-

When his fingers caressed the column of her throat, she closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. How long had it been since she had been touched in such a way? His touch was rough but somehow soft, tickling under mangled fingers. An unintelligible sound left her, not a moan, but a very failed attempt at speech.

“Would you let me educate you, Nora?”

-

The Prompt:

Due to Pre-War America's obsession with enforcing a perpetual and idealized '50s, people were not supposed to be sexually adventurous (or even sexual) and the whole of the Female Sole Survivor's sexual experience was the missionary position for the purposes of procreation and *maybe* a little masturbation that she felt really ashamed about.

But now the world has ended and suddenly all the old sexual taboos no longer apply. And it turns out there's a whole world of freaky sex out there F!SS never dreamed of or dared imagine*. And she wants to try all of it.

-

NSFW, Minors Do Not Interact Tags: Pining, Mild bondage, Mild Sensory play, Cunnilingus, Penis in Vagina Sex, Cum play, Old and Poorly Written Smut

//

“Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul—“

Nora’s eyes tore away from the nearly destroyed paperback copy of Jane Eyre when Hancock shuffled in. He had a bottle of bourbon in his hand, looking quite pleased with himself as he took a quick swig. Nora smiled in quiet greeting from her spot in the nearly dilapidated couch. She had a large blanket draped over her lap, her feet tucked on the cushion beside her as she read. It was quiet at the Red Rocket Truck Stop, and that was just the way Nora liked it. The abandoned gas station was her home away from home, a place where she didn’t have to deal with needy settlers - a place where she didn’t have to deal with an even needier Preston Garvey. It was small, but it was one of her favorite haunts. She spruced the place up with some furniture, an old couch – which she was currently curled up on – and a few chairs, and a bed. What initially started out as her own place of peace and quiet turned into their place of peace and quiet. Hancock had managed to make himself a permanent fixture in her life, and she didn’t mind one bit.

“Whaddarwe readin’ t’night, Doll?” The ghoul asked as he approached.

Nora reached out and pulled the blanket back, allowing Hancock to flop into the cushion beside her. Once he was seated, Nora draped the blanket over his lap. She licked her thumb and turned the page of the book just as Hancock leaned into her side. He took another drink of the liquor, his head on her shoulder. He smelled like wood smoke from the fire pit they congregated around to cook their dinner, and the gentle sweetness of the alcohol.

“Jane Eyre,” Nora said fondly.

“When’r’ we gonna read somethin’ exciting?” he slurred softly.

Nora liked Hancock.

Though there were some things that he did that she really disagreed with (his drug use, mainly), she found herself thoroughly enjoying the ghoul’s company. Their travels had started with tentative, nearly forced discussions but they managed to forge a steady relationship in a manner of hours. Gradually, Nora opened up to Hancock and Hancock opened up to her. Their friendship was forged from the heat of the fight. They protected each other, spilled blood together. They ate together – they lived together. Hancock was a good man. As kind as he was cruel, his men had said. They couldn’t be more spot on. There were some days where Nora found it incredibly hard to imagine that the man had staged a bloody coup. It was the same man who spent hours searching for a locket, for a woman who he didn’t even know. It was the same man who helped clean up the young ghoul-boy that they found in a rusted old fridge. Hancock was fierce as he was kind, and Nora found herself trusting the ghoul unconditionally.

“Jane issa prude, and Rochester issa asshole.”

Nora tilted her head to look at the ghoul as he rested against her shoulder. She closed the book over her thumb, “You’ve read Jane Eyre?”

“Told you, Doll,” Another swig of the bourbon. “The Mentats are my ride of choice. I get all intellectual ‘n’ shit.” He threw her a lazy smile as he peered up at her face. Those black eyes of his looked a little glassy, shimmering in the lamp light.

Nora smiled, reaching up to flick one of the corners of his hat. She looked back at the book in her hand, gazing at the faded cover fondly. “Well, Mr. Intellectual,” she said, “I will say to you, that Jane is a product of her time. She is actually quite bold, rising above her station. And Rochester is, indeed, an asshole.”

“Pff,” he snorted. “Bold? Nah, the lady in the tower or the fuckin’ attic. Whatser name? That woman, she got around. Now she was bold.”

“And she got locked up for it. Her… sexual preferences aren’t exactly normal.”

“Nothin’ wrong with a sexually adventurous woman, sweetheart,” Hancock rumbled, his voice low. “She probably liked the good stuff too. Getting’ tied up, ‘n’ spanked and… Why can’t be read Robot Porn? Jane Eyre is too stuffy.”

Nora furrowed her eyebrows, tearing her gaze from the cover of the book. “I’m sorry… being tied up is the good stuff? That sounds awful.”

Hancock’s grin was absolutely wolfish, the glassiness in his eyes noticeably dimming, as if he suddenly chose to no longer be drunk. “Oh, Nora,” he murmured. “Ol’ Nate never tied you up? No silk scarves or rope?"

The way Hancock referred to Nate was nearly endearing. The ghoul spoke about her late husband as if the two had been good friends. Nora didn't mind. Though she still desperately missed Nate, the wounds had ample time to heal. The two would have been fast friends, anyway. Both of them were loyal, and fierce, and passionate about the things that they believed in.

“No! I, we… No!” How could he ask something like that! Nora knew her face was bright red as she opened the book, desperately trying to return to her reading. “Good lord,” she grumbled.

Hancock’s hand slowly slipped into her vision. He closed the book over her thumb. Nora lifted her eyes, dreading her very existence. They weren’t going to talk about this. There was no way!

“Did he ever spank you, Nora? Did he ever bend you over his knee?”

Nora wished that a Deathclaw would rip the door down. She wished that it would charge straight for her and kill her with a single swipe of its claws.

“No! We were a normal married couple. We didn’t do those things.”

Hancock was grinning ear to ear. Nora silently noted that the topic of sex wasn’t what upset her. She would discuss her sex life with the ghoul, no problem. It was the acts he spoke of; the bondage and the spanking. Those had been things that people whispered about, even in the confines of their own home.

“Didn’t you ever suck the poor man off?”

“Suck what off?”

There was an absolutely delighted light in Hancock’s eye as he maneuvered himself so he was facing her, sitting cross legged in the couch.

“Nora!” he laughed, low and dark. “You two never—“

“Look, okay, we… I would be on… I would lie down, and he would be on top, and—“

“You never rode him? Never fucked him? You never made him beg for your sweet—“ Nora lunged forward, the book completely abandoned. It felt to the ground with a soft thwump as Nora clasped her hand over Hancock’s mouth. She was blushing, all bright and vibrant. Hancock grinned behind her hand. She felt the muscles move and shift, felt the taught skin around his mouth constrict. Then, suddenly, his tongue laved over her palm and she yelped, yanking her hand back.

“Come on,” Hancock laughed. “What is the most sexually adventurous thing that you have ever done?”

“… You first…” She groused as she dried her palm on the blanket.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he grinned wickedly. “Back before I was this good lookin’ I managed to get two women in my bed—“

Oh. Oh my.

“One woman rode me, while the other sat on my face…”

Nora blinked slowly, “Sorry, she sat on your face?”

That smile again, all wicked and confident and filled with masculine satisfaction.

“I ate her, Nora. I had my tongue inside her—“

Oh. OH.

“—And then I pushed my fingers—“

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” she yelled, waving her hands in front of him. Nora nearly leaned forward and pressed her hand over his mouth again, but she had already learned that lesson.

“Nora, Doll, you are blushing to the roots of your hair!” He leaned forward, playful and teasing. “That is pretty tame! Not even the most adventurous, really.”

Nora suddenly stood, fanning herself with her hand. She was warm, far too warm.

“It’s your turn, Nora.”

She didn’t look back at him, and she didn’t sit back down. There had been the night in the park, but that story was far too embarrassing to divulge.

“We… I mean, we… We showered together once…”

There was laughter. Nora frowned, feeling embarrassed and hot. She cast a glare over her shoulder.

“Oh, F…” She hated swearing, it was unladylike. But this was a special occasion. “Fuck you.”

Hancock had the decency to try and hold back any more laughter. He reached out and took one of her hands, tugging her back into the couch. She flopped down inelegantly, allowing the ghoul to drape one of his arms over her shoulders.

“I’m only teasing, Nora. I know that it was a different time. Hell, it might as well have been a totally different planet. But… Doesn’t any of it excite you? Didn’t you two want to try any of it?”

Nora threw him a withering glance, “I haven’t heard of some of the things you mentioned.”

"That doesn't answer my question."

Hancock brought her in a little closer, and Nora thought it was a rather comforting gesture. She let her head lull into the crook of his arm, and then she sighed heavily. Maybe they were done talking about it, then. She desperately hoped that they were done discussing it, anyway. Jane Eyre was on the ground, and she wanted to read a little more before bed. And, hopefully, she would forget the whole discussion ever took place.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life,” Nora replied without pause.

Hancock hummed, sounding thoughtful. “Do you trust me with something like this?”

“Like what?”

He smiled that smile again, all wicked and laden with dark promise.

Nora didn’t find Hancock attractive in a conventional sense. He was Nate’s polar opposite in nearly every aspect. Small and thin, but he was also taller than her, kinda stringy. Despite his size, though, she had seen him lift a man twice his size and slam him to the ground (she had stared at him in awe after that). His skin was destroyed, he had no nose, there were bits of exposed muscle, and sometimes she suspected that his hips would be nothing but raw bone. There was, however, something incredibly striking about the man. His eyes, though pitch black, were somehow incredibly expressive. When he smiled, when he grinned, he managed to look quite dashing. Paired with his charisma, his personality, Nora did find herself attracted to him, in a way that she wasn’t totally familiar with. It was attraction based on trust, on experience, and his personality. He could make her laugh like no other, make her smile, and he made her happy. There had never been any level of sexual attraction, not really, but suddenly in that moment…

That smile, dark and meaningful, those eyes smoldering in the warm lamp light…

The sexual attraction smacked into her like a Super Mutant’s sledgehammer. Nora suddenly felt quite jarred. Heat pooled in her belly, and her body practically pulsed. She suddenly felt far too warm – and it wasn’t because she was embarrassed. Where did that come from? It had been strictly platonic, and it was like he flipped a switch. If she had seen that smile from across the bar, she would have been mush. If she had seen those eyes gazing at her, glistening in warm lamp light, looking absolutely devilish, she would have followed him to bed with very little question. Hancock somehow garnered an immense amount of animal magnetism in less than a second.

When his fingers caressed the column of her throat, she closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. How long had it been since she had been touched in such a way? His touch was rough but somehow soft, tickling under mangled fingers. An unintelligible sound left her, not a moan, but a very failed attempt at speech.

“Would you let me educate you, Nora?”

“Wh-wha—“ she opened her eyes to see him leaning in, his mouth near her ear.

His voice was a rumbling purr, rough but somehow so smooth like barbed wire tearing into silk. “I want to fuck you, Nora. Let me show you everything that you have been missing.” The touch at her neck was gone, now he was just speaking and his voice was making her light headed. The smell of wood smoke surrounded her, encompassed her. “I will take such good care of you, Nora.”

“Ah… Uh…” she opened and closed her mouth, like a fish abandoned on land. “I…”

She was wet, she could feel the moisture in her panties. She had never been spoke to in such a way. Nate had never been so blunt with his speech. He had always let his voice trail off as he escorted her into bed, as he laid her down and moved on top of her.

Hancock’s voice was still a low growl in her ear, “Sleep on it. Let me know.”

“O…Oh… Okay.”

Nora retreated to the bedroom. There was very limited space at the truck stop, so when it came to dragging in a second bed for her ghoul companion, there was really only one option as to where it would be placed. They shared a room, their beds against opposite walls. Privacy wasn’t a huge issue. Hancock typically slept in just his pants, the rest of his clothes abandoned by his bed. Nora often stripped down to her shirt and panties while under her blankets. She would wad up her pants and push them to the foot of her bed so her clothes were warm when she went to get redressed.

She stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, while in reality it had only been a handful of minutes. Eventually, she found her fingers dipping beneath the blankets, slipping into her panties. She tentatively brushed her clit with the pad of one of her fingers. Nora was wet, more so than she expected. Keeping her eyes glued to the closed door, she dipped her fingers between her moist folds, prodding at the opening of her sex. Her eyes closed as she tried to determine what part of her body was more responsive to her hesitant touches. Her clit seemed the most sensitive, so she allowed her fingers to swipe along the bundle of nerves experimentally. A sigh left her and she lifted her hips – just as the door opened.

In a panic, Nora yanked her hand from her panties and quickly feigned sleep. Hancock typically stayed up quite late, drinking and getting high. She hadn’t expected him to be coming to bed so soon. Behind her eyelids she could see the warm glow of the lantern that Hancock carried. She heard the door close, and heard the lock secure into place. Hancock’s footfalls drew close to her bed. Nora found herself holding her breath. The lantern was lowered, she could see the light source shift. Suddenly, very suddenly, she felt pressure against her mons, felt him palm her sex through the bedding and her panties. Nora’s eyes shot open, her breath hitching in her throat as she stared up at Hancock. The ghoul was leaning down over her, grinning. “Do you want some help, Nora?” His palm pressed against her, rubbing slowly.

“I… Uh…”

There had been a time where Nora had been more than capable of articulating around the ghoul. Now, suddenly, she seemed incredibly incapable.

Hancock looked into her eyes as his hand slipped beneath the blanket. His mangled palm drifted over her thigh, slowly returning to her sex. Nora’s jaw went slack, and her eyes closed as his knuckle dragged over her labia through the moist material of her panties. A strained, ”Oh, yes” left her as her toes curled.

“You have to tell me that you want it, Nora. We aren’t going to half-ass this,” the blackness of his eyes glimmered in the warm lighting, looking bewitching, and devilish, and striking. He stroked her through her panties, nice and slow.

“What about after? What happens after?”

A soft smile formed across his features, “Why don’t we see how you feel in the morning?”

Nora recognized that he was trying to give her an out. If, after tonight, she didn’t want to continue along this path in their relationship then they wouldn’t. They would have tonight, and that would be the end of it – if that was what she wanted. Maybe she would enjoy their sexual escapades, maybe she would hate them and feel nothing but regret in the morning. Either way, she trusted Hancock. She trusted him with her life, her wellbeing – why wouldn’t she trust him with something a little more intimate?

In a moment of confidence she said, “Educate me then.” She shifted her hips into his fingers.

That smoldering heat was back in his eyes in an instant. It was all fire, and yearning. “Say you want me, Nora. Please.” His request was punctuated by his thumb pressing against her clit.

“I want you, Hancock. Please sh—“ in a flash the blanket was yanked from the bed, and her legs were draped over his slight shoulders. He lifted her body from the bed until she was reclined on her upper back and shoulders.

“Your safe word is Mentats.”

“Wha—“

His mouth encased her sex, panties and all. The suction he applied, even through her underwear was immense. His tongue prodded and stroked over the material, and Nora immediately found herself breathless and trembling. Nora was expecting sex, not for him to use his mouth on her. Nate’s mouth had never lingered south of her breasts, and even then the visits had been brief. The fact that Hancock’s mouth was lapping at her vagina was… it was something else. She had never imagined anyone’s mouth down there and now that there was… Damn. The suction made her ache deliciously as blood rushed to the surface of her skin. She felt sensitive and hot, and so damn wet.

Hancock pulled his mouth from her once her panties were thoroughly soaked with a combination of his saliva and her own fluids. He tugged them to the side, exposing her glistening lips and carefully trimmed downy curls. Hancock moaned, placing a wet kiss to the head of her clit, to her lips, and then to the quivering opening of her sex. Then his tongue was on her, lapping over the area nice and slow. His tongue was hot and velvety, dragging over her in one smooth stroke. Another moan vibrated against her skin.

“You’re delicious,” he rasped, his tongue dipping into her vagina only briefly. “So fucking delicious, Nora.”

His hands slipped over her rear, catching the waist of her panties with his fingers. He pulled them up over her thighs, forcing her legs to lift from his shoulders. He didn’t remove her panties all of the way. Instead, he left them on her calves. One of his hands fisted the material, and then her legs were being pushed back until her feet were above her head. The angle was embarrassing. She was so exposed to him, so open to his prying eyes – and she could watch him as he gazed at her sex.

“And you’re beautiful. Fuck…” his eyes flicked to hers, and then she saw his tongue. Hancock licked her deliberately slow as he looked into her eyes. She whimpered as the end of his tongue flicked against her clit. Slowly, very slowly, he removed his hat and dropped it near the bed. There was a moment of calm as he peered down into her eyes, and she gazed up into his. Then he lurched forward. His mouth enclosed her labia and her clitoris, and with an obscene slurp, his mouth created an air tight vacuum. His tongue was relentless, flicking over the taut bundle of nerves so quickly she cried out. Nora felt a gush of pleasure leave her sex, felt it slink up along his mouth, felt it slide along the crevice of her ass. Nora’s eyes rolled back in her head as he slid his two fingers into her opening. The questing digits curled slowly, pumping in and out of her to counteract the near frantic movement of his tongue. The coil in her abdomen was wound painfully tight, leaving her as a pulsating, needy mess.

“Haa-Hancock!” she whimpered, reaching to touch the cup the back of his head. She was already so damn close to cumming that it was painful. Just a moment longer, just a little more. “Oh, Hancock, please.” Her voice was airy and ragged, a weak sound of yearning.

A low growl tore through Hancock that reverberated throughout her entire body. His eyes bore into hers meaningfully before he lifted his mouth from her sex with a moist pop. Her pussy quivered around his fingers and she whined loudly.

“No touching,” he growled, maintaining eye contact as he kissed her sex. “And call me John.”

“John,” she whispered, and then pointedly reached behind her head, grabbing the bars that took place of her headboard. “Please, John. I was so close.”

Hancock smiled a glistening smile. He practically purred as he laved her with his tongue, lapping slow and lazy strokes. Nora wiggled, she rocked on her shoulder blades, briefly impaling herself on his still fingers, pushing herself closer to his mouth. He chuckled, a deep dark sound, and then he returned to her. His mouth was focused strictly on her clitoris, pinching her between his barely-there lips, and then his tongue went back to work, back to the frantic, mind numbing pace.

“Yes…” she cooed, grasping the bars with a white knuckle grip.

When he gave a forceful suck, bringing her engorged clit into his mouth, she shrieked, another curling motion of his fingers and she came undone. The entirety of her body began to tingle as her pussy clenched almost painfully. Hancock didn't stop. His mouth remained latched to her body, sucking and tonguing her with renewed determination.

The flicking motion of Hancock’s tongue continued, and the suction created by his mouth seemed to increase ten-fold. He wasn’t stopping. She came, she felt sensitive and over stimulated, but he wasn’t stopping. His tongue suddenly made rapid swirling motions around her clit, circling and lapping at the bundle of nerves. Her inverted legs were starting to tingle, falling asleep in the midst of their escapades. Nora whined, she yelped, she cried out – all of which were inarticulate noises that just stoked Hancock’s efforts.

“Ha-!” She gasped, another finger dipping into her opening. “Y-you have to sto-“ She was cut off as she gasped loudly. His teeth grazed her skin, introducing a barely-there pain in the midst of her mind boggling pleasure. “John, please!” He grazed his teeth against her again, then clamped his lips against her distended clit. Nora’s hand tore away from the metal bars, she reached for his head, trying to push him away, but he caught her. Her hand was pinned to the bed by her wrist. He snarled and the sound, so animalistic and feral, made her tumble over the edge yet again. He tore his mouth from her overstimulated sex. Nora went boneless, her knees sinking down towards his shoulders as she peered up at him blearily. He was gazing at her vulva, his fingers still buried deep inside of her as her walls clenched and pulsed.

Her labia were red, puffy and slick with a mixture of saliva and her own pleasure. Her clitoris was swollen and over sensitive, jutting out from beneath the narrow hood. When his fingers finally slid out of her vagina he was back to mouthing her vulva. He used his tongue to collect her juices with long, luxurious swipes of his tongue. The three fingers that had been inside of her were suddenly at her mouth, and he watched her expectantly. Slowly, she parted her lips and one of his fingers slid over her tongue. The texture of his skin was odd, she could feel divots and seams of muscle, and then she tasted herself. Slightly sweet, barely a taste at all. Hancock coaxed her into suckling each of his fingers clean as he licked, and sucked her quivering sex.

When she was finished he placed a wet kiss against her pussy, and then her legs were finally lowered back to the bed, allowing the blood to rush back to her strained limbs. Before she could catch her breath Hancock’s barely-there lips were upon hers, his tongue in her mouth before she could even process what was happening. He tasted like her pleasure. As his tongue swirled and thrust against hers he took one of her hands into his, and slowly guided her to palm his groin.

She whimpered.

He was hard, solid like rock.

Nora ran her palm over his girth through his pants. Her pleasure addled brain wondered what it would be like to have him on her tongue. She wanted to lick and suckle him much like he had done to her. She rubbed him with her fingers nice and slow as he palmed her breast through her shirt.

“Get on your knees, Nora,” Hancock ordered, his voice a jagged growl against her lips. Nora obeyed, finding that she rather liked him in control and ordering her around. Slowly, she rolled to her stomach, and then lifted herself onto her hands and knees. There was a whisper of clothing, the clank of boots hitting the ground. When she turned her head to look back at him she was spanked. Nora yelped in surprise, and then she whimpered. The sting of the strike was centralized just above her sex, and though it hadn’t been a particularly hard swat, the warm heat pulsed very close to her sensitive mound. She rubbed her thighs together, feeling the silken warmth of her pleasure smear against her skin.

Hancock’s hand slipped over the length of her spine, caressing nice and slow until his fingers were in her hair. He tugged until her head was bent back towards him, his erection pressed firmly against her ass.

“Are you ready, Sweetheart?” Hancock growled, rocking his hips slowly.

“I wanna touch you,” she confessed, ignoring his question. “Let me—“

“Ssh,” He purred, he bent low over her body, placing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Tonight is about your pleasure.”

“But I’ve already… I…” she swallowed. “Isn’t twice enough?”

Hancock released a rumbling laugh, deep and sultry and masculine as his tongue laved the side of her throat. “Twice is not nearly enough, Nora. You are going to be a mess when I am done with you. You won’t know if you want me to stop, or if you want me to give you more.”

Without any sort of warning, Hancock drew his hips back and then he thrust them forward, burying himself to the base. Nora screamed, not because of the pain but it did hurt a little. She didn’t scream because she was surprised, but she was quite surprised. She screamed because he was stretching her, filling her to capacity, and it felt so. Fucking. Good. She angled her pelvis back, ground her ass into his hips. She practically purred in delight.

“You’re so tight, Nora. Fuck.”

“John, you feel so good.”

They spoke in unison, voices rushed and ragged and needy. Nora loved the angle at which he penetrated her. She loved how animalistic the position was. The angle was completely unfamiliar to Nora, as her and Nate had always stuck with traditional missionary. This was something else, though. In this position she had a little bit more control of her own body and its movements. As Hancock gripped her hips and began to thrust, she was able to pump her body back to meet him. She rocked back on her knees, and when her skin slapped into his she whined. Little pin pricks of heat and pain stung the back of her thighs.

The pace was fast and rough. Hancock’s hands gripped her hips, yanking her back into his thrusts even as she shoved herself backwards into him. Nora’s pussy clenched around him, and she could feel the columns of muscle, the mottled textures on his dick. Nora’s mouth watered; she wanted to lick her pleasure from his cock. She wanted to experience all of the debauched things her friends had whispered about. She wanted heat, and pleasure, and she wanted doses of pain.

Nora suddenly wanted John to spank her again. Nora wanted John to pull her hair.

“S-aaah,” she whimpered. “Jo-John, spank me. Please.” Her face was flush with pleasure and embarrassment. What would Nate think?

Nora fully expected John to laugh, but instead he acquiesced to her request. His palm rubbed over her right ass cheek, nice and slow and soothing, and then he spanked her. It was a firm swat, delivered by a slightly cupped hand. The sound was loud and deafening, but the sting of pain was delicious.

“More. John, please. More.”

Hancock chuckled, though it wasn’t a mocking sound. He continued to thrust. “You like it when I spank you, Nora?”

“Yes,” she murmured, only feeling slightly ashamed as she shoved herself back against him, arching her back. She clutched her inner walls around him, gripping at his length greedily. “Please, John.”

“Gladly, Sweetheart.”

He spanked her while he fucked her. Every third or fourth thrust was accompanied by a firm smack to her ass. By the time both of her butt cheeks were hot and enflamed she was nearly boneless, pressing her face into her pillow, letting Hancock have full control of the pace he used. Nora’s walls were pulsating and quivering, and she was so damn close to cumming that she could cry. Hancock smoothed his palms over her ass, all gentle and slow.

“John…” He answered her unasked request with another smack. This time, he didn’t cup his hand. He used the flat of his palm, and spanked her – hard. The sound was like the crack of a whip, and the pain had her tumbling over the edge. She came, her ass in the air and her face in the mattress. She moaned, she whined and she writhed. John came only moments later, his cock embedded to the hilt. She felt him cum, felt him pulsate inside of her.

“Oh, yes,” she cooed into the pillow. “Yes!”

Hancock slipped out of her quickly, leaving her stretched but empty. He pushed Nora from her knees and onto her back – and it was only then that she got to see him. He was naked, and he looked so striking.

In another time, Nora would have sworn that she was looking at a burn victim. His skin was destroyed, necrotic and mangled. She could see the seams of muscle, the fibers that constructed the basic muscle groupings. He was scarred, and he was mottled, but with his lazy boyish grin, the stunning amount of confidence, and the burning heat in his eyes made him look incredibly dashing – and, somehow, incredibly sexy.

“Let me touch you,” she whispered, reaching out for him. Hancock caught her hand, and placed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

“Not yet, baby,” he said, his voice soft and tender though his eyes flickered wickedly. “I’m going to have my way with you.” He leaned down and kissed her, soft and slow. “I’m still so hard for you, Nora.”

“John, I’ve never… You made me…” She trailed off, embarrassed.

“What is it, Doll?”

“I’ve never…” she swallowed. “I’ve never climaxed so many times in such a short amount of time. I…”

“We aren’t finished yet,” he kissed her again, then leaned down over the edge of the bed. The sash that he typically had wrapped around his waist was in his hand, and he slowly brought it up to her eyes.

“Wh-What?”

The sash was tied into place and his scent overwhelmed her. Firewood and smoke, and sweetness assaulted her senses. She breathed in deep, filling her lungs with his scent. He gently took her hands into his, pushing them back up against the bed frame. There was a clicking, a rattling, and then her wrists were wrapped in cold metal. Nora yanked at her arms, finding that she had been handcuffed to the bed.

“John, no…”

“Ssh, Nora,” his voice was near her ear. He pressed a kiss to her lips.

“I feel so helpless. Please, John, I don’t like it…”

Another kiss, deep and sweet. “You said so yourself that you trusted me with your life. Let’s try this just once, Sweetheart. If you don’t like it, then we never have to do it again.”

Nora took a breath. It was dark behind the makeshift blindfold, she couldn’t see anything. Her wrists were cuffed above her head, and she was feeling helpless and vulnerable and she hated that… But she trusted him. She trusted him completely.

“Can we leave my feet untied? Please?”

“Of course, Doll.” Another kiss, and she nearly flinched at the unexpected contact. “Remember,” he purred. “Mentats.”

There was an expanse of time where there was absolutely nothing. There was no sound, no touch. All she could do was breathe, and anticipate his actions. Minutes ticked by and she began to squirm, tugging at her wrists…

And then his voice whispered into her ear, ragged but sultry, ”I’ve wanted you since I saw you, Nora,” And then his voice was at her other ear, still just a whisper. ”I’ve wanted to fuck you since you walked into Goodneighbor.”

Nora trembled. Something cold, like metal or steel, pressed against her collar bone, gently dragging against her skin. Nora gasped, feeling the blade’s sharp edge – and her core pulsed. It clenched at nothing, and her eyes bulged behind the blindfold. It was a knife, it was his knife. The flat edge of the blade dipped down beneath her shirt, and then the material tore away like paper. There was a beat of silence, and then the knife was back, straining the material between the cups of her bra.

“No--!”

There was a low chuckle, right next to her ear.

“You won’t be needing that anymore.”

Before she could scold him for destroying her one halfway decent bra, his hot mouth engulfed one of her nipples. Nora’s words tumbled into a needy whine as his tongue circled the erect flesh. Nora’s back arched, pressing her breast into his mouth, he was suckling, using teeth and tongue – and then he was gone. She flopped back onto the mattress, pulsating and shivering.

Then his fingers caressed her still enflamed sex, his fingers dipping into a mixture of their fluids. He pushed the digits up and over her clit, rubbing the pad of his thumb in a slow stroking motion, again and again until her body began to tense. And then he was gone again.

“John, you can’t—“

”I can do whatever I please, Nora,” he growled next to her ear. Nora flinched, having anticipated his voice originating near the foot of the bed as opposed to right beside her. His fingers danced along her ribs. "And if I want to tease you until you are begging, then I can do just that. I want to bring you to the brink of orgasm again, and again, until you can barely stand it. I will wait until you are delirious, and then I will fuck you senseless.”

Nora’s toes curled and she tilted her head back into the pillows, letting his voice wash over her. A distant part of her wondered if she could cum just by listening to the sound of his voice. His voice was pleasant on the best of days, but after their bed play it was deep and husky and she could hear his need, his yearning. She didn’t expect to enjoy the bit of bondage, she didn’t expect to want to try it on him, either. After dwelling on his lovely voice, she wondered what he would be like stretched on the bed, tied up and begging for her.

Hancock’s hands palmed her breasts, his breath at her ear. When he retreated the bed was shifted, pushing the frame away from the wall so he could have better access to the other side of her body, so he could come at her from all angles.

“That’s better,” he murmured from somewhere above her.

His fingers ghosted a trail from her breasts to her navel only to reappear at her opening. He slipped two fingers inside of her, curling the digits methodically, beckoning her climax to the surface. Nora helplessly rolled her hips. She was already quite close to cumming as her body had already been over stimulated… But then he was gone again, kissing her neck, sucking at her skin.

“Oh, Hancock,” she breathed, tugging at her wrists. “Please…”

A harsh bite was delivered to her neck, causing her to gasp.

”I thought I told you to call me John,” He rasped. His tongue traced the shell of her ear, and then he nibbled at the lobe.

“John,” she echoed needily, just before his mouth returned to her breasts. He suckled as if he was trying to feed from her body. She wanted to reach down and cup the back of his head, hold him close – and she wanted to watch. Nora so desperately wanted to watch him enjoy her body. He would watch her with those black eyes of his, they would shimmer in the lamp light and he would look like the devil, and she would give herself to him so readily.

When his mouth and hands left her breasts she whimpered and then gasped as his hand clasped around her throat.

”Can I cum on you, Nora? Can I cover you with my seed? Can I rub myself into your beautiful skin?”

Her body pulsed, her walls clenched on nothing and she inhaled deeply. Why did she want something so… dirty? Why did she want to be covered in him? Nora wanted to know if she had always been so perverse. Had anyone known that she even thought of having a man ejaculate on her she would have been a social pariah.

“Yes.” She trembled. “Yes, anything.”

"Anything?"

Nora was breathless as she felt his erection against the side of her breast. "Anything."

There was a rumbling growl of a sound as Hancock’s fingers dipped down over her mons. They slipped over her clitoris, dipping between her labia before entering her to the knuckle. The mattress dipped and shifted, and then there was a rhythmic rocking. Nora imagined him pumping his fist over his cock, looking her right in the eye as he jerked himself off. Nora clenched around his fingers greedily. Maybe he would cum on her breasts, maybe her stomach or her thighs or—his hands withdrew from her sex and she whined loudly.

“John,” she moaned “Plea-“ she gasped as he groaned loudly. She felt his ejaculate spatter over her breasts and her stomach. She felt his pleasure on her skin, leaving warm moist trails as it slid along the contours of her body. The sensation alone had her hips lifting off of the bed, her jaw nearly coming unhinged. Hancock’s hands began to rub at her breasts, slow and purposeful.

“You like that?” he growled into her ear, “You’re covered in me, sweetheart.”

She sighed in agreement, lifting her body to press into his roaming hands.

“Do you see everything that you been missing? You could have enjoyed all of this, Nora – and it’s nothing. This has been,” he chuckled. “This has been quite tame.” His fingers rolled her nipples. Nora’s body, already so turned to pleasure, writhed and lifted into his hands. When he was finished rubbing his seed into her skin, his fingers smoothed over her sex, swirling around her clit.

“John,” she moaned.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was a pleased purr.

“I want you so bad,” she murmured. “Please.”

Hancock moaned into her ear, low and ragged. “You’re so sexy when you beg for me.” He shifted on the bed, the mattress shaking and moving under him as he got situated. His hands slid up along her thighs. “Here I come, doll…”

His rough hands wrapped her legs around his small waist, his palms moving smoothly over her skin. She felt his erection brush against her opening and Nora was trembling all over again, arching and wiggling her hips. Nora expected Hancock to pound into her vagina and fuck her until she couldn’t walk straight, but when Hancock slipped inside of her it was nice and slow, a gentle roll of his hips. Hancock’s body slowly stretched on top of hers, hands sliding up along her ribs and palming her breasts. Then his hand cupped her neck before he was bracing himself above her. Hancock’s thrusts were deep and slow. It wasn’t the harsh fucking that she wanted, but the tenderness he exhibited made tears gather in her eyes. Nora sighed softly, thrusting her hips to meet his slow and steady. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to look into his eyes…

And as if he had read her mind, the sash was tugged from her face. Their eyes immediately met. Nora’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that look – she had seen it every day for several years. Hancock was looking at her like she was his world. This wasn’t just sex. Hancock was loving her, and she so desperately wanted to hold him as he did.

“John, let me hold you.” She tugged at her wrists, the chain rattling against the bed frame. Hancock reached above her, tugging at one of the cuffs. There was a click and one of the cuffs fell from her wrist. In a flash she had her arms around him, the cuffs dangling from her left wrist as she clutched at his back. She pulled him close for a kiss. Hancock moaned into her mouth, his pace faltering just slightly.

“I’ve wanted this so bad, Nora,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I’ve wanted you so bad.” He thrust into her once more and then stilled as he placed all of his focus on kissing her. His tongue slipped into her mouth, curling around hers and thrusting slowly. Nora cupped the back of his head, kissing him until her lungs burned for air. She tilted her head back, gasping.

“You’ve wanted me?”

“More than anything,” he rasped. “I wasn’t going to say anything but,” he spoke softly, still buried deep inside of her. “If this continues after tonight, I’m not letting you go, Nora. I can’t.”

“And tonight?”

“If you want tonight - just tonight,” he began to rock his hips again, picking that slow rhythm he had started with. “Then I guess I will have to make the most of my time.”

It was her decision again. He was letting her decide on what they were doing with their relationship. It was her decision for them to be together tonight, and he was leaving it up to her on where they would be going with their relationship after. Hancock pushed his feelings to the side and left it up to her. Nora’s legs tightened around his hips. She brought him in close and kissed him. There were no more words exchanged, just heavy breathing and ragged moaning. Nora climaxed looking into his eyes, their forehead nearly touching as they exchanged heavy gasps of air. Hancock came, buried to the hilt inside of her, kissing her like she was a lifeline.

When they were finished, gasping and sated, they lay in bed together. Nora was curled into his side, tracing his fingers over a particularly nasty scar on Hancock’s abdomen. Her head was on his chest, and she was warm and comfortable.

“So?” he murmured quietly.

“It was incredible,” she murmured, blushing slightly. “I didn’t think that I would ever enjoy it nearly as much as I did.”

There was a low chuckle, his fingers dipping into the ends of her hair.

“Well, I aim to please.” He murmured, placing a kiss to the top of her head. He suddenly sighed, and then began to sit up. Nora gripped his body, keeping him in bed.

“John, if you think you are going to rob me of post coital cuddling then you’re out of your mind.”

“Baby,” he said, smiling softly. “I’m about to fall asleep.”

Nora leaned over the bed, reaching for the lantern that was still burning. She snuffed the light, then returned to his side, pulling the blanket over the both of them.

“Then fall asleep.”

“Nora…”

She tilted her head back, kissing his jaw. “John, close your eyes.” Eventually, his body relaxed into the bed, his arm wrapping around her shoulders in an warm embrace. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Doll…”

Nora woke before Hancock, as she usually did. She was still curled against him, his arm wrapped around her. For several minutes she simply rested beside him, warm and comfortable. She mulled over the night before, thinking over what he had said. If they continued with whatever it was that they had started, then he wouldn't let her go. Slowly, her eyes drifted up to his face. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful and comfortable. Nora watched him for a moment. She trusted this man, in every way that there was to be trusted and she loved him; she would readily give her life for his. Nora could very easily see herself with him, could see herself loving him far more than she already did.

But only on one condition…

Nora was quick about securing him to the bed. She cuffed his hands to the bed frame just as he had done with her the night before, using the same handcuffs that he did. His ankles were secured with nylon rope, keeping his legs straight and spread. She used the remains of her shredded t-shirt as the blindfold, carefully wrapping the material over his closed eyes. By the time she was finished she was giddy with anticipation, and she was wet. The idea of being in control was tantalizing.

Nora tossed her hair over her shoulder and leaned down low. Her mouth hovered over his groin. Shooting a glance towards his obscured face, she exhaled softly, brushing her lips over the head of his penis. His flaccid member twitched to life, instantly growing firm and erect. Nora watched, mesmerized as his organ hardened, all with a gentle caress of her lips. Slowly, hesitantly, she caressed the end of his penis with her tongue, and when he shifted his hips up in just the slightest of movement, she wrapped her lips around him and suckled.

A moan tore through Hancock’s throat and his whole body jerked, the cuffs clanked, the ropes strained audibly. Nora grinned, swirling her tongue around his cock before she leaned back, licking her lips.

“Good morning.”

“N-Nora?”

“You said that if we did anything past last night that you wouldn’t let me go,” she murmured, then grazed her teeth against his hip. Her hair brushed over his stomach, his erection, his thighs. “But there is something that you should keep in mind, John,” she moved, dragging her hair along his skin, he exhaled his breathing erratic. “I don’t share. At all.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” His voice was harsh with sleep but it was also low and husky. Nora traced her tongue along the column of engorged muscle. His legs strained against his bonds.

“I’m saying,” she dragged her teeth under the head of his penis, experimenting with her new found power. “That I will be yours, if you will be mine.”

“Yes,” he said immediately, his hips lifting from the bed as he tugged at his wrists. “C’mere, baby. Let me kiss you.”

Nora straddled him, her body caging him as she leaned down and pressed her lips to his mouth. Hancock lifted his head from the bed, trying to take control of the kiss – and Nora let him. His tongue curled around hers, kissing her slowly. Nora lowered her hips until she could rub herself against him. She was already slick and ready, so she pressed herself against him, grinding her pussy over his girth. When John released a harsh, ragged moan against her lips, Nora broke the kiss, as well as the contact their lower bodies shared.

“You little minx,” he purred, allowing himself to relax back into the bed.

“I’m experimenting,” she chuckled. “I’ve never been on top before.”

The cuffs clanked against the bed frame. “Let me go and I can teach you.”

“I rather like you tied up in my bed, John,” she said, completely unable to contain the smile that nearly split her face. Nora lowered herself against him, her sex grinding against his penis as she sighed softly into his ear. Just as Hancock thrust upwards against her, she was off of the bed, circling him slowly. The cement floor left her footfalls soundless. She felt like a predator. She felt in control and she felt sexy.

“Baby, c’mere. Ride me.”

Nora sighed, closing her eyes. That sounded delicious. She suddenly leaned down and nipped at his neck, then laved the space with her tongue to soothe the sting. Hancock tipped his head away from her, giving her more access. Nora kissed at his skin, suckled and nipped and licked… and then she stepped back. Dammit, she wanted to fuck him. She wanted to fuck him so bad. She would, but not yet. Not quite yet. Nora got back onto the bed, straddling his stomach. Her fingers dipped down to her vagina. She thumbed her clit, and slipped to fingers inside of herself. Nora rocked her hips so he could feel the movement of her body. She swallowed back any nervousness that she felt, licking her lips.

“A-are you… Fuck, Nora, are you –“

“I am…”

“Well shit, Sweetheart, can I at least watch?”

Nora chuckled, “No, I don’t think so.”

Nora stopped just before she came, her toes curling and her vagina practically dripping her pleasure onto his stomach. Her eyes flickered to his mouth and she reached out, fingers glistening as she traced his lower lip. Hancock’s tongue shot out, finding her finger, curling and lapping at the digit. Nora closed her eyes, she wanted his mouth back at her sex. She wanted his tongue on her clit and even though she had the option to sit on his face, she didn’t quite have the guts for that. Not yet.

She did, however, have the nerve to slip back, to move her knees between his legs.

“I want to suck on you,” she murmured.

“You don’t even have to ask m—“ His voice cut off abruptly when she wrapped her lips around the head of his penis and sucked, her tongue swirling around him. She bobbed her head slowly, taking more of him into her mouth. He brushed the back of her throat, and the sound that came from his throat made her shiver. “C’mon, Nora, you can take it. A little deeper, honey.”

Nora tried, a little deeper and her gag reflex had her yanking back as her muscles in her throat worked uncomfortably.

“Relax your throat,” Hancock said, voice ragged.

She licked her lips, before she had him back in her mouth. She bobbed her head up and down, sucking as she worked him back towards her throat. His hips lifted off of the bed, rocking upwards as she bobbed down. Nora was able to relax her throat, and Hancock moaned, his hips thrusting upwards sharply.

“Nora,” he rumbled, the handcuffs clanking loudly. “I don’t know if you- Nora, no… Nora.” His voice was weak as she pulled her mouth from him completely. She exhaled, her breath fanning over his wet skin before she sat up. “Fuck, Nora."

Nora chuckled, licking her lips. She moved to straddle him. Once he was inside of her she sank to the base. She murmured his name, her eyes closed tight. He felt so big, and he was in her so deep that she could feel him at her cervix. She began to rock slowly, testing the motion of her hips. She lifted herself with her knees, then slowly sank back against him, her head rolling back.

“Let me see you, Nora,” he murmured. “Take the blindfold off.”

Still impaled on his length, Nora leaned forward, pressing her breasts to his chest as she lowered her mouth to his ear.

“No.”

The sound that he released sounded similar to that of a rabid dog. His arms strained against the handcuffs. She sat up, resuming her hesitant rhythm, rocking slowly for several minutes. When Hancock’s breath went ragged, when his hips snapped up into hers she lifted herself off of him. As much as she liked being in control, as much as she liked seeing him struggle to touch her, she liked him being in control more. She would drag this out a little longer, though. She would deny him for as long as she could.

“Nora, please…” That voice, usually so gravely and firm, was reduced to a rasping yearning sound. She mounted him again, but this time she barely took the tip of him inside of her, teasing him.

“Tell me you want me.”

“Nora…”

“Tell me, John.”

His arms strained against the cuffs again. Just as Nora thought that he was going to pull one of his arms out of its socket, one of the cuffs broke. The locking mechanism snapped open, and he was on her in a flash. He yanked the shirt from his eyes, and then his hands were at her waist, yanking her down on his cock. Nora nearly screamed. Hancock sat up, holding her tightly to him as he thrust upwards against her. Nora whimpered, her arms wrapping around his neck. Her lips found his mouth and she kissed him as she gyrated her hips down against his. Hancock groaned, thrusting into her urgently. He broke the kiss to look up into her eyes, and the intensity in his gaze was staggering.

“Just like this, Nora,” he growled, moving her into his hips as he thrust upwards. “Ride me,” he murmured. Nora bounced on top of his cock, riding him just as she was told. Hancock fell back onto the mattress, hands still gripping her hips as Nora moved in a frantic rhythm. When he pressed his thumb against her clit she saw stars, her eyes wide as she hit her climax so abruptly. Her pace faltered and she went completely still as she clenched around him, squeezing and gripping and pulsating. He came shortly after, pulling her flush against him as he emptied himself inside of her.

When they were finished, after Nora untied his legs as they were resting in the bed, he kissed her lips, grinning dazedly.

“You’re incredible,” he said quietly.

Nora smiled, “I have a good teacher.”

[inkwell-intrigues]

ROUGH DRAFT - Chapter One: An Unexpected Guest

The eerie sound of a never-ending tapping filled the once lavish office. Torn newspapers littered the floor, their headlines taunting a hunched over figure in the center of the room, whose eye would dart from page to page, tapping his clawed fingers ceaselessly in anger.

With a growl, the newspaper that was being read suddenly burst into flames and was tossed aside. Glancing around, the latest issue of the Honeycomb Herald caught the figure’s eye. Snatching it up with a mangy hand, he began to read the front page article, his grip tightening with every word.

---

Devil Defunct?

Has the Devil finally left the Inkwell Isles?

It has been 3 months since the dumbfounding defeat of the Devil himself by none other than two youngsters at a mere 10 years of age, no less! Now as the weeks go by and all remains calm, the citizens of the Inkwell Isles cannot help but ask, “Is it over?”

The Devil's lair, Mt. Inkwell Hell, has sealed itself off, as if the Devil's Casino never existed, ever since that fateful day two children stood up to the King of  the Underworld. Though gamblers from Inkwell and beyond vehemently protest, the rest of us upstanding citizens breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

But even in our newfound paradise, rumors have already begun to spread regarding the Devil’s return. There are reported sightings of his devious imps and King Dice’s playing cards sneaking about and causing all sorts of mischief. Although none of these sightings have been confirmed, it presents a worrying question: Is the Devil still here, under our very noses, lying in wait to strike?

To quell our concerns, we turn to vibrant victors and heroes of the Inkwell Isles, Mindful Mugman and Courageous Cuphead, to hear their thoughts on the matter:

Mugman: “Well, I don’t think the Devil is comin’ back. Not after Cups and I made a fool outta him, but I can see why everyone’s so worried. The casino closing all quick-like and people spotting imps runnin’ about is sure strange. But my Elder Kettle says the Devil’s prideful. I don’t think he would be hiding out while everyone’s makin’ fun of him.”

Cuphead: “The Devil? Comin’ back? Hah! Not in a million years. That big ol’ crybaby won’t ever show his sorry face in Inkwell ever again, or anywhere else anywhere near here! Everyone knows how Mugsy and I beat him good, so who’s gonna respect him now? No one wants to sell their soul to a washed up rug who got beat by a couple of kids, that’s for sure.

And if he did try somethin’ stupid, he’s gonna have to go through me and my brother first! So don’t even be worried about it, the Inkwell Isles ain’t gonna be bothered by him and his goons ever again.”

So there you have it, folks! The Cup Brothers, protectors of the Inkwell Isles, are sure that the Devil won’t return. And if he does, he’ll get a walloping of a lifetime!

---

The very temperature of the room seemed to rise as the Devil read the article with sparks flying from his mangy fur. With a swift slash of a yellowed claw, the newspaper was torn cleanly in half and thrown aside into a rapidly growing pile of other ripped apart newspapers. Letting out a half-hearted chuckle, the Devil snapped his fingers and the entire pile of newspapers was set alight.

This was ridiculous. How could such inconsequential, menial mortals dare to mock him? He could eviscerate them with a simple wave of his hand if he so desired. He could-

As the Devil shifted, he knocked over a small vial. One of the many scattered across his desk. The demon’s heart skipped a beat, catching the vial just before it hit the floor. With a gentleness thoroughly unnatural for the Devil, he gingerly laid the vial back on his desk.

This would be his masterpiece. There had never been a more perfectly exacted revenge in all his millennia. If one potion caused his defeat, another would ensure his return.

The Devil was no fool- he knew exactly how those sniveling children had beaten him. It was just his luck that their guardian, that damned Elder Kettle, had somehow gotten ahold of a Calix potion from that bygone era.

Damn him! That old man would pay dearly for his mistake before the end.

And it wasn’t just him. Those brothers had gotten help from her. The Legendary Chalice. She’d helped them, trained them in the Calix’s ancient techniques, and hidden away like a coward as she watched her little puppets do the dirty work. The very thought of Chalice sent a shower of fiery sparks flying off The Devil’s black fur. Her insolence defied even death.

But not for long.

The Devil’s gaze returned to the vial, full of bubbling red liquid. And then there was its complement, another vial which glowed with a light blue liquid.

“Patience,” he muttered to himself as he lit a cigar.

Glancing up, his eyes fell on a chalkboard covered with formulas. He was so close to success. Just a few more tests and it would be perfect. After all these years, he had finally cracked the code of their ancient formulas, and his revenge would be exacted. Not just against those boys, but against his greatest adversary: The Calix Animi.

-

END OF DRAFT

-

So there you have it! My first actual writing in about 6 months! Feel free to leave your thoughts and opinions in the replies!

Thank you for reading!!!

[ministarfruit]

minifemslashfeb day 26: performance ♡

[merakiui]

https://merakiui.tumblr.com/post/694704858408927232/httpsmerakiuitumblrcompost694504367251914752

ejfjfhjdjddj i’m imagining Azul having the twins bring you to his office and at first you’re tense. does he know your secret? did he tell the twins? oh god what if he wants you to do particularly lewd things? you’re sat down and left alone with Azul until he clears his throat, telling you what he knows of your “situation”. of course you react in the obvious form of being speechless but he gives you no time to react as he gives you a proposal.

“work for me and i’ll keep you safe.” is all he says and what better options do you even have? who knows what will happen if the whole school finds out your secret. so you bite your tongue and sign the golden contract. with the added benefits of health insurance and being paid, the waitressing he wants you to do after school doesn’t seem to bad at first. but then Azul smirks and gets up to the nearby closet and pulls out your uniform. and that uniform being a maid costume.

laughing my ass off at the thought of MC being hired as a maid and still trying to parade herself as a guy when it’s basically an open secret around NRC that you’re female. with the only person under guise that your “secret” is still safe, is yourself. MC gaslighting herself into thinking that no one knows she’s a girl 😭 hell even Crowley knows and doesn’t care because money is money

The fact that it’s a custom-made maid outfit with Octavinelle’s colors and crest makes you wonder how long this plan of his has been sprouting. You’d wear a butler uniform if he had one, but Azul only frowns and feigns misfortune. How sad that this uniform is tailored to you and you don’t wish to put it on. What a shame.

You’ve already signed the contract, so there’s not much you can do when it comes to protesting. So you suck it up, put the maid dress on, and start your shifts. Jade compliments you, saying the dress and all its frills suit you. If you could, you’d throttle him. Floyd hugs you the moment he sees you, comparing you to a sparkling jellyfish instead of the usual shrimp comparison. You can only endure it while he spins you around, thoroughly enjoying himself and the sight before him.

Azul never said anything about protecting your secret. He just said he’d keep you safe. At this point, anyone who comes to the Mostro Lounge while you’re working soon learns of your secret, and it does well to bring in more customers. Azul marvels at the rise in profit. He’s so glad he got you to sign a contract before someone from any of the other dorms tried to snap you up for their own use.

I imagine some of the customers poke fun and cause problems just to order you to fix them. You try to smile through all of the humiliation and irritation despite wanting to tell these guys to act civil. Some of them even attempt to flip your skirt or snap panty shots when they think you aren’t looking. One day, you’re nearing the end of your shift, absolutely defeated and exhausted after putting up with so much nonsense, when one of the customers tries to record you as you bend over to clean a spill on the floor. At this point, you’re too tired to get up and snatch his phone from him.

Who would have thought someone would come to your aid. Floyd steps in front of you, draping a jacket over you while turning back to the unlucky soul. He smiles brightly and you turn to look up at him, soon silenced into both amusement and shock when you see he’s wearing a maid dress. Floyd cracks his knuckles as he approaches the student, who shrinks back in his seat.

“What’s wrong? I thought you liked maids,” he jeers. “Maids clean messes up. Seems like I’ve got extra work. That’s no fun at all.”

Floyd’s already intimidating in his original uniform. The fact that he put on a maid dress just to come to your aid is both scary and amusing to consider. He twirls you around after he’s nearly squeezed the student to death, happily telling you that the both of you match. How fun!! Obviously he wants something for saving his pretty shrimpy, so you’ll pat him on the head and thank him for his hard work. Floyd’s grown very fond of your touch. That instantly brightens him.

Jade gets envious over how much attention you give his brother. He considers donning a maid outfit so that the three of you match. Azul cannot believe his ears when Jade tells him he wants a maid dress as well. He was willing to entertain Floyd’s whims, but now his hardworking Vice Housewarden wants one? What is going on? What effect do you have on the twins for them to be absolutely serious about maid dresses?

He lies awake at night pondering whether or not he should wear one. Would you like him more if he did that? Now is not the time to confuse work with love, but these thoughts haunt him in the late hours of night.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: Florian ValDaata, the Ignoble Heir

Now you’ve gone and ruined my fun, guess I’ll have to go and ruin something of yours now, won’t I?  

Setup:  Vampire, crimelord, part-time highwayman. The Scoundrel Florian ValDaata was born to scion a noble line that was extinguished some two hundred years ago, and is perhaps the best unliving example that noble liniage does not impart noble character. The ValDaata were once a prestigious clan with expansive holdings, but backed the wrong horse during a succession crisis and were thrown into disfavor. Chafing at the ignominy of being reduced to backwater barons, the ValDaata consulted with increasingly sinister circles in an attempt to restore their standing. By Florian’s time, the family were little more than a gang of brigands and hangers-on, operating out of a crumbling estate, reduced to robbery and grave robbing to get by. 

It was in one of these graves that Florian found something, a wretched soul cursed with vampirism and buried alive before their undead nature manifested,  Thoroughly maddened by their time in the crushing darkness of their sarcophagus. Any honest  resurrectionist would have put the poor creature out of their misery, but Florian had been taught from a young age that because of his linage, the world belonged to him, and thus so did this bloodsucking cadvaer, and its curse. 

Adventure Hooks: 

Vampirism suited Florian, who used his immortal nature and supernatural influence to carve out a space for his brigade of ValDaata “loyalists”, transforming a gaggle of outcats and lowlives into a criminal enterprise that serves as his guardians and agents in the daylight hours. Ruling the lands formerly held by his family from the shadows, the party is likely to run into Florian’s thugs any time they dip a toe into the region’s criminal underbelly. Alternatively, they could get into a tussle with the bag-men responsible for securing sustenance for their boss, usually those who borrow too much from Florian’s loansharking operations while taking out unspecified collateral. 

Anyone who would attempt to hunt Florian the way they would a normal vampire will run into a number of unexpected obstacles: namely that he fights more like a crimeboss than a lord of the night. His minions arn’t undead to be kept out by holyground and running water: they’re well paid cutthroats capable of attacking the party anywhere and anywhen. He doesn’t lair in a crumbling castle, instead prefering to stay at high class establishments while laying traps in the ruins for those seeking his coffin. 

Alternitively, a party with a more criminal bent may end up inadvertanly working for Florian, getting a job or two through a unscrupulous contact and eventaully working up the scale. Provided the party don’t mind his dining habits or murderous rages, the heir of Valdaata can make for a generous, handsoff patron, happily giving the party access to his criminal resources for a cut of their plunder. 

Further Adventures: 

Florian’s gone and crossed a line, getting carried away on one of his semi-regular “hunting trips” and ended up snatching a noblewoman out of her carriage after slaughtering her guards and attendants.  This noble, one Santar Jolvia, happened to be a direct descendant of the family that ousted the ValDaatas from their place in court, and who currently rule much of the territory that was once his by right.   Florian’s been keeping her alive mostly out of indesisive spite, but since her body was never recovered, her powerful family has begun the process of moving heaven and earth to find her ( possibly enlisting the party’s aid, or other bountyhunters). The Vampire can’t make up his mind about what to do to the poor woman: drink her dry? Inter her alive? Transform her and let her loose on the very same search party sent to rescue her? The party are likely to discover Santar’s captivity in some of their interactions with Florian, which means they too will be responsible for her ultimate fate. 

The party might happen into ValDaata one evening in a roadside tavern, as the vampire is fond of traveling about in a reinforced carriage to “survey his domain” and sow the seeds of future intrigues. Taking the shady corner usually reserved for mysterious figures with secret knowledge to give, Florian will instead offer the party a gamble: perform some challenging task in exchange for a small fortune. If they fail, they’ll owe him a favor. All Florian truly cares about in these instances is seeing the party squirm, but he’s good on his word, and may even offer the party employment should he take a shine to them. 

[lolita-lollipop]

Hi hope you’re having a wonderful day! Could I please get a bnha coraline au story. So like y/n has had a pretty bad life like a whole bunch of stuff and now they have to basically parents their own parents at the age of 15 cause they’re lazy alcoholics who just go to work come back and drink. One day after they move in y/n gets curious and finds explores around the house while they’re alone and discovers the door to the other world and meets their dream parents. The parents are aizawa and present mic who just genuinely love the reader, they don’t want to take readers soul that just want to help them. They have a sister eri and a brother shinso and when reader tries to leave they all beg and threaten reader not to leave cause “your parents never cared for you anyways” and “we’ll love you more then they ever would” and force reader to be the new baby of the family gender neutral reader if possible, please and thank you ( 03^)~💚

YANDERE CORALINE AU ERASERMIC FAMILY X READER

GN READER

-I do apologize if you wanted a shorter work, because this ended up being kinda long, sorry!

-there are a few grammar and spelling mistakes here and there, this is unedited, I will fix them :)

(I don’t know if you actually wanted the reader to be treated like a baby, literally like an infant, or just like the youngest in the family, I needed up doing the second option, tell me if wrong.)

——————————————————————-

You hummed a tune as you wandered the hallways, your footsteps dragging, you had tried to tell your mother to drink some water and put the strong bottle of vodka down before she ended up killing herself. She yelled at you, told you to “shut the hell up ya damn brat”, god knows where your father even is. It had only been a day or two in this house, and they had already made it feel like a prison for you, oh my, A SINGLE DAY.

In all honesty the house was nice, old, yes, but still nice. It seemed as if the last owners hadn’t been here for hundreds of years, let alone clean the place, as all embellishments on the walls were antique styled, and everything, I repeat, everything, was covered in dust. There were a few different pieces of furniture that looked as ancient as the neighbors, including a dresser filled with a different articles of clothing, a few dusty chairs here and there, curtains clawed away by... something, and little tables with droors filled with little trinkets.

One room in particular was exceptionally creepy in your eyes, it seemed like a child once slept there, probably long dead by now, the walls were covered in a striped floral wallpaper, chipping at the edges, various stuffed animals that hadn’t been touched in ages, what looked to be a changing table, and a smaller sized bed placed in the middle, fitted with dusty purple bedsheets, probably that color because of the gathering dust, you sat down on the mattress, inhaling the scent of the room. It smelled oddly of lavender, not a musty mildew smell you were expecting. You spent a moment just finding comfort in the warm smell, before noticing a small dent in the wall behind what you thought could be a changing table. Almost looked like... a tiny door?

“What the heck is that?” You questioned or yourself, narrowing your eyes at the wooden frame that looked like a small threshold, cautiously standing up form the bed, and making your way over to the door, you struggled to move the large piece of furniture, pushing back gains the groun and shoving it out of the way. It was indeed a door, and it was indeed tiny. There was a small cobweb strung across the mass of it, which you batted away with your little hands, pulling at the doorknob a few times to reveal the fact that it was locked, you let out an exasperated sigh. Well... it’s not like you have much to do, might as well find the key.

Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken long for you to find the small, heart shaped key that fit the locked door, it was tucked into one of the white droors of the small table in the corner. It was the first place you looked, almost as if it’d been calling out for you. It only took a few moments for you to push the key into the lock and turn, you let out a sigh of relief when you heard the satisfying click of the lock opening. Wondering what was going to be on the other side, you pushed open the mini door, to reveal a tunnel of sorts... today’s just full of surprises isn’t it.

“Man this tunnel is lo... whoah.” You stood, still balled up in a crawli mg position, shocked at your own surroundings. Everything looked so... new, and polished, you stared Jan absolute awe at everything, literally everything. Where are you?

“Oh, honey you’re finally here!” A male voice rang out from behind you, immediately large hands were lifting you off the floor from under your arms, holding you like a baby, this guy cradled your head in his chest, no matter how much you squirmed, the iron grip he had on you did not loosen. You snapped your head up to meet his eyes, only to be met with buttons of such a piercing yellow it almost hurt your own eyes. A shrill scream left your lips, as you flung your feet back and forth in attempts to free yourself.

“Oh, oh right. I’m sorry , I should’ve been a little slower, it’s scary I know, you’ll get used to it I promise. I’m hizashi, your other father, re you alright?” He questioned, backing up a little to give you space, bringing his hands up to tell you he wasn’t going to hurt you, ever. You were usually a calm person, but given the situation, like some random person living in your house with buttons for eyes, the reaction was warranted. You breathed for a small moment, inhaling the even stronger scent of lavender that was oh so comforting, before standing back up, giving whatever this was at a chance of explanation.

“Who- who are you?” The question left your lips faster than tryouts could hold it in, he gave you a smile and walked closer again, booping your nose and once again pulling you off the ground. He was tall, slightly lanky, and his hair was a bright yellow to match his eyes, little dangle earring wee attached to his ears, you just stared in awe at the inhuman man who was holding you.

“Silly little thing! I just said it! I’m your other father, like your real father, just perfect for you! Dinners almost ready, so let’s go meet the rest of the fmIly okay bubs?” He questioned m, speaking down to you like one would a child, even though you are a fully capable human. He grabbed your hand, and gently rigged you off into some hallway, you slightly dig your feet in, staring back at the little door that got you here in the first place.

———

“Honey, this is your reality, if it was perfectly fit for you! We love you, unlinke those scum who call your your parents, don’t your bat to be loved for once y/n?” He spoke, the two of you arrived at what was probably the kitchen, him explaining what was happening pretty thoroughly considering he had to do it in a few minutes, barging through the doors, a few other pairs of button eyes were scattered thievhiur the kitchen.

“Daddy! I helped bubba make dinner tonight!” A little girl, probably not even over the age of five, came running towards the two of you, smiling fully. She was sporting a pair of red buttons, which matched her little jumper, you had your face buried in this ma- hizashis chest, his arms wrapped around the entirety of you. He sent an exited stare towards the little girl, who jsut gasped and smiled even harder. She made little grabby hands towards you, so hizashi set you down on the ground, whispering a “time to get down” in your ear. Instantly, the little girl attached herself to your torso.

“Bubba/sissy!” She squealed, patting your stomach, as much as you would love to knock her off of you, she’s a kid, you don’t do that to kids. This young girl claimed to be your other sister, which at this point you were led to believe because apparently anything is possible at this point, she was pretty adorable.

“I-uh, yeah?” You spluttered, visibly flustered, you tried to get a grip of yourself, it was kindof odd, although the girl seemed much younger than you, the way she carried herself presented that she was much older than she came off, from the maternal glint in her eyes, to the planned movements, it just seemed... mature.

—————small time skip—————

It had been maybe an hour, you had been seated at a dinner table, quite the large one actually, in between a black haired man that you could tell was staring at you, and a purple haired teenager who looked to be a similar age to you. You sat there just kindof awkwardly trying to not touch any of them. At one pint. The purple haired guy tried to feed you, which was an unfortunate suprise because you were off in dreamland, and were ckmoemteky confused as to why he was even trying something like that.

“You’ll probably hurt yourself trying, just let me do it” he spoke, it is safe to say that this button eyed family is an odd bunch. First the woerd door, then a creepy guy tryna pick you up, then some little girl who probably wasn’t so little claiming you to be her “younger sibling”; then the offpdutirng glances front his beanbag guy, than this? What is happening.

Sooner or later, after the really odd display that was dinner had finished, and you had help washing your hands, because for some reason they thought you needed it, it was announced bettime, and with a snap of the man him you learned name was Aizawa, food was gone, along with all the dishes. If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you almost lied this, of course not the babying thing, but the fact that you weren’t cooking or cleaning or trying to snatch a bottle from your parents, it almost made you wnat to cry how perfect this family was. God how much you wished this was your own.

It’s sounds selfish, and unreasonable, but you never had a childhood, the day you were born your life was already sighted off as “servant of my own parents”, you lived them, you did, these people were so nice thiugh, they were odd, maybe a little quirky, but still jsut a perfect little family. Apparently one that includes you.

“ALRIGHT! time for bed!” The yellow haired man exclaimed, seeeping you and eri right off of your feet, holding you in his arms as eri giggled at the sudden swish sound. The two men on the other side of the large room cracked small smiles at the sheer adorable ness of the position, the two little ones of the family and their father! What a sight to see!

“Shhhhh, I think y/n is gonna sleep with us to Tonight okay eri?” Hizashi whispered to the young girl, loud enough for you to hear, she nodded and smiled one of her sickeningly sweet smiles, hr eyebrows raising before her button eyes. She motioned to be put down ‘, waving goodbye and latching her own hand onto shinsos, who also waved his hand.

“Goodnight daddy! And y/n!” From there, you walked alongside them to their room, or what you supposed it was. This was the first time you’d really talked to Aizawa, and it was pretty embarrassing because he asked if he was aloud to change you out of your day clothes. You were a little too scared to say no, so you let him, it was probably one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to sit through, and that’s saying quite A lot.

When all was done, you had brushed your teeth, and wrrrnchanged into a set of lilac pajamas, silken and slippery, you were pulled on top of the yellow haired man, who then wrapped his arms around your waist and started “shh-ing” you, patting your head while rocking back and forth slightly, the other man slipped in next splaying his arms over you, rubbing circles into your beck

Mans with that, the lights went out, and you fell asleep.

——————————————————————

From there, everything in your life changes, you wake up the next day in the dusty lilac bed, wondering if it all was a dream, so the next night, you go back, and the next, and the next, until you started to spend your days there. Playing with eri, or cuddling with either of the three men, or just having fun without any worries or cares int the world. By that’s when it all starts, they kindof... changed.

They became overprotective, it showed in some more than others, but it was present either way. Al you wanted to do was check up on your dad to see if he was still alive or not, and eri had a whole crying fit, begging you to stay, and telling you she’d die if you left.

“No no! You can’t leave me! I-I I’m gonna die if you leave! I’ll die, please don’t keVe I promise il be good!”

It took a little shushing from you, but eventually you convinced her you weren’t going to leave, and so she went back to her normal self. You were with shinso once, and walked near the little door, he had immediately blocked it as if you were going to do something, then scolded you for going near such a “dangerous object”.

“You shouldn’t. Go close to that evil little thing, it might hurt you m, I don’t want you to get hurt, so stay away from it”

And then your other parents, they didn’t let you do anything by yourself, scared you would run off and get lost in the maze of nothing outside. You can’t even mention your real parents, you’ve been down here for at least a week now and haven’t been able to check on them, so when you did ask to go back for a day, hizashi slicks dying up and told you to cut out the nonsense, while Aizawa bubbles in anger, telling you that they lived you ten times better than your parents Eve could.

“They don’t deserve you, they don’t love you, we do, they’ll never live you half as much as we do, we can protect you here, why would you wnat to leave?”

Ans so one day, when your “other papa” or Aizawa, tried to take the key from you and lick you in here, you had enough. These people were supposed to be perfect, instead they turned obsessive, little button eyes showing up everywhere, watching your every move, you had thought your old life was a prison, now look at this.

You turned back, checking to see if anyone was watching, waiting to stop you, before pulling the key out of your pocket, ripping the boarding off of the door, pulling the panels of wood off one by one, shoving the key into the black door knob, you were just about to turn it, when a voice rang out behind you, no longer was the sweet girl who you played trains with, in the stead was something else just In ther body, you could hear it in her voice.

“Where are you going? You aren’t trying to leave are you?” She spoke, you froze on the spot, hands moving faster, ymtrying to get the stupid door to unlock, before you could even blink, the key snapped in half, not in your hold, in another sudden figure, your other brother. You didn’t even get the chance to speak before be t down and ripped the whole door knob off of it, giving you a knowing glance.

“I told you to stay away from it, I told you didn’t I? Now look, it’s broken” he hissed, throwing the iron knob somewhere else, you knew that I’d both of the siblings were here, the two parents were sure to be here along with them, you were proven right, as a pair of black and yellow buttons popped up behind the Eric girl, carrryijg... what is that?

“Oh my god... OH MY GOD” you screamed, the heads of your parents were in these men’s holds buttons sewn over the eyes, blood seeping out of their decapiated necks, you reMiedn screaming as the heads were discarded, jsut thrown off somewhere else. You were lifted up off the ground in your crying state, hizashi a hands stroked your hair, while his other hand went and wrapped around your butt to support you up.

“We told you baby, we tried to tel you at least. Now there’s nothing up there for you, there was never anything anyways, your safe now... they’ll never hurt you again. You’re ours...

Forever”

———————————————————————————————————

Tell me if you liked it, I can change things if you want:)

[opbackgrounds]

so I was doing some research after watching movie 6...

...and apparently it was originally written as a comedy

Yeah, I was surprised, too

Baron Omatsuri is not my favorite One Piece movie—Film Z has too many of my favorite tropes to be usurped from that position—but I do think it is the most daring. Of all the supplemental material I’ve seen and read, it feels the least...One Piece-ish. 

Yes, that includes the noodle commercials. 

If you haven’t seen the movie and can stomach a little spookiness, do yourself a favor and give it a watch. Unlike movies like Strong World or Z that have the look and feel of a manga arc, Movie 6 transplants the Straw Hat Pirates into a world that doesn’t feel like a One Piece story, taking risks and exploring themes that would never fit in the manga proper. 

In addition to the obvious changes in art and animation style, there are supernatural elements that don’t make sense within the One Piece world. None of the Straw Hats win a fight—Luffy included, although he is heavily implied to have killed the big bad at the end. The moral of the movie, if it can be said to have a moral, is if you lose the people closest to you, the answer is to forget about them and make new friends. The story ends with many questions left unanswered and the main drama between the crew unresolved.

And, if you allow me to get philosophical for a moment, I wish there were more movies like it. As I wrote in my review of Novel A, I don’t go to supplemental material or side stories looking for a repeat of what’s in the manga. Oda has written 1000 chapters of One Piece—why not spice things up a little and try something different for a change?

I know the answer isn’t that simple, and by their very nature not all risks will pan out. There will be people who don’t like this movie because it’s different, both in look and tone. But there’s something to be said about a creator putting their heart and soul into a work and having it show in the final product. 

Which brings us back to the original premise. How does a movie go from a light-hearted comedy based on a variety show theme to...this

Baron Omatsuri was directed by Mamoru Hosoda and came out in 2005. To put that into perspective, the movie was in production when the Luffy vs Usopp fight was first seen in the manga. Manga!Luffy had not yet faced the challenge of an inter-crew disputes when the story was being written and boarded, nor did the creative team have the events of Sabaody and Marineford to see how Luffy would react to the loss of his loved ones. They were working without a full understanding of Luffy’s character, and to a lessor extent the character of the Straw Hat Pirates, and it seems like Oda was much less involved In production than has been in movies since Strong World and beyond. 

Likewise, Hosoda had just left a tumultuous situation at Studio Ghibli while working on Howl’s Moving Castle, and if this interview is anything to go by (https://instrangeaeonsblog.wordpress.com/2016/04/24/mamoru-hosoda-on-omatsuri-danshaku-animestyle-interview-part-1/) was going through a lot of personal shit when he was brought on as director. The script he was given was originally written like a variety show—something that was carried over into the various trials seen in the final movie—and meant to be a lighthearted affair after the relatively serious Movie 5 (which I have not seen am thus unable to compare tone). 

With that backstory in mind, it’s easy to see how the bickering and backbiting between the Straw Hats early in the movie is a metaphor for Hosoda’s time at Ghibli, which is something he admits to in the interview. Movie 6 feels different than any other One Piece movie because it’s the project of a man who has had to endure the loss of those who he was close with, at least in a professional capacity. 

There are moments in Movie 6 where Luffy doesn’t feel like Luffy. More than once a member of the Straw Hats ask him to intervene during arguments, moments Luffy either ignores or doesn’t notice. It’s a version of Water 7 where instead of fighting Usopp, Luffy ignores the underlying differences within his crew, and as a result loses everybody. 

The structure of the three trials follows a clear path of deterioration within the crew, the initial goldfish scooping game showing the Straw Hats at their best and inciting the jealousy of the Baron, the ring toss sowing discord among the crew even as they snatch a narrow victory, only for them to be utterly crushed in the third and final challenge as they’re unable help one another survive. 

It is somewhat implied that the Breaking of the Fellowship(TM) is magical in nature—that like the One Ring, the Lily Carnation was able to influence the Straw Hat’s thoughts and actions, but this is never stated outright and I prefer the more mundane interpretation: That without strong leadership the Straw Hats fell victim to the manipulative machinations of the Baron, and simply self-destructed as a result.  In the end, it’s up to the interpretation of the viewer. 

And speaking of things up to interpretation, I love how the Lily Carnation isn’t explained in the slightest. The plant that initially absorbs the Straw Hats looks more like the stem of a devil fruit than a flower, it for some reason rings like a gong when hit, and somehow is able to turn pieces of itself into facsimile of the Baron’s old crew who can somehow move around despite being plans. It’s weird, it’s wonderful, and the element of the unknown works so well in the horror-lite setting. 

My personal theory is the island somehow managed to eat a devil fruit which manifests itself as the Lily Carnation (which due to the L/R conflation in Japanese, is pronounced ‘reincarnation’, which I think is a nice touch of foreshadowing that may or may not have been intentional).

(Also, I can’t decide if little chewing animation it makes when it’s eating people or the weird bullseyes it makes when shit gets real are the most terrifying thing in the movie.)

Hmmm, tasty.

Anyway, this is getting long, so here are some final thoughts:

1) This movie has some low key fantastic outfits. The Straw Hats all look very cool without being over designed like a lot of recent movies. Big hat Robin is of course a fave, and makes me really want to see her in a Carmen Sandiego getup.

2) Screenshots do not do the animation of the movie justice. It’s very fluid and has a lot of excellent expressions/poses, although I admit the 3D is jarring at times. Do not let the art put you off if you haven’t seen it 

3) Also, I don’t think there’s any shading? Like at all? The movie does a lot of cool stuff with color instead. For example, the scene where Luffy initially loses to the Baron his skin goes all grey, and I thought it was because he was fighting at night, but it stays grey even in the better lighting of the underground tunnels and stays that way until he finds out the Straw Hats are still alive, where it returns to his normal color

4) There’s an extended Benny Hill-type gag when Luffy first chases after the little mustache pirate that’s perfectly timed to the music, and ends when Luffy just uses his power to grab him. The comedic timing is amazing and it’s probably my favorite funny moment in the movie, of which there are several despite the overall darker tone

5) The extended jungle shot from Nami’s POV? Very cool

6) I love how from the earliest scenes nothing is as it seems. The opening text is Robin reading the map, but the storm that’s seen on screen is the one that sank the Baron’s crew. Likewise the whole fancy city is shown to be fake panels early on, the goldfish catching game is a trap, etc., etc. It does a good job clueing the viewer in early that’s something’s very wrong on the island, even if they don’t realize it at first

7) I don’t think this type of movie would work in modern One Piece without somehow nerfing Luffy. Horror works best when the protagonist is weak and vulnerable, and that fits best with a pre-Gear 2/3 Luffy (same with the rest of the crew, tbh. I was waiting for Nami to use her lightning stick during the games, forgetting it hadn’t been boosted yet). 

8) I like how there are four captains on the island representing different levels of loss—the Baron has lost his crew and wants to destroy all others because of it, mustache pirate lost his crew and is willing to put it behind him to make new friends, Luffy has freshly lost his crew and hasn’t decided what path he will go, and coward dad hasn’t lost his crew yet but is at risk if he doesn’t change his cowardly ways

9) I think the reason why Chopper was the first Straw Hat to disappear is he’s the most likely to play the part of peacemaker. He’s also the only crew member needing rescuing at the end of the goldfish scoop game, when Luffy foolishly puts his life at risk trying to save him from drowning, just like he recklessly charges the Baron at the end of the movie. Except that time there was no Sanji to save him, leaving Luffy to get his ass thoroughly kicked

10) This is a very good Halloween movie, and I’m glad I watched it in October

[simplyshelbs16xoxo]

Falling Through the Cracks Chapter 1: Secret Door

Prologue (Tumblr) | Ao3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

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Tucked away in a dark alcove beneath some ragged blankets, Molly Hooper took great care to quiet the sound of her breathing. Her stomach rumbled low, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything proper in hours. Footsteps sounded at the end of the alley, coming in close. She could hear the hushed voices, one with a sinister Irish lilt that chilled her to the bone. Not him, she prayed. Anyone but him.

“Ohh, look what we have here, Seb,” Moriarty’s voice rang out with glee. “Just a pile of old linens you suppose?”

Seb laughed with a low voice, flicking open a switchblade. He reached out slowly, his fingers grazing the tattered material, and snatched it right off her. Molly took him by surprise when she kicked her leg up, knocking the knife from his hand. He bent to retrieve it whilst she ran, but Moriarty had caught up to her, locking his arms around her to keep her in place. Seb approached just as she wriggled her way out, and he reached out with the hand that held the blade, cutting her arm in the process.

Molly gave a shout, running as far as she could until she hit a dead-end, nothing but brick at the other end of the alley. She could hear Moriarty, furious as could be, demanding that Seb take her down. The latter was burly whilst Moriarty was a head and a half shorter and a bit on the thin side, not much muscle mass to him. Her strength was wavering as she turned back to see the pair advance towards her. Turning her head back to the wall, she placed a hand against it, breathing hard. Her stomach ached with hunger and her throat was parched. Her arm throbbed with the sting of the slice made into her fair flesh.

She thought of safety, of warmth, of finding one person with a good heart. If only she could find somewhere or someone to be her safe haven. And as she attempted to speak it into existence, Molly could feel the familiar falling sensation coming over her just as the men reached her. Just in time, she had slipped beyond their reach, everything going black. She would be safe soon, if only for a little while.

.

.

Sherlock happily popped in a warm, fresh chip in his mouth as he walked away from the cart. He weaved his way through the few people on the streets who seemed to be in too much a hurry for such a lovely evening. The crowd of people began to thicken the further he went, and he soon turned sharp into an empty back alley to avoid them, taking a shortcut around. It had only been a couple of weeks since Mrs. Hudson read his tea leaves, and though the entire ordeal was useless drivel, somewhere deep inside, he felt there may have been some truth to it. Perhaps it was only hope. What she ‘predicted’ would be much more exciting than the lackluster cases Lestrade had him working.

He glanced towards the end of the alley straight ahead, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Seemingly appearing out of thin air, a petite woman, not much younger than himself, fell to the pavement, blood trickling down her arm. Sherlock dropped what was left of his chips, more out of disbelief than anything, and approached her with caution, kneeling down beside her. “Are you alright? Do I need to call an ambulance?”

The woman shook her head. “No, no, they’ll find me there if they figure out how to follow.”

He furrowed his brows. “They? Who are they?”

She remained silent on the subject. “Is there somewhere I can hide?”

The desperation in her voice tugged at his heart. It was a strange sensation as he didn’t typically get emotional when it came to cases. That’s exactly what this was too: a case. Something about the small woman intrigued him. “Can you walk?”

“I need somewhere I can be safe,” she reminded him urgently, looking up at him for the first time. Her breath, ragged from breathing heavily, caught in her throat. His cerulean eyes pierced her soul, lighting up with curiosity. Reaching inside his coat, he untucked his dress shirt and tore a piece off, tying it around the cut on her arm. His eyes softened considerably from the stoicism she had witnessed a moment ago.

“Not to worry,” he told her, carefully lifting her into his arms. “I have just the place.” Sherlock was thankful that his flat wasn’t too far from where he found her. Once inside the front room, he rushed up the stairs and into 221B, settling her on his bed, figuring he could change out the sheets later. She was thoroughly exhausted and most likely hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours, possibly longer. Her choice of clothing was peculiar for someone on the run. Draping quite nicely over her small frame was a simple light pink gown of satin, grimy and torn just above the knees. The colour, despite the dirt, contrasted well with her complexion and short, choppy dark hair. Her feet were only covered in black flats, the soles coming apart. Something about her seemed familiar, but he waved the silly thought away.

She watched as he left the room, coming back with first aid supplies in his hands. His long callused fingers untied the scrap of his ruined shirt and he began to clean her cut. Molly bit her lip anxiously. “Thank you for helping me—you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he replied as he began wrapping the bandage around her arm. “Who are you running from?”

The smile on her face was apologetic. “It’s best if I don’t say. You’ve already done so much. I’d hate to drag you further into my mess.” She noted the fiery look in his eyes, the frustration clear by the tight line of his full lips. This time, she bit her lower lip for a much different reason. He was a gorgeous man, a beautiful stranger who saved her from bleeding out on the street in the cold. Yet there was something familiar about him. She had trouble placing it. “Whose dominion is this? Am I in London Above?”

He pulled away as he finished up, a mixed expression of amusement and confusion on his face. “It’s…just London, Miss—?”

“Hooper,” she replied. “Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock repeated her name softly, savoring the way it sounded on his tongue. He decided he liked it, not that it should be of real particular interest to him. “Sherlock Holmes,” he offered. “You may stay as long as you need. I don’t sleep much, so you may have the bed.”

She swallowed hard, his surname sounding vaguely familiar. “Oh,” she shook her head, “I couldn’t possibly—“

“I insist,” he told her. “You can use the shower to get clean. I have a shirt you can wear for after. Then get some rest; you’ll need it.”

She nodded and it appeared to bring him some relief, some peace of mind. Molly had to admit, it felt nice to be clean for once. Her last decent wash was—well, she couldn’t quite remember. When she stepped out from the steaming shower stall, she sighed dejectedly at the barely-there scrap of her gown. There would be no salvaging it. Her eyes glanced to the sink counter where an aubergine button-up dress shirt sat. He was much taller than her, so it would be a decent length. She reached to grab it, noting the expensive material just from the feel of it in her hands, and slipped it on, buttoning it up.

The sweetest music wafted through the air, and she opened the door, peering out down the hall. She stepped out, tugging at the hem of the shirt which only fell just mid-thigh. The smell of fresh food hit her like a train and her eyes found the source. There was food kept in a plastic container on the coffee table. As for the music, she found it was Sherlock, his talented fingers moving along the strings of the violin as he slid the bow across. She stood there mesmerised by the melody. Her eyes, full of admiration, never strayed from him. When he noticed her presence in the room, he brought the song to a close and set the instrument aside.

“That was lovely,” she told him, a soft smile on her face.

Sherlock felt all sense leave him as he took in the sight of her. He could hear his brother’s haughty voice in his head, warning him not to get attached—and for good reason. This woman was on the run from God knows who. She was in danger, and though it was his job to help those in seemingly impossible situations, it would be stupid to think of her as anything other than a client, especially if her death was unstoppable. “Thank you. I took the liberty and picked up some food from the café below. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but—“ He stopped short as she dug right in to the meal, supposing that anyone as hungry as she was would most likely eat anything.

He left her to it, going off to change into more comfortable clothes. When he returned in his pajamas, a blue dressing gown thrown on top, he found she had finished most of the food. She yawned, her deep brown eyes so sleepy. “I suppose I should get some rest now,” she needlessly pointed out. “I can leave as soon as dawn breaks in the morning.”

With a tilt of his head, he assured her, “That’s not necessary. You may stay until you’re safe. I’m a consulting detective; I can help you.”

Her sad eyes bore into his determined ones. “You’ve no idea what you’re saying. If you help me, you won’t be able to turn back from it. You’ll be lost like so many others.” Molly wanted to say more, but she didn’t want to feed his curiosity any further. It killed the cat, after all, she mused to herself. “Goodnight, Mister Holmes.”

[annabethy]

under the mistletoe, watching the fire glow day 7: wrapping presents

Character can’t wrap gifts to save their life. Character B is their neighbor and can help,, percabeth

Percy should have known what went into being a single dad. He thought he did well enough, all things considered. By no means was he perfect, but he loves his daughter more than anything, and he always does his best.

Still, he did not ever thing that his biggest struggle as a parent would be wrapping presents for Christmas.

The pile of gifts he bought for his daughter sit in front of him, staring right into his soul. It’s embarrassing, because in his twenty-six years of life, he really hadn’t learned to wrap a present. It’s not like it’s a difficult concept — he is just severely incapable of making anything look pretty with wrapping paper.

Percy sighs and leans back, defeated. He tosses the tape dispenser recklessly in front of himself, rubbing his eyes tiredly. When he looks at the clock, he is both confused and personally offended that it could possibly be three in the morning on Christmas and he still has nothing done. It’s no one’s fault but his own, because he had time to get it done but decided to wait until approximately three hours before he knew his kid would be awake to attempt and fail miserably at wrapping presents.

He considers just giving up and not wrapping them at all — it’s not like she would really care — but then he remembers the pure excitement he would get as a child while peeling the paper off the presents, and he can’t bear to take that away from her.

He tries to think of a solution, but nothing comes to mind. He’s ready to just accept that he’s screwed up, but then it comes like a whisper in the back of his mind. He knows for a fact that his neighbor is a goddess at wrapping presents because he saw her hauling them in from the car earlier for her own daughter. He tries to tell himself to absolutely not wake her up at three in the morning, but the thought of sitting here struggling any longer makes him cave, and he finds himself standing on her porch minutes later in the freezing New York air.

He hesitates, then knocks lightly. It feels like forever awaiting a response, and he’s just about to give up and turn around when he hears the lock click open, and he is met with the sight of his neighbor looking thoroughly concerned.

“It’s three in the morning,” is the first thing she says.

Percy can’t help but stare at her for a good second. He doesn’t think they’ve talked more than once or twice since she moved in a few years ago, but maybe they should have because then maybe he would’ve known how pretty she actually was. Even on the brink of sleep, she managed to look put-together in her plain black leggings and oversized knitted sweater. Her hair was loose down her back, falling in cute ruffled ringlets, and he wants to reach out to smooth them down like he’s always done for his daughter.

Percy shifts nervously. “I know. I just – there’s an emergency?”

Annabeth blinks. Her hand is resting on the door handle like she’s about to slam it shut at any second. “Is everything okay?”

“No, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Okay…” She looks around behind him, peering into the darkness like she expects there to be a hidden camera crew. “Are you going to tell me what the emergency is, or…?”

“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“You’re standing on my porch in the middle of the night on Christmas. I already think this is stupid.”

Percy scratches his neck, a heat slowly rising to his cheeks. “I got my daughter a ton of presents. And I also have a ton of wrapping paper. I just can’t seem to put two and two together and actually wrap the presents.”

“You haven’t wrapped any presents?”

“No.”

Annabeth looks thoroughly appalled by his statement. He can’t be too surprised. From the few times they have interacted, he’s always had the impression that she has her shit together. It’s part of the thing that’s always held him at a distance from her. He hated the way thinking of her felt.

Right now, he decides, he hates this feeling of uselessness even more.

“Can you help me wrap presents?”

Annabeth chokes on a laugh, wrapping her arms around herself. “What?”

“I really need help wrapping presents. Like, it’s bad. My living room is a mess, and I’m pretty sure my daughter is going to be awake in less than three hours.

“Hold on,” she says, holding up a hand. She looks more amused than anything now, which brings his nerves down. “You mean to tell me that you left your three-year-old daughter home alone so that you can come to my house at three in the morning on Christmas to ask for help wrapping presents?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god, Percy.”

“Listen.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Just be happy I didn’t show up with cookies and milk,” he says.

“The only thing that would make this better is if you did bring cookies and milk,” she replies.

Percy runs his fingers through his hair. “Can you help me or not?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a subtle smile splayed on her face. “Give me a minute.”

She goes back inside for a moment, and Percy just stands there waiting for her until she reappears. When she does, she’s holding a pack of stickers that he recognizes as those fancy Christmas labels.

“Assuming you don’t have any of these?” she asks, stepping past him.

“Now you’re just insulting me,” he says playfully, following her back along the sidewalk to his house. He opens his front door for her to step inside, and she does so for what she thinks is the first time.

Annabeth stops at the sight of his living room. “What happened!?”

“Wrapping paper and I are not friends.”

“I can see that,” she comments, setting her stuff down in the center of the room. She turns towards him while reaching up to tie her hair in a low bun. She cracks her knuckles dramatically, and she says, “Let’s get to work.”

Percy tries to help at first, but at some point, she swats his hand after using almost an entire roll of wrapping paper on just one present. He ends up sitting next to her as moral support, simply commenting on everything his delirious mind has to offer.

She looks… like a princess, is the best that Percy can come up with. She’s his own personal superhero, saving his ass on Christmas day, and she looks great doing it too. So warm and cute and small, the perfect size for holding in his arms, for cuddling, and kissing, and — what was he saying?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” he asks.

“No!” She snatches away the scissors, waving them in his face. “I know you said you were bad at wrapping presents, but this is just…”

Percy smiles and leans his weight back on his hands. “Can I at least get you something to drink?”

“Coffee would be great.”

“Coming right up,” he says, getting to his feet. “Anything specific?”

“Whatever’s fine,” she says.

From the kitchen, he can see her working. She’s sprawled out on the floor taping a piece of wrapping paper with snowflakes on it onto a pink scooter. She looks so concentrated, her tongue sticking out through her lips as she focuses, and he is compelled to kiss away the scrunch on her forehead. It’s weird, because he’s never had a true conversation with her, but he finds himself wishing that he had sooner.

The coffee finishes brewing, and he brings it back to her side, holding it in front of her face. She hums in appreciation, dropping what’s in her hands to grasp the sides of the mug. As she takes a sip, she sighs and gives him a soft grin.

“Nothing like the taste of coffee in the middle of the night,” she says, setting it down. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” And as he sits down next to her again, he notices that the presents are all nearly wrapped. “This means a lot to me, Annabeth. I don’t know what else I would have done.”

“Don’t worry about it. Wrapping presents is my passion.”

He smirks. “So you’re that type of mom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Jackson?” She raises a brow. “I’d like to remind you that that type of mom is currently doing your parenting for you.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” he insists. “It’s cute that you like wrapping presents.”

“Wrapping presents is not cute. It is a serious competitive sport. Cutthroat competition.”

“See? Cute.”

Annabeth laughs, shoving his knee with her socked foot. She takes the mug of coffee back in her hands and takes a long sip. “Look who’s talking.”

“Oh?” he teases. “I’m cute?”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging and nodding towards a small barbie box. “How could I not find it adorable that you are physically incapable of wrapping a square box?”

“So by cute, you mean easy to bully?” he asks, sniffing.

“Yeah, but you’re also just really cute in general.”

“How nice of you,” he says sarcastically.

“I’m serious, though. How have we never had a conversation before?”

“Because you’re you and I’m me.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“It means that you know what you’re doing, and I don’t.”

She laughs in his face. “I do not know what I’m doing in the slightest.”

“At least you can wrap presents.”

“You just have to practice,” she says. “Come here. I’ll help you do the last one.”

As Percy slides in next to her, she puts the scissors into his hands and scoots in even closer. He can feel her body heat radiating against his chest as she leans into him. She points out where for him to cut, and he follows her directions. He’s distracted by the way she smells. It’s dizzying, feeling her those close. She guides his hands with the paper, carefully tucking the paper into perfect creases, taping the wrapping taught.

It’s hands-down the best present he’s ever wrapped, though it was still Annabeth doing most of the work.

“There you go,” she says, smiling. “And now you know how to wrap a present.”

Instead of responding, he looks around the room. The sun is just beginning to rise in the skyline, the black space around them hinting at dawn. When he looks at the time, he realizes that it’s a little bit past six. It doesn’t feel like that much time has passed, but somehow it has.

Annabeth helps him clean up quickly and shove the presents underneath the tree. She comments on a few of the homemade ornaments, mentioning how much she loves the ones with the little handprints made with patchy glitter.

She’s looking at the tree, but Percy, he notices, is looking right at her, and he can’t bring himself to look away. She turns around again, shoots him a smile, and makes her way to the door. Percy follows her to walk her out. As he opens the door, she steps outside, and with the snowy background, he’s never seen a more perfect picture.

“Thank you so much,” he says. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course. It was surprisingly fun.” They stare at each other, unsure of what they’re supposed to say next, but then she says, “I should get back. She’s going to be waking up soon.”

“Was she home alone?”

Annabeth shakes her head, biting her lip in a smile. “A friend was home.”

Percy nods, and then he thinks he wants to see her again. “Do you have anything to do later today? After opening presents and stuff?”

She pretends to think, a subtle glow to her skin. “I can’t say that I do.”

“You’re welcome to come over,” he offers. “The girls could play together, and you could try my Christmas cookies.”

“I hope they’re better than your wrapping,” she teases.

“You’ll have to come over and find out.”

“Hm. I guess I will.” Annabeth steps away but seems to think better of it as she moves closer again. She smiles at him, lifts onto her toes, and kisses him once. It’s short and sweet but leaves him wanting to pull her closer to him when she pulls away. She doesn’t say anything as she turns on her heel back to her house, leaving Percy melting in a puddle behind her.

Maybe, he thinks, it was a good thing that he didn’t know how to wrap presents. And if she was going to make him learn anyways, which he quickly learns she would, well…

Percy certainly doesn’t mind one bit.

[thatsbucknasty]

she used to be mine waitress au

summary: Inspired by the broadway musical. Y/N Beck is a pie baking force to be reckoned with. She’s pregnant with her lazy ass husband, Quentin Beck’s baby. As everything around her turns upside down, Doctor James Buchanan Barnes charms his way into her life.

pairing: Y/N x Bucky

characters:

Y/N Beck as Jenna Hunterson

Bucky Barnes as Dr. Pomatter

Wanda Maximoff as Dawn

Natasha Romanoff as Becky

Sam Wilson as Cal

Steve Rogers as Ogie

Nick Fury as Joe

Quentin Beck as Earl Hunterson

Maria Hill as Nurse Norma

a/n: some of the dialogue I got straight from the play/songs to preserve the witty essence of Waitress, but keep in mind this is an au, so I will change things up regarding the storyline and ending. Enjoy!

p.s. let me know if you wanna be tagged c:

p.s. ii this chapter is merely introductory so we won’t get to meet Bucky just yet but he’s coming soon, I promise!

prologue: what’s inside?

My hands pluck the things I know that I need. Peaches, creme fraiche, brown sugar, butter and of course, flour. Today’s a simple one. What should I call it? “Simplicity is key pie”. Nope. Might get confused with “Love’s the key lime pie”. “Some things never change pie”. Yup. That’s it.

“Y/N! What’s the special pie today?” Sam yells at me like every other morning. I don’t complain, I like that grumpy weirdo though I would never admit that to his face. I tell him the name of my newest recipe.

 “I was having a creative block, you see. But then it struck me! Peaches! PEACHES, SAM!!!” I throw my hands in the air.

“No, I get it. Kinda.” He ignores my excitement but I know he actually understands how peaches are nobody’s favorite,but they’re good, they’re simple and they offer everydayness. Sam and I were in High School together and we both wanted to go to culinary school, so I know he gets me.  Neither of us got to make it though, somehow we  ended up here. Working at Nick’s Pies in the same town we grew up in, a town where nothing ever happens.

Nick is already at his table, that’s odd. He’s never here this early. Maybe he’s been watching spy movies late at night again. That “old fart” (Nat’s words, not mine) is adorable if you ask me, even if he gets on everybody’s nerves. Wanda’s cleaning the counter, menus and sugar dispensers. Thoroughly cleaning them. And Nat’s late. As always.

I like working here. These people are like family to me. The only one I have left. Oh, except for Quentin, my husband. I’ve been thinking about how he used to be, you know, when we first fell in love. Things have changed over the years. But it’s all fine. I have it good. Better than my mom at least. And I’m grateful for Quentin, I really am. I just wish he would be more, I don’t know, empathetic? Anyway. I have a weird feeling today. As if things were about to change. Let’s hope it will be for the better.

-

chapter 1: the negative

warning: vomit

Peeling peaches isn’t my favorite part of the pie making process, that’s for sure. I’ve always loved the smell of them, so why are they making me sick now?.

“Someone’s a little fussy today”. Nat says after noticing my state of distress. “Do you need any help, sweetie?” She rounds the table and snatches the peeler from me. “Seriously though, you look pale”.

“I’m fine, Nat. Thank you, but I think I just need some air. I’ll go take Nick’s order”. I walk across to old Nick’s table and he puts his paper down.

“Oh hi, I was wondering when somebody would offer me at least a cup of coffee here. It’s hot, isn’t it? My diner. My own diner doesn’t have any decent air conditioning!” Oh, here we go.

“Sorry, Nick. I’ll tell Sam to fix it, I promise. What can I give you?”

“Well, let’s see. I would like an omelette, with tomato on the side and some fruit salad, on a different plate. And some orange juice. But bring me coffee before you bring the orange juice. And a slice of your… “Some things never change pie”, but bring that after I’m done with my omelette”. It is hot here, he was right. “Oh and also… Jesus, are you okay? You look pale”. 

“I’m okay, Nick”. Oh god. “I think I just… need to…  restroom”. I almost collapse with Wanda on the way to the ladies room and throw my arms around the toilet in the span of ten seconds.

“Y/N! Honey, you okay in there?” I hear Wanda’s voice, or was it Nat’s. Oh here it comes again. “Gosh, I’m washing this stall right after she’s done, we don’t want any patrons catching whatever she’s got”. Wanda. Definitely Wanda.

“Oh scoot! She doesn’t need you being a neat freak right now, Wanda”. Mother Nat scolding the children. 

“I’m okay girls, I may have had a bad sandwich from the gas station last night. That’s it” I wash my hands and mouth over the sink while the girls fuss around me. “Really, everything’s… oh shit”... and here it comes again. I don’t even know if I have anything left inside that actually needs to come out.

Wanda rubs my back gently and says “Honey? Um, when was the last time you got your period?” After I’m done emptying my guts I do the math. “Shit. No, this can’t be happening.” I can feel my heart in my throat. I’m not ready for this. I can’t be.

“Y/N, time to pee on a stick!” Nat helps me up and calls Peter, the diner’s delivery guy. “Okay, Parker, time to be the hero. I need you to go to the drug store and buy a pregnancy test. Here’s twenty bucks, keep the change and don’t tell a soul about this or I’ll have your head, ya hear me?”

-

Two lines. Two pink stupid lines and I’m out of my body. I’m packing my things and going on a plane far from the diner, far from Quentin Beck and his beer smelling, curse yelling, guitar playing ass!

“I thought you don’t sleep with your husband much anymore”. Wanda is brushing my hair with her fingers.

“Stop it, I think she’s in shock”. Nat is washing the test stick. God bless her, she thinks I want to keep it. I shudder, still a little dizzy.

“Shut up, I’m inventing a new pie in my head. Tomorrow’s special. I’ll call it “I don’t want Quentin’s baby pie”. I take my little notebook out of my apron and start writing ingredients down.

 “I don’t think we can put that on the menu board, Y/N”. 

“You could still leave Quentin, you know? If you can bake 27 different kinds of pies every day, you can do it.”

“You’re funny, Nat.  I don’t want a baby right now, but above all, I don’t want a fatherless baby. Girls, I can’t do this on my own. And please don’t tell Sam or Nick yet”. They both grab my arms and Wanda leans on my shoulder.

“Hey, we ain’t saying a word to anyone but we’ve talked about this. Quentin isn’t a good husband, you know that. You think he’ll be a good father?”

“You could come and live with me! It’s a studio but-” I cut Wanda off.

“Okay, girls, enough. Nat, I know he’s difficult sometimes but he’s going through a rough time, he’s in between jobs and I couldn’t do that to him. And Wands, you’re very sweet, but thank you. I’ll figure it out”.

-

chapter 2: what baking can do

-

I already have chapters 2-4 written, so expect them soon. Thoughts?

[urskekyagvi]

MalVa Week: Campsite

@malvaweek

A hunter trudged into the clearing, bearing his latest kill upon his back. Blood stained the grass behind him, making a grisly trail through the forest. The arduff's corpse hung across his shoulder, a once majestic and imposing predator now someone else's prey; but that was the way of things. 

SkekMal was all too aware of the way of things. Life and death were a never ending cycle, like an abiranariba serpent eating itself. Even he knew the sacred geometry; even a hunter had to know the signs. He swore under his breath as his knees buckled. A stumble, but at the end of it neither he nor the kill were on the ground. 

He hadn't taken this beast's life without cost. He had miraculously remained unscathed, but the weeks of tracking, setting snares, and the final confrontation had left him exhausted. Only the scent of smoke kept the very last reserves of strength he had left fueled; smoke meant fire. Fire- usually- meant campsite, and campsite meant safety and rest. He paid no mind to the thought that there might already be someone there: gelfling and podling were easy enough to dispose of. 

But now his only thought was rest. He dragged himself and his kill through the woods until the orange light of a flame was visible past the treeline. Finally he was close enough to feel the heat upon his skin, and there he deposited his prey and collapsed. Still, even in the midst of exhaustion he didn't abandon wariness. 

He left one eye open, examining the space he had found himself in. From his position, he could see where the land sloped downward towards a stream, and near the fire there was a pile of leaves and branches and a large quilt, big enough for him to crawl under and curl up. He took a few deep breaths and rose to his feet, sniffing the air for any unusual scents. 

No gelfling. No podling. Nothing but the smell of the forest, nearly drowned by the scent of blood he had tainted this peaceful place with. He was reminded of his kill, and rose fully to take care of it. It didn't take long; his knives had been properly sharpened before the hunt, and in short order he had his trophies and something to roast over the fire. 

He laid the skin out to dry and finally sat down on a stone near the flames. It was only natural skeksis paranoia and instinct that kept his eyes open now, though he hadn't smelt or heard a thing for hours. The endless symphony of insects and various birds rang in his ears; a good sign, really, but now his mind didn't trust it; No one just abandoned a campsite like this, not without reason. 

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiff ache of action impeding his movement. Dried blood coated his armor and clothes, and really, a bath in that stream would be a welcome luxury. The only question remained: could he afford it? 

He looked once again, poking around for anything at all that may betray the slightest sign of life or deception; nothing greeted him back. No traps, no leftover marks or traces of the former occupant of the site. He was alone. His searching had proven this as fact, but his mind would not let him rest. 

And yet, while the danger was not immediate, he could allow himself some relaxation...and the stream was a rather tempting sight. Its cool waters cleansed his body and mind and soothed his parched throat. He cleaned his armor and clothes, and when he had gotten back the meat was ready to be eaten. 

He didn't bother thanking the creature for the life it had lost, for it had not given it willingly; such a tradition was a soppy gelfling notion, something they did to convince their guilt-ridden minds that the supposed soul of the creature would return to its creator. SkekMal knew better. The beast had no soul. It hunted to keep itself alive, itself prey to death. 

SkekMal hunted for a similar reason, and in that similarity there was a respect. He bit into the meat with a ravenous appetite, feeling the arduff's life become part of his own. Nothing would be wasted. Its flesh and organs he could eat, its bones would be made into trophies, its skin would hang upon his wall, a tapestry to commemorate his victory. 

By the time he had eaten his fill for the evening the stars had come out. The Sisters shown their light down upon him, and the shadows from the fire flickered in a mesmerizing sway across the trees. Exhaustion weighed down upon him like a beast on his shoulders, digging its venomous claws into his eyes and making his movements sluggish and slow. The sleeping pile, with its soft quilt, looked more tempting by the moment…

He was obliged to lay upon it. It would have been a waste not to, and he despised waste. It was just as soft as it looked from a distance, easy upon his aching muscles yet supportive enough to spare his bones. His body sank into it, and the quilt kept him comfortably warm as he gazed up at the stars. 

Worry did not stalk the corners of his mind any longer. Whoever had left the campsite here, clearly it had been intended to be his, by fate or accident he no longer cared. His eyes closed in a way they had not in a very, very long time, heavy instead of flitting open at the very first sound. Sleep took the night watch. 

When he awoke the next morning, upon the first light of dawn, he felt rested. His bones didn't ache, and his mind was sharper than ever without paranoia or weariness making it so, and when he stretched his muscles were only mildly sore. It was a delightfully brisk morning all around him. 

He rose to a sitting position, prepping for another full body stretch, when his tail curled against something. It was wooden, but much too straight to be a stick. Suspicion bit into his senses. He grasped the thing tightly in his hand and snatched it from under the covers. 

It was an arrow, beautifully decorated, better as a trinket than a weapon or tool. It was lightweight, the shaft made of a white nut wood carved in thin leaf-like shapes and gilded vines; the fletching at its end could only be from the tail feathers of a rare albino shrookill; but the true beauty of it laid in the point, a sun-bleached bone. 

SkekMal glared at the beautiful thing and then at the clearing around him. There was even something cooking on the fire already. Someone had been here- in fact, had always been here. Someone had laid this out for him...someone was trying to catch him. 

And he knew who. 

"Come on out, Archer!" He snapped at the trees, "Reveal yourself! I've seen through your little ruse." 

A shrub rustled much too close nearby. He would have jumped, but barely managed to restrain himself in order to save face; he couldn't let anyone know he had let himself be deceived so easily...Though by the almost self-satisfied look on UrVa's face, it was a futile endeavor. 

"It is no ruse," the Archer said calmly, giving his Other a small bow, "I thought you could use the rest." 

SkekMal clutched the trinket he held even tighter, until his knuckles were almost as white as the shaft. He fumed in silence, his teeth grinding together in agitation. How dare he. The sheer audacity this other half of him had, so unlike the complacent sobriety of the rest of the urru; SkekMal found it annoying to no end...and yet he couldn't help but appreciate the gesture. 

The anger faded quickly, having never been genuine to begin with. In truth, all he felt at that moment was gratitude. He ceded some of the tension in the grip he had around the arrow, holding it up gingerly to examine it in the light of the rising suns. 

"...Indeed I could," he said, "that arduff did not come down easily...These feathers, where did you get them from?" 

UrVa smiled and beckoned for SkekMal to follow him towards the campfire. The arduff meat was reheated to a perfect temperature, the outside skin crispy but not burnt. SkekMal cut himself a large hunk off the rear thigh and then laid another piece of it before his Other. UrVa paused to look at it, and it was SkekMal's turn to be smug. 

"Don't deceive yourself, Archer," he said, tearing a bite out of his own portion, "the Master isn't here. I saw the way you were eyin' it." 

UrVa did eat after that, but said a short prayer first, nonetheless. He took a small bite out of what SkekMal had given, pausing again to savor the taste with another sort of reverence. SkekMal let him, though he had not helped to bring down the kill. 

"...An albino shrookill," UrVa said after his slow chewing had finally ceased. 

"And where did you find an albino shrookill?" SkekMal couldn't hide his fascination. He had only heard the faintest rumors of such a thing existing, but had never seen it for himself. 

"Where shrookills can often be found," was UrVa's blunt response before he took another bite of his meal.

SkekMal knew what he really meant, but on account of the good mood he was in he let it pass without so much as a growl. This meat was delicious. 

"What of the bone?" 

Here there was a longer pause than usual between chewing and speaking, and for the sake of the answer SkekMal allowed it, too. When UrVa spoke again, his voice held a hint of something almost playful. 

"A piece of something you had lost and forgotten long ago," he said, and took another bite. 

SkekMal had to scour his brain for the answer to the riddle, another act of solecism he allowed only because of a well rested body and full belly. Something he had lost long ago…He studied the piece of bone, hoping a moment of scrutiny would unveil the answer. Lost and forgotten long ago…

He turned it over in the light, and that was when he noticed a familiar tooth mark, and then the shape revealed itself to him. He fitted the little arrow head in his hand on a mental overlay of an animal skull, and came to realize that this would have been at the apex of the sagittal crest. The memory inundated his head like the wash of a tidal wave. 

"My first kill!" The Hunter laughed and slapped his knee. "I never did get to keep the trophy. The others tore it apart so thoroughly I thought even the crawlies would have a hard time finding all the bits!" 

UrVa nodded. "I myself almost reached the limit of my patience trying to find that one shard." 

SkekMal snorted, without malice. "You? I thought there was no limit to your patience." 

UrVa gave him a look that was as close to arch as a mystic could get. SkekMal vowed to get a better reaction out of him later. There would be plenty of time, if this one interaction went well. It was like hunting in a way: stalk your prey, set your snares, wait, and then pounce. 

But it never ended between them, this eternal game of chase and capture, Hunter and Archer; and SkekMal would never admit that he enjoyed that prospect most of all.

[dancing-the-hellfire-rumba]

Seen ✓ - 2

Pairing: Sam x Fem!Reader Warnings: light anxiety Word Count: 2.2k Series Summary: On her way home, Y/n finds an abandoned, cracked phone on the sidewalk. Anxious about the well-being of its owner, she picks it up and texts the first contact she finds; Sam. A/N: Chapter 2! Our pals are kicking it off already. Can you smell the chemistry? The rOMANCE? LESSGO

Pictures used in this chapter were found on google images :)

Beta: no one.

Catch up! : Part 1 Masterlist

Chapter 2: overthinker.

From: y/n_andrews85 To: D_impala67 Subject: I have your phone. That sounds creepy. I don’t think there’s a non-creepy way of writing this. Whatever.

Dear Dean, is it?

I just wanted to let you know I found your phone at the bus stop the other night. I wasn’t planning on holding on to it, really, but I got worried that you may have been in trouble, and then you never really looked for it either so, I don’t know, I figured better than someone who’ll snatch it and leave, you know?

Anyways, that’s why I’m emailing. I snooped through it a little, sorry, hopefully you’ll understand it was kinda necessary? Maybe we can arrange something so I can get it back to you. This girl, Jamie, keeps sending me (well you technically) topless photos of her. It’s not really what lights my candle. I’m assuming you’d like it back too.

I hope you’re safe. Looking forward to hearing back from you!

Y/n Andrews

-

Do you believe me now?

oh god

you didn’t

Sure did

wow. just wow.

you just handed his ass back to him holy shit!

last time he called, he said he dropped his phone while walking back to his motel, so

he’s okay.

That’s good, I’m glad he’s safe.

I was planning on including something along the lines of “This would’ve been easier if you were an active member of the 21st century and used social media”

But I figured the Jamie thing was motive enough?

yeah. topless Jamie? that’s something else.

Don’t be getting any ideas, dude, I don’t do nudes lmao.

oh god, no i didn’t think that

you did not just type lmao though. how old are you again?

oh god, you’re not 14 or something right? i don’t know what that would make me.

Don’t worry about it, I turned 16 last week.

…

are you serious?

Lmao, no, I’m kidding. I’m twenty-two.

But I think the word you’re looking for is a creep. Oh, and an ageist.

ouch.

Haha, I’m joking.

Lighten up, what are you, ninety?

hi pot meet kettle.

Shit I walked right into that one.

also i’d like to think i don’t text like a ninety-year-old man. could be wrong though

to answer your question i’m twenty-four.                                

Twenty-four huh? I assume you’re done with college, no?

Or- wait, I guess not everyone goes to college.

Yes, this is me fishing for information.

well… i kinda dropped out.

decided to go on a road trip with my brother.

things went a little south I ended up continuing the family business.

Damn, college drop-out ey? Where from?

Also, Family business? What do you do?

Is this too interview-y? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snoop.

you’re good.

stanford. pre-law.

and my brother and i are private investigators. that’s why he’s not in Kansas with me. he’s working a case.

Daaaaamn. Stanford AND a lawyer? And now working as a PI? You’re pretty smart, then.

an ageist and a generalist? i didn’t take you for such y/n.

Fuck, okay, you sound like a lawyer too.

hahahah

so what about you?

What about me?

are you in college?

Oh yeah! Film school. My dream has always been to be a director. It’s rare to find someone who loves movies more than I do.

that’s really cool.

hey i’ve been meaning to ask.

Thinking of me, Sam?

…

Do tell.

how come you were walking home through a park in the middle of the night the other day?

Ooh, I was coming back from work.

I’m a bartender and I had a late shift on Friday.

oh I see. That makes sense yeah.

I’m sorry to cut this conversation short, but I’m legitimately three seconds away from falling asleep. I’m gonna hit the hay.

See you later, Sam :)

See you, y/n :)

A smile creeps on Y/n’s features at the thought of more conversations with Sam. He has given her something to look forward to, something to make her a little more excited during her boring every-day life. As she tucks herself in under her covers, eyelids heavy enough to droop involuntarily, the last thing she thinks of is him, the clever, sassy, twenty-four year old college dropout on the other side of the cracked phone screen. The overwhelming urge to get to know him overtakes her as she succumbs to sleep

--

So

Do you believe in ghosts?

that’s… random.

May be

why do you ask?

Idk, just wanna get to know you better.

that’s what you ask people you want to get to know better?

Yes?

Are you avoiding the question?

no

i do. believe in ghosts.

You?

So do i.

Well, sorta. I guess I believe in souls more than anything.

hm?

Well… I guess I hope (more than believe) that we are more than our corporeal selves.

In the sense that, it’s comforting to me that when we die, and our bodies stop working, we don’t evaporate.

I guess.

yeah I understand.

i don’t know. i guess i wanna believe in science more than anything but i know better.

How do you mean?

call it a hunch.

Oh c’mon, it’s gotta be more than that.

Sam…?

Y/n huffs out a breath, gnawing at her lip. She hopes her anxiety isn’t right, that Sam isn’t sick of her silly questions and existential dread, and is actually doing something. Perhaps his battery ran out.

...Sure.

She was doing something too, before she decided to text him. Eyes falling on all her books and notes, spread around her like ugly, depressing, anxiety-inducing flower petals. There’s a blanket over her legs, chilly fall weather seeping through her bones, and there’s a half empty pizza box in front of her. She’s full and the left overs are kept for her sister, Emily, who’s currently locked up in her room.

Damn it. Y/n is stressed and tired, and now her distraction is refusing to reply. This sucks. She hates the crawling, awful, gooey feeling of cold anxiety gripping every beat of her heart and stupidly convincing her he’s purposefully ghosting her, because he doesn’t like her.

Not knowing what to occupy herself with, she heads to take a shower. In the back of her head, she knows that she’ll probably not study any longer, so she takes it upon herself to sink under the hot water and wash thoroughly, trying to get her mind off Dean’s phone. When her feet step out of the shower and she has towel-dried herself as best as she can, she tosses her wet hair in a haphazard bun, and gets dressed.

Books stack under the rickety, stained coffee table, and she grabs her sketchbook, her favorite pencil, as well as her and Dean’s phone. She shoots Connor a text, arranging a hang out of some kind, and opens her little booklet, when a text vibrates Dean’s phone.

hey i’m sorry i got caught up in something.

It’s alright.

She doesn’t press the ghost subject, because he doesn’t seem into it and she really doesn’t wanna make him dislike her any more than he possibly already does.

The empty page of her sketchbook daunts her. With a tight grip on her mechanical pencil, she urges her creativity pumps to use some gasoline, but they seem limp and dead, and once more unwilling to help her. As her eyes fall on Dean’s phone, like a light bulb out of a cartoon, she gets an idea.

Hey, this might sound creepy, but what do you look like?

She stares at the phone. This feels like a risky question. God, if he wasn’t done with her before, he certainly must be now. But then, he surprises her.

why do you wanna know?

I’m in the mood to sketch some, and my creativity has officially left the building.

Care to help a girl out? Maybe your literary descriptions will spark something in me lmao.

i didn’t know you sketched.

Yeah, sometimes. Nothing great though, I promise. I’m certainly no Picasso.

i mean you don’t have to be picasso to sketch well. and you don’t have to sketch well to sketch at all.

Yeah, may be.

I don’t wanna pressure you into anything, you really don’t have to humor me.

If you do feel like it though, don’t send me a picture. Kinda wanna spark some life into my brain cells.

haha i will. only if you show me the finished product tho.

You’ve got yourself a deal :)

She simply cannot believe he has just agreed to this. Her breath is caught in her throat.

so.

what do you want me to start with?

Just whatever. Idk, tell me about your face.

well

i have brown curly-ish hair that reaches my ears. uh, my eyes are hazel.

Okay, that’s a start.

What’s your nose like?

it’s a bit pointy. thin i think?

Jawline?

sharp? i guess?

this is by far the weirdest thing i’ve done.

Lmao, yeah, this is pretty weird.

Exciting though.

She shouldn’t have said that. Fuck, that is definitely overeager.

yeah it is.

Her stomach feels floaty at his response.

Eyebrows?

uh

normal?

How do you classify “normal” eyebrows, exactly?

i don’t know? they’re simple i guess.

Are you implying complicated eyebrows exist out there?

…

Elaborate, Sam. Are you shy? Do you not have eyebrows? Are they bushy? Or too thin? Or pointy?

i’m telling you they’re average.

Sam

what

You officially suck at this.

oh fuck off how would you describe yours?

Y/n proceeds to write a cohesive sentence that includes adjectives apart from “normal” and “average”. Words like bushy, thin, arched and curvy.

well shit yeah i guess i do suck at this.

i think it’s not a skill i mind not having.

That… is a confusing sentence.

just… draw them however. what difference can eyebrows make?

Oh you have no idea.

Okay, last thing.

Do you have a fringe?

yeah but not for long. i’ll probably let it grow out.

Okay, I can do something with that. Thanks :)

no problem

Her creativity is finally servicing her according to her commands, and Y/n puts pen to paper and scribbles messily. Line after line, they curl and sit on the page, forming a smile with thin lips, a sharp jaw, a pointy nose. She has to guess the eyebrows a bit, and the eyes are more cartoonish and generic than she likes. In the end, she gets anxious at the prospect of having to show him, and gives him a hood, so she won’t fuck up the hair.

Okay, I’m done.

that was quick, actually.

Well I didn’t have much to go on.

Sam doesn’t reply. She worries he might have misinterpreted her teasing tone.

Gimme a sec, I’ll send it over.

Ugh, Dean’s camera is such shit. Do you mind if I send it from my phone?

no go ahead.

[Y/n has sent a picture]

As you said, it didn’t take long. It’s really not the best.

that…

is actually not too far from the truth

it kind of looks like me from two years ago

wow, really?

yeah.

and it’s honestly a pretty good sketch. good job.

Thank you :)

Sam doesn’t say anything after this, and she huffs. Her head falls back on the couch, and she stares at the ceiling. She should go to bed soon, it’s getting late.

isn’t this strange?

Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit oh shit, she thinks. He’s regretting this. He doesn’t like her. He’ll stop talking to her and that’ll be it.

Why does she care so much? It’s a thought that passes through her mind. It hasn’t been long since they started talking and, after the near-kidnapping encounter, they’ve been having nearly daily conversations, but that still doesn’t mean much. She knows barely anything about him.

She guesses, she wants to get to know him better. He seems like the type of guy she’d enjoy hanging out with and she has so far. Stopping any kind of conversation would surely feel like a loss. She’d have to go back to her boring routine. This is the most exciting thing she has allowed herself to do in years.

A part of her feels rather lame for finding such a thrill at something so trivial. She’s talking to a stranger, and that’s all it is, but the prospect that he could be anyone at all, and she’s never even seen his face… well… It feels refreshing, new. Scary in an adrenaline-rush kind of way.

What is?

us. texting.

isn’t it a little odd?

I guess it is a bit.

I mean we’ve only known each other for, what, a week? And a half?

yeah.

should we stop?

I don’t know

Do you want to?

The extra moment his reply takes to arrive makes her want to vomit.

no

Then there’s your answer.

okay then

can I save you in my contacts?

Sure, go ahead.

I just did too.

alright.

Okay :)

I’m sorry, I have to go.

I guess I’ll text you later, Sam.

Go be whoever Sam Something is.

it’s winchester.

Like the shotgun?

yup.

That’s BADASS. Can you even get more badass than this? Pre-law, now a PI, and you’re named after a shotgun? Damn dude.

Well, it’s nice to meet you Sam. I’m Y/n Andrews.

Haha thanks.

nice to meet you, too

goodnight Y/n Andrews.

Night Sam Winchester :)

--- Part 3

A/N: Thoughts? How are you liking the newer version of this? right after I post it, I’m gonna delete the other one.

Taglist:

Old Can You See The Stars taglist: @shutupiminlooove @sammysgirl1997 @kymberlytorres @bambi95-blog @demonic-meatball @thekarliwinchester @littlekay15 @li-m-ii  @thinspo-isuppose @carryonmywaywarddemigodwitch @ellen-reincarnated1967 @moonlitskinwalker @marichromatic @illuminatus42 @lazy-author @mirandaaustin93 @hauntedsiriel @pilaxia @devilgirlsarah @nobodys-baby-now @captiveties @calamitychaos @midiocris @wordswillscream​

Sam taglist @kymberlytorres @theboykingsam @depressed-moose-78 @andi-mendes-barnes @captainmarvelcorps @nerd-in-a-galaxy-far-away @nellachain

[mhamiltonwrites]

Chasing a Song: A Witcher’s Tale

The first time had been an accident.

Jaskier had come to the hilltop seeking inspiration. His muse had taken to hiding, squirreling itself away in some forgotten recess of his spirit, and the usual methods of coaxing it out, wine, lovers, old songs, had all failed one after the other. So a different approach; a stroll to the hilltop overlooking the town, that the sight of such grandeur spread out below might just move his hands to pluck similar beauty from his lute.

If he’d known about the griffin, he would have just tried the wine and lovers option again.

The winged terror had not been best pleased to find the foppish interloper reclining upon its hillside, lesser so still when said interloper had attempted to serenade it to peace. The tattered remains of his jerkin now discarded on the slopes spoke to the narrowness of Jaskier’s escape. He had tumbled out the way, lute clutched to his chest, the things talons leaving a crimson line raked across his shoulders that would undoubtedly scar, and in his tumbling had ended up falling into a gully in the sloping meadow. It was too narrow for the creature to reach him, but similarly too smoothed by centuries of rain for him to climb out of. The griffin did not seem in any way discouraged by the difficulties; indeed, in its impotent rage it had begun scraping up great clods of earth and sod, beak snapping, claws reaching, furiously trying to pluck him from his fragile refuge.

All of a sudden there came the tinkling sound of glass breaking and heat as fire flared above him, flames scorching a path across the griffin’s back. It shrieked in pain, its anger now turning to whosever had dared to interfere in its hunt. It had barely turned when a pale figure leapt upon it, cat-like, one leather-gloved hand gripping a fistful of feathers, the other slashing a sword into its neck. Silver flashed, caught in both the light of the summer sun and the orange glow of the fire. Jaskier watched as the battle raged above him. He heard the shrieks of the griffin grow more fraught until at last it gave out a final mewling cry and fell silent. A single smouldering feather drifted down towards him. Jaskier snatched it out of the air and ran it between the strings of his lute. It sat caught there like a garland from some courtly competition. The light above him dimmed once more as his saviour came into view. White hair hung down, thoroughly ruffled in the fight. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Geralt!?”

“Jaskier.” The leather-gloved hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him and the lute bodily out of the crack in the earth.

“How- What- Why in the world are you here?”

Geralt looked at him flatly. “There was a monster to kill.”

Jaskier stared back, mouth still opening and closing as he dumbly reached for the words. How long had it been since Geralt had told him to leave his side? Six months? Eight? He’d stopped counting after the first few weeks, losing himself to the self-indulgent consumption of misery before resigning himself to a life without his stoic companion. And yet now, seemingly out of the bloody ether, Geralt was before him once more as if he’d never left, behind him the bloody remains of the vast avian terror that had so recently been trying to rip him to pieces. “R-right. Okay then. Right.” Gods damn it all, why did his words have to fly from him now of all times?? “You, um. You look…”

The witcher raised an eyebrow. “I look like shit, Jaskier. So do you. What you get for tangling with a griffin I suppose.”

“Well, yes. Quite. Yes.” The bard looked Geralt up and down. There he was, just as he ever was. The leather a little ragged from the fight, certainly, but that and the mud somehow only added to his rugged perfection. “You wear battle damage just as well as you ever did, for what that’s worth.”

Geralt grunted in response. As if deciding the bard was safe and therefore no longer a concern, he turned away, cleaning feathers and gore from his blade. “You should go, bard. The wilds are no place for a soft-skinned fool.” He glanced back over his shoulder “What?”

“Nothing!” Startled and blushing, Jaskier snatched his gaze up and away from the witcher’s taut buttocks caught in the stretched leather of his britches. “Nothing at all. You’re right. Of course. No place for a fool indeed.”

“A lesson I thought you’d learned back when…” Geralt trailed off, voice fading into uncharacteristic uncertainty. What was that, Jaskier wondered. Could it possibly be regret that traced at the corners of his erstwhile-companion’s eyes? Impossible; Jaskier pushed the thought away. Geralt was many things but the kind of person likely to be given over to regret was definitely not one of them. And yet, those lines remained on the witcher’s hardened face.

Jaskier did his best to smile, pushing away the memories of Geralt’s harsh words the day he’d left. The day he’d been sent away. “Oh, you know me. Never one to learn a lessen so well it stuck!” He was trying for jovial, though it came out more manic. He rested his hands on his hips, willing his heart to stop beating so fast beneath the tattered remains of his shirt. “So, um. You planning on sticking around long?”

“No.”

“I see.” He was powerless to keep the note of disappointment from tainting his words. “In and out, the witcher way and all that, I suppose!”

“Yep.”

That was Geralt. Monosyllabic to a fault. Jaskier stared at the back of his head, watching the way his mouth hardened into a line as he worked on his gear, how his shoulders rose and fell with his breathing; how, even now, he could see the muscles shift under his skin in a fashion that brought the colour surging to his cheeks. “Geralt,” he started, but he had no idea how to continue. How could he begin to put it into words, how much leaving had hurt, how much seeing the witcher again meant? Could mere words even begin to capture it? And would Geralt even hear them?

“I’m not here to talk, Jaskier,” said Geralt, his voice icy. Silently he cursed his rotten luck and the vague cruelties of fate that had forced the bard back into his path once more. How many times would he have to save the poor idiot’s hide before he got the message and stayed in some comfortable college where he belonged? This was no place for the overdressed clown. Time he went back home and the witcher could get back to the busy work of forgetting. Jaskier, Yen, all of it. A witcher, alone. Suited him just fine. “Time to go.”

It was good to see you, Jaskier. The words came to him, unbidden. Seven words, that was all. He could say them, as a kindness. It wasn’t as if they would mean anything. They would, the little voice in his head whispered. They would mean something to him.

Damn it. Geralt took a sharp intake of breath, calling on old instincts to slow his heart and quiet the buried feelings trying to surface. A witcher didn’t have feelings. Feelings made you weak. Reckless. Feelings got you killed. Besides, it wasn’t anything worthwhile. Not really. Mayhaps for a time there he’d allowed himself to think of Jaskier as more than a travelling companion. A friend, even. A friend with soft hands. Soft hands on your back, rubbing away the knots and stresses of a hard fight. He returned the sword to its scabbard. Enough. He had business elsewhere. Anywhere, so long as Jaskier was far behind.

Jaskier felt the harsh words cut into him, sharper than any griffin’s talons. “Right. Yes. Okay then.” He ran his hands down his shirt to keep himself from reaching out, biting back his own response. “I’ll be on my way then.” Gritting his teeth, he turned from Geralt once more. It wasn’t any easier this time either.

Geralt watched him go a little while. Not once did the bard glance back behind. Somehow, that stung him. Why? He wanted him gone. Needed him gone. So why this ache as he watched him leave?

Folly; he dismissed the ache as soon as it had arrived. There was no time for sentimentality in this job. And the work would not be done until he’d found the nest and made certain there would be no mates or offspring coming to look for their fallen feathered comrade.

But a little while later and Jaskier found himself once more engaged in the time-honoured traditions of a soul scorned, drinking himself into a stupor in an all-but-deserted tavern and doing his best to ignore the slow, sad thumping of his heart. Even oblivion had to be better than this. He forlornly plucked at the strings of his lute, its bowl scratched and marked from its tumble down a hillside. The crisp, sweet notes filled the air, cutting through his wine-drenched misery with their unexpected grace. He let his hands move of their own accord, trusting musical instinct to guide them. Notes gathered and strung themselves together into a simple, soulful melody, not a song, not yet, but the start of something… Beautiful.

He stared down at his lute. Where in the hell had that come from? It seemed nothing sharpened the bardic spirit like imminent death.

And seeing Geralt. That helped. He didn’t want to admit it but it was the truth nonetheless. The missing piece of the puzzle, the inspiration he had been craving all these months, it was all thanks to him. It made sense; his times on the road with the witcher, for all the near-constant threat of danger and lack of comfort had been invigorating. Fun, even. He’d found parts of himself on those desolate roads and in those forbidding forests that he’d never known were there. Seeing Geralt in action once again had clearly revived those instincts. But not enough.

The song hung incomplete, its beauty dying as the notes faded away. Jaskier plucked again, repeating the pattern but it was becoming hollow, emptier with every reprise. Shit!!

In a surge of anger, the bard raised the lute as if to smash it upon the flagstone floor, but before he could bring it down a voice cut through his rage. “A terror, so they say. Some monster or summit. Over near Lindenvale.” Jaskier’s ears pricked. It was like the song, buried instincts starting to rise to the surface. “Looks like a man, but cast in clay. Killed a girl.”

Without thinking Jaskier was on his feet and hurrying to the speaker. “Which town?”

The speaker, a stocky man in a stained jerkin, turned, surprised. “What’d you say?”

“Which town,” Jaskier repeated, his voice shaking. An idea had started to form, a plan, crazy and half-baked, but a plan nonetheless. “Which town did you say you saw this clay man?”

The man looked him up and down, concern touching his eyes even as Jaskier’s wine-drenched breath forced him to recoil. “Lindenvale. Why, you know someone from round them parts?”

“No,” said Jaskier, mouth stretching into a manic smile, “but I’m sure I know someone who’ll be heading there soon.”

And suddenly the plan that had been creeping up, inch by inch, was there, fully-formed (or as close to fully-formed as any of Jaskier’s plans ever were); where there was danger, where there were monsters, there would be his inspiration. He’d seek out the risks that he’d encountered by chance before, and in those frenzied flights for his life he’d find the rest of that song that had so nearly been birthed just minutes before.

And maybe, just maybe, Geralt would be there. The thought sat in his mind, unbidden and unmoving. It was born of broken hope and just a touch of masochism and it was not going away. Yes, thought Jaskier to himself. Maybe Geralt would be there. That would be… Nice. Definitely not his goal. Certainly not. Hadn’t crossed his mind once that a dangerous clay man wreaking havoc in the countryside might just draw the attention of a certain professional monster hunter.

***

Jaskier had arrived in Lindenvale in time for a funeral; a girl, no more than sixteen, was to be laid to rest beneath the roots of a cherry tree that grew in her family’s garden. Asking around it seemed this was the girl the man in the inn had mentioned, beaten to death by a golem loosed upon the townsfolk as some wizard’s misplaced retribution. Jaskier solemnly struck a few minor chords from his lute as he watched the veiled procession pass, a thin drizzle wetting the shoulders of the fresh jerkin he’d managed to procure in a handy game of cards. A golem was always trouble. But Geralt was good at what he did. That girl’s family would have justice soon.

The journey may have only been three days’ travel but it still took a week before Jaskier even heard word of Geralt’s arrival. From the talk of the townsfolk they’d driven the monster into the woods around the town but feared it could return at any moment if it were not slain soon. And so coin had been gathered and word sent calling for a monster slayer. Jaskier did his best to steady his heartbeat as he listened to the town bailiff announce that the witcher Geralt himself would be arriving in the morning. He spent that night fitfully tossing and turning, countless improbable scenarios playing across his mind as to how he would go about talking to him, doubt beginning to creep in. This plan was folly, anyone could see that. Geralt had made it clear twice now that he wanted nothing to do with the bard. What kind of man was he to defy him on purpose this time?

The kind who knows he needs to hear it one more time, Jaskier thought. Geralt had been a constant in his life for the best part of twenty years and now he was expected to simply let him disappear? Friends didn’t do that. Sure. Friends.

He woke with a start to the sounds of a commotion outside, sunlight streaming in through his rented room’s window and the sheets tangled about him like a poorly-worn cape. Cursing under his breath he stumbled to the window, the bedsheets almost tripping him. There in the street below was Geralt. His white hair tumbled about his shoulders, rippling in the wind. His orange eyes seemed to glow in the cold morning sun as he took in the gathered townsfolk and dilapidated buildings. He glanced upwards, as if sensing the bard’s gaze upon him. Jaskier threw himself to the floor, his knees colliding hard with the wooden boards. He yelped in pain and rolled away, grabbing his coat and boots. Staying out of sight was going to be essential; the plan would never work if Geralt knew he was in town.

He dressed and ate breakfast hurriedly before bolting out of the inn and into the street. From what he’d been able to get out of the townsfolk, the last place the golem had been spotted was out of town a ways into the dense forest. There was a cavern there, blasted into the side of a quarry by miners long ago, and it was there that it was thought the monster had made its home.

The plan, from there, was even simpler. He’d sit outside that cave, playing his lute, until Geralt showed up in pursuit of the monster. What could go wrong?

***

Jaskier flung himself to the ground out of the path of the clay fist that rushed towards him. Dirt exploded upwards as stone met recently-vacated earth. Jaskier yelped in fear as the terrible thing moved to him once more, impossibly quick. Golems were usually slow, lumbering things, lumpy masses of whatever loose clay the maker had to hand, but this one was different. It was faster, and definitely angrier.

Not an hour after Jaskier had found the cave the thing had come running from the treeline as if pursued by some unseen assailant. It was only the bard’s frequently practised survival instincts taking over and dragging him up onto his feet and out of its path that had saved him from being little more than a smear on the road. Not that the golem seemed ready to let him go that easily.

Jaskier scrambled for the treeline, lute smacking painfully against his ribs, swinging as he ran. The golem started towards him, giving out a monstrous shout, but before it could reach him a figure appeared at the treeline. Sunlight shined off dark leather, glinting silver and all too familiar white hair. Geralt. The witcher paused at the treeline, taking in the scene; Jaskier, his back now pressed against a broad elm; the golem, glaring at him as if unsure whether to finish off the idiot or make a run for it; and the cave where it clearly called home.

Geralt heard his trainer’s voice whisper in his head. First job of a witcher is kill the monster. Saving the civilians comes second. Especially when the civilian in question was clearly just here to torment him once again, Geralt thought to himself, jaw clenching. He darted forward, bringing his sword back to swing. The golem moved impossibly quickly, moving almost in a blur as it pulled away from Jaskier and ran for the cave. Unusual; he’d expected it to stand and fight. Still, the townsfolk had already told him there was no back exit from that cavern, so he had the beast cornered at least.

“Perfect timing once again, Geralt,” Jaskier called cheerfully from the treeline.

Geralt spun towards him, eyes narrowing. “Jaskier. I’m busy. Get out of here.”

“Aren’t you at least surprised to see me? I would risk happy but even I’m not happy to take those odds.”

“I wasn’t surprised. I knew you were here.” The witcher tapped his nose. “Practically followed your scent.”

“Remind me to change cologne.”

“Hm,” Geralt snorted, softly. Jaskier blinked. Was that the ghost of a smile teasing the corners of his erstwhile companion’s mouth? The smile was gone in a moment, fading like a snuffed candle. Geralt’s eyes darkened. “Damn it, Jaskier,” he said, voice softer than the bard had expected. “How many times do I have to pull your arse out of the fire before you understand? This is no place for you.”

“Oh come on, Geralt, have a little faith! I’m a grown man who’s survived more than his fair share of scrapes along the way.”

“Because I was there to fix your problems,” Geralt sneered. “I mean it, Jaskier. No more games. If I smell you around any job I’m called to in future, I will just ride on. There are other witchers. Let them deal with you.”

The words stung as sharply as they ever did, but they sounded to Jaskier just a little hollow. Or perhaps that was just his heart, desperately listening for softness that wasn’t there. “I’m sorry my possible death proved so inconvenient for you,” he replied, his voice cracking at the edges.

“You say that like you didn’t come just to get in my way.”

“Alright, yes. I came, hoping that you would also be here. Truth be told I’ve been somewhat lacking in inspiration since we… Went our separate ways, and I was hoping that the chance to see you in action again might get the old creative juices flowing once again.” And the fact he’d be able to spend some time talking to the witcher, even just to bicker, even just to fight, played no part in it.

Geralt sighed internally. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Why was it so hard to say? Why did he always have to wrap it in cruelty? Geralt looked at Jaskier. The bard stared back, half angry, half hopeful. Because he wouldn’t hear the warning, only the kindness. And that would get him killed.

Telling himself that it was Jaskier’s own good had become a reflex at this point, one almost as finely honed as any in the witcher’s arsenal. His mind would wield it like a log from a pyre, burning away his doubts and unbidden wishes until the coldness, the apathy, the untrue voice that said “you are a fist, not a heart” was all that could be heard. Steeling himself he spoke at last. “I’m not your easel, bard. You don’t get to prop your work up on me.”

Jaskier shivered a little at the icy tone. It wasn’t surprising to hear yet it still stabbed at his heart as keenly as the silvered dagger on the witcher’s belt. “I suppose you’ll be off then,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice airy. “Monsters to slay, coin to collect and all that.”

The witcher nodded curtly, turning towards the waiting cavern.

“And an audience would not be appreciated?”

“What do you think?”

I think you’re being a stubborn ox, Jaskier thought to himself bitterly. I think you might just miss me as much as I miss you and you’re too wrapped up in all your anger to admit it. But the words caught in his throat like gnarled roots too twisted to loosen. “I’ll leave you to it then. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Gratitude? That was new. The witcher hadn’t turned back towards him but he hadn’t move either, seemingly locked in place by a different battle than the one that lay ahead.

Geralt fought the urge to turn and offer the bard his hand to shake. Somehow he knew that even just that one touch would be enough for his resolve to weaken and ask Jaskier to stay, at least to watch the mouth of the cave. And then you’d be right back where you started. It was true; he’d hurt him enough the first time he’d sent him away and besides, being around Geralt always seemed to land Jaskier in deadly peril. It was better it stayed how it was. Still, a few words wouldn’t hurt, would they?

To hell with it; even if they did, his body was already outlined in constantly criss-crossing scars. What was one more? He looked back over his shoulder, his sharp features caught in profile against the gaping black of the cavern’s mouth. “Take care, Jaskier. The world would be a poorer place without you in it.”

Jaskier caught the gasp of surprise before it could escape his lips but he couldn’t keep his eyes from staring wildly or the spreading smile from his face. “Yeah. You too, Geralt. You too.”

Without another word, the witcher stepped into the cavern. For a moment, Jaskier considered staying and waiting for his return. Perhaps there would be more of this new softer Geralt to see? It was certainly tempting… But no. He’d pushed his luck already. And it wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t told him in no uncertain terms that he was not looking for another traveling companion. Reluctantly, he started back towards the town and his lonely room.

As he walked his hands fell once more to his lute and, almost without a thought, began to pluck that self-same melody as had been following him since the griffin attack days ago. His hands quickened as he began to hum along, fragments of lyrics beginning to form. The stumbling block of the chorus began to creep up upon him just as it had before but this time as he reached it his fingers moved as if of their own devices, striking a series of crisp, clear chords that closed off the sequence beautifully. He stopped and stared down at the lute. It had worked! Somehow, getting back into the dangerous work was exactly what his muse had needed of him, just as he’d suspected.

Seeing Geralt helped. The thought was burning and undeniable in its constancy. Could it be true? Could it have been not the monster trying to kill him but the witcher coming to save him that had returned his inspiration? It was certainly true that Geralt’s presence was… Comforting, but was that the same as inspiring?

He’s always been there. At the times when you need him most, he shows up. Even when he doesn’t want to. Even when he’d rather stay away. Even when he says he hates you. He still shows up. That was right, wasn’t it? He’d been able to write because of the sight of Geralt and the jolt that always gave him. But then if that were true what did it mean for the two of them? Jaskier, for all his romantic notions, was not one to be so quick to hope that Geralt had a similar need for his presence in his life.

And yet, there were those words he had said before he left. “The world would be a poorer place without you in it.” What was that if not a confession that the witcher was glad to see him alive? Perhaps, even, missed him? Certainly Geralt scolded him for his recklessness, and sent him away as soon as look at him, but what as that if not spoken concern? Spoken a little harshly admittedly, but that was the white wolf’s way.

Alright, so he was concerned; so what, Jaskier thought heavily. It wasn’t as if the witcher would ever admit it. Dappled sunlight streamed down through the canopy of leaves, scattering as birds took flight, startled at his passing. He morosely strummed his way through the melody once again, mood darkening as quickly as the elation had risen. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Even if his muse truly was Geralt, even if Geralt truly missed him, the witcher would never say so, nor would he be willing to stand and hear Jaskier out.

Unless he thought there was cause to.

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed as he glanced back over his shoulder, the faint path back to the cavern stretching away through the trees. Geralt went where there was word of a monster. So if he wanted Geralt to come to a specific spot all he’d have to do is make sure he got word of one.

Jaskier snorted. That had worked once, it wouldn’t work again. Even if concerned, Geralt could be so bloody stubborn there was every chance he’d make good on his threat to simply not show up if he got wind that Jaskier was there, even with a rampaging beast on the loose.

Well. Unless the threat seemed dire enough. If he’d been warned of something terrible, something that he simply could not entrust to anyone save himself. If that were the case Geralt would have to come, Jaskier be damned. Jaskier lost himself in thought. It might even be better coming from him. After all, he could sound apologetic, that he did not want to interfere but he knew that Geralt would trust his word. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier had brought such a mission to him. He could do it, couldn’t he? After all, a bard had to be a writer too, and to write a notice worthy of the white wolf’s undivided attention would be a challenge worthy of ballads.

Do you really want to lie to him? The thought whispered across his mind, cutting sharply through the fevered reverie that had started to overtake him. He’s upset already, the thought said, chiding Jaskier sternly. How would upsetting him with some wild goose-chase win you any favour?

But it was that or simply wait for fate to intervene as it had before and drop the witcher back into his life like a glove dropped on a ballroom floor. And how long might that take? He didn’t have Geralt’s long life to wait for him to decide he was ready to talk. A little deception then, to get the stubborn oaf to the table. Then they could at last have it out. Whatever “it” was.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the sense of something… More between them that Jaskier had started to feel was nothing more than his own head and heart joining forces against his reason. But if it proved so, at least he could go forth knowing that he had at least said everything. It was better, the bard thought, his hands repeating the perfect little melody once again, to try and to fail and to know than to live forever with the pain of the possible, the biting torment of the could-have-been.

***

It had been simple enough to arrange. He still had some coin saved up from performances on the road, enough to book a private room for as long as he’d need it and to send a trustworthy courier out after Geralt. He’d stayed in Lindenvale; his scent would already be all over it after all, so there was at least a chance the witcher wouldn’t immediately suspect something to be wrong. In his message he had claimed that it seemed the golem Geralt had dealt with had been but one of a pair, and now the second came hunting for those who had slain its fellow. The town, short on coin and fearing retribution if the witcher returned, had decided to try and keep the matter secret; Jaskier was only sending word to Geralt out of concern and hope that he might find it in his heart to lend a hand. After all, when you thought about it, it was really finishing off the job he’d already been paid for.

It was a good lie. Not his best, but good enough to fool Geralt. And if not, at least enough that he might just return to town simply to castigate him for pestering him further. Whatever the cause, Jaskier was certain it would get him back and that was truly all that mattered.

It was just over a day that the courier sent word of his message being received. If everything kept to plan, Geralt would be back here that very night. Jaskier felt his heartbeat quicken just at the thought of it. He had gotten to work immediately, setting the table in his private quarters for two, fetching candles and ordering wine and a dinner of roasted chicken and vegetables from the inn-keeper. The stage was set; now all that was needed were the players.

It was dark out before he heard the tell-tale crunch of hooves upon the gravel path outside, the gentle murmur of “Easy, Roach,” drift up through the window. He was here. Geralt was here. Finally. Jaskier checked himself in the mirror once again for what must have been the twelfth time that hour alone. His hair was a problem, as neat as he could make it but part of him wanted it ruffled, at ease, as if the witcher had just roused him from a bedroll by a campsite fire. Remind him of the good old days, he thought to himself. “It’ll do,” he said aloud, smoothing his shirt and shifting his hips just a little. The britches were perhaps a little on the tight side but they’d always done the trick when it came to seducing various baronesses and stable-hands across the realm.

He turned away from gazing at himself as a different sound reached him. Voices in the bar, low and questioning. Mutters of a brief conversation. A door opening. The sound of feet upon the stairs. Heavy. Purposeful. Geralt’s.

Jaskier watched the handle of the door to his prepared sanctuary twist slowly, the oaken door swinging slowly open on squeaking hinges. There the witcher stood, caught in candlelight, leather and silver and the promise of deadly violence wrapped up in a man Jaskier knew in his heart to be kinder than he would ever let show. That was until tonight. Jaskier took a deep breath before finally speaking. “Geralt. You’re here. Good.”

“I got your note, bard.”

“That’s good! I’m glad. Yes.”

Geralt’s brows were knotted as if he was wrapped in some complex puzzle. “You mentioned another golem. Funny. I asked the barkeep about it just now. He doesn’t seem to know anything about it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier felt that a stirring in his stomach, the nerves at what he had done, at what he was about to do, starting to truly strike at him. “That’s the thing, I suppose. Time to come clean. Actually…” He paused. Could he do it? Yes. For Geralt? For this? Anything. He steeled himself one final time and let the words flow from him. “I made it up. The whole thing. There is no second golem. I just… I just needed you to come back here.”

“You did what?”

“I made it up. Every word. Complete fakery on my part, I’m afraid.”

“Hmph.” At first, Geralt’s face was unreadable save for the ice-cold anger that seemed to set it in place. Then, after a moment’s breath, the witcher’s eyes narrowed, his gaze taking in the dressed table set for two, the fire gently burning in the hearth, candlelight glinting off silver cutlery and china plates. “Expecting other company, bard?”

Jaskier fought to keep his voice steady. “Actually it’s for you. All for you, Geralt.”

“What are you talking about? What is this?”

“The greatest horror I’m sure you’ve ever had to face. An honest conversation.”

“Hmph,” Geralt snorted again. “You’ve wasted my time once too many. I ought to run you through where you stand.”

Jaskier felt his heart pounding but fought against it, willing himself calm. “Of course,” he said, focusing all his energy on keeping his tone as level as the cold witcher’s. “Because I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you and it’s all my fault that your default reaction to anything being the slightest bit difficult is to turn and run.”

Despite himself, Geralt looked at the bard a little incredulously. “Jaskier, I fight monsters for a living. I don’t run from anything.”

“All you do is run!!” Jaskier couldn’t help his voice from raising to a shout, anger and frustration overtaking forced calm. “Fighting monsters is easy for you, its being a person that’s hard! The second you start to feel something, anything, you get up on that damned horse of yours and disappear over the nearest horizon!” Unbidden tears threatened to overwhelm his eyes’ resolve, but he carried on, the hurt and pain rolling out like a dammed river bursting. “I can see you’re annoyed, of course you’re annoyed, but that’s not from me. You look at me and you get annoyed because deep down you know what you said to me on that goddamn clifftop was… Was fucking unfair, Geralt!!”

The bard’s words hung in the silence between them, months of frustration and distance suddenly spanned by Jaskier’s bridge of accusation. Finally, Geralt spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. “You tagged along when you were not welcome. You dragged me into messes of your own making. You used my work to further your career. And you wish to talk about fairness? Damn you and your fucking lute.”

The words were like daggers in Jaskier’s chest. Was it so hard for him to apologize? For just once to admit that perhaps he had been too harsh on him?

Inside Geralt could feel two voices battling. Right now the louder of the two was his iced fury, ready to reach out and tear the fool’s head from his shoulders for wasting his time like this with such a wild goose chase. But the second voice was becoming almost as hard to ignore. It spoke without thought, without words, instead a simple, silent crescendo of longing and loneliness, its unheard yet unstoppable whispers running across the surface of his anger like red-hot rivers melting his frosty countenance. From the depths of the witcher’s heart he could sense a simple truth emerging; Jaskier was right. It had been unfair. He had yelled out in anger, in the shocking pain of losing Yennefer yet again, pain that needed a lightning rod to draw itself to, and there was Jaskier.

There was Jaskier. The bard stood staring back at him, his own eyes wild in a way that Geralt had never seen. Gone was the buffoon who talked too much and got himself into scrapes so often that it was a wonder he hadn’t yet been killed by a monster or cuckolded husband, and in his place stood a man as strong as any the witcher had faced in battle. Geralt blinked, surprised at the intensity of Jaskier’s gaze back at him. “I tried to move on, Geralt,” the bard said, voice shaking at last. “I really honestly did. But I can’t. Not while there’s so much… So much that I still need to say. So please.” Jaskier’s hands twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to clasp them together in supplication. “Please, all I ask is that you sit and you listen. And if you don’t want to hear it or you still wish to be alone at the end of it, you have my truest word I will let you be.”

Geralt blinked again. Against all instinct he could sense something in him, willing him to stay. “…Alright. I’ll hear you out.”

Jaskier felt his shoulders sag with relief, gratitude surging over the mountains of misery that had sprung up within him. “You will? You will. Thank you. Thank you, Geralt!”

“Hold your thanks, bard. I said I’d listen, that’s all.” The witcher stood where he had entered, hand still on the lintel, though it seemed to Jaskier’s eyes that had tarried over Geralt enough to know the signs, that an undeniable uncertainty had made a crack in the stoic armour of his erstwhile companion.

He gestured to the table. “Come on, if you’re going to stay at least sit down.”

Geralt stood frozen a moment longer, then, with a grunt, complied, settling himself on the opposite side of the humble table. He glanced across the setting once again, as if coldly amused by the effort on display. “So what was your plan here, that we would somehow settle our differences over supper?”

“Something like that,” Jaskier replied, taking the seat opposite. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Sure.”

With shaking hands Jaskier poured a generous amount of cheap red into the two polished goblets. He gripped the bottle a little tighter, fighting the trembling in his fingers that threatened to send crimson liquid staining across the tablecloth. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Geralt sniffed the wine. His sharpened senses could pick out the bitter notes where the unfinished wood of the cask had seeped into fruit. Not that it mattered. In his experience the only difference between the wine on a lord’s table and the stuff in his goblet was how much bull you were willing to listen to about it.

Jaskier finally sat down opposite the witcher, hands folding in front of him. For a moment there was nothing but silence between them, the awkwardness growing with each passing second. He watched as Geralt took a long sip of wine, his gaze fixed firmly to a section of wall several meters to the bard’s left.

Another moment passed. Another sip of wine. Internally Jaskier berated himself. He’d gotten so worked up so quickly, and all his planning had been so focused on just getting Geralt in the damn room, that now he was actually here and complying his momentum had just run out on him. He’d taken the leap, and quite to his surprise it had turned out there was deep water at the bottom and he was going to have to swim.

The silence was becoming excruciating. Finally Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to say your piece or not?”

“Yes! Yes. Sorry. Just… Gathering my thoughts.” Jaskier took a deep, steadying breath. He’d started this whole evening’s performance. He could see it through. “I suppose it all started there on the cliffside. Where you…”

“Where I told you to leave.”

“Yes.” Another moment of silent recollection passed between them, as if despite the warmth of the small room they were both back on that wind-blasted hilltop, without even a final goodbye to ease the passing of their time together. “Like I said just now, it hurt, but I’ve endured your harsher side plenty of times over the years. But this time… I think… This time I think I realised that I never properly told you what our journeys meant to me.”

Geralt snorted, his face as impassive as ever. “They certainly helped line your pockets. If everyone’s tossing coins to their witcher, the bard next to him can always scrape a few off the ground.”

“You needed that song more than you know,” Jaskier bristled. “You might hate it but without that and your still just the Butcher of Blaviken!”

He was right of course. Geralt knew that, in his heart. It had done wonders for his success, to have his reputation restored in the fashion the bard had provided. He’d gone from a reaper-like menace, a mere thug with a specialty, to some kind of rugged folk hero. He was practically beloved in some corners, or at the very least begrudgingly renowned. All thanks to Jaskier. It wouldn’t hurt him to say so. A small kindness. He was worthy of that, at least. “…Fine. I admit it. I got plenty of work out of it too. But you can hardly compare what I do to your ceaseless strumming.”

“You protect, I inspire. It’s a complimentary arrangement. Was a complimentary arrangement. I’m sorry.”

Geralt studied the bard from across the table. A complimentary arrangement, huh? That was one way of putting it. He raised an eyebrow again, almost as if to tease him.

“Anyway,” Jaskier continued, stumbling to get back to his point. What was it about Geralt that could leave him so bereft of words? Nothing else had had this effect on him. “Like I said, I never got to tell you what it all meant to me. And now… The thought I wouldn’t be able to… That was just horrid, Geralt.”

“I’m here now, bard. Tell me what it all meant.” Geralt’s voice was cool and level, without a hint of emotion.

Jaskier paused for a moment, trying to find the right words. He’d tried before, in songs and stories, by flickering fires and in crowded inns, but they’d never come out right. But now, with Geralt here, actually here in front of him once more, they crystalized in beautiful simplicity. “Well… Those days… For all the ups and the downs and the danger… Those days spent travelling with you were the best days of my life.”

Geralt blinked. Honesty radiated off of Jaskier, the bard staring at him almost pleadingly as he waited for his response. It wasn’t as if it had been unpleasant, came that voice inside him once again. It wasn’t like you hated having him around. No; the opposite, really, though he was loath to admit it. And for all his faults Jaskier did seem to understand what he’d done this time was wrong, there was no doubt about that. But there was also no changing just what he had done; it was foolish and preyed on the witcher’s nature in a manner that sat wrong for Geralt. The thought threatened to harden him once again, but before it could a second thought chased it away, twice as potent in its simple truth: Just like you preyed on Jaskier’s nature to send him away.

That was it, wasn’t it? Even speaking in anger he’d known at the time that the words were perfect in their cruelty. They attacked the deepest insecurities he knew the bard carried, like arrows flying straight to the centre of the target that was Jaskier. In his anger and pain, he had allowed himself the bitter indulgence of turning it all on his most loyal companion. Jaskier was right; that was unfair of him.

He’d been running from that fact for so long, convincing himself that his self-righteous anger was justified, that he was better off on his own, that now stopping and facing it head-on was as comforting as staring down a rampaging striga. He coughed, mouth suddenly dry. “…I’m sorry too, Jaskier.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to blink in surprise. “Sorry? For what?”

“For what I said. You’re right. It was wrong. I was wrong. And for what it’s worth…” He paused, considering his next words carefully. But pausing did not make the words on his tongue any less true. What was the harm in finally saying them aloud? “For what it’s worth, I had a good time too. I miss… I miss those days too.”

Jaskier blinked again, eyes widening in surprise. The words had reached him but were still barely making sense. Geralt missed those days? Missed travelling with him? It was more of an admission than he’d dared to consider in even his wildest imaginings and yet here Geralt was, saying it aloud as if it were nothing more than a casual line. As if it the possibility it promised was nowhere to be heard.

He steadied himself as he considered his next words. This was a new side of Geralt, and he knew the witcher well enough to know that if he pushed too hard, too fast into something new he was likely to up and bolt as swiftly as he had come. “I’m… Glad to hear that,” he began, fighting to keep his voice gentle. “I wouldn’t want every memory you had to be of me tormenting you.”

His eyes fell to the table. Geralt had sat as if posing for a portrait, placing his palms flat on the cloth as he listened. It was still, poised— exactly as he’d come to expect from the witcher. Moving seemingly of its own accord his own hand moved across the table, fingers lightly drumming a nervous rhythm as if to betray the pounding of his heart. “And I am more than willing to admit that I took advantage of your loyalty,” he continued, words as carefully chosen as before. “That was wrong of me, I know. But I felt like I had no choice.” Jaskier felt his hand move just a little across the tablecloth, the lace catching at his palm just a little as it closed the gap between his and the witcher’s own resting fingers. “I was dishonest, I betrayed your trust, and I hurt your feelings. I am truly, truly sorry, Geralt.”

“Spare me the hysterics, Jaskier. I’ve told you before, Witchers don’t have feelings.” Somehow the words sounded hollow even to Geralt.

“Bullshit. You feel everything. You feel it more, even.”

“Don’t talk like you know me, bard.”

Jaskier moved his hand a little more, his fingers brushing just the edge of Geralt’s, frozen still upon the wood of the table. “But I do know you,” he said, his voice little more than a pleading whisper. “Better than most, I might add. I’ve seen the good and the bad in you, Geralt. In fact, I’ve seen some of the worst. Perhaps,” he added, with a wry smile, “due in no small part to my own annoyances.”

The witcher’s lip curled just a little. The moment seemed to stretch out between them, a quiet spell cast upon contact, the distance of months finally bridged.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word there was a sturdy knock at the door. It burst open to reveal the innkeeper, red-faced and sweating under his generous moustache, arms laden with a tray of steaming meat and vegetables. “Now sirs, I mean no ‘arm interuptin’ ye, jus’ thought you’d be wantin’ yer supper so.”

Jaskier’s hand flew from Geralt’s, the magic spell broken in an instant. He jumped back to his feet, hurrying to the innkeeper’s side. “Yes, yes, thank you. Perfect timing.” He cursed internally but helped the man, taking the tray from him and moving it towards the table, doing his best to ignore the way the skin of his fingers seemed still to burn from where they had grazed Geralt’s. “Do you mind?” Geralt grunted, shifting plates and candles aside to make room for the high-piled tray. Jaskier sat it down, the table groaning slightly under the new weight. “Thanks.”

“Will ye be wanting more wine, sirs,” the innkeeper called across to Jaskier.

The bard shook his head. “No, no thanks, we’re all fine here.” Get out, he thought, get out and leave us alone for Gods’ sake.

As if sensing the bard’s anxiety at his presence the innkeeper huffed once and turned on his heel. “As you say, sir, as you say.” He disappeared, the door swinging back shut as he stomped his way back down the stairs to the hubbub of the taproom below.

Jaskier looked over the tray of food to Geralt. His companion’s face was impassive as he took in the feast set before them. “It’s…

“A lot of food,” Geralt finished, his voice tinged, if Jaskier wasn’t imagining, with just a hint of amusement.

“Rather more than I’d planned, yes.”

“Do you mean to fill me like a goose? Make a pate of me to spread on your morning toast?”

Jaskier blinked. Geralt was joking with him. Genuinely, openly joking. “I’m not sure the flavour would be all that pleasant,” he replied quickly, not wanting the sudden change in tone to stop. “I don’t want to imagine just how you’ve marinated under those leathers all these years.”

“Hmph. Sure you’ve picked up plenty of stench from your own escapades, bard.”

“Perhaps my fair share.” A moment’s silence fell between them as each considered the other. How long had it been since that quiet corner in that no-name bar? Enough that Jaskier had lost count of grey hairs plucked and new lines on his forehead. He’d kept young as best he could but Geralt may as well have been cast in granite for all that they had seen. Time had run off of him like water off of rock, leaving as much impression as a dream forgotten on waking.

Geralt could sense his heart stirring just a little as he looked back at Jaskier. Damn it. Even now, despite himself the bard knew how to make him smile. He shifted his shoulders under his armour. It was a little warm with it on in here, and it wasn’t like there was any immediate dangers…

With a final decisive exhalation of breath, the witcher stood and began to unbuckle the straps holding the sheets of leather and chainmail to his body. Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What… what are you doing?”

“It’s not like I need armour if all we’re doing is talking. Besides,” Geralt said, another slight smile teasing the corner of his lips despite himself, “if you do decide to make an attempt at my life with the cutlery I think I can take you either way.”

Jaskier watched as the leather fell away revealing the simple cotton jerkin and taut britches beneath. Dark marks where the witcher had sweated into the fabric only served to accentuate the physicality of the man, the potential of those muscles that moved so pleasingly as he watched. Even the overwhelming scent of rosemary and thyme wafting off the food was not enough to stop Jaskier from catching the old familiar smell of Geralt’s skin. Musk and woodsmoke, salt and soil, as deep with mystery as a lost grove at the heart of a darkened forest. Just a breath of it and he was back on the road again, the pair of them camped out under distant twinkling stars. Alone with each other. He hadn’t had comfortable beds or sweet wines, but he had Geralt. And that had been all he’d wanted. All he would ever want.

Geralt glanced back over his shoulder at the bard watching him, mouth slightly open. “You’ll catch flies like that, bard.” In two more movements his gloves were pulled off, the pale skin of his rugged calloused hands seeming to glow in the candlelight.

Jaskier caught himself, snapping his lips shut before he could start to drool. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still dazed from the sight before him. “You, uh, caught me off-guard.”

“That makes two of us,” Geralt replied, finally returning to his seat. His golden eyes, still as startling to Jaskier as the first time they had stared back into his, watched him levelly from across their supper. The witcher studied him as if appraising him like a jeweller with a rare stone. Or a wolf with a choice piece of meat. The though caught Jaskier just as unaware as Geralt’s scent had, crashing through his already-shaken mind like an out-of-control haycart.

Jaskier blinked and shook his head slightly, forcing himself back into the present moment. In need of distraction he turned his attention to the feast before them, grabbing a carving knife that the innkeeper had kindly though to leave beside the roasted bird. “Um. Shall I carve?”

“Sure.”

The knife’s edge was imperfect, dulled in places so that it made ragged work of each slice, not helped of course by Jaskier’s shaking hands. After what felt like agonizing minutes, he finally had two plates of meat and vegetables assembled, the juices from the roast making a thin sauce. He handed a plate to Geralt, smiling apologetically. “Sorry about that. Not exactly the suave demonstration I was hoping for.”

Geralt half-smiled back at him, sharp eyes softened in the gentle light. “I was tempted to get my sword. Seemed like quite a beast to wrestle with.”

“I’ll be sure to compose a ballad to its slaying.”

“Maybe leave out the part where it was already dead.”

“Of course, how else could you come riding gallantly in to save me once again?”

Geralt caught the chuckle in his throat before it tumbled free, burying it in a brief cough and a mouthful of sour wine. What was this? How was it possible that the months had fallen away so quickly? It was as if they were living once more in the past, already joking, and teasing back and forth. The roadside bonfire had been replaced by candlesticks and the hunted game by the inn’s offerings but the spark, the flare of something different that made the bard bearable was the same as it had ever been.

No; not bearable. A joy. Geralt furrowed his brow at the thought, feeling it creep through him. It was just so, wasn’t it? Jaskier was a joy. And it wasn’t in spite of the scrapes he inevitably had to pulled from; it wasn’t in spite of the way he refused to take his warnings seriously; it wasn’t even in spite of the way he could so easily get a rise out of him like only Yennefer on her worst days could. They were all part of it. There was separating him down into his component parts, you either loved all of it or none of it. And for Geralt it was all of it.

He froze at the realization. Love. That was a new word, one that had never crossed his mind when thinking of Jaskier before. But then, Jaskier had always been there. He’d never had to think about what he felt. He was just there, a comforting presence, as much a part of his day to day life as his leather armour or the weight of his swords on his back. Geralt glowered down at the plate of food in front of him as if some answer to this new troublesome thought could be divined from the swirls in the meat juices, but any secrets the sauce may have held evaporated like so much steam off a good meal.

Jaskier caught the look on the frowning witcher’s face. “Oh, something wrong with the meal?” His voice was teasing again, still riding the high of discovering this new, softer Geralt. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of cut-jobs but it should still be edible, right?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt had changed again, his shoulders seeming to freeze while his eyes remained locked on the plate of food. “All these… Feelings of yours. It sounds like…” He drifted off, seemingly unsure of what to say. This was strange, even for Geralt. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen the witcher at a loss for words before. His voice was strange, all at once back to its sharp, cutting tones, and yet, just like carving knife, seemed dull in places, as likely to catch on the shape of what he wished to say as to slice yet another gulley through the bard’s heart.

“Sounds like what, Geralt?”

Once again, silence fell between them. Even the noises around them seemed to quieten in the moment stretching agonizingly between them, the crackle of the fire, the voices from the bar bellow, the crunch of gravel and shouts of night-birds, all fading away so that all remained was the unbroken stillness, a hundred thousand unspoken words silently whispered in their hearts.

Slowly, moving in inches, Geralt raised his head to meet the bard’s pleading gaze. His features were a mix of confusion and something Jaskier hadn’t truly seen before; simply, undeniable fear. Geralt was afraid. “Geralt…” Hardly daring to breathe, Jaskier stood, getting up from the table.

With a tinkle of cutlery the witcher followed suit, quickly rising as if readying to run. “This was a mistake, Jaskier. I should go.”

“Don’t you dare!” Jaskier moved closer to Geralt, putting himself between the witcher and the door. “It wasn’t a mistake. You needed to hear this and I think you needed to say your piece too. I know there’s more you want to say, so say it. While I’m here to hear it.”

Geralt glowered back at him then lowered his eyes, as if looking at Jaskier would stop the words in his mouth. “Just that… The road wasn’t the same without you walking it beside me.”

Jaskier could hear the words between that Geralt could not say. The shaking threatened to return but he quelled it, willing his voice to remain steady as he replied. “I would gladly walk it with you again. If you would have me.” He took a step closer, his body seemingly dwarfed by the witcher’s broad frame. “Where you would go, I’d gladly go also. Your loyal companion to the end.”

His words filled Geralt’s heart, threatening to undo him. “And what if there is more to say, further along the road? What do we do then?”

Jaskier half-smiled. Letting himself be bold, he pressed a hand to the witcher’s chest. The powerful thud of Geralt’s heart thundered ponderously against his flat palm. “Then… We’ll just do what we have always done best. Say it all. Fight, talk, laugh.” He stared wide-eyed into Geralt’s face. “And in the end we’ll figure it out together.”

Geralt gazed back down at the bard, so close now that he could taste his sweetened breath, his perfume filling Geralt’s senses. “…Alright.” His voice was little more than a murmur. “I can do that.” A lock of Jaskier’s hair had sprung out of the carefully lain arrangement he’d clearly combed it into. Moving slowly he reached up and gentle moved it back, tucking it back behind the bard’s ear. His hand felt heavy, as if it had been transformed to lead by some alchemist’s trickery. He held it there, palm close to Jaskier’s cheek, the bard eye’s half-closed, lips open just a little as if to speak. But there was nothing more to say.

The inches between them now felt like canyons. Did he dare to cross them?

For just a moment longer he paused. It would change everything. It could all go wrong again. He could be a cruel, callous fool, speak in anger and ruin it all once more. But Jaskier’s lips, so soft in the candlelight and so close now, seemed to call out to him, an undeniable force. In his heart the witcher knew that to resist would be one fight he had already lost. Would always lose. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, the distance between them shrinking until at last…

Their lips met, gentle, unsure. Then Jaskier sighed and leaned into the kiss, his body pressing against Geralt’s as the witcher wrapped his powerful arms about him. They both gasped at the rising intensity, hands gripping each other’s clothes as if wishing to tear it away, freeing their bodies to be even closer. At last, after what felt like minutes, they broke apart, eyes closed panting, foreheads still resting against one another. “Geralt…”

“Jaskier.”

But there was no more need for words. They kissed again, more certain this time, passion overwhelming them both as they explored each other, the world outside, the bar downstairs and even the room in which they stood melting away in the heat of the moment.

***

The cold, gold-tinged light of morning crept through the blinds of the private room. Illuminated in a shaft of dawn, Jaskier sat on the edge of the table, the lute strung across his bare chest. His hands rested for a moment on the strings as he took in the gentle rousing of the day. A cockerel crowing on a distant farm. The crunch of gravel under the horseshoes of dawn riders. Low voices of those perhaps only just making it home now. And there in the room with him the low bass rumbles of a witcher’s snores.

He’d forgotten the strange comfort that came with those rumbles. It was somehow a promise of safety; if Geralt was ready to sleep so deeply and soundly surely there could be no threat nearby.

Gently so as not to wake him, Jaskier moved his hands along the strings of the lute, the faint whine of the gut under his skin pricking the edge of the peaceful air. Then, just as gently, he began to play. His fingers as if without command began to pluck out that same strange new melody he’d been chasing for so long now, at first unsteady and unsure but quickening with each strum. The chorus came towards him, the chords that had surprised him before now singing out with perfect clarity, like they’d always been there. But this time he played on. The chords moved, progressed, until the melody returned in a beautiful refrain, the same pattern repeated but subtly changed, as if the story told had moved forward just a little. On and on he played, the song filling his heart and mind like no melody had in years, until at last with a final repeat of that perfect chorus it came to a sweet,

Jaskier blinked. There was water on his cheeks. He was crying. He hadn’t even noticed. Quickly he grabbed a cloth from the table, rubbing his eyes and face clear of tears. As the music drifted away he realised his companion’s snores had ceased. He turned to see Geralt stirring, murmuring from the bed. “Hmm. Don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Jaskier smiled. “It’s something I’ve been working on for a while. It was touch and go for a while there, but now…” He turned back towards Geralt, letting his eyes linger across the tangled sheets caught around the witcher’s muscular form. He smiled again, heart lighter than it had been in months. “Now I think it might just be something.”

[lumoshyperion]

thank you for the answer! I know what you mean about theatre being vulnerable, even as an audience member I think you get some of that too, and the way you all share the theatre space together and it's so fleeting! You said that Albus will likely never act again, why is that? :( 🎭

Yes, exactly! It's such a specific, special moment in time? And a play you see now will mean something different than it did years ago when you saw it for the first time. Whenever I see a performance, particularly one with a large audience, I'm always struck by how different everyone's experiences are? We all bring different baggage and biases to the theatre. Something that makes someone else feel nothing, may strip me down to the very core - and it doesn't mean that person didn't watch the play properly, it just means that it meant something different to them. There's no right or wrong way to view and enjoy theatre. And this is especially true for Shakespeare. His works have been adapted over and over and over again. Hamlet in particular will never grow old, its universal themes leading to productions like "Globe to Globe Hamlet", where their aim was to visit every country in the world. We all take something different from the melancholy Dane. Even the companies who adapt the play all have their own concerns and biases in mind when bringing it to the stage - and so will Astoria and Albus and the rest of the team.

Speaking of Albus - he's just not an actor. This is something he mentions, constantly, throughout the process of the play. He's also an introvert and being the centre of attention like he is when onstage, and especially in a leading role, just isn't something he copes with? And I think that - he could be an excellent actor, if he wanted to, but the key word here is "want". Because regardless of how good he is, regardless of how much depth and care he brings to Hamlet - he still doesn't want to be an actor. He doesn't handle the vulnerability well at all, and he's so empathetic that he just - gets lost in the character? And someone like Hamlet is incredibly difficult to inhabit. You constantly hear stories about actors who struggled with the role - Paul Gross said that he often zoned out during scenes, he hallucinated while onstage and sometimes even offstage. It was just too much? Especially for a person like Albus, who has this immense, unyielding sense of empathy and compassion. It stops being a performance, because Albus is out there living every part of Hamlet. He doesn't know how to approach it any other way, because he just... cares too much. He never does things by halves. And he loves Hamlet. He knows Hamlet. Anything less than his whole self just wouldn't be enough. Hamlet deserves more than that.

Here's an excerpt from later on in the fic, when things are starting to get heated. Albus found out that the company has been talking about him behind his back, and he didn't take it very well. He vanished from rehearsals and wouldn't answer anyone's calls. He shows up to the fight call, trying to pretend nothing happened. I've popped it under a "read more" because it's rather long.

Albus went through the stage door rather than the front entrance, not wanting to make a fuss when he arrived and hoping that he might just slip in quietly. But he heard the cast talking onstage as he walked through the wings, and he paused.

“Where else could he have gone?” Yann asked. “We’ve checked all over campus. We’ve checked his favourite cafes, we checked the library.”

“Maybe he went home?” Scorpius suggested, and was met with silence. “I mean, his parent’s home.”

“No, he wouldn’t have done that,” Yann replied, calmly. “He must be at his apartment, we just don’t know where that is.”

There was another silence, before Scorpius spoke, “And you’re sure you never walked home with him? He never mentioned where he was staying?”

“I’ve never been to his apartment. I never even saw the building,” Karl responded, a weight in his words that Albus couldn’t place.

They went quiet again, so Albus stepped out of the wings and put his bag down. Karl, Yann, and Scorpius were standing onstage, while Craig was at the lighting booth loudly talking to someone on the phone. They all stopped and looked at him and Craig said, “Uhh, he’s just arrived. Yeah, no, he literally just walked in… Rose! I’m not going to say that -”

“Where the hell have you been?” Karl snapped.

Albus flinched. Karl never raised his voice. “Is this everyone?”

Craig, who had come down from the lighting booth and joined them onstage, crossed his arms and said, “Rose canceled rehearsal. She’s out looking for you with Astoria.”

“We don’t need them to block the scene. Yann knows what they’re doing.”

Yann put their hands on their hips and frowned. “We should wait until they get back and then decide what to do.”

“We don’t have the time. We open in two weeks, your show opens next week,” He explained, already taking his coat off and eyeing the rapiers. “We should get this over with.”

Albus tossed his coat aside and stared at Yann, who stared back. He knew they wouldn’t be able to argue with his reasoning. Yann was spread thin. Between uni work and his job and choreographing two shows, it was almost impossible to find the time to work on Hamlet’s blocking. Yann raised an eyebrow and Albus inclined his head, trying to communicate that he was fine and that he just wanted to get this over with.

“Alright. We’ll do it,” they relented. But before Albus could say anything, Yann leaned in and added, “But we need to talk afterwards, okay?”

He nodded. He’d expected this. “Fine.”

With that, Yann cleared his throat and addressed everyone, “We’ll do 5.1 first and ease into 5.2. Hopefully by the time we’ve started 5.2, Astoria and Rose will be back.” He looked over at Craig, who glanced up from his phone and shrugged. “Or not. We’ll see.”

They hadn’t covered much of 5.1 yet in rehearsals. It was a handful of scenes that took place in the graveyard, as Hamlet returned from England and Ophelia was buried. Laertes, distraught with grief and anger at his sister’s lack of burial rights, leaped into her grave so that he might hold her one last time. And Hamlet, seeing this, made himself known and declared that his love was stronger than his. They fought over her body and Laertes had to be dragged off Hamlet before he murdered him on sight for his father’s death.

It was an intense scene that Albus had been dreading for a while. Yann had only come in once before to look at the blocking for it, hoping to cover it a lot more thoroughly at the fight call. Without Polly to stand in for Ophelia’s body, Craig offered to take her place, and Albus watched in silence as he climbed into the grave. He could feel everyone looking at him, but he still refused to make eye contact. He just wanted to focus on the play. I loved Ophelia, he recited, in his head. Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum...

“Hold off the earth a while,” he heard Karl speak, and finally glanced up at him, where he stood staring down into the grave. He hadn’t realised Yann had started the scene, he was so wrapped up in his thoughts. “Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.” He wiped a sleeve over his eyes and climbed into the grave, gathering Craig into his arms and holding him to his chest, before glaring up at Yann and Scorpius. His eyes were full of tears, but his mouth was set with determination.

“Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, till of this flat a mountain you have made,” Karl continued, breathing ragged sobs into Craig’s green beanie. “To o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head of blue Olympus!”

“What is he who’s grief bears such an emphasis?” Albus asked, approaching the grave just as Karl looked up at him with fury. “Whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane.”

Albus climbed into the grave and Karl was immediately upon him, his hand on his throat as the other clutched Craig ever closer. “The devil take thy soul!” He growled.

“Thou pray’st not well -” Albus struggled under his grasp, snatching at his arms and chest as he feigned an attempt to force him off. But Karl was vicious in his hold on Hamlet, glaring at him with a fire in his eyes that shocked Albus to his core. “I prithee take thy fingers from my throat! For, though I am not splenitive and - and rash, yet I -” He stumbled over the words, and Karl’s grasp weakened. Albus took advantage of the momentary lapse and tried to shove him away, but Karl was relentless. “I have in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear! Hold off thy hand!”

“Pluck them asunder!” Yann read for the King, as he and Scorpius dragged Karl out of the grave. He kicked and howled as Albus glared up at him, holding Craig to his chest.

“Good, my lord, be quiet,” Scorpius hissed at him as Horatio.

“Why, I will fight with him upon this theme, until my eyelids no longer wag!” He gasped, shifting his hold on Craig, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face into his shoulder with a barely suppressed sob. He waited for the Queen’s line, or for Yann to call the end of the scene, but they never did, so he continued, “I loved Ophelia! Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum!”

He glanced up and only saw Karl’s expression of growing concern, and it made him furious. So he set Craig down against the wall of the grave and stood up, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper. He was going off script, ignoring lines and the horrified looks of Yann and Scorpius, but he had to get it out. “What wilt thou do for her? Hmm?” Karl blinked and looked away, which only antagonized Hamlet even more. “‘Swounds, show me what thou’t do! Would weep? Would fight? Would fast? Would tear thyself? I’ll do it! Dost thou come to whine? To outface me by leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I!”

“Albus!” Yann shouted, and Albus flinched as he looked over at them. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry,” he said, taking a step back and looking down at his feet. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel sweat dripping down his neck. “I got carried away.”

Somewhere above him, Yann sighed and flicked back through their notes. “It’s fine. But our stopping point for tonight's rehearsal is Horatio’s line - ‘Good, my lord, be quiet.’ And Hamlet climbs out of the grave on the Queen’s line - ‘This is mere madness.’ We can do a full run through of the scene once Astoria and Rose get back, if you want.”

Albus nodded and sat down on the edge of the grave. Craig stood up and joined him and, if he saw the way that his hands were shaking and his bottom lip was trembling, he didn’t say anything about it.

Yann tapped his pen against his chin and stared down into the grave. “I’m just not sure about the way Hamlet is jumping in after Laertes. It doesn’t feel natural,” he mused.

Craig cleared his throat and raised a hand. “I know I’m supposed to be dead, but…” Albus chuckled at that, in spite of himself, although the sound was hollow. “Could Laertes pull Hamlet into the grave? Rather than jumping in after him?”

Yann considered, for a moment. But then their phone went off and they sighed. “Can we take five? Erin is calling me.”

As Yann took the call, Albus waited for a comment from Karl about Erin - the director of the musical Yann was working on, and the “villain who kept stealing their choreographer” - but it never came. He glanced over and watched as Scorpius and Karl spoke to each other in hushed tones, near the front of the stage. He knew they were talking about him, from the way they kept stealing glances at him. Something about the sight of it made his heart clench in his chest - made him want to get up and leave again.

But then Craig suddenly rested his head on Albus’s shoulder, distracting him from Karl and Scorpius’s secret conversation. “I don’t know how you actors do it,” he said, with a yawn. “It’s very exhausting, being dead.”

Albus gave him a weak smile. “I’m still not an actor,” he replied, aware of the irony considering his outburst just moments ago. “Say the word and I’ll come running back to the design department.”

“I wish you would. It’s lonely up in the rigs and the lighting desk without you.” He paused and rested his chin on Albus’s shoulder, staring up at him with those dark eyes. “Where did you go last night? We were worried about you.”

catch the irony of Craig's role in this scene :')

[just-call-me-johnny-archive]

Johnny Goes Down to See the Devil

TW: Suicide mention, canon-typical mentions of violence

It won’t take that long. He’s been well versed in how to thoroughly off himself when it comes down to it for quite a while now. The tricky part is not leaving a mess. After all, he only has an hour at the latest. Johnny was very careful to pick a time where both Dwight and Leera are preoccupied with clients. Additionally, he also found an isolated area to complete the act, giving himself a better chance of coming back without issue.

When the Devil saw Johnny, he immediately suspected some sort of melodrama was afoot. It was never something casual with the ill-tempered wastelock.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Johnny?” Señor Diablo was sitting at his desk, skeletal fingers crossed together as he peered down at the (questionable) human sitting across from him.

“Save it for another time, Señor Diablo; I have a favor to ask of you.” Johnny didn’t have any time to waste; he either had now or much much later. This couldn’t wait.

“Oh? Finally paying attention to the time limit are we? Go on; I’m sure it’ll be riveting.” The being flicks its fingers in a dismissive manner.

“I need a spaceship,” the smaller requests, his expression tense and serious, much to the Devil’s surprise.

Señor Diablo laughs for a moment and it fills the room, until he realizes that Johnny has one of those looks again. He knew that one well; it was the same one he gave him when he asked about his now partner…

“Oh, you’re serious. Why would you be asking me for such a thing when you have not only a partner who has access to many of them, but also are family members with a Queen and an Admiral and a Chancellor?” He gives Johnny a look, “Unless… ah- of course, you’re not wanting them to know. I see.”

“So,” Johnny huffs, hating how haughty the Devil can be. Stupid Ruler of Hell being such a self-absorbed prick.

“So? So, what’s in it for me,” Señor Diablo asks, a paper appearing on his desk along with a fountain pen.

Johnny scoffs, “ I asked for a favor, not a contract.”

“Then, you don’t get a spaceship.” The Devil sits back in his chair and checks his clock, “I have a lunch in ten minutes.”

“But you said you just came back from lunch…”

“I get hungry. Besides, I’m the Devil; I can take as many lunches as I please.”

“Whatever,” Johnny sighs roughly and thinks about it for all of five seconds before he acquiesces. “Fine! Fine. What could you possibly want from me?”

Señor Diablo glowers at the man for a moment before brandishing the pen again. An ominous sound arises from the paper as he writes. Smoke billows as if the utensil was on fire. “Your first born.”

The gray-haired human’s eyes widen and he starts to sweat a little. Wasn’t Chance technically his first born? Fuck! He could not and would not give Señor Diablo his son. Why couldn’t the bastard want something simpler like an eye or his use of the letter ‘s’?

“No, not really. I just wanted to see how you’d react.” Señor Diablo burns the paper into a crisp before he makes another one. “That’s a good question. What can you offer me, Johnny Denivar?”

“My soul?” Johnny shrugs.

“We’ve already gone over this; I cannot have you. You belong to something else. Next.”

“Dwight’s soul.”

“Again, you cannot sell me someone else’s soul… without their consent. Next- and this time- think carefully.”

Johnny ponders as the seconds tick by; he begins to worry about how long he’s been down here even if Señor Diablo was tracking time and would send him back after the usual fifteen minutes.

“How about… you can bother me and ask a favor of me whenever you want, no matter how bad the timing- er- minus-”

“Yeah, no, no worries. I wouldn’t even dream of it,” the Devil says quickly, cutting Johnny off. “And I suppose it would be rather convenient to give you a taste of your own medicine. Sometimes, I do need someone to help me with errands.”

“And now it’s my turn to ask, what errands could you possibly have where you, the Devil, cannot complete them?”

Señor Diablo shrugs his massive shoulders, “Oh nothing all that egregious. Sometimes, I just like to spend time with my family instead of running around.”

The man gives the Devil a look that conveys no small amount of disbelief.

“Oh now, are you the only one who is allowed to have a strong relationship with their son?”

“Fair point. Now, do we have a deal? I do your errands whenever you need me to and in return you get me an untraceable spaceship that’s in working order?” Johnny narrows his eyes; he should know better than to make a deal with the Devil, but he’s run out of all other options here. He needs to end this.

“We have a deal,” Señor Diablo writes again, that same moaning, groaning noise echoing as the pen scratches across the rough paper. “Now- sign your name in blood here.” He hands the pen over to Johnny, point first. The simple fountain pen has transformed into a red-feathered quill.

Johnny takes the pen and positions it towards his wrist when Señor Diablo curses and snatches the pen back. “Fucking Hell; I was joking. That’s disgusting. Just sign your name.”

The human rolls his eyes and scribbles down a signature that looks vaguely like his name before the contract rolls itself up with a ribbon and goes back over to Señor Diablo. The being takes it into his hand and tucks it into some unseen pocket.

“It is done.” He looks back up at Johnny. “Now, you don’t have to answer, necessarily, and after all I could just tap your brain to figure it out myself-”

“Just spit it out,” Johnny snaps, tired of the Devil’s games, especially ones where the fucker threatens to read his thoughts.

“Why do you need a secret spaceship? What are you trying to accomplish?”

“And what are you trying to accomplish by getting an answer?”

“Just mere curiosity.”

After a moment, Johnny speaks again. “I’m trying to get to Edgar. Tenn gave me the coordinates that he’s traveling to to find the Exper- er- to find me. If I travel to each one, I have a more likely chance of finally finding him and ending this all once and for all.”

“Fascinating… and you really believe that you’ll just- find him that easily on one of those dozen planets? And when you do find him, what do you plan on doing exactly? Will you fight him? How? What if he has reinforcements? What then? Do you ever really think about your plans, Johnny?”

Johnny’s face grows red, embarrassment coursing through him. The Devil had a point. He had thought those same questions ad nauseum and it all came down to a childish pout of an answer of ‘so what’. He’d kick Edgar’s ass, kill him, and then head home. Happily Ever After. The end.

Except it won’t be so simple. It never has been. Sure, he hadn’t been nearly as skilled as he is now when he first tried to kill Edgar with that straight razor. He thought he’d been clever when he captured Edgar the second time and ripped him to pieces, acting all the while like he never knew the man. He killed him successfully that time, but even then he knew that it had done nothing. Even said so himself in his clouded state.

“I’ll take care of all that. I know what I’m doing.” Johnny grumbles in response. “Speaking of which - one more thing about that spaceship…”

“And what is that?”

“How the hell am I going to get it?”

“Don’t worry about that- I’ll take care of it. I’ve got my ways. I also know what I’m doing.” There’s a mean spark in the creature’s eyes as he parrots back almost exactly what Johnny had stated.

The smaller man’s teeth grit and he has to stop himself from launching himself onto Señor Diablo and finding out if one can kill the Devil.

“Fine,” he hisses. “Just make it quick. I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“As you wish. Now, I believe our time is up,” Señor Diablo announces, the clock chiming as he rises from his desk. “Until next time, Mr. Denivar.”

“Make it quick,” Johnny echoes as the black spots in his vision begin to grow. A moment later he’s waking up in an empty room back on the ship. He takes a look around to make sure that nobody had been in or out, before cleaning up after himself and rejoining his partners after their meeting.

All the while, a new spaceship waits in the hangar, ready to ride.

[screensirenfic]

Menthol Cigarettes - Chapter 42 Warnings: Rape/Non-con

My dad’s penknife.

The very same one I tried to use against Billy on that Halloween night all those months ago. The very same one I’d been convinced I’d lost in the chaos of Tina’s party.

Normally; I would’ve found the idea of him keeping it sweet, if not a little edgy; the exact kind of dark tongue and cheek humour I’d come to expect from Billy.

But now I was tied down on Billy’s bed, him holding that knife with that cold look in his eye; I honestly felt like I was moments away from death.

My mind flashed to all those stories you’d hear about serial killers. How even their wives wouldn’t know how perverted they truly were; always convinced they were the “perfect husband”, right up until the point they were found carved up in their own basement.

I felt like one of those wives now; foolish and too trusting that just because Billy said he loved me, that that meant he could never hurt me.

He flicked the blade up; a wild glint in his eyes and a wide smile the last thing I see before I closed my eyes tight, silently praying to whatever god was listening that this wasn’t how I’d go.

I felt the blade touch my skin; cold, but not as cold as Billy had been as he pressed it lightly against my sternum; the sharp edge enough to draw blood there.

I held my breath, knowing the more I struggled; the messier it would be and the longer it would take me to bleed out.

I’d take a quick clean death over a long painful one any day.

Still; Billy didn’t slice into my skin. Instead, a sharp, tearing sound permeated through the air; a sudden sense of exposure coming over my chest.

I opened my eyes to see Billy slicing through my t-shirt, literally cutting it from my body with little regard for the cuts and knicks he left along the way.

The air felt weird on my skin; strangely warm in comparison to the icy press of Billy’s body, but I didn’t have time to revel in it; Billy’s knife slipping up between the centre of my bra and my skin, sawing through the wire until it snapped entirely.

I was shaking now; half naked and entirely terrified as he knelt over me, still brandishing that knife in his hand as my blood dried on the blade.

“Absolutely perfect...” Billy muttered to himself, staring down at my body like it was some kinda hunting display, and not his girlfriend tied up and bleeding beneath him.

To my great relief; he put the knife down on top of the nightstand, dismounting me to get off the bed and take of his clothes.

I watched as turned his back to me, slowly unbuttoning his shirt as he began to undress.

Maybe I should scream for help; the girls could probably hear me over the music, but that might put them in danger, and I couldn’t live with myself if he hurt them.

Instead, my gaze returned to the penknife; so near yet so far on the nightstand.

Billy was still undressing; buttons undone as he pulled his clean white shirt off his broad shoulders.

He wasn’t looking at me, but all it would take was for him to turn around, and that would be it.

Still; I had to try

I strained against the belt, pulling and pulling until I could reach the nightstand, but not quite far enough to grab the knife.

My fingers bent and flexed uselessly as they brushed against the plastic, only succeeding in spinning it round uselessly in circles.

“You’re not trying to run away from me; are you?”

I froze to the spot, catching sight of Billy smirking darkly into the mirror and suddenly realising he could see me in it.

“Because, if you were; that would end very badly for you.”

His voice dropped an octave as he prowled back over to me, popping the button on his jeans and unzipping them, before climbing onto the bed.

I strained for the knife in a last ditch attempt to escape, already knowing I’d failed miserably, but still not having the heart to give up just yet.

“Ah, ah, ah...” Billy taunted, snatching the knife away from me and holding it out of my reach.

“Can’t let you hurt yourself.” He smiled, pulling open the nightstand drawer and tossing the knife inside, knowing full well I’d never be able to reach it.

I let out a frustrated cry; thoroughly out of ideas as he continued to grin down at me like this was some sort of kinky sex game.

I could feel the first tears fall down my cheek; all thoughts of staying strong abandoned under the realisation that this was really happening. My boyfriend was actually going to do this to me.

“Shhh...” Billy cooed; the sound near soul destroying as he reached down to wipe a tear away with a bloodstained thumb.

“This will all be a lot easier if you keep very still.” He whispered, leaning in close to kiss away the smear his thumb had left on my cheek.

I turned away from him, not wanting his kisses if he treated me like this, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Billy slowly made his way down my body, kissing cold wet trails as he went in a sick parody of the first time we had sex together; the icy feeling of his tongue darting out from his lips making me twist and squirm against him.

When he eventually reached my waist; he had the cruelty to look up at me, flashing me a smile as he began to pull my shorts off of me, taking my underwear with them.

I tried my best to stop him, already well aware of what he was planning to do to me, but was unable to put up much of a fight with my hands bound above my head.

Billy took no notice, already pressing firmly on my thighs so I was spread eagle for him; now completely bare beneath the boy I previously had thought loved me.

“Beautiful...” He said, but I felt far from it.

I felt violated and scared and betrayed; and I just didn’t want to be here.

I didn’t want this to happen; not with him, not like this.

I wanted to beg. I wanted to scream. I wanted to do anything to just make him stop; because this wasn’t funny, and why was he doing this to me?!

I couldn’t help but sob; so thoroughly terrified of what came next as tears began to openly pour down my face.

“Shhh. Shhhh...” Billy continued to coo, rubbing soft circles on my thighs that I attempted to pull away from, unwilling to find any comfort in his touch.

“It’ll all be over soon; I promise...”

He pulled his jeans down the rest of the way, and I closed my eyes, unwilling to witness my own defilement as he wrapped my legs high up around his waist.