#cv ficlet

[draculas-curse]

It's a peculiar thing, seeing what you aren't.

Trevor peers up at the portrait of his ancestor, a tall, richly coloured image, preserved with care and thorough protection. Haloed by its burnished frame, it casts a shadow beneath it where it doesn't quite sit flat against the wall, imposing and terribly long. The way the candlelight shines across it makes the portrait seem aglow; Trevor is spared no light, and the eye he looks upon it with is dark.

Is this what he's missing? Something so superficial? His ancestor is a man with a piercing gaze and hair spun with threaded gold, or at least the portrait says. He's handsome, objectively. He has fine, pale eyelashes and a perfectly rosy flush, with a strong nose and his lips set in a determined line. Even still, they're curved, free of true anger or malice; as if he's looking at an idol and not a man.

Isn't he?

What does Trevor have to compare with? Hollow cheeks, furrowed brows, a permanent and resting look of agitation, arrogance - a scar that splits one eye, leaving it glassy and white. His features are sharp and angry. He does not consider himself a vain man. On better days his appearance means nothing to him. If he was looking at himself just to see, and not comparing two pictures in his mind, then he wouldn't have cared less what he found.

A portrait cannot be accurate, surely. There must be some exaggeration. No human is as perfectly noble as Leon Belmont seems to be, judging him from beyond the grave with eyes like shattered ice. Trevor glares back at him, but finds himself feeling small. He's been feeling small more and more often.

Trevor's lips press together, and despite himself, he averts his eyes, staring down at the carpet beneath his feet. He feels the ghost of his ancestor considering him still, and finding him lacking.

Self-disgust crashes over Trevor like a wave, nausea crawling up his throat. Reduced to staring contests with dead men, and falling further yet to lose them - he is a joke. He is an embarrassment. What kind of vampire hunter could be such a fool? So petty? What kind of wretch is he, to tarnish the legacy of Leon Belmont in such a way as he does?

It is not truly the difference in their looks that brings him so low, something so dull and meaningless - though next to the lordly remnant of his great predecessor, Trevor looks scrappy and starved. It's not that at all. If only it was, for envy alone would be simple and easy; but there is some envy that burns in Trevor's iris, coloured terribly sour green.

Instead, Trevor thinks of how he can no longer stand to bear even the tentative embrace of his wife, how the mere thought of someone at his back now wracks him with invisible tremors, and knows exactly where his indignity lies, where the phantom sensations of his humiliation run their fingers against him in gleeful triumph.

The Vampire Killer once adored this man beyond anything. Trevor glances up again, through his eyelashes, like a child. Does the whip carry the thoughts that Leon Belmont must have? Will its disappointment sting him, spitting at his grip with fire? He has not dared to touch the whip since then, for he is unworthy and pathetic. When he continues to find himself at the mercy of this portrait, his ancestor's holy spirit, is it forgiveness he seeks, or retribution, inflicted upon him as willing?

He comes here because the whip cannot speak to him, and he cannot treat himself with grace he doesn't deserve. Does he hope his ancestor is a better man?

How stupid of him. Even if Leon Belmont was once as graceful as his semblance now suggests, no ghost would deign to speak with him, a disgrace who should better be among them than beyond.

[yourlocalswan]

scale of 1-10 how easy is it to make some $$ writing freelance smut on this hellsite

[rebelbyrdie]

2024 Ficlet Day

Ficlet...I Lost Track.

No Good Deed

(Goes Unpunished)

Part I

Henry Mills was many things: an upcoming college senior, a prince, The Auther, and another handful of things. He was also miserable. He had made a huge mistake.

Doing a summer program in Greece with his college had sounded like na good idea at the time. His Mom thought it would expand his horizons and look good on his CV. His Ma thought he could get some “real world” experience outside of Storybrooke. His grandparents thought he was on a grad adventure.

They were all wrong. His stupid 20-years-old brain and his even stupider dick had come all the way to Greece for a girl. He’d had this whole Indiana Jones-The Mummy scenario in his head. Going to be the language expert of an archeological dig would be romantic, exciting, and he would whisk Madison Sullivan off her feet.

They had met in Mythology class, where his English major and her Anthropology major mingled. She was long dark hair, brillant blue eyes, a smile that could kill a man, and she was smart. Like MENSA smart. Best of all? She wasn’t a fairytale or somehow related to him. She ticked all his boxes.

So when Madison had told everyone about the trip she was going on, Henry had stupidly told her that he could read anchient Greek. Which wasn’t a lie, exactly. One of his Author powers was that he could read any written language. Compared to fire balls it wasn’t that great of a super power, but he’d thought it would impress Madison. It had. It had impressed her so much that she was able to talk her professor into offering a place on the trip.

The trip that was sucking the life out of him. First off, Greece was hot. So freaking hot. He was so hot and sweaty that he couldn’t even tell he was sweating anymore. He was from Maine. He was a cozy sweater and jeans boy. Also archeology was not exciting, romantic or fun. It was boring, dirty, and just when he thought it couldn’t get more boring, it did.

The worst part of the trip? Madison was only interested in his Greek. She had a boyfriend who was getting his MBA, had perfect hair and a yacht.

Henry hated boats, dudes who owned them, and he really really hated Mason Vandermark III. Mama Mia was BS. Greece sucked.

Henry spent most of his days in a stuffy room going through digital photos and scans of old scrolls, tablets and scraps of paper. He also had several books about translation, Ancient Greece and other things that he didn’t need. He could read ancient greek as easily as he could English. It just sort of came to him. Which was hard to explain to anyone outside of Storybrooke. He couldn’t speak Greek to save his life, but he churned out perfect translations all day long. All the professors thought he was a genius.

Henry banged his head on the flimsy desk he’d been assigned to. He still had a month of this personal hell to survive. Which was saying something as he had been to actual Hell.

Henry sighed. Miserable or not, he had work to do. He was getting twelve credit hours for all this, after all. So he pulled out the next folder.

It had pictures from one of the many scrolls found on the dig. This literature, history and archeology goldmine had been extremely boring so far. Lots of reports on crops, weather and copper. This new one, though, had been found in a previously unexplored cave. He hoped it was something interesting.

He took a drink of Coca Cola (which tasted different then it did at home), wished it was Ouzou (which he could legally buy and drink here), and got to work

He examined the high rez photos carefully. The faded ink letters floated, blurred and rearranged themselves right before his eyes. Author magic at work.

//Between the peaks of Olympus and the Depths of Tartarus lies Earth. It is home to man, beast, and all things in between. The lives of the Gods are endless. The lives of mortals are brutally short. Those that are between live long, see much, and try to keep the balance between gods and men.//

Finally! It wasn’t a report about wheat, taxes or the number of goats on some farm or another. He felt a tingling in his chest. Excitement. He hadn’t felt anything like this since he was a kid with a big book a fairy tales that had changed his life.

He took another drink of coke. Man, he really was bored if he was comparing what was probably a re-telling of some myth to the fairytale that was his life.

Henry stretched his back, cracked his neck,polished off his drink, and got to work.

//The Queen was dead. Some said it had been a plauge, others a fever, and still others said that she had displeased the Gods themselves.

It didn’t matter why or how, she was dead and the King needed a new wife.

This is not the King’s story. This is the story of a woman who did not want to be queen. Regina-//

Henry squinted at the word. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Was he super homesick? Was his Author brain finally stroking out? Nah. Regina was Latin for Queen, after all. It was a coincidence. A kind of freaky coincidence. His mom would laugh.

//Regina was blessed by Hera with great beauty. She was blessed by Athena with wisdom. Most importantly, she had the sort of kindness that can only reside in a human heart. When Regina saw a person on a runaway horse gallop by, she did not hesitate. As if possessed by Artemis herself, she rode to the distressed rider.

Regina rescued the rider and horse. She did not know it, but this good deed had sealed her fate.

The child was a princess, born of a king. King Leon of Seriphus, the most powerful king in the land. The king was grateful that his daughter was safe. More than that he was struck by Regina's beauty. He desired her, and would have her.

Regina's father was reluctant. Regina’s mother was overjoyed. When the King came to claim his new bride, Cora offered her only child like a lamb to slaughter.

Only Regina was not a lamb and she did not want to marry a man three times her age. She was already in love with a simple stably boy that worked for her family.//

Oh no. No no no no no. No! He had traveled half-way around the world to escape fairy tales! This couldn’t be happening. Literally. This was the land without magic. This was mythology, sure, but this land’s mythology. The land (mostly) without magic. There was no way this was real. Henry slapped himself across the face, hard. Then he turned the other cheek and did it again. Nothing changed. The words, magically translated by his stupid author powers, mocked him, his life, and his entire family history.

The next bit was the lost nail in the proverbial coffin.

//Her mother Cora-//

Well, this was happening. There was no denying it now. Was it healthy that his first reaction was to call one or both or his mothers or his childhood therapist? Probably not. He was an adult, he could handle this. He really needed that ouzou!

//-was vindictive, controlling and favored by Hecate. She practiced dark and potent magicks. She wanted Regina to be queen and nothing would stop her. Faced with a powerful king and her mother’s magic, Regina tried to flee. She sneaked out of the King’s grand palace and to the docks. She’d paid a hook-handed sailor with all the gold and jewels she could get her hands on for passage to a far-away island. She arrived in the middle of a moonless night and waited.

Regina wanted a simple life on a beach with someone who loved her. A brave, kind and smart person that could make her laugh. Someone who would wipe her tears. Someone that could brighten her day with a smile. She longed for the sort of love inspired by the muses themselves.

They would have a little house and perhaps she could try her hand at breeding and training horses. They would have children. She would be a wife and a mother, not a queen. She would miss her father, but knew that secretly, he would be glad she was happy and free. As for her mother, well-

A sharp crack, like a whip, was all the warning Regina had. Ropes from nearby ships wrapped around her, tying her tight. She fought against her bindings, but it was no use. Regina was lifted off of the dock and into the air.

“I thought we were done with all this nonsense.” Cora walked out of the night, as if born of Nyx herself.

“Mother!” Regina twisted, kicked her legs and struggled in the air. “What evil have you conjured?”

Cora stepped closer, her face stretched by a cruel smile. “Not evil, darling. Just a spell to stop you from making a horrible mistake. To keep you where you belong.” She looked up at Regina. “In two days you’ll be married. You’ll be a queen!”

Tears streamed down Regina’s cheeks. “Mama! I don’t want to marry the king! I don’t want this life!”

She wanted her simple life with love and happiness.

Cora chuckled, as if everything Regina said was a great joke. “You’re just frightened of having all that power.”

Regina continued to struggle. “I don’t want power. You want power! I’m nothing like you! You-you-you slitherg snake! You’re nothing but a venomous viper in the grass! I will never be like you! I would rather die!”

Her words were a slap to the face and Cora was furious.

“A snake? A viper? You ungrateful child! All the sacrifices and deals I’ve made to bring our family up from the dirt and this is how you thank me?”

Cross and corrupt to her core, Cora cast a curse

Regina writhed in pain. She twisted in the air. Her skin burned and froze, her bones snapped and reformed. She screamed until her voice went hoarse and broke.

[polikszena]

Ficlet advent calendar - December 8

Title: You’re a mean one, Mr Hands

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death, The Full Monty

Characters: Lucius Spriggs, Stede Bonnet, Edward Teach (Blackbeard), Black Pete, Izzy Hands, Wee John Feeney

Relationships: Lucius / Black Pete

Word Count: 899

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Warnings: Stronger language

Songs: You’re a Mean One, Mr Grinch; Last Christmas by Wham!

Summary: This is another installment of my Our Flag Means Death - The Full Monty AU in which the Revenge's crew are unemployed steel factory workers who decide to put together a chippendale show. In this chapter, they are preparing for a Christmas show, but not everyone is happy about it. All of it told by Lucius Spriggs himself.

Notes: This chapter is related to a one-shot I wrote in April , and since I enjoyed writing it a lot, I knew I would get back to it sometime. Also, I love the dynamics between Lucius and Izzy, but I don't ship them romantically.

And this one sets in the late 1990s, so way before Backstreet Boys did actually release a cover of Last Christmas. (Apologies to everyone who loves that song, by the way.)

December 8 – You’re a mean one, Mr Hands

Lucius Spriggs’ diary – Thursday

Fun day at the (Blow)Job Club! We were planning our Christmas show, The Naked Santas (we might need another title as this one is way too revealing), and I can tell, it’s going to be absolutely gorgeous! Although there are still some arguments whether the Santa costumes should be all red or have different colours. Stede wants to keep it colourful, but Edward wants to keep them red. They tried to make the others vote, but it doesn’t really matter as all the clothes will be taken off. I just hope they will be made of some nice fabrics, because the Santa costumes you can buy in Tesco, for instance, are one: ugly as hell, and two: I have allergic reactions when they touch my skin. Trust me, it's not a nice sight.

All in all, the Christmas show is going to be a blast. Too bad we’ll probably have to dance to Last Christmas, which is so boring, but we can’t really skip it as it’s a classic. I hope Frenchie can mix it up a little, but honestly, it won’t help much. I mean, what can you do with a song that goes like “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart, / but the very next day you gave it away”? Ugh. The only good thing about this song is that postcard that starts playing it once you open it. I sent one to Jerky Jeremy two years ago after our breakup. Such a shame that I couldn’t see his face when he opened the card!

Anyway, we were listening to Frenchie’s mixtape, when our personal Grinch turned away from the computer (on which he was adjusting his CV) and started a long monologue about how stupid Christmas was and how pointless was taking our clothes off to cheesy Christmas music. I’m kind of glad that it happened when Stede and Edward were out to check the venue and didn’t hear it.

“You’ve never been taken to a sleigh ride, and it shows,” I told him, walking to his chair. “But it’s never too late for one,” I offered, because it’s obvious how badly this guy needs to blow off some steam. Otherwise he’ll explode and we’ll all be covered by Izzy Hands’ organs which would be more disgusting than Backstreet Boys doing a cover of Last Christmas. I mean, they are cute, but this would make an already horrible song even worse.

“I’d rather be run over by the bin lorry,” Izzy said, looking at me as if I was some chewing gum he accidentally stepped into on his way home. Or as if I was responsible for the existence of Last Christmas.

“We can arrange that,” Wee John said, looking up from the ‘Puzzles for Kids’ section of the newspaper.

I had an even better idea.

“Frenchie, please rewind the tape to the previous song,” I told him. “I want to try something.”

While he was doing that, I made some head circles and hip moves to warm up a little, and once Frenchie pressed play on his cassette player, I started dancing. I did a performance just for Mr Hands to the song You’re a Mean One, Mr Grinch, but of course, changed “Grinch” to “Hands” as I lip-synced to it. I didn’t take off any clothes (yet), as the things I’m currently wearing are not exactly stripper friendly. Not to mention, the floor was hella dirty and full of germs. No way I’m throwing my white knitted sweater there. But I pretended to take off everything. All eyes were on me, and I absolutely loved it.

Of course, before I got to the part where I’d do a little lap dance, Dizzy Izzy knocked the chair over, told me to eff myself, then ran out of the room. He almost crashed into Stede and Edward who had just came back.

“Where are you going?” the latter asked.

“That was wonderful, Lucius!” Stede exclaimed. “We should add it to the show, don’t you think?” he asked, looking around the room.

The others all agreed with him, so I can proudly announce that I got my solo number! I still have to work out the lap dance parts, but I guess I’ll ask for some help.

“Look at this nice plant I’ve found hanging down from the ceiling on the corridor!” Edward said, pointing at the mistletoe pinned to his coat. “So cool, isn’t it?”

Honestly, someone should explain to this man how Christmas traditions work because this is an outrage. Especially because we put up that bloody mistletoe for him and Stede to finally kiss, and what does this moron do? Pins it on his coat! I swear to God, this is unacceptable!

However, before I could have said anything about it, Black Pete stepped to me.

“That was so hot,” he told me with a smile forming at the corner of his lips, “that I want to kiss you and I don’t care who sees it.”

I couldn’t hide my grin anymore. I kind of knew this was coming.

“Please do,” I said, and he didn’t have to be asked twice.

Needless to say, we spent the rest of the day in the cupboard in the back of the room.

TO DO:

Finish my solo number

(Ask Pete to be the test audience)

Explain to Edward what mistletoes are for

Read it on AO3

[its-all-ineffable]

Sandman Advent Calendar

Hi everyone.

I have some sad news. Some of you will know, but for a while (since 2016), every Christmas I have written a fanfiction.

I pick a fandom and then I write 25 Christmas themed one shots, and post one per day on AO3 from December 1st until Christmas Day. I call these advent calendars, and for the past couple of years I've got people on here to choose which fandom I'll do the fic for.

This year The Sandman won the vote, and I was thrilled, and began writing immediately.

However...this year I started the final year of my Bachelor's degree at University, and I have also been applying to do a Masters degree afterwards as well. The workload for my final year is extremely heavy, heavier than I thought it would be, and on top of it I am trying to complete a Masters application and make a CV for applying for a new job.

I also have no passion for writing for The Sandman anymore. The only fandom I'm feeling a passion to write for atm is the new Interview with the Vampire show, and I haven't got much time to write ANY fic for ANY fandom right now.

So I'm sorry to say that I will not be doing an advent calendar fanfiction this year. I am very sorry to all potential readers and voters, but I hope you can understand my reasons. Uni work is more important, and also, if you don't feel passion for what you're writing, it won't be very good.

I have written six chapters of it, so if you would like those posted as six little ficlets on Tumblr, then I'll happily do that. Let me know in the notes or in a DM.

Once again I can only say how sorry I am. I genuinely had passion and drive for this when I started, but I now have basically no time, and no passion for this particular fandom at the moment. I hope you can all understand, and know that I really am so sorry.

Thank you. x

^^^^^^(Accurate gif representation of me trying to juggle Uni work for 3 modules, a masters application, making a CV, a social life, caring for my grandparents, writing and finding passion for a Christmas fanfic and struggling with wanting to write fic ONLY for Interview with the Vampire)

[arcanepactguile]

KH Bonus - What are the Mun's hard limits for roleplaying kink scenarios? Are there things that your muse is interested in that you are not comfortable writing? How do you prefer to approach writing a kink scene from an OOC perspective?

Kinky HeadCanons

For everyone who doesn't know me, I do write a lot of kinks that aren't necessarily my OOC kink but there's some topics I won't write. A combination of kinks & themes for my characters I don't want to write because it's IMO OOC, and my own interests concerning plausibility, and written well.

Moral factors plays the main reason for other 'kinks' I don't consider kink, like Age Play.

In regards to SA in fiction, I have a lot of experience.

I have the upmost respect towards sexual assault and trauma. I had researched extensively trauma, PTSD, triggers, coping mechanisms, and all the rest in the past – because my prior RP hyperfixation was my Overwatch Junkrat (canon divergent, backstory rape victim)'s headcanons established 2016 to 2022 before Tumblr Purge occured.

My most popular asks/requests for that blog was dub / non con drabbles/ficlets, and Sinday events. Make of that what you will.

Unfortunately, before Junkrat and since, I sometimes attract the freak Muns who blur the boundaries and try to force my canon character to rape their character, because it's Hawt Alpha Male, or strangely they force a Mummy/Boy kink dynamic. No fandom was really spared, yet some were more popular.

I'm mentioning this because I see you, and you will get a hardblock, fuck off.

On another topic...

As a Furry, there's also the slippery slope business, which we collectively agree is dandy. Knots, sheaths, breeding, rut/heat, lactation/multiple nips, AUs, terato, monsterfucking. YMMV. There's no judgement.

Anyway...

I refuse to engage...

*Cest, Duplicates

Scat, Watersports, Vomit Play

CBT, Clamps & Weights

Piercings, Hooks, Needles, Inflation

Amputation, Castration

Human Furniture

Pet Play (cow/deer's 👍🏻)

Coffin/Cages, Mummification, Straitjackets, Gasmask

Sissification, Age Play, Cub, ABDL

Mpreg, ABO, Pregnancy, Hyper, AV & CV

Necrophilia, Wound fucking

I prefer writing sexual scenes if it's got a valid, in character purpose for development, objective, & plot.

Just because I have a kink that my partner has too, it doesn't necessarily mean we will use it for the hell of it. I'm not a fan of forcing kinks on characters.

There's also kinks that while my Alastor doesn't like, it doesn't mean I refuse to write it.

I want you to understand that it could be a trauma or a hard limit for my character, except I can & will write it if it's a believable scene or a plot device.

[indiavolojones]

cv, master of continuity.

[theheartchoice]

If It Was A Straight Mind You Had

dean/cas  |  teen  |  3k  |  canonverse s7  |  ao3 

for @profoundnet‘s bi-weekly Bot Stat challenge.  prompt issued: July 9th 2019 

Dean is working as intended. Cas does not understand that reference. Sam really wants noise cancelling headphones.

Sam's recovering from his Hell-wall being broken down. Cas is "God" (is dead). Dean's just taking each day as it comes - doesn't mean he's forgotten what came before, the bad and the better. 

Dean's been at it for weeks. Baby's never looked so good, honestly. Probably his best work to date. Too bad the reason why harshens the sun-glare off her windshield so much it hurts, tries to blind him. He's gotta turn away. 

Seems every time Baby gets beat to hell it's Hell itself that's been the cause: Demons T-boned her with a semi. Demons tossed her about like a leaf in a storm - and Cas may not have done the deed but he sure as hell was complicit in the crime. 

Not that there's any sense moanin' about it now; that Cas is gone. Million monsters ate him up from the inside out, so Dean can't even chew him out for it. Can't show him how good Baby looks right now either, despite everything that happened to her, everything Cas did. 

Can't fix what Cas broke between them just as easy. But any chance at that is gone now, too. 

And without the Impala to work on, what's he 'spose to do? Can't kill God, so-called. And not-Cas said he'd leave 'em alone if they did the same, so.. Hunting seems the thing to do, right? Get back on that horse and wrangle some bad guys. 

Except.. there's nothing to hunt. 

Godstiel - or whatever the hell they're calling that thing wearing Jimmy's face these days - snapped 'em all straight to Purgatory. Or they're in hiding, and ain't that a pip: Monsters of all kinds all over the States just as afraid as Sam and Dean and Bobby are of the mutant monster-mash claiming the vacancy of God for itself (themselves?). Now they've got nothin' to distract 'em while the new Big Boss makes its way through the continents one madcap miracle at a time. 

But Dean's not one for being idle, so there's really only one thing left to do. 

He'll start with the classics, obviously. Figure out which old girls could make the most of the parts already in the lot. Settle on a few models to switch between while he figures out what else needs to be tracked down, ordered and delivered. 

Maybe this is what he'll do now. Not just today, or next week, but for the foreseeable future (however not-so-far-off that shifty horizon may be). 

He'll do the work he can do. He'll fix cars, because cars can take new parts and borrowed parts, and they can be salvaged from the scrap heap. Put the time and skill into it and they can be restored to their former glory. Maybe something even better. 

Dean can't fix everything that's broke, everything of his that's been damaged, or everything he's had a hand in screwin' up somewhere down the line. 

But this he can do. 

So, until something else comes along - a case or a clue or a Cas-shaped confrontation - this is exactly what he's gonna do. 

   *  *  * 

  He's fine. 

Well, that might be stretching it. Sam's alive, at the very least. 

He's sleeping pretty well, which seems like nothing short of a miracle. Although, miracles are in strange supply these days. There are no dreams, no nightmares, no nothing - and he'll gladly take a dreamless sleep over one edged in Hellfire. Whatever Dean and Bobby did, whatever old or new magic they managed to cobble together for a cure, it seems to be doing the trick. 

First it was only an hour or so, here and there, staggered and tiring in its own right. Now it's six hours at least, every night like normal. Or some familiar concept of normal. Then again, maybe everything they consider 'normal' is due for re-evaluation, for God walks the earth. 

His memories from Hell aren't.. gone, exactly, but they're no longer eclipsing the rest of his mind. He can still feel them, nestled in his subconsciousness, but they're dormant. Inactive. A snapshot of a subreality filed away for review (not likely to happen any time soon) but which no longer draw power from his soul or torment his psyche - which is what had happened: fear and pain transmuting into a second power feed, which in turn strengthened the nature of the hallucinations, seizing control of Sam's reality. 

But, no more. Like he said, he's.. fine. 

It's not without conditions, understandably, because it's not so much a 'cure' as an ongoing treatment. The heady decoction - and he hesitates to call it a 'potion', though that does seem to be the most appropriate term - helping him along needs to be freshly brewed every seven days and drank on an empty stomach (a personal preference, considering what comes after - though sleep swiftly follows, which seems a small but notable blessing, or..). The ingredients don't seem anything special, so the magic ingredient must be in the.. well, in the magic. The incantation as well as the precise brewing process. 

As for everything else, he's relieved there's nothing to hunt, for right now. Sam's not sure he could handle it physically. Generally speaking, he feels queasy and light-headed much of the time - although that, too, has been easing. A little over a month and he can feel his body regaining strength as his mind regains control. It's slow-going, but it is going. 

There's one notable change, though: his senses. 

They fluctuate between intensified and impaired. Everything from vision and olfactory, to balance and pain reception, which one can imagine the affects on simple daily tasks. 

Of a morning, toothpaste is overwhelming, only to have Dean's three-alarm chilli be tasteless by nightfall. Bobby's staircase is a life-or-death hazard at breakfast, but the towers of books that line the halls and walls and interrupt every floorspace are all too-easy to navigate with his eyes closed by sundown. Proximity to the radiator could result in second-degree burns if he's not visually careful, caused by either reduced thermoception or nocioception. And time spent out in the elements can burn him all the same, with summer's UV rays having ten times the impact on his oversensitised skin, not to mention the sun practically blinding him on photophobic days. 

And Sam's never been one to sleep in the nude, but the rough fibres of all of his clothes are unbearable on allodynic nights (not that lying naked on those old flannel sheets is any better, but at least the material is only on one side of his body). 

Dean had noticed something was out of sorts after just a couple of days. That Sam's stumbling over familiar lumps in the carpeting, loss of balance from the kitchen to the couch, newfound aversion to dental care, sudden inability to read antique lettering, and his intermittent lack of working tastebuds and the contrasting hypergeusia, were all signs pointing towards a problem. 

Sam would've said something first, but Dean beat him to it (apparently, it was the four spoons of sugar in Sam's coffee that cemented it - sugar which turned out to be salt; not that Sam could taste either one, at the time). 

Two hours and a pair of maxed-out old credit cards later, they were geared up: a range of prescription and precision-tinted eyewear, triple-protective UVA, UVB and UVC sunglasses, Mongolian cashmere blankets and sweaters (he'd managed to talk Dean out of the onesie recommended on Amazon, just barely), organic bamboo lyocell bedding, an excessive amount of Tiger Balm, fragrance-free soaps, flavourless toothpaste, industrial quality earplugs, and noise-cancelling headphones - just to name a few. 

All with expedited shipping.

The headphones Dean had questioned the necessity of, what with the earplugs and Sam's regular old earbuds. But Sam insisted - not citing the full truth as to why he needed them, merely hoping his emphatic base reasoning would be persuasive enough: What if the foam of the earplugs doesn't conform to my ear canal, Dean? You know how they are. What if they fit but it's not enough to block out the ambient noise of the world? Sleep-deprivation isn't conducive to mental stability. Numerous studies have shown.. - at which point Dean conceded, if only to spare himself a scientific lecture, adding the Bose to their cart while surreptitiously sliding Sam's coffee mug out of reach. 

Of all the items in their online haul, Sam was looking forward to those headphones in particular. He was especially relieved when they arrived two days later - mere hours before an onset of hyperacusis, which happened to coincide with Dean taking some power tools to a beat-up old Mustang. 

Sam loves his brother. And as far as coping mechanisms go, rebuilding something sure beats destroying it. But when he can hear a bolt drop from a hundred yards away, it's only been thanks to some ingenious padding and a couple of sleeping pills that he was previously able to drown out the noise of Dean working out his frustrations on the Impala. 

He didn't tell Dean he could hear every sound as if it were right outside his door, for obvious reasons. With everything that happened with Cas, everything that's still happening, the last thing Dean needs is to turn to the bottle or the nearest bar. That's the last thing Sam wants for his brother. 

Fortunately, 'sensitive ear days', as Dean calls them, are few and far between compared to the rest - however unpredictable their onset may still be. Even so, despite everything, it's a comfort to know he'll be able to sleep past sunrise without a cacophony of sound parading through his ear canals from the other end of the scrapyard. 

   It's late, and Sam's exhausted.

Today was the first day without a hint of nausea from the potion, and the headaches accompanying his sensory fluctuations finally ceased completely after having eased off a couple of weeks back. His energy reserves are sitting at around seventy five percent, which is a huge improvement from the less than twenty percent he had when he first woke up after.. well, before his first dose of the potion, before it really started to work its magic. In any case, all the sensory yo-yo-ing takes its toll, so it's no wonder he needs no help falling asleep come nightfall. 

After a hyposmic morning and a mostly bearable hyperosmic day, there finally comes that everynight lull in the sensory rollercoaster as Sam readies himself for bed. The new bedding, sleep clothes - oh, and a memory foam mattress as well - are all precautionary measures; he still doesn't know what senses will go wild when, so he prepares for all eventualities: Tiger Balm and odour-filter mask sit alongside his charged pair of wireless Bose, all waiting to be called into action from the bedside table. Blackout curtains are fitted to all the windows, and incandescent lightbulbs fitted in every room of the house - on a dimmer, thanks to Dean's own handiwork. 

Not knowing if his eyes or ears will want to murder his phone for waking him, he foregoes the alarm and simply drinks the two glasses of water required to wake him naturally, a reasonable hour after sunrise. 

He has a system, and it works. With Dean and Bobby helping him through each day and with the potion slowly taking that need away as he regains his psychological and physical strength, if things keep advancing as well as they have been the end is in sight. 

Sam's half-beneath the covers when he decides it might be best to put the earplugs in now, since they'll save him from a potentially unpleasant wake-up call in the middle of the night from any number of worldly noises, when a high-pitch tone deafens him out of nowhere - ears popping with the sound, room spinning. 

Palms pressed tight to his ears and suddenly horizontal, he reaches for the Bose―when the tone cuts out as abruptly as it had cut in. The room stills. Just that one brief moment of chaos before everything settles and is.. fine, apparently? 

His hearing, however, isn't so quick to follow. The background noise of the world comes to him garbled, muted, like he's underwater. Maybe his eardrums have burst? But before he can think to panic about a possible non-temporary loss of hearing, the watered distortion thins and the sounds dry out. 

A cupboard door opening; softly closing. A sniffle, a swallow, a shift of clothing against the kitchen counter - a piece of cloth catching on that chip in the counter edge near the coffee-maker, a sigh.. Crap. He knows that sound, that sigh. Knows it so well his stomach drops down into the puddle of potion still working its way through his digestive tract. 

That's Dean. He can hear Dean - from two hallways down and away, through the sound-proofed door of his room. Those are definitely Dean's Timberlands on the linoleum downstairs. Except.. it doesn't hurt to hear it, which is new and intriguing and raising questions Sam's tired body doesn't want to investigate right now. He continues to lay still and listen instead. 

Dean's moving quietly, the kind of soft-stepping of someone who either doesn't want to disturb or doesn't want to be heard, but the sounds are crisp and obvious to Sam's heightened ear: out the back door, over the gravel, gnats throwing themselves against the zapper, Impala door barely whispering a creak as it opens (the rear left door, and maybe his chest swells with a small wave of pride at recognizing that) but Sam hears it loud and clear anyway. 

His hyperacusis has never been like this before. His sensory changes, until now, have been extreme nuisance, not improvement. But, somehow, this feels.. manageable. 

He doesn't need to block the input in any way; It's not painful or overwhelming. Sound is.. amplified, but not all-encompassing. And while he can hear the slow drip of the bathroom faucet in the upstairs bathroom and what his ear knows is Bobby shuffling around in his slippers, he finds he can narrow the focus of his ear just by trying, like an aural squint. 

The distinct impact of water droplets on porcelain fades along with the rubber soles of Bobby's well-worn slippers against the floorboards down the hall. 

Sam hones his ear: downstairs, outside, in the carport adjoining the north wall of the house, he hears his brother's voice - in recorded form - along with the shift of leather in the Impala's back seat, and the tilt and swim of a liquid in an angular bottle. 

There are definitely things about his brother's life Sam doesn't want to know and definitely never wants to hear (again, in some cases). Some of it's actually scarring and best averted (because he has enough scars as it is), but some of it's simply too personal. 

It's not about keeping secrets. It's about respecting privacy. Dean wouldn't want him - or anyone - to know certain things about him, to eavesdrop on his private thoughts, essentially. Because from the aural evidence, Sam knows (or at least, he can make an educated guess) one thing his brother is thinking (or feeling) is that he misses Cas. 

   *  *  *

  It's stupid. Dean doesn't know why he kept it, but he did. And.. maybe he's glad. Because Cas is long-fuckin'-gone no matter what Sam and Bobby say - but he's still right here. And Dean can't help watchin', can't help hearin', can't help but loop the damn thing 'til his half bottle of jack is good n' drained and he can't see straight enough to make out Cas' face - but he knows it, can see it clear on the inside of his lids. And Cas' damn voice is one he'll never forget, even for trying. Because no human could possibly sound like that. None could even come close. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Makin' a movie." If the thought of Sam piping up with some nerd-alert comment or even freakin' looking at Dean with any hint of a joke right now hits him where it hurts, well. No-one's the wiser if he just shoves that feeling away - even if Cas is staring right at him. "Just stand there n' look pretty." The phone pans to Cas' right, capturing the levelled gas station beyond the police barricade. 

Cas had already explained what happened here, sure. But it can't hurt to have a little Angel A-bomb-aftermath on tape for the future. Never know when this sorta thing might come in handy. Best to keep it under the radar, too, just in case Raphael's got eyes nearby. 

Or, whatever. Any excuse to get Castiel - badass Angel of the Lord - looking very much out of his element (which is kinda perfect) as he holds the pose Dean helped him strike: one hand up, fingers paired with space between. If anyone sees them they'll just think they're a couple of conspiracy nutjobs. 

It's freakin' ridiculous. But sometimes in the middle of do-or-die it's this kinda stupid crap that's necessary just to keep folks sane. It's putting a smile on Dean's dial, anyway. 

He zooms in on the blast shadow for a moment before lowering his phone with a signal to Cas. "Alright Nimoy, that's a wrap." 

"I.. don't understand that reference." 

And if a certain someone were here right now Dean wouldn't've even made the reference. Hell, he wouldn't've chosen Spock in the first place. There're just some things you don't want your little brother knowing about you because those things have the potential to wind up as ammo for future battles in a time-honoured prank war. 

But.. he's not here, so.. there's no use hiding. 

"Tell ya what. When all this is over we're gonna have ourselves a little Star Trek marathon." They begin the short walk back to Baby, Cas falling into step beside him. "We'll start with the original, o' course. And I know you don't need to sleep, but probably still a good idea to make a week of it, spread 'em out a bit."

"What exactly is, Star Trek?" 

Coming to a stop at Baby's passenger side Dean takes a breath, considering. He faces Cas head-on, "It's one of the greatest television shows ever made―" and raises his finger in warning, "―and if you ever tell anyone I said that, I will deny it." 'Nuf said. 

Whatever Cas was gonna say next reroutes when something between them catches his eye, steals his attention. "Is that red light a warning of some kind?" 

Following his gaze down, Dean finds it fixed on the phone in his hand - which is still recording. "Sonuva―" 

The clip cuts out―only to cut right back in a half second later as it plays again from the beginning. 

Head tipped back, eyes loose on the Impala's dark ceiling, he can see Cas standing in that dead patch of grass, squinting against the sun. 

What was with that damn squint, anyway? Not like he needed to do it..

As interrogations go, it's not the first thing Dean'd ask if he got the chance. And if things were different, if things weren't so screwed to hell and they had another shot, maybe he'd extend that invite again, set aside a few days to educate a millenia-old celestial being on the genius of one Gene Roddenberry. 

Still not top priority though. 

The only question Dean needs answered is why that stubborn ass of an Angel didn't come to him for help, why he joined forces with the damn King of Hell, why he chose a freakin' demon over a friend - friends don't pull that kinda crap!

In the end, the Apple Pie Life wasn't worth the trade. Fuck.. Dean knew that from the jump. It was hard enough knowing Sam was sulfer-side all that time, and then to come out of it learning he was actually topside and fuckin' soulless - but that ain't Sam's fault. Fact is, Cas had every opportunity to talk to Dean, to ask for help - and Dean would've, in a heartbeat. 

It's not like he told Cas never to stop by. The guy took off before he could tell him it wasn't outta the question. And the whole lack-of-prayin' thing was Dean's choice since he didn't need Cas, didn't wanna bother him.

But finding out Cas needed him, and never said..

The empty bottle drops into the footwell, recorded voices rambling, a tight fist pressing the warmed casing of the phone to his forehead, hard enough to leave marks. 

Cas made a choice. It was the wrong damn one, but it was his to make. Dean couldn't've known. This is on Cas. 

So why does he feel like he failed him? 

It was one damn thing after another: Cas steered clear of Dean, chose the darkest path to wander down. A sheep heading for slaughter and thinking it's freedom. Dean could've helped steer him straight. 

First Dean, then Sam, followed by a wayward Angel on the highway to Hell. 

Bad decisions are catching. 

"... When all this is over …"

It is over.

It's done. Cas brought his own hide to the Devil's market and monsters took their fill. Now they all gotta live with the consequences, gotta live 'em without Cas, and Dean's gotta live with knowing he could've saved him, if only he'd been given the chance.

But this life ain't about giving. It takes, and it breaks, and sometimes it even dares you to care - more than you wanted to, more than you ever thought possible. It shows you things you want that you know you can't have. Doesn't mean you want 'em any less.

Helluva prank. But as any Hunter worth their salt knows, this is a cruel world.

There's no comin' back from this, from what Cas did to himself. Maybe they can take down this mutant-God—maybe. They gotta try, at least, because that's what they do: find a way, somehow, no matter what, right? Pull a miracle outta their ass in the final play. That's what they do best.

But for right now, Dean's got no idea how they'll manage this one. Sam's on the mend, sure, but they're still down a guy.

Things are different, now. Things are never gonna be the same again.

[dickwheelie]

yall ever think about the fact that martin gave jon a jar of jane prentiss's ashes as a present? fuckin wild. anyway here's a ficlet

____________

"Can I ask you something."

Jon's voice was casual, but there was a tension beneath it that Martin didn't know what to do with. "Sure," he said, "anything."

Jon sighed. "This is going to sound . . . weird, now. And maybe a little petty. But--Jane Prentiss's ashes."

Now that was a name he hadn't heard in a while. Martin looked across the bed at Jon, but he was facing the far wall, his expression neutral. "What about them?"

"Were they real?" Jon looked at him then. "I know, I asked back then and you told me they were, but--were you just saying that to make me feel better? Or were they really . . . erm. Her?"

Martin almost laughed. What a conversation to be retreading, two years and a lifetime later. He remembered carrying the small container through the archives to Jon's office, his hands shaking not with fear, for once, but with relief; the thought that she was finally, finally gone, and they were all safe, that Jon was safe, running through his head like a mantra. Jon's mood upon receiving the ashes had been doubtful, yes, and he had questioned Martin thoroughly, but beneath his steely demeanor Martin could tell he was just as relieved.

If they'd only known that Prentiss would be the least of their troubles.

Back in the safehouse, Martin said to Jon, "They were real."

Jon took a deep breath, but nodded as though he'd expected that answer. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Thank you. I . . . I just wanted to make sure."

"Yeah," said Martin. He joined Jon in staring at the bedroom wall. "I get it."

"I still can't believe you gave that to me as . . . as a gift," Jon said, with a slight laugh.

"Should've put a bow on it, really," said Martin, which made Jon smile. "I just wanted you to feel safe, you know. Even if we weren't really. But knowing she was gone, like gone-gone . . . I thought that might help."

Jon nodded. "It did help. I . . . this is going to sound odd, but I think that was one of the things that . . . made me want to trust you, back then. I know I was--I wasn't great, during that time to--to any of you."

"Jon, it wasn't you. It was the Eye."

"Either way. I was a mess. The--the point is, even when I couldn't trust you, I wanted to. So badly. You saw how relieved I was when I found out about your CV."

Martin smiled at the memory. Nothing in the archives up to that point had been more shocking than seeing Jon's face light up when Martin confessed about his fake CV. He'd been so completely confused for a minute before Jon stopped laughing long enough to explain. "Yeah. I remember."

"So every time I felt myself starting to distrust you, I . . . I'd open my bottom desk drawer and look at Prentiss's ashes. To remind myself that you did something for me, without any ulterior motive. That you cared." Jon swallowed. "It made me feel a lot better, knowing you cared."

"Jon." Martin was touched; he hadn't known Jon had felt that way about him then. By the time he'd returned from America, Martin had started to suspect it, but not back when Jon was at the height of his paranoia. The mental image of Jon alone in his office, too afraid to talk to anybody or confess his suspicions, holding the little jar of ashes for comfort, was almost too much to bear.

"In retrospect, it was sort of . . . romantic," Jon said. "Like a . . . a gesture of fealty."

Martin laughed. "Fealty? Jon, we had desk jobs. Or we thought we did."

"I--I don't know! Something like that," Jon said, blushing. He was cute when he was bashful, Martin thought. And even though it was a bit weird, it was also very Jon to find romance somewhere in the bottom of a jar of ashes. Maybe the possibility of getting Jon to enjoy some morbid poetry wasn't completely out of the question.

"Well," Martin said, "if it made you feel that way, I guess I'll have to do it again."

"What, hand me people's ashes as a romantic gesture?"

"Sure. The ashes of our enemies. And Jonah Magnus is first on that list."

Jon snorted. "Good luck waiting on the death of a man who's been hopping bodies for two hundred years."

"Who said anything about waiting?"

Jon glanced over at him, and Martin made a slicing motion across his throat. Jon's eyes widened, impressed. "So you'd kill Jonah Magnus yourself, then?"

"And deliver his cremated body to you on a silver platter," Martin said, with a satisfactory nod.

Jon let out a burst of laughter before clapping a hand over his mouth. "Martin."

"What?"

Jon looked at him with a surprised but pleased expression. "That just may be the nicest thing anyone's offered to do for me."

"I mean, you basically did the same for me with Lukas," Martin pointed out. "And that was out of love, too."

"Huh." Jon blinked. "I guess it was."

"See? That's how you do romance," Martin said. "Big romantic gesture, that. You're in for a world of those when I get my hands on some of those fear avatars that are still wandering around out there."

Jon was still looking at him as though he wanted very badly to be embarrassed but was simply too pleased for it. "I look forward to it," he said.

"In the meantime . . ." Martin raised his arm, and Jon immediately moved under it, tucking himself against his side in a way that had grown familiar over the past week or so. He knew Jon liked to be under his arm, as though it were another defense against the world outside the stone walls of the safehouse. "Small romantic gestures will have to do, I guess," he said.

"Not small," Jon murmured, absentmindedly running a hand down Martin's side, over his lovehandles and down to his hip. He leaned up to kiss Martin, and Martin agreeably followed. "Just the right size."

[ushidoux]

In consideration of recent news that Furudate thinks Mattsun deserves his own show, I would like to say that I wholeheartedly agree!

So, here’s a preview/prologue to a new ficlet series in collaboration with @hq-trashies​ and @bokutosmommy​ about Matsukawa Issei, titled Sex Therapy (AKA The Misadventures of Love Doctor Matsukawa Issei).

A twist to this series is that we will take requests from YOU, where YOU can suggest the next relationship problem our lovely Mattsun will fix while railing you; hopefully he doesn’t break your back in the meantime.

Just send us a relationship problem and you’ll be featured in a drabble!

But for now, here’s a short * origin story * below ~

---

When Matsukawa Issei first set foot on campus on the 1st of April alongside his former teammates and friends, he had intended to keep a low profile.

That didn’t exactly mean he would just keep his head buried in textbooks. He was friends with Oikawa Tooru, a notorious showboater and flirt, after all, and maybe, just maybe he had an inclination to the more carnal pleasures of life.

Despite having started college as a bonafide virgin (to the disbelief of many a person who had shared a locker room with him), it didn’t take very long for him to cast off that portmanteau in the upstairs bedroom of a frat house a couple of hours into a raging party. He wasn’t sure he remembered what the girl looked like, and that wasn’t really his business.

Merely minutes after a heated make-out session, kisses flavored with cheap lite beer and fueled by disinhibition from the mixture of young adult hormones and inebriation, he found himself bouncing the stripped naked woman on his cock, which apparently was huge based on the wide eyed expression she’d given him before wrapping her lips around the tip. 

At least she’d managed to take him well enough, so he couldn’t say his first experience was a shame.

But what he hadn’t expected was for her to burst into tears right after the come down the second time she’d climaxed. He’d been concerned that he had actually managed to hurt her, and anticipated that disciplinary action would come swiftly for him (somehow he tended to piss off authorities, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of height and his constantly disinterested base expression or if he was just unlucky).

But rather, she buried her head in his chest and told him that she had intended really to just get her situation-ship jealous, and she felt bad for using him for such an incredible lay when her heart belonged to another. Matsukawa listened - he had always been good at that - and had given her what sounded like obvious, reasonable advice:

“Just tell him what you told me.”

He still remembered her look of shock as she watched him, letting the words sink in. 

And then the sharing came, and Mattsun continued to listen to her words through her sighs and moans, and gave her tips to snag this person of her dreams, while working up to his second climax.

When he saw her again around campus and her eyes connected with him, only to come and thank him profusely for working her through her relationship issues, he’d thought nothing of it.

Until the rumors started to spread, and more and more women who were either interested in an incredible fuck or a fuck and a therapy session.

And thus the cliché name set in -

Matsukawa Issei became the on campus ‘Love Doctor’ with the rumor being that he would give you unmatched relationship advice while being impossibly deep in your guts, and he wasn’t exactly sure how he would get rid of the epithet.

At least he was still getting laid and providing a service to his community. Maybe he could put it on his CV....

---

Stay tuned for episodes of Sex Therapy (AKA The Misadventures of Love Doctor Matsukawa Issei) where Matsukawa fixes your problem but also rails you too.

We will be accepting requests!

[littlebigmouse]

TSS Ficlet based on @hit-or-mish‘s ‘prompt’ on the TSS Fanwork Collective Discord Server: “I just like the idea of Janus looking at the three of them with a critical eye going, "are these really the ones that Virgil is supposed to be in love with?”” Ships: Romantic LAMP, platonic Anxceit Logan handed Janus his neatly pressed documents, "My application." Janus looked at him in confusion. "For the position as Virgil's soulmate.”, he continued, “You will find my full CV, a motivational letter and two recommendation letters attached." Janus managed to smooth out his facial features and tentatively reached for the folder. The paper was thick, white and expensive. The font pleasant to look at. Before he could stop himself, Janus huffed out a laugh, "You know I totally wasn't joking back then", he said, closing the folder and handing the documents back to Logan, "however, I cannot accept your application." Logan's small smile vanished of his lips, "What? Why?" "Because you are too much of a nerd to date him?" A brief silence as they stared each other down. "And what is the real reason?" "Your references are your other soulmates, they are clearly biased and unreliable." "I would like to ask you for a personal interview to review my application again." Janus grinned up at Logan, "You didn't pass the written application phase, why would I invite you to a personal interview?" Logan quirked an eyebrow, "To get to know me better?" "Hardly." "Dinner then. I invite you to dinner and we can properly talk in a less formal setting." "Oh, however could I say no to this." "You didn't, which I take as confirmation." "Are you trying to get hired through favours?" "If that is what it takes." At this, Janus did laugh. "Fine, nerd, dinner at your place, do not wear a tie." "I make no such promises."

[draculas-curse]

"Ah..."

Death canted his head, towards the form of his soon-to-be-master. Mathias Cronqvist sat at his desk, wood lit in the night by the light of a flickering candle, flame yellow and watery. Sprawled over the surface, papers upon papers, tomes opened to any given page and marked with ribbons and anything to spare. He would think it impossible for a human to read by such light; the appeals of the vampirism that Mathias sought were many, he supposed. Mathias seemed troubled by something, looking fatigued already through the late hour. The space under his eyes was smudged darkly.

"What is it?" Hanging in the air, 'my master' - such an address would be given only upon completion of their plot, but it would slip out easily, and without much effort. It was, in actuality, more effort to keep it behind closed teeth. It spoke to Mathias' charismatics, or at least the passion he conveyed with his goals. True fervour wasn't natural to the men Death so often served. Even taking an interest in idle behaviour Death found unusual for himself; Mathias was a unique man to inspire it.

"Would you mind terribly," Mathias said, running a hand through his hair, looking like smeared oil paint, "fetching my incense for me?" What he referred to was imbued with some sort of affective substance, Death was aware, although not so much understanding of why Mathias wouldn't opt for direct inhalation. Perhaps methodology of that kind wasn't yet common to this swathe of country.

Death didn't mind, no. "A moment," he replied, and took exactly that length of time, the space between a shadow falling and becoming shorter, to place the incense burner on the desk, and set it accordingly. It wasn't difficult work, moreso quick tedium, that Mathias kept an eye on, though again how much he could see in the candlelight was debatable. As smoke began to churn from the burner, wafting lazily through the room, Mathias let out a sigh, and inclined his head in thanks, picking up his quill. His head leaned downward slightly as he inspected his writings, whatever they were, having to squint to see them. Death left him to his work, lapsing back into comfortable silence. It was only so long, after all, before the culmination of their machinations was at hand.

Seward watched Alucard - no, Arikado was the name he was using - silently, moonlight shining through the open window beyond them. Elgos and its business should have been unfamiliar territory to him, but Arikado had taken to it with grace and nary a hint of concern, however much that meant for someone so inclined towards stoicism. It was late enough that they were, seemingly, the only ones awake. Whether or not those brought forth by the grimoire actually needed to sleep was a question Seward had no interest in, nor any stakes, so he didn't bother to consider it beyond a passing thought.

As it were, Arikado had taken up a chair, curled with his laptop balanced precariously over his knees. He bent slightly over it, the blue light emanating from the screen mixing strangely with the silver glimmer of the full moon outside. Seward had half a mind to ask him what he was occupied with, but Arikado was naturally recalcitrant and unlikely to answer. So he continued to watch, glancing between the man and his own work, papers he hardly felt any need to bother with. A shame that they were necessary for his front.

Breaking the silence, a sharp huff of air, and the rustling of fabric. Seward looked up in time to see Arikado frown slightly at some deficit he'd found, rifling through his coat. "Is there a problem, Mr. Arikado?" He asked mildly. Arikado's gaze locked to him, black with a golden gleam that pierced like a hidden blade; then, after a moment, it calmed, though the attention lingered with too much intensity. Seward was bemused, somewhat, that Arikado had as of yet failed to see through his guise, even though he was clearly catching on some general sense of wrongness, or familiarity.

"... My apologies. I hadn't realised you were there." Flatly as ever, and his expression was unreadable, but Arikado curled a finger through his hair and glanced away again, twisting absently the rosettes that fell near his shoulders, glistening like wet ink. He dyed it well, wore a different skin just as effectively, but there were tells in his appearance that Seward could pick out with ease and great precision. "I was looking for my cigarettes. Apparently I don't have any." He was embarrassed, possibly chagrined, though Seward couldn't tell if it was because of the subject, or because he'd so obviously forgotten that Seward was sitting nearby.

"I see... Well, we all have our vices, I suppose. I wouldn't have expected that from you, though, I must say." Director Seward was practically a stranger to Genya Arikado, but you could say so many things that left full interpretation to the will of the recipient, it hardly mattered much. Also, he was lying. "However..." Seward reached into his own pockets, searching, before he took hold of a small box and slipped it free. Tugging it open, he took one cigarette, and tossed it lightly to Arikado, who blinked once, twice, as he caught it. "Here you are. I do apologise if it's not to your tastes."

Arikado looked at the cigarette, examining it, then flicked back to Seward. "No, this is... perfect." A troubled note had found its way into his voice, though it was gone when he spoke next. "Thank you." Arikado reached into his coat again, ostensibly for a lighter, and Seward looked away so that he could light the cigarette with his Hellfire without worrying about who was seeing it. Surely enough, the quick spark of flame. Arikado had turned back to his laptop, typing quickly with a series of echoing clicks, though just barely he squinted; he had no reason to. He held his cigarette out the window next to him between drags, so the smoke didn't fill the room.

Seward watched him for a moment longer, soon to be forgotten again - it was, of course, easier to dismiss the presence of those you knew well, although Arikado was clearly hitting against some dissonance there and disturbing himself every time - before on a fleeting whim, he plucked a cigarette free for himself. Tucking the box away before lighting it, Seward expelled the smoke with a long exhale. It filtered through the quarters despite Arikado's best efforts to the contrary, sparkling in the moombeams.

[bisexualvampires]

forcing myself to work on my cv instead of the deancassie ficlet that’s been scratching my brain for two days i hate it here

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

After the Bombs Fall [Animorphs ficlet]

[Note: I seem to have lost the ask where someone requested my post-war headcanon for Alloran, but anyway here it is.]

--

Less than a month after the end of the war, Alloran applies for transfer off of Earth and back to the homeworld.  When the first request gets cancelled due to a minor typo in a sub-section of a supplemental form, he curses himself and immediately applies again.

The second application lingers in the metaphorical z-space between agents for longer, nearly two Earth months, before it gets cancelled as well.  The systems are overtaxed due to the sudden influx of Earth tourism, the form letter tells him this time, and they’re very sorry for their inability to accommodate his request.

The third time he applies, the form remains “under review” on the submission portal for half a year, even though the review process normally takes less than a day.  So he applies a fourth time, a terrible suspicion taking hold by now.  The Electorate automatically cancels both applications, and has the gall to send him a snippy comm message asking that he refrain from filing redundant claims from now on.

The fifth application gets reviewed and cancelled; the sixth one doesn’t even get that courtesy.  It just stays there, “submitted” but not yet “under review,” unwanted and ignored.

Just like its author.

Alloran considers, then.  For nearly a day he paces, watching the andalite computer and the primitive human device alike, and weighs the merits of stealing Visser Three’s Blade ship out of the impound lot.  It wouldn’t be hard; the security system is coded to biometrics.  No one but he or Tom Berenson could fly that ship now, and Tom Berenson is dead.

After another day, Alloran instead morphs human and walks to the nearest CVS.

He has to swallow an entire jumbo bag of marshmallows and three jars of tomato sauce for comfort before he can swallow his pride as well.  But the comfort food does its trick, and at the end he pulls out the human cell phone still registered under one of Esplin 9466′s aliases and enters the fifth speed-dial option.

“Hey, you.”  Eva answers immediately.  “How’s it going?”

They don’t know each other, not really.  And yet in every one of their three conversations, Eva has greeted him like an old friend.  Her voice brings a reaction to Alloran’s human morph: tightness in his throat, the heat of tears behind his eyes.

“I apologize for troubling you,” Alloran says stiffly.  “Please, if you are busy, disregard this request.”

Eva snorts a laugh.  At least, Alloran thinks that that’s what the sound is.  “I’m not busy, and I owe you a favor anyway.  Shoot.”

Alloran glances around the room, but there are no weapons, so he decides to disregard that last.  “I am truly sorry if it slipped my mind,” he says, “but what favor do you owe?”

“My kid is not in jail on some foreign planet right now, and I hear that’s all your fault.  What’s the favor?”

“The War Council would not have imprisoned the Animorphs.  That is, perhaps Aximili and Prince Jake may have been imprisoned, but doubtless the full Electorate court would have proven merciful—”

“Alloran.  What’s the favor.”

He’s stalling, and she knows it.  “It’s a bit of a complicated political matter, and I’m afraid I am not well equipped to explain it to a human, but enforcement of our travel policies is more subject to individual agents’ personal judgment than we ideally would have it be, and...”

“Hijo de puta.  They’re not letting you go home, are they?”

Alloran fills his human lungs with more air than they technically need for speech.  “It’s a complicated matter.”  Nevertheless, his voice comes out small.

“You still camping at the Sharing Community Center?”

“Yes.”  His voice is even smaller now.

“I’ll be there in half an hour, querido.”  She hangs up.

While he waits, he goes outside to run, to graze, to stare up at the stars.

He didn’t lie; it is complicated.  The Andalite Electorate is struggling to recover from a decades-long war, one that threatened the existence of their very soul as a people.  Seerow’s mistakes — and Alloran’s own decision to publicize the failings of his prince — have ensured that the whole debacle was a massive embarrassment even before the defeat on the hork-bajir homeworld.

And then...

He’s heard the word, whispered and hissed and screamed and shouted.

Abomination.

Abomination.

His face is the public face of the Yeerk Empire.  His voice is its voice.  The morph he was just using — a bald, middle-aged human male — was constructed from the DNA of a dozen human-controllers.  Everything he owns, from the black limousine parked at the curb to the press pass of a woman called Aria, was taken from the hands of murdered slaves.

Of course his people don’t want him back.  Of course not.  The quantum virus was one thing, but then he had the gall go to and get himself captured by the yeerks.  And he’d added insult to injury when he’d challenged a captain on Aximili’s behalf.

He can see it.  That’s what stings.  He can stare up at the glittering point of his home star even as he runs across a field of dull foreign grass, and at this rate it’ll never be anything but a fixed point of light in an unfamiliar sky ever again.

Eva shows up then, before he can feel too sorry for himself.

She brings a human substance known as pinot noir.

**********

“And then...”  Eva points a wavering finger at him.  Her words have gotten blurrier over time.  “And then, we just sneak it in, and bam!”  She slaps the tabletop.

Alloran leans in across to her.  “Bam,” he agrees.

“You needed a ride home?”

At the new voice, Alloran stands up sharply.  Too sharply.  He gets his two flimsy little legs tangled in the chair and almost pitches over.

Marco catches him.  “You all right?” he asks.

“I,” Alloran intones, “am intoxicated.  Tox.  I.  Cate.  Ed.  Wonderful word.  Intock.  Sick.  Kate.  Dd-d-d-d-d.”

“Yeeeaah, I was getting those vibes from the—”  Marco leans around him in an impressive display of human balance.  “Bottle of wine apiece you two’ve apparently emptied.”

Eva draws herself up.  “I did not call and request a ride home, I called and requested a ride to the Netherlands!”

“You’re right, you did.”  Marco rolls his eyes.  “Which is why I made the decision to show up and bring you home instead.”

“No, no, the Netherlands.”  Eva steps up next to Alloran.  They both regard Marco carefully.  “Not to worry, we’ve thought it through.  You call your friend with the private plane, Bradley or Bradford or whomever his name is.  We fly out to the Hague tonight.”

“Where is this going,” Marco mutters.

“Holland,” Alloran informs him.  “It is-sssss in...”

“Yeah, I’ve been.”

“Anyway.”  Eva gestures sharply, bringing attention back to her.  “We shall have a perfectly ordinary canister of table salt with us, and we shall request to visit with Visser Three—”

“Oh Jesus.  Mom.”

“The guards will not suspect a thing, for it is just an ordinary condiment.  All we must then do is create a diversion, and...”  Eva flings out both hands as if miming an explosion.

“Splat,” Alloran says.  “Pllll-lat.  Hissssss.”

“And this will accomplish what, exactly?” Marco asks.

“Making Alloran feel better,” Eva whispers to him.  However, she seems to be whispering a great deal louder than she realizes.  Humans are ill-equipped for private communication, with their sad reliance on verbal speech.  “None of the andalites want him back.”

“Yeah.  Cool.”  Marco laughs.  “Ten out of ten therapists recommend war crimes for a friend in need!  And as a guy who’s been to at least ten therapists, I’d know.”

Alloran is not certain, but he believes that Marco might be employing the human verbal quirk known as “sarcasm.”

“No one will suspect a thing.”  Eva pats him on the shoulder.

Marco sighs.  “Security will just think it’s cocaine.”

“Cocaine?” Alloran asks.  “Coke-cane?  Co-c-c-c-c-c-c-aine?”

“Something you’re never going to try.”  Marco levels a hard stare at him.  “Given how well you handle your red wine.”

“Cooo-caaayyy-nnnee.  Co-cane.”

“How did you get wrapped up in this dumbass heist, anyway?”  Marco looks from one of them to the other.

“Alloran needed me,” Eva says.

“I have no friends,” Alloran announces.  “And Arbron does not own a cell phone.  Ell.  Elffffff-own.”

Marco closes his main eyes for several seconds, massaging the bridge of his nose.  An impressive feat of daring, for a creature with no stalk eyes who relies upon bipedalism.  “Should’ve known you’d be a morose drunk,” he says.

“So, you’ll take us to the airfield, then?” Eva asks.

Lifting his head up, Marco opens his eyes.  “In the words of my wise and estimable mother: if you want it that bad, you can have it when you’re sober.”

Eva opens her mouth halfway, squinting in what Alloran would guess is the effort of remembering when she would have said that.  After a second, her expression clears.  “I was right to say it, that floozy would have broken your heart in the morning, and this situation is entirely different!”

“That floozy’s name was Jake Gyllenhaal,” Marco mutters, “and I totally would’ve gone for it when I was sober, but I never got his number.”

Eva says something in Spanish, presumably about the loose morals of Jake Gyllenhaal.  Marco’s expression would suggest that he only pretends not to understand her.

“Anyway.  The point stands.  I’m driving you home.”  Marco jerks his chin at Eva.  “And you,” he says, looking at Alloran, “are gonna morph and sober up before we go anywhere.  I’m not having you nothlited on my conscience.”

“But,” Alloran says, “the salt—”

“We’ll revisit the salt in the morning,” Marco says firmly.  “Demorph.  Please.”

Alloran considers pointing out that he is a war-prince, he does not take orders from alien children, he has his pride... And then considers whether any of those statements is actually true.

He demorphs.

Instantly, he feels both better and worse.  On the upside he’s more clear-headed now, but on the downside he’s more clear-headed.

“I’ll call you.”  Marco gives him a long look while shepherding Eva out the door.

**********

Marco does not call, but he does send several written missives to Alloran’s cell phone.  The Animorphs still have an illegal andalite communication device, it would appear, and Marco has put in requests to channels both official and not about the possibility of transport from Earth to the homeworld.

     —Ax is on it, Marco’s latest text reads.  —He’s calling an old friend.  Might take some smuggling, but we’ve got an idea.

     —Thank you, Alloran types carefully on the tiny keyboard.  —Your assistance is greatly appreciated, and undeserved.

He’s debating whether to hit send when there’s a knock on the door.

Alloran’s in an abandoned building the Sharing used to use for housing human-controllers.  There is very little chance that this is an incidental knock, or someone who wandered by accidentally.

The thought occurs to him that it’d be smarter to morph human and blend in before he answers.  But the fear of facing the unknown in a half-blind, tailless morph wins out.  He opens the door as is.

It proves to be the right decision.  The andalite on the other side didn’t bother to morph either.

Estrid stares at him in silence for several seconds.  Her expression is unreadable, all eyes ahead and carefully blank.  Alloran doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but he lets her look.

«Estrid,» he says at last, when it’s clear she isn’t going to speak first.  He gestures with his tail blade, the downward sweep of greeting for an honored warrior.

«Father,» she says.

Her own sharp tail-turn puts the flat of her blade toward him.  A greeting between equals.  An insult.  Both not formal enough for an aristh to acknowledge a war-prince, and too formal for greeting a family member.

But then, Alloran went for Estrid, didn’t he.  Not Aristh Estrid-Corill-Darrath, not Estri-kala or my child.

They haven’t seen each other in over two years.  They haven’t spoken in almost twenty.

Arguably, given how young she was when he was taken, they’ve never really spoken at all.  Certainly Alloran knows little of the person his daughter has become as a young adult.  As a groundbreaking aristh.  As a brilliant researcher.

As a war criminal.

Humans have a saying, about apples that don’t fall far.

«How is Jahar?» Alloran says.  It’s what he really wants to know, and he doesn’t know how to approach any of the other minefields that lie between them.  «And Ajaht, how is he?»

Judging by Estrid’s expression, she takes this to be a standard small-talk opening instead of the deeply earnest inquiry it is.  «Mother is well enough.  I suppose you’ll have to apologize to her in person.»  She doesn’t mention her brother.

Alloran feels his tail blade drop nearly to the floor without his permission.  «Yes.  Of course.  Estrid...»

«I’m on a diplomatic mission to Earth,» she says briskly.  «Prince Aximili and I have concluded discussions with several local leaders about access to morphing technology and tourism restrictions going forward.  Therefore, I will be able to exit the planet and return home after being subject to nothing more rigorous than human security scans.»  The dismissive little flick of her tail at this last is, all things considered, somewhat warranted.  Humans have yet to devise a single effective way to detect morphers.

«Return home,» Alloran repeats.

Might take some smuggling, Marco said.  It’s sinking in: Estrid is here to bring him home.

Home.  To the wife he disgraced.  The brother he got killed.  The children who won’t even acknowledge him, a feverish pair of overachievers desperate to leave his legacy behind.  Ajaht’s tail-fighting is so legendary that, even using human channels, Alloran has been able to find scraps of news.  Estrid’s skill is not praised so publicly... but the yeerks got ahold of Arbat’s files, after their disastrous mission to Earth.  Alloran knows more about her, he thinks, than he ever wanted to.

«We’re leaving now,» Estrid says.  «My window for authorized exit ends in two-point-eight-six Earth hours, so we need to move.»

She must have been here for days if not weeks, to negotiate the way she’s describing.  And yet she came to find him at the last possible second.  Likely to minimize the time they’re forced to spend together.

Alloran doesn’t have the time or the energy to care.  «What would you prefer me to morph?»

«Something small and Earth-based.»  She barely finishes speaking before she starts to morph herself.

Alloran pauses in surprise, because Estrid morphs with shocking skill, melding from andalite to human in a mere forty-seven seconds, all without ever once losing her footing.  She even wears a normative amount of clothing when she’s finished, a sundress and sneakers and a coat overtop.

She sighs, looking him over.  «We don’t have all day, here.»

«You were wasted in Arbat’s lab,» Alloran says.

«You don’t have to tell me that,» Estrid snaps.  «Tell me, dear father, what else was a girl and a second-born and the child of a disgraced bloodline meant to do?»

Alloran has no answer.  Silently he morphs.

His options are limited — Visser Three overwhelmingly preferred large to small morphs, and Alloran hasn’t bothered acquiring much else — so he opts for snake, Lachesis muta according to a human-controller from the area.  It’s still larger than most Earth reptiles, but by coiling in close he becomes small enough to drop into the oversized pocket of Estrid’s jacket.

Estrid doesn’t speak to him, and he doesn’t ask her to, the entire way back to her fighter.  She’s under no obligation, and he won’t force the issue.

********

«We’re landing soon,» Estrid tells him, three Earth weeks and eighty-two light years later.  She’s maintained that icy formality throughout the entire journey so far, responding to Alloran’s questions — about her research, about her brother, about her morphing — with flat non-answers.

Alloran steps to the viewport to look out over the rolling grasslands of home like a child on his first in-atmosphere flight.  Is it home, really?  It’s been thirty-nine years since he left home to quell the small skirmish on the hork-bajir homeworld, forty-seven since his first offworld assignment serving under Prince Seerow.  He has seen a dozen planets, been a hundred species, since that time.  This body belonged to Visser Three for nearly as long as it did to Alloran himself, decades of nonexistence until he all but forgot his own name.

«What will you do next?» Alloran asks Estrid, still desperate for conversation.

She flicks a dismissive hand at the air.  «I have my work.»

«Even without Arbat?»

«I didn’t say it was easy.»

«And the quantum virus?»

She turns all four eyes on him.  A small part of him wants to scold her for bad form, but a far larger part of him recognizes he’d be overstepping.  «The quantum virus never happened,» she says sharply.  «And if it did, I was never informed of its existence.  This journey was my first visit to Earth, Arbat died in a lab accident, we were never involved in weapons development, and if you even think about saying differently the War Council will back my story, because all of the documentation —»

«Estrid.»  He cuts her off as gently as he can.  «I would never...»

He sees it, in the stiffening of her stalk eyes.  Hears it in the catch of her breath.  She doesn’t want a father.  Or if she does, she doesn’t want him.

«I would never dishonor the memory of my brother by raising questions about his death,» Alloran says instead.

Estrid relaxes, and turns back to the controls.

He is weary of war, weary of being alone.  The person he’d been when he first met Esplin 9466 would have been shouting by now, demanding to know what right Estrid has to consider herself any better than him.  He only deployed a quantum virus, had no hand in its evil creation.  Either she is a hypocrite... or she is just like the War Council officials who consider it a far worse crime to be enslaved by yeerks than to have murdered ten million hork-bajir.

It’s been a long war, and Alloran has missed her every moment of it.  Let her be angry; she’s here.

There is one more delicate question Alloran needs to ask, however, before they disembark on their family’s land.  «Jahar,» he says.  «I assume... She has found someone else.  To help raise you, and...»  Dark Sun, but this is hard.  «She deserves to be loved, of course.»

Eva’s mate remarried, after all.  Together they’d cried about that, somewhere between the third and fourth glasses of wine.

«Who would date her?» Estrid asks.  «Who would be seen speaking to her?  No.  There’s no one.  There hasn’t been.  There was me, and Ajaht, and that’s it.»

Alloran feels sadness and relief and disappointment and shame at his relief, all at once in a rush too complex to understand.  «I see,» he says at last.

«So go to her.»  Estrid yanks hard to unseal the fighter’s outer door; they’ve landed without his noticing.  «Go to her and—»  Another hard yank.  «Kriffing thing!»

Alloran puts his hand next to hers, pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t pull away.  As one they move, and the door comes open at last.

She came to meet them.  Alloran doesn’t know why he wasn’t expecting that, and yet...

Jahar is older, lined around the eyes and stooped in her shoulders and dull-edged around her hooves.  She’s radiant.  Transcendent.

Alloran is frozen.  Aware of all the knocks he’s taken, all the shine he’s lost.  Aware that they’ve been apart for longer than they ever were together.

He blames that last for the way his knees lock.  For the voice that freezes inside his mind, unable to form words.  For the crack in his breath and the painful squeeze of his hearts as she becomes the one to step forward.  As she raises a hand to his cheek, in the first gentle touch he’s felt in over twenty years.

--

[Note: I know that Aloth’s line in #38 about Estrid being Arbat’s niece — which would make her Alloran’s daughter — is probably not meant to be literal in context.  But the straightforward interpretation is boring, so I went with the fun one.]

[janiedean]

geralt/jaskier whump meme ficlet

sooo @haljathefangirlcat wanted geralt/jaskier + 33. I am supposed to be YOUR bodyguard, stop jumping in front of bullets for me AU, but that ask also had another prompt for another pairing and this came out long so I figured I’d just post it here separately, the other one is coming asap ;) have... some 2k of modern au I guess *drops and runs*

This job is so not what Geralt had assumed it would be when he took it.

Not that he complains, even if right now he kind of is for an obvious reason, but still, it’s only thrown him not for one loop but for a hundred by now, and this one is only the last, and it’s not that they’ve been bad loops, but fucking hell, this time —

“Jaskier,” he says, voice low, slowly stitching the wound on his supposed charge’s shoulder, “I don’t know if you missed the memo or not, but I am supposed to be the damned bodyguard. What is going to take to make you stop thinking that jumping in front of bullets for me is how this is supposed to go?”

He’s not surprised when for once, Jaskier doesn’t have a witty reply but just smiles sheepishly and tries not to shrug, since the bullet had actually grazed his shoulder so he really shouldn’t move right now.

“Eh,” he finally says after Geralt has stitched half of the wound, “I told you on the first day that I really don’t do well with following instructions now, didn’t I?”

He did, Geralt has to concede.

For that matter, his fucking father told Geralt before Jaskier could, and —

Well.

Geralt, having had a really bad dry spell when it came to finding work after that botched job in Blaviken where of course he ended up being framed for having tried to actually not see anyone dead under his watch, was not in the position to refuse a job from Viscount Lettenhove, who had just raised to fame for having made his way to ministry of war after Redania’s last elections… and needed a cheap bodyguard for his son who was apparently not worth a pricey one but still needed one because you couldn’t leave any family member without supervision until he was in office. So he had taken the job, figuring that he couldn’t refuse it when he barely paid the bills these days, and resigned himself to whatever it might bring — after meeting the father, he had figured that the son couldn’t be much worse but had also really, really hoped he wasn’t cut from the same cloth.

Turns out that said son, who’s named Julian but told him please call me Jaskier, only my parents use the real one and at least I picked my own damned stage name was not at all like his father, wasn’t interested in politics and only wanted to become a professional musician after graduating at Oxenfurt and couldn’t give less of a damn about why his father disapproved.

He also hadn’t looked at him wrong for a second, actually convinced him to spill the truth about Blaviken two weeks after they met, swore him that he would write a song about it at some point even if Geralt told him that there was no fucking need for that, proceeded to actually talk to him like they had been lifelong best friends two days after they met and — listen, maybe it was unprofessional and all, but Geralt did like that, not so deep down. After all, when your only two friends are your foster home roommates with whom you run the bodyguard agency (who also are the only reason he could pay his bills after Blaviken) and who are also off on jobs more time than not and your only other more or less steady relationship is your lawyer ex-girlfriend with whom you end up having a thirst once every three months before remembering exactly why you’re better off as friends… it’s nice to run into someone who’ll just talk to you like you’re a human being and not either a piece of meat paid to make sure you don’t die or some kind of barely-escaped-from-jail-almost-murderer just because you got framed by a piece of shit who wanted his own niece dead because she could have ended his political career.

Also, people don’t… usually like him at first glance, or meeting, or whatever, and Geralt knows he’s a hard person to like and that he doesn’t make the job easier, not when he’s shit at talking shop to people or at pretending he’s good at socialization (which his fucking social worker kept on harassing about for years, not that it ever worked), and instead Jaskier patently doesn’t seem to give a damn and talks for two people if he doesn’t, and listen, it’s been nice to spend all his time around someone who actually treats him like a human being. Yennefer would tell him his bar is extremely low, and she’d probably be right.

Anyway, it’s been six months and — it has been a good job. Until now, no one actually seemed to care much for Jaskier either way except a few paparazzi, and Jaskier kept on saying it was because everyone in Lettenhove knew that he and his father were not on good terms, and the most tedious thing he’s had to do has been tuning out Jaskier’s father whenever he asked for reports and kept on blathering about how much his son could spend his time more fruitfully than partaking in silly music contests (every single time Geralt just wants to tell him he’s happier doing music contests than he’d be studying politics, just let him be, but of course he never does). Other than that, he’s learned more about music theory than he ever imagined he would, he has threatened the few paparazzi that were a nuisance, at most he’s kept his eyes more open than usual if Jaskier ended up getting spectacularly drunk once in a while and he doesn’t even bother asking for free days because the commute between Oxenfurt and Kaer Morhen is too long to consider partaking. Of course Jaskier’s father doesn’t pay him for the hours he spends with Jaskier that are technically not in his contract, but — he hasn’t minded that.

And then it happened that someone actually realized that the Viscount has a son that differently from his daughters does not live with his family and is therefore an easy target, and they did manage a rather decent attempt at what Geralt supposes was kidnapping him, but he had that under control and he was handling it —

Until one of the criminals in questions shot him and Jaskier had the genius idea of throwing himself in between him and the damned bullet and thankfully it only was this superficial wound, and fuck but Geralt had almost fucking gotten a heart attack for a moment before getting his shit under control and disarming them and calling the police.

And Geralt is pretty damn sure that his heartbeat still hasn’t gotten under control even if it’s been an hour and Jaskier refused to tell the medics that he was wounded because now that wouldn’t have looked good on Geralt’s CV, and —

Fucking hell.

“You did,” Geralt sighs, “you did, but you do realize that taking bullets for people is my job?”

“Yeah, well,” Jaskier says after he barely manages to not shrug again, “I didn’t really think about it. You looked in danger, I just — I had to, all right?”

Geralt finishes stitching his shoulder and cuts off the thread.

“You also do know that if your father finds out that you got hurt on my watch I’m fired, right?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. Very openly. “You do know that I would tell him that you made sure I wasn’t hurt worse and that my father only hired you to save face and not because he gives a fuck about me? He hasn’t called once since this whole thing went down, and it’s been hours.”

That’s… true, Geralt has to concede.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I — I wish I had advice. For that.” Real smooth, he tells himself, but then again he never met his father and his mother just left one day when he was seven and never came back and he doesn’t even know where she is right now, if she’s still alive, not that he even wants to know, so it’s not as if he’s some kind of authority on this matter. On one side, it would be easy to tell Jaskier that at least he has parents, but on the other… he doesn’t know how much better it is to have family who cares about you so much that when paying for your security they get the cheap option.

“It’s all right,” Jaskier smiles, not much but sincere, “I’ve lived with them all my life. I know how they are. And honestly, I’m quite glad that my father thought he’d get me the cheap personal security.” He winks, and Geralt wishes his chest wasn’t feeling like his heart was about to burst out of it just at the damned sight because there is no way he has feeling for the person he’s supposed to fucking guard and who is jumping in front of bullets for him when it’s really not how things work —

“You — you are?” He says, and fuck he hates how stilted that sounded and he wishes he wasn’t like this for the umpteenth time in his life, but —

“Sure,” Jaskier says, still a bit too pale but otherwise looking fine for someone who just, well, went through a shoot-out, blue eyes staring right up into his own, “as much as I can’t follow instructions, I wouldn’t jump in front of bullets for just anyone.” He winks again, fuck, what — “And I think that maybe I haven’t been as forthcoming as I could have been.”

“You haven’t been what,” Geralt replies, and then one of Jaskier’s hands is on his face and he’s leaned forward and his lips have pressed a lone, soft kiss against Geralt’s and he’s moved back before Geralt can even think about kissing him back, and when he moves back he’s half-smiling and half looking like he’s not so sure he should have done that.

“Forthcoming,” Jaskier replies, “though I thought an entire EP of songs written about you would have been enough, but I suppose they weren’t as obvious as I had figured —”

“Wait, the EP was about me?” He blurts. He had no fucking clue —

“Yeah, I realized that maybe you hadn’t grasped that. Then again I guess you’re not much for subtle hints, are you?”

“… Guess not,” Geralt says, and he knows his damned face is most likely flushing and fuck, he can’t even remember the last time he did that. “You know that if — if I kissed you back, it would be the most unprofessional thing I could do in this situation now, right?”

Jaskier shrugs, still not breaking eye contact. “And you do know that I can’t give a damn for sticking to the rules and that it won’t be me informing my father of this one development?”

… Geralt knows that. It’s obvious, by now. And fuck, he wants to —

He wants to —

“Just don’t take bullets for me anymore, how about it?” He asks, inching closer, his own hand grasping the back of Jaskier’s neck —

“Sorry,” Jaskier smiles back, “can’t guarantee that, but I’ll try just because you asked so nicely.”

So maybe it’s not professional that he leans further down and returns that kiss and moans into Jaskier’s mouth the moment he kisses back, his arms moving around Geralt’s neck at once and dragging him closer.

He thinks that for now he really can’t give a single damn about it.

[lansizhuis]

Congratulations to you and all AO3 contributors for winning the Hugo Award in the "Best Related Works" category - AO3 wouldn't be a fraction of what it is if it were't for amazing writers like you that share and contribute so much to their respective fandoms. Thank you so much for your ficlets and for contributing so much to the MDZS community! Have a great day!

OMG YES AO3 WON THE HUGO AWARD!!!!!!!!!!!!! when i say i have 266 tabs on my phone and all of them are ao3 fics - i ain’t playing lsdjjkfhskdjf ao3 is seriously a part of me now hahaha and im so proud that they got that award for being such an inclusive and organized site that caters not to corporations but the individuals in fandoms themselves (so please, please if they have fun raising, if you can, do not hesitate to give whatever amount!!)

AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR INCLUDING ME IN THIS CONGRATULATORY MESSAGE /SOBS can i put “recipient of hugo award for best related works category” in my resume/cv now hahaha THANK YOU SO MUCH TO ALL THE WRITERS IN AO3 OUT THERE AND ALSO TO EVERYONE WHO READS, KUDOS, AND COMMENTS TO THE WORKS THERE!!!!!