#i was first inspired to paint this when it was clear he'd reached the beginning of the end last february

[echeveriia]

in repose/talking to god

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Clear As Porcelain.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.4k.

TW: Kidnapping, Mentions of Death/Injury, and Slight Dehumanization.

You heard Scaramouche’s laugh before you ever saw his face.

It might've been more like a cackle, actually – the noise so uneven and so cracked, you mistook it for the screeching of a wild animal, assumed a frightened boar or a very distressed bird had wandered into your storefront and would find its way out again, after it calmed down. You only thought to look up from the ceramic figurine you were painting (a commissioned piece of the Shogun in all of her awe-inspiring, ethereal grace) when you heard the door to your workshop crash open and hit the opposing wall with enough force to shake the contents of a shelf hanging nearby. He was standing there, disheveled, grinning, his clothes soaked and his eyes wild, and he was mumbling – to himself, at first, and then loudly, his voice spiking as his tone dipped into something sharp and erratic. “That bitch, she could’ve—She tried to take my fucking arm off. I’ll fucking kill her. I’ll choke her to death with her own fucking tail—”

“Sir,” You cut him off, turning to face him. His hair was partially seared, too, despite the fact that he looked like he’d just crawled out of the ocean. Faintly, you could smell traces of smoke and ozone, but you were more preoccupied by the puddle he was going to leave on your floor than whatever mess he'd clearly gotten himself into before barging into your shop. “We’ve already closed for the night. If you want to place an order, you can—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He was already limping forward, already shoving armloads of supplies and half-finished projects out of his way as he pulled himself onto your worktable. He stopped at the figurine, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second, but that was on the floor too soon enough. You heard something crack, but your attention was pulled away before you could evaluate the damage, back to Scaramouche, now lying on the wooden tabletop, pulling his tattering sleeve up to his shoulder. “Fix it. I don’t care how. I’ll pay you when you’re done, just make sure it looks like the rest.”

You opened your mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. The injury was on his bicep, if you could really call it an injury at all. It was more like… shattered porcelain, what should’ve been torn, bloodied skin replaced with ragged cracks and chipped paint. Some portions were missing entirely, giving way to black void. There was no blood, or muscle, or fat. There was nothing, save for the interior shell of his arm on the other side.

He was as hollow as a doll.

Huh.

You reached over him, to the other side of your table, grabbing the container of resin he’d nearly overturned. The hardener was already in your pocket, and you could mix your paint later on, while the plaster dried. You had a feeling he wouldn’t think to question it, if you took your time. “Please, try to hold still. I’ll be gentle.”

He didn’t. Honestly, you doubted he’d even heard you, too preoccupied with his own manic, meaningless rambling. You were able to convince him to lay down, to let you work on his bicep without having to worry that you’d leave him stuck to your table with a thin layer of white cement. You were able to lay the resin, and as you sanded down the excess, his ranting came back into earshot, his words once again beginning to form coherent thoughts, more or less. “She tried to kill me.I don't know why. She’d already killed, I don’t fucking know—” He brought up his free hand, gesturing vaguely. “—all of my men. I don’t know what she wants. What could she even do to me that her and her fucking girlfriend haven’t already done?”

The rest of his arm was porcelain, too. Disguised porcelain, sure, clearly meant to mimic flesh and bone, but you recognized good craftsmanship, the little methods and techniques employed to trick the eye and present dead clay as something else, something with more life inside of it. You wondered, briefly, if it was a prosthetic, but it would’ve had to start somewhere closer to his collarbone than his shoulder, and you could see his fingers twitching as you smoothed over rough mortar, as you did your best to make the patch indistinguishable from what you could see of his undamaged skin. If you could call it ‘skin’.

Suddenly, Scaramouche fell silent. After a moment, you realized he wanted a response. You hesitated, but forced yourself to say something, if only so you could focus on the task at-hand. “Does this kind of thing happen often?”

“She’s always wanted me dead.” You pushed your chair back. You’d been painting when he came in, but what little you’d had on your palette had long-since dried and cracked, and the rest of your supplies were in a cabinet hung on the far wall. You could feel his eyes boring into you as you searched for what you’d need. When you glanced over your shoulder, he didn’t bother trying to look away. “I don’t know what she has against me. I’ve never done anything to her, or that tyrant.”

“Some people just choose to be cruel, like that. There isn’t always a reason for it.”

His voice was quieter, now, slower. He let his head roll back, his attention falling to the ceiling. “People say I’m cruel.”

“You don't seem very cruel to me.”

He didn’t answer. By the time you found your way back to him, his eyes were closed, and he didn’t wake up until long after the sun rose the next morning.

~

A week after he left, a man in a uniform came to your door and announced that he’d been ordered to escort you to the estate of his master, the Balladeer, Honorable Lord Scaramouche. When you asked why you were being summoned, he told you to bring your tools, and you asked no other questions.

He received you in his parlor, a large room made just a little smaller by the painted screens that lined every wall, made just a little more oppressive by the fact that it was empty of all but you, Scaramouche, a low chabudai, and the tea tray that sat on top of it. You sat across from him, tucking your legs underneath you and keeping your tool kit at your side. No sooner than you'd settled into place, Scaramouche nodded, and the soldier took his leave, bowing and closing the door behind him.

He started, predictably. There was no greeting, but you hadn’t expected one, not really. Not from him. “I trust you've realized that our last transaction will have to stay between us.” Formal words, made to cut precisely and leave no room for error or argument, so unlike his manic rambling from the week before. It didn’t suit him, as a costume of fine lace and silk wouldn’t suit a child’s mangled toy. “It would be… inconvenient, for me and the organization I represent, if the Shogunate was forced to waste their time and look into our actions. I’m sure an investigation would be an issue for your business, as well, and make it difficult for us to reimburse you for the services you’ve already provided.” He paused, leaning onto the chabudai. “Wouldn't you agree?”

You didn’t hesitate, this time. “A client asked me to repair something very important to him. I don’t see why the Shogunate has to know anything else.”

There were no visible signs of approval, no hum or nod of his head. He closed his eyes, instead, and brought a hand up to the collar of his nagagi, toying with the fabric as he spoke. “And if this client asked you to make another repair, would you accept the job with the same discretion?”

A few minutes later, Scaramouche's nagagi was pooled around his waist and you were kneeling behind him, mixing your plaster as you looked over the array of lesions scattered across his back. They weren’t scars, exactly, and you didn’t want to call them open wounds. If anything, they were more similar to scrapes, deep scratches in his porcelain that darkened and cracked at the edges, forming a sprawling web of hairline fractures. It was a wonder he was still in one piece, honestly. It seemed like a strong gust of wind would be enough to shatter him.

It was a momentary impulse, as fleeting as it was self-serving, but before you could swallow it down, you ran your hand over his back, tracing over a cut that ran parallel to his spine. He tensed, glanced towards you, and you offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve just never seen something so…”

“Bizarre?” The suggestion was accompanied by a bark of laughter, a wild grin. “You nation has dancing tanuki and wandering spirits. You can’t tell me that I’m the only oddity you’ve ever run into.”

“Well-crafted,” You mumbled, already distracted. He was more awake than he had been last time you’d worked on him, more aware, and he shuddered as you spread the plaster over the uppermost lesion, curling into himself before he could correct his posture. “Oh, does that hurt?”

That wasn’t really what you meant, but Scaramouche didn’t give you a chance to correct yourself. “It’d hurt more to let my body cave in on itself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I could use a different technique.” If the rest of his body was like his arm, he probably didn’t have a rib cage, or shoulder-blades, or anything you had to be wary of or avoid. Still, you tried to work around what might affect his mobility, and when it came time to cut away the excess, you worked quickly, unsure if he could feel what hadn’t already set. “Or, we could bring in a healer. They couldn’t use pyro or hydro, but—”

“That’s not an option.” He didn’t even give you a chance to finish, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders – nearly causing you to chip away a piece of his side, in the process. “This is going to stay between us. No one else has to know. It would be—” He cut himself off with an airy sigh, as shallow as it was exhausted. “I don’t need my subordinates spreading rumors about my ball-joints. You’re not to breathe a word of this to anyone, from the Shogunate or otherwise.”

You were quiet, for a moment.

Then, you leaned against him, resting one hand on the dip of his shoulder while the other fell to the small of his back, your fingertips pushing absentminded patterns into his cool skin. “For such an important client?”

He grit his teeth as you started, but didn’t make a sound.

“Consider it our secret.”

~

Six months and a dozen appointments later, you woke up on a bed, in the cabin of a ship, your wrists bound behind your back and a bruise beginning to form on your cheek from where his soldier had struck you before driving a needle into the side of your neck.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, gaze cast downward. When you began to stir, he , a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked over your bound form. If there was any part of him you didn’t care for, it would’ve had to be his eyes. They lacked something, a certain light that should’ve been there if he’d been made of something else, if he’d been just a little more alive. You doubted you could’ve done any better, but that didn’t mean you had to praise his lifeless stare.

“It was a new recruit. I’ll have his fingers broken when we dock – or if he’s foolish enough to show his face to me before then, the next time I see him.” For a second, you wondered what he was talking about, but his hand came up, cupping your injured cheek, and your confusion was quickly replaced with hollow irritation, traces of dampened panic. “I didn’t tell him not to hit you, but archons, you’d think one of these imbeciles would be able to think for themselves. If anyone on this ship so much as looks at you, tell me. The last thing I need to deal with is idiots as disobedient as they are stupid.”

“I don’t—” You tried to sit up, only to fall back onto your side immediately. Your vision blurred, spun, and your body felt weak, as if your blood had been drained from your veins and replaced with solid lead. He laughed as you clenched your eyes shut and shrunk into yourself, as you tried to get the world around you to stop moving, if only for long enough to let you catch your breath. “Scaramouche, I—”

“Kunikuzushi.” A slightly tightened grip, his thumb tracing over your cheekbone in a gesture that you could nearly call tender. “Say it for me.”

“Kunikuzushi…” Your voice was quiet, weak. You felt weak. You probably looked weak, too, but he didn’t seem to care. “Wha—What’s going on? I can’t—”  

He was grinning, now, the expression eager and unabashed. “It’s nothing you’ll have to worry about. Her Excellency has called me back to Snezhnaya, and I thought it would be wise to keep my dollmaker in the same country as myself.” A blade was produced from his belt, or a nearby dresser, or some other forsaken place, and the rope circled around your wrist was cut with no great amount of thought or ceremony. You were dragged into his lap with just as little ease, your head soon resting on his thighs and his fingers soon skirting over your neck, your shoulder. His hands were so cold, as if he’d never known an ounce of warmth in his life. As if he’d never bothered to make himself into anything more than damp clay. “I’ve already taken care of your store. You can thank me later on, when we go over what could and what couldn’t be salvaged from the fire.”

You took a long moment to remember how to use your tongue, how to speak with any confidence. Even after that, it still came out so quietly, you had to question if he heard you at all. “And if I don’t want to go with you?”

A light chuckle, in response, the noise wistful and idle and awful. “You will,” He said, the promise as hollow as he was.

“Soon enough, you'll only ever want to be by my side.”

[elysianluv]

alladdin | n.s.

a/n: it's finally the 4th here my people, and on this day several hundred years ago, we were all blessed with a gem of a person <3 @arcanestage this one's for you my love, i'm so inexplicably grateful to have gotten the chance to know you and i wish you nothing but the very best always 💕 this is the first of a fairytale au! series, alladdin inspired, and i hope that if nothing else, it at least makes you smile!! (also everyone go wish her rn if you haven't already or else 😤😤)

nozel silva — ( how i soften when you pull me against you )

"do you trust me?" he asks, with a certainty you've only known love interests from the stack of romance novels by your bedside to have.

"not at all." your expression doesn't betray an ounce of the excitement fluttering through stomach as you accept his outstretched hand, raising a leg onto the railing of your balcony. nozel's arm supports you onto the back of the large, magical silver eagle easily. it doesn't take long for the bird–shaped spell to begin moving — the surface feels sturdy under your feet, somehow comfortable too, and the breeze pleasant rushing past your face. "but, perhaps i am finally taking you up on your offer to kidnap me."

he scoffs, and you are quick to catch the hints of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "well, it's not an offer many would make."

the humiliation he'd felt at being caught sneaking out of agrabah's new art gallery with stolen art in his arms – and by the princess herself, at that – nozel remembers, had been brutal. then being caught in his lie of being a professional assassin to scare you off, and following that the empty threat to kidnap you — seriously, what would he do with a princess when the job had been to sneak out the piece of abstract art only? would the ransom be worth the price the sultan would put on his neck? he thought himself above labelling prices on human lives, at the very least — but all that aside, that day should've been the end of his career, really.

he'd never expected you to let him go, correctly identifying him as a mercenary and even helping with a distraction for his escape — with the simple explanation that you hated the (almost) stolen painting with a seething passion.

recalling the smug grin on your face, he wouldn't have been surprised to find that his contractor for that job had been one of your own men, on your orders. the beloved innocent princess of agrabah, organising a heist to remove that horrid painting from the national gallery – what a headline.

you grin sweetly, faux innocence evident in your features. "not all kidnappers are as kind as you, your highness."

nozel's face burns, and he is eternally glad for the darkness — this is, after all, the second time you've caught his act. he'd been parading around the palace, all dressed up as a prince for the newest job, unaware of your eyes fixated on his familiar gait.

your father the sultan had caught your lingering gazes on him and reached the conclusion farthest from the truth, mischievous glints in his eyes as he asked how the pair of you knew each other.

your steady gaze on nozel didn't falter at the slightest as you answered truthfully, the art gallery, papa.

you had later, in private, jokingly asked if his job this time was to whisk you away, only for him to reply with a shake of his head no, instead offering, though that may be arranged.

nozel rolls his eyes, unimpressed. "it isn't an offer many would accept, either."

"well, not all victims are as exciting as i."

the eagle takes a dip, eliciting a yelp from you, and instinctively, your fingers reach out for him. your hand grabs onto his forearm in your surprise, and you send him a clear we go down together glare.

nights in agrabah, nozel finds, are as cold as the days are hot — well equipped with this knowledge, you've brought along a shawl with you. he, on the other hand, stands atop the flying eagle with the chill seeping into his bones with frightening ease.

cautiously, you lower yourself until you're seated on the eagle, your fingers pulling on nozel's sleeve to urge him down beside you. after a moment's hesitation, the pair of you are comfortably sitting side by side, silence threatening to drown your conversation into the dark of the night.

your arms rise to move your shawl from your shoulders so it covers you both.

the gesture has his eyes widening, and for a moment you wonder whether it was the wrong move – his body stills at the fabric's scent of roses and jasmine, likely from the flowers you care for in your room, suddenly invading his senses.

you are evil, nozel decides. wicked.

"memento mori?" you offer, your humourous tone bringing a small laugh of disbelief to nozel. flying so high, and with his dauntless nature regarding the bird's speed, the idea had definitely crossed your mind a few times.

the words caught in his throat for this long are now let free, a different sort of warmth rising to his cheeks. allowing himself the moment, nozel steals a glance of you, his voice uncharacteristicly low as he wishes, "happy birthday, princess." a particularly strong gist of wind brushes past you, your shawl nearly flown away as you attempt to process the mercenary's words. he's quick to grab onto an edge of the fleeing cloth before clearing his throat, "i thought, today, you might enjoy a touch of..."

another beat of silence stretches between you, one that you decide to break.

it's enough to deflect his attention from the heat rising up your face, at least, you suppose.

nozel shakes his head, language seeming to have forsaken him the moment your fingers brush against his. "of something new," he corrects.

your stomach flips.

you absently reach out for rajah to your right, wanting to curl your fingers in his soft fur and calm the pounding of your heart. rajah has always been your steadying figure, but now that you're literally suspended in mid–air above the desert, you suppose it would be fine to...settle, for something else.

hesitance lacing your actions, you place your hand in the space between you and nozel. your pinky finger brushes against his.

his hand inches closer to yours, just barely letting your finger rest atop his.

you curl your pinkie around his, carefully, not daring to let your eyes meet.

sharing the sentiment, nozel tightens his grip on your finger, his breath bated.

this moment is yours alone, to cherish and to keep — under a sky littered with twinkling stars and the moon full, your hearts in tandem give way for a tender seedling of warmth, of innocent fondness, to blossom in the midst of the harsh deserts of agrabah.

[crimefiqhters]

Just A Scratch

Whumptober 2021, Day 19

A big thank you to @masterwords and @eldrai for making me aware of this event through their brilliant stories and to @hotchley and @whump-town for being such amazing writers and thereby passively inspiring me to share something of my own :)

This is not really canon-compliant since I wanted to do my own take on those last scenes of 10x21! Also I'm not 100% sure if it fits the overall theme, so I apologize in advance

Prompts: Bitten • Bleeding • Stabbing

Warnings: blood, drug induced hallucination, just the usual "Mr. Scratch" stuff

Words: 1.4k

read on ao3

The taste of blood begins to unfold as his gaze falls upon the lifeless body now draping the crimson carpet underneath him. Derek's voice still echoes through the chaos inside of his head, his heartbeat increasing with every second piercingly announced by the sweep hand of the homeowner's old hall clock. He lets his fingers wander through the rough material, tangling himself in small knots, nails digging into the very core of the carpet as if to remind himself that the world around him hasn't vanished yet. It's real. It happened. His eyes flutter shut and wide open again when the dooming realization comes over him, his other hand slowly grasping for the firearm, which lays mere inches out of his reach.

Protection.

He needs to protect himself because there's no one else left to protect, the cold and inert figure serving as a painful reminder of his failure. Once again he failed the people he cared about. Once again he has to rely on the burning guilt in his chest to keep him from losing every last tether to reality. A reality covered in dark red.

Smaller and bigger red droplets cover the front of his once white shirt. For someone who calls himself a protector, he was forced to throw away too many clothes because the dark maroon stains clung to each one like the dreadful memories did to him, soaked into the gaps and holes inbetween threads of cotton and synthetic fibres. This time it won't be much different. The same procedure, throwing out without so much as giving it a second look because what it represents still hurts too much and it kills him, slowly but surely. Somehow he established this routine, somehow the sight of blood stopped fazing him. In a way he got used to people entering and leaving his life too, just like they would leave an art gallery. One where only the stubborn and the lost ones stay longer than the average visitor. His gallery doesn't gather a big audience in the first place and over time he learned to cherish every second someone spends inside of it. Yet, there are so many empty halls, big and white rooms that should be filled with color and crowds, but the people always leave before anything similar occurs. They leave and sometimes they take an exhibit with them. Sometimes they leave behind one of their own, but everytime... everytime they leave.

He thought he'd manage loss after Haley's death. He was forced to face his own demons, the darker paintings that no one really likes, the ones people steer well clear of. They just mirrored his own approach, so he couldn't really blame them. Months after she died it was like someone flipped a switch inside his head as he realized that the alternative was worse than to finally get up and deal with it.

And he managed. He grieved and hurt, that's the way death works. It doesn't ask for permission. It slowly seeps into every part of your life until everything is infected and then it takes time to clean it all up. He expected the process of healing to take its time and never truly believed that it would be over for good, but in the end he could look into the mirror without seeing the blood, her blood, all over him again, sight not distorted by the aftermath of his errors and carelessness.

Until now.

Now the blood is there again, clinging to his face and clothes, only this time it's that of the man who stopped him from losing himself on that fateful day. The gun rests in his left, shaking hand without giving him the same familiar feeling of safety. How can he feel safe with his murdered friend right in front of him? How will he ever feel safe again? Nothing makes sense, not the unnerving whisper that still resonates within his head, not the cold shiver running down his back, not the increasing volume of the clock which starts to synchronize with his heartbeat.

It can't be real.

The drugs are still running through his system, making him hear things, hushed voices and supressed screams, but the knowledge doesn't make it any less disturbing. He can feel the metallic aftertaste, pushing the thought of whose blood it is to the furthest corner in his head, otherwise he wouldn't be able to keep it together. Derek can't be dead, neither can any of the other people whose bodies are scattered around the dimly lit apartment. There are too many bodies and there's not enough air in his lungs.

Ultimately none of it matters, because he hears voices again. This time they are familiar, faint and almost unidentifiable, but he knows his team too well to not recognize them. His burning eyes wander to the window on his right where the dark blue sky introduces the late evening hours. Shadows hush past it, silhouettes of people running. Maybe if he waits long enough the pieces will start to fall into place, revealing the true picture. Maybe if he waits with his eyes closed the bodies will dissappear and the blood will vanish without him having to get rid of another shirt.

It's not real.

A door is opened, no, kicked in. Footsteps, voices, all still too far to assign them to a face or a name, but almost within reach, close enough to set off the safety feeling his gun couldn't provide. Still, despite every logical part of his brain telling him to call for help because the rescue is within reach, his body doesn't allow him to move or open his eyes. Too much fear of what could manifest in front of him clouds his judgment. He can't shut it out, not even after his eyelids finally give way, revealing an empty room and a clean carpet. His gaze drops to his shirt, still as white as the day he bought it. It doesn't add up, but he can only let it happen, unable to process more than a fraction of the situation. Voices start to blurr and blend with each other while more doors open and after what could've been seconds or minutes an indistinct face appears in the doorframe leading to the living room. Another one looks over the other man's shoulder, but his eyes water –no, it's not the fear, it's the drug, it has to be– and his sight is too impaired to make out any expressions or emotions in their features, no signs of distress.

They probably noticed that he stopped answering his phone, leading to it's localization through Garcia which then lead them to him. They just did their job, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of a missing team leader. He's too big of an inconvenience. After getting him out they will pester him with questions, why did you go off all alone? Why didn't you wait for backup? He's been through this before, having to justify every single stupid decision because somehow he became prone to getting himself into unfortunate situations. It seems almost like nature's law, how death always finds him and blood always ends up on his hands. Considering the history of these hands, he got lucky this time, being cleaned by miracle and left only with his confusion and terror, but no trace of red anywhere close to him. Still, the images are burnt into the canvas inside his head. A brand new painting. Oh, how he wishes he could tear it down...

"Hey, can you hear me? What happened?" Finally he can match the concerned, almost panicked voice to a face. Dave cowers next to him, eyes wide, searching to meet his. He's out of breath. "You're bleeding," he all but whispers as he examines the rest of his body for more possible injuries.

His own hand reaches up to his head where the supposed damage was done and it comes back with a small amount of blood. Not even nearly as much as he saw before. He lets the crimson drop run down his palm, eyes glued to it, almost hypnotized by it's steady pace. The iron taste returns at the sight and only now he realizes that he tasted his own blood, not Derek's, not an imagination. He loosens the grip around his gun, letting it fall to the ground with a dull noise.

He hardly sounds like himself when he attempts to raise his weak voice.

"Don't worry... It's just a scratch."

[writteninkat]

iv - carnival tickets

word count: 2,246

warnings: mentions of blood and dead animals

"I'ma break you off, let me be your motivation"

index

Today was the day you and the rest of class 1A can finally try out their hero costumes. You smiled, looking at yourself in the mirror, giving yourself butterflies as you do so.

Your hero costume was a simple black bodysuit type. Garters attacked to the clothing helped keep your thigh high boots up. The top covered your entire arms, hands and fingers- you designed it this way so your palms wouldn’t be littered with callouses given that you deal with weapons like swords and scythes every time you use your quirk.

The bodysuit is a title neck type that showed off your shoulders. Your costume is finished off with a full face black kitsune mask with glowing blue paint around the eyes, it makes up the whiskers as well as a little nose of a fox.

You keep it up on your head, not wanting to put it on unless you're engaging in combat.

You close your locker, joining the girls who are hyping each other up in what they’re wearing. You all step out of the changing area and you can’t help but feel giddy as you approach your teachers, excited with the activities for today.

Everyone begins freaking out at the site of All Might- which you don’t get at all. He’s blond, has a freakish smile and a built body. So what? “Who’s he?” You whisper at Mina who looks at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What?”

You sigh, “Who’s he? And why is everyone freaking out about him?” You ask again and Mina gives you that same look, but much worse. She’s acting as if you’ve just asked a very stupid question. “That’s All Might.” She answers, tone unusually calm and soft.

“I meat who is he?”

“The number one hero.”

You furrow your brows, gaze scanning the man who’s busy talking in front of the awestruck class. You tilt your head to the side, “That’s your number one pro hero?” You ask, pouting.

“You sound a lot of things- underwhelmed? Disappointed? Dissatisfied?” Bakugou says from behind you, the look in his eyes catching you off guard. You pause for a moment, choosing your words carefully to make sure you’re not offending anyone who’s within earshot.

“You look up to him?” You ask and he raises a brow at you as if you’ve just asked the most obvious question in all time. “He’s been my hero since forever. I look up to him more than anyone in the world. He’s my inspiration and the one of the biggest contributors to my dream go being a hero.” Your eyebrows lift in shock, you’ve never heard nor seen Bakugou respect a person so much. And by the looks of Mina, Kirishima and Denki, they haven’t seen this side of him either.

Your heart breaks as you return your gaze to the number one hero in front of you, smiling sadly. You don't know how or why, but your judgement tells you that the seven-footer man in front of you isn't all that powerful- not anymore at least.

"Here's the breakdown. There will be four teams of two- half of them will be heroes and the other half will be villains. The hero team can win in two ways; you can either capture the villains or retrieve the bomb. The villain team wins if the hero team is unable to do any of the tasks within the time limit." He explains quite clearly and thoroughly.

You feel your heart beat against your chest, you're feeling very giddy. Your excitement causes Bakugou's lips to twitch upwards, carving out a soft smile to which he hides almodt immediately so no one can see him.

All Might pulls out a draw lots box, letting fate decide which teams everyone belong to. You end up being teammates with Aoyama and Mina who you happily greet.

Everyone is asked to stay inside a monitoring room to watch and observe their classmates in battle. When All Might announces Bakugou and Izuku's team being up first, you don't think before walking up to the blond and placing a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head to the side, raising an expecting brow.

"Good luck out there." You smile softly to which he scoffs at. "I don't need luck to win." He punches his palm as he sets of his quirk, "I already know I will."

You roll your eyes, walking towards Izuku to wish him good kuck as well before following the class to the monitor room. Your eyes scan over the wall of monitors, finding it closely similar to the monitor room your house has back in the US.

As you watch Bakugou and Izuku in battle, it's clear to see that there's something going on between them. There seems to be a conflict between them that you can't quite point and as much as you wanted to ask Bakugou about it, you decided to wait until he'd tell you.

Why on earth do you think he'd tell you?

You shake your head and clear your stupid thoughts, stepping away into a corner and sitting down to mentally prepare yourself. As you try to meditate, you don't realise how much time has went by until you're being called by All Might for your turn.

You scan the room but don't spot an angry blond nor an angel look-a-like green haired boy. You pout, hoping to at least see thosep pretty vermilion eyes before the activity.

As you take your steps towards the building, a small smile stretches across your lips when you see Bakugou's familiar back towards you, only for it to smile when you see just how upset he looks like.

"C'mon, Y/n! We're the villains right now we can't be late!!" Mina calls out to you, waving her hand up. You look back at Bakugo one last time, your gazes catching each other before you step inside the building, pulling your mask down to cover your face.

"Hey Mina? Can you let me take charge of our group?" You ask as the three of you make your way towards the room where the fake bomb is. "Alright! We'll be at your command!" She salutes to you a little too enthusiastically to which you chuckle softly at, making sure to smile with your eyes to make sure she sees you're smiling despite the mask covering your face.

After All Might makes sure each teams' statuses are a go, he commences the activity. "Alright. What would you like for us to do, captain?" Mina asks. You stay quiet for a moment, summoning two katanas in each of your hands. You move them around, making sure your wrists are loose and flexible before actually using them.

"You guys can stay still and guard the bomb." You say, adjusting your gloves before turning around to face the only entrance and exit of the room. "I'll have to go and hunt me some heroes."

"It's been a few minutes since they started and when Y/n suddenly disappeared like that. What do you think the villains are planning?" Tsuyu asks, eyes on the screen as the class continues to search for you in every monitor in the wall, but to no avail.

"I've been seeing a few mice here and there. Do you think that's Koda's doing?" Kirishima asks, to which Denki asks back, "Are the mice you see dead or alive?"

Kirishima furrows his brows at the blond, about to explain how the mice are alive but stops himself when he looks back at the screen and sees the mice he was looking at just a few seconds ago was now dead, body sliced in half. He checks the other monitors as well and his confusion rises even more at the sight of multiple dead mice all over the floors.

"Time is ticking, heroes. You better get to the bomb or if this was a real life situation it'd have blown up by now." All Might says into the mic which puts pressure on the two boys.

The class watches in anticipation as the two steps into a wide and open room, somewhere similar to where Bakugou and Izuku were fighting in a while ago.

"No one's here." Sato states, turning around. "Then, there should only be one room left-"

"Leaving so soon, heroes?" You ask, body leaning on the closed door with one foot pressed on it and your arms crossed across your chest.

Sato and Koda raise their guards, stepping into a fighting stance as theylook at you with such focused eyes. You chuckle, "Your little friends running around the building were pretty hard to find. Not to mention there were quite a handful of them which caused me to reach my speed quirk's limit."

"So it was Y/n who sliced all those rats? But we didn't see her at all. There were no movements in any of the cameras." Sero points out, confusion evident in his face. "Well, she did use her speed quirk. And if what she stated was true, then she'll be no longer to use that quirk of hers, at least during this fight." Iida voices out.

"Two guys against one girl? Isn't that too unfair for her?" Mineta asks, receiving a growl from Bakugou. "If you think her being a girl puts her at a disadvantage you're wrong. If you wanna be a hero, it doesn't matter what your gender is, as long as you're strong."

Despite being in a foul mood, Bakugou still found himself wanting to fight for you. He didn't like the thought of people lookibg down at him, but he found it weird how he preferred it when people not look down at you instead.

"Come on boys. I'll keep this quick and short for you so we can end this activity already." Fingerless boxing gloves appear in each of your hands, they're black but with neon blue accents. You get into a fighting stance, "I really hate sweating."

Sato charges at you, throwing a naive punch at your way to which you dodge easily- scoffing. What was he trying to do, intimidate a little child? As you moved your body to the side, dodging his immature punch, you punch him in the gut, eyes on Koda as you do this.

You hear Sato wheeze before his body falls to the ground. You crack your knuckles, walking towards Koda who begins to panic, using his quirk to call in all sorts of birds and squirrels.

"Koda, this is as scary as being chased by a street gang of kittens." You say, stepping towards him. You step to his side, bringing your hand up to his forehead and flicking it, the contact causing him to tremble before losing consciousness.

Your mother's body guard taught you this- it was a skill he said that most assassins he worked with knows about. He never clearly explained to you how to do it, but as long as your opponent had the slightest bit of fear for you, it will end up working. For Koda's case, he looked like he was about to piss his pants, so it worked out a little too well for you.

"Y/n's team wins this round." All Might announces as the rest of class 1A stands behind him, unsure of what they had just seen.

As the day comes to an end, you learn from Kirishima and Mina that Bakugou has been feeling off since the fight lately. "We tried to stop him from leaving, but he just wouldn't listen. Izuku went and ran after him too. If you go now you should be able to catch up to the both of them." Urataka explains, setting the stack of books she's carrying on a desk.

You run out of the classroom, jumping down flights of stairs to get to the entrance of the highschool as quickly as possible. By the time your eyes finally caught sight of the two boys, they were already talking with each other.

"I wasn't hiding my quirk from you. It was given to me by someone else, recently."

You raise your brows, quickly hiding yourself from the both of them. You place a finger gently on your lips as you stared at the floor, listening as Izuku explained to Bakugou.

The next thing you know it, Bakugou was now yelling at the green haired boy. He sounded so upset, as if he wanted to cry. It was clear as day that the blond didn't like losing, not to anyone and especially not to Izuku.

You took a peak, eyes widening as you see Katsuki Bakugou looking so vulnerable with tears in the corners of his eyes, his brows knitted from being so upset with himself. He walks away, slouching as he wipes his tears with the back of his hand.

You step out of your hiding spot, Izuku's expression growing nervous when he sees you. "O-oh hey, hey Y/n! I didn't... ummm... did you..." He looks down, scratching the back of his head. "Did you hear something?"

You stare him down for a moment, unsure of what to answer before sighing. "I'm not going to say anything to anyone nor ask you about it. But I will tell you this." Your words causes Izuku to look up at you in anticipation. "The second you master that power of yours, you have to fight me with everything you've got. Alright?"

Bakugou grumbles to himself, kicking at a rock, watching as it rolls into a canal. He huffs, annoyed. "I'd tell you you look ugly when you're mad, but then I'd be telling you you look ugly everyday." You yell at him from behind, causing him to turn around.

"School isn't over yet." Bakugou furrows his brows as he watches you make your way towards him. "And yet here we are." You point out, smiling as you put your hands behind your back.

He sighs, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "What do you want?"

You take out two pink carnival tickets from your pocket, shoving it at his face and waving it in front of him. "I've always went to this carnival with my mom back in the US and I'm feeling kind of homesick. I accidentally bought two tickets too so now you gotta go with me."

You begin to pull at him to which he pulls back, a bored expression resting on his adorable face.

Adorable?

"No." He grunts.

You smile at him, "I wasn't giving you a choice."

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

Firelight

Gerlion Rated T and up for minor swearing and minor nudity.

Also, I'm sorry I'm bad at technology and I've only got mobile and they updated it and I dont know/can't figure out how to put a read more break in.

Geralt and Dandelion reunite after a long time apart. Its fluff, complete fluff. They're so soft with one another.

This lovely piece was inspired by art created by @johix with permission I'll figure out how to link it. But I recommend checking out all the art.

It had been nearly nine months since he last saw his bard. It wasn't unusual for their paths to cross and diverge like the threads of a tapestry twinning around one another; close but never consistantly together. Dandelion was often called away to court, to Oxenfurt, or some festivity or other and he always went where he was wanted. Geralt never stopped him; though he often wanted to reach out, grab a slender and deceivingly muscled arm and say, "stay you're wanted here more than they want you anywhere else." But his lips stayed stubbornly shut as he watched the blond ride away on his muleish stead. He would turn his back and tend to the nearest contracts he could find. At first he'd been glad for the others departures, now they left him aching in a way he feared to define. So he would focus on his work, on the Path and push all thoughts of the Bard away until he was alone with inky night and moonlight for company. Then and only then he would wonder what his friend was doing.

This year he had been eager to get back on the path and left the keep far to early. The others had warned him but he was restless, concerned even. He hadn't heard anything from the bard in the three months leading into winter. It was May now. Summer had yet to grace the continent and snow continued to stick stubbornly to her. He hadn't made it to town, and that was okay. He was freezing but he'd dealt with worse. He stoked the fire up and leaned against the tree behind him. He flexed his fingers in his gloves to keep them from growing stiff.

He knows he should have found a cave or some other shelter but he'd been loath to leave the road. The more time he spent on it the more likely he was to run into Dandelion. Instead he began to meditate and wrinkled his nose at the scent of rain permeating the air. He hoped it would hold off until the morrow. He didn't mind rain when he didn't need to be out in the path. Meaning, he liked the rain if he was cooped up in an inn with Dandelion. He always tried to keep him from getting sick, despite the need to be on the oath. But tonight he wasn't in an inn with Dandelion. He was in forest clearing bustled against a dry spot beneath a tree with snow and ice all around him. The thought of being at a warm inn with his musician made his chest ache desperately. Slowly he managed to meditate. Meditation turned to sleep as soon as he chose to lie down in his bed roll. Roach shifted to his left to keep herself warm but never went far.

 

He woke cold and stiff to blue grey light. If he were a normal human and not so fucking cold he'd have probably rolled over and gone back to sleep. But instead he was a witcher and rain scented heavier on the air. That alone is enough to incline him to get a move on with the day. Carefully he stood rolling his joints, they cracked and popped at the movement sore from the last hunt and the cold. He breathed through his nose and set about feeding Roach. Then he turned to begin gathering his supplies. His heart jumped in his chest at the sound of distant music. There was a troupe, if the noise was anything to go by, traveling up the road. They were a ways off and he couldn't make out individual instruments yet. The music was to far away. Still, he forced himself to slow and methodically work through packing everything up at a more subdued pace. He had no way of knowing if Dandelion was with them, but he hoped he was. It was safer for the trabedour to travel with a group and more to his and the bards liking as well.

Satisfied that the group would catch up if he kept Roach to a walk he rejoined the road. This way he would be far enough ahead not to bother them, and close enough that if Dandelion was with them he'd be able to see him. He kept Roach at a careful pace and she seemed content to meander. His coin purse was currently full at his side, and the season was early. He could dally a little. Still he wondered at the futility. It would have been better to write to Oxenfurt or go himself. They would know where to find the poet. He listened as the music drew closer. There were several lutist. Which he could say wasn't uncommon as it was one of the preferred bardic instruments. He strained his ears none the less, Toruviels lute had a specific sound and he was well aquanited with it. He smiled and forced himself not to turn back towards the musicians. He was a witcher, he'd scare them off. He slowed Roach as much as possible. And then he heard it, the stutter of a chord gone off tune and forgotten. They way it would if he complimented the musician while he was playing. He always made the best faces.

"Geralt." He kept Roach moving, gripping the reigns hard in anticipation. Then he heard the murmurs of surprise as Dandelion ran ahead and called out,

"Geralt of Rivia, you gigantic oaf, I know you can hear me!" The indignant tone of Dandelions voice pulled him over the edge of his little game and he stopped. His heart beating a little faster, a little stronger than it ought, as it always did around the poet. He dismounted his horse and held out one hand to give or receive a hug. Something he was growing accustomed to doing with Dandelion. The bard rushed forward unabashed and wrapped his arms, one hand still holding his lute firmly, around Geralt and squeezing with all his strength. Geralt returned the favor, one armed, the other still outstretched to hold Roaches reigns.

The hug lasted longer than it ought to have, and then some. When they finally came apart Geralt raised an eyebrow and absently reached a hand out to brush shoulder length blond curls. He smiled softly amusement curling in his stomach with something far more dangerous.

"What are these?"

"Curls Geralt. You've seen them before."

Dandelion notes with brightness in his eyes. Geralt is being very tender he thinks as he flicks his eyes to the hand still in his hair.

"I know. But I've never seen them on you before. Nobles. Whores. The like."

Geralt says simply and something like sadness tugs at Dandelions heart. He was prepared with a quip but it slips from his tongue and instead he whispers out a breathy,

"You don't like it."

He looks to the ground, body language changing. Geralt smells the acrid scent of disappointment on him almost instantly. Even if he hadn't he'd have realized his mistake. He brushes his hand down and catches the lutists chin pushing it up and then dropping his hand to his shoulder. They have an audience.

"That's not what I said, nor is it what I meant, Dandelion. Introduce us?"

The poets meets his eyes and blinks. Right. Okay. He smiles,

"There isn't much to be said in introduction. I only met this lovely group last night. I don't even know all their names yet."

A short brunette in bright colors hands him his geldings reigns. They know he won't be continuing with them.

The brunette nods to Geralt and speaks softly,

"It was a pleasure to play music with you master Dandelion."

And with that the group turns down the path to the right. Geralt must have worked hard to time it so he'd be seen before they had a chance to turn down the other path. Though Dandelion would not have gone that way anyways.

Geralt looks him up and down again and and he flushes under the scrutiny and then speaks through a genuine smile.

"What is that on your face?"

He nearly reaches up to brush his hands against the white beard. He refrains barely as Geralt does it himself. He's fairly certain the man had forgotten all about it.

"Left the keep early this year. It's warmer like this."

Then he watches Geralt glare at the sky and take a deep breath.

"You'll want to put that in it's case. Smells like rain."

Dandelion moves quickly to follow his instruction and nearly jumps when thunder claps across the mountain range. He shivers and mounts Pegasus.

"Where to?"

Gerlat hesitates a moment. He shouldn't be caught off gaurde but he is. It's always this easy with Dandelion. Easy in a way it has never been with Yennefer, or with anyone else. It's natural almost to the point of being dangerous. He knows that Dandelions will follow him anywhere. Hen wont ask questions, but will walk beside him loyal and true.It eases something in his heart to see the other man beside him again. He settles something in him the way Yennefer never did. He realizes Dandelion is looking at him with raised eyebrows and a cheeky grin.

"That glad to see me?"

He swallows and clears his throat ignoring the second question.

"There is a village up ahead. If you're mule moves fast enough we may make it before the rain gets bad."

Dandelion laughs and the remnants of tension in him depart. They ride in companionable silence for a while before he asks,

"What are you doing all the way out here? The roads and weather are hardly fit for traveling, even for me."

He glances over and meets pools of bright blue sky. The poet is quiet for some time and it's only broken by the wind picking up around them and whispering through the woods as boughs bend beneath its force. The rain comes next and Dandelion finally speaks. Geralt remains facing forward carefully neutral.

"I hadn't heard anything about you in months. I had no idea if you even made it to Kaer Morhen. So, I thought to myself, Dandelion if you get closer to the keep you might hear something. Now, here I am hoping to find out if you're still alive. Figured being close would increase my chances of running into you too. And I suppose it worked."

He seems almost embarrassed Geralt thinks. Only embarrassment isn't an emotion he's ever seen on the musician. He was shameless and full of mirth. He felt deeply, certainly had had bouts of sorrow at times. But embarrassment… no this had to be something else. He seemed sombre. Almost sad as he fell into a silence that meant his thoughts had hold of him. Geralt shook his head, grateful when Dandelion did not ask him the same. Unfortunately he fell unusually quiet, normally he would grumble or speak his thoughts allowed. The silence upset him and he could sense the poet growing morose and gave him some space until he noted the bards teeth chattering. He looked miserable, lips pushed together to keep his teeth from chattering, curls gone limp with the rain. His fingers were probably just as cold as Geralts own. He slowed Roach.

"Wheres your cloak?"

" Forgot to pull it out of my bag."

He laughs. Gerlat could kick himself for not reminding the bard, but then, he was a grown man. Still the thought of him sick…. Absently he removed his outer cloak and handed it over. It wouldn't do to much now but it was a kind gesture none-the-less.

"Geralt, no sense in both of us being cold."

He simply cast Dandelion a withering glance and the trabedour smiled as he took the cloak. Geralt returned to his normal speed and missed the way Dandelion smiled into the fur and breathed deep. He almost missed the whispered "thank you" as well, but the wind carried it to his ears and he held it close.

By the time they passed through the archway of a sleepy little village he didn't know the name of, Dandelion was shivering from the cold. It had started as a thunderstorm and quickly devolved into a snowstorm. And while he had already been soaked through he was grateful for Gerlat's cloak around him. Though he was sorry too. He knew how cold Geralt often got, likely from having a slower heart rate.

They made their way with practiced ease to the local inn. Dandelion watched in slight awe as Geralt made arrangements with the matron. She had known his name, no one had so much as even batted an eye at the witcher. He shivered and tried to focus on keeping his feet warm.

The matron knew the witchers who passed this way every spring and winter. She'd been quiet young when Geralt had first met her, now she was a mother who had aged kindly.

"I'll have the boys tend to your horses. Jason's getting a fire going for you. He'll bring up some more wood in a bit."

As if on queue, summoned by his name, he came around the corner of the desk and nodded at her before heading out the back door. She smiled and handed Geralt the key. "Go on go get warm before your friend catches a cold "

"Thank you."

He handed the key to Jaskier who moved quickly forgetting his bag in his rush to get himself and his lute dry. Geralt smiled a toothy grin and shook his head shifting his own bags to gather Dandelions.

"Oh dear, I had better ask, will you be going out for supper or shall I bring some up when it's ready?"

" If it wouldn't be any trouble. And maybe a demijohn?"

She winked,

"Vodka?"

"Please."

"No problem, off you go. He's waiting."

He would have blushed if his biology allowed it. There was something about the way she looked between them and spoke that made Geralt feel vulnerable.

He followed damp footprints to their room and stepped in the door left slightly ajar. Dandelion had already hung his cloak up and stripped out of his shirt and boots, and was currently putting his lute on the chair a good distance from the fire to draw out any moisture.

"Finally Geralt! I was half naked before I realized I forgot them. And the fire was so nice I couldn't bare to go back and get them. What kept you?"

He stepped back as the bard reached for his bags and started removing his armor. He shook his head,

"Supper arrangments." He says simply.

"Then were staying in?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" He watches the musician swap a change of clothes for his night clothes.

Although he was fairly dry beneath his armor and cloak Geralt was freezing. He removed his boots and looked up only to freeze. Breath stilling in his lungs as he swallowed tightly. He followed bare leg, muscled and lean, from floor to hip, over the curve of the poets ass, over the dip of his back and up the curve of his shoulders. He let out a breath and pointedly averted his eyes. His armor needed cleaning, he was sure of it.

He hadn't thought it possible to make Geralt uncomfortable at this point. But what he'd seen out of the corner of his eye told him otherwise. Though he'd only caught him looking away. He could have looked for a moment, or minutes he'd never know. Slowly he dressed in his sleepwear. The fire had been nice against his skin and he hadn't wanted to dress damp. You got sick when you did that. He dried his hair out with a thin towel from his pack. He'd need to replace that. He made his way back over to Geralt as he pulled his shirt on.

"The fire is nice." He says gently as he sits beside him. Geralt looks up at him from his armor and nods. They stare at one another for a moment then Geralt speaks.

"You seemed upset earlier. Was it just the weather?"

Oh. He wants to lie but he would never. Besides, Geralt can read him like a book, never mind the enhanced witcher senses. He'd never stand a chance. Instead he looks away, towards the crackling fire and let's silence reign while he thinks through what he means to say. The truth but not all of it. Just enough. The only noise is the wind rustling the shutters against the walls and the gentle crackling of the fire.

"I wouldn't know." He starts voice gentle and far away. "If you died. I wouldn't know. And if I ever did find out it would be from some rumor in a tavern passed through far to many drunken mouths to hold much truth. There's no one to tell me if you die while I'm not there Geralt. And that… scares me a little. I worry for you and it would pain me to never know or to find out so late. And know that I'll never know the truth of what happened." He looks to the witcher now and meets molten sun with ocean depths.

"But," he continues, "we're both here now. No sense in dwelling on something like that."

Something shifts in Geralts face like he wants to argue. He's already working out some way to change the topic so he doesn't give himself away. He loves the man next to him that's why it scares him. The knock comes loudly from the door and he moves to open it grateful for the matrons timing.

He smiles and opens the door wide.

"Thank you." He says to both the matron and her husband as he drops wood near the hearth and she places supper and a flagon of something on the table.

"No problem. Enjoy, its roast." With that they leave them to their dinner and Dandelion is grateful for the distraction. Geralt joins him at the table but neither speaks.

Geralt presses his lips together. What Dandelion said nearly ruins his appetite. He won't press but it makes his gut twist to think of the pain his friend would be in. The agony of not knowing. Though those same thoughts run through his head when he doesn't keep them in check. He knows if anything happens to his poet there would be hell to pay. He shakes his head and focuses instead on eating. The quiet of the room is unsetteling. They should be talking, reminiscing about their time apart and it's almost grating that he can't move past the last conversation. But then Dandelion uncorks the vodka and pours them both a generous amount. He hands a cup to Geralt and raises his own.

"To reunions." Geralt smiles and clinks their glasses together. Grateful that they're falling into their rhythm.

Dandelion asks how the winter went and Geralt sighs. It's always the same. His brothers are great but he always find himself missing his poets softness and sound. He wont say this of course. He wont say he lays awake wondering what he's doing in Oxenfurt. Who hes with. If hes happy. He won't admit that loneliness creeps in on him when they're apart, that he misses pulling the bard close to his chest when they sleep.

Instead he tells him that they repaired the battlements, the walls, the stables. That Vesimir had made them clean and catalogue the library. The library he knows Dandelion wants to see and would have to be forcably removed from and he knows that the poets only joking when he says "you'll have to show me one day" but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to grab him by the wrist and take him there. He talks of training and running the trail with Lambert and Eskel like they did when they were young.

"And what of you Dandelion? How was your winter?" The musician smiles and takes a drink straight from the bottle.

"Boring Geralt. This bach of students don't care. They have no heart and less inspiration. It's like they're only there to please their parents or something. To mingle. They don't care about learning what the truth behind folk tales are or why they're wrong. The composition courses are a bit better I suppose," another drink, his face flushes pink in the flickering light of the fire," at least they can make things rhyme even if it's meaningless. And it was so lonely Geralt. I missed traveling. I know it's better for my purse, retirement, and the like to work straight in the winter and travel in the summer months but honestly, I regret it this winter. Not that I could have traveled much alone."

He's rambeling now and Geralt loves it. Loves listening to him talk about nothing and everything. The way his face goes soft and his eyes grow bright and he can only be described as whimsical. How his voice dances always lulling and pulling him in. He takes the vodka and drinks a long pull from the bottle, he shouldn't let Dandelion have much more if they want to start out early. Though if the storm keeps up they might be stuck a few days.

He acknowledges the ard with a soft hum as he gets up to stoke the fire and add a few logs. It's gotten late. He makes his way back towards the bed and brushes his hand down the poets shoulder and his arm before passing on. He crawls to the far side of the bed and waits wondering if he'll understand the invitation and join him or take the other bed. He hopes that the Dandelion understood the gesture. The poet stands and looks at him.

Dandelion takes a breath to steady himself. There are two beds and he desperately wants to join Geralt, help him stay warm, bury his face against his chest, breath in leather and earth and musk. He blinks looking at Geralt for any sign of what he's supposed to do and just as its growing uncomfortable long in his slightly tipsy mind Geralt reaches out and hand and he knows he's wanted.

"It's cold."

Geralt offers quietly as he shuffles under the blankets next to him. He needn't have bothered Dandelion doesn't need an excuse. But if it makes him feel more comfortable he'll roll with it even as it feel like lead on his chest. He rolls onto his side and buries his face into the blankets between them. The bed is small for two but they'll make it work, they always do. He watches as Geralt lounges beside him thinking about how beautiful he is with shadows dancing against his skin as hes bathed in firelight alone. Then Geralt sits up so abruptly and swallows so that Dandelion joins him instantly.

"Is everything alright Geralt?"

"Yes. Just. Don't move."

And he laughs gently, breath coming out calmer now. He catches the way Geralts throat bobs as he swallows and the shadows dance across his throat. He both wants to kiss it and compose about it. Instead he shifts a leg underneath himself and leaves the other outstretched. He's not sure what's going on but he will do as told. But then Geralt moves and lays his head in his lap and when he looks down comatose pools of cooling gold meet his own cobalt depths and his breath catches. He stutters in another one and then smiles fondly. Geralts eyes flutter shut and he can't help himself as he places a hand in white hair and runs his fingers through it. He's certain it's been months since he had physical contact that wasn't violent.

He doesn't hum or sing. This moment is precious. It will be locked in his heart, witnessed only by the firefight and remembered in the lonliest of winter nights. But then Geralt looks at him again so he smiles softly and starts to open his mouth but theres a hand in limp gold locks by his face and he stops. Heart rate picking up, but not in fear and distantly he knows Geralt knows the ways he's affecting him. But he makes no move to pull away even as the calloused hand in his hair moves up to cup the back of his head and pull him down. Instead he closes his eyes and smiles. The kiss is everything he imagined it would be and then some.

[lk-ramblings]

Coming Home

Dicle and Barış

Menajerimi Ara

(This scene picks up from Dicle going to meet Barış in Episode 30.)

* * *

And I'd give up forever to touch you

Cause I know that you feel me somehow

You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

And I don't want to go home right now

-Iris

Goo Goo Dolls

*     *     *

He watched his younger self on the tiny television, eyes full of hope- a far cry from his current state- and looked around. Everything about the house seemed like a museum; from the TV, to the peeling paint, to the sheet covered sofas like relics. Preserved to keep his worst memories intact.

He wondered why they even kept this house in this condition when none of them were living here.

But then he remembered he didn't know how long he could afford his current house, when the path ahead seemed so bleak. So many houses, no home. Younger Barış chose that moment to remind him of all his shattered dreams, " ......lastly, I congratulate myself. I'm sure there are good days ahead of me!'

The piercing ring of the doorbell interrupted the video; someone had clearly glued their finger to the ringer.

His temper, which always seemed to be bubbling under the surface these days, spiked and he welcomed the anger.

'Can't even be miserable in peace, NE VAR YA?' he shouted, going downstairs.

He opened the door, fully intending to give the idiot a piece of his mind- and couldn't believe his eyes.

He was hallucinating again. He had to be. She couldn't be here. Dicle-

'Sen bana bu nasıl yaparsın.....'

The sting of the slap barely registered. But she wasn't done yet. He'd never seen her in a temper like this.

'How could you just disappear like this? I've been losing my mind with worry! I thought something happened to you. How many days have I been looking for you? How many days have I been dying with worry?!'

His heart strummed an aching beat; he was elated, shocked, humbled, ashamed.

'Do you even have ANY idea what kind of state I was in? Bir şey soylesene! Ya cevap versene Barış!' She kept questioning him and he felt guiltier with every passing second. Just bore the onslaught of her fury.

'Do you even know what I'm dealing with? What I'm going through? And yet I'm not leaving everything and running away. I'm not leaving my loved ones alone.'

He didn't know what to say, couldn't grasp at words much less sentences.

"Is this how we're going to continue? Weren't we going to fight together? Weren't you going to be next to me?" Her voice turned beseeching, revealing the extent of her hurt, and he couldn't bear it any longer.

So he kissed her.

Gently, so gently, with a tenderness he could not find the words for, for the all the apologies he wanted to say.  Her breath caught in surprise and she opened her mouth hesitantly.

His pulled softly at her lips- so sweet- taking one last taste. Even this had been enough to quieten the chaos in his head.

Dicle watched a tear fall unbidden down his cheek, as he waited for her reaction. She could still feel the ghost of his kiss, containing a wealth of things unsaid. You’re important to me. I missed you. I'm sorry.

So she decided to answer back. She kissed him again, not gentle like him, but devouring him, the pent up longing finally finding a release. I missed you too. I'm here now. Let me in, let us be together.

Barış felt the sharpness of her teeth on his lips and he knew he was not alone. He groaned into her mouth. His body ignited. This. This was finally something he knew how to do right. How to love the planes of her perfectly, countless nights spent imagining it.

He opened her jacket, his hands roaming all over, he couldn't get enough of touching her, never. Tried to get off his clothes without breaking away from her lips, his lifeline. He'd backed her against the wall.

Dicle arched into him, eliciting a hiss. Standing was no longer enough.

Never breaking the kiss, he picked her up and laid her smoothly on the bed. She remembered the night where they had fooled around, but this was so much more. Frantic with need, they both made quick work of her shirt.

He opened the clasp of her bra and kissed her; the cold of the house, and the warmth from his body heightening the sensations. She didn't want to let go of him. His hair was disheveled, his beard longer than she'd ever seen. He was so beautiful, it made her ache. Just before he pulled away, she licked at the sheen of sweat beginning to shine in the hollow of his collarbone.

He watched her, his eyes hazy, roving over every curve. She looked magnificent. All lithe limbs and creamy skin dusted with constellations of freckles; each of which he wanted to count with a kiss. And her hair.

Falling over him, unbound, when she moved forward. Reaching for him as if in a trance, he saw her eyes reflecting his own desire.

Suddenly embarrassed, she put her hands over her face and whispered, "What if I do it wrong?"

He removed her hands and gently touched his forehead to hers. "There is no wrong here. This is just you and me."

'Sadece Barıs ve Dicle."

That was all the encouragement she needed to claim his mouth again. He tasted of a slight tang and something she just knew as 'Barış'. His mouth was wet, soft, delicious. The moment he stopped, even to take a breath, or lavish attention anywhere else, she tugged him back.

He caressed her lightly, gently, where he knew she was ticklish. Devouring the softness and warmth of her body against his.

She felt untethered, the feeling both consuming and bewildering. They moved together, grinding, the friction promising a lovely high.

'Barış....' Even the dance of their tongues wasn't enough to sate her desire, instead stoking it higher. She grabbed at his shoulders, trying to get closer, trying to deepen the kiss even more, touching him everywhere. 'Barış...I need close...I want to be in you.'

He made a rough sound of amusment and spoke against her lips. ' I think you're stealing my lines, sweetheart.'

Dicle laughed on a sigh and then moaned as he kissed her thigh softly, first one then the other. The graze of his days old stubble  was driving her insane. She made up her mind to ask him to keep it like this always, as he kept moving higher and higher making her writhe with need.

She had no idea exactly where he was; she could feel him everywhere. His breath in her hair, whispering endearments, his warmth surrounding her, one hand at her head, the other engulfing her waist.

'Dicle. Dicle. You're so soft. It's fucking ridiculous.'

'Everywhere I touch, you just fit me. So well. so fucking well.  I've imagined it so many times, sevigilim.....'

Finally, finally he slid in. Skin to skin. The heat of it was exquisite. He bit her throat softly, trailing kisses down her neck. He tangled his fingers with hers and wondered how they they arrived at this moment, desire burning away the blazing anger from earlier.

But then she moved her hips in a needy motion, and he had no capacity for thought anymore. The pressure of her moving against him spurred him into a heavier, faster rhythm.

This. There was this.

Love and desire swirled together in a heady mixture as they fell together, her hair surrounding them, their bodies moving in sync, chasing the release.

*     *     *

'I didn't plan on that.'

'Hmm-mm. Me either.'

They lay cuddling together and Dicle finally voiced the question that had been at the back of her mind.

'So you've been going everywhere with protection at all times, in case the opportunity presents itself?' she teased him.

'Ah-what can I say- old habits die hard. I've always kept a spare wallet in my car.'

'What?' she sat up suddenly.

'What? What is it?' he followed her up aswell, trying to keep up with the sudden change in her tone.

'So you always keep one- or rather several- in your wallet incase you get together with some- I thought-'

'You thought?' he urged her on softly.

'I thought you were always ready because- I mean ever since we- I was talking about us earlier when I asked.' she muttered, her voice getting increasingly smaller.

Finally understanding dawned, and Barış tried to find the right words. To reassure her. To voice the depth of feeling that only she inspired. He could not fathom how she could think that this was just another one night stand for him.

'Dicle...Bak, I....'

He tried again.

''Abi and I learned to keep our cash and essentials on us if we ever needed to run from our father's rage. And then.....after his death, and getting a few small acting jobs, it was a lifestyle I fell into. Theatre parties. Chasing pleasure mindlessly if I could. Only a few times though.....' he hastened to add.

Dicle could see the faintest blush in the light filtering in from the hallway.

'I wasn't famous then, so, there weren't- but.....' he muttered and then sighed. "It just became routine for me to be careful."

She smiled at him after a beat, "And I'm glad for your care otherwise where would be right now?"

He relaxed at her words and caught a lock of her hair, running it through his fingers. Marvelling at the ease between them. Even in the dim light, she glowed.

"But you should know,' he spoke haltingly, hoping the words would come to him as he looked into her clear gaze, 'that my feelings for you.....my passion now....is like comparing an ocean to a drop. A sun to a lamp."

His words sank into her, igniting some primal part of her. She threw herself at him in a hug that took him by surprise. Barış caught her instinctively, a mass of tangled hair and long limbs.

Possession torched her throat, and she kissed him fiercely, instinctively, whispering in between kisses.

'Sadece bana bak.' The faintest touch of her lips on his eyelids. 'Bana gül.' Returning to his lips again. 'Bana dokun.' She kissed each of his cheeks in turn, the tiny dimples under the matted beard.

'Benim ol.'

He had been smiling into her kiss, but she felt him tense under her hands immediately, his shoulders stiff with tension. She drew back to look in his eyes, asking softly, "N'oldu?"

'Hiç,' he avoided her eyes, approximating a smile and tried to capture her lips again.

She gave him a kiss but asked again, caressing his face,' Barış, what is it?'

'Is it what I said? I know it wasn't original... but you...I see you in every thing I read and love so I just.....' she knew she was babbling at this point.

He laughed lightly. 'No, I love everything you say,' he followed the slope of her cheek to her lips.

'It just reminded me....I remember them- a version of them- from my childhood. In a far different tone and with a different intention.'

She just massaged his neck lightly, waiting if he wanted to share.

He took a deep breath and recited in a flat voice, " I often heard my father saying them to my mother. Whenever he would come back drunk, hearing whatever mahalle gossip there was, twisting it in his mind."

'This was my room.' He looked around, with a cursory glance, trying not to let the walls resurrect the past around him. He was grateful for the dark so he could pretend he was just sitting in a room somewhere with Dicle, just telling her these things, not living them.

' Abi and I moved here so- well I already told you. Closer to the door than the upstairs one. I would hear him shouting these things, doubting her, before going to sleep it off.'

Neither of them spoke. He could feel her hand in his hair, lightly stroking.

'Anne used to join us here aswell sometimes," he shrugged.

He looked so vulnerable in that instant as he looked at her and recounted his past with troubled eyes. She would have given anything to go back and soothe that smaller, younger Barış; protect him.

But there was only the present. And this Barıs, who remained soft despite life being hard to him. And she only had her words and her heart to give him.

Dicle took his hand. 'I'm so sorry,' she began softly.

'Memories are like that.” She pressed a kiss to his palm. “An endless reminder of the past. Forming and festering on their own. Sneaking up on you, when you’re least prepared for it.”

'But we can make new ones; better happier ones right now. Deliberately. In this same place.'

'So in the future, when you turn back, you go looking for them as a treasure rather than an insidious whisper you fear. Tamam mı?"

She hugged him, trying to absorb his worries. Hearing the beat of his heart next to her ear, knowing that he was warm and whole and next to her was enough.

'Dicle.....'

'Mhmm?'

'Just.....thankyou. Thankyou." He hugged her back, sighing, content to stay in her arms forever.

'Burada, what were you saying earlier? More poetry from Sabiha?"

She smiled, seeing his melancholy melt away slowly. 'Oh, no no, that was Madonna in a Fur Coat....."

'Hmm, looks like I have to read it aswell now after Shakespeare,' he said, closing the distance between them. His lips hovered over hers, and they smiled.

She knew they were both remembering the night she went over, hinting about Sinan and Serap. When they were testing and teasing each other.

But now, when she drew closer, it wasn't a game. He kissed her.

This time it wasn't hot and hungry. It was slow and sexy and sensual. He pulled her closer and closer by her waist until she was lying on top of him. Loving the warmth of her body against his, as their mouths fell together easily again.

*     *     *

After what felt like hours, she drew back. He lounged lazily next to her.

'What is it?" he asked, trailing a finger lighty down her shoulder, connecting the freckles. He gave her the mischevious look she loved so much, 'Are you tired?'

'No it's just....I'm thirsty,' she said, feeling unaccountably shy all of a sudden.

Barış laughed and sat up. 'Ah pardon. Where are my manners, not treating my guest properly."

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' she had missed this, just talking to him, so much. ''I feel quite well treated, Barış Bey."

"Oh, öyle mı?"

"Evet. Although my nose hurts.'

He grinned at her, "I'll get some water from the kitchen.....there's nothing much else," he added embarrased.

'There's nothing else I need, sevgilim."

Giving him a quick kiss of reassurance, Dicle put on his shirt from the floor and made her way to the kitchen, wishing she could live in this moment forever.

There was nowhere else she would rather be.

*     *     *

[fleckcmscott]

To Have and To Hold

Summary: Y/N makes an oversight at work. The resulting extra hours with Arthur delight them both.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 4,272

A/N: This story had been kicking around in my head for about two months, but I hadn’t been sure if I was going to write it. Then I read @sweet-nothings04‘s amazing Hand-in-Hand (which you all need to check out, if you haven’t), and knew I had to put it on paper. Thanks to her for the inspiration to finally develop this, and for the title, too!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open! 

Perhaps it was the sunshine that stirred her. Or the horns of traffic on congested streets. The hammering of a distant construction site. The chatter and occasional yelling of passersby.  The hum of Gotham awakening.

Y/N blinked in confusion - how could it be so bright this early? - and squinted at the clock at Arthur's side of the bed. No numbers greeted her, just its blank, plastic display. Stretching, she reached to her left for her watch, in its spot by the beige rotary phone on the nightstand.

"Shit!"

Nearly knocking over her glass of water, she clambered off the mattress. Arthur had warned her the lights could go off in his apartment. Not often and not for long. But enough to annoy. Naturally, his building's shoddy electricity had to mess with the alarm today. When she'd stayed up too late. When he'd had to leave ahead of her to commute to the other end of the city for a rare winter gig. When her body had chosen to oversleep in the coziness of his blankets.

Her nylons had never been yanked on with such haste. Arthur had made coffee but she skipped it in favor of brushing her teeth. Pausing on her way out, she took a calcium supplement and grabbed a note from the counter. She read it while riding the wood-paneled, graffiti covered elevator: "Your presentashin will be great. You snored a lot. Good thing your cute. - Arthur." He always signed his name. As though she wouldn't recognize his scrawl. As if anyone else wrote her sweet, sassy missives. She grinned until she hopped on the for-once punctual subway.

The presentation he'd referred to was set for that afternoon. She was expected to discuss the evidence and court file for this week's contested hearing. Last night, she'd sat at Arthur's breakfast bar to compile the case's final details and finish prep sheets. Gently, she'd rebuffed his subtle advances. His attempts to draw her attention from work to him.

Excitement had been palpable as he'd hovered near her. She was fairly certain she knew the cause because it enthused her as well. In three and a half short weeks, he'd be moving in with her. They'd officially begin traversing whatever the future held for them together. Hesitation had been clear in his posture, his drawn shoulders when (after plenty of convincing on her part that yes, she really, really, wanted him) he'd finally accepted the key to her place. But since he'd added it to his own keyring, he'd brightened. Strode a little taller. Walked a little prouder. Touched a little bolder. As though the weight he carried had lessened, at least by a couple cinder blocks' worth.

At his slight pout, she'd decided to find a way to involve him. He'd perched on the stool next to her, rested his cigarette in the pink ashtray to the left, and taken the proffered exhibit stickers with a quirked brow. Y/N had handed him papers, which he'd added labels to for her to write on. Then she'd stacked them in four different piles according to type. It had taken longer than usual - she was faster alone. But the intimacy of sharing the professional elements of her life with Arthur (besides the office wear he liked, claiming it showed how "smart" and "pretty" she was) had tightened her chest. And the curved-up corner of his thin lips had reflected how pleased he was, too.

They hadn't been able to collaborate on everything, however. It was past midnight by the time she'd joined Arthur, who had retreated to the bedroom an hour or so earlier. He'd been sitting against the headboard, half under the cover. The harsh blue light emanating from the old black and white TV at the foot of the bed had sharpened his features. Deepened the set of his eyes. He'd stubbed out his smoke as she closed the door. "I taped The Honeymoon Game. We can watch it when you're here again." A beat. "If you're not busy."

"This is supposed to be my last big project for a month or so." Sighing, she'd gotten her nightgown from her overnight bag. "I didn't mean for it to take all evening." She climbed in next to him and threw her arm across his lap. "I'm sorry."

He'd been stiff. Unyielding. The telltale signs he was miffed or upset. But he'd twined her hair around his finger, let his touch fall to her brow bone. "It's okay," he'd said lowly, adjusting to lie alongside her. "I don't want to be... I'm not being fair."

"You don't have to pretend with me, Arthur. It's all right to be annoyed." Tiredness had pulled at her as she'd fought to watch the rest of Gotham Tomorrow Tonight. The contact of his socked toes to her bare ones had made her smile, though, and she'd nuzzled his bicep. "I missed you," she'd mumbled, then promptly passed out.

The squeal of wheels on metal tracks prompted her to sling her canvas tote onto her shoulder. Shaw & Associates was a short sprint from the nearest station. She was certain she looked ridiculous, running down the street in her high heels. But she managed to slip into the office with two minutes to spare. Once she poured herself a cup of joe and straightened her blazer, she settled in her cushioned chair to get started.

It was only when Matt told her he wanted to meet before lunch that she'd rummaged in her bag. And realized she'd neglected to bring the file. Recalled it was sitting on Arthur's kitchen counter.

Fuck.

Her nails tapped the wood surface of her desk. Excusing herself to the bathroom so she could go retrieve it wouldn't fly. Matt would send a search party. She could try to discuss everything from memory, tell him documents were still being gathered. But he wasn't that oblivious. She settled on owning her error. "It's at home." Her delivery was nonchalant.

He waited until she'd loaded her typewriter with paper, then responded wryly. "You're not supposed to take files home anymore. Remember what happened last time?"

She leaned back as he stepped in front of her. "There was the slew of family cases that came in. With Patricia on leave, I'm handling all our calls and mail. Not to mention paperwork on her filings. It wouldn't have gotten finished if I hadn't taken it." Snorting, she shook her head at herself. Heat bloomed in her neck. "Not that it matters when I don't have it."

Expression softening, Matt stuck his hands in his pockets and jutted his chin at her. "How long did you work on it?"

It was hard to discern if he actually cared about the hours she put in. Or if he merely wanted to gauge the possibility of her doing investigations off the books again, something he'd explicitly prohibited. "I don't know." She waved dismissively. "Three or four hours?"

He let out a huff. "You put in enough time already. Go home at noon. We'll get to it first thing tomorrow."

"I have a lot to do." Her eyes widened at the myriad piles of folders laying around. "And I can't imagine you playing operator."

"I've managed when you've both been in court or at appointments. Besides," he continued as he headed back to his office. "You never take days off."

Straightening, she wheeled her chair to watch him plop down on his leather seat. "I'm taking three days next month," she countered.

His glare contained an unequal mix of mirth and consternation. "Y/N?"

The phone started ringing. She succeeded in making one ear ignore it. "Yes?"

"I know you haven't forgiven me for that whole Renew Corp. thing." She flinched at the casual mention of the company she loathed. Of her failure. But she forced herself to listen. Matt picked up a pen and started writing. “Rather than being stubborn, try saying, 'You're right.'"

~~~~~

Y/N stood in front of the narrow, white stove, stirring the soup she'd thrown together using bouillon, carrots, onions, and pasta. Ingredients she'd found in Arthur's kitchen. Music poured, at a respectable volume, from the radio on the windowsill. Swaying out-of-time, she added a sprinkling of black pepper, one of the only three spices he had (along with powdered garlic and salt). Wearing a content smirk, she sampled the steaming broth.

When she'd left the office, she'd been frustrated at herself. Yes, she was human. Everyone made mistakes. But she wasn't the forgetful type. Particularly if someone was depending on her. However, as she'd stopped in Burnley for another change of clothes, hopped on the train to Otisburg, and pictured Arthur's reaction to finding her in his home instead of having to call to wish her sweet dreams, her disposition had improved. Not only would he have her for an extra night. He'd get a late lunch, too.

The click of the deadbolt and clank of his keys on the entrance table came the second she turned off the stove. She listened to his heavy exhale as his bag dropped to the floor and shut the door. In her peripheral vision he froze, then approached tentatively. She reveled in his delicate hold on the dip of her waist, the peck he planted on her cheek. The smell of greasepaint wafted to her nose. "I hoped I hadn't made this up," he sighed with what sounded like relief. "But your meeting."

She angled herself towards him, gaze roving over his red and blue plaid blazer. The painted-on smile. His irresistible brown curls, mostly flattened by the wig he'd worn. Fidgeting with the petals of the squirting flower on his lapel, she scrunched up her face. "This morning went to shit." She explained the power outage, the clock, her own stupidity at leaving the file in his apartment. "I've packed it. Don't worry."

His posture grew pensive. "Sorry. Maybe- Maybe we should have stayed at your place. Your building's better."

Him thinking her error was somehow his fault had to be nipped in the bud. "No," she said. "You asked to make more memories here before we move in together. I'm happy to do that."

He paused, long enough she could have sworn she'd heard the gears in his head grinding. "Are you in trouble?"

Not unexpectedly, he had put together her mistake and her early dismissal from work and assumed the worst. "If I wasn't fired for trying to stop the Waynes, it's going to take more than an oversight to get me thrown out on my ass." Her brow furrowed. She sneaked a hand under his jacket and placed her palm on his chest. "I just hate that I wasted last night for nothing."

Soft lips, slightly sticky with red paint, grazed her temple. "It's okay," he said. "You're here now. And I got to help you."

The balm of his kindness loosened her rigid stance. His zeal to assist her, to ask questions, to learn about every aspect of her branded her heart completely. She leaned into him, kissed the squishy fold of skin under his chin, and nudged his ribs. "Food's ready. Go change. I want to hear all about your day."

Arthur emerged from the bathroom within minutes, clad in his worn, blue house pants and toweling his hair. Dimples were on constant display while they ate. The glint in his eyes was the one he usually had if his act or a job had gone particularly well, if he was pleased with himself. Was the one starting to be an almost weekly occurrence. Was the one that made his green eyes sparkle and caused her stomach to flip. He inched closer to her with every sentence.

The kids at the new children’s medical center had liked Carnival, he said. They hadn’t minded that he’d "filled in" for Gary. The magic tricks had all gone without a hitch, and the clinic had provided the balloons, which was a savings. The nurses and doctors had been nice; they’d even asked for his card. He’d had to provide a slip of paper with his address and telephone number instead. But he was sure he’d be invited to perform again. And he asked Y/N for help writing Gary a thank you note for the referral, claiming, “You’re better at that than me.”

“You’re the one who journals every day.” Her bowl and spoon clattered in the sink. “And your letter to me was beautiful. Just let me proofread it.”

Soon they were reclined on the sofa, sharing the flat pillow he’d used when he’d had no choice but to sleep there. The tape he’d recorded yesterday was playing. The Honeymoon Game had been a casual watch before, he’d explained. Not a nightly ritual like Murray. Given that he had a girlfriend and was a boyfriend himself, it had become fun to view.

She was only half-focused on the TV’s talking heads. Her mind was drifting to moving day, which filled her with gladness. She examined the plaid walls, the white cream color ceiling, the knick-knacks strewn about in the glow of the setting sun. The lantern with an owl hanging in the corner; the green, plastic drawers by the television; the curio cabinet... They were all a part of 8J, but assuredly not a part of him. How much would he be bringing with him, she wondered. And what would he be leaving behind?

“With one sugar and a shot of milk.” Arthur’s lively voice broke through her contemplation. Ah. He was reacting to the questions posed to the contestants, and making the answers about her, as he was wont to do.

She nestled back into the pleasant warmth of his firm frame. “Three sugars,” she replied, confirming she knew how he took his coffee. They continued to play along, with him showing off everything he’d memorized about her, and her replying with what she’d gathered about him.

Eventually, he shifted behind her. Raised himself on his elbow. “How did you know you loved me?”

Her hum was soft. Short. Possible responses were multitude. She’d suspected she could fall for him early on. When he’d wanted to repay her for doing what anyone should have done on the subway. And the first time he’d had the courage to call her after they’d split a slice of pie, his slight stammer revealing his nervousness. Maybe she’d say it was how slowly he’d drunken his wine during dinner, initially squinting as he sipped, his inexperience with alcohol obvious.

But she chose to go with what she believed was truest. What she assumed he’d hear most keenly. “Before we slept together, I hadn’t been with anyone for four years. And even then, it was different.” His hand splayed on her abdomen, thumb dragging along the waistband of her green leggings. A delightful ache flared in her center. “When I woke up, I felt perfect.”

“You felt like you were perfect?”

“No, silly,” she laughed, batting his forearm. “I knew I hadn't made a mistake. I reached out to your side, first thing - I’d thought of it that way, even then.” At the sensation of his hardening shaft against her rear, she giggled. “You’d made me so happy. You always do. I wanted to you to bed me again.”

The round tip of his nose skimmed her cheek, and she shivered at the dip of his fingers into her panties. “I want to again,” he rasped, paraphrasing her. The grind of his length was making her light-headed, and she twisted her torso to look at him. “I’ve been thinking about it.” Cheekbones glowing, he averted his eyes. “Ever since I woke up.”

“My monthly started,” she said regretfully. His descent halted, and a groan of frustration left him as he lowered his forehead to her shoulder. She mused. While he was becoming more apt to say what he desired, it happened rarely. But she loved it and didn’t want to discourage him from letting himself be assertive. Would he be offended by her suggestion? “I freshened up before we laid down. I have a tampon in. There are other things we can do.” She pressed her lips together, hoping she didn’t sound presumptuous. “If you’re comforta-“

“I’m comfortable.” His mouth quickly claimed hers, opening on a sigh. The tip of his tongue laved at the seam of her lips, and his messy enthusiasm made her whimper. Leaving a scorching trail in its wake, his hand traversed to her upper leg, gliding over the crease where her thigh and vulva met.

Shallow breaths caressed the nape of her neck, stoking the heat threatening to consume her. But the studio audience blaring from the television’s mono-speaker kept wresting her out of her haze. She snatched the VCR remote from the coffee table and hit the pause button.

The tease of his fingertips at her dark curls caused the peaks of her breasts to stiffen. She gasped as the rough fabric of her sweater dragged along them. His fore- and ring fingers spread her outer lips and she shuddered. The leisureliness of his fondling didn’t detract from its intoxicating effect.

Though it was a tad rough. “You’re kinda dry. Hold on.” Swiftly, he brought his hand to his mouth and wet his fingertips. Y/N blinked at him. It was clear he thought nothing of it, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering he’d confided he liked going down on her. Still. Seeing this normally reserved man improvise so he could pleasure her made her center throb with need.

Y/N was doing her damnedest to get her leggings and underwear down. Arthur snorted at her spirited, failed attempt at kicking them away. “It’s okay,” he chuckled, pushing them off her ankles with his foot. Then his touch fluttered at her swollen folds. She arched into him, already feeling as though she would burst. Bent at the knee, her leg lifted until her foot was flat on the couch cushion, allowing him easier access. He took advantage, sweeping forward and back along the rigid line of her engorged clitoral hood. She rolled towards him subtly, her moans getting louder with each tap to her sensitive nub.

Still holding himself up, he cradled her head. "Your sounds make me crazy," he said lowly. Once his hips started following hers, faintly rutting against the flesh of her backside, she closed her eyes. Hurriedly, she reached behind her to yank at his pajamas. "What?" he asked.

"I want to feel you," she whispered. There was a huff and some fumbling. And moments later his cock was settled at the cleft of her bottom. She bit her lip, savoring the weight of him. God, he felt wonderful.

His fingertips whispered over her clit, daring to follow the edge of her inner labia. She heard him gulp. "How does it feel when we're together? When- When I'm in you?"

"Warm. Full. Like you belong there," she replied with a smile. That last part of her response must have been unexpected, given that his grazes ceased and he trembled. "Don't stop," she whined, placing her hand on his. "Please, Arthur. You know just how to touch me."

Groaning, he started anew, deftly swiping quicker and quicker. The undulations of her pelvis hastened unevenly, begging both for release and for their coupling to last forever. She ran her palm up her torso, kneading her breast and plucking at her nipple. He nuzzled at her ear, grunting low in the back of his throat. Winding her fingers into his loose waves, she tugged lightly. Her belly twitched. Her whole frame tingled.

His skillful touch. The love they had for one another. The noises he was making in the crook of her shoulder. They all combined to throw her over the edge, and a wave of pleasure crashed through her. She cried his name brokenly, feeling empty without him inside her. But he kept holding her, guiding her through the crests of her climax. She was gasping, struggling to suck in air. Surely, she thought, he could detect the thundering of her heart against her ribs.

Gradually, the quivering grip she had on his locks eased. The kisses he planted on her neck were open-mouthed, desperate. And he hadn't halted the ardent movements of his hips. Y/N turned onto her other side. Gazing at him, she raked his curls out of his face, caressed his cheekbone with her knuckles. His look was hungry, darkened with need. The creases between his brows deepened as her hand trailed through the sparse dusting of hair on his chest.

There was a youthful charm to this situation, she considered. To them craving each other but not completely joining. It reminded her of being a teenager. When she'd been curious and horny, but nervous and not quite ready to go "all the way" with her ex. Being with Arthur allowed her to do all that again. To relive those experiences, to explore and make discoveries with him. To fall further in love with him daily.

She tenderly pecked the freckles at the top of his sternum, nestled against the notch above his clavicle. "I'm lucky to have you."

He didn't miss a beat, even as she trailed past the ticklish spots on his flank. "I'm luckier."

"I disagree." She outlined the slender muscles of his stomach, the v-lines leading to his cock. Played with the springy, brown curls at the base of him. "Without you, I'd only have my work. Which was enough before. But not now." After a moment, she concluded she was being sappy. She had to change it up. "And I wouldn't be having the best sex of my life."

Clearly flustered, he muffled his laugh. "Really?" His blush was prominent, his grin ecstatic.

"Really." Groans short and sudden, he rocked into her touch when she encircled his ample girth. Her fingers danced along his shaft, marveling at the contrast of his velvety skin with how hard he was. Pumping up and down, she tugged at him, trying to match the speed of his thrusts. He nudged his nose to hers, gazing at her before his hooded eyes flitted to watch what she was doing. Then she looked, too.

The sight of him fucking into her hand made her dizzy with want, even though he'd just gotten her off. The crimson, swollen head glistened, slick beading generously at the tip. Y/N licked her lips and spread it around him with the pad of her thumb. Moaning sharply, he bucked harder. Her motions quickened, flicking repeatedly at the notch on the underside.

Demand was implicit in the grasp he had on her upper arm. And it strengthened as his hips' stuttered, becoming unpredictable. Ragged pants hit her face. "I'm- I'm gonna make a mess.”

"It's all right," she soothed. Keeping ahold of him, she lay on her back. He followed and settled on top of her. Whimpering her name, he rubbed himself against her labia. But she gently pushed him onto his knees and continued palming him, her fingers teasing the ridge on his erection. It wouldn't take long to make him come. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tightening cords in his neck, his abrupt, needy cries...

Plunging forward, he held himself in place, grunting, clutching her urgently. His release hit her abdomen, warm and wet, and she gasped, her body curving up towards him. The feel of him spilling onto her couldn't completely distract her, though. Not from the beauty of his parted lips. Not from the relief that gradually spread across his features. Not from the slackening of his muscles as tension ebbed.

Sweat had gathered on his forehead. A droplet ran from the end of a dark brow to his jawline. Then he kissed her, his mouth groping at hers. "I love you," he said. He gave her one last peck and sat up on his knees. Holding onto the arm of the sofa, he retrieved her underwear from the floor and wiped her belly off. "That was fun." He tucked his chin bashfully.

"I concur." She entwined their hands and sat, then stretched as she pushed herself to stand and walk to the bathroom. The washcloth he'd designated as hers hung on the hook by the towels. She cleaned herself, listening as Arthur started the show again.

A new round of questions was just beginning. "When you and your spouse first met," the host started, "what was your first impression?"

Arthur's answer was instant. "Nice."

Y/N said the first thing that came to mind. "Handsome."

She popped her head out of the room to find him leaning on the entrance of the short corridor, beaming at her with hitched giggles. He was probably waiting for his turn to clean up. Like he normally did. But she couldn't stop herself from staring at him. Loving eyes met hers and his brows lifted expectantly. "Yes?"

Smiling, she wrung out the washcloth and put it back in its place. She stepped to him with a smile and smoothed his hair back. The rush of happiness in her soul, one she wasn't even sure she had, enamored her. Not only at what they'd shared on his old, scratchy sofa. But at Arthur being Arthur. At knowing soon she'd get to sleep next to him every night. Build a life with him, one she hadn't dreamed of even six months ago. Nothing she could say seemed adequate. So she went with a kind gesture, one she knew he'd appreciate. "I'll make us some decaf. And I love you, too."

~~~~~

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