#maybe I just need to not take in any takes on a new thing ever again.

[clrasecretdiary]

I do, I do, I do | Spencer Reid x Reader

In which spencer proposes to you.

Absolutely tooth rotting fluff

Contents: Head over heels spence, pet names (honey, angel, darling...)

Warning: none!

a/n: title is a reference to "helpless" from Hamilton & there's a scene inspired by "the tortured poets department" (can u tell I love music?). This is my favorite fic I have ever written.

---

You and Spencer have been dating for 5 years now and, since last year, the team had begun asking the two of you - especially Reid - when were you guys going to “tie the knot”. You and Spencer had talked about it, both agreeing that you both did want to get married, but we’re not in a rush.

Now, you’re at Spencer's house getting ready for one of Rossi's famous dinners. When you look through the mirror, you see Spencer leaning against the door, watching you getting ready while he cuffs the sleeves of his black button-up shirt.

“You’re looking divine angel”

“Thank you honey” You say, turning to him “By the way, this is your last chance to kiss me, unless you also want to wear some red lipstick to Rossi’s”

He giggles, giving you a quick peck on the lips before leaving the bathroom to let you finish getting ready.

Later that night, you, Spencer and the rest of the team are all sitting at the dining table, talking and laughing. This is one of those few, but extremely special moments in which you guys forget all the horrors that happen at work and just are happy together.

You’re in an extremely exciting talk with Garcia about the latest fashion news, a topic that both of you really loved when you feel Spencer playing with your hands, something he usually did, so you did not pay much attention to it. But, at a point you felt him place the small ring he sometimes wore on your finger, specifically your left ring finger, the one you put wedding rings on. When you looked down at it, your heart almost stopped.

He leaned closer to whisper in your ear “It looks perfect on you” and then took it off, continuing to talk to Morgan about… Something. If you were to be honest, after that, you spaced out for a couple seconds, your heartbeat seemed so loud that it replaced all the other sounds around you.

—

2 months later, you’re remembering this moment as you get ready for a very suspicious dinner date with Spencer. Since what happened on Rossi's get together, you knew he was thinking about it and started your detective work to try and figure out when it might happen.

You had asked - no, begged Morgan and Penelope for any kind of clue. It's not that you wanted to know exactly when and where, you just needed a clue to know how to prepare yourself. After a while, you just gave up and decided to let it happen.

You became suspicious when Spencer asked Hotch for you both to have a day off, something you both rarely requested. He also bought you a Vivienne Westwood dress you had been eying for years now.

“Spencer Reid, you did not. Oh my god you're crazy” You said as you opened the box

“Did you like it?”

“Are you kidding? I love it, thank you so much” You say, leaning in to embrace him in a tight hug

“Maybe I can take you to dinner this Saturday, and you can wear it” He says between giggles because of how wide your smile was, oh how he loved pampering you.

“Sounds perfect honey”

Now, finally the day you had been so excited for. Could Spencer just have felt like giving you the dress? Yes, but for some reason you felt there was more to it. Maybe the way he spent the whole day trying to hide how nervous he is, the way he’s letting you take your sweet time getting ready, saying things like “don’t rush honey” or the mysterious call he received from Morgan earlier that day but you were sure something was going to happen.

You finish getting ready and get into the car with him, he’s showering you with compliments the whole way. When he stops the car something is off, this is not a restaurant, in the dark you can’t really make out where you are but it seems familiar.

He gets out of the car, going around and opening the door for you, helping you get out. He walks you to the entrance of the place and opens the door that you now have recognized to be the library you two loved and also the place we’re he finally asked you out on a date after years of secretly-not-so-secretly being in love with you. Only now, there was a small round table there, with lit candles and a table set for two.

The shock made you not realize that Spencer had now let go of your hand, as you look to your side, you're met with your boyfriend down on one knee and a small velvet box in his hand.

“Honey, I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you. You’ve been my best friend, the best thing that ever happened to me, you make all the crazy stuff we go through easier, because we’re goin through it together. There’s no one I would rather live life with than you, so will you marry me?”

“Spencer..” That’s the only thing you manage to say, shocked and feeling a kind of happiness you never experienced before. “Of course I will. Oh my god I love you so much” You say, pulling on his arm so he stands up and you kiss him deeply. Feeling an amount of love you never thought was possible.

Once you pull away, he places the delicate ring on your hand and kisses you again. And all you can think is how you can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with him.

[auspicioustidings]

I am sure I must have yapped about this before but consider alpha Ghost who despises omegas. Roba was an omega and he used every bit of his biology against Ghost to try and break him. He just cannot be around omegas now, he hates it when any of his pack even smells like one from being out and about.

It means their pack beta Gaz gets treated like their omega to an extent. It's not like he hates it, it's nice that they want to spoil him, but he also wants to look after someone y'know? Everyone thought he'd present as an alpha when he was growing up and he still feels the instinct to protect those weaker than him. It maybe gets to him a little that he feels like an alpha, he is a beta and he gets treated like an omega.

He does not expect to present late. He certainly does not expect an omega scent match to be the thing that triggers it. You're everything he has ever wanted and he knows he will break Ghost's heart if he brings you home. So he doesn't.

You are rejected by your scent match and it hurts. You didn't realise how awful it would be, how much it would wreak havoc on your system. Alphas can reject a scent match and not be too affected but omegas? It is horrific.

Soap smells you on Gaz no matter how much he tries to hide it. His fucking scent match and Gaz is hiding them. The others were too distracted by Gaz's new alpha scent but Johnny always did have the best nose, and he is not going to let this go. He knows Ghost's feelings and he loves the man, but he will not ignore their omega to spare him from confronting his trauma.

You don't trust him when he tracks you down. Another scent match here to break your heart all over again? He's so upset at how sick you've gotten over it, gets to his knees and begs for a chance for his pack.

Only when you finally let him take you home, Ghost growls at you. One of your scent matched alphas growls at you. You want to die. You run away while Soap and him get into a shouting match.

You meet your last alpha while you are running. Price has no idea what is happening when you crash into him as he's walking the path to home. He never thought he'd have an omega. A scent match at that? It's more than he deserves he thinks. He's happy about you running into him, you're his and it feels wonderful. Only you are wildly distressed while smelling like Soap and he needs to figure out why.

He tells you to stay put because he can feel Ghost through the bond, feel his turmoil. He should never have left you, but his concern for his pack mate took priority.

The thing about meeting all your scent matches in quick succession is that it nose dives you into a heat. But they hate you. One rejected you, one brought you to another so he could growl at you, one left you when you were in distress. You are so distraught that you can't go to them because you are certain they will only be disgusted that you would ask them for help with your heat.

You find the nearest shelter. It's a crumbling shed out the back of their property. It doesn't do much to keep out the cold, there are leaks that get worse when it starts to snow through the night. You wish there would be more because you are burning.

The snow storm muffles your scent. The only reason you don't die is because Ghost braved the storm to go grab more firewood from the shed.

There he is, the alpha who hates omegas with his scent matched omega in heat, in pain and in danger. He walks away. You accept death would be a kindness now.

Except you don't die because he sends the others. You don't die because even though he cannot stand to be around you or to smell you, he gives his pack to you. He sits in the armchair all night listening as his pack bundles you into the pack bedroom and knots you through your heat while desperately trying to combat the hypothermia that was setting in.

It's months and months of angst and tension and misery as the pack tries to divide their love between their pack mate and their omega. Ghost hates himself every time he growls at you and scares you. You hate yourself for tearing this pack apart.

There doesn't seem to be a happy ending here until a pair of betas visit town. Maybe Ale and Rudy are just what this pack was missing to make it whole. Maybe they soothe all those frayed edges, act as a buffer. And maybe, just maybe, one day Ghost and you realise all at once that somewhere between you starting to growl right back at him and him starting to make an extra cup of tea for you, you fell entirely in love.

The rest of the pack can't believe it took you two idiots so long to realise it.

[reidology13]

I tell someone I love them (just as a distraction)

Spencer Reid x fem famous!reader

Summary: In the depths of his addiction, Spencer finds someone who needs an escape as much as he does.

cw: talk of addiction, allusions to sex (no actual smut), angst no happy ending

Meaningless whispers of ‘I love you’ mumbled between laboured breaths and cold kisses in an apartment that doesn’t feel like mine. The sheen of sweat that coats his body is nearly constant these days, it has nothing to do with physical exertion. The glaze over his hollow eyes is the furthest possible thing from pleasure, although by now he might have his wires crossed. His face is beautiful, and I can see myself marrying it in another life, one where my chest isn’t as hollow as his cheeks. A life where I don’t have to ignore the fresh scars in the crook of his elbow as I pull his shirt off.

I am not in that world, and neither is he, a reality that I cannot grieve because this is what I asked for, what I have been working for since before I can remember. The parties that leave me empty and sick, the performances that start the moment I leave the stage, the new friends who tag along for my name. I love him because he doesn’t care about any of it, if only because he’s too high to care about much at all.

I don’t feel anything when I finish, I’m not sure he does, either. I watch as he disappears from my side, already scrambling to his bag, searching through it until he finds what he needs. He slips into the bathroom, finally taking his chance to feel something after the numbness of the night. He has his escape, he used to be mine. I wonder if one day the chemicals he defiles his veins with will stop calming his ever racing mind, or if I just need a higher dose.

When he comes back, I pull him close to me, dragging him back down into the bedsheets and sweat. It works this time, my skin alight with every electrifying touch as his fingers dance gracefully across my body. His hands shake as they move, a feeling that makes my nerves sing as a lump forms in my throat and my heart sinks to my stomach. He looks up at me with those brown eyes that would be so gorgeous if they held any emotion, anything but that violent hunger for a craving he should have satisfied moments earlier. He can’t up his dose as easily as I can, can’t pull his vice back to bed without the risk of never waking up. He doesn’t bother saying that he loves me this time, we both know it’s not true. Or maybe it is, but there are things he loves much more, and telling me he loves me debases one of the only pure things left in the world. I’m glad he doesn’t try this time.

He holds me afterwards, his trembling body not yet ready to stand up, or maybe he knows that the moment he does he’ll be back inside the bathroom. I turn my head away, and as he buries his face in my shoulder, I pretend I don’t feel the apology he mouths against my glass skin. He runs a hand down my upper arm, his touch tentative and light, scared that I’ll shatter into a million pieces. My heart does. If he knows about the tear that runs down my face, he ignores it, and I’m not surprised. Ignorance is what we’re good at, after all.

When I wake up, he’s gone, slipped into the early morning, or called into the job that he shouldn’t be doing in his condition. I crawl out of my cold, damp sheets, the disgusting aftermath of our night. The sick feeling that perpetually sits in my gut, loosening under him, twisting tighter under the sun of the next day. 

Slowly, I peel back the layers of sticky fabric, watching how they cling to my skin and each other as I force them into the washing machine. I turn it on.

Fresh sheets are laid out on my bed, sheets that haven’t yet witnessed the tornado of us, still clean and untainted by tears and sweat and words that never mean anything. I lay the sheet over the mattress, fighting to wrap it around all four corners as it perpetually escapes one, always sitting just slightly wrong. I place the pillows down carefully, fighting the urge to punch them like I’ve been wanting to punch his face every time he shows up at my door.

I can see myself marrying him in this world, too, getting him the help he needs and staying with him through it all. He would be able to be there for me when I need it, not an escape from, but support through the other parts of my life, a person to love and talk to about the hard things. But I know that is still impossible. One day, he will sober up and disappear, or I will be an uninvited guest at his funeral. There’s no option that ends well for both of us, the best we can do is take it as it happens and ignore everything.

I watch as the last blanket floats down over the bed, carelessly adjusting its corners. It looks exactly the same.

[oh-no-its-bird]

hi listen i just had a divine intervention or smth lmk if you don't like it but

what if your team Ro time travel au + my time travel Tobirama

Team Ro would have memories of the canon and they got to this different timeline and there's Tobirama actively trying to seduce Uchiha fucking Madara. They didn't teach THAT in the Academy

They got in the time when Tobirama still orchestrated meetings, but Butsuma is already dead so if everything goes well, Tobirama would get Madara and peace soon.

And then there suddenly spawn a Hatake with a sharingan with 2 Uchiha kids and a Mokuton user. Political nightmare.

Later Tobirama recognises Kakashi and was like "The fuck? It's that Hatake from the war. What is he doing there, he should not have been born yet!!"

OHHH THATS SO GOOD THO???

I'm gonna be real I love the concept of "team ro time travel au but they time travel into someone else's time travel au," that's so good

If we go with your au, there's a really interesting immediate aspect of like: hey ! Tobirama might recognize Kakashi or maybe even Tenzo from the war, but these guys are way fucking younger than when they met !!!

Idk what exactly can be done with that but it's interesting to consider. Also Tobirama talked ab Itachi and his crimes before I'm p sure? So like he knows what happens to the Uchiha and that it was Itachi who did it for the village. I wanna see him faced w the kid who he once praised for slaughtering his own clan to prove his loyalty.

I wanna see him feel the consequences of the stress Itachi is under when he (and possibly Shisui) attempt to kill Madara.

Stop interfering with his fix it fic you brats!! He's already got it covered!! You're just causing a mess!!!!

They get zapped in, like, in the middle of Tobirama's happy ending epilogue too. Tobirama is peacefully eating dinner in his house w his new husband Madara thinking "well. Alls well that ends well." Then BOOM Kakashi Shisui Itachi and Tenzo crash out of fucking nowhere directly onto their table, getting covered in food and breaking the table in half

Immediatley arrested !! I feel like Tobirama would instantly understand what happened by recognizing their uniforms + potentially Kakashi + he's already a time traveler himself so it's really no stretch for him to go "oh fuck I didn't think we'd get a double jepordy in this bitch but I guess not"

But like it's not like he can just SAY that ? Or he could but it would bring a lot of questions he probably does not want to answer.

Now another problem arises in like. I don't think Tobirama is especially attached to any of these guys. I can see him maybe having a lingering "pay it forward ig" feeling just bc they're "loyal konoha soldiers" and it'd be a waste to let that resource just burn. But also like. Under no circumstances can Tobirama have these guys share certain aspects of future knowledge.

Tobirama worked so hard to get here !!!! Literal years of planning !!!! He got his happy ending and it very much rests on Madara staying safe and sane and NO ONE IMPLYING HE WILL BETRAY KONOHA EVER !!!!! Tobirama does not even wanna RISK that becoming a rumor, he will take no chances.

Anyways I think his best course of action would be to reveal himself as a time traveler specifically to team ro, then position himself as their hokage who they should remain loyal to, say that it is for Konoha's best interests that they do not reveal certain things, and play it by ear from there.

Tobirama deciding he can't risk team ro going forward in time again and potentially fucking up the time stream or smthn. They need to stay here. He can not risk losing this shit. Sorry guys it looks like your trapped here <3

Anyways team ro being scary loyal to him bc he is the closest approximation to their (current?) Hokage and only person w the knowledge to enforce that power over them (at this time)

In my original post, like, all of team ro are already established to be kind of at their worst and most loyal to the village at that point to. They are at THE age(s) to be manipulated like that tbh, rip

It's not too bad tho. I think Itachi would feel relieved but also very guilty. Shisui too. Tenzo is violently neutral bc hes still in his "learning to be a real boy" phase from root, but it's all positive for him tbh. Kakashi is tricky bc his mental state is the equivalent of someone rapidly bouncing a ball on a thin pane of glass trying to prove it's bullet proof (it's not) and has like MOUNTAINS of complexes around the words "konoha authority figure" and what he's leaving behind. He's probably the most determined to go back

Anyways uhh. Izuna gets Itachi to help him be skeptical of Tobirama and spy on him. Itachi only agrees bc he violently reminds him of Sasuke (this will develop into a complex if not stopped. Shisui is working on it.)

[engie-ivy]

(Trying something new. Love to hear if you like🙂)

1021 words

High School Conversations

Edgar Bones

“So, how about it, Lupin?”

“... Come again?”

“You. Me. Drinks. It ain't rocket science.”

“No, I actually understand rocket science. You're not making any sense.”

“I want to take you on a date, Lupin.”

“But…why?”

“Why not?”

“For starters, I'm a loner who likes to spend his free time reading a book, while you're a star athlete who's almost the most popular guy at school.”

“Almost?”

“Well, there's-”

“Okay, okay, I know. Don't mention him.”

“So, it's ridiculous for you to want to go on a date with me.”

“It's ridiculous for someone like you to say no to someone like me.”

“‘Someone like me’ might not want to date someone he has so little in common with.”

“Don't be difficult, Loopy.”

"Calling me that won't increase your chances.”

“You should be grateful I'm even willing to spend my time on you.”

“You know what, Bones? Here's my answer: Fuck. You.”

Marlene McKinnon

“Hi there, Loopy Lupin.”

“Good god, what's going on today?”

“Why, that's not a very kind greeting.”

“Why are you talking to me, McKinnon?”

“I heard Edgar Bones asked you out.”

“And I said no, so don't worry, he's all yours.”

"The fact that you'd think I'd be interested in Bones is even more insulting than that rude greeting of yours.”

“I just don't understand what's going on today. First the school's jock, now the head cheerleader. Honestly, is it Talk to a Geek Day or something?”

“No, I think that's in March.”

“What is it, McKinnon?”

“I just want to ask you some questions.”

“I'm really not in the mood for-”

“Question Number One. Who is the most popular guy in school?”

“Sirius Black, of course. With his bad boy-image and that leather jacket of his, but his still perfect grades, that effortless charisma that lets him get away with anything, his guitar playing and that voice, his impossibly attractive smile, and that always-perfect-hair…”

“...”

“Or, ehm, at least that's what all those girls pining after him would say.”

“Of course. Your cheeks have turned a bit red there, Loopy.”

“So is your next question going to be who the most popular girl in school is? If you're just fishing for compliments you could've just said so.”

“Cute how you think I'd need your confirmation. But no, my next question is who is the second-most popular guy in school.”

“Edgar Bones.”

“What, no raving monologue for Bones?”

“Shut it, McKinnon.”

“And how would you describe the relationship between Black and Bones?”

“What is this, Twenty Questions?”

“I hope I won't need twenty, no. Answer this one please.”

“A rivalry. Or, well, a one-sided rivalry, that is. I don't think Black ever wastes much of his time on Bones, but Bones is obsessed with outdoing Black.”

“Like how?”

“Well, when Black wants a motorcycle, Bones wants a motorcycle, when Black gets his ears pierced, Bones gets his ears pierced, when Black starts a band, Bones starts a band. Basically, Bones wants everything Black wants.”

“Exactly. Now, how would a clever boy such as yourself combine this information with Bones asking you out?”

“... I don't know.”

“Oh, I think you do, Loopy. I think you do.”

“No, because the logical inference of the information you're presenting would be that Black wants… me, and there's no logic to be found in that.”

“Black fancies you, Lupin.”

“No. Just… No.”

“Yes. Just yes.”

“McKinnon, maybe for a head cheerleader the most popular guy in school fancying you is within the realm of possibility, but not for us geeky bookworms.”

“Ask Black out, then you'll see.”

“Is this a prank?”

“I'm wounded, Loopy. You think me so cruel?”

“The head cheerleader playing a prank on me is more likely than the high school heartthrob fancying me.”

“Well, since you're so obsessed with the head cheerleader-thing, let me put it this way.

Hey, Hey, Hear Me Cheer,

Hey, Hey, Hear Me Shout,

Lupin Should Ask Black Out!”

“Oh, for god sakes, please stop!”

“Lupin Might Be Geeky As Hell,

Black Just Thinks He's Swell!”

“Please get off the table!”

“Hey, Hey, Lupin Boy,

I've Got News You Might Enjoy!”

“I'll do it, okay? Just stop! Stop, and I'll ask him out.”

“Thank you.”

“You're a nightmare. I don't know why Dorcas likes you so much.”

“Wait, what?”

Sirius Black

“Oh, hello, Lupin.”

“Ehm, hi. So, ehm, a little birdie told me…”

“Mmm, was it a cheering birdie named Marlene?”

“Yup. Look, I know that a guy like me should drop to his knees and praise the lord if a guy like you would even breathe in his direction…”

“What are you talking about?”

“That you're probably expecting me to be grateful for any bit of attention you're willing to pay me, but…”

“Wait, what? Lupin, if anything, you are out of my league.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gods, you're so smart, and you read so many books, while I hardly ever read, and you have such an amazing dry sense of humour, with all those sharp, sarcastic remarks, you make my pranks seem juvenile, and I wear leather jackets and band tees, sure, but you can just wear cardigans and sweater vests and still look so unique and cool, and you have this calming presence over you, like when you're reading and you're chewing your lip in that way that you do…”

“You… you've noticed me.”

“Of course I have. You think I would fancy you without knowing anything about you?”

“Well, yeah. I thought… I didn't think… I don't know, I thought maybe you were bored or something?”

“This is not about me being bored, or about me wanting to shock people, or about me trying to stir the pot, or anything about me really. This is about you. You as a person.”

“You actually…”

“Yeah, I actually.”

“I… I promised that I would… No, screw that. I want to ask you out.”

“I think it's clear by now I would very much be okay with that.”

“Good god, I can't believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but Sirius Black, will you go out with me?”

“I'd love to, Remus Lupin.”

[bunnist4rz]

this is like my second time ever writing fanfictions so like bare with me!! im also very new to resident evil so like if some things aren't accurate do not behead me i hope you enjoy :333 also i need ada so desperately its becoming not funny.

warning: none,, fluff [leon x reader]

"You know, it's weird," you murmur to your best friend, Claire, as you both sit on the worn-out couch in the dimly lit living room, the flicker of the TV casting a bluish glow over the pizza boxes scattered across the floor. "I've never felt so... alive before."

You've been watching old zombie flicks all night, a guilty pleasure you two share, especially on lazy Sundays like this. But your words linger in the air, hinting at something more than just the adrenaline rush from the on-screen horror. Claire pauses the movie, her eyes searching yours for a clue. "What do you mean?"

You take a deep breath, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "I don't know, it's like... every little thing feels so much more vivid now. The way the pizza tastes, the smell of the rain outside, even the sound of the TV static." You chuckle lightly, shaking your head. "It's like my senses have been turned up to eleven."

Leon, who's been quietly sipping his beer from the armchair in the corner, glances over at you with a knowing smile. "It's the aftermath of a close call, isn't it?" he says, his voice a comforting rumble in the quiet room. "You start to appreciate the simple things."

Claire nods thoughtfully. "Maybe it's because you've seen so much of the world, you know what you're fighting for now." She leans over to grab another slice of pizza, her gaze never leaving yours. "Or maybe it's because you've found someone to share those moments with."

A blush creeps up your cheeks as you look away, your heart skipping a beat. Leon's presence has been a constant source of comfort and excitement since he came into your life. Your friendship grew into something more over the months you've spent together, fighting side by side against the horrors that plague your world.

The silence stretches out, filled with the muffled sounds of the city and the distant thunder of a storm rolling in. You swallow, the words catching in your throat. "Do you... do you ever feel that way too, Leon?"

He sets his beer down, the glass clinking gently against the wooden coffee table. "Every day," he says softly, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle sincerity that sends your heart racing. "Every single day."

The tension in the room thickens, and you realize that the storm outside isn't the only one brewing. Slowly, almost as if pulled by an invisible thread, Leon moves from his chair to sit beside you on the couch. The scent of him—leather and gunpowder, with a hint of the mint gum he always chews—fills your nose, and you feel your body leaning closer without you even realizing it.

As he reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, you know that this moment is about to become something far more than just a quiet night in watching movies with friends. It's a declaration of feelings, a promise of a future filled with the simple joys of life—a future you never thought you'd have.

The thunder crashes, echoing the tumult of emotions within you, as Leon leans in, his eyes searching for permission. Your breath hitches, your heart hammering in your chest, and you nod almost imperceptibly.

The moment his lips touch yours, the world outside fades away. The only thing that matters is the warmth of his touch, the taste of his kiss, and the feeling of his arms wrapping around you. It's a kiss filled with the promise of a love that can conquer any horror, a love that's been growing stronger with every shared danger and every quiet moment of peace.

And as the rain begins to patter against the windows, you feel something inside you settle—like you've finally found home in the middle of the chaos. This is what it means to be alive.

Leon's hand cups your cheek, his calloused fingers a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. His kiss is tender, yet filled with an intensity that reflects the passion you've both kept hidden for so long. It's a kiss that speaks of battles won and battles yet to come, of fears faced and fears yet to be conquered.

You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The warmth of his body presses against yours, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that matches your own. The storm outside mirrors the tempest of emotions raging within you, but here, in this moment, you feel safe.

When you finally pull back, the room seems to breathe again. Your eyes lock onto Leon's, and you see the same vulnerability reflected in his gaze. You know that this is it—the moment that will change everything.

"Leon," you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. "I've been waiting for this for so long."

He smiles, a gentle curve of his lips that lights up the room. "Me too," he admits, his thumb still caressing your cheek. "But we have to be careful."

You nod, understanding the weight of his words. In a world where survival is never guaranteed, love is a precious commodity that can't be taken for granted. You lean your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.

The storm outside grows in intensity, the rain coming down in sheets. The sound is soothing, a white noise that blocks out the rest of the world. In the quiet between the thunderclaps, you can hear Claire's footsteps as she retreats to her room, giving you both the privacy you need.

With a deep sigh, Leon shifts, wrapping his arms fully around you. "Thank you for being here," he murmurs into your hair. "Thank you for fighting beside me."

You snuggle closer, feeling the warmth of his embrace seep into your bones. "Thank you for saving me," you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. "For showing me what it means to live."

As the storm rages on, you sit there, holding onto each other, the only two people in the world that matter. The future is uncertain, the dangers untold, but in this moment, you're alive, and you're in love. And that's all that you need to keep going.

[batchilla]

The most married divorced couple - Chapter 4 - Coffee and Custody

Years of well honed instincts through gruelling training had Jason as a perpetually light sleeper. A perpetually light sleeper who knew, even in his sleep, that he was being watched. 

He opens one eye, slowly sitting up as he takes in his surroundings - his wife’s… his ex wife's penthouse apartment. Well, that told him who was watching him at least. Sure enough, peering at him from behind the furthest arm of the couch he’d spent the night on is a tell-tale mess of curls so like his own - and Mary comes scrambling, not around the couch, but up to sit on the arm. “DAD!” 

Every time. Every time, that single word reminds him that there is in fact good in the world, and that his baby girl might just be the epitome of that. She all but tackles him into a cuddle. “You're here!”

He tries not to wince. He doesn’t ever want her to hug him less enthusiastically - but last night hadn’t gone well, and becoming climbing equipment for his daughter did not exactly help his recovery. 

Jason hugs her tight “Hi baby.” he says, his head resting on hers.

“Mm not a baby.” she grumbles “are you stayin’ for breakfast?”

“If mum says yes.” He says, part of him feeling dirty over the manipulative tactic - but the truth of the matter always was that Mary had a higher success rate in campaigning for him to stay then he did. Something about those adorable little eyes, he suspects. Mary hms, tucking her head against her shoulder. 

“M’ glad you came Dad. I don’t want Mr Brett to be my new dad.” Fucking what? Part of him wanted to resort to old methods on this ‘Mr Brett’ with extreme prejudice. For sniffing around his wife and daughter, and for trying to take what should have still been his. 

“What's that now baby?” he says, trying to keep the growing emotions that were making him feel like he was on fire. She didn’t need to know about any of that. 

“Mr Brett, he walks me to school sometimes cus I’m best friends with Jaxon and Riley and Kyle, and sometimes Mum walks me with them. They say its like a ‘carpool’ but cars don’t go to the pool, and the other day he and mummy went for a playdate while I was at grandpa Bruce’s and then Mum was asking how I felt about Mr Brett and I said he was so nice but that I don’t want a new dad and then she turned on baby shark and I got distracted.”  He takes a deep breath. He can’t get mad in front of Mary. Another deep breath. He realistically can’t get mad at all. He knows that. He had been divorced from his wife for four years. She was allowed to seek out … companionship. Had he? No. Did it feel akin to a betrayal? He knew it shouldn’t - but it did. She didn’t need to be lonely - and he didn’t want her to be. But he did hope that he’d somehow end up being the solution, not this fucking ‘Mr Brett’ asshole. Even then - companionship was one thing, but a relationship serious enough she’d mention it to Mary?

“Well, I’m sure he’s… nice, if your Mum likes him.”

“Mhm. Maybe you can say hi when he comes to get me for school.” “Speaking of school!” His wife's voice sounds from her doorway, loud enough to tell him she’d heard enough of that to panic slightly. “Mary, get dressed, you’ll be late.” 

Mary reluctantly separates from the hug, dragging her feet dramatically “Okay mum. Even though Dad’s here and he NEVER is, school happens every day and is super boring.”

“Nice try bubba.” she says, folding her arms and shaking her head. The second their child shuts the door - still loudly complaining about how unfair it all was, which in Jason’s opinion was psychological warfare, which his ex wife seemed somehow immune to, Jason turns to her. “We need to talk.”

She sighs “I guess we do. But not in front of Mary.” She runs a hand through her hair. “She’ll have eggs and toast soldiers - you want some?”

“Sure,” he says, trying to sound less bitter than he feels as he watches her head to the kitchen.

“So, Brett…” He says, following her to the kitchen and grabbing the bread and putting it in the toaster.

“Charles Brett.” you clarified.

Jason had to physically restrain himself from laughing. “Charles Brett? Those are both first names. You’ve replaced me with a man with a first name for a last name.”

“I haven’t REPLACED you, you LEFT!” She says, indignant furry in her eyes as she whips around to face him, stove at her back. Jason felt his blood boil. Yes, he’d left, but he hadn’t wanted to!

“And then you wouldn’t let me come BACK!” he counters, trying to keep his voice level, but not managing it. 

“BECAUSE YOU WERE RIGHT TO LEAVE!” She yells, tears in her eyes. 

“you fighting?” Mary asks, opening her bedroom door, tugging at the tie of her Gotham academy uniform as if it had personally offended her.

  “No sweetie.” they say in unison, as they shoot her reassuring smiles.

It doesn’t work.

She regards you both suspiciously, and takes her toast and eggs “please don’t fight. Dad’s never here and mum always cries when you leave so please don’t fight now.” “What?”

“Please don’t fight. Dad’s never here and mum always gets sad when you leave so please don’t fight now.”

“What?” Jason asks, glancing from Mary to you. You were proud that you’d raised an honest, headstrong young lady who had no hesitation speaking her mind. You did sometimes, such as right now, wish she did it a little less often around Jason. Jason who was now looking at you with a face you hated for how little you could read. He used to be an open book to her. Mary pulls herself onto the chair at the kitchen bench and dips her toast into her egg. “We got two names.” she points out to Jason. “Todd’s a boy's name.”

You sigh, and sip your coffee. She’d heard all of it. How lovely. 

Your baby girl looks at you, her hair in an attempt of a ponytail, her uniform slightly overlarge still, being early in the school year, both making her look so, so tiny. “What did dad mean? That you wouldn’t let him come back?”

You feel like you're falling. Luckily, there’s no amount of hurt, upset, or angry that Jason could be that would mean he wouldn’t come to your aid. “See cherub… Daddy didn’t mean that.” He says, grabbing her shoulder gently.

“I did… Well, I’m sure someone at school might’ve said, or the news… Marriage is supposed to be a promise to love each other forever … and I broke that promise.” Jason takes a deep breath.

 “What I did hurt your mum. She hasn’t forgiven me. Maybe she won’t ever. She doesn’t have to.” He shakes his head. “I said what I said because I was upset, but… It’s not her fault. It’s mine.”

You offer him an awkward, tight smile. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you baby girl. Just that … being married wasn’t the best option for us anymore.”

“...” Mary leans into her Dads side, her face solemn and thoughtful. You have to avert your gaze from the pair, lest you start crying - or worse - forgive him. 

“Do you still love mum?” she asks quietly, and Jason opens his mouth, hesitating for a second - which saves him from needing to answer the question. Only to make the situation a million times worse for you. Jason looks to the door. “Brett?” he asks, addressing you, but his gaze not leaving the door, with a look in his eyes that reminds you of darker days. “Brett.” You confirm, taking a deep breath as you move towards the door. “You packed M?”

“Yeah Mum,” she says, grabbing her backpack and shrugging it on, wrapping her arms around Jason’s waist in a goodbye hug. 

“See ya soon Dad?”

“...Yeah, baby. Really soon. Promise.” He says, ruffling her hair. 

You open the door, hoping to do this quickly, before things get even more uncomfortable. Charles Brett is a shorter man, with brown hair, brown eyes, forever slightly unkempt and a had perpetually tired look in his eyes from being a single father of three. But he has a kind smile, and you like him. He’s … a good man. He’s not Jason, but then again no one is. 

“Charles, Hi.” You say, leaning against the door to bar entrance. Normally you’d invite him in, have coffee or let the kids watch a episode of bluey while you chatted if the morning was running on schedule. 

He says your name, but catches your discomfort before he says anything more, and his gaze moves past you, looking for its source - and he finds it.

“Oh, Hello - Jason, yes? The ex husband?” He asks, pretending not to know who he was, as if he hadn’t seen the many magazines and heard the gossip surrounding his incredibly public, if staged, infidelity. As if Jason, in his need to convince Roman you meant nothing, hadn’t publicly called you a bitch. Jason doesn’t seem to remember that at this moment, and you watch as he puffs up his chest in rage. 

“Yeah. You have an issue with that?” he asks, moving to stand behind you.

“And if I do—-”

“Not. In. Front. Of. The. Kids.” You interject, before it can go too far. 

“Have a good day at school sweetie.” You say, kissing the crown of Mary’s head, giving Charles an apologetic smile, and all but slamming the door and turning to Jason. 

“He’s a good man.” You growl. Because he is. And because Mary needs a positive male influence, and Jason hasn’t been able to be that. And because you are a little worried that Jason is going to use his alter ego to run him off. 

“He’s sniffing around where he doesn’t belong.” Jason counters, stepping forward. You step back, and feel the door knob press against your spine. 

“He belongs here if I want him here.” You reply, refusing to be intimidated. “Yeah, well he doesn’t get to be my kids fucking dad! I’m her dad!” You cut your own angry response short “what? We’ve been on two dates. No one is becoming a dad to our daughter?!” “That’s not what she said” Jason says, folding his arms. “Mary got ‘married’ twice last week at recess and last I checked had two boyfriends and a girlfriend.” You roll your eyes. “She is not the leading expert in how adult relationships work.” Jason takes a deep breath. “So it’s not… serious?” You shrug. “It’s not … Look. We’re adults. We both have kids. We don’t have a lot of time for casual flings, and the kids get along so need to be protected. We are taking it seriously, but it’s early days.” He nods slightly, “I’m having bab’s look into him.” You close your eyes and exhale. “Jay…” “I won’t do anything unless I find something substantial.” he reluctantly promises. “But I don’t take chances when it comes to you.” You feel his presence loom closer despite your eyes being closed. You open them to see your ex husband’s hand lingering in the air a few centimetres from your shoulder, his eyes sad and longing as he stands before you. “Is he good to you?” He asks, the anger gone from his voice. “Can you… see a future with him?” “Why does it matter to you?” You ask. It’s mostly rhetorical. You know why, and really what you mean to ask without saying it in as many words… is if Jason feels he has any right to intervene if his search finds anything more serious than a questionable browser history.

“Why does it matter to you?” The words feel wrong against his very ears. His tenuous grasp on the cool facade he’d put up, which had almost begun to take a true effect, with those six words is utterly shattered. He feels his heart pounding, too fast, too hard, too angry. The pit changed him, in many ways. The anger had always been there. The pit had made it worse. He’d never once take it out on you. He’d sooner die. But it exists in him, clawing like a beast against the inside of his ribs. Why does it matter? Why does it FUCKING MATTER? It screams, it throws itself against his skin, it burns his eyes and boils in his blood. How can you not understand how deeply he loves you? How can you not understand that he’d destroy anything that wished you or Mary harm and delight in it? That if you hadn’t been in his life back then, he’d surely be on a very different path? How do you not understand? He turns away, tugging a hand through his hair, he cannot look at her in this moment, cannot meet those beautiful eyes, can’t bear to see the face he adores above all others contorted by anger. “It matters to me because I still fucking love you.” He says through gritted teeth, through the shame, the rage, and the hurt. “And because I know you know that,” He continues, stepping further back to pace the apartment - the home - that he had once shared with you. He hears her move across the hardwood towards him. Feels a hand on his arm. “Jason…” She says quietly, as if to soothe a wounded beast - and he wishes it didn’t work as well as it did. He wishes he didn’t feel like a frightened, pained, hissing beast. He pushes her away. Not aggressively - but a firm, nonverbal denial. “Roman fucked with our kid. I don’t regret what we did as a result. But love, he’s been in the ground for years. I know that it could happen again… But I don’t want to keep missing my kids' childhood because of that fear. If her safety costs us… then so be it. But I don’t accept that it will. I refuse. The only fucking reason I kept these-”

 He holds up the rings on the cord around his neck “Is to put yours back on your fucking finger one day.” He sits at the bench, his hands in his pockets so you can’t see his knuckles go white. So you can’t see his pain, or how bad what he is about to do scares him. “I don’t ever want to fight you. You know that, right?” He looks at you, and he hopes that whoever or whatever is out there he doesn’t sound as sad as he feels. He looks at her, his friend, his daughter's mother, his ex wife who he’d never truly seen as an ex anything, and he sees a woman who’s hurting as he is, but while he sees the solution to their pain as recovery of what was, she sees the solution as acceptance. She cannot help him. He cannot help her. But, together, perhaps, they can help their daughter. “I want you to know this isn’t just because of Brett. Though hearing Mary talk about a new dad did light a fire under my ass. I want custody. Shared, I mean.” He puts his head in his hands, elbows on the kitchen counter. “I’ll be asking for 50/50. Please.” He looks at her through his fingers. “We make a good team. Don’t make this be ugly.” She sighs, sad and tired and hurting. “I think we’re both a little too charged to talk about that right now. Can we have coffee in a few days?” He nods. “Yeah. Yeah that works for me. I uh… I’ll call Alfred to send a car round for me… and you can text me the details?”

A week later, you find yourself sitting in the back of a coffee shop, waiting for Jason to return with your drinks. You try not to dwell on the fact that despite not having asked, you knew he didn’t need to to know your order even after all this time.  You shuffle the papers of notes you’d had your lawyer look over. True, you trusted him. You thought he’d be a good father. You’d still stayed divorced for a reason. “I have concerns.” You say ternsly as he takes the seat across from you. He’s cleaned up. You can’t focus on that. You have a little girl who needs to come first right now - and you take a breath to remind yourself that she’s just as important to Jason. “Figures.” He says, but his tone is lighthearted. “Part of me just hates the idea of seeing her less.” You admit. He just nods, without judgement, without making the point that he knows what that’s like, simply letting you speak for the moment. “And it’s not because I like having her more than you, but because… I cried when she went on her first sleepover and she’s my baby.” You continue, picking at the napkin dispenser absentmindedly. “But beyond that there are logistical concerns as well. I know your … various residences…” safehouses. 

“Are safe. But moving as often as you do…” At least twice a week as a safety precaution.

“isn’t ideal for obvious reasons. Not to mention… She’s smart. She’s smart and she’s nosey.” Jason sips his coffee “her father’s daughter” “Nosey maybe. Smart? Debatable.” He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “I see your point though. We don’t want her to find out about the families… extracurricular activities.” You sip your drink. Sure enough, he’d remembered your order. Damn him and his perfect memory and his perfect face. “I’ve put some thought into it.” He reassures, and you nearly snort. Some thought? Knowing Jason, knowing his family? Several hours of thought had gone into any decision they deemed remotely important. You’d attended meetings, essentially war councils, while you were still married about the most minor aspects of their cover. “With my … schedule, 50/50 won’t be possible without her knowing everything, and she isn’t ready yet. But I want weekends, which I… we? Would spend at the manor. For stability.” “We?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. Jason gives you the same grin that had made you fall in love with him. Your stomach turns to a lepidopterarium. Damn him. “Well, last I checked Bruce said you were welcome at the manor whenever you wished… and if she was coming with you, it wouldn’t need to be a legal arrangement. Less of a paper trail is safer for Mary.” Jason says it matter of fact. Detached. Like he’s explaining a mission, not talking about his life, or his child’s. You know better than to fall for it. He runs a hand through his hair and winks at you. “Though if there needs to be a paper trail I’d prefer it be one leading to us again. I said some shit I shouldn’t have the other day. I apologise for that. You can keep seeing that Charles idiot - I was a prick about him, and his background check came back clean. But… I meant it. I fully intend to fight to get you back.” He stands to leave before you can process or argue. “So… See you Saturday morning?” he says not at all a genuine question, kissing your forehead and heading to the door, much like he might disappear after a one liner as Red Hood. You suspect it’s a strategy that works on cops or criminals - but is less impressive to his ex wife. All you can think to call after him is “SAYING THAT AND WALKING OFF ISN’T AS SLICK AS YOU THINK”

taglist @jasontoddproblems

@fic-over-cannon

@stormz369

[katyspersonal]

Someone really said we shouldn't take Messmer's last words ( when he cursed Marika) seriously because he was demonically possessed by the abyssal serpent ijbol

I do not think that it was the case either! My impression from his phase transition was more of him finally giving into his serpentine nature, and thus, finally allowing himself to feel his true feelings!

"Hatred that would be confined" here can mean both him hating himself (since fire is a hazard to the Erdtree, evidenced by Fire of Ruin and Destined Death, so why not his?) OR hating her for having forsaken him! Except... they are not mutually exclusive. He could have hated himself for existing as something that could inevitably bring ruin to everything she created and hated her for abandoning him!

Like other characters in the DLC, he is aware that we've been called by Grace of Gold, her creation, to become her new Lord! Nonetheless, he decides to still disrespect what counts as her wishes, which already gives something away, at least for me. It could be that him taking Crusade beyond just vengeance, to fascism level, WAS what split them apart, and he is still convinced he knew what was better for purity and life of her Order better than her (LOOOOVE this version because it makes him even scarier). It could be jealousy, because some nobody Tarnished would get the chance to fix things for her when he tried to do the same and yet she was not "grateful". It could be that this "purpose" he took up for her feels like the only thing still connecting them, since she is not coming back. It could be many things that I can keep listing!

Yet, at the same time, he asks her forgiveness before removing the seal! So, killing someone he (correctly) believes she is awaiting is a lesser crime than removing the seal she gave to him to keep Base Serpent away? I think it is very telling that the root of how much he hates his flame is her hatred of it.

( x ) Perhaps, by being deadset on killing everyone spurn of her grace, he sort of overcompensates for how much he hates himself for being graceless (in a way, 'shorn of light' is very blatant)... He can't fix his nature, nor can she, but he could remove her OTHER pains and grudges. He is compensating!.. like, for how much he wishes to never having been born, or something...

Damn this got weirdly sad And a simpler interpretation is that it was just a cry of pain, because he was dying and she was not there for him. Or maybe it was the horror of feeling like he was to fall into Abyss, since he removed the seal? Not that I ever died in my life yet, but I'd imagine that thoughts and emotions upon violent death would not be very rational!

I really want some help with Japanese description of this item, because this "but never again" feels like some sort of grudge. Like that she realised it was useless; not so much because what afflicted him was untreatable, but because she deemed him not worthy of any more chances! You see what I mean! Again, English choices of words should be taken with a grain of salt.

Messmer also was not "possessed" by Base Serpent, he became Base Serpent! Saying you will be taken in jaws by a serpent shorn of light, he means himself! He has a habit of addressing himself in third face already, saying that you will meet death in the embrace of "Messmer's" flame, not "his" flame! There is definitely some parallel with Malenia unleashing Scarlet Rot again just to not lose to us, but whereas Scarlet Rot is confirmed to eat away at people's personality and memories (Millicent's questline), nothing said it was the case for the Base Serpent!

(Images by Zlofsky as usual) All statues of Marika in the Lands Between are missing heads... except for one, depicting her as a mother holding a child, hidden in his chamber by a veil. I need to check it later, but in at least three cases it makes no sense to be this way: one in the Church of the Crusade where Queelign hangs out, another surrounded by his soldiers, and another in Shadow's Keep itself! UNLESS, he is the one responsible for crashing the images of her head...?

It feels like he has been very conflicted long before this dreadful moment of unleashing his serpentinge nature! He did not want to think of her because it hurt, but also still wished to be held by her again. Considering the statues, it feels like he hated her as a Goddess, but loved her as a mother. So, he hates her divine existence, her as an owner of the Erdtree, a "destined victim" of all fires, but also knows it can't be separated from her and follows her design. Perhaps, follows TOO much.

Basically it IS a reasonable assumption that upon his death, he's been feeling as though he did everything he could for her, but that was not enough for her to see beyond her fear! Worse yet: she did try to love him, but "never again"! Hatred of abandoned child is a very intense thing, but it is also not a true hatred. It is more akin to cry for being accepted, but distorted into insults, curses, pushing away and such!

^^^ If this doesn't look like Humanity running wild manifestation of someone's own repressed self-hatred, loneliness and suffering getting unleashed I don't know what does fdhfdhs I don't know, man... I just think there is more evidence for the fact that he's been suffering because of her.

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 6 - Legends & Destiny

Happy second to last day of @nessianweek! I have for you a Witcher!Cassian and sorceress!Nesta AU.

You can read here or on ao3!

Out of the Fog, Into the Mist

CW: consensual sexual content, reference to underage marriage and sex trafficking.

In the town of Mulbrydale, just north of the river near Hanged Man’s Tree, whispers rode the chill autumn air like restless ghosts. For weeks, the townsfolk held their breath as a dark shadow loomed over them: girls had begun to vanish. Four in total, all last seen in the gnarled woods at the fringes of their fields. And so a notice was put out on boards around Velen, that anyone who could find the girls (or the culprit) would eat and sleep well in any house, and could lay claim to a hefty sum.

It smelled like trouble, the sickly sweet of a body left long to rot, but Cassian needed the coin. And after four nights sleeping on the hard-ass ground of this war-ravaged cesspool, he wasn’t picky about how he got it.

“They go over the ridge to let the goats feed in the scrubs. Come sundown the goats come back, but not the girls,” the local innkeep explained, and Cassian saw the ripple of fear pass through him as he said it, the curl of his stooped shoulders.

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the stink wafting off his new employer, though maybe he’d ceased to be nose-blind to himself. “So you want me to find what’s killing them.”

“Not killin’, Master Witcher - snatchin’.” The man’s voice was grave despite the lilting accent. “We’ve searched these wood a dozen times and found naught, not a bone. Tweren’t even no blood. Must be a fearsome thing to take them without a trace.”

He gave Cassian a look he’d seen a thousand times then, the furtive dart of a gaze that lingered on the cat-like yellow of his mutated eyes, the two swords at his back: steel for men, silver for monsters. He tried to ignore it, along with the rage that bubbled up at how common folk saw him, a beast barely better than those he slayed.

“And it’s only girls? No boys, too?”

The innkeep shook his head, leaned in to whisper, “The boys come home all dazed-like, remember nothin’. Except for Young Ian, but he were half mad already.”

Cassian sighed and considered the possibilities. There were the tragic but mundane - the girls got lost, or else ran off, ending up for the wolves either way. Then the tragic and unjust, that someone or something was abducting them: slavers, traffickers. It seemed less likely the cause was supernatural, though hags were known to have a penchant for young females, maybe a lesser vampire.

He didn’t relish any of the outcomes, if he was honest with himself. But he’d seen the lavish church at the end of the high street and knew there could be no drought of money in this town, despite the dilapidated dwellings. Crisis had a habit of making converts of even the most secular, and the people of Mulbrydale shed their coin for the Church of the Eternal Fire like the yellow birch leaves now littering their street.

“What did this Young Ian claim to see?” he asked, and the innkeep shrugged where he’d turned to wipe a grimy mug. Whether beast or bastard, Cassian figured the snatcher must have a stash spot nearby since none of the bodies had been found, or else there’d be tracks from a caravan or band of outlaws. 

“He says he saw a lady in the wood, the same day the last girl disappeared. Said she spoke to him day afore yesterday when he went lookin’ for his own sister, Abby. Didn’t find no trace of her, but came back babblin’ like a loon about how he met some Gray Lady. Blue eyes and hair spun of gold, he says.”

Instincts prickling, Cassian leaned closer across the grubby counter, trying to hide his voice below the din of other midday patrons who apparently had nothing better to do than drink. “Did he seem.. Out of it? Acted strange ever since?”

“Well he’s never been quite right, but he did turn down a sympathy romp with Marna over there when he came to tell the tale. Never afore he done that.” 

The aforementioned must’ve heard her name, for a dull-eyed woman rose her head from where it had been plastered to a scrubbed wood table and offered him a watery smile. The innkeep gave him a significant look, eyebrows raised.

The pieces were beginning to fall into place, an artist’s first pass of paint over a canvas. It definitely wasn’t wolves, and while he hadn’t ruled out some other creature it was clear this being was intelligent, enough to cover his own tracks. That left fewer options, all of them dangerous.

Cassian straightened, confident he’d wrung every bit of useful information out of the man, tossed his last few coppers on the counter before draining his ale.

“Thank you. Tell me where to find this Young Ian, and the families of the girls, and I’ll be on my way. And as for my fee..”

They haggled for a moment, and he managed to get the innkeep up a few more crowns, enough to see him through until he reached Oxenfurt. Once there he could rest a bit easier, in more comfort with the dearth of contracts in the city. Maybe even spring for a sympathy romp himself.

Cassian left his horse tethered outside the inn and made his way to the main street. Townsfolk froze in their churning and smithing and general idling to gawk at him, some spitting in his path or crossing themselves and mumbling prayers to the Eternal Fire. Even the reedy looking man in the pillory had the gall to sneer at him, but they were all reactions he’d endured for many years, and Cassian only sent his well-practiced curse to his parents for selling him off so young.

For it was a witcher’s lot in life to be both needed and reviled, a freak mutated with poisons to be stronger, faster, with keener senses and quicker healing. His kind were made, not born, though he might as well have been for all the choice he had in it. 

At the first three girls’ houses Cassian found similar scenes - weeping mothers, dull-eyed siblings, fathers crackling with impotent rage. And the same story thrice over: that their daughter walked over the ridge to the forest like she always did, and at sundown only the goats came home, no trace to be found. 

The tale was simple enough, but something snagged in the back of Cassian’s mind as he trudged up the lane toward the last house. Maybe it was that all the girls were near age thirteen, all described as both comely and disobedient by their fathers. The way the mothers cringed away from their husbands, the young boys in each house better nourished than their sisters.

Abby was the third girl who’d gone missing, who also happened to be the sister of the young man who’d claimed to see the phantom in the forest. Her former house was a sad little cottage of pitch and straw at the end of the lane, leaning drunkenly to one side from time and shoddy construction. Its owner leaned in much the same manner where he sat out front, propped up on a stool with a jug between his feet, dirt and sweat caked along his hairline.

Cassian cleared his throat and the man jolted upright at the sound, somehow startled even though Cassian was big enough to cast a shadow across him from several feet away.

“I hear your daughter’s gone missing,” Cassian bit out, already expecting no useful information. “And your son saw a woman in the woods. What can you tell me?”

The man hiccoughed and blinked up at him, weaving slightly though he was sitting still. “My Abby. She’s gone. The Gray Lady took ‘er.”

“What Gray Lady?”

“Ian seent her, my - hic - son. When he went lookin’ for his sister.” He gestured toward the forest and belched wetly, making Cassian take a step back. “Said he saw a figure in the woods before passing out, and when he woke this was - hic - in his pocket along with one of Abby’s hair - hic - ribbons.”   

The man nodded downward. Cassian looked closer now at the jug between his feet and saw a small flower sticking from the opening, an ordinary celandine. But the yellow petals shimmered in the light, strange, unearthly, and he felt his witcher’s medallion hum against his chest at the presence of magic.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It won’t die. The priest says it’s an omen from the Eternal Fire, that it marks the unnatural has - hic - taken ahold of her. That I gotta pay to have my home cleansed so the blight don’t spread to my others. But I think she sent it as a sign she’s still out there, that she needs me to come save her. Somethin’s not right in those woods, I’m tellin’ you. Somethin’ wicked snatched my girl, I feel it.”

Zealots and swindlers, all priests of that bloodthirsty religion, but Cassian couldn’t deny the wrongness that radiated from the flower, a clumsiness in how the magic wavered he couldn’t quite place. The girl’s father burst into pitiful tears then, and Cassian almost felt sorry for him, as much as he was capable of, anyway. 

“And it would take her of course, my Abby. Most beautiful girl in Velen. She was supposed to be - hic - married next month, you know. I knew one day some important man would come through and see her and have to take her for a wife. Offered a handsome sum, too. My girl. Knew she couldn’t have been born so pretty for - hic - nothin’.” He dissolved once more into weeping, mumbling to himself, a man lost in his own head.

Yet despite the way his voice trembled, something about his grief left a bad taste in Cassian’s mouth, like beer gone slightly off. And not because of the myth that witcher mutations robbed one of normal human emotions - he had more of those than this man was having coherent thoughts at present - but he seemed much sadder about the lost coin than his own flesh and blood.

After a few additional questions that got him nowhere, Cassian left the man cradling the flower, stroking it with one delicate finger and muttering about farm equipment that needed repairing. 

The mystery was starting to come together more clearly, though parts still felt obscured, a thick bank of fog blocking the places where it all connected. The flower was strange, the magic rudimentary, but Abby at least had reasons to run away, or perhaps a suitor uninterested in paying her father what he thought she was worth.

He trudged back up the lane, stomach growling.

With information from a street urchin he cajoled by letting her hold his sword, he soon found Young Ian hiding in the community stables. He could’ve been no older than twenty, sprawled in a pile of straw with one hand tugging hard at his fluffy hair, a ragged feather quill in the other. There was a piece of grubby parchment stretched over his knee, and Cassian wondered if the innkeep was right about his sanity when he saw line after line written and crossed out, fitful scribblings of an unsound mind. 

“Wanted to ask you some questions about the missing girls,” Cassian said gruffly, and the sandy-haired head whipped upwards, startled.

“I didn’t see nothin’,” he grumbled, muddy green eyes hazy. “Now git on with ye, I’m in the middle of somethin’.”

“Yes I can see that. Mind taking a break so we can both get on with our business?”

Ian bared his teeth to retort but seemed to catch himself, spotting Cassian’s leather armor, his twin swords. “Aye, you’re one o’ them witcher’s, ye are. I heard stories about ye. No feelings, none at all.”

“Thanks for your input. Now tell me about the woman you saw.”

“N-no, I didn’t see no-” Ian stammered, but Cassian felt his patience growing short. His belly was empty and so was his coin purse, and none of that would be remedied by debating his own emotional capacity.

“I don’t fucking care what you were doing out there, just tell me what you saw.”

“She told me not to tell.”

Beyond aggravated, Cassian felt his hand moving up to cast Axii before deciding to do so. Ian’s eyes instantly went glassy, his own will dampened, and he glanced out the stable door before leaning in close.

“I saw her,” he said, voice wavy with delight. The reverence that broke across his face crinkled the dirt at the corners of his eyes. “The Gray Lady. She was there in the woods, in naught but a robe, and she was the most beautiful -”

“This was a human woman?”

“Tweren’t nothing human about her, Sir Witcher, sir. She was - She -”

A faint buzzing sounded, and Cassian felt his medallion hum against his chest again. Something was preventing the young man from telling what he’d seen despite Axii’s influence, perhaps from remembering it altogether. He could read now the scribbled lines on the parchment - poetry, declarations of love to a golden-haired goddess. The gifts he’d lavish upon her, where he’d lick - 

With a groan, Cassian lumbered away from the young man, who returned moony-eyed to his musings with hardly a second glance. This job just kept getting worse.

It was too late to back out now, he reasoned, and he returned to the inn to wait for nightfall. And to stew over what the fuck he was going to do.

For this was no common trafficker or hag or even an incubus that took those girls, any of which would be preferable to what it probably was. It was most likely a creature more formidable than all others, against which he had a particular weakness. Cassian sharpened his silver sword while the townspeople descended into drunkenness that evening, trying to ignore the dread that had begun to coil in his stomach, wondering if the blade would even make a difference.

When the moon was a pale wisp on the horizon, he slipped out of the tavern and proceeded into the woods on foot, not trusting his horse to resist whatever tricks may lay in wait. The forest was dense and silent, quieter than it had any right to be, and he met none of the usual night creatures as he wound further between the trees. Cassian found himself holding his breath at intervals, the creeping feeling that he was treading somewhere he ought not go, pressing ahead in defiance. Perhaps in foolishness, too. 

Water sounded close by, the smell of wet earth and something sweeter, trunks thinning to indicate a glade ahead. The ground was softer here, and with his witcher’s sight he noticed a crisscross of small footprints in the mud, a scrap of flowery fabric snagged on a branch. A twist of magic drifted on the air, sharp and metallic, making his lip curl and his medallion shudder.

Yet at the same time his better sense begged to turn back, a thread tugged low in his gut, pulling him forward. With the blessing of vision in the dark, Cassian crept through the trees until he came at last to a starlit clearing.

A gray-robed figure stood in the pool of a silver waterfall, hood shrouding the details of her heart-shaped face. He could tell it was a woman from the contours of her body, from the long, golden-brown hair that swayed like reeds in the updrafts from the falls. Though he’d approached on silent footsteps, she turned in greeting like he’d come crashing through the brush, her full mouth bracketed with annoyance as if he’d kept her waiting.

Slender hands reached up to remove the hood, and the woman beneath was unlike he’d ever seen, tall and willowy, her face glowing like the moon. And those eyes - he could see why Ian was trying to put his passion to paper. They were the blue-gray of a winter sky reflected in his sword, smoldering like white-hot embers in the night. His empty stomach fell out then, for such unnatural beauty only graced one kind of creature.

A sorceress.

All around him plants rustled in a phantom breeze, giant tropical flowers, willows with branches that trailed in the clear pool at his feet. He could see silver-scaled fish flashing in the water, chiming where they brushed against one another, against her shapely legs. Legs he’d die to have wrapped around his waist, or crushing his head as he -

A tendril of magic wrapped about his throat, choking off his breath before he could shield himself. Cassian saw one elegant eyebrow raise when he didn’t pass out immediately, knew it was a trap but oh, what a trap to die in.

Fucking sorceresses.

“You seek the missing girls.”

Her voice was like liquid starlight, and he tried to stammer out an explanation but found only a dumb groan pouring from his throat. “Do you mind toning down your glamour?” he managed once he’d collected himself enough. “It’s giving me a headache.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, and he wondered if she expected him to fall to her feet as the village boy had. As many others had before, he suspected. 

But she relented, the intense aura around her dimming somewhat to reveal a woman more earthly, yet somehow more beautiful still. She had a severe look about her, her face all angles, and he couldn’t help how his eyes traced her lush body, more gorgeous than he’d seen in many long years. Not that it meant anything about her potential to rip him in half, though it certainly was an.. Obstacle.

“You know where they are,” he choked out.

She smiled, cloying, and the wind brought the scent of lilacs drifting toward him once more. “I take it you’ve come to rescue them from evil, brave knight.”

Her countenance was soft and inviting, but Cassian knew what wolves could live in pretty clothing. Knew the dangers in taking her kind’s word, drilled into him through experiences both vicarious and personal.

Don’t ever trust a fucking sorceress.

He should be better at learning from his mistakes by now.

“Where are they?”

“Safe.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for it.”

He’d heard of crooked mages snatching girls to sell to the academies, earning commissions based on each student’s aptitude. In a dream world the law would put a stop to it, a fool’s dream given Velen had a skewed view of justice these days. But something about the woman before him gave him pause, a crispness in her manner that belied a stronger moral code. Mostly the fact she hadn’t killed him yet.

“What other choice do you have?” she said in her silvery voice, and a shudder threatened to steal through him.

“I could kill you.The families think some evil creature stole them. Want me to bring back its head.”

He knew it was a gamble, but he wanted to gauge her power, how much of a threat he posed to her. Her moonbright eyes darted toward his weapons - he saw genuine fear there, and Cassian wondered if he’d misjudged her before her expression melted back into smugness.

“Two swords. I should’ve known.” She wrinkled her delicate nose and gods, he wanted to kiss where the skin crinkled. “They’ve hired you to dispatch the monster, and here you are.”

“Tell me where the girls are and there’ll be none to kill.”

“Those zealots wouldn’t know a real monster if it were clawing at their hollow legs,” she muttered to herself before straightening. “Then it seems I must plead my case. Come. Let’s see if I can’t convince you to spare me.” 

She flashed that sensual, terrifying smile again and Cassian was half tempted to turn around and sprint away. Sorceresses were of a duplicitous ilk at best, abjectly cruel at worst, and whatever this one was doing out here on her own, the whole thing spelled trouble. He got the distinct impression she was concealing something, though what it was difficult to say. But when she extended a hand out toward him, Cassian couldn’t find it in himself to deny her, to think anything but whether its owner would let him press his lips to it, among other places. 

“Well?” she asked. “Are you coming in, or must we do this in the cold?”

She beckoned him forward before turning and walking straight through the waterfall. Cassian  followed dumbly on leaden legs, braced himself for the rush of chill water but was met with only a whisper of warm air, the scent of lilac and parchment dancing on the wind.

They emerged into a circular courtyard, surrounded on three sides by a stone villa tucked into a mountainside, archways leading to various chambers beyond. The remaining side stood open to the night air, the steep drop beyond, shadows shifting in the light of several braziers along the perimeter. His hostess looked different, too, her roughspun cloak transformed into a high-collared gown, the deep plum fabric spotless where it swept against the polished stone floor. A lush banquet was laid out before them, and even as his stomach growled Cassian knew this was a mistake, knew she already had her hooks in him and was just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“Let’s have dinner before you decide to kill me.” Her smile was luminous and terrifying, and he swallowed in spite of himself. She gestured to a plush-cushioned seat at one end of the long table, draping herself in the one opposite. “Well, witcher. Have you the courage to drink for a sorceress’ cup?”

Along with her clothing, she’d transformed into an even smoother, more self-assured woman now they were in her bower, a spider biding time at the edge of her web. A goblet appeared before him when he eased into the chair, as if dropped out of thin air. The wine within was blood-red, and Cassian felt himself overcome with a thirst that he tried to resist.

“Depends.”

“On what?” She quirked her head to the side, amused.

“Whether I can be of some use to you.”

Her eyes flashed, and he thought saw something like his own hunger mirrored there, but it might’ve been a trick of the light.

“Oh I’m sure you can be very useful, Lord of Bloodshed.”

He balked when she used his nickname, the one he’d earned on the battlefield in the last Temerian rebellion. Her smile widened. 

“Let’s negotiate. You believe I’m involved in the girl’s disappearance. The villagers have asked you to come kill me, and offered you a certain amount of coin to do so.”

“That’s right.”

Cassian eased his swords off his back and set them against the table beside them. That she’d let him keep them would’ve been comforting to a novice, but he knew enough now to tell she wasn’t foolish. Just secure enough in her own power not to worry.

“So it would stand to reason that if I offer you the same amount of coin, you’d happily be on your way.”

It might not be an empty promise - along with the fine dishware on the table, all manner of gemstones and arcane artifacts cluttered the high shelves between the archways, any one of which would’ve doubled his commission.

“That would be true if I didn’t have a reputation to uphold. A witcher doesn’t skip out on a job without good reason.”

“Am I not a good enough reason?” she asked, fluttering her lashes. 

His eyes were immediately drawn to the supple curves of her breasts visible above the table. With great effort Cassian managed to keep his expression stony and shake his head. 

She huffed. 

“You’re a harder nut to crack than the rest. I don’t imagine threatening you out of it would work either. Oh, don’t get twisted about yourself,” she added when his hand moved automatically toward the hilt of his silver blade. “All that would happen is you’d break a lot of my things and then I’d have a great bloody mess to clean up. Truthfully I can’t be bothered.”

“You’re wasting my time, sweetheart,” he growled, patience waning. “Where are the girls?”

“Don’t be beastly,” she scoffed, disgusted, and Cassian bristled at her offense, at the accusation in her eyes. Here she was trying to lure him into a trap, bribe him from his duty, yet acted like she saw nothing but a brute across from her, just like the townspeople.

“Snatching children from their homes, I could argue you’re the beast. No better than a bog hag, bathing in blood to stay young.”

It was a low blow but he didn’t care, wanted to see her face twist with fury, relished the silver fire that sparked at her pale fingertips.

“Of the two of us at this table, who was crafted to kill?” she snarled, jumping to her feet to lean toward him, an accusing finger pointed at his heart. Rage pounded harder through his skull, and Cassian found himself on his feet too, fuming at her across the banquet table.

“Tell the truth for once in your crooked life, sweetheart. All this is an illusion. At the end of the day, you’re just like me. Blood and guts, bones and coin. Only you like to pretend the dirt doesn’t cling to your skirts.”

“The girls are never going home.” Her skirts whipped up in a sudden wind, a whirl of violet, lighting crackling overhead. “Tell the families they’re dead, bring back my head if you must. It will not change the facts.”

“Then you’re every inch the fucking monster you pretend not to be.”

He braced himself for her wrath, the wave of magic coming to steal his breath. But to his surprise she stilled, watched him for a moment, that same evaluating stare from the clearing. Something sad passed across her face, and Cassian felt like he could see through a chink in her armor, just a peek at the scared girl she’d likely once been.

“You think I look at you and see a brute. But I know you and I both have curses to bear. Doomed to live on the outskirts, worth just what we offer to others. I only wish for my freedom.”

An understanding passed between them, of two people stranded in an eternal no man’s land. For himself, Cassian had surrendered long ago to his fate straddling the fringes of society, helping people who smiled in his face and spat at his back. He’d tried living away from civilization altogether for a few decades but found it brutally lonely.

There were respites, of course, when he found favor with a noble or a woman who could tolerate him for more than a night, but he aged so much slower that eventually everything permanent proved it was not.

They both sat back down in unison, a truce. Cassian took a sip of wine, and her stormy blue eyes tracked the movement, a blush creeping across her chest.

“You could have both,” he observed, and she wrinkled that perfect nose again. “A sorceress like you could easily find home in a court. Why hide out in this shithole?”

“A boring, sad question with a boring, sad answer. You and I have more interesting things to discuss, I think.”

The hunger rose in her eyes once more, and he saw them rove over his body, pink tongue coming out to wet her lips. He chuckled. So this was the trap at the web’s center.

“You must be wanting for bed partners if you’ll have me, sweetheart.” An understatement given he’d been sleeping outside for a week, but his hostess stood after downing her own glass, waving a bored hand.

“Nothing a little water can’t fix.” 

She crossed to one of the archways and opened the door to a lush bathing chamber, the sunken pool steaming with fragrant water, lilac and sage. Cassian rose and followed, but he caught her arm on the threshold, heard her breath hitch when he pulled her body flush to his.

“I don’t make a habit of bedding women whose names I don’t know.”

“It’s Nesta,” she said, smiling, and the wind echoed her: Nesta Nesta Nesta.

He let her have her way with him the first time, knowing from experience she wouldn’t be satisfied until he was on his knees before her, where he belonged. She combed his hair while he recovered, and atop her silk sheets had her way with him again, only allowing him to explore her once she was wrung out and purring. Squeezed those lovely legs around his head and ceded the high ground at last, crying out beneath him as he took her as he’d wanted to from the beginning, hard and fast and desperate. Whimpered so sweetly when he kissed a line down her back and claimed her from behind, though they both knew who was in charge. He thought he might die from it, from her pressing back into him just as eagerly, the roundness of her hip in one of his hands, her pleasure in the other.

He brushed the hair from her forehead where she lay against his chest after, skin glistening under the soft blanket of the moon. Her bedchamber was cluttered with books, piles of them on the dresser, the small desk. A portrait of her and two other young women hung over the hearth, all with the same gold-brown hair.

Nesta flinched when he bent to kiss her soft cheek, just the smallest amount, that mortal eyes would likely miss. There was something heartbroken about her he couldn’t quite place, a loneliness even their coupling hadn’t remedied. Like she still expected to have to kill him.

Then light shifted in one of the archways, the air rippling, and he knew.

“They’re here.”

She hummed in annoyance and kept her eyes closed. “Don’t speak yet. You’re ruining this for me.”

“Tell me where they are.”

She pulled back and regarded him for a long moment, evaluating, and he tried to be whatever it was she was looking for, if only so she would keep looking.

Nesta nodded, having found it, and strode toward one of the archways wrapped in the blanket, drew back a curtain of air with a graceful sweep of her arm. A portal.

Inside lay a stone chamber filled with moonlight, a round table in the center carved with runes and littered with herbs and gemstones. Beyond a door on the far wall he could see rows of bunks built into the stone, the forms of children sleeping, their gentle snores carried to him on a lilac-scented wind.

“Are they here of their own will?”

“Somewhat.”

“So, no.”

“They are my pupils.”

“Some would call them hostages.”

She clenched her fists, incensed, and he saw the waves of power gather about her, Chaos begging for her touch. “What shall I do, leave them to be used as pawns by their families? Sold to wretched old men or wasting away in that cesspool? I’m giving them a way out.”

“And condemning them to walk alone in the process.”

“They deserve to decide their own fate.”

“And be like you? Hiding in the woods?”

“Do you pity me, witcher?” She was so close he could see the veins of magic in her eyes, as if her very blood was luminescent. “I may not have the splendor nor the influence of a court mage, but I am shackled to nothing but my own desires. Do you not seek the same?”

I seek nothing but a warm bed and a hot meal, he thought. But when he tried to say it, Cassian bit his tongue so hard he drew blood, and her eyes blazed brighter. He tried again and bit down even harder, the spell preventing the lie from passing his teeth.

“Do you not?” she repeated, and he heard the broken edge there, the plea. “When you sleep on the ground, do you not do so with a glad heart because it is ground you have chosen?”

“We’re all shackled to our fate, sweetheart. Trying to defy it only makes it come faster.”

Before Nesta could respond, there was a small cry from the bunk room and she rushed to attend to it, exposing her back to him without a second thought. Guilt leapt in his stomach, and Cassian couldn’t tear his eyes away as she comforted the girl, pulled the quilts back up over her and stroked her hair.

Feeling intrusive, he moved to don his trousers, and was just reaching for his shirt when she reappeared. “Where are you going?”

“Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You weren’t wrong. About the solitude. Though it does help to have visitors, to pass the time.”

She trailed over to kiss him again and her mouth was sweet as Toussaint wine. They tumbled back to bed once more, slower this time, and he pretended not to see the shine of her tears in the starlight.

“One of your pupils sent something to her family. An everlasting flower. Gave them hope she’s still alive,” he panted when they were spent, having somehow ended up on the rug before the fire.

“Foolish girl. Her father was preparing to sell her to a traveling merchant. Thirteen years old.”

“One of them will go back one day. Bonds of family are strong. ”

“Not for us though, right?”

Cassian swallowed, knew it wasn’t worth bothering to refute her. His own family was likely long dead by now, and he didn’t even know where they were buried.

“You put yourself at risk doing this,” he warned, not wanting to touch that tender spot any longer. “You’ll have to stop or move on soon.”

“I don’t recall asking for advice.”

“Not advice. Concern.”

“I can take care of myself, witcher.” Nesta looked down from where she sat astride him now, smirking. “Haven’t you learned that by now?”

Cassian woke hours later at the edge of the waterfall’s pool, a spray of shimmering lilacs tucked in his pocket, sunrise just a few breaths off. Felt the ringing in his head as he plodded back through the woods, the fuzz of wine, the ghost of her fingers in his hair.

He didn’t bother thinking of a tall tale to appease the townsfolk, didn’t even consider stopping at the inn to finagle his commission. On the way out of town he passed Abby’s father sprawled stone drunk by his front gate. Clutched in his hand was the enchanted celadine, still glinting weakly.

Cassian made the sign for Igni and set the flower alight before kicking the man awake.

“Your daughter’s dead.”

He turned his back on the howls of despair, tucking his cloak tighter about him as he headed down the road toward Oxenfurt.

[queerweewoo]

my hand slipped and i wrote 2K of About To Be Cheating Cheaters buddie (sorry tommy!). here's one half of what i've gotten down so far.

.

“That's why I'm here, hermano. To make your drunk ass drink lots of water, and to stop all that spiralling shit in its detrimental tracks. If you haven't figured it out by now, I don't much like things that hurt my family.”

Eddie's head is still spinning. 

“Hermano? Really Buck? I've only ever been a brother, never had one. But I'm pretty sure any brother of mine wouldn't look a lick like you.”

Dios, Eddie is so, so drunk, and such a horrible person for being so, so glad that Buck is here, with Eddie, instead of someplace with his boyfriend that Eddie definitely does not want to be thinking about.

Eddie needs Buck like oxygen right now because Eddie is a pathetic mess. What the fuck would some perfect pilot that's built like a brick shithouse know about being a pathetic mess? Screw you, Iceman—Buck and Eddie are the Maverick and Goose of this movie, fuck you very much. Always have been. Always will be. 

Buck's eyebrows are trying to migrate and join up with his hairline. “Oh, really? What, I'm not good-looking enough to be a Diaz? Is that it?” 

That is very much not it. 

Eddie teases, “Aw, guapo, you worried you're not pretty enough for me?” because he clearly left his last bit of sanity in the hook and ladder down on Main. He feels like he's having an out of body experience, looking down on himself from up on the ceiling and can practically see his blood fizzing beneath his skin like someone injected popping candy into his veins while he wasn't looking.

What the fuck is he doing? 

Buck isn't as drunk as Eddie, but he suddenly looks stone cold sober, blinking furiously through whatever emotions are gripping him right now. Eddie can usually tell what Buck is feeling without having to so much as look at him, but there's currently so much candied rum in his system that it's numbing his higher brain function.

“Uh, that's, uh—it's—that's not exactly what I was getting at, Eddie,” Buck stumbles, trying to right himself from the suckerpunch. 

“So what exactly are you getting at, Evan.”

Eddie never uses that name. Not once before telling Buck about changing his will, and never since. He'd only opted back in that hospital room to call Buck by what is printed on his birth certificate to get his full attention, so he understood that what Eddie was telling him was really fucking important. Back when Eddie had very almost told Buck how he feels about him, before bailing on the notion at the last millisecond like the chicken-shit he is and always has been. 

Tommy calls Buck Evan. Only ever calls him Evan. As if he knows the first fucking thing about Eddie's best friend! Eddie thinks that at this exact moment in time, regardless of how the guy is supposed to be his shiny new pal, he might just despise Tommy Kinard with every fibre of his being. Who the hell does he think he is, flying in on his helicopter like every day is leg day, with his stupid, funny fake-mouth-static and those stupid, handsome cheekbones, pissing all over Eddie's territory with his probably Incredible Hulk sized dick and trying to take Eddie's Buck away from him?

You're mine, he thinks. Almost says it, too. And he might say it yet, if Buck keeps on squirming as beautifully as he is right now, the raging heat of his twitchy body searing into Eddie's side like a branding iron that states If Lost Return To Evan Buckley. 

And I'm yours, he thinks, and knows it to be true. Knows he could make it true, that it could maybe be everything, potentially, if only Eddie stopped being such a yellow-belly. 

Fuck Kinard. Fuck all of them that have come before and after Eddie. None of them have loved, or love Buck the way he does. None of them. Eddie knows this because he loves Buck so much it somehow fortifies his heart to make it able to force its way through the spaces between his cracked rib cage and break free to beat wildly in double-time, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. 

Eddie, feeling drunker by the second, hasn't looked away from Buck in a hot minute—Buck who now looks like he might be having a minor stroke. Stretching across to plop his glass clumsily onto the coffee table and missing the coaster by a Texas mile, Eddie then dries any possibility of lingering water droplets from his moustache with a clunky swipe of his thumb and forefinger, before turning to face Buck with a lot more cock-surety than sense. 

Buck is Eddie's best friend. His partner. The man who loves his kid. The man who Eddie gave his kid to because they both love his kid that much. He's the lunatic who has unofficially moved in with Eddie—because Eddie has driven their kid away with his epic levels of bullshit—even though he currently has a boyfriend.

Buck, Buck, Buck, who Eddie is now positive should be his boyfriend. 

Licking his lips, he feels like he's forgetting something. Like maybe all of the reasons he's steered himself clear of this iceberg for so long—only he's far too drunk, and far too selfish, to try to remember that or care. 

Buck swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and Eddie wants fervently to get his teeth and tongue around it. Then he's muttering, “Eddie, I just meant—” 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, begs, demands. 

His fingertips have found the soft fabric of Buck's deep blue waffle-weave shirt, where it's covering the expanse of his chest. He's trying to get to his heart, he realises, feeling blindly for any sign of double-time, wanting to taste the blood in its chambers the way Buck has tasted Eddie's.

“Yeah,” Buck breathes, mirroring Eddie which doesn't make a lick of sense apart from the fact that it makes perfect sense, to Eddie. 

Eddie's cheeks are burning but he thinks fuck it, throwing the both the extinguisher and life ring overboard and going full steam ahead. 

.

[serenachika]

**Group Chat: Diagnostics Dept.**

**Cuddy:** "House, where are you? Clinic duty started at 9."

**House:** "Time is a social construct."

**Cuddy:** "You’re in your office watching *General Hospital*."

**House:** "I’m learning what not to do."

---

**Chase:** "Patient’s oxygen just dropped. We need a new plan."

**House:** "Did you try not killing them?"

**Chase:** "We’re serious, House."

**House:** "So am I. Break into their house yet?"

**Chase:** "That’s illegal!"

**House:** "So are your haircuts, Good thing you’re pretty."

---

**Cuddy:** "HOUSE. CLINIC. NOW."

**House:** "Can’t. I’m trying to diagnose Wilson with ‘whiners’ disease."

**Cuddy:** "That’s not a real thing."

**House:** "Neither is clinic duty."

—-

**Wilson:** "House, you can't keep breaking into my office and stealing my snacks."

**House:** "I call it 'foraging.' You should be proud, I'm like a bear in the wild."

**Wilson:** "No, you're like a raccoon in a dumpster."

---

**Foreman:** "Guys, patient’s vitals are tanking. We need input."

**Wilson:** "Did we rule out autoimmune?"

**House:** "Wilson, let me ask you something. How do you live with yourself? Between the haircuts and the optimism, it can’t be easy."

---

**Cuddy:** "HOUSE. WILSON. FOCUS."

**Wilson:** "Thank you, Cuddy."

**House:** "No, thank you, Cuddy. You just ruined his self-esteem pep talk."

**Wilson:** "I’m a *good* doctor, House."

**House:** "If you say it enough times, maybe you’ll start to believe it."

---

**Chase:** "Patient's complaining of blurred vision and numbness. Any thoughts?"

**House:** "Sounds like someone saw your shirt."

**Chase:** "What’s wrong with my shirt?"

**House:** "I’m not a stylist, but I’m pretty sure you're legally required to wear a warning sign with that thing."

---

Chase: “Patient has chest pain and blurry vision. Suggestions?”

House: “Sounds like someone looked at your résumé.”

Chase: “It’s serious, House.”

House: “So is your hair gel budget. What’s your point?”

—-

Chase: “If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you, House.”

House: “Blame all you want, I live rent-free in your head.”

Chase: “You live rent-free in EVERYONE’S head.”

House: “And heart. Let’s not forget that.”

Chase: “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

House: “I took your last girlfriend seriously. For about two weeks.”

[Chase has left the chat.]

[zorrasucia]

look at how well you take me. even though it's been so long.

for carmy x reader PLEASE

Hello Anon! 💜

Gladly! I wrote this as a loose sequel to this, though it's only relevant in that Reader is Chef Terry's goddaughter and they met back in Copenhagen. I hope you like it! 😊

Carmy burst through the door of your hiding spot, making you jump in shock.

"Fuck!" he cursed. "Sorry, thought this was empty."

He was about to leave without even looking at you and you reached for him.

"Carmy?" you held his wrist.

He finally saw your face. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed and immediately enveloped you in a tight hug.

You hadn't seen each other in literal years but even so, his hold felt a little too intense and desperate.

"You okay?" you whispered.

"Um, I don't- I don't know," his voice broke and you could hear the tears he was holding back.

"It's okay, Carm," you squeezed him, putting more of your weight into the hug. "I'm right here."

You stayed there, running your fingers soothingly on his shoulders and the nape of his neck.

He sniffled. "You're here," he repeated. After a pause he mumbled: "Why are you here?"

"I came for the funeral," you replied quietly. You thought it would be obvious, given that you were both inside the cloakroom of Aunt Terry's restaurant but Carmy seemed very disoriented. "I couldn't miss it. It's Ever."

"It's Ever," Carmy hummed in agreement. "Uh, I meant what are you doing here in the cloakroom."

"I'm not made for networking," you sighed. "I needed a break. And, well, I don't smoke - so the cloakroom seemed a good idea."

"I'm trying to quit smoking. Maybe you're right and this is a good spot," he said gently.

He took a step back, a little more collected, even if his eyes still looked teary in the halflit room.

You smiled. "It's good to see you, Carm. I thought you were still in New York," you said and it felt a little too formal for the way you were holding each other just seconds ago.

"No, I've been, uh, been in Chicago the last few months... Two years now, shit..." it seemed like he was realizing it just as he was saying it.

"Is it nice? Being home?" you asked, tilting your head, studying his reaction.

"Uh, sure, yeah. I opened a restaurant that might close next week if we don't get a good review but, uh, you know," he said flatly.

You reached for his hand and rubbed his knuckles.

"Is that why you're upset?"

"Huh?" he furrowed his eyebrows.

"Just now? Like I get how it would be upsetting to attend a funeral when your own restaurant might-" you explained your reasoning.

"Oh! No, it's not-" he squeezed his eyes shut. "I, uh, ran into my asshole boss. From New York. He's- He messed me up real bad," he was still avoiding your gaze but he let you cup his face, comforting him. "So I, I confronted him and he, uh, he thinks he did me a favor. Like, shit, I knew he was a fucking psychopath but he doesn't even care. He doesn't-"

His voice broke again and you brought him back into your arms, his face tucked to the side of your neck, tears wetting your skin.

"It's okay. You're okay," you caressed his hair. "I'm right here, Carmy."

He nodded, unable to speak for a while. He squeezed you, his nose buried deep in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

"Fuck, I've missed you."

"Missed you too," you soothed.

Slowly, his head turned and he started leaving kisses up the side of your neck, to your jaw, the side of your face, the corner of your mouth...

"This okay?" he asked, tracing the same sensual path on the other side of your neck.

"You're not thinking straight, Carm," you hummed, not making any effort to move away from his reach, carding your hands through his hair and bringing him closer instead. "You're angry. And sad."

It was so easy to forget that a few years had passed and this wasn't the Carmy you knew and cared for back in Copenhagen, not anymore.

"I'm tired of fucking thinking," he slurred, running his hands over your sides hungrily. "I want things to go quiet just for a while."

You melted, his hands breaking down whatever small resolve you had.

"Okay," you agreed, dragging him by the neck to press your lips against his.

Carmy gave you desperate kisses as he cornered you against the wall. He cupped your breasts over your dress, humming appreciatively at the low neckline.

"You look so fucking nice," he growled.

His left hand bunched up the side of your dress, trying to caress your leg. You giggled.

"Don't remember you being ticklish" he remarked, cocking his head.

"I'm not," you guided his right hand up your opposite thigh, to the high slit of your dress, giving him plenty of access without bunching up the dress.

"Fuck," Carmy groaned, his calloused hands quickly finding the edge of your lace panties. "Can I -?"

You nodded eagerly, taking his hand and looking at the new tattoos that adorned his skin.

"Please. I need your fingers," you whined.

Carmy didn't make you wait, pushing your underwear down your legs, caressing your pussy, already wet for him. He kissed your collarbone and the tops of your breasts while tracing lines between your folds, a low squelching sound coming from underneath your dress as he inserted two digits at once.

"Shit."

"My clit," you begged, angling your hips so his thumb pressed the exact spot.

He started moving, a quick and unforgiving rhythm making you melt in his arms, rolling your hips and moaning, holding tight to his shoulders to stand upright.

"Close?" he rasped.

"So fucking close."

"Will you let me fuck you against the wall after you cum?" he asked low.

It was like he flipped a switch and suddenly your pussy was fluttering around his fingers. He covered your mouth with his free hand, muffling your cries of pleasure.

"Fuck, Carmy," you panted, holding the wall for support while he unbuckled his belt.

"Shit," he stopped in his tracks and started going through the coats and jackets that were hanging on the opposite wall.

"Carm? What are you doing?"

"Just a sec," he mumbled. Once he found an informal leather jacket, he started going through its many pockets. "Come on, Richie," he whispered, then smiled in triumph as he took out a condom from the inside pocket.

"Should I ask?" you grinned, entertained watching Carmy unbutton his trousers, pump himself and roll the condom on.

"Better not," he stood in front of you, one of your arms rounded his shoulders, your free hand held his cock.

"You've always been a handful," you said - the flirtatious play on words taking you back years ago, to Copenhagen, and the first time he fucked you.

"Hmm," he closed his eyes in pleasure, completely at your mercy as you lined him up to your pussy.

He pushed lightly, an inch, then another. You whined at the stretch. "You okay?"

"It's good, so good," you managed, holding on to his shoulders, "just go slow."

Carmy nodded, the gentle movement of his hips like the swaying boat where you so often had shared a bed. You were letting out needy sounds and muffling them into your hand, as he got deeper and deeper. You encouraged him, bringing him closer by squeezing his ass, scratching at his pale skin until he was buried inside you to the hilt.

"Carm..."

He stayed still for a moment, kissing you tenderly.

"Need this," he mumbled against your lips. "Need you."

"Yeah?" you teased, circling your hips, making him moan. "How much?"

"A lot," he said, hips moving backwards slowly, his cock almost all the way out. Then, he drove back into you, quick, hard. You bit your lip to silence a high pitched moan. "A lot - a lot."

He grabbed your thighs, pressing you against the wall, lifting you.

"Fast and hard?" you suggested. You usually liked to take your time but fucking inside a closet - albeit a fancy one - asked for practicality and speed. And Carmy needed to blow off some steam.

He nodded, speechless as he started building a quick pace, driving into you like his life depended on it. You held him close, resorting to bite on the shoulder pad of his suit jacket to stay quiet.

"Wait," Carmy moved slightly, enough to press his forehead to yours and look down, hypnotized by the way his cock disappeared inside your pussy. Carmy's eyes widened, pupils blown and mouth half open. "Look at how well you take me. Even though it's been so long," he mumbled and you knew deep inside that it wasn't a line. He was truly dazed and euphoric that this was happening.

"Carm," you pleaded. "Let go for me, baby. I know you need it."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Mhmm," he agreed, panting. "'m close."

You squeezed your pussy around his cock, watching with satisfaction as that simple effort made him lose control, rutting messily, soft grunts leaving his lips as he came hard.

"Shit," he cursed, his lips on the side of your face.

You exhaled, content, as he let you down, landing on one foot then the other. Your heels were on the floor, somewhere, lost while your legs shook around Carmy's waist. "Better? Stopped thinking for a bit?" you inquired a little cockily.

"Not sure where we are right now, to be honest," he drawled.

"Good."

[necrotic-nephilim]

What's so fun about BruJay as a ship is Jason's sheer obsessive devotion to Bruce. Jason is possessive over Bruce, to the point he doesn't care about the deaths of others so long as he has Bruce's attention. A part of the UTRH arc this isn't talked about enough is that Bludhaven fucking explodes mid-way and Jason won't let Bruce see if Dick is alive.

batman (1940) #650

A lot of discussion about UTRH paints Jason as this anger-driven cold, calculating machine up against Bruce when it's so clear that his love for Bruce is what drives him at his root, even if he won't acknowledge it. He says it himself, he would've done anything if it was Bruce who'd died instead of him and his anger is rooted in that possessive devotion not being reciprocated.

batman (194) #650

BruJay as a ship always to be, to some level, unrequited. Even if Bruce loves Jason back in that way, he'll never be that obsessed with Jason. Jason will always view Bruce's love for Dick or Tim to be a distraction, proof that Bruce isn't dedicated enough to him. Jason has the need to always have Bruce's attention, even when it could come at the cost of Bruce's other loved ones. Something something cannibalism as a metaphor for love in how Jason wants to consume Bruce's whole existence. He can't let Bruce leave him again, can't let Bruce love or grieve anyone else. Forcing Bruce to choose between Jason and the Joker isn't just about confronting Jason's killer, it's about confronting the other person who exists as this duality with Bruce and consumes so much of Bruce's life. That's the role Jason wants to fill, calling himself Red Hood and forcing Bruce to look at what he's become. But still loving Bruce and wanting more than anything for Bruce to reciprocate that love in the way that Jason understands. I just think it's good soup and rife with Dynamics that are underexplored with them.

[icewindandboringhorror]

... why he sit like this

[piplupod]

are you the most annoying person in the world or do you just need to eat something: a memoir by me

[arolesbianism]

Man oni can't do this to me I'm supposed to be preparing for artfight but all I can think abt is Them™ from the second I wake up to the moment I go to bed how am I supposed to prepare in these circumstances 😔