#not at all a difficult stitch once you get going but i do often fuck up the first repeat once or twice

[milkweedman]

>knitting the second round of my first 2 round repeat

>get to the end of the round and realize it doesn't match up

>after some examination it looks like I started on the wrong stitch, (I don't mark the beginning of the round)

>well, it happens to the best of us

>tink back to the beginning of the round and restart round 2, this time for sure on the correct stitch

>make it to the end of round 2

>doesn't match up again !!!

>I must have just messed up somewhere during this round

>can't find the mistake but my eyes aren't that great and I can't count for shit

>I will just tink back until I find the mistake and then keep going again

>zone out while tinking back and don't realize until I hit the beginning of the round

>well at least I know im past the mistake, I'll just restart from here and try not to mess up this time

>get to the end of round 2 for the third time

>not again :(

>does not match up

>very annoyed by now, this is already an annoying round to do bc this is the round that establishes the pattern, so I have to pay attention the whole time (not that I am, evidently). Also, overall this is round 3 of the whole piece, so it's hard to read stitches bc there's so little there and it's all bunched up on my needles.

>determined to figure out how I messed up exactly so that I can fix it because I don't want to do that again

>can't figure it out

>ok I will just do this very painstakingly and slowly and check each stitch and make sure it's all going well

>*p3 k1* very slowly

>hang on

>halfway thru the round before this instead of k3 p1 I switched to k2 p1

>well that would do it

>I will just have to undo the stitch below, reknit it so that it's in pattern, then work the stitch above, until I'm back at the beginning of the round and out of this hell

>does so

>it takes a while but at least now I know im fixing it

>NO !!!!

>still doesn't match up. What now ?????

>has a sinking feeling I cast on the wrong number, too

>8 stitches too many (80 instead of 72)

>after all of that tinking (280 stitches ?) I still have to frog it

[fragmentating]

Honestly not much radicalized me in regards to bodily autonomy the way being a chronic selfharmer for 10+ years has. And one of those things that really are so awful to deal with is a lack of privacy.

When I go inpatient and they ask me if I have wounds, and I answer honestly, they dont just write that down. They make me undress and show each single one, otherwise I wont be "processed" and let into my room.

In the underage psych ward I was in they would sometimes search the rooms of known selfharmers while we were away at a therapy appointment, or seeing family in the visitation room, etc. They wouldn't tell you. They would lie about it if you asked about it. But all your shit had been moved around slightly, enough for observant people to notice. If they found blades, or any other sharp object regardless of it you had used it to selfharm though, you would obviously be punished.

One time I cut and went to the nurses for help, I was scared because it had never been that deep before and their response was tossing my room after I had voluntarily given them the two blades i had, while a male nurse kept saying how uncomfortable he was that he "had to" inspect my pads, saying "why would you need that many", ... they had metal detectors. They could've just swiped it across everything. But that wouldn't have been humiliating enough like seeing a nurse dig through my underwear and pads and diary.

Outside of the psych ward, my family kept up a similar approach. They did not search my room at least, knowing it was futile because there were always knifes in the house if I was desperate anyways, and a store down the street that sold razors. But locked doors were my mothers enemy. If I locked my door to masturbate, and she noticed it was locked? She would knock and yell until I opened it. If I simply wanted to relax in a bath but she decided it was suspiciously long ? The same.

When they couldn't catch me in the act but my scars kept getting more and more theyd threaten me with being hospitalized again.

When the hospital ER would send me to the closed ward for cuts that had nothing to do with suicidal ideation, but they decided I must be lying because it was deep enough, no matter how often I said I simply "messed up" because of adrenaline and blades that were sharper than expected. They had no legal ground to lock me up again but who cares, right. Its just one of those freaks who cuts themselves anyways.

And none of this kept me safe. None of this prevented me from cutting majority of the time. It made me distrust the ER. It made me distrust nurses. It made me hide my body even around my family. And when it did momentarily work I simply started harming myself in other ways. I ended up covered in bruises, with minor concussions, increasingly starving myself, depriving myself of sleep, ...

No one ever went "let's really try to figure out why you do this." Instead they went "why the fuck wont you just chew some bubble gum and roll a spikey ball on the soles of your feet you depressed fuck" or some shit like bro I am being severely traumatized by the world and this is my reaction. It's all "you are the problem".

And as an adult whos decided that I'm not interested in quitting, who "only" practices harm reduction I know that absolutely no one wants to accept that as a choice I should be allowed to make. Doesnt matter that I'm an expert at taking care of wounds and I have not had a single infection in 10+ years aside from once on wounds that got fucking stitched at the hospital. that I actively do my best to avoid lasting damage. That I try to keep the frequency low. They put me through years of surveillance and shame and threats without ever trying to see the root cause, only ever treat me as a bratty problem child who's being difficult just to fuck with them, and can not understand why that wouldn't make me want to stick to the goals they have set for me.

Therapists genuinely lose their mind when I tell them I don't want ~sobriety~ I just want to reduce harm and get on with my life. Their teachings do not allow for this to be but a short term compromise. I do not care.

[partyanimal167]

AU Doctor Jaegerjaquez 🩺

Ooo, I've kinda thought about this before when I wrote this fic. I tend to see Grimmjow more as a nurse but I think it's because of this GrimmIchi fic I read awhile ago. This'll be short, but I hope you enjoy.

Doctor!Grimmjow Headcanons 😷

Many people were shocked when Grimmjow decided to become doctor. And with good reasons too. Grimmjow sent people do the doctors. He seemed interested in breaking bodies rather than reparing them. But he stuck with it.

Learning anatomy came fairly easy for him. "It's just muscles and bones." He would often say when others asked his secret. I think it was just something he oddly fixated on.

Grimmjow was always fascinated about learning war/military doctor stories about people who had to figure out a solution when all their training and experience told them to give up. Grimmjow didn't like to give up, so he could certainly relate.

He was lucky enough that his college roommate grew up in a local clinic. Even though they bickered, Grimjow would listen to his stories about sudden emergencies and how they doctored up teh patient until the big name hospitals arrived.

Residencies were a bit of a challenge. Grimmjow knew that he wasn't the best at working with people, but he also called out doctors when their judgements were wrong or if they were being an ass to the nurses.

Those ladies and gentlemen were tough, so he definitely gave them his respect.

After his rounds and hella debt, Grimmjow ended up working in the heart of the city and lived with that annoying roommate of his who'd listen to Grimm rant about difficult insurance standards and lazy know-it-alls.

"I literally just stitched his finger for like 3 minutes. I'm not gonna charge him fucking $1200!"

The emergency room calls Grimmjow's name, and it's where he thrives. It's not like being in a warzone, but the chaos and unexpectedness gives Grimmjow hella adrenaline most days.

He didn't expect to be emotionally impacted by the job, but it does get to him occasionally how things can go south no matter how much effort is put in.

Injured/sick children hurt him a lot though he never shows it.

Grimmjow does frequent a martial arts studio to stay fit and work out his emotions. Some people are afraid to get on the mat with him, but there's a good few who will duke it out.

Grimmjow talks a lot of shit about how he's gonna change industries once his debts are paid, but everyone knows he enjoys his job.

[lazy-to-an-l]

Sometimes family dynamics are just so fucking weird and despicable, but not until you look deeper?

My mother has a disdain and hatred to me that is only ever obvious when you get close enough to see the narrowing of her eyes or pay attention to the pedestal she puts my brother on. But I was always the good kid who did all of my school work, and my brother with a clear PDA profile who constantly argues and thinks he's entitled to everything. So it doesn't often make sense to the people I tell this to until they look past that stereotype. She will jab at him, but will always bail him out and kiss up to him to get him to love her more as a parent and solidify her place as his "person" to turn to. But they constantly fight, and he "hates" her. I think the best example of this would be on my birthday one year where all I wanted to do was go to the mall and get a pair of Doc Martens. My brother started getting irritated and cranky that we had to walk around. Mind you, my mom had bought him at least 4 items by this point, and I was still looking through my stores. He completely soured the mood, and I walked out with nothing but my new boots. Only to not be included in any of the conversations on the way home.

My father is ex-military and quit when I was born so, hes rather uninvolved with my brothers upbringing because my mother refused to let my brother be corrected or disciplined. My father does most of the chores around the house, while my mother will choose to do things incompetently in order to not have to do them, and my brother will do the same. I love my father, but he does have an almost enabler role in my family.

It took my brother until this year to figure out that he was the favorite child and that I was always hated and disdained by my mother for existing. Despite him being older, he just never truly looked past his own experiences and feelings to figure this out. He has his own trauma with it, but he has inflicted years' worth of trauma on me with and without trying. So I can't help but disdain him for that, even if I find it difficult not to care for him because he is my flesh and blood.

The dynamics of my family are so complicated and multi-layered that explaining it to anyone is almost impossible. Especially if my mother or brother are introduced to them first, as my brother for years put out a sob story that he is hated and treated awfully and my mother paints herself as a saint who is unloved and unappreciated. Both of them will clearly mimic pieces of my own personality to befriend others, it sounds so fucking strange to say that but they truly do and I've had it told to me by my brothers ex who noticed it once she got closer to me. So I am always weirdly accused of trying to copy my older brothers personality when in reality it's the exact opposite.

Anyways, this all just came up because I've had to run around my house doing chores and taking care of my pets, with 9 stitches in my leg and an awful cold with a potential ear infection. Despite asking for help, I've been left to do most everything myself because I refuse to let my dogs be starved in order to prove a point to my mother. I think its worth more to just take the bs and take care of them than let them suffer in the hopes that a woman who holds no want for redemption will change.

[smol-feralgremlin]

FebruarOC Day 21: Ulric

Ulric glanced up from sharpening his sword to once again eye the woman sitting across from him. Ves, her name was Ves. He’d tried to call her by the name on the contract that his sister had tossed at him seconds after pushing Ves into his arms. Ves apparently didn’t like her whole name being used, and refused to give him a family name of any sort. Right now she was messing with one of her new skirts, or multiple of them really. If her appearance hadn’t given her Erolian heritage away, it would’ve been the fact she was ripping into seams and such to create the flounced tiered skirts that the nomadic women of Erolia. Earlier she’d mended his clothing, something he hadn’t asked of her and hadn’t ever asked of her.

“Do whatever you want with her,” Isme had said while tossing the papers for Ves’s sale to him. Anything that didn’t involve trying to get rid of Ves. Not that Ulric had any intention of doing that. He knew exactly why Isme had done what she did, and she could dress it up as Ves being a birthday present for him all she wanted. Ulric knew better. Isme wanted to use Ves to hurt him. How? He didn’t know. But Isme had done far too much to make him suspicious.

And he was suspicious of Ves. 

Or he was trying to be anyway. It was hard. She didn’t come off as dangerous or even a little harmful. A plump Erolian who used a staff to help her bad leg and the limp that went with it and that spent her days hanging herbs in her little set of rooms off of his own while also doing small chores around his rooms. Lavender sachets hung around his bed, their scent easing his sleep, and he’d started finding tiny stitched flowers on the hems of his shirts, small symbols made of twisted grass and sticks hanging over doorways and windows, coloured candles with dried herbs embedded in the wax, and she really seemed to hate the idea of windows being covered or closed on days she declared as nice. She didn’t even speak all that often.

Ulric was more baffled than he was suspicious and deep down the constant pit of unease had been surging with all the might of its bilious nature.

Even with her limp, Ves could move quickly. Ulric found himself taken off guard by how she was sewing one moment and gone in the next, leaving her staff abandoned where it leaned against a sack of sand. Shaking it off he was on his feet just as quickly and grabbing her staff to set off after her. Where the fuck did she think she was going like that?

Ves limped determinedly down the hall, her hands fisted into her skirts to keep them clear of her feet. Ulric caught up to her easily, used to the pace of forced marches and loping scouting runs. Catching up to Ves wasn’t a difficult task even if she did move quickly with an odd hopping run.

“Where are you going?”

“Your room is done being cleaned.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

She didn’t have far to look up in order to run him through with a poisonous glare. “I can and I do.”

Well now he had to humour her, more out of curiosity than anything. She refused her staff, still moving the same as before with the same level of determination. Her thick dark braid swung in tandem with her steps. Green and grey ribbons wove together throughout the braid to tie at the end with tiny disks of copper that clinked with the movement. Once he’d gotten a look at them to find tiny symbols etched onto them. There had to be some meaning to what she did and the symbols she used. Now with her odd behaviour he was going to have to find out.

Sure enough the door was closed and had the hanging of blue strips of fabric to denote the room had been cleaned hanging from the side of the door. Ves dropped her skirts and when Ulric reached for the knob, she knocked his hand out of the way.

“I could have you disciplined for that,” he informed her, “nobody usually gets away with hitting a prince.”

“Stay behind me and don’t touch anything.”

He blinked at her and stepped back. He had to see where this all led. His now more than familiar and comfortable friend suspicion rose up to wrap its tendrils around him like a good wool cloak. 

The moment Ves stepped foot in the room she was all business. Her footing was as careful and precise as a watchful deer as she circled each and every room, her fingers of one hand outstretched as she talked to herself, her other hand deep in the pouch she wore tied around her waist to rest on hip. Ulric stood in the centre of each room, observing her. Limp aside, she was graceful and purposeful in her hunt for…something. The same kind of focus reserved for her sewing or knitting rested in her darting eyes in an otherwise solemn face. Suspicious and curious, he followed her as she touched the hanging symbols before moving on to the next room. 

Entering his bedchamber, she blocked his way while drawing down the veil she’d been using to keep more of her hair back down so she could cover her nose and mouth with it. “Stay out. Please.”

“What’s going on?”

His demand was met with the door being closed in his face. His own blasted door! It was recalling the plea in Ves’s voice that stopped him from slamming his fist into the door. Instead he paced a square in front of the door, trying to listen for whatever Ves could be doing in there. Sharp stabs of caution mixed with suspicion turned him into a pincushion of growing worry.

The door opened and Ves came out with something wrapped in the yellow veil. She met his eyes and she grimaced while holding up the wrapped item. “Did you know your sister is trying to kill you?”

Ulric did actually know. “Who and what are you?”

For the first time since she’d been shoved into his arms, Ves smiled. “I'm a herbalist by trade.” Her smile turned sly. “I believe that here in Creshova, I’d be referred to as a witch.”

[jangofctts]

With Hearts Aflame (Batman/Bruce Wayne x fem!reader)

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART FOUR

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 8.4k

Warnings: !!spoilers!!, some fluff!!, smut, sex at the bat tower lmfao, explicit language, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), semi-public fucking, vaginal fingering, ruined orgasms, overstimulation, slight praise kink, mentions of violence/death, (lmk if I missed anything please!!)

a/n: ruh row it’s getting complicated 

The current atmosphere of your life, at the moment, can be described as nothing but tumultuous. From your overloaded work load, a masked freak acting like a shitty rendition of Jigsaw, to fucking a vigilante the city calls Batman. Sounds like a shitty sitcom. 

At this point, you’re so sleep deprived you’re starting to hallucinate. Not in the I see dead people sorta away…just the, y’know, like when your eyes feel like lead but every so often black dots appear in and out of your vision, but you can’t sleep due to your unlucky situation. You’d never hear the end of it if you fell asleep in the field, face down in a pile of key evidence you need to collect. 

And the worst part of it is—you can easily fix it. All that you need to do is give Gordon a call, tell him you’re out and boom. Your sleep schedule is magically fixed—no more late nights and no more undercover work without pay. 

But fuck that shit. 

What you and Gordon do off the books is a thankless job, but rewarding all the same. The city is in a congealed state of corruption and an unwillingness to step aside for change. Vigilante justice is finicky at best, but both Gordon and yourself believe in Batboy’s cause. It’s all bronze and bite, blood and cracked teeth—the dawn that rises bloody but leaves the world awash for better things to come. A catalyst for change, because, who else is going to do it? 

And, your brain supplies, there are some other perks working with Vengeance. 

Good fucking god, your back still hurts like a motherfucker. Sounds like bubble wrap each time you twist your spine, ligaments and tendons screaming in protest every time you so much as breathe. Who the fuck suggested fucking in Bats’ car was a good idea?   

Right.

 It was you. 

Fucker. 

Still the best sex of your life though. 

Like you said before, your life has become a sitcom.       

The call came out of left field—Alfred Pennyworth inviting you to the Wayne tower for tea. Not with Alfred, mind you—specifically requested by a certain Bruce Wayne. Not so out of the extraordinary. You are friends after all—you like so think so anyway—but it’s strange enough to ask Alfred to repeat himself.   

It’s been years since you’ve seen Bruce.      

Your mother’s senatorial reelection party was the last time you saw him. That was almost four years ago. 

You tried to keep in contact once you left for college, really you did, but Bruce is a difficult man to get a hold of. It’s always been like that, you never took it personally. He’s a morose human being, swaddled in sadness and wickedly shy, that increased tenfold after his parents’ death. His broken heart strings bled the blues as he tried to empty himself so he could feel nothing. An ingrown life that no surgeon could cut away despite how it metastasized into a vicious cycle of tearing out stitches and never letting the wound heal. Grief is a crippling part of life and Bruce still suffers from it.   

You just wish you could have done more for him. But life goes on and it’s useless to imagine all the if’s and buts and should’ve done’s. All you can do it pick up where you left off and reinforce the chips in your friendship into a thing that maybe resembles something worth salvaging. Like one of those Japanese teapots filled in with liquid gold.  

So, of course you agree. 

Who even cares that you needed to switch shifts, trade a few, and pull a double. All so you could catch a train, a bus, and then complete a brisk jaunt downtown all within your two hour break this fine Thursday. Worth it.    

You look at your watch and bite the inside of your cheek—11:56. Cutting it close.

The little black digit morphs into a seven as your hand curls around the main entrance door handle. You scurry in, bypassing the dimly lit lobby and front desk. Birdie is working today—as always. Has been since you were a kid. Twisted blonde locs, spun up into a high bun, keen brown eyes that peer over scarlet cat-eye glasses. Terrifying woman—a single lift of her groomed brow could make a grown man weep. 

You swallow and tiptoe to her desk. You can spare a moment to say hello. Lord knows what sort of karma you’d get if you didn’t. “Hi Birdie.” 

Her red acrylics, stark against her brown, slightly withered skin, freeze above her keyboard. She languidly looks up and squints. Her lips purse. It’s the closest thing you’ll get to a smile. “Kept out of the hair dye have we, Miss Blue?”

You rub your thumb over your knuckles and grimace. Yeah. Looking straight up like an Oompa Loompa a second time is not on your bucket list. “I learned my lesson, I think.” 

Birdie nods in approval then points her manicured nail in the direction of the elevator. “You remember the code?” 

“Yeah I got it—thanks Birdie.” 

“Bye, Miss Blue.” 

The elevator dings, you step in. The elevator doors slide shut. You punch the code into the keypad for the residential penthouse and anxiously await. The monotonous beep of each floor passing is grating against the ear—would it kill Bruce to add some elevator music or something? 

The elevator bounces against the cables as it comes to a stop. The doors snick open precisely at twelve. 

Alfred awaits you, pocket watch raised to his eyes. A warm smile spreads across his face. “Ah—I was wondering when you would arrive.” 

He looks like the same, albeit more of a peppering of white patches in his hair and beard. Alfred wraps you up into a firm hug. He ruffles your hair. “I got here exactly on time, thank you very much.” 

“I do recall your certain affinity for tardiness, Blue,” Alfred hums. He ends the hug and helps you out of your coat. “Seems you’ve gotten better about it.” 

“Bruce is worse,” you retort, trailing after Alfred through the gothic looking decor of the place. Yeesh, it really hasn’t changed. 

“Indeed,” Alfred agrees. “I do apologize ahead of time, Master Wayne refused to properly dress for your arrival, despite my insistence.” 

You shrug off his concerns. “Eh, as long as he’s not naked.”

Alfred quirks a brow. He clicks his tongue then gestures into the dining nook. Your eyes scan the room. Sunlight streams through the grand windows and there, tucked near the back of the room is Bruce. He looks miserable, squinting at the light of day like it’s a personal offense to him. Dressed in a baggy gray sweatshirt that’s seen better days, mussed up hair sticking out at odd angles, and dark shadows under his eyes. Oof.  

He does, however, straighten his hunched posture a little upon seeing you. Bruce’s throat bobs as he swallows, hands clenched at his sides. “Hello, Blue.”             

“You look…good,” you say. It’s the fattest load of bullshit you’ve ever told.

Alfred gives your shoulder a squeeze and excuses himself from the room. A string of anxiety wraps itself around your chest. You’ve known Bruce for years, but you still appreciate Alfred’s presence to stagger the awkwardness of Bruce’s makeup. 

Bruce’s shoulders bounce with a semi-amused huff. He looks to the floor. “You don’t have to lie.” 

You grimace and scratch as your cheek. Perceptive, isn’t he? Though, then again, you’re not a very good liar. “Fine. You look like a corpse—when’s the last time you went out?” 

His fingers run along the fancy detailing of the coffee table, poised as if he were a stranger in his own house. Bruce falls mute, and you know he does this each time someone questions his well-being. Despite his lack of answers, you gain all the information you need from his silence. You frown and take a step closer. And then another, and another until you’re breaching the fragile space between your and slotting your arms around his waist. You don’t know why you do it—just feels right. An open show of cards in order for him to realize you’re nothing to be afraid of. No sharp teeth or ill intentions. You’re still you—still his friend despite the years spent in absence.   

Bruce stiffens.

You start to panic—fuck. You overstepped, didn’t you? Shitshitshitshitshit— 

He moves like winter, hesitant and glacial, as he drifts a hand between your shoulder blades and the other on the small of your back. Bruce gathers you into his chest and gently rests his cheek on the top of your head. He still smells like sleep (you wonder how many times Alfred needed to shake him awake to get up before noon—probably a lot). Cologne too—the expensive kind—a pleasant woodsy smell and hints of cardamom. 

“Bruce, did Alfred make you wear cologne?”

You hear Bruce’s quiet hum of amusement rumble through his broad chest. “He chased me around with a spray bottle.” 

You snicker and pull away, pleasantly surprised by Bruce’s half smile. Fuck.        

Clearing your throat, you step away and hurry to sit down. Bruce takes the other chair across from you. “I missed you, y’know.” 

Bruce reaches for the china teapot. He presses two fingers to the lid and pours the tea into the two matching porcelain cups. Setting the teapot down, he takes a teaspoon of golden-spun honey and stirs into your cup. It’s how you’d always ask for your tea to be made. Sugar tastes too artificial—you don’t know why he’s remembered. “You used to call every week.” 

Bruce hands you your cup. Your heart jumps as his fingers brush yours. “Y-yeah. Yeah I did,” you agree. You take a sip and watch him over the rim of his cup. He takes his tea plain. Likes the raw bitterness of it.  

“You stopped,” he states. It’s not a criticism, but leading to garner more information. 

You sigh and clench your jaw. “I didn’t call so that Alfred could talk for you. I thought—whatever. It doesn’t matter.” 

Bruce’s frown deepens but does not press on the matter. He delicately holds his cup in his long fingers and rubs his thumb over the porcelain. “We can talk now.”   

It’s a little like wading through molasses, and yeah—you do the brunt of the talking. Your life, as Bruce puts it, is far more interesting than his could ever hope to be. Like you guessed, he doesn’t get out much. He prefers the solitude—some atypical way of punishing himself for the tragedies he’s suffered as if they were his fault. That doesn’t stop him from enjoying your little stories, however. Or maybe he just likes hearing someone other than Alfred talk. 

You tell him about Vermont, you academic accomplishments and everything worth sharing to an old friend. A true taste of freedom, untethered by familial wills and the pushes to become something you’re not. How after you graduated, there were no small town options for a crime scene analyst. Sure, there were the rare murders, but no town council would willingly pay for a full force of analysts to track down a stolen purse or some shit. Gotham was your last option—but you had an in with your mother’s influence and Gordon’s helping hand. The opportunity rested upon a golden platter—too tempting to pass up—even with the plague of crime running amok in Gotham. Keeps you on your toes though…

Plus, there’s…Bats…   

You omit that tidbit of info. 

A lull encompasses the room. Your eyes find the haphazardly thrown newspaper on the edge of the mahogany table. The most recent murder is plastered on the front page. Your stomach knots. You’re not exactly a fan of any of these corrupt clowns, but Jesus…what this dude is doing is five steps past fucked up. You rub your knuckles. You pray to whatever benevolent god out there that your mother hasn’t tracked dirt behind her length political career. Or your father…lawyers are always a skeevy bunch, specially those who work for the DA. And so are senators.

Bruce says your name. Your eyes jump back to his. “What?”

“What are you thinking about?”

You work your jaw and and gesture to the paper. “I hope we catch this guy—I’m…” You wave your hand and cut your sentence short.

“You’re what?” Bruce prompts. “I’m not gonna talk to the media if you give me case details.”

You snort. “Yeah, I fucking hope not.”

You’re not shy with emotions, but it’s always a double edged sword upon revealing your fears as part of law enforcement. You’re supposed to be the good guys, the heroes with a plan—you’re not supposed to be afraid. You’re suppose to just grin and bear it and fix it. 

But the way Bruce gaze at you, soft and imploring, you give easily. You sigh and adjust in your seat. “I’m scared.” 

Bruce’s brows knit together. 

“Guys like this,” you say softly, “they don’t go down easy. I’m scared he’s going to hurt a lot more people than just a couple of controversial asswipes.” 

Bruce’s eyes flit around the room before he answers. A hopeful glean shimmers in his solemn eyes. “That won’t happen, Blue. It won’t.”   

You finish the last dregs of your tea and swirl the tea leaves around. “I hope you’re right.” 

Another silence ensues. You look at the paper again and then at Bruce. His face is a stony mask of unfamiliarity. You’ve been gone so long, you’ve lost your ability to read him with ease—he’s more guarded now. “The Mayor’s funeral is tomorrow.” 

The muscles in his jaw jump. Not exactly the best or most desirable of places to hang out, but if it does the trick, you’ll take it. 

“Are you going?” Bruce asks. 

You shrug. “My mom wants me to be there—I dunno why. She isn’t making my dad go, which is dumb—” 

“I’ll go,” Bruce interrupts, and quickly adds, “with you.” 

That odd fluttering in your chest increases tenfold. You fight the heat the threatens to collect  under the apples of your cheeks. You nod. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Kinda macabre for a date, but hey.” 

A little smile spreads over his face. Bruce raises his brows. “A date?” 

You meant that shit as a joke. Fuck Bruce for flipping the entire thing on you. What a wad. 

Flustered, you struggle to remain your composure and pass it off as a joke still. Doesn’t go as planned, really. You just end up looking like a clown. 

Your phone beeps again. Damnit, you have to go. You end up jamming your toe in your process to make a hasty exit from the table. “Sorry to cut things short, but I gotta go, Brucey—duty calls and all that.” 

He stands. He’s wearing those matching ankle socks your mom gave you and him for the holidays eons ago. Weirdo. “I’ll walk you out.”    

You mutter your thanks.

Your coat hangs on the coatrack by the elevator. Bruce lifts it from the rack and holds the jacket open for your arms to slide through the sleeves. When you turn to him, his lean hands whisper up the lapels and move to adjust your collar. You breath catches in your throat. 

Questions with no answers, feelings that can never be shaped into a vocal portrayal swim in his eyes. He wants to say more, you know for a fact he does, but he retreats. Bruce hasn’t the courage yet—so you take the leap for him. Just this once.     

Your fingertips ghost across his face, tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his cheekbone. You want to tell him again that his skin looks pallid—he needs more sun, even if it is just the watery sunlight Gotham receives. His eyelashes are a field of ashen parentheses that sweep down as he closes his eyes. The words die in your throat as Bruce tenderly cups your wrist, thumb resting on the delicate veins there. 

“I can feel your pulse,” Bruce whispers. His voice makes you want to give up all the secrets you've ever kept, and you don’t know whether the quiet thrumming of a wild heart belongs to you or him.

But it doesn't matter either way.

Your thumb moves over the dark under circles beneath his eyes. You sigh. “You’re not sleeping.” 

His eyes slide to the right. His chest expands and deflates in a reluctant sigh. 

“Bruce, that’s not—”  

“Blue,” Bruce interrupts. It’s not jarring or meant to be reprimanding, it’s just…it’s your name, stated simply and with such ardency that your words crumble into nothing. The moment stretches at the gravity well that is your heart, eternal in its ache as memories of the past splits open at the seams. Old pains, old desires, old heartaches that never came to fruition. Another life you thought you’d buried six feet under. 

It doesn’t feel very far away anymore and maybe it’s because everything is turning to chaos. It sure feels like it. You’re starting to think you never really said your final goodbyes to this. You came back to Gotham after all. You’re the only one at fault for digging this grave and throwing yourself in.   

Bruce murmurs your name. You don’t know when or how you’ve drifted so close—tilting your chin up to his craned neck. You’ll have to raise to your tippy toes to kiss him—shit. You’re going to kiss him aren’t you? 

You stamp down the raging urge to just do it, throw caution and your proclivities to the wind and kiss him. Instead you hold here as his gentle exhales through his nose fan over your cheek—it’s for Bruce to decide.  

But the mind has a funny way of ruining a perfectly good moment.

Black armor, pointed helmet, a dark scowl—

Something twists in your belly and pushes up to your throat, bending itself and fracturing into your mouth like a million shards of glass. Your breathing stutters as your throat tightens, cold blood washing through your veins and arteries. Your sensitive heart shreds itself from the inside out while the logical part of yourself whispers that you don’t owe Bats your sole attentions—you can do what you want. 

You don’t even know his name. Not quite a hero and not yet a martyr.   

You wish you could be more callous. 

But you’re not, and this will always be your downfall. 

You wear your heart on your sleeve. A gentle soul that weeps for everything that pokes at it a bit too hard. Embarrassing really—

Tears prick at your eyes, but before you’re able to drop your hand and rub at your eyes to hide your shame, Bruce closes the distance. 

His kiss is a whisper, timid but backed with missed opportunities scattered upon the floor and the taste of black tea. It’s the first kiss you’ve ever had with Bruce Wayne and maybe it’ll be the last, but you’ll never forget the way his cold hand cradles you like fine china, the smell of his skin and the rich nodes of his cologne—like it’s too good to be true that you’re here. That he doesn’t deserve to be in your presence. You can hear the chime of the elevator in the background of your tears as your chest twists in ache like that of a homesick ghost.   

Your hands splay over his chest and twist into the fabric of his shirt. You tilt your head and drag him closer, deepening the kiss until your bodies are pressed tight. Bruce’s kisses are still unsure, a little slow but he returns with fervor you hadn’t known existed inside him. Your pulse drums in your ears as he draws back and catches the crystalline droplet that rolls down the slope of your cheek with his index finger. His mouth quirks. 

“Still a crybaby,” Bruce comments, fondness lacing his words. “Or maybe I’m bad at this.” 

You sharply exhale through your nose. “No—fuck, I’m sorry. I’m just…I can’t help it.”  

His thumb runs circles over your cheek. “I know.” 

And he does. He’s known you for years and bore witness to the emotional turmoil you’ve dealt with all your life. You don’t have to explain. 

Bruce’s eyes track your tongue as it rolls over your bottom lip that tastes slightly of salt. You sniff. “Maybe another kiss would help?” 

He smiles carefully, drops his chin and envelopes your mouth into a kiss dipped in such yearning that the very stars itch with envy. Your hands tangle into his hair and as he retaliates, your back hits the wall. You gasp and his tongue takes this opportunity to tease over yours. Heat sparks low in your belly and shit you’re going to be late for work. 

You nip at his lip and break away. He chases after you and catches the side of your mouth instead when you turn your head. “Bruce, I need…”

You trail off the moment Bruce plants a languid kiss right below your jaw. Your legs wobble like jello. You bite back a moan as he slides his knee between your thighs and crowds closer, effectively pinning you against the wall. His voice is tipping towards a breathless whisper. “What do you need?”

Quite frankly, you don’t even remember what you were going to say. Your hands claw into his back as he mouths wet kisses over the line of your throat, never enough pressure to leave a mark, but enough that it excites you. “I—I don’t know.” 

Bruce’s teeth catch your earlobe. He starts to pull back. “We can stop.”

You make a strangled noise, grab at his bicep and shake your head. Damn he’s built. “No—no I don’t wan’t that,” you assure, “w-what do you want?”     

Bruce lifts his head and steals a brief kiss. His hands wrap over your ribcage and slide down to the swell of your hips. “I asked you first, Blue.” 

You huff and reach up to jostle his chin. “Tell me.”  

He captures your lips in a heated, open mouthed kiss, all hazy and slow like summer afternoons. You think for a moment he’s jut going to skirt around the question, Bruce has always been a bit cagey, but you’re wrong—oh so wrong. 

Bruce tilts his knee up higher, pressing his muscled thigh up into into the crux of your legs. You jolt as a lick of arousal jumps through your core at the change of pressure. His mouth finds your ear again, his voice a delicious scrape. Goosebumps rush up your arms. “I wan’t to taste you.” 

Holy shit.

You’re gonna implode. Right here into a pile of ash. His words are like a hot coal through plastic—sinks right through your body and pools in your molten core. Fuck, you can already feel your arousal collecting in your underwear. Your phone beeps.  

“Fuck—you can’t,” you whimper. “I have to go.”     

Bruce nuzzles into you, his stubble a ticklish scrape. “Stay.”

“I—”  Your mind short-circuits as a warm hand flits under your shirt, over your bare stomach and down. Bruce pauses just before his hand breaches the waistband of your pants. 

“Can I touch you?” You hastily nod and whimper as his fingers wedge under your panties. Your nails claw into the fabric of his shirt as soon as the tip of his middle finger reaches your slit. Bruce drops his shoulder a fraction to better slide his fingers through your unbearably hot cunt. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel like you might break your own fucking teeth from how hard you’re clenching your jaw, desperately trying not to make a noise. The pad of Bruce’s finger is surprisingly calloused as he drags it against your clit in slow, light circles. You clamp your eyes shut and fist the strands of hair at the back of his neck. It’s embarrassing how wet he’s gotten you already—fuck, you’re burning for relief. “Like this?”

You gasp raggedly and nod into his neck. “Y-yeah, like that.”

The aching bundle of nerves is burning, searing and bright that makes your muscles clench and chase the sensation of promised ecstasy. Shit, he’s gonna make you cum in the goddamn foyer. He’s barely touched you for a few moments your fingers have harpooned into his sweatshirt, willing your body to chill the fuck out. The way his leg bumps against your thighs does absolutely nothing to help.

“Blue,” Bruce grumbles into the crook of your neck, his voice scraping low and rough. It sends a tremor through you.  “So wet—”

Bruce’s fingers slip past your clit and glide right down to your entrance. Straight to where your pussy is already wickedly hot, throbbing and needy for him. The pad of his middle finger presses against the clenching muscles here, gently circling your entrance in a languid tease. You whine his name.

And then the length of his middle finger eases inside you so slowly that your knees shake and give. Bruce drives you further into the wall to keep your stationary. Your eyes roll back at the feeling. You grasp at his forearm as he curls his finger into your cunt. Bruce rocks the digit back and forth in an easy rhythm. Fuck, it’s good—your hands shake, raw sparks of heat threatening to catch and set you aflame as your muscles clench around his finger. Your arousal coats his finger and runs down the length of his palm.  

“Bruce—gonna…gonna be late for work,” your voice is absolutely fucking wrecked by this point. Your hand knots in his hair, lightly pulling the brown strands by the root.  

“You have time,” he breathes next to your ear while your legs spasm. “Go ahead.”

Bruce eases a second, lithe finger inside you. It’s a delicious stretch from this angle, unable to widen or shift your legs to help or deter Bruce’s ministrations. Stuck against the wall and the line of his firm body as he fingers you. Your teeth tear into your bottom lip from how hard they clamp down on it. You’re trying to hold back the loud moan that threatens to burst forth—you don’t want Alfred to overhear.

Bruce swallows your whimpers as he leads you into a deep kiss. Shit, you feel like you’re dying. You head spins. You need air. “I’m close—keep going—ah.” 

His teeth imbed themselves right under your collar and grinds his fingers up into you as deep as they go. The heel of his palm rocks against your clit and fuck—you’re so unbelievably close after just a few minutes pinned under him, greedy for any touch he gives. You’re shaking and gripping him tight, partially as a lifeline and partially to save yourself from toppling over. You’re so swollen and tight between your legs—so close to spinning off that edge into complete oblivion—

Your phone rings—the tone blasting through the small space. The two of you startle. Bruce rips himself away and you’re close to fucking crying again as everything seizes up tight—sharp throbbing waves as your your near orgasm ebbs. You were so close— 

Shaky fingers fumble getting your phone from your pocket. It’s your boss—something about cutting your lunch break short. Typical. 

This time, though reluctantly, Bruce lets you go. 

The elevator doors crawl shut, hiding away his handsome face until there’s nothing but your own distorted reflection staring back at you. You rub a hand over your face and sigh. What the fuck are you getting yourself into?   

                                                     =+=+=+=

Why is it always so fucking cold up here? Goddamn—

You shrug deeper into your windbreaker and check your watch. Gordon’s running late to your little rendezvous. And so is Bats. 

Hm. You wander to the floodlight. Maybe you need to flick it on to summon Batboy. You crouch and inspect the jagged scrap metal, avoiding slicing your ginger open as you search for the on switch. Before you can, a heavy thunk and the sound of jangling metal lands to your left. 

“Shit balls—” 

You topple over, heart leaping between your teeth. You only calm once you see familiar black boots and an equally familiar get up of heavy armor, somber face, stubble. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Bats’ eyes find the array of scaffolding lining the side of the building. Creeper was just spying on you, huh? You roll to your feet and brush imaginary dust off your clothes. His eyes move past you in search for the other member of your trio. “Where’s Gordon?” 

“Late. He’ll be here eventually,” you say. He makes a noise that rumbles through his chest. Bats drops his chin in thought, black cape dancing in the brisk wind that blows through the open building. You shiver and rub your hands over your arms for a spark of warmth. “Got an extra jacket or something, Batboy?” 

He doesn’t. His solution though, is intriguing. Bats’ wide frame begins cornering you into one of the many pillars holding up the infrastructure. Your pulse jumpstarts into a frantic pitter patter. Your back meets the rough concrete. God he’s fucking huge—you have to crane your neck to see his face, and even then, the entirety of you peripheral is all black, all him. “You got a problem with personal space, you know that?”

He hums lowly. Leather creaks as he brings his hand to your face. His thumb swipes over your parted bottom lip. “Just yours.”

“Maybe you—” you’re abruptly cut off as Bats swoops down to kiss you. You stomach flips as you throw your arms around his neck and drag him closer. You’ll never get tired of the way his mouth molds to yours, deep and taking, less hesitant and more familiar.  

So constantly ravenous that his name is a whispered prayer hat spills from your mouth like a mantra. Breathing words you recognize from quixotic dreams, condensing in the frosty air between his lips and yours. He holds you close, like the world has cheated him of you for too long. And tonight, you’ll run out of naming this wild thing you’ve both created before he runs out of kisses. Scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. 

He kisses you until your head feels dizzy from lack of oxygen and until your lips feel raw. Bats nips your bottom lip. “Blue.” 

Your answer comes in a breathy pant. “What?” 

Bat’s hand cups your jaw, his eyes a whirlpool of dark desire. “Can I put my mouth on you?” 

His words light a wicked fire inside of you. You squirm and swallow. “H-here?”

He nods, and begins peppering kisses down the side of your face, down your jaw and to your collarbone. Under normal circumstances and with an actual bed you’d gladly do whatever the fuck he asks—but this is basically in public and Gordon could show up any minute. His hands sweep up your ribcage, under your shirt and rest just under the swell of your breasts. The leather blunts the sensation. “That night…I think about it all the time.” 

Liquid heat swells in your abdomen. You’re such a fucking pushover—especially when he talks to you like this, all rough and gravelly. You melt against him. “Yeah—fuck, do it. Eat me out.” 

He murmurs his thanks and smoothly drops to his knees. You cunt clenches at the sight of him like this, burning into your memory. His fingers dig into the lip of your pants and underwear and pulls them down your legs. You shiver at the nip of cool air, flushed skin stinging. He catches your knee, scoots in closer and throws your thigh over his shoulder. You grab at his head and the pillar behind you for support. Fuck—this is the hottest thing.  

Bats leans in, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation. It’s as if he’s been craving this for eons, and maybe, he has. 

“Oh, fuck me,” you gasp. Your entire upper body pitches forward but the leg thrown over his shoulder acts as a counterweight to keep you steady. Your hand flattens against the back of his head as your clit is enveloped by the slick, dexterous furnace of his mouth.

You hear him moan as his tongue traces gentle circles around your clit. The sharp bite of the cold is just an after thought as it brushes along your naked thighs. All you can fathom is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his stubble is scraping across your thighs—addictive. Your hips roll into his mouth. His hands dig into the flesh of your ass and pull your closer, devouring everything he can reach—everything that you willingly offer to Vengeance. 

“Bats,” you wine breathlessly, tipping your head back as that familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core. You were denied it so harshly earlier today—

Batsy gives your mind no time to wander to thoughts of who you were with earlier.

He briefly retracts his mouth. “Good girl—give me all of it,” you realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Bats’ raspy praise right as he slowly sucks on your clit, before your body shatters into searing euphoria. 

Bats grunts in appreciation and tightens his old on your bod as you cum with a jagged, hoarse wail of his name. Waves of white hot bliss radiates through your core and up as your cunt convulses against his tongue. Harrowing tendrils of ecstasy pierce through your body, as more of your wetness spills into his willing mouth. You whimper, and weakly roll your head. Another bolt of arousal thrums through you—his head is buried between your shaking legs, warm mouth sucking on your clit through the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

You shift your hips—it’s edging too tender. He gets the hint. Bats laves fleeting kisses over your thighs, then slowly moves back up your body, patiently waiting as you work to regain your footing. Your legs slips from his shoulder—you wobble but he’s there to catch you. Christ, your head is still spinning as he towers over you, grim mouth covered in your slick, patiently waiting for you to catch your breath. You almost don’t process the sweet touch of him against your lips—sneaky bastard.

The kiss is innocent and gentle, nothing that suggests that Bats had just been between your legs. Save for maybe tasting yourself one his tongue as he slides it past the seem of your lips. The soft touches begin to evolve into another pyre of desire, burning away the hazy fog of your orgasm after each kiss. Your need for him grows tenfold. You immediately allow him entry, moaning as he licks deep into your warm mouth. Your hands fly up to cradle his face as he hooks an arm under the bend of your knee. He drapes it over his hip and drops more of his weight into the crux of your thighs. You can feel his cock through his tactile pants, straining against your lower stomach—god, you’re aching for him.

You arch against the bone-cold pillar and roll your hips into the impressive bulge at the front of his pants. “Pl-please, Bats—need you.”

The warm breath from his nose puffs against your cheek. He makes a quiet little sound in his throat. “Need what? Tell me, Blue.”

You squirm and bite your lip. The back of your head scraps against the pillar as you cast your eyes up to the patchy ceiling. You’re getting dejavú—fuck, don’t think about that. You shiver as Bats takes this as an invitation to drag his tongue up the length of your throat. Your pussy clenches, voice spiraling into a needy keen. “Fuck me.” 

Batboy simply watches. He’s not an easy man to sway. He enjoys the way you scrabble for some sort of leverage or hook to get what you want. Your hips ache from being held open for so long, the cool air stinging against your arousal slick thighs. “Please, Batsy,” your voice is weaker now as your fingers stretch down between you to paw at the fly of his pants, pulling until your fingers find purchase on he seam. The sound of his zipper lowering and the soft crooning of your voice is far too alluring. You slide your hand into his pants and past his boxers and there we go. He grunts, hips jolting as you wrap your fingers over the base of his cock—he’s fever hot to your chilly fingers but he makes no complaint about the temperature.

There’s a weightiness in his cerulean eyes—blue shadows that back every star—something about infinite possibilities that makes your blood turn into sunlight golden hymns. They’re equally captivated by your tender eyes, drooping with lust and admiration. His hand wraps around your fingers holding his cock and squeezes around them. You give his throbbing length an experimental pump, precum dribbling over you palm. He exhales softly. 

Your tongue wets your lips. “Pretty please?”

“Crybaby,” Bats quietly condones. His cock twitches in your hand.

A whiny sound escapes your vocal cords. You nod. “I still don’t know how you know about that.”

It’s a delicate pry into the secrets he covets. It’s not out of the realm of existence to think that maybe you know him—the man under the mask. But you would know…wouldn’t you? You like to think you’re clever. Before your mind plummets into the unbearable weight of mystery, you begin to guide his cock towards your core. You’re so fucking impatient—you have some cushion time but Gordon could walk out of that elevator any minute. 

Batboy swallows, sharp in the frigid air as he lets you lead him. His gloved hand cups your chin. “I know a lot about you, Blue.” 

Yes. He does. Probably too much. 

You blink and roll your hips. You whimper the name Vengeance, shameless and desperate like the most unholiest of prayers. Bats’s will crumbles. He hoists your other leg up around his waist, bearing your full weight. It’s easier than breathing for him. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs and drags the smooth head of his cock through your swollen folds. 

Your eyes flutter shut as the tip of him bumps against your clit. He curses as his cock slips through you, slicking himself up in preparation. He readjusts, you grab at his bicep and choke as the head of cock finds your entrance. You’re still sore from last time, and fuck it burns so good as he splits you open.

Batsy snarls your name and drops his head into your collarbone. You can’t see half his face, but you’d imagine that his brows furrow deeply in concentration as your pussy clenches tight and eager around the first few inches he gives you. 

The stretch aches deep in your body as he drives himself between your thighs. “How’s it better each time?” Bats growls, fingers harpooning into your upper thighs. You’re going to get bruises tomorrow. He uses the leverage to yank you forward, grinding himself as deep as his cock will reach. “S’perfect.” 

His head lifts, studying the way your eyes wrench shut, thighs burning at how tightly they’re wrapped around him. The sharp strain and the pleasure of stuffed completely full hits you deep—it’s a sensation you’re not familiar with. It’s thrilling. 

You wrestle your limp tongue into forming words. “Sh-shit you’re deep—I—” the words server and come out jerky as Bats rocks his hips into yours, just grinding his cock into you. He drives you mad. He suddenly loops one arm under your knee and pushes your thigh into your chest—the air in your lungs is punched out as Bats pulls all the way out and slams back in—every thought you once had rattles in your brain like a jar of cracked marbles. 

Your cunt squeezes around him—fevered from the inside out and despite the chill, sweat beads across your forehead. He groans and buries his face into your shoulder. You whine, high-pitched and a little loud for comfort. Your tits are crushed into the unforgiving material of his chest plate as your free hand curves up the tough armor and his cape. Your tangle your fingers into the material, nerves blazing white-hot as you clench around him with each press of his hips.

“Needy crybaby—fucking tight,” Bats groans, his mouth at your ear. He reaches up to knot his hand into the mess of your hair at the nape of your neck, his words jagged and rasping with every forceful thrust. His plating over his nose brushes against the patch of skin between your ear and jaw, chapped lips trailing down to the pounding pulse of your throat. He sucks a hard bruise right there.

Your moans are obscene—his words triggering a point-blank reaction that feels fucking devastating in the pit of your stomach. You’re babbling for him to go harder, to go deeper. 

The closeness eats you alive—crackling pleasure surging when he draws his hips back. You try to chase him, clawing at his arms and jerking your hips, but it’s all for naught. You cry for him, cunt squeezing around nothing until he’s driving into you again with a thrust so hard it tears a wail from your lips and sends your back scraping roughly against the pillar. Batsy tightens his grip around the underside of your thigh, and it stings but you can’t process anything but the way he’s thrusting into you like this is your last day on earth. Your eyes are damp with tears and all you can do is hold on.

“Getting close,” Bat’s voice echoes through the haze in your head, rich and gravelly as every syllable vibrates through his sternum, “Can I—” 

You arch your spine and nod. “Yes, fuck—cum in me.” 

His hand ditches the hold on your hair to wrap loosely around your throat, right under the joints of your jaw. He never restricts your airway, just allows the weight of his hand to carry his point across, and fuck it works. Your cunt clenches around his postponing cock and when your eyes try to flutter shut he growls your name.

You cling to him as tight as you can and slip your fingers between your bodies to find your clit to reach your end faster. His teeth flash with a punched out snarl—he drops his eyes to  watch himself fuck into you—watch your fingers make quick circles over your clit until your muscles strain and shake. Everything starts to uncoil, slick and hot and all at once—you’re scared you’re going to topple over from how much you’re starting to squirm. You gasp for air, breathless, even with lungs full of oxygen. His leather-clad fingers shift sightly to grab more of your jaw.  

“Look at me,” he demands. You do—and it burns you alive. “Good.”

Christ—you try your best to keep your eyes open for him—all you see is white as your body goes taught—cumming hard enough that it feels like he’s killed you. 

Bats swears. His hips stutter hard as your cunt gushes hotly around him, muscles spasming like a vice. His name lodges in your throat, he stiffens in your arms, cock jerking into you as his pace crumbles into madness. His moans are sinful and raw, speaking them into the crux of your shoulder. You jump as his teeth roughly bite into the skin here. 

You feel the warmth of his cum filling your cunt, adding to the laws dregs of pleasure flickering through you. Batsy huffs, all tension seeping out of his body. He drops his forehead heavily against your shoulder and presses kisses to marks his teeth had left in your skin in apology. You hand manages to shakily find its way out from between your bodies, fingers slick with your own wetness. You reach for his sharp jaw press your lips against his. 

“Bats,” you sigh as he exhales softly into your mouth. You whimper as he shift, softening cock twitching inside of your sore cunt. Your thighs trembles when he kisses you again, his tongue tanging with yours in a lazy dance. Bats parts and nudges his helmeted forehead against yours. He kisses your cheek and then your temple. “I need a chiropractor if we keep fucking like this.” 

His low chuckle is worth treasuring until the end of your days. Fuck. His lips lazily traverse over every inch of your face and then settle back into the crook of your neck. He holds you like this—inhaling your smell and offering his warmth and protection from the wind. He can’t feel it, but your hand smooths down the back of his head. You wish you could thread your fingers through his hair…  

Your eyes find the horizon. “Oh, look—you can see some stars tonight.”

When he pulls out, you wince. You nearly fall, but he’s there to steady you. He even lets you use him as an anchor as you numbly put your pants back on. Your legs shake. 

“I want to show you something.” 

“Now?” You wince. He just fucked the living daylights out of you and now he wants you to go on an adventure with him? Fine. Fuck it. 

He divulges not more information besides that. He turns on his heel, cape flourishing behind him, not at all affected anymore by the haze filter of lust. Bats leads you to the scaffolding and nope. No, no, no—

Your hands feel numb, you can’t climb up that shit right now. Plus it’s…well, it’s kinda high up, isn’t it? 

You follow him anyway. You ignore looking down, to the side, and up. Just focusing on your fingers that white-knuckle the rungs, and your feet that determinedly find the footholds. Your lungs suck in a breath of relief once you get to the top of the roof. Bats is up ahead, light footed, as he steps off the wooden platform and onto the roof. He bobs his head in your direction to join him. 

You swallow and force down the queasiness. Ok, ok…you got this. No problem. When you reach the edge of the platform, your eyes drop to the minuscule gap that showcases how far that drop actually is if you fell. Your throat tightens. The world starts to spin. 

“Blue, it’s alright.”  

Your eyes snap open. Batboy stands in front of you, hand extended for you to take. You bite your tongue and against all judgment, you take his hand. The platform wobbles as you join him on the other side, you squeak. 

“Easy,” he comforts, guiding you to wherever he’s set on showing you. “I got you—trust me.” 

He comes to a stop, crouches and eases into a sitting position. He reaches for you and you plop into his lap, back pressed against his chest. It’s…it’s not so bad like this. You can see the clock tower from here, and the capital building, and bits of the ocean all illuminated by the sparkling yellow lights. And, just like you mentioned before, the far away stars shine overhead. There’s not many due to the light pollution, but they’re there. You smile.

You’d sit here for hours aimlessly. Washed in nothing with only Vengeance cradling you. The world passing on without either of you, and you would let it, happily. 

Bats’ chest rises. “Do you like it?” 

You lean further into his chest. “It’s beautiful. I wish I could see the stars every night.” 

His hands tickle up your ribcage, finger tips toying with the edge of your bra. Batboy’s lips find the divot behind your ear. “I meant the city.” 

You twitch as his large hands diverge, one moving to grasp at your breast and the other sliding down you stomach and past your navel. He squeezes your tit. He’s fucking insatiable. “O-oh.” 

His hand then jumps to your throat. You whine into his mouth as he cranes your neck to kiss you. Bats nudges his masked nose into your cheek and slides his gloved hand into your pants. “I want you to see how I see Gotham.” 

Your teeth tear into your bottom lip. You flinch, trying to shift your hips away from his searching fingers that easily find your still swollen clit. You’re still a fucking mess between your legs, a mix of his and yours’ spend that make the glide of his fingers easy. You arch into him, unsure if your body can handle more. “You can’t ke—keep your hands off me, can you?”  

“No,” he admits. “Like I said—you distract me.” 

The seam of his glove catches against your clit. He’s not so much pinpointing the bundle of nerves, just sliding his finger back and forth through your lips, soiling the leather. He doesn’t care about that. Bats’ other set of fingers, with the barest of pressures, squeezes around your throat. You gasp, he relents. “I’m not having sex up here—we’ll slip off.”

His chuckle vibrates against your neck. His fingertip teases a circle over your abused clit. “Crybaby Blue afraid of heights. Wouldn’t have guessed.” 

Your sharp retort dies on your tongue—everything comes to a screeching halt as none other than Gordon calls your name a floor below. Neither of you heard him rolling up to the tower, nor taking the elevator.  

Bats’ lips purse. He sighs and regretfully retracts his hand from your pussy. To really hammer the nail into your coffin, he pushes his fingertip to your lips. You allow him to breach the barrier of your teeth, using your tongue to clean off your arousal from his glove. Shit.

“Later,” Vengeance purrs low in your ear. “I’ll have you again—if you want.”   

Hell fuckin’ yeah. 

[the-insomniac-emporium]

RE8 Ladies + S/o with chronic pain HCs

Type/cause of chronic pain is kept ambiguous, but some of the hcs might seem geared towards migraines, since that's the main thing that I personally struggle with (and these are very definitely comfort hcs). Features Alcina, Bela, Cassandra, Daniela, Donna, Mother Miranda, and as a 'lil bonus Ava. Not particularly long, but the combined length of every character is enough to be put under a read-more (About 2,500 words in total).

Alcina:

It’s difficult for her to know that you are suffering, but be unable to deal directly with the source of the problem. Chasing off unwanted nuisances or hunting down threats to the castle was one thing, trying to solve complicated medical issues was another thing entirely. If only she could tear your condition asunder without tearing you asunder.

That being said, she’ll still support you endlessly, however she can. It doesn’t matter how expensive or hard-to-access possible treatments are. If there’s something you haven’t tried, and are interested in trying, she’ll find a way for you to get it.

The biggest, and arguably most helpful, thing that she does is set up a space for you within her office. She spends quite a lot of time there for her family’s business, but doesn’t want to leave you alone on bad days. So this was her idea of a nice compromise.

There’s a very comfortable sofa that folds out, a cabinet filled with the softest blankets, and several pillows of a few different sizes. Servants are instructed not to interrupt Alcina’s work without good reason, but she has a couple who ensure your snack cabinet is always well stocked.

If there are certain environmental factors to your condition, such as sensitivity to light and sound, she does her best to reduce their effects. Lights remain dimmed (or she’ll rely on candlelight), her music will be kept quiet enough to be soothing, and she’ll refrain from taking any calls while you are with her.

Bela:

To think that Daniela once tried to claim that Bela would “never need to know any of that (medical) stuff”! Sure, there haven’t been many people who have needed (and received) treatment from her, but that didn’t mean the skill was useless. Admittedly, she doesn’t know enough to replace one of your doctors, or try to create her own version of a cure, though no one really expected that much from her.

Still, she knows enough to help soothe your pain. Obviously there are different techniques for different kinds of pain, and she does research before trying anything specific. Bela’s also aware that you’ve been dealing with this for far longer than she has, meaning that you probably wouldn’t be pleased if she came in, acted like an expert, or assumed that you hadn’t really thought about the most popular remedies. So she’s tactful with how she approaches things, always checking if you’re familiar with a subject before she tries to explain anything.

Bela ends up surprising you with a lesser-known skill of hers: Massage. Studying anatomy has given her a decent idea of the body’s more sensitive spots, and the rest she’s figured out through her own, ahem, experiences. Regardless of where you’re in pain, your girlfriend can help reduce your suffering. Okay, well, if your pain is more internal than external, it’s a bit harder for her, but she can still help you relax.

One of her favorite things to do after giving you a massage is to just pull you in close for some cuddling. Preferably you’ll be in her lap, with her arms around your waist, her chin tucked on top of your shoulder. Then she’ll do her best to whisper you praises, reminding you how strong you are, and that she’s incredibly proud of you.

Cassandra:

She’s, uh, not great at this. At least not at first. Maybe she’ll never be more than good at it, though. But she’s definitely trying! And learning! By Jove, that’s something, right?

First things first, she’s always ready to try to distract you, primarily through kisses and gentle touches. Fingers softly trailing over your skin, lips tickling your neck, featherlight in all the right places… It’s not inherently sexual (though it can quickly go that route if you ask), just intimate. It’s harder for your brain to process pain when you’re also processing pleasure, so there is some science behind Cassandra’s methods, even if she herself isn’t entirely aware of that.

While she’s not great with words, there are certain things that she manages to articulate well enough. For one, she makes sure you know that you aren’t a burden. Taking care of you- no, helping you take care of yourself- is a labor of love, if a labor at all. More than that, she knows full well that you probably don’t like feeling pitied, or coddled. That, over time, being sick ends up being beyond frustrating. She never wants you to feel like your condition defines you, or like it puts any strain on your relationship.

That said, she’ll avoid telling her family any specifics unless you do first, and ensures that the staff know how to accommodate you (without telling them why, because it’s none of their fucking business, and she’s their boss, and for fuck’s sake it’s their job to do what she tells them. Maybe she gets a lil bit overzealous with it). At no point will she ever complain about helping you, or otherwise indicate that your needs are “troublesome”.

At the end of the day, the best comfort she brings you is her presence, simply being near you, endlessly loyal, tireless in her affections. Especially considering she gets clingier the worse your symptoms get.

Daniela:

Hope you enjoy cuddling. Seriously. There’s nothing Daniela loves more than curling up with you, and that goes double for bad pain days. Some adjustments will be made position-wise if you need, but she’ll still hold you as close as possible, for as long as you need. Although she might eventually fall asleep (because damn are you comfy), she’ll play with your hair or run her fingers along your scalp until she eventually dozes off.

If you want a little more from her than light snoring, or if she feels like going above and beyond, or honestly just if she’s thinking about how much she loves you (so all the effing time), she’ll do something she’s always loved in movies/books: Reading to you! She’ll pick special books that neither of you have read before, so you can experience them together on your sick(er) days. Which does, of course, mean that it might take months to finish even a single one. Surprisingly, Daniela won’t even briefly consider reading any without you. Even if the plot is really good.

But, uh, if you wanted her to read to you on a day where you aren’t bedridden? Hell yes, my friend, she’s absolutely down for that!

On days where she’s too busy to spend hours upon hours in bed with you, or days where her ADHD is just particularly bad, she tries her best to leave you with a “substitute”. AKA a massive fucking teddy bear, in a reddish brown color, with a green bowtie. Custom ordered (The Duke did not dare tease her for it). There’s a heart stitched onto the stuffed animal’s chest, which features your first initial alongside a D for Daniela.

Additionally, she has a blanket she only brings out for you, which she periodically sprays with her favorite perfume. That way you can hold it close when she’s not around, as if you were cuddling her. For her sake, though, don’t hold the teddy bear or blanket too tightly when she is around. Homegirl here will get jealous of inanimate objects, even ones that she gave you.

Donna:

“I think I have a tea for this…” Damn right she has a tea for this. Donna has a massive garden, with dozens if not hundreds of different plants, including a variety of herbs/spices. At least one of them has to be a little helpful for you. Whether it relieves pain, helps you nap off some of your misery, or just distracts you by tasting bloody-well delicious! Besides, few things make you feel quite as loved as holding a cup of freshly brewed tea in your hands, knowing your lover made it just for you. Like a hug in a mug, it is!

Similarly to Alcina, Donna will also try to create a comfortable space for you, but isn’t likely to put it downstairs with her workshop. Instead she’ll let you take over one of the larger guest rooms, customizing it to suit your specific needs. There will be some easy to care for plants for decoration (ones that won’t mind potentially missing out on natural sunlight), a couple relaxing paintings, and a shelf near the bed with things to help you pass the time, mainly books.

Furthermore, she’ll do her best to keep you company as often as possible. She’s naturally a fairly quiet person, so you won’t have to worry about sound if that’s something you’re sensitive to. While she prefers using a sewing machine, she’ll do things by hand while you’re in pain, just to reduce the chances of you getting irritated by the sound.

Speaking of potentially irritating sounds… by god can Angie be difficult to be around when you’re ill. Thankfully, Donna is perfectly understanding of this, and, as the only person Angie ever listens to, makes sure to give the doll a stern talking to about your health. To your immense surprise, it actually works. You’re not exactly sure what was said, but Angie certainly becomes a lot more compensating afterwards. She’ll keep her antics to herself, and usually even on another side of the house from where you rest, but only for as long as you’re tucked away in your room. As soon as you set foot outside, her restraints are metaphorically removed. All hell breaks loose (as is her universe-given right as the physical embodiment of both Chaos and Entropy).

Mother Miranda:

If the two of you weren’t lovers, there’s a decent chance you would completely misinterpret her actions. She might come off as irritated, like she has bigger concerns than your health, you fragile little human. After all, she is a goddess (well, practically). But the truth is that she’s aching inside every time you have a bad pain day, knowing that (for once) she cannot cure your ailment. Maybe if she had infinite subjects with the same condition as you…

But, at the end of the day, that’s the problem. There’s only one of you. One of her beloved, her little human darling, so dangerously fragile in comparison to the scale she works on. Even with all the time in the world, which she most certainly has, she cannot cure you without taking incredible risks. With your life at stake… It is a gamble she refuses to take. You are hers, and while she hates to see you suffer, the truth is that she’ll always be selfish enough to let you endure on your own.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t help, though, just that she doesn't do a full-out experiment on you. Instead, she keeps notes. She’ll track your activities, bedtimes/when you get up, dietary habits, when you have pain, what you do to treat said pain, how effective the treatments are, etc, etc. All of this can be very useful in establishing patterns (a skill she’s gotten very good at, in her many decades of being a scientist), which can in turn lead to less pain days.

(For example, many people with migraines find that certain foods seem to trigger a migraine, or at least increase the chances of getting one. Though admittedly they don’t always end up cutting the food out of their diet. I mean, come on, you want me to give up chocolate? You want me to drink normal milk, like an adult? Kidding, kidding, I don’t have any food triggers. Nor do I particularly enjoy chocolate milk, nor do I dislike it.)

Moving on! While her work seemingly takes precedence over your condition, Miranda is not heartless, and she does do some things to lend you more direct comfort. Specifically, she tries to work in the same room as you when she can, normally while making electronic copies of physical documents, or while looking over the details of a finished experiment. She’s not always one for cuddling, so she won’t often get in bed with you during the daytime. But at night? Yes, fine, she will wrap her arms around you, maybe one of her wings too if you like how soft they are.

Just don’t think that she secretly loves every second. It’s not like she’ll spend half an hour whispering about how sweet and adorable you are as soon as you fall asleep, or anything like that. It’s twenty minutes at the most.

Bonus!Avaskian Caldwell:

“Oh, fuckin’ mood!” Followed by a solid thirty seconds of pure regret. Seriously, though, Ava has spent xer entire life (starting at age 10) dealing with chronic migraines. For a while xe also dealt with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome), which meant lots of chest pain, but that (thankfully) faded as xe grew into an adult, as is fairly common with the condition. If anyone in Castle Dimitrescu understands unrelenting, unexplainable pain, it’s xer.

That being said… Ava never really managed xer chronic pain, at least not when xe was at xer worst. Xe had to drop out of school because of it. Hell, xe didn’t have a “real” job until xe was almost 23! Didn’t have a chance until things just calmed down for xer. So xe gets anxious whenever you talk about your health, worried that things are (or will at some point be) as bad for you as they were for xer. Other than that, though, you might initially think that xe doesn’t care, or didn’t understand the conversation.

Truth is, xe knows how absolutely fucking ANNOYING it can be to have to explain your health to every new person you meet (like the dozen different doctors you’ve met over the years, possibly every nurse who takes your pulse and thinks it’s a little bit high). So xe did a shit ton of research on your condition, in order to reduce how much you need to explain. Sure, xe will still have questions, and there are always aspects that only you can tell xer, but it’s a nice gesture.

As for helping you destress, xe’s pretty much a mix of Bela and Miranda. You’ll get plenty of massages (because Ava has learned from personal experience what sort of touches help with which sorts of pain), but also some scientific insight on any noticeable patterns. Lots of holding you close and telling you that you’re the coolest person in the world, and that Ava feels beyond lucky to have you.

[swaps55]

2, 9, and 17 for the deep fic writer asks!! <3

Thank you!

From fic writer asks

2. what's a fic that took you to an emotional/dark/hard place?

Fugue. Specifically, The Courage of Stars. This entire story beats me up, but that chapter in particular gutted me in a way I needed a lot of time to recover from. It is not the only reason I took over a year off from that story, but it’s a big one.

As a whole, Fugue requires me to put myself in a pretty emotionally difficult headspace. Especially for the first half of the story, I couldn’t work on it unless I had a big block of time to throw at it, because I had to give myself time to ramp into that headspace, and then give myself time to ramp out of it.

9. what's your writing process like?

Writing every day does me more harm than good. The good news is I’m pretty disciplined at staying in the habit of writing, so when I’m reluctant to sit down and do it, I know myself well enough to figure out if it’s because I’m mentally tired and trying to draw blood from a stone, or if I’m avoiding something I just need to buckle down and crank through.

I cannot juggle more than one long fic at a time, so whatever’s active gets my entire focus and headspace. I also typically write pretty chronologically, but if I have a scene from down the road burning up my brain, I’ll spit it out so it quits keeping me up at night.

When I’m creating a draft, I tend to put the bones down first, then layer in the muscle. But I often work scene by scene, so I may flesh out an existing scene before pushing through to the next one. If I feel like something’s going off the rails, I go back and fix it before writing forward, because just ignoring it in favor of finishing a draft usually comes back to bite me.   

I’m also predominantly a pantser, with occasional plotter tendencies. Someone once commented that I must have plotted extensively to make “The Things We’ve Done” (the Sharjilla chapter of Cantata) work, and while I take that as an incredible compliment, I did not, haha. I pantsed the ever loving fuck out of that story. Hell, I marooned Sam and Kaidan on that planet without having any idea what marooned them, why they were pissed at each other about it, or how I was going to resolve it.

17. What’s the best engagement/interaction/feedback you’ve received from someone who’s read your work?

Oh gosh. I can’t even begin to choose one. I am constantly blown away by the incredible things people have said to me over these stories. @mrsd-writes made one of Kara’s cross-stitches (!!!!) and @theoriginalladya made me a wreath celebrating all the of the ‘Yang’s holiday traditions. @ahhrenata drew ART for one of my stories. I cannot believe any of that happened.

I’ve had people tell me they figured out they were ace because of Sam and Kaidan. I’ve had people tell me they wish the ‘Yang crew were part of the games and have adopted Cantata as their own canon. People have told me they ask themselves what Sam would do when they play. People have told me Opus encouraged them to start writing. All of that is AMAZING.

The love people have expressed for the ‘Yang OCs in particular floors me, because I never in a million years thought people would embrace new characters in a world that is already rife with such incredible, loveable characters.

I never ceased to be amazed that something I wrote has touched other people.

[liddolwhynot2000]

Moments Levi shared with his beloved baby daughter- Kutchel

____________________________________

aka Levi giving all his 💕Uwu's💕 to his baby girl

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Dadaaa

____________________________________

It's Levi's day off, and even though he tries his hardest not to look it, he's eager to run back home. He's determined to not waste a second of being off duty.

He's missed his family- you and your calming presence. The stability that he falls into at merely being in the same vicinity as you, is difficult to resist-even for a man like Levi.

Your gentleness somehow meshes well with your child's rowdiness, always laughing and wreaking havoc in the house. He wants to hold his baby brat, even if she'll try to pull his hair out for it.

So he hurries back home, but of course, he has to get past your little guard first. Standing with his cloak still in his arms, Levi craned his neck down to stare at the tiny creature sitting on the floor, blocking his path to his beloved wife. Said creature, wearing a blue dress, is his adorable one year old daughter.

The baby doesn't bother to spare him a glance, too busy babbling as she plays with her blocks. Levi's fine with it, it took him a while but he's learned to accept that babies don't care about, well, anything.

He ponders lifting her up and cradling her in his arms for a cuddle. But, considering the ferociousness with which his daughter is bashing two blocks together, he decides that he values his ability to hear.

Kneeling down, he sets his cloak on the floor and sits in front of her, waiting to be noticed. Kutchel looks at him, her big black eyes innocently blinking at him. She shoves a block into her mouth and gurgles, recognising him.

"Do I have your approval to go to your mom now?"

"Ba da guuu"

"Is that a yes or a no?"

More random babbling. Tiny hands busy themselves with trying to crawl away, so Levi pats her on the head and gets up to go to his wife. He doesn't notice his baby pausing mid crawl to pout at him, wanting him to stick close.

He also doesn't see her little face cutely scrunch up, thinking of ways to stop him and bring one of her favourite humans back to her.

''Daadaaa."

Levi freezes, his heart immediately melting. He can't stop himself from turning back to his child, not when she calls out for him like that.

He cradles her in his arms, unaware that you're watching from the kitchen door, committing the sight to memory.

__________________________________

Conversations

__________________________________

You've been with Levi for so long now-so much of your life has been spent with this wonderful man and you have no regrets whatsoever.

You do, however, have secrets. Not serious ones, but pure ones. Small, precious memories you've kept to yourself. They're you're little secrets- events that you look back on with fondness.

Events Levi doesn't know you saw happen.

You remember, when you were exhausted from giving birth, how lovingly Levi talked to your newborn daughter.

'Hey brat, you better keep it down now. Your mom just fell asleep- don't yawn. You're already not listening to me-'

He thought you were asleep. If it weren't for your stitches, you would have giggled and alerted him to the fact that you were listening.

You remember all those times you were never woken up by Kutchel crying-because Levi would wake up before you.

'Go to sleep.'

'oooooh'

'I said; Go. To. Sleep. Don't smile at me-- hey stop laughing-'

You caught on to it very randomly, and the memory warmed your heart to this day.

Levi often had silly little conversations with baby Kutchel, when he thought you weren't in hearing range.

'Yes this is the right way-no what do you mean I can't fold shirts like this-you're pouting you obviously don't agree.'

'Kid- I don't know why you like Eren so much-but this works because he can be an unpaid babysitter-no? Fine, I guess I can pay him a little. Okay fine, I'll pay him more then a little.'

'Do you like this dress? Me neither. How about this one-these socks are awful why the hell do you have these-'

'Yes tea is better then coffee. Coffee is for soulless creatures like Mikasa-Hey, don't cry dammit, why do you have to like the brat that glares at me so much huh? You tiny traitor.'

'So I'm taking you to that military ball tommorow-and I expect you to cry enough that I have an excuse to leave. You cry, I leave and then you get as much milk as you want. We good? Good. Don't tell your mother.'

'You threw up on that military police soldier-I'm proud of you brat. Now, let's aim for throwing up on Erwin. Or at least trying to rip his eyebrows out. I feel like the rumour of them being fake might be true.'

'I know you can't talk much, but make a vow to me that you will, never, ever say yes to anything your Aunt Hange asks of you. Trust me, it's for you own good.'

'Kutchel- stop that-I will pay you to stay still. Here, here's all the money I have, which isn't much. Take it and stay still- why the hell are you still wiggling, you need to put your socks on dammit-'

And so much more. It warmed your heart to think of how beautifully he had bonded with her from the start. And you can only be glad you get to see their entire journey together.

__________________________________

Cloak

__________________________________

Levi is a man who values cleanliness above all things-he's made sure his house is so clean that all the rooms are sparkling. Despite having a baby in the house, who had recently learned how to walk and subsequently wreak havoc everywhere she wants to, he still tries his hardest to stick to those standards.

So that's why, here he is, pathetically trying to wash clothes, with a clingy toddler who has made it her life's mission to ruin his life. How is she doing this, one would ask. Well, making sure that he can't even put the damn clothes in the basket was one.

'Kutchel-no-stop it, give that back.'

Levi's a little ashamed of himself, just his hands moving to grab his swords are usually enough to strike fear into the heart of his enemies. Yet, here they are, incapable of winning a tug of war with his one year old brat.

He's really, really glad that Hanji can't see him right now.

He manages to get the shirt out of Kutchel's strong grip, causing her to pout and flail her arms with a whine. Levi refuses to give in and snatches the next piece of clothing before she can. He gives her a stern look.

'No.'

With that, he dumps it in the basket. Kutchel doesn't appreciate it, sitting down and pouting at him cutely. It doesn't last long, because she busies herself with the clothes again. At least she isn't snatching them from his hands this time, and only picking on the clean pile.

He gets up to get some more detergent, smiling to himself at the sound of happy gurgles. Once he comes back, he catches sight of Kutchel, and nearly drops all the powder.

His child is exactly where he had left her, except she's now wearing his Survey Corps cloak. Her black hair, much like his own, is messy and the hood is too big for her tiny head. She looks up at him, and smiles in the face of his horror. On one hand, it's pretty damn cute. On the other hand-

'Oh hell no-'

He starts to take the cloak off of her, ignoring her cries of indignation. His child won't have anything to do with the Survey Corps. Ever.

Too bad 15 year old Kutchel Ackerman had every intention of stealing his title from him- but that's a story for another time.

____________________________________

Clapping

____________________________________

Levi has self control. Plenty of it, actually. One could easily argue that, after Erwin, he's one of the most composed individuals in the military.

He's dealt with all sorts of people-rude, snobbish, arrogant bastards who think they stand a chance against him. His expression never waivers, even as he insults them to the point their ancestors are crying in the graves.

But what's happening right now, it makes him lose his precious self control. His face, so used to being that of an expressionless grumpy old man, is scrunched up in anger. Levi does not like what's happening.

Not one bit.

Levi can deal with people trash talking him, he never falters despite all the accurate short jokes. He can deal with people bashing Erwin without flinching-because even he's wanted to kill the man once and can't really blame others for wanting to do so as well.

However, what Levi can't deal with in a calm and rational manner, is -

'The fuck did you just say?'

'I said, your daughter is just a dumb brat.'

Yeah, this Military Police Senior Officer is dying today. Levi hopes Erwin is ready to deal with an irate Nile

'Shut the fuck up-I'm the only one who gets to call her a dumb brat.'

The Officer moves to speak again but Levi silences him with a soul burning glare. Levi turns to his brat. Kutchel is sitting on the carpet, wearing a tiny, cute red dress you had bought for her on sale. She's surrounded by numerous toys, gifted by his comrades.

'Kutchel-'

The baby pauses in her play time, which is chewing a stuffed bear, and turns to look at her papa. The officer looks confused.

'If you're happy and you know it clap your hands.'

There's a pause in the room. The officer looks surprised, although he thinks Levi just proved his point. Kutchel looks to be only a few months old and Levi has just monotonously stated a sentence that is usually sung. There was no way the brat would actuall-

Kutchel squealed in delight, pressing her hands together slowly. Once she notices her papas approval, she starts clapping happily.

Levi smirks, while the officer sweat drops.

'See that, bitch? No' dumb brat' does that at 9 months old.'

Of course, Levi still had to beat the guy up a little after that. No one picks on his baby but him.

____________________________________

Sorry

____________________________________

'Eat it.'

Levi pushed the spoon towards Kutchel, who refused to open her mouth.

He had seated her on the table, ditching the highchair. A bib was secured around her neck, and the brat was clearly hungry.

Except since she had eaten three bites, she refused to eat more. Levi was slowly getting more and more frustrated.

'What's your problem? I know you're hungry.'

Kutchel stared at him sadly, and his irritation thawed at the sight. His child was usually pretty well behaved when it came to food. She usually liked eating fruits and vegetables, but for some reason, kept rejecting her baby food.

Levi frowned, before deciding to taste it himself. Maybe if he ate one in front of her, she would want to eat it too-

Levi paused.

He slowly ate, resisting the urge to throw up. He grimaced and awkwardly avoided eye contact with Kutchel, feeling sheepish all of a sudden.

There was judgement in her eyes- something he couldn't blame her for.

The hell sort of crap had they been feeing her? It tasted awful. No wonder she wouldn't eat it.

Sighing, Levi shoved the bowl full of food-that-must-not-be-named away. He lifted Kutchel into his arms.

His brat pouted slightly, her small arms wrapping around his neck. Poor kid was hungry, as evidenced by her discontent expression.

Levi smiled at her lightly, tucking her head into he crook of his neck.

'Sorry Kutchel-let's go to the bakery and get some pastries. And when we get back, I'll even mix some chocolate in your milk. Just don't tell your mother okay.'

____________________________________

A/N: Heyooo. Just randomly thought of Levi being a dad and this came to mind. These are actually only some of the moments I thought of, I have plenty more in mind. Maybe I'll write those out too. Hope y'all enjoyed this! ❇️

[starglow-xx]

owning a bakery and being discovered by the ada and the port mafia (part 4)

platonic! mori ougai x f!reader

type of writing: head canons !!

this is part of my head canon series, flour & fluff !!

tag list is open !! go to this google form and fill it out to sign up!

series synopsis: owning a bakery at 20 is tough; even more so when you have to handle members of two opposing organizations! this is your journey to meeting those fools and creating an unlikely bond with each of them. but only at the cost of your peace and sanity.

fandom: bungou stray dogs

content: fluff & platonic stuff

previous: the doctor is in the house (quite literally)

author’s note: it’s port mafia time! ages are still one year younger than canon

also!! my 100 followers event still has 7 5 4 3  2  1 spot open for requests!! go check out this post for more info!! i’d like to get the whole prompt list done early so i have time to write them! (event is now closed as of feb. 10, 2021)

another doctor? oh wait, another doctor and his daughter

as you expected, ranpo and fukuzawa have not let you go easy after what had happened a couple days prior (3 days ago to be exact)

one of them, or more often than not, the two of them would go visit the bakery at least twice a day

once in the morning right before opening, and the second time right before closing

if they could, they would visit around lunch time, but that was usually yosano

tbh you were thankful that yosano hasn’t been as overbearing as the other two but you knew she probably wanted to give you a break because holy shit are they extremely over protective

currently, it was the fourth day of being watched by the two eldest ada members, but there were no said ada members with you at the moment

and boy were you overjoyed

turns out, the ada has an important escort job for a government official or smth, and on top of that, fukuzawa has a bunch of meetings to attend

even ranpo has his hands full with a couple of difficult murder cases across the country

you’re lowkey, no highkey, worried bc you learned literally 3 days ago that ranpo doesn’t know how to ride the train 😀😀

you were worried abt them, there’s no question, but on the inside you were a bit relieved to which ranpo called you out on it immediately 

that led to the two of you going at each other’s throats for nearly half an hour

let’s just say fukuzawa scolded the two fo you for a while

going back to the present, it was around one pm and you had just finished sending a text message to both fukuzawa and ranpo (cause they insisted) when a little blonde girl with blue eyes wearing a red dress matching with a red bow in her hair and red shoes walked in

she immediately went to the glass case to look at the desserts displayed

as she looked around, you watched her at the corner of your eyes and a with a smile as you wiped down one of the tables

after wiping down the table, you quickly went to go wash your hands and you walked over and stood next to her

you bent slightly and smiled bigger as she stared at one of the treats in the glass

“is that the one you want?”

she nodded without looking away from the glass

you giggled before going to the back and placing the one she wanted on the plate and held it out to her

the blonde was honestly so confused bc one, no adult supervision, and two, there was no tell tale way to know that she had money

to you, she was an open book so when she looked at you, her face immediately read “but i have no money, or a parent...??”

you simply patted her head and pushed along to one of the nearby tables and pulled a chair for her

you did not regret anything when you saw the look on her face when you told her that it was on the house

“name’s elise!” “i’m (y/n)!”

:D

you sat with her for a while continuing to give her sweets she reminded you of ranpo in all honestly and talking abt random things

she mostly complained abt a “rintarou” though

speaking of which, when a man in a doctor’s coat came through the door near screaming “elise-chan! elise-chan!” you figured that was probably the rintarou she was complaining abt

you smiled as you watched the two interact

“elise-chan why would just disappear like that?!”

“i wanted to see rintarou cry”

“so mean!”

...their behavior was questionable but endearing ig

“rintarou” suddenly turned to you, thanking you for “taking care of his daughter bc she’s always getting into trouble”

*cue angry noises and face from elise*

he introduced himself as a “local neighborhood doctor”

you smelled bullshit but didn’t say anything bc he has been kind to you so far

he asked you how he could repay you and you were thinking that you can actually win something bc you’re not refusing an ada member oh you poor oblivious child but you were appalled when elise answered for you

it went like this

“is there anything i can repay you with for taking care of my dear elise-chan? perhaps paying for all the sweets she has eaten?”

“oh no! don’t worry abt that, it’s nothing! it was a pleasure getting to know—”

“let’s buy out all of her food!”

h u h

you knew she enjoyed your pastries and stuff but like w h a t

you inwardly sigh in relief when the doctor agreed with you that “that’s a bit much elise-chan” and you were thanking every deity out there when suddenly

she threw a temper tantrum

you watched in confusion and slight horror at the 180 of the sweet little girl you were talking to like 10 minutes ago

her guardian panicked slightly and tried to get her to calm down but ahaha no that didn’t happen

“WAHH rintarou!! but i want it!! (y/n)’s food is the best i’ve ever had!!”

“b-but elise-chan, we can’t just buy—”

“i’ll wear all the dresses i’ve ever rejected and more if we buy it out right now and keep buying sweets here forever”

“...deal”

your eyes twitch at the “innocent” smiles the two gave you after their “talk”

fast forward literally 5 minutes and you’ve already flipped the close sign on your door with note (saying you’re sold out) and you’re all over the place running around behind the counter trying to fit everything into boxes as the two are sitting on a nearby table lightly chatting

about 20-25, nearly 30 minutes later you finishing packing everything in the glass case

it was a lot

we’re literally talking about tiered cakes and dozens of batches of cookies, cupcakes, literally everything and anything

when the two notice you’re done they get up meet you by the register

“a-ano, you really don’t have to buy all of this...the total is going to be quite large...”

“no worries!”

honestly at this point, you kind of missed the chaotic calls from ranpo that happened like every half hour

you thought you were done being surprised for the day but next thing you know men in suits come into Sakura’s and begin to load the boxes into a black car

dealing with the detectives was already starting to be a handful and now you have to deal whoever the hell these two people where

quite frankly, you were having trouble wrapping your head around all of this

like-

who buys out a whole bakery?!

and who has the money to buy out a whole bakery?!

what kind of job could you possibly have?!

was this guy really just a doctor?!

right before the two leave you call out to them

“a-ah wait! i don’t think i ever caught your name!”

the two blink at you before eyeing each other

“mori ougai” 😄😄

you started smelling bad shits again 

>:/

it was a weird feeling

you felt something off but at the same time, you weren’t really afraid 

and with that the two left

you were already tired from this whole thing but you now get the rest of the day off

so i guess something worked out in your favor

until the next fricking day

again, ranpo and fukuzawa canceled out on you

you weren’t sure if you were relieved or not

and as soon as you thought you were going to have a normal business day, guess who walked through the doors

yeah that’s right

“the local neighborhood doctor” and his daughter

you froze before eyeing them with suspicion

if mori was amused, he didn’t show it, only giving you a smile

elise immediately left his side and practically leaped onto you making you cut yourself with the knife you were holding

well shit now you’re bleeding

it was only 7:15 in the morning; you had literally just opened

you were cursing every deity out there

you quickly grab a nearby and press it against your wound and scrambled around looking for the first aid kit you had nearby

“oh? (y/n)-kun are you bleeding?”

“(y/n) i’m sorry!”

“a-ah, no worries elise-chan”

you really need to stop spacing out bc next thing you know, the sign on your door is flipped to close again (along with the same note from yesterday explaining you’re sold out taped on the door) and you’re sitting at a table with elise in your lap and mori wrapping your hand in a bandage

“tsk tsk (y/n)-kun you need to be more careful...but it is elise-chan’s fault”

“die rintarou!”

“but no worries! it’s not that deep so you don’t need stitches”

“thank you, mori-san, but can i ask why you and elise-chan are here again? not that i mind...”

whether or not you were lying is up to you

“oh we’re here to buy out your stock again!”

“wait what-”

the fuck???

did they not just buy everything yesterday???

frozen, you stare at the man in front if you with said man giving you another “innocent” smile

this little shit

wait till you meet dazai

but i guess that’s why the sign on the door is flipped to close bc you don’t even remember flipping it yourself or taping the note from yesterday to the door

you spent the next half hour trying to convince the two over some tea (your signature one of course) that “no you don’t need to or should buy everything i have, you’re going to deprive the rest of my customers”

cough cough ranpo

like the day before, you were losing this argument

can you just never win?

as you were losing the argument (obviously) you realized that you don’t even know why they want to buy everything again

“mori-san, why do the two of you even want to buy everything in the first place?”

“ah it was elise-chan’s request of course! but i do admit, after trying some of your sweets myself, i grew quite attached! so did the rest of my subordinates after my precious elise-chan made them try it, not like they could refuse her or me; i am their boss after all (y/n)-kun.”

*cue confusion*

“subordinates? wait are those the guys from yesterday?? aren’t you a doctor...?”

“ah ex-doctor actually, i’m the leader of the port mafia”

...

“ah (y/n)-kun that’s quite the coughing fit you have going on, do you need water?”

if it wasn’t obvious, you choked on your tea and had quite the coughing fit; you were wheezing and everything making elise leave you lap and settling for dangling over mori’s shoulders

“...you’re kidding”

“im afraid im not”

this man confuses the hell out of you??

like-

w h y would he just say that, to you of all people

but it explains the bad shits you were smelling/feeling yesterday

“are you afraid?”

“being completely honest with you, mori-san, not really”

“and why is that?”

you simply shrug not really knowing the answer

you aren’t lying, you just aren’t

maybe bc yesterday, he seemed more like a doting parent than the boss of the most criminal organization of yokohama

yes, you’ve heard the rumors, obviously, but just saying, if the port mafia wanted to hurt you, you’d probably be dead in a ditch by now

and they haven’t really been a bother to you, they were more like background characters in your life

well

until yesterday of course

mori simply raises an eyebrow and a smile seemingly okay with your very vague answer

“why did you tell me that mori-san?”

the man only smiles a bit wider at you and this time, you’re the one raising an eyebrow

“just a feeling” 

yeah you were starting to smell bad shits again

“and besides! elise-chan seems quite fond of you (y/n)-kun! i wasn’t planning on doing anything to you in the first place, but even if i wanted to, i don’t think i could! i wouldn’t want to upset my dearest cute elise-chan”

“die rintarou!”

“that’s mean elise-chan!”

your eyes began to twitch in slight annoyance

cause istg the duality of this man—

this strange strange man

oh dearest you haven’t even met dazai yet

after that has been said and done, somehow you found yourself in front of stores being dragged by elise

how did you end up there you ask? i don’t know either so there’s nothing we can do abt that

eventually, you found yourself holding a bunch of shopping bags full of dresses and clothes of the sort

some of it your size and the others elise’s

...

“mori-san?”

“yes (y/n)-kun?”

“why do i have bags of clothing that are fit for me rather than elise?”

“oh that’s because elise refused to go without you and if you didn’t get anything!”

yeah

that makes perfect sense, of course

you could see why elise kept on complaining abt this guy

the two of you actually bonded over making fun of him

you have n o fear

actually, maybe just a little

the three of you were out for basically the entire day and you were exhausted

cause holy shit there was a lot of money wasted, shopping bags obtained, and walking involved

it was around 5 pm when the three of you were making it back to Sakura’s

along the way you found yourself having a pleasant conversation with mori

even if he was a questionable person to be having a pleasant conversation with, you enjoyed it nonetheless

you hoped that it makes it harder to get rid of you if he ever changed his mind but we don’t talk abt that

anywho

when the three of you arrived, you immediately dumped all the bags you were holding and went straight to work packaging everything for “the local neighborhood doctor”

before they left, mori agreed to not buy out all of your stock except for some occasions but instead settled ordering massive batches of a little bit of everything every few days

how that’s not the same as buying everything you won’t ever know

you were standing outside Sakura’s watching the two get into the car that had arrived when suddenly, mori turned to you

“ah (y/n)-kun, i know that you wouldn’t tell anyone about this, it wouldn’t be like you to, but just a reminder, it would probably be in your best interest not to let anything slip to anyone okay? we wouldn’t want any enemies using you against the port mafia. so take care of yourself hm? see you next time”

and bippity boppity boo just like that, they were gone

how that man managed to get your personality down in just like 10 hours you don’t want to know

and that’s basically the story of how you started making more food/bake goods to sell

true to his word, every few days, or sometimes consecutive days, mori called you and made a large order

and i mean large

on those days, someone from the port mafia would pick it up and then you get paid

thankfully, by increasing the amount of food you made, you always had enough to put out on display and to sell even after the large order

before doing that, on those days you didn’t have a large stock, someone by the name of edogawa ranpo would weep at your feet

he will deny this; after all, great detectives don’t do weeping

or so he says

and speaking of the detective, you never did tell him what had transpired the two days he and fukuzawa were absent on checking on you

but tbh, i even think ranpo could’ve deduct this one

you didn’t tell him bc you were afraid, no of course not that’s ridiculous mori, in elise’s words, was a loser

you didn’t tell him bc you knew he and fukuzawa would flip the fuck out

and that would be a major inconvenience to you

you didn’t see the point in telling them anyway

so whatever, it’s like it’ll be important

and if ranpo and fukuzawa noticed the abundant of bags near the door leading up to the staircase when they visited you at the end of the day they didn’t say anything

jk

of course one of them said smth

“ne (n/n)-chan since when did you like to buy a bunch of things; waste of money if you could just be using that money to make more food so you wouldn’t sell out right away and have food to feed me”

your eyes twitched

he could’ve worded that a little better but whatever

it is ranpo-san after all

“i just got carried away since i closed up early; you know it isn’t often i get to go shopping”

and if he smelled your bullshit he didn’t say anything

for real this time

that slightly concerns you ngl

anyways

let’s just say quite a few heads were turned when they saw their boss leading a bunch of lower level subordinates carrying many light pink boxes of different sizes to his office for the second time

oh and just another thing

*whispers* he was lying when elise made his other subordinates eat your food; they kept it all to themselves”

was that a ruse to help lead the revelation of his real occupation who knows

“(y/n)-kun is a very interesting person don’t you think so elise-chan?”

“quiet. i’m eating cake.”

“that’s so mean elise-chan!”

<<previous // next >>

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[sif-the-tsunami]

As much as I love the kink and smut that comes out with Henry being dominant, I also love the idea with him being with a soft dominant service top of a woman. Also, I should have been asleep instead I wrote this.

It starts out with a little bit of playful banter. She is clearly much more petite than Henry, but that doesn't stop her from jokingly inviting him to sit on her lap one day.

She smiles and tells him "that's my good man," when he finally takes her up on it. Granted he's mostly sitting on the arm of the chair. She tenderly pats his knee. And somewhere in his brain, the praise kink is activated.

She is generous with her compliments. "I can tell you practiced, your form is great today." "It was so thoughtful of you to hold that for me, thank you." "Oh, that idea is brilliant! Henry, you are marvelous." "You know what, you are right, the Ptolemaic lineage was probably more inbred than a sandwich. Thank you for reminding me of that." "Hatshepsut would make for an fasinating character study, I'm glad you said something."

He is constantly chasing the high he got from that first time. When they finally have the courage to tell each other how they feel, he tells her that he would do whatever she wanted if it meant that she would tell him that he's her man, and that he doesn't quite get it but something about her makes him want to work for it. That sometimes the happiest he's felt is when he lays his head on her lap, and drifts off into a peaceful sleep as she combs her fingers in his hair as she reads her book.

She has no problem stitching the buttons back on his shirt or the side seams back together because she wants her man to look as handsome as possible. She will sometimes get the next size up and tailor it to him so the buttons don't pop off. She does the cooking so its one less thing he worries about, not because its expected. He comes home after a bad day, she knows when its time to bring out the whiskey and kneel between his knees giving him the kind of oral he's only ever seen in porn.

"What did I do to deserve this?" He'll ask her.

"You've been a good boy. Good boys get good head." She responds.

The sex, my god, the sex is two people trying their damnedest to please the other. Henry wants her as often as possible, and she loves watching him writhing under her touch. She tells him how good he feels, how no one else has ever made her cum like he has, that he has a beautiful cock. One day, he is on top of her, making love to her in deep passionate strokes. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, back arching in bliss, when she does something she never has before. Her hand gently but firmly touches his neck. She puts a little pressure on either side of his throat and he embraces this tender act of making him hers. In loving trust, he leans into it. He gives himself to her entirely.

"You like my hand there, Henry. Don't just grunt at me, osito, use your words. Oh, you have the most beautiful throat, my sweetheart."

He doesn't relinquish control lightly.

The next time she put her hand on his throat she tell him not to be gentle with her. His thrusts are primal, he's afraid he's going to hurt her delicate body, but she can take it. The letting loose was just as much for her as it was for him. He slows down for a second to catch his breath, she just moves her thumb back and forth on his jaw. He grabs her hand, and starts kissing her palm. With each kiss he goes in deeply, causing her to gasp. He loves how her hand feels on his neck.

When he's asked to grow a beard for another film, she will occasionally run her fingers through it and pull him down to her for kisses. He ends up keeping the beard a little longer than intended. He starts getting bolder with his submission to her.

But its not all sunshine and rainbows. One day his stubbornness gets the best of him. The arguments are intense and he realizes when he goes too far but can't stop himself. He's only human.

Once the dust settles, he apologized to her, he realizes that even though she is loving and gentle with him, she is still not happy. That night when she comes to bed she tells him exactly what she wants.

"My love, I have an itch that needs scratching, but let's be honest with each other, you haven't exactly been my sweet pet today, have you? I want you to lay on the bed, you are going to keep your hands holding on to the headboard. You are not going to rock your hips, thrust or assist me in any way. I am going to suck your dick long enough to get you hard, then I'm going to use that beautiful cock of yours like my own personal sex toy. In fact, I even have a vibrator to speed things up for me. After I cum at least twice, I'll let you finish yourself off, but I will not help you, and you only have until I cum for a third time. Do you understand?"

Henry nods solemnly. He's never heard her talk to him like that and she might as well have thrown him across her lap and spanked him like the unruly shit he had been acting like earlier. He watches as she undresses herself. He was already naked and ready for bed. The sight of her caused him to start becoming engorged. She then licked and sucked on his manhood until he was fully erect. She then straddles his hips and eases herself onto him. With the vibrator in hand, she rides him, moaning and gasping. He want to hear her tell him how good feels. He loses control of himself for a moment, raising his hips to meet hers but she pulls herself away quickly in response. The first orgasm she has comes quickly. Her legs start trembling and her sweet walls clench onto him, pulsating. She gives herself a breather for a moment, then starts riding him again. The closer she gets to her peak, the less she moves on him, enjoying the waves of pleasure from her election assistant.

"Please, baby, let fuck you." He whimpers. "I'm sorry I was being difficult earlier."

"It wouldn't be a good punishment if I just gave in to you." She moans back at him.

"Please, I'll be better. I promise. Just let me put my hands on you. Fuck, I want to make you cum, not that fucking toy!"

"I'm so close again, Henry..." she says pulling roughly on one of her nipples. She then placed the vibrator on him where their bodies connected. She begins grinding against him, bouncing her hips up and down rhythmically. He grips the headboard until his knuckles are white.

"Please, oh fuck, you're so tight, please." He begs.

Finally the stars explode behind her eyes. Screaming out, she collapses on his chest. He wants to hold her so badly but he keeps his hands to himself. As she regains her composer, she slides off of him. He's painfully stiff and slick with her arousal.

"Alright, Henry," she gasps, trying to catch her breath. "I want you to cum for me."

She reclined back on the bed, he kneels between her thighs up right. He pulls her legs over the top of his so he has the best possible view of her still trembling sex. She moans for him while playing with her own nipples again. With all of her pleasure still on him, he uses his large hand to coax his own bliss out of himself.

"My love can I please touch you?" He asks again, voice shaking. She nods. He runs his free hand up her thigh, closing in on her center. He gently runs his thumb across her swollen, glistening, core. He stopped at her little love button with his thumb watching her body jerk. His hand moved to her waist like he was going to pull her close to him. The gasp she let out was what he needed to be pushed over the edge. His eyes close tightly.

"Mmm yes, baby, cum for me. Show me what I do to you." She encourages him. With a throaty loud groan, he cums across her abdomen. She then pulls him towards her to reward his own performance with a deeply loving kiss.

As they calm down for a moment, Henry looks into her eyes, playing with one of her breasts. "You know, my love, I don't think you've had the third one yet. I need to fix that."

He moves himself between her legs and begins to temp and tease more pleasure out of her sweet center.

*****

@littlefreya @achaoticaugust @oh-for-fic-sake @crimsonrae @dancingwendigo

This is what you get for all those smut bombs lol

[rebrandedbard]

A little drabble exchange for @theamazingbard that accidentally became more of a ficlet. Threw in a little hispanic nursery rhyme since I don’t know if we have them in english for making pain go away. I tried googling but it was unhelpful. 

TW: Descriptions of blood, drinking it, gross stuff like that. Canon-typical wounds. References to drinking and inebriation.

WC: 2617

Lips Black as the Rose

Featuring highervampire!Jaskier as he tries to figure himself out after being turned. A bit of spice in there. Am I picking and choosing parts of the lore as I see fit? Yes. Is it very sexy of me to do so? One hundred percent. Will I beta this before posting? Oh absolutely not, you know the drill. ‘No beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments’ is my go-to Ao3 tag for a reason.

-

Under no circumstances would Jaskier ever cause harm to another living thing, but the world did not reciprocate that exact philosophy. He’d been chased and held at the business end of many a sword, dagger, lance, and—on several unfortunately memorable occasions—a startling variety of available flatware. Things were rougher after meeting Geralt and having his usual human pursuers overshadowed by the threat of monsters.

Where once a spoon in the hands of a rabid duke would seem a most threatening opponent, Jaskier now found himself on the run from a more literal array of rabid beasts, and he could quote the running speeds the prove that having an extra pair of legs did indeed give certain monsters a leg up, so to speak, on the competition. But then, having no legs at all could prove a better advantage, and such creatures as those often had the additional advantage of long, venomous teeth.

Suffice to say, it was a difficult thing to be a lover in a world of fighters. Particularly when one falls into the company of another presumed lover, only to discover that their invitation to dinner was, in truth, an invitation to be dinner.

A vampire. Young, wine drunk, and foolish, Jaskier allowed himself to be led into the vampire’s den. It had been many years ago, he no longer remembered the details. He only remembered a sharp pain on his shoulder, followed by a woozy numbness, and he awoke in a strange bed, in an inn he did not check into, with his reflection missing from the mirror. He’d run away from home shortly after, fearing a bloodlust that was never to come.

It was a strange thing, being a vampire. After months of research, Jaskier came to no conclusions as to what it meant to be one exactly. He experimented with the content of old myths, touching silver very cautiously, taking delicate bites of foods prepared with garlic. He could cross a river just as well as any man. All in all, there was not much wrong with him, and he wondered what all the fuss was about. Well, there was a bit of fuss in that he could no longer be sure of his appearance, and he’d become more vain than ever, relying on the opinions of others to assure him that he looked presentable. This was a particular bother where Geralt was concerned, for he rarely paid compliments—if ever—and was not inclined to offer opinions concerning such trifling things as fashion or appearances.

Jaskier felt sure that Geralt would have noticed right away, but when their paths crossed again, Geralt seemed entirely ignorant of Jaskier’s dramatic change in biology. Running his tongue over his teeth, he could find no fangs. People complimented him on his eyes, still cooing over how bright and blue they were; and he’d been so afraid they’d turned a ghastly red as in the stories. From what he could tell, he appeared human. He had no violent urges to drain the blood from red-cheeked virgins, nor had he transformed into a bat and flown into the night. Sunlight only burned his skin as much as it had before, though it might have been harder on his eyes. He found himself squinting more in the afternoon, and it was unpleasant hot at times.

All in all, he was relatively normal.

“Such beauty ought to be preserved evermore.” That was what the vampire had told him that night. A great favor, immortality, but he wished he might have been offered a list of instructions to go with it. Figuring things out on his own was exasperating. And though he was not quite compelled to drink blood, there were times when he was … drawn. By curiosity.

When Geralt returned from a hunt, his flesh torn and body bleeding, Jaskier found it challenging to tend his wounds. Many times, he’d almost given into temptation. It did not help that he’d wanted to know the taste of Geralt’s skin long before the transformation. Now, there was an intoxicating layer to the fantasy, and the smell of Geralt’s blood made him hazy, like the bouquet of a strong wine. Or more realistically, the cloud of bitter vodka. If it had been a particularly nasty fight, Jaskier was sure he could taste Geralt’s blood by the smell alone, so powerful it made his nose wrinkle. He could get drunk on the fumes, and it was not always so pleasant.

He never dared try. There were too many things to consider. For a start, there was no telling what the blood of a witcher would do to him—and that was before factoring potions into the equation. Having never fed of blood, Jaskier did not know how his instincts would react, and he was sure he had some animal instinct to him now. He might drain Geralt dry in a matter of minutes, or the taste of blood might make him go insane and start tearing at his surroundings like a mad beast! Or, simplest and frightening of all, Geralt might kill him. So Jaskier kept his secret, never giving in to his curiosity.

But one day, he’d slipped.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. He clenched his hand and a sharp smell pervaded the air. In sharpening his sword, his hand had slipped. He’d cut the meat of his palm, just above his wrist.

Jaskier was up at once, Geralt’s bag in hand, ready to wrap the wound. He was very quick these days in getting things bundled up as soon as possible. Once the wounds were wrapped, the smell was not as pronounced. He fished out a strip of cloth and had it round Geralt’s hand in a matter of moments, working efficiently with good practice.

Geralt smiled ruefully. “A clean wound, at least. Should stitch itself up by morning.” He chuckled and inspected the wound, his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. “Haven’t done that since I was a child sharpening my first dagger,” he said.

“Did you cut yourself often in training?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not so often. We didn’t waste wrappings on such small scrapes either.”

There was a distracting shadow of red seeping through the cloth. Jaskier scoffed. “So you let it bleed into the open air, did you?”

“We were less inclined to coddle than humans.”

“Coddle?” Jaskier said, raising an offended hand to his chest. “My dear, a dressing is hardly evidence of coddling. If I wished to coddle you, I’d kiss it better and sing a little chant.”

Geralt presented his hand to Jaskier, smirking humorously. “Then do it. I’ve never heard of humans having such power as to kiss wounds better. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Erm … ” Jaskier flushed, considering the proffered wound. He nearly made a joke about lacking such power, being no longer human, but he bit it back. To cover his hesitation, he took Geralt’s hand and gently sang the rhyme his nurse used to calm him after a scraped elbow or knee. His tongue rolled musically as he rubbed the dressing carefully. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.” Then he bent his head down to kiss the place.

“I don’t see what frogs’ tails have to do with my hand,” Geralt joked.

But Jaskier did not hear him. Instead, he felt oddly fixed in place, a metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and licked at his bottom lip to chase the memory of the taste. As he did, his tongue scraped the end of a long, pointed tooth. He stumbled back unsteadily, muttered his excuses, and fled to the safety of his bedroll across camp. There he sat, writing nonsense in his notebook as though struck by sudden inspiration.

He’d tasted Geralt’s blood. And now he wanted more.

The next few hunts were blessedly without injury. Jaskier found he was able to breathe again. It twisted his gut whenever Geralt went off to fulfill a contract, and his conscience was at odds with this new obsession. He wanted Geralt to come back whole and unharmed. But he wanted some cut, some smallest scrape upon which to lathe his tongue. When he thought of it, he felt a stirring in his gums, and touching the place, he found the fangs had grown in again. It took concentration to hide them again. He took to smiling with his mouth closed after the first incident, and he developed a habit of biting his lips.

When they came to a larger town, Jaskier went straight to the butcher. To quell his growing need, he bought fresh meat, sneaking a sip from the blood dish beneath the draining sheep’s carcass while the butcher’s back was turned. It had the strangest effect on him. Within minutes of leaving the butcher’s shop, he felt light-headed. He felt drunk, in short, and he wobbled his way to the inn, a giggle in his throat.

For dinner, he asked the potmaid to send the loin to the cook and surprised Geralt with it: a small treat to celebrate his recent hunting success. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with it, festering in the shame of his lie. The loin had merely been an excuse: something to keep the butcher busy while he drank his curiosity like some writhing leech dredged up from the water.

It made him drunk. He made note of it in his book and swore that would be the end of things. This odd affair made it easy to forget, his stomach turning in guilt and disgust at the thought of repeating the act. He was fine and healthy without blood, therefore there was no need to partake. He could go the rest of his life perfectly happy never drinking another drop. Until the day it fell from Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier stared at it from across the room. Geralt had just returned from a fight, his eyes and blood black with potion. His armour was scratched up, covered in foulness from monsters unknown, but he was alive and whole, hardly bruised. Jaskier tried to focus on the smell of the guts dripping from his armour. It was still as disgusting as ever, even with vampiric senses to influence his opinion. The wretched blood was still unappetizing. But above it, he smelled a strange scent: sweet, a touch of iron. And there, shining on Geralt’s lip, the wet glisten of blood.

He swallowed hard as Geralt wiped the cut on the back of his hand. The blood smudged along his chin, all the more enticing. His knuckles turned white on the sheet of his bed as he held himself in place. Ordinarily, he would be up on his feet to help coax Geralt out of his armour by now, but he did not trust himself to be so close.

Geralt shed his shoulder pads, looking at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bit slippery,” he said. He inclined his head, beckoning Jaskier over. That was their way. They did not ask things from one another. It was simple routine, and the brief lapse was something awkward to acknowledge.

What excuses could he provide? Jaskier stood on trembling legs and made his way, biting his own lip to hide the fangs he felt beginning to grow. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the clasps, far too close to Geralt’s face. His breath caught, watching a bead of dark blood roll down his lip, over his chin. His lip was stained black.

Geralt had always had nice lips, Jaskier felt. He was always reminded torturously of this fact when he helped Geralt out of his armour. How could one undress such a man without indulging in the fantasy of what came after, even a little? But oh, it was a dangerous line of thought. Now he was bewitched by his senses, his focus single-mindedly drawn to that point on Geralt’s lip. To kiss him now, to lick the blood from his lip—it would be divine. He felt his heart beat faster at the prospect, his hands stalling to unbuckle Geralt’s breastplate as he stared. Just one taste. One kiss was all he wanted.

A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him short. Jaskier startled out of his unconscious reverie and looked at Geralt in horror. He hadn’t—! Had he? His attention flicked between Geralt’s eyes and his lip, and to his relief, the blood remained untouched.

“Not just now,” Geralt said, voice rumbling in his chest. “The potions might paralyze you—at least for a day. Anything lesser would die from a drink of it. It turns my blood to poison.”

Jaskier blinked, edging back. “I … don’t understand your meaning,” he feigned.

Geralt followed him, stepping forward. He raised a hand, caressing Jaskier’s cheek gently. “I know,” he said. “You’re not the best at keeping secrets. I noticed some time ago you stopped aging, and there’s no shadow at your feet, even on the brightest afternoon.”

He swiped his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. Jaskier gasped, his lips parting, and Geralt pushed in. Then, his thumb was pushing Jaskier’s top lip away, revealing a glistening fang. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back once more.

“You’re a vampire,” Geralt said. “And not a common one either. My medallion doesn’t react to you at all.” He chuckled and added, “As if you could be common by any measure.”

Jaskier turned away, picking up one of Geralt’s shoulder pads. He clutched it to his chest, whether for protection or for comfort he could not say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid to tell you … afraid what you might say. What you … might do.”

A warm hand smoothed down his arm comfortingly. There was a teasing quality to Geralt’s voice when he spoke. A hand wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, making him nearly jump in surprise.

“In regards to what: the knowledge that you’re a vampire, or the knowledge that you want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, words hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier shivered, the adrenaline of his fear quickly turning to something sweeter. “Both,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to understand Geralt’s intent.

“You cannot drink of me tonight,” Geralt whispered, “but I can satisfy that other hunger, if you only have the discipline to keep your teeth to yourself.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?” The way Geralt’s hand slipped lower and lower down his front, Jaskier thought he knew. Even so …

Geralt chuckled, nose pressing to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’m saying I’m tired of the way you look at me like a man starving and refuse to do something about it. It’s gotten worse. It was bad enough before, waiting for you to make your move, but since your turning, it’s insufferable. I feel like the centerpiece of a banquet, waiting to be devoured.”

“You said I couldn’t kiss you,” Jaskier said, breath coming up short as he felt himself pressed back against a firm chest, a second hand coming up to tug at the edge of his chemise. “I have no discipline whatsoever. And you know that.”

“Well then.”

Jaskier dropped the plate of armour as he was pushed backward. He fell, his knees caught by the edge of the bed. Arms caged him on either side, and above him. Geralt smiled, a drop of blood falling onto the sheets below. He pressed his thumb to Jaskier’s mouth once more, something ravenous in his eyes.

“Well then,” he repeated. “Looks like I’ll have to devour you instead.”

[imaginesofeverykind]

Snowed In || Joel Miller x F!Reader

(Its ironic because this smut is 6k words so it didn’t do that quickly AT ALL LMAOOOO) This took me too many fucking days to write, its so hard to get into smut mentality like holy fucq

YALL I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED IT HOLY SHIT

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Request: Can I request some Joel Miller fluff (mayyyybe some smut?) I could totally see getting snowed in with him 😏🥰

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: S M U T and S W E A R I N G annndd implied age gap but its not stated (reader is probs like thirties or older) AND you guys being the biggest pain in the ass for Joel :)

Also @ me stanning how yall interract with each other because the banter is highkey lowkey fun lmaoooo

“Ah, shit!” You cursed loudly, your feet stampeding desperately in thick snow while increasingly aware of the group of hunters — that managed to get the jump on you — were probably still tailing you. Your hands clamped down harshly on the wound you bled profusely from, droplets of crimson blood stained the snow with each step.

“Joel!” You shouted in desperation, approaching the lookout as you internally prepared yourself for getting blasted by the old man for being reckless — or better yet, leading the hunters to the lookout. You didn’t want to linger to long on those thoughts, not while you quite literally had an arrow protruding out of your side.

It wasn’t the first time you’d inconsequently been impaled by something or other, and it most certainly wouldn’t be the last. You had at least hoped that the impending snowstorm worsened and covered your blood trail quicker than you were making pace.

Breathlessly, you lean against the lookouts outer walls, scanning the area for potential hunters. Luckily for you the progressively heavier snowfall deterred any prospect of human threats. You rap hard and heavy on the metal reinforced door, holding onto your side as a wince escapes your lips.

“Joel! For fucks sake… Open the damn door!” You gritted, the bite of the cold air finally hitting the wound you so desperately tried to keep covered. It was incredibly clear that the older man was tactful and cautious, having been on plenty of runs, watches and patrols with him opened you up to his reserved nature.

However, it was getting ridiculous considering the urgency in your voice that now of all times, he decided to cautiously approach.

The door was pulled open, after a succession of noises that were no doubt the barricades being moved. Joel poked his head out, looking around before settling on your hunched figure, “what the hell did you do this time?”

You rolled your eyes, pushing past him as you yearned for the warmth and safety of the lookout, “I’m great — thanks for askin’.” You stumble over to what was once most likely a bar, the remnants of liquor bottles and on tap beer seemed to be a good indicator of that.

Readjusting the barricade, Joel finally makes his way over to you. Concern wasn’t a typical expression he showed to anyone other than toward Ellie, seeing it flicker across his face as he approached you nearly knocked you off the stool you sat on. It was brief but you absolutely noticed it.

“You mind fillin’ me in on what happened out there?” His brow was raised as he gestured to your wound. He was taking his time to gather the gauze and alcohol to patch you up, but he was acutely aware that if it was something to panic about he’d be much quicker.

Joel had known you for a while, in the time you two spent together on patrols he knew that if anyone could handle an arrow through the torso it was most definitely you. He admired your grit — although he’d never admit it, you were one of the only people whose company he enjoyed.

“Pissed off some fuckin’ Hunters… Don't think they liked me killin’ one of their buddies,” your words staggered with intermittent shallow breaths. You eyed your companion as he almost deliberately slowly made his way in front of you with the appropriate supplies needed to patch you up.

His hardened personal walls had attracted you like a moth drawn to a flame, from your first meeting to now, you had been determined to understand the mysterious man who just so happened to also be your neighbour. “Old age really must be gettin’ to you old man — leave me to just bleed out why don’t ya?”

“If it was serious I’m sure you’d be dead ‘lready.” He retorted, unphased by your not so subtle jab at him. And there it was. That little playful glint in his eyes that you’d only witnessed a handful of times prior, it proved to you that he wasn’t completely closed off and coarsened by the shitshow life turned out to be for him.

You scoff at him, a smirk grazing your lips as you make good use of the whiskey beside you, “well ain’t I lucky to be accompanied by someone so concerned about my life,” you took a swig of the bottle, hoping that the smooth liquor would ease the pain permeating from your side.

He chuckled at the harshness in your voice, “concerned? That’s a funny way of puttin’ it… C’mon by the fire I need a better look at this.”

Looking back at him stunned, you pulled a face that was somewhere between shock and delight, “did I just get two jokes from Joel Miller? In succession? You get bit or somethin’ while I was gone?” You eased yourself off the stool and slowly staggered toward the fire, obliging Joel’s request.

You propped yourself up against one of the weathered armchairs, time had not been kind to the piece of furniture as seen by the cracked leather and copious amount of stains. Before getting too comfortable, you shrugged off the outer layers of jackets you typically adorned to protect yourself from the harsh winters around Wyoming.

The flannel you had over top of the long sleeved thermal shirt you wore was unluckily pinned to your side by the arrow, it used to be a dark blue with green accents — now it was almost black with the pooling blood soaking into the fibers.

Joel was looking at you in thought, memories resurfacing of Colorado and reliving his own time having been impaled due to Hunters. Although the arrow stuck inside you was practically a small scratch in comparison to the metal rebar he intimately came to know.

“Starin’ won’t get this arrow outta me, Joel.” You huffed, taking things into your own hands as you pull off one of your gloves, “here —.” you stuffed it between your teeth and gripped onto the arrow tightly before pulling it out. Your muffled cries of pain had thankfully been mostly silenced by the glove.

“Jesus christ, what in the hell are you doin’?” Joel kneeled down by your side.

“Fast trackin’ the healing process — not… so great… of an idea…” You mumbled out breathlessly, your shaky hands completely covered in blood. Your bright idea of taking things into your own hands backfiring, as you grew progressively light-headed.

Now Joel was slightly panicked and annoyed that your recklessness and impatience always seemed to get in the way of his own brooding and thoughtfulness. “Do you even think before you do things? I ain’t here to babysit you goddammit.” He grumbled, wiping away at the wound so he could inspect it.

You airily laughed, feeling tired and exhausted, “babysit? I’m the only person who’ll deal with your bullshit on patrols, cowboy.” Your limbs started to feel incredibly light and numb as your words became more slurred.

You weren’t wrong in that aspect, but what you weren’t aware of was the fact that you were most often paired with Joel on patrols because the man had asked for it, not because of the excuse Tommy told you; ‘everyone has a hard time with him except for you’.

His nimble hands made quick work at the suture needle and stitching, you only wincing when the needle pierces through your broken skin. He was careful and calculated while he patched you up, grateful that you had been quiet for just a few moments as he paid your back the same amount of care for the front.

By the time he had finished, you had long drifted off in a sleep. He was regimented in making sure you were breathing consistently and every fifteen minutes or so, he would wake you up to ensure you weren’t going to die on him.

After two hours of nothing out of the ordinary coming from your peaceful state, he let you rest peacefully undisturbed.

———————————————

When you woke up, you weren’t too sure what to expect. Pain was one thing you anticipated… And the pain didn’t disappoint. Perhaps it was because you woke up in a completely different position and place within the lookout than when you fell asleep. No longer by the fire downstairs, but in the makeshift bedroom loft beside a smaller fire.

The headache that thumped through your head was arguably the most painful feeling that was occurring in your body. But that didn’t stop you from slowly rising up, a hand instinctively placed over the wound as it twitched in pain. Sounds of distant guitar chords echoed through the open area, you hadn’t even taken notice that Joel brought his guitar when you two left Jackson earlier in the morning.

Not that you were really paying him much attention earlier in the morning, freely exploring your own mind and memories. Something Joel envied in you was your ability to be so free spirited, despite the apocalyptic fuck fest that was everyday life. He initially chalked you up to being naive and foolish, but the time he’s taken to get to know you had informed him otherwise.

You hesitantly remove the mound of blankets on you and start your attempt to get up. It was a struggle to say the least, your thumping headache and aching wound made it quite the difficult feat to pull off.

All effort aside, you finally carried yourself slowly down the stairs, nursing your wound and instantly missing the warmth that the fire at your bedside provided. By the dimly lit interior it was well and truly deep into the night, which made you wonder how long you’d been asleep for.

Judging by the stillness of the atmosphere, that also meant your earlier encounter with hunters didn’t attract unwanted attention to the lookout.

Joel was seated by the fire in an amicable state, he was seemingly unaware of the fact you’d woken up or even noticed you had seated yourself on the armchair closest to the fire. His eyes shifted toward the movement, surprised to see you had made your way down the stairs without so much as a voice of complaint.

“You sure you weren’t a country singer before this? I’m getting some Billy Ray vibes… Bitta Keith Urban too..” You smile at him, admiring the way the firelight bounced off his features, the scene before you looking like some cozy cottage fantasy.

He put his guitar aside, if he was amused by your joke — you didn’t see it.

You tilted your head to the side, trying to gauge his mood based off the evident shift that occurred between you falling asleep to now. He appeared to be annoyed (not surprising) and closed off more than usual, which meant that he was most definitely not in the mood to be talking.

But you didn’t care, because you had just woken up and felt like enlightening Joel’s darkened front with some excitement at least. “What’s got you in such a delightful mood, country boy?” You shifted your weight off the wound, alleviating the slight pain that kept pinching every so often.

It became apparent that you weren’t going to leave him some peace unless he relented and indulged your attempts to getting him to talk. If he was stuck with anyone else in this situation he’d be visibly more perturbed, it was either dumb luck or fate that the two of you happened to be paired while this already shitty situation got worse.

“Storm came over while you were sleepin’... Get cozy ‘cause we’ll be here for a while.” He gestured lazily to one of the windows, which upon further inspection was completely shadowed from the snow fall, not because it was incredibly late.

You groaned, following up with a sigh, “fuck I’m bored just thinkin’ about bein’ stuck here… Wish I brought a book.” The throwaway statement managed to crack the hard exterior of Joel, earning the slightest chuckle which in turn boosted your ego. Getting that man to express emotions beyond anger or annoyance was something to be met with like a lifelong skill, high risk and low reward.

He reached over to his bag, “might not like it, but if it’ll keep you quiet for a while… here —,” he pulled out an old leather bound book, the spine had been cracked and the pages barely held together due to decades of weathering. You met his outstretched arm halfway to grab a hold of the book, the weight of it unexpected but you caught it nonetheless.

“Lovecraft? I meet a lot of people, but you are by far the strangest man I’ve met.” You mumble out loud while you appreciate the cover and embellishments decorating the edges. You hadn’t intended for him to hear you, but of course he did.

“Figured Ellie might ‘preciate it…” He trailed off, stopping himself from saying a word too many in fear that he gave away too much of an inside peek at his inner thoughts. Upon hearing him you looked up, surprised that he even mentioned his surrogate daughter — considering your observations of the two had been particularly volatile as of late.

You thumb the raised lettering of the title and look at him, his eyes were sad which contrasted his stature. You weren’t one to pry, despite being impressively curious by nature, “kid’s got a gnarly taste in pop culture… I was out on a run and saw one of them comics she likes… y’know she has those hoarded all over Jackson, yeah?”

His eyes flickered over to you, he was trying to get a read on you and sense any plausible reason why you’d bring up Ellie. He knew you weren’t one for ulterior motives but he didn’t like discussing a whole lot about the young girl with many people, no matter how much he enjoyed your company.

“What are you doin’?” He pressed, turning his body to face you front on with his hands clasped together between his knees.

Your eyebrows knit together in thought, unsure what prompted such a serious question and change in demeanour, “Uh… making conversation?” It seemed like an obvious statement, you refrained from being too direct just in case it provoked him further.

“Right…” He merely uttered, standing up from his position on the couch and moving toward the bar. You looked at him with confusion, unsure where the outburst came from and why it even happened in the first place. It wasn’t the first time you’d brought up Ellie in conversation but now it seemed like it was a soft spot for him.

“Okay… I’ll bite — um… what the fuck?” You strained your neck to face him, not wanting to move your entire body to prevent unnecessary pain, “did something happen between you two bec—“

“Y/N… Don’t.” His voice was low, almost like a guttural growl to fend you off from pressing further.

You threw your arms in the air and shook your head, “jesus fuck, Joel you’re a real asshole sometimes… You’re so broody and temperamental I feel like I'm walking on eggshells just to talk to you… Y’know not every person is out to get you.” The words hung in the air for a moment while you started to move yourself off the chair, wanting to have your own space by the upstairs fire.

Watching you struggle to get up from the armchair admittedly did break the tension Joel brought into the room, he sighed loudly to set aside his pride as he slowly shifted toward you, “don’t move… Let me change your dressings over.”

His voice barely made it to your ears, but hearing them made you loudly groan and sit back down, “jesus fuckin’ christ — I cannot deal with you right now,” you mumbled to yourself. Despite Joel being notorious for his outbursts, they rarely featured up front and centre like tonight; particularly around you.

But when they did, it was exhausting to deal with to say the least. Given that almost every time they occurred, you never knew the exact reason why. Things would be much easier for the both of you, if one participant was just that little more vocal.

“Just give me the shit and I’ll do it myself, take your bullshit energy and fuck off over there.” You pointed to the bar where he previously stood, very blunt in telling Joel how much you didn’t want to fight with him knowing you both were snowed in together for who knows how long.

Being as direct and as blunt as you were had been one of the many things Joel came to admire about you, feeling a tangible sense of guilt for blowing up at you like he did. He knelt down beside you, motioning for you to shimmy forward into the light of the fire better.

You huffed in response, not making eye contact with him as you pushed yourself closer to the edge of the chair.

He was careful and delicate once again, inspecting your wound after discarding the used gauze. You found it exceptionally difficult not to look down and watch what he was doing, mainly because you were inquisitive by nature but you couldn’t help but be fond of his closeness.

One of his fingers grazed the carefully done stitches, prompting a wince from you, the action almost snapping you out of your angry facade, “you definitely weren’t a fuckin’ surgeon in your past life, huh.” You call back to the conversation you had earlier, an attempt to help ease the tension between you two.

“And you weren’t no comedian, either…” he bit back, attaching the dressings on the exit wound.

“So you go from grumpy to jokey just like that?” You raise a brow, fully aware you were rattling the cage at this point, but him even cracking a retort of the sarcastic variety was enough of an indicator that he was trying to make reparations.

He taps your thigh and motions for you to turn so he can start on the entry wound, “I ain’t too good at this whole… People... business,” he admitted, stating it like it wasn’t already overtly obvious to any conscious person with a functioning brain.

“Oh what? You’re joking, right? You are such a people person,” you mock, turning your head down to give him a playful smirk.

His eyes met yours, a glint of something you weren’t entirely sure of just yet. Returning his gaze back to changing over the final dressings on your back, “that was uncalled for,” he murmured, pretending not to notice the smile present on your lips.

The simple fact that he admitted to you outloud seemed to be a step in the right direction and for that, you were incredibly grateful.

“How long do you think we’ll be stuck here for?” You ask, feeling Joel's fingers lift from your skin as he finishes patching you up. Missing the sensation it made you feel. You turned back to face him properly, not expecting him to still be seated so close to you, not that you minded at all.

“Hopin’ that we’ll be out by tomorrow… Worst case scenario, we’ll be here for a few days.”

You throw your head back over dramatically, “be stuck inside here with your grumpy old ass — what fuckin’ atrocities did I commit to deserve this?” You jest, smiling even wider seeing the light amusement evident in his eyes, “ah! I’m so close to getting you to laugh, one of these days I’ll get you, cowboy.”

“Definitely weren’t a comedian…” He reiterated, a content smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

The thought of a comeback was completely lost on your part as you simply admired his features up close. From when you first met to now, his hair had grown out longer which you thought looked nice on him, even if it would hang over his face just that little bit.

His hazel eyes were your favourite feature of his, and in the orange glow from the fire they seemed all the more alluring.

It was a happy silence, one filled with just the two of you trying to read each other and guess what the other was going to do. For someone so direct, you were quite talented in not telegraphing intended movements or motions. It made you a hard person to pinpoint which both intrigued and infuriating someone like Joel who was quite adept in reading people.

You were the first one to break away from the stillness, taking the book you were given to pass the time, “as much as I’d love to stare into your dreamy eyes all day, I’ve gotta book to read and a whole lotta time to kill… Thanks for being a shitty nurse… did better than what I could, anyway.”

Joel stood up, giving you ample space to shift. He holds out a hand for you to help yourself up, which you take thankfully. Your throwaway compliment didn’t go unnoticed by him, nor did the way your eyes scanned his features moments ago. He lived through life long enough to know what look you were giving him.

It was a look he’d often see you give him, whether it was subconsciously or not— that, he was unsure of. He was always apprehensive when he saw your eyes darken the way they did, but it was his own inability to allow himself to get close to anyone that caused his uneasiness.

You looked at the man standing before you, his face crinkled in thought as if his mind was elsewhere. You felt a compulsion to ask what he was thinking but weren’t too sure how far that conversation would get before it got messy… Despite his change and attitude, the man was notorious for switching in an instant and you knew better than to prod him too much.

Then again… your favourite pastime was exclusively getting under the man's skin.

“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout there cowboy? Thinkin’ mighty hard about somethin’.” Being much taller than you were, you ducked to meet his thoughtful gaze. His internal struggle barely showing in his face, only being tossed aside the second his eyes found yours.

“You.”

That had taken you aback, your eyes growing wide as a slight tinge of red dusts your cheeks. Naturally, unable to process compliments or situations like these, you turn to jestful remarks as a way to assess the mood, “should I be concerned? If it’s about who's gonna eat who when starvation starts settin’ in, I would ‘preciate it if you didn’t carve me up.”

“Can you stop talkin’ for just five seconds,” his voice was low and eyes scanning your features.

Intrinsically, you keep talking to fill the void of silence as you aren’t completely sure how else to alleviate the tension, “well… I can consider but —.”

You hadn’t got very far in your smug retort, cut off by the man's abrupt and unexpected decision to shut you up by pressing his lips to yours. It seemingly came out of left field and only took you just a moment to reciprocate, pushing all astonishment aside.

For someone who sported a rough exterior, you were pleasantly surprised at how gentle Joel was, caressing your face with his calloused hands so delicately. You discard the book that was once in your grasp, trading it for his firm chest while you gripped onto his shirt.

Pulling away, you bite down on your lower lip as you look deeply into his eyes. You considered uttering a witty remark, but the look he was giving you was one of warning. And as much as you would love to find out what would happen as a consequence of speaking out, you were content in continuing whatever had already started.

Your hands trail up to the back of his neck, leaning up to press your lips back onto his. This time with a little more desperation, you swipe your tongue on his lower lip, prompting a short but low growl from your companion. One of his hands was pinned to your *good* side, the other remained on the side of your face.

The feeling that pooled in your stomach, matching the hammering of your heart would almost make you concerned if you weren’t in the safe grasp on the man you’d shamelessly pined after.

Despite the hunger and desperation on your part, Joel was still pleased at going at his own pace; which was painstakingly slow. Savouring the moment you two were sharing, as if you were going to disappear in an instant.

“Gotta say — didn’t peg you as the romantic type,” you whispered breathlessly, eyes never straying from his darkened hazel ones, your hands stroking his firm torso, “but we’re gonna have to speed things up.” You brush your lips against his, hovering daringly close while your hands eagerly undo the buttons to his flannel.

He didn’t seem at all bothered by your impatience (it was typical of you after all), but it was bothering him how much of a tease you were being. Far be it for you to not be a pain in his ass even in an intimate manner. Your soft hands kneading his bare chest — which was ripped, you noted to yourself mentally as he shrugged his flannel off.

Your fingers trace the outlines of numerous scars present, regardless of his age and living in a dangerous time for humanity. The healed wounds did little to impact his figure, instead sprinkling slight imperfections across him as if it were to keep him humble.

Joel dips his head to your jawline, trailing small wet kisses down your neck and nipping at some skin to earn the slightest little noises from you. Oh how that made you feel. You squirm in his hold, squeezing your thighs together in an attempt to provide some friction to appease the wetness between your legs.

There was little to no hesitation as he pulls your shirt up over your head, surprised at your bare torso. Sure, you both had seen better days but the scars from knives, bullets and arrows were telling of the journey you’d gone through to get to this point; including your most recent addition.

The warmth his hands provided while they trailed over scars and rise of your breasts left your skin tingling. You notice his eyes wandering over your features, knowing he wasn’t judging your looks merely pondering over what story was behind which scar. You’re confident in that sentiment, considering you felt the same way whilst you thumb the scarring on his collarbone.

“You good?” You whisper, your breath hitching as the pad of his thumb grazes your pert nipple. This man…

“Just takin’ in the view.” His voice was low, prompting a smile from you. The man was a hopeless romantic at heart, that was clear enough — any other time you’d gladly lap it up happily, but right now you needed something a little less idealistic. Desire possessing you further (it seemed like you’d have plenty of time together anyway.)

You press your lips back onto his feverishly, trailing your hands down his torso to his jeans. The bulge in his pants growing more in response to your hand giving him a sensual squeeze, he moans into your mouth which is enough of an indicator for you to start undoing his belt.

His hands cupped your breasts progressively harder, taking in your nipples between his thumb and finger. The sensation pulsing downward enough to make your toes curl and thighs clench. You could’ve fucked him there and then, pleasure pooling inside you.

“Sit down,” You ordered, pushing his chest toward the couch to which he obliged, enjoying the fact you were so eagerly prepared to take charge. As a man of tradition, he’d typically lead but found it incredibly arousing to heed your demands and listen. You’re quick in kicking off your shoes and discarding your jeans, welcoming the chill to the air as it cools down your burning skin.

The sight of him on the couch, shirtless and showcasing the tent pitched in his pants was so remarkably inviting you couldn’t wait a second longer, straddling his hips and bringing your lips back onto his as you begin grinding down on his bulge. The friction alone was enough to bring moans of pleasure from both of you, you tugging at his hair harder the more aroused you became.

He pulls away, running his hands up and down your sides - vigilant in not wanting to knock your wound - before bringing his lips to the valley of your breasts, ensuring to leave short kisses on every indent or raised section of scarred skin before settling down on one of your nipples. The free hand that wasn’t anchored at your hips, was kneading your other breast.

A whimper tumbles from your lips, grinding your hips harder against his. You bring a hand down, frantically trying to undo his pants all the while feeling the euphoria coming from just merely grinding him. Yes it had been a while since you felt this good.

He lifts his hips up, giving you enough space to yank down both his jeans and underwear. The feeling of his cock flush up against the thin material of your panties caused you to gasp and grip onto his shoulders tightly.

Both of you moaning at the absolute bare minimum of stimulation of your most sensitive areas. His cock throbbed the second the tip rubbed up against the dampness of your panties, it being far too long since he partaken in anything sexually charged in quite some time. The same goes for you.

Now it was Joel’s turn to get impatient, bringing one hand up behind your neck while the other dipped down into your panties, his fingers stroking your wet slit. You jolt forward at the feeling of his fingers circle your clit, the sensation pooling desperately as your hips buck, riding his fingers.

His calloused fingers seemed to hit the right spot with every roll of your hips, it made you wonder how his lips would feel and tongue would feel if he seemed to be making you feel this good with his fingers alone.

“Fucking hell, Joel.” You cry out, resting your head on the crook of his neck, leaving small love bites along his collar bone. His scent of eucalyptus mixed with wood was ever so welcoming, the aroma that drove you insane whenever he stood a little too close.

Your high began to climb, grinding your hips more desperately against him while he expertly finger fucks you until hitting the right spot, sending your body rigid as your walls close in and around his fingers, pulsating while you ride your climax out.

“Eager, are we?” His breath tingled your ear, even though you weren’t looking at him you could tell he was fashioning some smug smirk. You laugh breathlessly, sitting upright and sliding off your panties.

One of your hands closes over his length, pumping painstakingly slow, all the while watching his eyes roll to the back of his head. Your soft hand wrapped around him felt leagues better than the familiar roughness of his own. His hips bucked to help quicken the pace you had set, to which you smirked and pinned him flush against the couch.

You kept on pumping his throbbing length, positioning yourself more comfortably on his lap. He leaned his head back, lips parted to let the soft grunts pass through while you continued to torment him slowly. If his fingers felt that great, you were eager to find out how well his cock felt.

You position his tip at your entrance, not wanting to torture the man or yourself any longer, sinking down onto his cock while his length stretches you out. Whimpering in sync with his growls, neither of you moving momentarily as you simply bask in the pleasure.

He thrusts his hips up first, a strangled moan escaping your lips as you meet his pace. Your lips brush gently up his neck, stopping just shy of his ear lobe. The faint mewls rolling out of your mouth sending him further into bliss with each roll of the hips, ignoring the painful irritation emitting from your wound.

His hands were anchored firmly to your thighs, fingers digging hard into your skin which would no doubt leave bruises in the morning. You nip at his ear and neck before returning your lips to his, muffled moans stifling out from the both of you with each sloppy kiss.

The sounds coming from you were near on pronographic, coupled with the quickening pace of you riding him, every insatiable thrust filling you more with a desire you weren’t aware you needed until now.

You dreamed of similar scenarios such as this with Joel, but the meager fantasies had nothing on the real thing. How his lips felt on yours, the way his hands caressed every part of you with care yet also commanded it, the way he made you dripping wet without much effort and most of all; the way he felt deep inside you.

He threw his head back, choked breaths preventing him from rasping out the words needed as his climax began rising. You noticed his staggered breathing and picked up the pace, gripping his hair tightly coaxing a guttural moan out from him.

One of his hands squeezed the back of your neck while the other clasped your breast roughly, his hips became rigid while a series of moans filled your ear just as you feel his cum spilling inside you. He slumped back into a comfortable position panting heavily, eying you in your incredibly typical perky demeanour.

You pulled yourself off him, his semi-flaccid member flopping out of you. Thankful past you had the forethought to pack rags, you rifle through your bag to clean yourself up, “you’ve got a surprising amount of stamina, cowboy,” the compliment earned you a smug smile from him, pride being an aura on Joel you never thought you’d see.

“If I’d have known this is all it took to shut you up, I would’ve done it sooner.” He states, as if thinking retroactively would change your ability to annoy the absolute life out of the man.

Tossing him a rag lazily, you chortle at the idea of thinking Joel - of all people - could be someone to get you to stop your antics forever, “Oh you knew — don’t lie to me mister. You just like to see me suffer in silence.” You were as transparent as one could be, yet your intentions were almost always misread as you did well to keep it muddled. Joel was a perceptive man, often finding you hard to read to the point of irritation for him, but - as you anticipated - he figured you out slowly but surely.

“I just like to see you silent,” he retorted, finally moving from his position to clean himself off, “but you ain’t wrong…” A man of his age knew a thing or two about what your not-so-subtle looks meant (even if it took him longer than usual to realise what you were actually wanting) and knowing you for the time he did also meant the possibility of things going south between you two went higher. He respected you too much to commit to something that might eventually be taken away from him in an instance — or vice versa.

“I’m never wrong, actually…” You confidently state, eying him with the same smug smile he sported only moments ago. The arrogant stature you held broken with a grimace as you clutch your injured side, “maybe a little bit wrong… probably shoulda let you lead there…”

He merely shook his head, allowing a chuckle to audibly sound which always felt you with a sense of satisfaction. The man shrouded in mystery was finally opening up to you more, that alone was a privilege you couldn’t be more proud of.

[starsuh]

do re mi | myg

featuring. min yoongi x reader | 3.2k

summary. while teaching you how to play piano, min yoongi realizes that his dumbass might have feelings for you after all.

genre. fluff | f2l | roommate!au | mutual pining

warnings. a quarter-life crisis and a soft make-out scene at the end

Amongst Min Yoongi's many talents, his sixth sense of knowing when something was bothering you was the one that most oft caught you off guard. Whether it was the intensity in which you slammed a door shut, or the way in which you didn't choose to annoy the fuck out him like you did every other day of the week; he would notice each time. It was only clockwork that he tentatively wrapped his arm around your shoulders when you had collapsed against the couch with perceptible chagrin.

"What's up?" he asked, a simple question that often entailed a more than complicated answer. Peering down at your tightened features, he awkwardly patted your shoulder as if to make known that silence would be just as valid of a reply.

You ran your hands through your face. "I don't know,” you said. If you did, you would've told him, just as you told him everything. Though the pair of you had began as merely two people who happened to be roommates because there were no other affordable options, spending months watching Netflix with another person tends to lead to friendship — even best-friendship, though neither of you had established such a title. It was the kind of friendship that needn't clarification, rather it was just another unequivocal fact amongst many.

After kicking off your shoes (Yoongi would scold you for that in a less emotionally-turbulent time), you pulled your knees up to your chest and wrapped your arms around them in a ball-like manner. "It's really fucking lame but I’m just realizing some things,” he nodded, prompting you to continue. "I'm scared of the future, I think. I mean, everyone is, but when our prof was talking about internships and shit earlier I kind of freaked out then decided that hiding in the bathroom was the best option.”

In his gaze was a reassurance so intent that you had to look away lest you become ensnared in it. He oft had that effect, increasingly so throughout the past few weeks. "What about it?"

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a deep breath. “I think I know what I want to do, but then I see other people, people like you, who are so passionate about their place on Earth that to not do that thing would be a fate worse than death. Like, I love the path that I’m on but there’s always a voice that’s telling me I’m gonna fuck something up and regret everything.” You played with the loose threads of your top, pulling at the offending stitching. You laughed. “This is so stupid. I guess I’m just realizing that I might not be cut out for it.”

His sudden silence filled the room so heavily that you began to wonder if you shouldn’t have said anything at all. Gears turned behind the messy black mop atop his head that hung over his eyes; a face similar to the one he makes when contemplating a new track he had produced, seeking for each of its flaws and corresponding solutions.

It was so sudden when he reached down to grab your hand that you almost jumped. An inch away from falling onto his chest with the sudden upwards tug, you steeled yourself. "I'll show you something," he said to which you replied with a questioning stare. "It'll just be a sec, c'mon."

You allowed him to drag you to his bedroom, though not without glaring at the back of his head and whining. "Your room smells like Cheetos and day-old boxers."

He rolled his eyes. "I cleaned it this morning, so shut up."

He pushed the door closed with his hip, never once letting go of your hand until he unceremoniously shoved you towards the left end of the keyboard bench. You wiped the accumulated hand sweat against the rough fabric of your jeans, both thankful yet forlorn that he had let go. His was a comfort rarely given and you craved his affection the way one did with a cat that ignored those around it.

He reached down to plug the extension into the socket. "Can I play you something?"

You blinked, unsure if the nervous tone laced in the question was figment or reality. “What?”

He gave you a blank stare though it didn’t distract you from the way his hands fidgeted in his lap. “I said, can I play you something? Something I wrote?”

Impatient, he didn’t give you a second glance or a moment to reply before his hands flew across the board, pulling melodies out of the nooks and crannies of its black and white keys. Through every note, he told you of emotion, of love, of heartbreak and melancholy. You don't think you had ever understood what music was until then. It was more than his expertise, though he was quite the expert; it was the way his eyes closed at certain shrills and the way his shoulders hunched at others, the way he slammed harder into the keys and at other parts softer. He played like a poet. A writer. And you refused to be someone who didn't appreciate it for what it was: a story told to you.

The slight smirk gracing his soft features told you that he found amusing the way your mouth gaped open in shock. You’d only ever heard the distant echoes of his sound from behind closed doors as you walked past.

Yoongi had never played for you before, was even shocked that he was able to now, knowing that your mere presence in close proximity provided quite the distraction.

When he stopped, the air almost rang in its silence, as if you had forgotten what the world sounded like without his music in it. The hush blanket laid across the room felt bare and vulnerable. You understood now more than ever why he locked himself within the confines of his space in all hours of the day. If you could live in his symphonies, you would.

"Wow.” Because what else could be said? "That was... Yoongi, you're amazing."

His smirk remained, though as more of a mask to hide softer feelings behind. "Must've been if you're complimenting me for once.”

"Because you already have a ginormous ego."

He began playing once more. This time, a slow and deceptively simple melody. The chords were arrows tightly strung that flew through the air in wisps of smoke. To you, its warmth was paralleled to the feeling of his own beside you, his arm occasionally brushing yours as he reached to play a few lower keys.

"I think you're taking it too seriously," he said. "The future, I mean."

Your brows furrowed. "I kind of have to, dude."

He rolled his eyes but kept playing, occasionally glancing at you as he did so. "What I mean is," he pressed softly against the keys in the left end of the piano, their tenor notes filling your ears. "You need to calm down. Like this," the already soft melody slowed. "You know what you want, don't you? Why are you hesitating?"

You stilled, the feeling of being both caught and scolded grounding you in time. Your eyes focused on his hands to avoid the feeling of his analyzing gaze on the side of your face. “There are things I want to accomplish but there’s also things I want to have,” you groaned in exasperation. “I don’t know if I should choose the former or the latter but they’re so entangled that I can’t even tell which is which anymore.”

"Some things are only difficult if you think they're difficult." He looked down at the keys. "Like playing the piano, everyone knows that learning it is hard but something like this-" he played three chords in succession. "-sounds simple, right?" He continued to play those same chords until they blended together in a single melodious breeze. "But when I was a kid, learning piano was the bane of my twelve year old existence. I hated it so much because my impatient ass wanted to be good without trying. So, in true dumbass fashion, I quit taking lessons after two weeks."

You tilted your head towards him. “How did you learn then?"

“Well, I realized I was being a huge pussy and went back." Shaking his head before the glaze of the memory could wash over, he nodded towards you. Grabbing your hand, he placed them over the keys. “Can I teach you a chord?”

Your heart spiked in one fell swoop. “What? And embarrass myself in front of the music god himself?"

He laughed and it lit up his eyes brighter than the screen of his laptop that he had forgotten to shut off, still on the League of Legends home screen. “I told you, it's only hard if you think it is."

Too flustered to argue, you could only watch as he directed your fingers towards the correct keys until three were stretched towards their respective positions. C Major. You wondered if he could hear the rapid pace of your heart through the vibrations on your skin from where his larger hand rested atop your own. You could only pray to any god who would listen that he didn’t.

Among the numerous feelings that bubbled beneath your chest, the sudden pinch of ice that struck your nerves as he lifted his palm away from yours was one that you were the most unsure of. Filing that thought away for later, you focused on the most important task at hand: avoiding looking like an idiot in front of Min Yoongi.

Before you could retreat, your hands pressed down.

A sudden burst of sound filled the silence that you hadn't realized had grown so deafening. Your eyes widened as if you hadn't expected the chord to occur despite Yoongi's administrations, like trying to guess a passcode and getting it correct in a miraculous feat of luck. The now fading sound was not like anything you were expecting, though you knew even monkeys could do what you had just done. It was an actual piece of the puzzle that was music rather than the CD case or paper bag that had come with it.

Likened to an excited pup, you looked towards him for praise or assurance that you had done it right only to catch his already grinning countenance at your widened eyes.

For the next half hour he taught you two other basic chords, never failing to correct you in such a patient manner that your heart rose and fell with each glance and soft appraisal.

"But sometimes," he grinned. "Sometimes you need to stop thinking."

Your brows furrowed, though you didn’t need more than a few seconds to understand his cryptic wording before you yelped, almost flying off your seat at the abrupt disruption of the peace.

He began smashing his hands against the piano, creating the worst orchestra your ears had ever had the pleasure to hear. Overcoming the shock, both of yours laughs bubbled out, drowned by the keyboard speakers. Without a second thought, you joined, key smashing against the lower end. Together, you created an ear-grating masterpiece of cacophonous noise and piercing melody, yet it was still one of the most beautiful things you’d ever heard.

Yoongi began cheering your name like the greatest hypeman in existence as you gave the most effortful performance of your life, hands pressing against the first keys you saw to the last. You didn't know what you were doing but it didn't matter, not when he was smiling with his gums on full display as you went with your gut for the first time in years. Yoongi, the boy whose hands crafted magic, whose words changed you, whose music moved you. Yoongi, who looked at you and saw past your forced pretensions and society-enforced perceptions.

You laughed until your lungs ached for air, having not even realized that your whole body leant against his as you tried to catch your breath.

"Oh my god, I think my ears are broken," you covered them, finally dragging your hands away from the keys.

His grin widened. “You're a quick learner."

“Is this the part where I say that it's because you're a good teacher?"

“Only if you're polite, which we know you aren't." He hadn't stopped smiling and you had never felt prouder of any accomplishment in your entire life. “Was I able to distract you?"

You laughed, bringing your hands back to your lap to fiddle with them. He's seen you wear the same ramen-stained hoodie three days in a row with hair just as ratty yet you had never more felt exposed. “I’d say yes but I think I’ve exceeded my Yoongi compliment limit for the day."

"And here I was thinking that that compliment limit was zero."

"Hey," you playfully knocked against his shoulder. "I always say your breakfast is good."

He knocked against you back, his eyes turnt to half-moons. "That's because you want to brainwash me into cooking for you everyday with half-assed compliments."

"Or maybe," you lightly leaned against his hoodie-covered shoulder. "It's because I like eating breakfast with you."

He paused, and a grin that could only be described as shy graced his features. He tapped against the keyboard but didn't press hard enough to allow a sound to be let out.

"I trust you," he said in the silence. "That you can follow your heart. Even if that sounds corny as fuck, I really believe it."

You smiled, something you've been doing more and more often with him around. "I'll try," you said, watching as he contemplated his next words with a bite of his bottom lip. Giving him time, you glanced back at the piano. "Is it really that simple?" You pressed on a key.

He finally looked up. "I think so," he played the key beside the one you had just pressed, the side of it touching yours. "Even if it doesn't sound right to other people, who's to say that random key smashing isn't music? When you think you're supposed to play a certain way, that's when you hesitate. Even when you fuck up a piece," he pressed another key. "Regretting it doesn't stop the echo."

He began to play another soft melody, leaving you just as entranced as you were the first time he did.

“I’m a hypocrite, though,” he closed his eyes, lightly scoffing. “Giving you advice that I can’t even take.”

Your voice came out in a whisper. “Why?”

“Because...” He took a deep breath, hands leaving the keyboard as he fully turned to you. “I like you," he said it like it were a fact you should've already known. “I... I like you. A lot. I can't remember when you stopped being my annoying roommate who'd hog the fridge space and became the annoying roommate who I couldn't stop writing songs about. Before I could even realize and stop myself, today’s me kept looking forward to tomorrow’s you. I’d be a hypocrite to tell you to stop hesitating about the things in your life while I spent every second of every day wondering whether I should tell you my feelings and ruin our friendship.”

For if there was anything Yoongi knew more than most was that love was fucking stupid. It caused people to be irrational, selfless, and weak-hearted, yet why did he want to forget the stupidity that came with it whenever you walked into the kitchen for breakfast, hair messy and shirt tousled?

Love was fucking stupid. But maybe he could be an idiot if it meant that you'd be stupid for him too.

“I know you don't feel the same way but I just needed to tell-" you kissed him before he could finish what was sure to be a sentence so ridiculous that even the most astute of linguists would be left baffled. He was Min Yoongi. The boy who spent all day locked in his room making music and playing games with his friends. The roommate who'd wake up early just to cook you breakfast. The friend who knew you better than you knew yourself. The man who you'd found yourself falling for with every gummy smile. Yoongi. It had always been Yoongi.

And he was kissing you back.

His lips were as warm as the hands that carefully wrapped around your hips, gently pulling you closer to him. He kissed the way he played, soft and thoughtful.

Pulling away, he whispered your name slowly, prolonging each letter as if to savor them. Never before had your name ever felt so wonderful a one. His forehead pressed against yours, eyes flickering between yours in disbelief. The hand around your waist tightened as if in fear that at any moment you might say that you hadn't meant to give him what had to be the best moment of his life -- that you had actually accidentally fallen on him and he had simply been mistaken.

"You're an idiot," you laughed. "I've liked you since the first time you've cooked me breakfast if the heart eyes I gave you each time weren't already a dead giveaway."

He shuffled in his seat. "You have low standards then," he said. "Or are in desperate search for a house-husband."

You smiled, your nose brushing against his. "Maybe, a bit of both."

He leaned away from you, eyes lit up in a euphoria that didn't hinder from his nervous cadence. "Actually, that song I played for you? Earlier?” You’d never seen him blush before. “I, maybe, composed it thinking of you.”

"A personal chef, jester, and composer? I think I'm winning."

His nose crinkled. "You know you can still back out, right?"

"You're acting as if I'd even want to."

"Stupid songs like that... I suck at love yet I still want to give you everything," he whispered, voice hoarse. "But my everything will still only amount to that."

"If that's your everything,” your hands interlocked with his. “Then your everything is more than enough."

"I like you," he murmured the confession between your lips as if it were clandestine, the urge to say it a million times more bubbling up from his chest. Though stronger than his urge to say it was his urge to hear you say it back.

Your lips met his completely. Perfectly. "I like you, too."

Pulling away once more you couldn't help but laugh at the reddened color of his cheeks and ears. Cutting away at the awkward and still unsure tension, he inched backwards with a startlingly loud clap of his hands. "Now that that's settled, can we go back to making out? This corny shit is so awkward."

"I can't believe I like you," you groaned but kissed him back anyway.

While there was nothing in your life that you could be sure of, you knew that the man whose smile could light up the entire city of Seoul would be there for you for every step, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[ixellent]

Making a little collection post about these things that have helped me since the supply chain got fucked up really bad and also just in general! A lot of these are YT videos but some have supplementals I’ve added. DON’T WAIT until you need something to learn how to do it if you can avoid it. But this is not a list of “apocalyptic how-to’s”, we aren’t learning to make paper from scratch or sew our own clothes, we can’t all can our own veggies (and canning materials are short anyway), this is a list of depression-era-style fixes and right-to-repair concepts!

I know a lot of people who just can’t be assed to fix anything and that’s fine because then I get to have it and I do want to fix it. 

Bonus Negotiating tip for "getting to yes” on FB marketplace: say “thanks in advance, God bless” at the end of your initial message. Don’t forget to capitalize God. 😉 ● How to Darn Socks by Last Minute Laura - I want to add to this that it’s okay if you don’t do this perfectly or if it seems ugly when you’re finished, it’s probably still going to work fine! Embroidery needles and thread (sometimes in the form of a kit) are EASY to find at thrift stores, and especially used art supply stores. Related: 50 Hand Embroidery Stitches by Handiworks ● Simple Guide to Electronic Components and Soldering Basics by BigClive - Soldering is so so so handy to have some basic knowledge and skill in. I use it to do Gameboy mod kits but it also helped me feel confident in replacing little burnt out fuses, capacitors, etc. If I could have found a replacement relay I would have fixed my kettle! Pick up a multimeter if you can! Learn to use it! Related:  Soldering Is Easy comic by MightyOhm, and pretty much any Nintendo repair video, I recommend starting out on doing a simple shell swap or a gameboy IPS kit and going from there when it comes to electronics. Do not do a Joycon shell or a DS first.

● How to Replace an iPhone SE Screen by JerryRigEverything - There are a ton of videos or written tutorials for almost models of devices. I put this not because no one has ever heard of replacing your phone screen (lol) but because it is increasingly difficult to repair devices and with EXACTLY the right parts.You will often have to find your year model or even serial number and then do research on which parts are compatible/behave - usually someone will already have done the legwork so you’re like “aha this is the battery that will work in my 1st gen Paperwhite ereader”. Many phones and devices have pain in the ass adhesives so you “can’t” fix them. Do yourself a favor and get a good, plastic safe spudger and prying tools. Related: iFixit kits which are better than ever, Jailbreaking with Hexxa Plus ● Fix a KitchenAid Mixer that isn’t Spinning by ereplacementparts - I bring in this one because sometimes a scary, seemingly broken expensive item can be bought for very little and fixed very easily. There’s a YT video for like EVERYTHING. You will quickly learn to recognize how things GET broken and what their most likely problem is. I buy “untested” vintage point and shoot cameras all the time and usually they literally just need a new battery lol. Lots of things just need cleaned or need new grease or something, or have a broken trace/burnt fuse/broken plastics etc. See Soldering above. ● Oil Change on a TW200 by tdubskid - This is just to stand in as an example of some regular maintenance and familiarity with your vehicles. Not everything is as easy as a good ol’ Tdub but it’s worth getting the owner’s AND service manual for your vehicles so you can at least take care of it well so that it needs LESS maintenance and know when it is need of maintenance and how urgent it is even if you cannot perform it yourself. Plus, again, tons of YT videos and forum threads. Note: I highly recommend that if your vehicle is under warranty of any kind you don’t do your own oil changes/service or get service anywhere except certified dealerships until that warranty expires. Related: How to Change a Tire (plus jacking it up) by Chrisfix (this is a great full walkthrough! I KNOW most people have never done this - and check your spare once in awhile too)

● Learn to use hand tools and power tools safely. Go ask a family member or a friend to show you how to use them, I’m sure anyone who has them would LOVE to help you and show you what they’re working on. Get a manual impact philips screwdriver and a regular old rubber mallet and thank me later. See if someone’s grandpa is getting rid of their extra wrenches and sockets. Pick up cheap name brand power tools and their accompanying (watch the voltage) batteries and chargers when you can. People will act like you have to “pick a system” and have all one brand but who gives a fuck dude, I don’t. Get a little metal/wood hacksaw and a metal/wood file. Get safety goggles and some coated grip work gloves. Get a cheap soldering iron and some lead-free solder wire (and a fan lol.) Get a set of torx bits/drivers. Don’t be afraid to ask people how to do things. Give away or sell your tools when you don’t use them anymore. Last one but this is very important: Put stickers all over your toolboxes!

[twiistedgalaxies]

Three Times Jaskier Didn’t Seem Quite Human

(And one time Geralt asked too many questions.)

      “Jaskier isn’t human,” Yennefer stated bluntly, swishing a wine glass in her right hand.

      Geralt blinked, “What?”  This gave Yennefer pause. She knew that her on and off again lover was oblivious, but she hadn’t realized it was quite to this extent. Jaskier gave her a pained, pleading look from the other end of the table. She ignored him.

      “You seriously haven’t noticed?” she continued with a huff.

      “...No?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together in confusion. The nerve of these idiots. Yennefer had half a mind to just state the obvious, to keep these two from continuing to dance around the subject, possibly until the end of time.

      But it was much more fun to gently direct Geralt to the answer and watch his bard squirm. Yennefer took a sip of her wine, mentally cursing her high alcohol tolerance, “You’ve been travelling with the man for decades,” Geralt’s face was blank, the puzzle pieces not fitting into place, “He hasn’t aged, Geralt.”

      “That doesn’t mean anything,” he protested, though from the way his eyes shifted towards his companion he was clearly thinking it over. If they were not at such a high profile party Yennefer would have strangled him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was at that exact moment that Jaskier decided to pick up his lute and perform for the crowd - granted, it was what he had been invited to do, but Yennefer sent him a withering glare anyways. She was met with a cheeky wink. Oh if looks could kill. 

      “I could prove it to you, you know? A few well placed detection spells and-”

      Geralt shook his head, “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

      “You two are hopeless,” Yennefer sighed.

-@~*^*~@-

      It had been after a particularly difficult hunt, when Jaskier had to dress his companion’s wounds for the umpteenth time. Geralt sat upon a stool in the center of their tiny room at the inn. He looked more irritated than usual as Jaskier gave him what was essentially a sponge bath around where a kikimore had stabbed his shoulder with one of it’s spindly arms. Jaskier winced, it was too close to important organs for comfort. Humming as he worked, Jaskier tried to stitch shut what he could and thoroughly bandage the rest. The wolf medallion on Geralt’s chest thrummed contentedly each time the bard’s delicate hands drew near.

      “Where did you learn?” he asked suddenly, his gruff voice cutting through the peaceful quiet.

      “Hm?” Jaskier hummed, ignoring the Witcher’s grunt of pain as he applied one of his many salves to his shoulder, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear.”

      “The salves, the stitching, all of it,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at that, but Geralt continued, “It’s a very odd skill for a bard to have.”

      A laugh, Geralt had to bite back a hiss as Jaskier’s touches grew less gentle. He clearly wanted him to drop it. “What? Do you think that I was helpless before you came along with your bulging muscles and witchery glares?”

      The witcher shook his head, silver hair sending droplets of water in the air, “No it’s not that,” the bard had certainly proved capable and skilled many times over, “It’s just, were you a healer before you became a bard?”

      Jaskier froze, seemingly caught in a memory, “Something like that,” he began to bandage Geralt’s shoulder, “This kikimore did quite the number on you, didn’t it?”

      Geralt gave him a look of disbelief because obviously.

      “Come on, come on, give me the details, I can’t write my ballads off of just grunts and intrusive questions now can I?”

-@~*^*~@-

      Jaskier had tagged along on what was supposed to be a minor contract. Nilfgaard had stormed a small town, leaving destruction and countless corpses in their wake. Corpses that were perfect for every Alghoul in a three mile radius. 

      He and Geralt were engaged in their usual banter (which consisted mostly of Jaskier rambling about whatever was on his mind, punctuated with the occasional grunt from his witcher), when a sudden, piercing screech rang through the air. It was high pitched, shrill, and caused Jaskier to clutch his head as he let out a groan of pain. 

      Meanwhile, Geralt immediately leapt into action, drawing his silver sword as a pack of the necrophages surrounded them. He was able to take out several, his sword and the ghouls creating a smooth, gory dance. It all seemed to be going well before an Alghoul caught Geralt off guard, leaping onto his back while extending its spines. This sent Geralt off balance, and he was quickly overwhelmed. His sword got knocked out of his hands in the scuffle and he thought that this, however stupid it may be, would be what would kill him. 

      A cry of rage. Slashing, tearing. Suddenly the weight that was dragging Geralt to the ground grew lighter. He felt something wet and sticky. Geralt looked up to see Jaskier standing over him, holding Geralt’s silver sword, out of breath, and covered in Alghoul viscera.

      The bard looked down at himself, annoyance on his admittedly handsome features, “That was my favorite tunic too!” The tunic in question, once baby blue (like his eyes which were now flashing gold, what the fuck?) was now stained red and black. Jaskier brushed a bit of entrails off his shoulder, visibly disgusted.

      “Huh?” Geralt said, intelligently.

-@~*^*~@-

      The pair was making their way north, Jaskier strumming on his lute and Geralt sat atop Roach. The dirt road was a tunnel bordered by a wall of towering trees, whose orange and red canopies blocked out the sun, casting the duo in dappled shade. 

      Jaskier strummed a few chords in the major key, before he spoke, “Geralt, are you doing alright?” His face was soft and forget-me-not eyes distant like they often grew when he was lost in thought. Geralt shot him a confused look. “It’s just that, you’ve seemed rather distracted lately.”

      “Hm?”

      “I,” Jaskier sighed, collecting himself, “It’s just with the kikimore and the alghouls, and just last week when you forgot your potions in Roach’s saddlebags. I’ve never seen you get like this before, what’s going on?”

      “It’s nothing.” Geralt replied, gaze sliding to anywhere but his bard.

      Jaskier reached up, intertwining his lithe fingers with Geralt’s own, “I’m worried about you, Love.”

      Geralt huffed, he could never resist the man’s pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes, “Yen and I had a conversation at that party a few months ago.”

      He felt the bard tense, “Is that so?” There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. Jaskier must have realized Geralt, man of few words that he is, wasn’t going to elaborate any further, so he spoke, “What did you two talk about?”

      “She said you aren’t human and I just thought about it more and… it makes too much sense,” Geralt began, feeling awkward as he tried to find the words to explain, “The way you don’t age, your medical knowledge (even of witcher potions!), how you know your way around a sword and how your eyes gleamed-”

      “Geralt, as you know I have an impeccable skincare routine and-”

      He frowned, “Don’t give me that shit, bard.”

      Jaskier sighed, “You really want to know?” A nod. “Okay, well, here goes nothing.” The bard let go of the witcher’s hand, and pulled off a golden ring that, now that Geralt thought about it, he had never seen the man without. A shimmer fell over the bard’s body, like a statue being unveiled. The first thing Geralt noticed was his eyes, they were a sickening, piercing yellow. His face was marred by countless scars, from claws, burns, knives, and magic. Jaskier’s build underneath the glamour more closely resembled Geralt’s, though he retained his shorter stature. The bard smiled sardonically at the witcher’s shocked expression, “Like what you see?”

      Geralt’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, “How?”

      “You’d probably know me better as Julian,” Jaskier’s eyes got that distant look to them again, his face was downcast, an unusual expression for someone who typically embodied sunshine, “I was in the Griffin school, before we were attacked,” a joyless laugh, “I had never wanted to be a witcher, ya know? Wasn’t cut out for it. But my father, Viscount Pankratz himself, couldn’t pay a witcher for his contract, so he offered me up instead. I failed as a noble, so maybe I wouldn’t fail as a witcher. He was wrong, of course, I spent most of my time writing poems instead of studying Signs. Singing instead of sparring. After the trials I spent a few years on the path before I grew sick of it and returned to Kaer Seren.”

      Geralt hummed, encouraging Jaskier to continue.

      “I was made to look after the students, I had to patch up their wounds and keep them from blowing themselves up with alchemy. I loved the little rascals, which is why..” Jaskier trailed off, fingers tracing the grooves in his lute.

      “It’s okay,” Geralt said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

      He shook his head hurriedly, “No, no I want to, I have to,” his voice cracked, “I left after the trials killed them. All of them. I couldn’t bear to be a part of it. A part of everything. So I ran, like a coward,” He spat out that last word like a curse.

      The pair stopped. Geralt placed his gloved hand on the bard’s shoulder, a rare gesture of affection and reassurance.

      “Eventually, I found a mage and spent my life’s savings on a well-made glamour and the lute the elves at Posada so lovingly destroyed. It wasn’t until I had graduated from Oxenfurt that I found out what happened in Kaer Seren.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asked, his voice gentle.

      Jaskier’s face flushed red with shame, “I was afraid. Afraid of what you would think of me. That you’d hate me.”

      Geralt frowned, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

      At that, Jaskier laughed, “Just look at me! I’m an ugly fuck-up.”

      “No,” Geralt said resolutely.

      “Huh?”

      “I said no. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? Made long nights on the path easier to bear? I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you,” Geralt continued, looking Jaskier directly in the eyes. He didn’t reply to that, just slipped his ring back on and hugged his arms to his chest.

      The rest of the day’s journey was spent in silence.

A/N:  I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing feedback. I had one hell of a time writing this, I originally had only written the first scene, and it took a few months for my single window's screensaver brain cell to finally hit a corner and figure out how to continue and finish the story.

Ao3