#the fact that this happened a decade apart is darkly amusing to me

[bambismoonlight]

1783

Marie Antoinette: whoops, lost his footing.

1793

Lafayette: whoops, lost her head.

[asweetprologue]

my burden to bear

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Piggyback Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets hurt during a hunt and Geralt has to carry him back to town. Jaskier has mixed feelings about this. ao3

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said. Jaskier groaned from his position on the ground, more at Geralt’s tone than any amount of pain.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. When they’d come to the woods, they’d been working under the assumption that the creature plaguing the nearby village was nothing more than an overactive godling or maybe a hag. Neither of them had been expecting a leshen, and no amount of staying back from the fight did any good when your opponent could sense your location through the ground. While Geralt was valiantly slaying the beast, Jaskier had been darting away from roots shooting up from the ground and attempting to impale him. They’d not succeeded, but they had managed to send him sprawling as he tripped over an exposed root. He’d feared he was done for when suddenly the writhing plant life had collapsed. Though he was pleased to be still in one piece, his ankle throbbed traitorously where the root had tugged his feet out from under him. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously and offered him a hand up. 

Jaskier took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only to stumble as soon as he put weight on his left leg. Geralt caught him as his knees buckled, one hand snapping out to grab him by the elbow. Jaskier’s face lit up, heat spilling over his cheeks in an embarrassed flush. “Ah, shit,” he cursed. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, looking down at the offending appendage with a stormy expression. “No Roach.” 

“So true,” Jaskier said morosely. They’d left Geralt’s trusty steed behind for this venture, as the brush was generally too thick for her to navigate. The village was a good mile or two away. Jaskier’s ankle seemed to throb even more intensely at the thought of the walk. “Well, nothing for it I suppose. I’ll manage.” He tried to pull out of Geralt’s grasp, gingerly testing the weight on his ankle. It felt like being stabbed in the tendon with a razor, but he would be alright. He had plenty of experience limping along beside Geralt on the Path. This time it would just be a bit more literal. 

Geralt did not release him, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “You’ll make it worse,” he said, mouth tightening. Jaskier’s pulse, only just having begun to settle down now that the leshen was dead, began to rise again. Angry Geralt he was plenty used to, but angry-at-him Geralt was not something he enjoyed. They both knew that Jaskier was a liability at best on hunts, and he was well aware that he was only ever one misstep from being left behind, at least for the truly adventurous moments. He hadn’t realized it would be an actual misstep that did him in. 

“I can manage, Geralt, I swear,” he protested. “What else am I meant to do? Stay here forever? I’m sure I could make a nice home out of the leshen’s abandoned burrow. House. Whatever.”

“They don’t have those,” Geralt said dismissively. “I could get Roach.”

“Sure. So I can be eaten by the wolves that ran off when you killed the beastie. I’m sure they’ll be eager to finish the fight once the huge man with the swords fucks off. I’ll walk, it’ll be fine, I’ll -”

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier blinked, and then blinked again. He must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

Geralt glared at him, as if daring him to offer up a different solution. “I’ll carry you. It’s not that far of a walk, and I still have Thunderbolt in my system. It wouldn’t be hard.”

If Jaskier had thought he was flushed before, it was nothing compared to now. “Ah, well. Um. Are you certain? I suppose - I really can walk, truly -” He took a step backwards, away from the warm hand that still cupped his elbow, only to nearly drop to the ground when a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. Even his knee ached with it. Geralt caught him around the waist, hauling him upright again and, unfortunately, directly into the witcher’s space. Jaskier gasped at the contact more than the near tumble, though he hoped Geralt thought it was just the surprise. 

“I can see that,” Geralt said dryly, their nose barley inches apart. Jaskier swallowed. 

“I take your point. How, uh, how do you want to do this?”

Geralt released him, allowing Jaskier to take a deep, fortifying breath. Leaning all his weight on his good leg, he waited while Geralt turned around and knelt down on the mossy forest floor. Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Put your arms around my shoulders,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier ran a hand along his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “This is so infantilizing,” he grumbled, but he leaned over and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders. He was extraordinarily grateful for Geralt’s armor, separating him from the heat of his body. As it was, he still felt like he might spontaneously combust when Geralt’s large hands came up to grip under his thighs and raised him effortlessly into the air. 

Holy fuck. “Melitele,” he said, “do I weigh anything to you?”

“No,” Geralt said with an amused huff. He began to take sure steps through the clearing and back the way they’d come. Jaskier shifted to find a more comfortable position for his arms, and found that he could lift them away entirely without Geralt dropping him an inch. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he groused. 

“Next time watch your step,” Geralt grunted. 

They made their way through the forest slowly, Geralt carefully navigating the underbrush. Jaskier was aware that he was being more delicate with his footwork than he typically was, avoiding any areas that might throw him off balance or land Jaskier with a face full of branches. He was being nice, Jaskier realized, not even getting back at him for the fact that he had to carry Jaskier’s sorry ass through the woods. Always so chivalrous. 

That was Geralt though. Even when he was grumpy and upset and probably worn out from a fight, he was always going out of his way to be kind. He wasn’t always nice, Geralt, but he was almost always kind. It was a miracle, honestly, that he didn’t lose hold of his temper more often than he did. They would bicker, often, and fight, sometimes. But even when he was mad, Geralt was often still considerate, still worried about Jaskier’s safety and comfort. He was always taking absurdly underpaid jobs, even taking payment in a simple meal or a roof over his head sometimes, just because there were people in danger. This village, for example, had scraped together a tiny purse to offer a passing witcher, desperation writ on their faces. Seven people, including two children, had disappeared in the last season. It was a small village, only a little cluster of houses, and such a loss must have been felt deeply. Geralt had looked at the purse, a frown maring his features, and pushed it back into the alderman’s dirty hands. The job had ended up being even more dangerous than he’d assumed, but Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t take payment beyond maybe a warm loaf of bread and some hearty stew from the alderman’s wife. 

It was wildly unfair that the reputation of witchers remained so heavily tarnished. That Geralt’s reputation still suffered so. It was starting to mend - in the decade since Jaskier had begun traveling with him, the White Wolf ballads had become popular, enough so that many towns they passed through were already ready to throw their crowns and orens at his feet. But the further north they went, the closer to Blaviken, the less people were swayed by his songs. People didn’t always see what Jaskier saw. Not everyone felt the depth of affection swell in their breast at the sight of his silver hair and golden eyes, regardless of how many times Jaskier tried to put it to words. Maybe it wasn’t something he would ever be able to capture. This haunting, aching thing inside him that just loved and loved and loved Geralt of Rivia. 

He wished he could do more, more to alleviate Geralt’s pain and stress. And instead here he was, only putting more weight on his shoulders. Literally. Jaskier rested his forehead against the leather of Geralt’s armor with a sigh. That was the story of his life, though. Try to help, get in the way, get pushed aside. An infallible cycle. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked suddenly. Jaskier blinked back to himself, attempting to shake off the shroud of self pity that had settled over him. 

“Hmm?” he responded, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright what?”

“I’m asking,” Geralt said. “You’re quiet. That only ever happens if you’re writing a song or you’re dying.” He paused. “It’s only your ankle?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, stirring the hairs at the base of Geralt’s neck. The silver strands were pulled back into a short pony, leaving the pale expanse of skin beneath exposed. Jaskier had to tamp down the swift and overpowering urge to tuck his nose into the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, to press his lips to the scar just above the line of his armor, where some monster must have gotten in a lucky hit. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Just the ankle, I swear. I’m only thinking.”

“So it is a song,” Geralt said darkly. 

“A great ballad about how the White Wolf of Rivia once again saved a humble bard,” he agreed, eagerly latching onto the half lie. “You’ve made a bit of a habit of it.”

Geralt grunted, sounding unamused. Suddenly there was a burst of sunlight across Jaskier’s vision, warm on his face. They stepped out of the forest and onto the small dirt track that led to the village, which Jaskier could just barely see peeking out over the rise of the next hill over. The sky was a sprawling blue tapestry above them, not a cloud in sight. “I don’t like it,” Geralt said, stopping to scan the road briefly. 

Jaskier’s throat felt tight. “Saving me?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative and began walking again, towards the village. 

Jaskier let out a long breath, equal parts annoyed and hurt. “Well no one’s asking you to,” he snapped. “I know it’s, I don’t know, part of your job, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

Geralt shook his head, nearly hitting Jaskier in the face with his short ponytail. “It’s not a fucking chore, Jaskier. I just don’t - I wish you didn’t need saving.”

“Well, you and me both,” Jaskier said. “I know you think I do it on purpose, but I don’t actually want to get in the way.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gritted out. Truly annoyed now. “Nothing you do could keep me from doing my job.”

“Well obviously you always finish the fight, I wouldn’t imagine you’d just quit on my behalf -”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt interrupted, “because I don’t like this.” He moved one hand to Jaskier’s injured ankle, the touch feather light. Jaskier’s knees tightened automatically to hold himself in place, but it was barely necessary. Geralt was strong enough to hold him in one hand. It made Jaskier feel deeply fragile, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like something precious and delicate. Worthy of being preserved. It made his fingers tingle where they were latched together between Geralt’s collarbones, just at the base of his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that it, um. Well - I’m really fine.”

“I know,” Geralt said, sounding tired and a little amused. “You always are, mostly. I still don’t like it.” He tapped a finger against the heel of Jaskier’s boot, still light, and then put his hand back to support Jaskier’s thigh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like witchers.”

Jaskier laughed outright at that. “I can’t imagine how you could lose track of that piece of information. I complain about my bad eyesight and sore feet daily, as you are certainly aware. I’m the same as any other human.”

“You’re really not,” Geralt said, so quiet that it almost seemed to be said to himself. Jaskier stilled at that, startled and somehow warmed by the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village, where hopefully they would find a warm welcome with the alderman or another grateful peasant. They might be given a place to rest for the night, maybe a few, while Jaskier’s ankle healed. Maybe they would be asked to move along, and Geralt would let him ride on Roach for a few days, and in the evening he would give Jaskier the salve he used for bruises and pulled muscles. Maybe even rub it into his swollen foot himself.  “I’m sorry to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt said. Then he laughed, a dry rasp that Jaskier never tired of hearing. “Well, alright. Technically you are at the moment. But I don’t mind.” As they reached the first house, he gently set Jaskier on his feet, turning to offer support. Jaskier let him slip a broad arm around his back, Jaskier’s own stretched out across Geralt’s shoulder to grip at the rough leather there. After having Geralt’s face hidden from him on the walk back, the sudden confrontation with golden eyes and square jaw was enough to make Jaskier flustered. Their faces were close now, and it felt almost too intimate, too raw after being unable to see Geralt’s expression during the rest of their conversation. Geralt quirked a small smile at him, a fondness there that Jaskier felt echoed in his own chest. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, but I don’t mind saving you.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back, even though his heart was racing and he knew his face was flushed from their proximity. “I suppose I’ll have to let you keep doing it then,” he said, only the tiniest bit breathless. 

“Good,” Geralt said, and together they took their first steps into the village. “But for the love of the gods, at least try not to get yourself into trouble.”

Jaskier laughed even as his ankle flared with renewed pain and he spotted a few villagers stepping out of their homes, concern plastered across their faces for the injured bard. So it would be hot stew, he thought giddily, and a warm place by the fire, and Geralt would still probably rub that salve into his ankle. He could be satisfied with that. “Geralt, my dearest, just try and stop me.”

[dboliklover]

Can you do the Sakamaki boys reacting to their tiny s/o who sees something she doesn’t like or completely agree with and goes ‘not my kink’ before shutting her book or turning off the tv etc...... YOUR BLOG IS GREAT I READ THE PIZZA IMAGINE AND LAUGHED!!!

I hope you don’t mind, I did alter the requests slightly! <3 <3 <3  Thank you so much, dearest. This took me way longer than I had planned, but I hope you enjoy it! 

Warning: NSFW mentions/themes, but not actual smut. 

Shu:

You were sitting in the music room as Shu played the violin for you, book in your hands. He rarely played for you, but this was one of those rare, domestic moments that made you feel so-very-content.

The book you had chosen, however - was something you’d foolishly grabbed in a hurry, and the more you tried to read the more...disturbing it got.

Not in a ‘real’ disturbing manner, mind you; the disturbing part was how god-awful this book was. The writing. The characteristics. The hypersexualisation that made you want to cringe.

Not to even mention how unrealistic this book was! You would know how the ‘risque’ sex that’s written in this novel actually works and this ain’t it, chief.

Instead of arousal, you felt disgust; why was the protagonist so...bland and horny??

Eventually one of the sexual descriptions broke your resolve and you slammed the book closed, the sound causing Shu to stop playing, turning to you with a raised eyebrow - a look that said ‘What the fuck?’

You took a deep breath, your cheeks tinted vermilion with embarrassment - definitely not arousal - as you placed the book down on the window sill beside you. “Nothing, I just don’t find this book appealing,” You swallowed thickly, “Keep playing, please. You know I love your music-”

Shu let out a breathy chuckle and placed his violin down, coming closer to you with his hands in his pockets and his signature jacket over him.

You attempted to grab the book back before he could pick it up and see what it was, but he grabbed the book from your hands as you squealed and tried to grab it back - too bad you were so small

An unusually loud laugh fell from his godlike lips, “50 shades of Grey?” He snickered, shaking his head, “If you want bondage, you lewd woman, you can get the real thing from me.” He shamelessly stated as if it was the most casual thing. “I’ll even be kind enough to take you right here and now.”

You blinked, red-faced. “....Not my kink!” you cried out without even realising what you said - and then blushed harder in humiliation when you acknowledged the words that had slipped out of your panic. Unfortunate too because this was your kink; and Shu knew it, too.

Reiji:

Reiji and you were in bed, he was reading a classical novel as you watched TV

How you even convinced him to allow you to have  TV in your room, even you did not know; but you do remember him being strictly against it. He really did detest that TV.

Your small form bundled up in the covers as you watched the screen, Reiji was frustrated because he REALLY hated this stupid TV and didn’t know why he agreed to let you have it in the first place and was very close to just getting rid of it. Why couldn’t you just read a book like a sophisticated, proper person (like himself)?

Reiji sat up off the bed with his book and went to the library instead - it was at least quiet there, as opposed to the ridiculous movie you were watching.

As for you, the movie was...interesting, to say the least - it had looked appealing to you when you first turned it on but soon found that it was getting a little too...intense. You hadn’t initially realised it would be a slasher film, and as luck would have it the moment the nasty things started occurring was when Reiji was already out of the room.

You tried - you truly did - to keep going and just watch it but you couldn’t.

Not because you were scared or afraid but because it was so horrifically gorey in the worst of ways that it was impossible to enjoy - how did anyone possibly like this genre?

Reiji had just managed to close the bedroom door behind him when he heard you screech, “NOT MY KINK!” from inside, and a soft thud as though you’d thrown the remote.

He blinked, mentally arguing with himself on whether or not he should even try to go inside and see what happened; he was curious, yes, but curiosity killed the cat and to be frank...well, he didn’t exactly want to know.

Like that one time he’d walked in on Laito and his lover in the kitchen and quite literally entered and left as soon as he saw what was going on. He shuddered at the memory.

Taking a deep breath he turned back around and went inside, raising an eyebrow in mild amusement as he saw you huddled in bed, TV turned off and the remote sitting in the corner against the wall.

Hm, maybe this was fortunate; he’d finally be able to convince you to get rid of that TV.

Not to mention you looked adorable like that; your petite form clenching onto the covers and pillows in a panicked state.

Reiji loved seeing you so vulnerable and adorable, like a small little panicked rabbit.

Ayato:

You were sitting by the swimming pool, your small legs dipping in and out of the water as you read your novel, humming softly to yourself as you were fully focused on the story.

Ayato was splashing around in the pool, and though he wouldn’t admit it he was upset you refused to swim with him

What was the point of coming to a pool with him if you weren’t going to swim?

Pouting, he swam around a few laps, admittedly growing bored and glancing over at your tiny physique holding a book by the pool’s edge. It would be so easy just to...pull you in…

A smirk befell his lips and he chuckled to himself darkly, his emerald eyes narrowing as he sunk his larger body under the surface, slowly making his way over to you, sneaking up on you so he could pull you into the pool by the foot.

He couldn’t wait to see our expression - this was going to be SO amusing.

Teasing you must’ve been Ayato’s favourite activity above anything else; your huffy reactions were always just too cute for your own good.

Carefully he got closer and closer as you were perfectly unaware that he was beginning to reach you, the book in her hands having completely stolen your attention (from Ayato; hence why he was so determined to tease you and regain your attention - but he would rather die than admit that aloud)

Your scream spread through the outdoors, loud enough to scare the birds off their trees as you felt a hand grasp your leg and drag you under the depths of the swimming pool, your book flying up into the water, ruined.

Eyes wide and shocked your tiny body sunk beneath the water’s surface as you frantically attempted to calm yourself down, swimming up to take a deep breath as you moved your hands shakily to keep afloat.

“Ayato!” You cried out as frustration flooded your veins, “What the hell did you do?”

His laugh was obnoxious to you in that moment; you had half-a-mind to push him away from you with your legs under the water, but instead you made your way back to the pool’s edge, sighing. “Don’t do that again,” You huffed, “It’s not my kink,”

Ayato blinked, confused but very much entertained - hey, his plan had worked; he managed to regain your attention and that’s a win for him.

“Maybe that isn’t,” He countered, swimming closer to you as you climbed back onto the ground, his eyes melting into yours, “But I know for a fact this is,” Suddenly his arms were on your thighs, spreading them apart as you gasped, “A-Ayato! Not here, I...I…” A heavy blush covered your cheeks as you bit down on your lip to stop the soft moans, “Any one could come out here right now and see us-”

“Let them.” He winked.

Laito:

Playing pool was never ‘your’ thing; you were terrible at it, really.

Still, Latio demanded he play with you and you just couldn’t refuse him; not when his way of “convincing” you was to mercilessly attack your neck with love bites until you were a gasping, moaning mess.

So here you were, holding a pool stick as you leaned against the pool table, watching Laito lean down to take a hit off the ball.

Both of you knew that he was going to win; you would lose every time much to your dismay, though in your defense he had absolute decades or even centuries of experience so of course he’d be your superior in this game.

As you two played and you were getting your ass served to you, you turned on the small television in the game room just so you two would have some background noise to make the experience more pleasant. (And, admittedly, you were hoping the noise would distract Laito and make him falter)

Unfortunately for you, however, the channel the TV was on was the news channel, and specifically regarding some politics that never failed to get you riled up and angry.

You were trying to focus on the game; you really were, but you kept hearing the news reporter making ridiculous declarations which curdled your very blood.

How could people be so stupid? And spread such obvious misconduct and propaganda?

Laito noticed your agitation increase as you tried to project those frustrations on the poor pool balls that you kept hitting with no strategy apart from “angrily hitting this and making the balls fly everywhere”

You were tense, and he wasn’t sure why that was - his first instinct was that he was just that great at pool that you were becoming horribly frustrated due to your inferior skill; but he soon found his answer when you grabbed the remote and turned the small TV off, filling the room with silence as you sighed and declared,  “Not my kink.”

After he processed what had just happened, he laughed in the sultry manner which only he could pull off; that signature thigh-clenching laugh that instantly activated the burning desire within you. Still, you glared at him, crossing your arms because your anger, though aimed at the stupid news, had not yet dissipated.

“What are you laughing about?”

Laito tsked and shook his head, that charming smile sending you back on your heels; fuck, why did he have to be so damn seductive that you forgot whatever it was you were upset about with just one look?

Before you knew it, Laito pushed your body against the table, trapping you in a compromising position as the pool stick fell from your hand and clacked on the ground, “L-Laito…” You whispered in slight protest, trying to resist your lover’s advances.

Unfortunately for you the moment he picked you up and placed your ass on the table, caging your body with his arms as he held onto your thighs you knew that your resolve was fading fast.

“That’s not your kink, huh?” He chuckled into your ear so you could feel his breath on your ear, sending wild sparks down your spine, “Maybe I can help with that.”

Kanato:

Kanato demanded you have a tea party with him and Teddy, and who were you to refuse? Especially since you knew damn well he’d throw a tantrum if you tried to say no.

So here you were, sitting at the tea table elegantly with Teddy and Kanato, who was forcing you to eat more cake than you would like to eat, but you also knew he was relentless when it came to sweets.

It was quite enjoyable for the most part - by now you were used to having such tea parties with Kanato, since he had a bias towards more...childish aspects of life. But given his difficult childhood, you understood why that was and if having Teddy by his side and having tea parties made Kanato feel safe, secure and stable, then you would partake in such things for his sake.

What you perhaps weren’t so much a fan of was the dresses. He insisted on dressing you up constantly in the most frivolous gowns he could get his hands on; at times you felt more like his personal dress-up doll than his lover.

Frills, satins, ribbons and lace, though pretty when used to enhance clothing, were atrocious when used in such frivolity.

But, just as with everything else, you put up with it for Kanato’s sake. Even the tight, excessively hot-to-wear dresses, you put up with it all because you knew that Kanato felt better when he could have control over such things.

Biting into a piece of terribly sweet cake, you raised it to your lips when Kanato suddenly stood up, telling you to stay still, and so you did and waited for him to return.

When he came back, you had to stop yourself from nervously laughing because he was holding up the most frilly, puffy, most horrific dress you’ve ever seen. It was too much, even out of all the kinds of insufferable dresses he forced you to wear, this one was something else, another level completely.

Not even the world’s brattiest princess would be caught dead in it!

He...he really expected you to wear this?

You did a lot to make Kanato happy, and made many sacrifices for him. But this...this was too much; it was impossible for you to ever even try to get into that death trap of a dress.

This was one thing you were not going to be doing no matter how big a tantrum saying ‘no’ would result in.

“Not my kink.” You softly stated, swallowing the piece of cake and placing your fork down slowly, as if trying to make no sudden movements in front of a predator.

Your statement clearly confused him, and that gave you enough time to raise from your seat, and you could tell that for a second Kanato thought you were standing to come and take the dress to change into it, but the moment you were standing you legged it out of the room, hearing Kanato yelling at you to come back and wear it,

“NOT MY KINK!” You exclaimed again, running as far away as possible from the most hellish dress you’ve ever seen. It was such an awful dress that you were certain if Karlheinz was a dress, he’d be that monstrosity.

Subaru:

You were taking a walk with Subaru in the garden, enjoying your time together amongst the roses. Moments such as these were your absolute favourites; how could you not adore them? How could you not adore him?

Hand-in-hand, the two of you walked together without saying a thing, simply...enjoying one another’s sweet company, the mutual feeling of trust and love surrounding you both.

Subaru was not the easiest man to get along with, but you had taken your time to get him to warm up to you and now there was a comfort between you that you didn’t feel with anyone else.

Subaru...he’d truly become your lifeline, your love and everything good in your life. He was so much more wonderful than he gave himself merit for, but you were here to remind him every time he self-deprecated that you adored him just the way he was.

His hand let go of your hand only to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. It was physically and emotionally intimate; a sensation of true, undying love and passion and before you knew it your lips were on his in a frenzy.

Subaru was a rough man; this was nothing new to you, but you admittedly loved it. His strong touch, his violent kisses all over you, it was to die for.

He sank his fangs into your neck, drinking your blood as you held tightly onto him, feebly moaning with breathy sighs as you ascended into seventh heaven because Subaru drinking from you always felt so perfectly painful that it resulted in the truest of pleasure.

The beautiful moment of the pure intimacy of lovers was ruined when a certain ginger vampire interrupted, chuckling lustfully to himself with his hand on his hip, “My my~ What do we have here?” Laito taunted.

You felt Subaru tense and pull away - you knew he was moments away from snapping at his older brother so you quickly kissed your snow-haired lover to distract him from his rage and then pulled away when he was in a daze, grabbing his hand and pulling him up from your position on a bench, glaring darkly at Laito, “Not. My. Kink.” You hissed, which no doubt must’ve been absolutely adorable to the perverted vampire because you looked like a tiny little angry kitten!

He laughed and shrugged as you dragged Subaru away back inside, frustrated that Laito had ruined the romantic moment.

Mod Rozalia 

As always I appreciate and love it when you reblog and comment <3 Tell me your favourite moments, who your favourite boy is, what emotions you felt reading it, etc! Hell, comment about how shitty my writing is, if you want! I just like having that communication with followers <3 

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

The Smell of You-Part 4

This is the continuation of a BTS!Vampire one-shot! You can find the other three parts on my Masterlist! <3

Tags: Bts, Bangtan Boys, Bangtan Seonyendan, Bulletproof Boyscouts, Beyond the Scene, BTS one-shot, Poly!BTS, BTS x you, Seokjin x you, Yoongi x you, Hoseok x you, Namjoon x you, Jimin x you, Taehyung x you, Jungkook x you, BTS!Vampire, Bangtan!Vampire, BTS as Vampires

Genre: Fluff, a tiny bit of angst if you squint

“Sir, please, you need to remain calm....” 

Your statement is cut short as the large man, the patient you are desperately trying to control, high on some sort of drug and out of his mind, swings his arm into your diaphragm, sending you flying into the nearby med cart and sprawling across the tile floor, dazed and slightly out of breath. 

One of the other nurses rushes to your side, as the three doctors and two other nurses involved with the patient, finally get him under control and pressed down onto the gurney, fighting and kicking, as one of the doctors sinks a needle full of sedative into his arm. 

“Are you okay, (Y/N)?” Trisha, the nurse who you now recognize, asks nervously, as she helps you sit up carefully from the floor. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You say breathlessly, as you take mental note of your body and if anything feels out of place. “It just knocked the wind out of me is all.” 

You hear her gasp as she helps you stand to your feet. “You’re bleeding!” 

Following her wide gaze down to your left hand, you note that you are indeed bleeding, the crimson liquid oozing thickly from a large gash across the palm of your hand, probably put there by the bottle of medication that had shattered when you knocked the cart over in your fall. 

“We need to get that stitched up.” Trisha hurries on, waving over one of the doctors, as the gash on your hand starts to sting, finally, as the shock wears off. 

As the doctor leads you over to a nearby gurney, hand held delicately in his own, red blood leaving a trail of drops on the floor behind you, you feel anxiety begin to boil in your stomach. 

Not over the fact that you’re hurt, or that you’ll need stitches. No, you’ve been an ER nurse for long enough to know that this is just part of the job. 

No, the anxiety stems from something much, much deeper than that, and as the doctor administers numbing agent into your hand in preparation to begin stitching, a swear word leaves your lips, but not because of the pain. 

“Shit.” 

No, its because, when you get home, your seven vampire boyfriends are going to smell your blood and see red. 

And the man on the gurney will then have much more to worry about than just a hospital lawsuit. 

*******

Walking into the apartment after your shift, you’re careful to keep your bandaged hand hidden beneath the folds of your coat, even though you know you’re just putting off the inevitable. 

And you were right. Oh boy, were you right. 

“Hi guys.....” 

The words have barely left your mouth, before Taehyung is upon you, his nostrils flared and pupils dark, as he backs you against the kitchen counter, warning in his voice as he asks darkly, “Why do you smell like blood?” 

You swallow, determined to keep your anxiety at bay, as you set your work bag down on the counter behind you, before replying dryly, “I work at a hospital, Taehyung.” 

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes roving over your body, looking for something he has yet to find. “You smell like your blood.” 

“What happened?” Yoongi growls, standing from his place on the couch, eyes dangerous, as he moves across the room to join the younger brother, who is still searching your body with his eyes for any sign of injury. 

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose in your fingers, as you say, slightly exasperated, “You guys, it’s nothing.....” 

“This doesn’t look like nothing.” Namjoon joins in the conversation, and you realize, as his fingers are felt on your skin, making you jump, that like an idiot, you had used your injured, bandaged hand to pinch your nose without thinking, giving them all a clear view of exactly what they were looking for.

“Shit.” You swear under your breath, his fingers still encircling your wrist, as they all stare down at the wrapping around your palm, the smell of your blood oozing from every pore. “Look, there was a rowdy patient, it wasn’t a big deal....” 

“It is a big deal.” Taehyung says darkly, eyes glinting dangerously. “He hurt you.” 

“Okay, look.” You tug your wrist out of Namjoon’s grasp, pushing between the other vampires to free yourself as you put your hands on your hips and glare at them. “I know you’re worried about me. But I’m fine. And now, I’m going to take a shower, because it’s Jungkook’s turn tonight, and you are not going to ruin that for him.” You point between the three vampires, still watching you closely, their eyes still focused on the flash of the gauze against your palm. “Now. Don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.” 

They glance between each other, and Yoongi opens his mouth, as if to say something, but you point sternly between the three of them, interrupting him before he can speak. 

“Promise. Me.” 

They sigh, and then Taehyung rolls his eyes before holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. “Fine. We promise.” 

“Good.” You nod, already headed for the bathroom and the promise of a warm shower after a long day of work. “Behave, boys. Or I’ll know.” 

********

“The hyungs sure were worked up earlier.” 

You glance up in surprise at Jungkook’s voice, soft and quiet in the stillness of the room, his warm breath brushing gently across the crown of your head from where you lie next to him, cheek resting on his chest, his arm around you as the two of you read a comic book he holds up above your heads. 

“Mmm.” You hum in agreement, eyes once again drawn to the bright panels on the page before you, as you snuggle closer against him, his smell-comforting and hinting of vanilla-filling your nose with his closeness. “They tend to be a little overprotective. It sometimes happens, you know, when your mate is a human.” 

There is silence for another moment, the only sound his breathing and the turning of a few pages, and then he speaks again, catching you off guard once more. “Noona. Can I ask you a question?” 

“Sure, Kookie.” You say, glancing up at him again, chin propped on the firm planes of his chest, as you offer him a soft smile, shrugging slightly, waiting for him to continue. 

He blushes slightly, taking in a breath, avoiding your eyes, as he hurries on, pushing himself to be brave. “The hyungs. When they feed, there’s more.....right?” His blush darkens, and he hides his face in your hair, suddenly embarrassed. 

You ponder his question, knowing what he means, and biting back a smile, you sit up, forcing him to abandon his hiding place, his cheeks still red, as he struggles to meet your gaze. 

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve all been together a long time.” You say, reaching out to push some thick, dark strands of hair back off his forehead before continuing. “There’s usually other activities involved-either before or after the feed.” 

Jungkook lets out the breath he had been holding, tossing aside the comic, as he sits up to face you, biting his lip, the picture of suddenly unsure uncertainty, his hands twisting into the fabric of his sweats in his lap. “I’m sorry I.....I mean...” He stumbles over his words, and his cheeks redden again, his gaze dropping from your own. “I’m sorry we’ve never....” 

“No! no!” You hurry to reassure him, scooting forward, taking his hands in your own as he once again meets your gaze, and you offer him a gentle smile, reaching out to stroke a finger down his high arched cheekbone. “Kookie, you don’t have to apologize. You’re new to this, and becoming a vampire is overwhelming, or so I’ve heard.” You laugh, and he manages a smile at the sound. “You’re still adjusting, and learning to feed is difficult. The other boys have had decades to practice it. I don’t expect anything more from you, Kook. And I’m never disappointed with just your bite, you know.” You wink at him, offering him a playful smile as you do so. 

He sighs, a heavy sound, and you hesitate, before reaching out to prop his chin up with your finger, meeting his dark eyes beneath his furrowed brow, lips pursed with trouble. “Kook. I don’t need all of that. It’s really okay.” 

“I know, I know.” He throws himself back on the bed, arms going across his face, which is turning red once more, and you watch him curiously for a moment, before he says from beneath his arms, voice muffled, “But what if it’s something I want?” 

You’re caught off guard slightly by his hesitant question, and you stare at him for a moment longer, before crawling across the expanse of the bed to be beside him, reaching up to pull his hands down from his face. “Is it something you want, Kook?” You ask carefully, your eyes meeting his own, the air between the two of your suddenly feeling slightly breathless. 

He pauses, considering your words, before he nods, a jerky movement, stiff with nervousness. “Yes. But you know how it is. It takes me forever just to work up to feeding still, how am I supposed to not be nervous about that too?” 

You watch him for a minute, and then you grin at him, throwing your leg over his prone body to straddle him, and you feel him take in a surprised breath and stiffen slightly beneath your sudden weight. “Kookie. You just need to relax.” You say with slight amusement, sitting on him, as you stare down at him, one brow cocked. “Look. Let’s just play a game, okay? I’ll ask you a question and then you can ask me a question.” 

He hesitates once more, still stiffened beneath you, but you feel him relax, just an inch, as he takes in a deep breath before nodding. “yeah, okay.” 

“Okay.” You bite your lip for a moment, thinking, before you ask lightly, “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Purple.” He replies without hesitation, relaxing further beneath you as he considers his own question. “What’s your favorite food, noona?” 

“Ugh, you already know that!” You say with mock exasperation, and he grins, before you laugh and say, “Red Bean Paste Stew. My turn.” You suck your bottom lip between your teeth again, chewing on it as you consider your options. Suddenly, you snap your fingers. “Got it. What’s your favorite animal?” 

“Tiger.” He answers, once again quickly, not having to think at the simple question, his nose screwing up slightly in thought. 

“Really?” You joke, leaning forward to press the tip of your index finger to his wrinkled nose. “Are you sure it’s not a bunny?” 

“Yah.” He groans in annoyance, and you laugh, as suddenly, he’s pushing you off of his body, rolling you to the side, as he turns to face you, face squirreled into a look of irritation. “Why does everyone always ask that?” 

You laugh again, but then the sound dies off into the silence between the two of you, and you realize, with a jolt, just how close the two of you are, how easy, how effortlessly, you have transitioned into being in each other’s space-Jungkook’s dark eyes close enough that you can see the specks in his irises, feel his balmy breath washing across your face, see the tips of his long white fangs pressed into the pink, supple skin of his bottom lip. 

“Noona.” 

Your gaze flicks back up to his at his quiet call of your name, and his brow is once again furrowed in thought, as he considers you, eyes never leaving your face, noses almost brushing. 

“Why is your heartbeat so loud?” He breathes out, and you’re suddenly very aware of your heart pounding, almost painfully, against the walls of your ribcage in response to him. 

“Because of you, Kook.” You murmur back, tongue darting out to wet your suddenly dry lips, as your gaze once again falls back down to his perfectly pink lips, pursed in confusion. You hurry to reassure him, reaching out carefully with one finger to smooth the deepening lines between his eyes. “It’s a good thing-the way my body reacts to yours.” 

He watches you, his pupils dilated slightly as he studies you, and then his own tongue, supple and slick, slides out between his parted lips, flashing white fangs that make your stomach jump in anticipation, as he lets out a long breath, before asking quietly, “(Y/N)? Can I kiss you?” 

“Yeah.” You nod, letting your finger drag down his cheek and across the firm lines of his jaw, as he leans toward you, his movements slightly hesitant still, as his gaze flickers down to your lips. 

His mouth covers your own, and the kiss is soft and sweet and held back, as if Jungkook isn’t quite sure how far you’re willing to let him go just yet. 

As if in answer, you part your lips for him, beckoning him to slide his tongue in between your teeth, and as he does so, your hands slide up his face, tangling blindly in his hair, as he lets out a low groan against your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you closer against him. 

The kiss is slightly sloppier now, his teeth bumping against yours in his haste to taste you, to feel you beneath his tongue, and when he pulls back, for the briefest of moments, pupils blown and lips swollen, you are both panting, trying to catch your breath. 

One of your hands slides from his hair, and you run your finger across the lines of his lips-red and plush and bruised from kissing-and in response, his mouth parts beneath your touch, and he takes your finger between his teeth, gently pricking the flesh with his fangs. 

It’s as if electricity is crackling up your hand and into your body at the touch of his teeth, and warmth and tingling and heavy anticipation coils in your stomach, and you can’t wait any longer. 

“Jungkook.” You whine, squirming, as you pull your finger from between his teeth, his eyes darkening at the sound of absolute want and need in your tone when you say his name. 

He rises above you, hands pressed into the pillow on either side of your head, fingers twisting into the strands of your hair, and then he leans forward, his lips once again meeting yours, the kiss hungry and hot and urgent this time, as his fingers drop to stroke down the tender skin on either side of your neck, causing you to shiver beneath him in response. 

Sliding his mouth from yours in a smooth motion, he hovers, just for a moment, above the thin flesh barely covering your pounding pulse just below your ear, and then he lowers his head, and his fangs sink into your throat, and it’s the familiar feeling-of bright pain, and then chilling ecstasy and warm pleasure. 

Your fingers curl into the material of his shirt as he drinks for a few moments, swallowing your blood noisily, some of the warm liquid cascading past his lips and slipping down the skin of your throat, pooling, warm and stagnant, in the hollow at the base of your neck. 

And then he pulls back, carefully retracting his fangs from your body, and you relax slightly, letting your fingers unclench from his shirt, as you feel his tongue, gentle and warm, lap across the marks on your skin, sealing them, before he licks down the remaining flesh of your throat, cleaning up the blood that had escaped his lips, before he pulls back from you. 

His pupils are still blown, eyes dark, and you reach up, carefully wiping some of your blood from his bottom lip, the liquid crimson against your own skin, as you breathe out, slightly breathless, “That was good, Kook. Really good.” 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head to the side, his eyes returning to normal, brightening, as he grins down at you, the old Kookie returning as he licks his lips once more. “Next time.” He hesitates, the warm blush returning to his cheeks slightly, and it’s hard to believe, that this was the same vampire from moments before. “I’d like to do more than just kiss.” 

“Next time.” You nod, still trying to catch your breath as he lies down beside you, burying his face once again in your hair, as his fingers stroke absentmindedly up your sides. 

There is a moment of silence, and then his voice, filled with amusement, sounds in you ear. 

“Your heartbeat is still really loud, noona.” 

[neilthechiseler]

This Story Used To Be About Joan

(Or “How To Finish Writing A Story In Ten Easy Years”)

[Reveries of a wannabe writer after the cut.]

This story used to be about Joan. 

That was about a dozen drafts ago. For the purposes of this testimony, I’ve moved past Joan as a character, but since this used to be her story, I feel compelled to tell you that Joan was a sweet-natured, mildly trippy woman in her mid-to-late 20s who had just given up smoking and her boyfriend of seven years. It was over a clash of life approaches. For Joan, life was about singing the song of herself, because she contained multitudes, and what was true for her was good for anybody. Dennis, on the other hand, was hung up on the world. Petty things like keeping the power bill paid. Food in the refrigerator. You know, crap like that.

Since Joan was a free woman again, she’d gone back to her default mode of dressing like the best rack at Goodwill and furnishing her apartment like the worst end of large item pick-up day on the garbage route. She had dark bangs that she’d finally gotten right, just like the woman on TV. She was going to get an iPhone just like her (and that should tell you how long this has been on the to-do pile) until she realized that she’d screwed up her credit rating several years ago when she wasn’t paying attention to what she was signing. You see, she was really into textures at that particular moment, and the feel of the paper was a monumental distraction. Besides, minimum service agreements were tools of corporate hostility, and she felt the same way about paying early termination fees. Sunk again by philosophical differences.

In fact, it was as she was walking back from the cell phone store, tripping along to music that only she could hear, that she found a puppy, the kind her mom used to call a “Heinz 57 mutt”. It was sitting in a cardboard box which was apparently its current home, foraging in the garbage for its breakfast…which, being in the bin behind an appliance store, is drilling a dry hole, but dogs find a way. Joan picked up the little guy and got a flood of instant-validation affection. The decision was made. The dog was coming home.

From there, Joan’s story would be heading into the adventures being a single pixie in a fair-to-middling town and how she has to adjust to the puppy way of doing things, pulling Joan out of herself and dealing with the needs of another living thing for the first time in her life—never mind that she’d just shared a life with another living thing for seven years, because continuity is for cowards. The story would’ve been warm and kind, full of the wonderful lessons that animals can teach us, because they’re so like us, you know?  In other words, it would’ve been a copy of Chicken Soup For The Soul soaked overnight in an indie rock soundtrack until it was a soggy mess that just fell apart in your hands.

So you see why I had to ditch that crap with great speed.

Then I started thinking about the previous owner of the puppy. After all, somebody finds a puppy, somebody loses a puppy. Either that or somebody tells a puppy to get lost. So now we were on the story of a brown-haired boy with skinned knees and a crooked smile who promised his dad that yes, he could take care of a dog. His mom went behind the old man’s back and helped the boy pick out a dog from the shelter. 

While the boy was in the process of losing his mind, Liz, mother of one (“but some days it feels like two,” she usually tells her friends), noticed that her husband was looking on with an almost rictus grin. “It’s going to be fine, Tony,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder as they settled into the porch swing. “A boy that age needs something to get out of his own head. Care about things other than himself. Y’know?”

Tony finally snapped out of it, just enough to wrap his arm around Liz. “Yeah. We’ll just see about that.” 

The first three days were filled with the type of kid/dog romping that used to be underscored in family movies with a lonesome harmonica and guitar accompaniment. On day number four, however, the boy left the back gate open, and the puppy (who, even as a puppy, had become rightly freaked out by the boy’s strenuous, hands-on type of love) made a break for it.

It took the boy awhile to notice his mistake. He was busy burning ants with a magnifying glass, and wondering how long it would take to burn the squirrel that had ruined his pine cone bird feeder. When he finally figured out what had happened, an ungodly piercing wail of misery went through the air. The old man was on deck first.  “What’s got into you, champ?”

“Daaaaaaddy, the (blub) puppy (blub) got (snort) awaaaaay!” Through blubbing and snorting and snot bubbles, he relayed an edited version of the past hour that he thought would let him off the hook. “Help me find him?”

A kind of hardness crept into the father’s face, possibly because he had heard nothing but the puppy and the puppy and the puppy all week, and he was the one feeding the dog and cleaning its “peeps and poops”, as the rest of the household insisted on calling them. If this is a test, the boy’s failing, he told himself. And here comes a teachable moment. “I dunno, champ, this dog is your responsibility, so maybe it should be your responsibility to bring him home.” Then, just to twist the knife, “Better get your umbrella. Looks like a storm’s coming.”

What was coming was a torrential downpour that flipped the child’s cheap plastic Ninja Turtle umbrella inside-out almost instantly. Because of the miserable visibility, he ended up walking well past his “safety zone”, calling for the dog with a name the animal would never recognize because the baby genius had never bothered to tell the dog what its name was. That was the least of his worries, though, because when he was barely 100 yards from his subdivision, the driver of a tractor-trailer, fresh as a chemically-preserved daisy on his 30th working hour without sleep, suddenly lost control of his rig.

And at this point, with the steel behemoth close to spilling its presumably-toxic-to-humans cargo all over the suburbs, its indifferent headlights staring down a child who didn’t think he’d have cause to regret not mulling over his life insurance options this early in the school year, and two years away from the divorce hearings that would take the boy upstate with his mother while the dad dedicated his basement to a massive train set that he was convinced would make everything right again, let’s take a brief intermission.  

You might have noticed that I never named that child, and there’s a good reason for that: the little punk was a unsentimental aggravation. In a “write what you know” sort of way, I used to be that kid…and I couldn’t stand me either. At the same time, if I actually did the kid in, I’d either be drawn and quartered by a sentimental public, or I’d run the risk of clicking with an audience who kind of gets off on stories about kids being run over by diesel-fueled death. Since their money spends just as well as anybody else’s, I’d have to find new and “exciting” ways to flatten children, and who wants that on his head? If that makes me a coward, then fine, I lost my nerve.

(Occasionally someone reminds me that there’s a third much more likely option, that people could continue to ignore all this noise. My response is always the same: “Who the hell gave you this address?”)

Anyway, this is the point where I started thinking about the truck driver. At the time there were reality shows, news reports, and darkly amusing YouTube videos about truckers and the grueling lives they lead. Why not the truck driver?

His name was “Sweet William” Dallas, entering his second decade of cross-country freight hauling. William’s nickname was from a Leon Redbone song, and he had a tattoo of the man himself from the cover of Double Time on his left bicep, both of which he regretted once he decided Lynyrd Skynyrd was a better fit for him. 

Bill, as he now begged friends and coworkers to call him (which was the primary reason why they didn’t), was trying to finish a big-money run a day ahead schedule because his silver-haired mother was fading fast. At least that’s the way she put it after spending a week dealing with his aggravating brother, who had broken an arm trying to fish the TV remote out from behind the big dresser. "Get Richie out of here,” she had texted him a few days ago. “He’s really screwing up the schedule for my krav maga lessons.”

That gave William at least two deadlines to beat, and to that end, a twitchy neighborhood kid sold him a cluster bomb of caffeine pills and other stimulants, which our driver had been popping like M&Ms since Fredericksburg. Bill was either so tweaked or so zonked that he thought Unnamed Kid was a deer (a deer in jeans and a Polo shirt) when his truck told him to screw off and turned itself into a telephone pole flattener. 

(At which point I tell myself “Now that’s a pathetic way to put a button on a story. What about the drug dealer? Yeah, the dealer, let’s roll with that for awhile.”)

Andy was as thin as nothing squared, wearing a Make America Great Again cap pulled down tight over his sweaty forehead and an army jacket from the dumpster behind Goodwill buttoned to his neck, even in summertime. As far back as he could remember—that’d be last Tuesday—he wanted to launch a career in recreational pharmaceuticals, and attempted to jump-start a weed concern. Unfortunately, not only did he have a “black thumb” for agriculture, but no sense of effective camouflage, as his arresting officer told him. So he ended up in the bottom-feeding world of ordering pills from the ads in the back of High Times and selling them with a markup to people who couldn’t find a better connection. His primary clientele was desperate people on a deadline (mostly reckless college students), but sometimes he got special cases, like a young twentysomething woman who was just coming off of a long-term relationship…

Hold on a minute. That’s Joan, isn’t it? You do remember Joan, don’t you? This used to be her story, you know.

Not only is Joan more tenacious than I thought, but she turned out to have a few more jagged angles than she appeared to on first blush. She claims that her plot refused to launch because it kept blowing sunshine up my ass. No argument there, but to remedy that, she decided to go dancing on a patch of ice, screw her back up, and get hooked on under-the-counter pain killers...a shocking number of them homeopathic, which is a hell of a trick if you can pull it off. Joan insists all that had nothing to do with me, but there’s this hopeful look in her eyes when she says it that, under the circumstances, scares the crap out of me. So negotiations with Joan have resumed, because as much as I don’t want fictional people to wreck themselves for attention, there’s a mercenary streak in me that wants to see if this goes anywhere marketable.

So watch this space. Maybe the next time you read this, it’ll be about Joan again. Who knows?

That kid’s not coming back, though.

--enw