#their words not mine by the way before anyone comes at me for slander. actually the original babs one was meaner | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aomineavenue · 3 years

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Summary: Six years ago, L/N Y/N wouldn’t exactly say that she loves her life. It had always been problematic but her best friend, Miya Atsumu, since she was eight when she moved to Hyōgo, has always been there for her, and she wouldn’t change it for the world. However, things would always fall apart for her ever since, so she should have expected of such. Running away from her problems seemed like the easiest route to take at the time, so what happens when the past comes barging back into her life demanding answers? Will she be able to confront her demons?

Pairings: Miya Atsumu x f!Reader

Genre: Angst, ANGST I LOVE ANGST, a lil bit of fluff here and there.

Warnings: Language, etc.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters except for the reader and my ideas. I do not claim any images used for content in this fic, everything goes out to their respective creators unless it is mentioned that it is mine.

Status: completed. | series masterlist

↩ at peace | dearest daddy

mia speaks!:

okay, wow. So it took awhile for us to get here and I apologize for that but we’re finally done with Homesick, wew. It’s been a challenge but I’m so happy and grateful for all the positivity you guys have been sharing with me. Also, thank you so much for your patience.

It’s been an emotional ride but we’re finally done. There may be a few short stories after this chapter but no promises. Hopefully I get the chance to though, I do want to be able to. But for now, if you guys have any requests for imagines/scenarios with this series, don’t be afraid to send them over!

Also, big thanks to @oii-sugasan and @sunshinesero for beta-reading this for me! I apologize if this chapter is any way lacking compared to the first nine chapters, it’s been awhile since I wrote anything so I hope this was a great way to end this series.

I love you guys so much, I’m so glad to be (sorta) back. I hope you guys enjoy this!

Time was a funny and fickle thing. Sometimes there was never enough of it, and other times it stretched out endlessly. It had been seven months since your life had once again made drastic changes. It often surprised you how time flew by so fast.

Seven months since your two precious boys had been introduced to the man that they now call their father. And well, seven months since you had been reunited with the love of your life. Sure, it had ups and downs, it wasn’t bound to be perfect since the two of you were your own person. It was inevitable for such different personalities to clash, it didn’t help when there were two children present, one of them being as handful as their own father.

Atsumu had shown that he was a doting father, despite only being a part of their lives for less than a year, he had put his new family as his top priority, wanting to make up for lost time. He would instantly drop anything and everything, sometimes even volleyball when he could for times when his family needed him. Not that his new family had been a burden since then, his sons and of course you, have been nothing but loving and supportive. Showing up to games to cheer him on and the twins attending his training to either join or just watch their father and new favorite uncles.

It had been a rollercoaster ride since it was officially announced that Atsumu was off the market and that he actually had sons. Some fans were supportive, believing the news and claiming that both the young twins were striking replicas of the volleyball player. And of course, there were fans that were against it, raging how you were nothing more than a money-grabbing harlot and that you had probably lied to Atsumu about the twins being his.

They were quickly shut down, of course, by not just fans but various people close to the volleyball setter who defended you without you even asking for it. You weren’t going to lie, that particular month filled with venomous words thrown your direction stressed you out but it was mostly because of your motherly instincts, wanting to keep your sons away from such unnecessary drama. You and Atsumu had decided to ignore the majority of the vile comments but seeing you so emotionally exhausted had only fueled the already tiny flame in Atsumu. He was quick to announce that he would no longer tolerate any form of slander towards his family and would handle things legally if anyone were to step out of line.

And by the next few weeks, the hate simmered and the stress that had engulfed you and Atsumu in its grip had vanished. All that was left that made you both worry was Atsuhiro’s health.

Fortunately, Atsuhiro’s sickness didn’t grow worse as time passed by since his first transfusion. If anything, the boy was healthier and it was very much evident in his features. The healthy glow returned to his skin, he was smiling more and had shown his usual energetic-self like before he had fallen ill. Atsumu on the other hand, much to Atsuhiro’s dismay, had started becoming such an overprotective father. It took a lot of begging from Atsuhiko for their father to spend the day outside of the protective bubble of your apartment.

It took time and patience from everyone’s side to get this far, and for Atsumu, (and of course, you) he didn’t mind it one bit. He had grown more mature, despite his twin brother’s disagreements, he not only took care of himself more but he had become a role model to his sons.

Not only that, but as his relationship with his sons grew stronger, the love the two of you had for each other only seemed to intensify as well. Sure, the two of you had ups and downs back then in your friendship but it was as if time and distance hadn’t kept the two of you apart. If anything, it was as if it made your bond stronger. Two best friends, reuniting and finally expressing their true desires, it was easy for the two of you to fall into a comfortable routine.

“Where are the boys of the hour? I’ve been wanting to see how good Hiko looks in my jersey!”

Bokuto interrupts your thoughts for a brief second before you return your focus to your duties of cutting up the vegetables in the kitchen. You can’t help but chuckle at the sour expression that graces Atsumu’s expression as he fills a tray of refreshments on one of the island counters. “Don’t remind me, Bo-kun.”

“You’re just jealous that your sons didn’t want to wear your jersey," he teases, a playful grin on his lips as he lifts himself off of the ground by his hands to sit on the counter.

The scowl on Atsumu's face only deepens at the reminder, "Get off the counter, Bo-kun. Don't be rude. Why don't you actually start to help and give out these refreshments to the guests?"

You watch in amusement as the two exchange their usual banter around the kitchen of your home in Hyogo. It was decided a week ago after Atsuhiro's second transfusion was a success, that the twins would celebrate their birthday back at Hyogo instead of having the guests cramp up in your small apartment in Kanagawa.

It was also then decided by your sons what theme they would be having for their birthday. It was traditional for the twins to have their birthdays themed depending on their current interest. Lately, since the two were very fixated on volleyball due to their new favorite uncles and of course, their father, it was decided that they would be having a volleyball themed birthday where the guests were required to wear their favorite player's jersey.

For a minute, your new friend Bokuto had been rather excited upon hearing the idea.

"So show up with our own jerseys? Great!"

And as for Atsumu, he was excited at the prospect of seeing his own sons wearing his jersey. That is, until his sons destroyed such dreams.

"Are the two of you really sure?" you hear Atsumu's voice echoing from the twins' bedroom throughout the walls of the apartment as you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you as you ventured further into the comforts of your home. “Like really? Those are your choices?”

You grew curious as you slipped out of your shoes and let your hair loose from its tight bun, wincing slightly from your tugging. There was a tinge of whininess dripping from Atsumu’s voice that you couldn’t help but wonder what the three of them were talking about. It wasn’t unusual for Atsumu to be around when you had to work on days where the boys came home from school or when they didn’t have school.

At most times, when Atsumu didn't have training, he would be the one taking care of the boys instead of your mother or Osamu. Majority of his free time away from volleyball was spent with his sons, wanting to make up for the time he had lost. And there wasn't a day where the young twins wouldn't ask about their father and if he was going to visit. It was as if they were scared one of them would disappear, wanting to spend the entirety of their lives together.

"Maybe we can go with superheroes this year!" Atsumu's voice grew louder as you reached the door to the room where they occupied. Leaning against the door's frame, your eyes land on the back of Atsumu's head as he's seated on the carpeted floor facing the twins who were playing with their action figures. A small grin curling upon your lips at the sight of Atsumu’s slightly dishevelled bleached hair.

Atsuhiro, who seems to have the ability to sense your presence, looks up from his toys and in an instant, his eyes widen happily. He was about to greet you but you quickly pressed your index finger against your lips to signal the little boy not to announce your presence just yet, wanting to see Atsuhiko and Atsumu's interaction. The smart little boy that he is, nods and returns to his toys.

"But daddy," Atsuhiko protests, his focus still on the action figures in his hands, "We did superheroes last year! I wanna wear Uncle Bo's jersey!"

You fight the urge to burst out into a fit of giggles as soon as you catch a glimpse of Atsumu slumping his shoulders dejectedly. Now you understand as to why he had his moppy voice on. "But don't you want to wear daddy's jersey for your birthday?"

"But daddy," Atsuhiko lets out a sigh, looking up at his father with a look that meant the little boy wasn't up for any arguments on the matter, "Uncle Bo is the best! So I wanna wear his jersey!"

You could have sworn you heard Atsumu whine, suddenly wishing you had decided to film this from the start. "But it will make daddy really happy if you wear his jersey!"

Atsuhiko shakes his head as he continues to play with his action figures, "But I want Uncle Bo and I to match!"

Atsumu sighs in defeat before turning his attention over to Atsuhiro, looking hopeful. "What about you, Hiro? Would you wear daddy's jersey?"

"No, daddy. I wanna wear Kageyama-san's jersey," he nods with a proud smile, "Wanna be just like him! He's so good!"

"But daddy's just as good a setter as Tobio-kun!" Atsumu cries out, throwing his hands up in the air, "betrayed by my own children. 'Samu isn't going to let me live this down."

This time, you let your presence be known by finally releasing a bubble of laughter. Atsuhiko instantly drops his action figures and rushes over with a happy squeal. Atsumu pivots his body, looking up at you with such a pitiful gaze as he juts his lower lips out ot a pout, "I want new children."

Needless to say, Atsumu had been pouty ever since and has been dreading today due to the reason that every single one of his friends had found out about it. He had tried a handful of times to change their minds, unfortunately, the young twins won't budge.

“It’s not my fault your kids like me better than you,” he huffs, folding his arms across his chest, “I am an ordinary ace after all!”

A scowl graces on Atsumu’s features which causes the other occupants in the room to chuckle in amusement. It wasn’t as if Atsumu didn’t like the idea of his sons becoming close to his teammates, but lately, it was getting harder for the setter to share. “Get your own children!”

“Ah, about that...” Bokuto trails off with a nervous chuckle which causes everyone to fall silent and look at him in curiosity, “I actually will be getting my own child soon, I think.”

“You think?” you ask with an arched brow, “You can’t just think you’re having a child, Bokuto-san.”

Atsumu interjects, “And aren’t you in love with that best friend of yours? What happened to never being with anyone else but her?”

He waves his hand in the air dismissively with a frown etched on his lips, “Well, I can’t exactly be with her when she just got married.”

“You are so getting your ear torn off by the management when this news gets out,” Atsumu snickers, which he earns a smack to his shoulder from you. “Ow!”

You narrow your gaze at your boyfriend, completely unamused with his behavior. “Don't be dramatic, I didn't hit you that hard!" Letting out a huff as you wipe your hands on the apron you were wearing, "You aren’t helping Bokuto, ‘Tsumu.”

His lips curl up to a cheeky grin at the sight of your expression. He leans forward to nuzzle his nose against your cheek, your cheeks growing warm from the public display of affection. His heart swells from your reaction to his gesture, murmuring teasingly, “Sorry, darling.”

“Please, don’t make me barf.” Osamu interrupts with his features scrunched up in distaste from the interaction between you and his brother.

Atsumu sticks his tongue out at his brother who returns the gesture with a shake of his head. His arm snakes around your waist to pull you closer to his side as he returns his attention over to his teammate, “Well, is the woman making you marry her?”

“Making you pay for child support?” Osamu quickly adds.

Atsumu quips with a chuckle, “Threatening to expose your sins?”

You interrupt the two with a glare towards them, “Stop ganging up on him!”

Bokuto lets out a laugh as he begins helping your mother set up the desserts onto one of the trays to bring outside to the guests, “Nothing like that, she’s pretty chill and we’ve gotten pretty close lately. So we’re going to co-parent.”

“That’s very mature of you, Bokuto-kun.” your mother compliments him with a smile before patting his back.

He feels his cheeks grow warm from the compliment, his heart swelling with pride. “Thank you.”

“Maybe you’ll end up falling for her anyway,” Osamu teases with a smirk playing on his lips, leaning against one of the kitchen counters.

He shakes his head at the idea as his brows knit together, “Jess and I won’t fall in love.”

“Jess?” Atsumu blinks at the familiar name before his eyes widens at the realization, releasing his grip from your waist, “Jess, that journalist that you showed around town when she first visited Japan?”

Bokuto nods with a smile gracing his features, “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”

“Maybe you’ll learn to love her in your own way through your child,” you suggest with a shrug of your shoulders as you began untying the apron you were wearing upon realizing what time it was.

Atsumu shakes his head and responds before Bokuto could utter a single word, “No, no. That’s impossible. Bo-kun’s heart belongs to his best friend.”

“Stop teasing him,” you scold your boyfriend with a shake of your head, handing over the apron you successfully took off, “make yourself useful and help out here in the kitchen,"

"Bu—"

Cutting him off with a stern glare as you lift a tray from one of the kitchen counters and handing it over to Bokuto, a small smile gracing your lips, "Don't mind him, Bo. Can you bring these to the backyard and help out if anyone else needs help? I think Reiji needs a hand setting up the bouncy castle,"

Retrieving the tray from your hands, his eyes lighting up from the excitement, "bouncy castle, you say?"

"That's for the kids, Bo-kun." Atsumu scoffs but soon lets his lips form into a pout when he had been ignored, turning his attention over to you once Bokuto slips out of the kitchen, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to check on the boys to see if they're ready for their big entrance," you muse with an amused grin. Of course, you knew what your sons had prepared for the big entrance that they insisted. Atsumu had pestered both you and the young twins since he had heard of their plan but as your sons refused to budge, you had feigned clueless, claiming that your sons had opted it to be a surprise.

Little did Atsumu know that you had helped your sons pull off such an idea.

"I don't get why they have to have a big entrance," he sighs, brows furrowing as he racks through his thoughts on what the surprise could be. It didn't help that he was both curious and excited at what his sons might pull off.

Osamu lets out a snort, rolling his eyes at his twin brother as a smirk curls upon his lips, "What do you mean? They're your kids."

"What does that even mean?" Atsumu scowls as he slips on the apron you had handed over, walking over to where your mother was situated to take over what you were doing.

You shake your head at the two bickering older twins and shoot a look of sympathy towards your mother that was going to be left with them in the kitchen before she waves you off. Your heart was swelling from happiness at how natural everything felt, despite the silly banter thrown around. It was home.

As you step into your childhood living room, you're hit with a nostalgic wave from the memories surrounding the whole area. Though it may be a mixture of good and bad memories, since you had come to terms that you were no longer running away from your past, you only feel comfort. You made your way through your childhood home over to the bedroom that had been renovated to the liking of your twin boys.

The mere thought of your boys growing to love the place where you had grown up yourself was enough to bring a smile to your face. You press your knuckles against the wooden door to signal your presence by knocking on it repeatedly, “Are you two ready?” you ask, your voice probably muffled on the other side. Your fingers wrap around the handle of the door and as you were about to twist and push it open, the door instantly snaps back shut with a loud thud. “Can’t-”

“No, mommy!” Atsuhiko screeched causing you to blink from both the surprised force and tone. Pressing your palms and ear against the door to hear what the commotion was all about, you frown upon hearing only their shuffling feet, “What are you two doing? Guests have arrived and your party will be starting soon,”

“We’re almost ready, mommy!” Atsuhiro assures you from the other side.

A chuckle escapes your lips at their antics as you decide to not interfere any further, “Alright you two, just be sure to be out in a few. You don’t want your daddy to come fetch you. It’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Okay mommy!” you heard Atsuhiko yell out, their excited muffled voices purely obvious from the other side that you couldn’t help but smile.

On the other hand, back in the kitchen, the father of your twins was having his own little dilemma back in the kitchen. It wasn’t as if he was uncomfortable being around your mother, but it was more like he felt he was still lacking.

Despite him knowing that your mother and you hadn’t had the greatest relationship when your father passed away, he still wanted to be someone your mother would approve of. He didn’t know whether your mother knew the whole story of the relationship between the two of you but being away from you and your sons during most of their childhood was enough to make him worry. The mere idea of his sons looking up to him sent his heart soaring, but of course, he also wanted your mother to feel secure enough for him to be together with you and the twins.

“I’ll bring out these sliced up fruits outside,” Osamu cuts the clear tension surrounding the kitchen. Atsumu resists the urge to glare at his twin for leaving him behind with your mother, knowing full well that his brother knows his current insecurities. A small smirk graces Osamu’s features but not the obvious one that would make your mother notice.

Atsumu watches his twin slip out of the kitchen with a tray full of food for the guests before flickering his gaze over to your mother situated at the other side of the room, making final touches to the cupcakes. “Is there anything else that I can do?”

Without looking up, a smile etches on your mother’s face. “No, it’s fine. We’re just about done with everything.”

“It looks good,” he states with a nod of his head, not really knowing what to say.

Placing the piping bag to the side, your mother lifts her head up to look towards the direction of Atsumu and wipes her hands on the apron she’s currently wearing, “You know you can always start calling me mom.”

The mere sentence made Atsumu want to leap in excitement, but at the same time he was nervous, a sudden fear of messing things up engulfing him. “I don’t want to overste-”

“Oh please,” your mother waves her hand in the air with a light chuckle, “I’ve known you since you were eight. We’re practically family. So you might as well call me mom.”

Atsumu couldn’t help but let the corners of his mouth tug up to a wide smile, “Alright, mom.”

“I’m really happy that the two of you decided to work things out,” your mother spoke with a smile as she delicately places the cupcakes on the cupcake stand.”

His feet shuffled across the room to help your mother stack the cupcakes onto the stand, “We had to for the kids anyway.”

Your mother hums in thought for a second before responding, “I think the kids were just the push the two of you needed. If anything, I’ve always thought the two of you would always end up together since the two of you always leaned on each other for anything.”

He nods his head slowly, leaning against the counter as he feels his heart swell with happiness. “I guess you’re right, mom. I did lean on her majority of the time when we were growing up. I guess I still am now. I just wish I could make her happy.”

“Don’t worry, you do. Before she left Hyogo, I know for a fact that she was miserable in this house after her dad had passed. You were the only one giving her a reason to move forward,” your mother spoke, sadness dripping from her voice.

A sigh escapes Atsumu’s lips as his features scrunch up to something that resembles pain. “I was also the reason why she left. I may be even the biggest reason why she left.”

Your mother extends an arm out and places a hand on Atsumu’s arm, trying her best to give assurance and comfort, “You weren’t the only reason behind that. I don’t know if she’s told you, but I had neglected her. I’m not proud of it and apologies are probably never enough for forgiveness. I was barely a mother when my husband had passed. I was almost an empty shell and instead of being a moth-”

“Mom,” Atsumu cuts her off and grabs hold of her hand in his own, “Don’t blame yourself. She loves you very much. It’s all in the past. We’ll be able to move forward, we already are.”

The two were interrupted with Osamu’s arrival, knocking by the kitchen’s door frame to announce his return. A smile etched on his lips at the scene before him, “Hey, Y/N wants everyone in the living room. Apparently the boys are ready to make their big entrance.”

Your mother excuses herself as soon as she removes the apron tied around her, excitement clearly evident in her features. Atsumu knew it well, despite the relationship that you had been slowly rebuilding with your mother, she was just as excited as him to have the twins into her life. She has equally doted on, if not more, on the twins ever since and well, Atsumu wouldn’t have it any other way.

Atsumu knew for a fact that you adored the time you’ve been sharing with your mother. As long as you were happy, nothing else mattered.

Osamu gives him a pat on the back, arching a brow in curiosity as they make their way out of the kitchen, “Everything alright?”

Atsumu gives him a nod, giving him the largest grin that he could muster. “Yeah, definitely.”

“You look disgusting,” Osamu jokes, pretending to shudder which causes Atsumu to give him a shove as they step into the living room where most of the guests have already gathered.

“Hey ‘tsumu!” Bokuto calls out from next to you as soon as Atsumu comes into view. “Hurry up! I’m excited to see Hiko in my jersey!”

Atsumu rolls his eyes as he approaches, grumbling to himself. As soon as he reaches your side, he places a quick kiss to your temple before snaking an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “Yeah, yeah. You have to stop rubbing it in. We get it.”

You couldn’t help but let a laugh escape your lips as you lean yourself into Atsumu’s warmth, “Oh come on now you two, focus on the big entrance will you?”

Bokuto just snickers from the side while Atsumu sends him a glare. If you were to describe the two of them, they were practically acting like petty children but you know those two will eventually switch attitudes as soon as your twins step out to make their entrance.

You flicker your gaze over to Osamu who was situated a few steps ahead from your little group, trying his best to act natural with his phone up. The two of you had discussed prior to the party that he would be the one to film the whole thing going on. Your little boys had practically begged their uncle to film their big entrance but mostly, what you hoped Osamu to capture was Atsumu’s reaction.

A part of you expects that he would be a grinning mess at the sight of his kids but also, you’re also hoping he’d be speechless from all the teasing his kids put him through of having to wear someone else’s jersey.

“What’s taking them so long?” Atsumu asks, tilting his head slightly hoping to meet your eyes as his fingers play with the hem of your shirt.

As you were about to answer him, the familiar voices of your two boys echo throughout the room from the top of the stairs. You didn’t even have to look to know about their surprise since you know very well of what they had planned. Well, obviously, you had helped them out with picking up the jerseys that they were going to wear.

However, you had wanted to capture Atsumu’s reaction to your boys with your own two eyes instead of just watching it from a video. And honestly speaking, you didn’t think you’d fall in love with this man any more than you already do but here you are.

Just the mere sight of his features scrunching up to a look of awe was enough for your heart to swell. It looked as if he was close to tears as watches the twins descend the stairs with the prodest smiles they could muster.

You pry yourself away from his side as soon as the twins approach Atsumu, knowing full well what was going to happen as they had practiced what they were going to say. Flickering your gaze over to Atsuhiko and Atsuhiro, seeing them in Atsumu’s high school volleyball jersey made your own eyes water despite the fact that you were the ones who had gotten them the uniform a week ago.

“Wh-What are you guys wearing?” Atsumu almost chokes out his words, “What happened to the jerseys that we bought that you said you were going to wear?”

Atsuhiko throws his arms out in the air, smiling widely. “We changed daddy!”

“We wanna wear your jersey daddy,” Atushiro nods his head enthusiastically, lifting his hand up to grip onto Atsumu’s shirt.

Atsuhiko wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist, “‘cause you’re our favorite volleyball player daddy!”

The scene itself was enough for everyone to watch in awe, a few of the guests that were invited had their own phones up to capture the moment with smiles on their faces, the others were almost practically in tears themselves, and well there was also Bokuto by the side with his pouty self at the realization that neither of his nephews were wearing his jersey like he thought they would. Atsumu on the other hand, had eventually dropped down to his knees and wrapped his arms around his two boys, burying his face in between them as he let out his own tears stream down his face from the overwhelming joy that coursed through him.

Yes, this is your family.

This is your home.

You stare out the window from the kitchen of your childhood home, a smile on your face at the beautiful afternoon of your backyard full with people you adore and have missed so much.

The party was still in full swing despite the sun about to set, the laughter from the guests and a few children present rang in the air. Happiness had engulfed your heart and honestly, you had trouble believing it yourself but here you were.

You wouldn’t trade this for anything.

An arm snakes around your waist from behind and you would have been startled if you hadn’t felt Atsumu’s presence a minute ago. Despite not having seen each other in years, everything about him was still familiar. Sure, there were a few things about him that you didn’t know but that didn’t mean that he still wasn’t your Atsumu that you’ve grown to love.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he nuzzles his nose into your hair, a smile playing on his lips.

You place your hands atop of his and lean yourself back into his warmth, your brows furrowing in confusion. “What are you thanking me for?”

“For everything,” he lets out a sigh, causing a shiver to run down your spine from the heat radiating from his breath close to your ear, “For giving me two amazing boys and for existing yourself.”

Pivoting your body around so that you were facing Atsumu, your hands settling on his chest as you look up at him with your lips curling up to an assuring smile, “Thank you.”

“And what for?” Atsumu questions, matching your own smile with his own as his hands cup your face. He lowers his head slowly, nudging your nose with his own as the pads of his thumbs brush delicately against your skin.

Heat spreads across your cheeks at his gestures, feeling shy yourself but despite that, the majority of what you felt was only comfort in being in his arms. “For loving me as much as I love you.”

He hums in response, placing a quick kiss to your lips. “No, I probably do love you more. More than you can imagine.”

Before you could respond, he places his lips back firmly on yours and your eyelids flutter shut as if on instinct. The hands of yours that were resting on his chest eventually found their way around his torso to pull him close. Tilting your head to the side, the kiss itself deepens as he runs his fingers through your hair.

It just felt so natural being with him.

Before the kiss could grow more heated however, a loud yell from outside had interrupted the both of you causing you to pull away much to both of your dismay. Your heads turn towards the direction of the commotion, the bouncy castle coming into view.

Or rather, the depleting bouncy castle with Bokuto and Hinata coming out hastily in laughter.

You shake your head at the scene, a bubble of laughter leaving your lips before turning your head back over to look at the man before you. Just when you had decided to pull back and return to your duties of being a mother, he wraps his arms back around your waist to pull you back against him. Another laugh escapes your lips as you playfully slap his chest, “What now? We have a party going on, we have to entertain our gue-”

“Move in with me,” he interrupts, his features showing nothing but seriousness.

You meet his sincere gaze with your own and your heart makes a leap out of joy. There was only one answer you could possibly give.

“Yes.”

#atsumu x reader #atsumu miya x reader #atsumu miya imagine #atsumu miya #homesick #atsumu miya smau

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years

Text

like i’m gonna lose you ~ machine gun kelly

part one

word count: 2276

request?: kind of?

description: after a painful reconnection, he decides to prove to her that he will do anything to get her back

pairing: machine gun kelly x female!reader

warnings: swearing

based (partially) on this song

masterlist

As he promised, the news of Colson and Megan’s “breakup” came a few days after our discussion. The news broke first on an few online tabloids, then Colson took to his social media to “confirm the rumors”.

“We’re just not right for one another,” he wrote in his post. “I still love Megan as a friend, and we’re going to stay in each other’s life. We both want our privacy during this time.”

Strangely enough, the conversation we had plus the actual confirmation that the fake relationship was over gave me a better sense of closure than our actual breakup had. I knew why Colson had ended things, and I knew that what he had with Megan wasn’t real and that it was over for good now. It was better than thinking he had suddenly stopped loving me after all those years.

Even with that closure, though, I stayed true to my word. Colson unblocked me and re-followed me on all his social media, and let me know he had unblocked my number from his phone by sending me a text. But I wouldn’t budge on trying to get back together with him. With the closure I had, I was starting to feel like I could move on from our breakup and be somewhat happy again.

It was hard to completely move on, though, when Colson was still trying to reach out to me constantly. He respected my boundaries and would stop whenever I asked him to, but it also didn’t take too long before he would message me again. Part of me wanted to block him back - it would’ve been beyond satisfying to reverse the roles on him and leave him blocked and heartbroken without explanation. But I was also enjoying getting to talk to him again, even if I knew it would lead to more heartbreak eventually.

The day I arrived home from work to find him sat on my doorstep, I felt something snap inside of me. The built up anger and sadness from the past year was finally bubbling over, and I had the exact person who had caused it all sat on my doorstep.

I got out of my car and slammed the door so hard I was shocked the windows didn’t shatter. “Colson, you can’t just fucking show up on my doorstep unannounced. This is borderline stalking now.”

“I want to talk like adults but you just keep brushing me off,” he retorted. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Respect my fucking boundaries maybe? Realize that if I’m telling you that I don’t want to talk to you or see you that I actually fucking mean it?”

He stood from the doorstep and shoved his hands in his pocket. “I know that you mean it.”

I glared at him as I tried to shove past him to get through my door. He moved to stand in my way again, which just made me feel even more angry.

“If you know that I mean it,” I hissed, “then leave me the fuck alone Colson. You’ve hurt me enough, I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“I know I hurt you,” he said. “And I know that there’s nothing I can do to fix that, but please, let me try at least.”

“You did try, and I turned you down, remember? Now fuck off.”

I managed to push him out of my way in order to get into the house. He stood on my doorstep watching me for some time, and I knew that meant he wasn’t going away. No matter how hard I wanted to let him go, I knew my heart wasn’t going to let me. I sighed heavily and turned to face him.

“This is your last chance,” I told him. “You can come in and we can talk like adults, but just know that whatever decision I make after this is my final decision. No more of this harassing me and showing up on my doorstep. If I tell you to leave and you show up again I will call the cops on you, and I have a feeling that’s the last thing your manager wants.”

Colson nodded and followed me into my house.

I watched as he looked around, taking in the familiar place that he once called a second home. Very little had changed since we broke up, except for the fact that I got rid of all the pictures I had of the two of us. I was sure he had noticed that.

“Your place was always so much cozier than mine,” he commented.

“It’s cause it’s smaller,” I told him. “Your place is good for all the people you have over, but when it’s just you and Casie it’s far too big.”

“It is,” he agreed. “I would prefer to live in a place like this.”

“You could’ve,” I found myself muttering. Unfortunately, I said it a little too loud and Colson caught the comment. His face changed then, a sad wave washing over him.

“I should’ve,” he said. “God, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“We’ve been over that.”

He followed me to the kitchen and sat down at my table. Despite it only being early evening, I decided this moment called for a glass of wine. I poured myself one, and decided to mix Colson a drink with the liquor I knew he liked most.

“Saying I didn’t mean to hurt you is the stupidest thing ever,” he said after taking a giant gulp from the glass. “Of course I was going to hurt you. I broke up with you out of nowhere and then just ghosted you for a year. I guess...I thought that would be easier. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t love you enough to fight for you over my career.”

“I’m glad you realize how shitty and stupid that idea you had was. I wish you would’ve told me from the start what the plan was. I wouldn’t have been as hurt if you had.”

“I know...I know.”

I took a sip of my wine and immediately wished it was something stronger, something that would get me fucked up within minutes of drinking it.

I was mentally kicking myself for letting him back in again. That time at the coffee shop hurt enough and that was an accidental encounter we had. But to actually bring him into my home when I was finally starting to move on? I must really like to be hurt, because it seemed as though I was constantly trying to hurt myself lately.

“What would you have said if I had told you?” he asked. “Truthfully.”

I took a moment to think the situation over, to try and decide how I would’ve reacted if he had told me from the beginning instead of just breaking my heart.

“I still would’ve been hurt,” I admitted. “Not by you but by your manager. He knew about us, and even though we never went public with the relationship, my friends and family know. It wouldn’t exactly have been as easy to explain the whole publicity stunt relationship thing to any of them. I’d probably try to come up with a better solution, and if that didn’t work then...I’d just have to accept it.”

“Would you have stayed with me?”

I was shocked by his question. “Of course I would’ve. Everything between you and Megan was fake, there were no real feelings. Sure, seeing the pictures and everything would’ve hurt, but at the end of the day it would be me you were holding and kissing and actually loving. I probably could’ve been friends with Megan instead of hating her guts.”

Colson looked down at his glass, which was now almost empty. “I thought you would’ve broken up with me if I told you the truth.”

“You don’t know me that well, obviously,” I said. “Colson, there were ways around this. You didn’t have to break my heart.”

I could see that his eyes were starting to become more wet with tears. He was trying to hide them, but once his eyes starting welling up, his nose and his cheeks became flush and I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to swallow his tears.

“I fucking hate him, man,” he finally said, his voice cracking slightly. “He’s supposed to help me with my career, not put my career first over my own life and my happiness. And I hate myself too for thinking the best way to deal with this was to break up with you completely.”

I sat back in my chair, unsure of what to do. I wanted to comfort him, of course, but I didn’t want him to think that crying was going to get him off the hook. I was glad he was feeling my pain, but fuck did I ever hate to see Colson cry.

“I hated you, too,” I admitted. “I slandered your name to anyone who would listen. Eventually my friends got sick of hearing the name Colson Baker come out of my mouth, but they all knew how hurt I was.”

“Do you still hate me?”

I shook my head. “No. I never truly hated you. I just wanted to hate you, because hating you was easier than still being in love with you and watching you fall in love with someone else.”

He started to reach for my hands, but pulled away just as quickly. He sat back in his own chair, putting as much space between the two of us as possible. “There could never be anyone else. You’re my one and only, (Y/N), you always have been.”

I let the silence wash over the two of us. I wanted to let his words hang over us, to try and digest them and decide how I felt in that moment.

“I had a dream while you were on tour,” I said after a moment. “Well, a nightmare really. We had fallen asleep watching TV on the couch, and when I woke up I couldn’t find you. You weren’t in the house, you weren’t answering your phone, none of your friends or Casie knew where you were. I began to panic. I went driving and drove the entirety of Cleveland looking for you, but I couldn’t find you. Around the end of the dream, I was screaming your name and I could hear you calling back to me, but the more I ran to find you the further away you got. I eventually woke up drenched in sweat and crying because I thought it was real.”

“That was the night you called me,” he said. “I remember I was having a bad night mentally and all I wanted was to have you on the tour bus with me, in my arms. Then you called, and I thought it was like...a sign or something. Something good.”

I couldn’t help but smile at this. “I never told you because I thought it was a stupid nightmare, and I didn’t wanna be one of those girlfriends that calls in need of constant reassurance about their relationship.”

“I would’ve reassured you no matter how many times you called me.”

I looked down at my own glass, nearly empty as well.

“Can we ever go back from this?” Colson asked. “Can we try to start over after what happened?”

“How do you start over after spending five years with someone?” I asked. “We were basically married, how do you just go back to square one after that?”

“Well...you try and gain that trust back, then you try and get things back to how they were before,” he explained. “I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I can’t be without you anymore (Y/N). It’s driving me crazy, you drive me crazy.”

I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I realized in that moment that Colson was now freely crying in front of me. God, we were both just messes. I wished none of this had ever happened.

“You really hurt me,” I said, my voice just barley a whisper.

“I know,” he said. “I know I did. I don’t expect you to ever forget that. I don’t deserve to be forgiven, I know that.”

“I’ll never forget it,” I confirmed. “But knowing the reasoning makes it easier to forgive.”

When he reached for my hand this time, I met him halfway.

“It won’t be easy,” I told him. “You know that, right? I’m not going to come running into your arms again after a few nights. You have to work for this, Colson.”

“I know,” he repeated. “I’ll do anything, (Y/N).”

Despite my better judgement, I sat forward and looked into his eyes. God, I loved those beautiful blue eyes more than anything in this world.

“You can start by kissing me.”

He nearly jumped over the table at this. He took my face in his hands and pressed my lips against his. I had missed this feeling so much; the pure passion that came with every kiss. I put a hand behind his neck to keep him close. I never wanted to let go ever again.

He pulled away first and rested his forehead against mine. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).”

“I don’t want to hear those words out of your mouth ever again,” I told him. “We’re forgetting this, remember?”

He smiled. “Okay, then how about these words: I love you.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. The magic words I had longed to hear for so long, they sounded so right coming from his lips. “I love you, too.”

#machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #colson baker #colson baker imagine #colson baker x reader #imagine #one shot #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom #like i'm gonna lose you #meghan trainor

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laraplisetski · 4 years

Text

Dating Kentarō Kyōtani

A/n: I'm finally back from my month long hiatus! Ngl I've been stalling these headcanons for a while now cause I didnt have the motivation to do them. But anyways I hope you enjoy and sorry in advance for any mistakes.

Edit: Someone called ‘Erwin's right arm’ just followed me. the disrespect. You know who you are, come out and fight me.

Words: 1000+

Tags: @imthatchishiyasimp, @kekozume

look at this boi lookin mildly not angry for once

Okay so you two met when you were younger and you like sorta grew up with him.

(That's like the only way I can imagine someone actually having a lot of significance in Kyotani’s heart.)

But anyways ever since you guys were little you were inseparable.

You would follow Kyotani around a lot and he would do the same cause you two were loners.

(just like Oikawa… I'm sorry for the unexpected Oikawa slander)

Kyotani is also the reason that you got introduced to volleyball.

The day he saw his first volleyball match you were ill and couldn't come with him to attend.

But after he came back from that game all he talked about was volleyball because who tf decided to take your best friend away from you.

But then when he took you to another volleyball game later on and you fell in love as well :D

Okay so after living with Kyotani all of these years you finally confessed to him because he wasn't gonna confess by the looks of him.

But anyways y’all started dating

Now he may not seem like it but this boy is very soft especially if he's known you for a long time.

He would definitely like to go to different ice cream parlors or different food stalls with you.

Like you guys are just taking a walk and suddenly you guys come across this new ramen place and you guys just have to go and get a taste.

Other than this, I feel like he would be into taking walks with you or stargazing!

Like you two would have a spot on a hill or sum.

Hinata would accidentally find you two over there one day but would sneak away

Oops

But anyways I feel like he would love to just lay down there with you under the starry sky. He would feel the warmth of your hand and know that you would always be by his side.

When he lays down with you over there he knows how lucky he is to have you supporting him.

He knows that you mean a lot to him but as far as Kyotani’s tsundere personality goes he's not gonna express it very well so you're gonna have to deal with that.

Now as I stated before Kyotani’s totally in love with you and even if he may not say it, everyone can literally see him having heart eyes for you.

If anyone tries to bring it up or tease him for being a complete simp, he will literally growl at them

(cough Oikawa cough)

The team after finding out that you two were dating always invites you to their practices.

It's not like you wouldn't go if they didn't invite you but it's a nice gesture.

When you're there, if Kyotani gets angry or annoyed at someone they just come hide behind you or use you as a distraction so they can get away from gremlin Kyotani.

But nonetheless they really respect you, especially the first years.

Oikawa also lowkey respects you but is annoyed by you simultaneously because wHy dOEsn’T kYoTAni lisTEn tO hiM

But anyways, I headcanon that Kyotani’s actually a very good cook and so he cooks lunch for you.

But after you noticed that Kunimi didn't really eat lunch, you might have bugged Kyotani to make a lil sum for him too.

And now Kyotani makes little potato parathas for the team.

(I said potato parathas cause a friend introduced them to me recently and I'm obsessed) (Also idk how long they take to make so idk if it's possible to have enough time to make them before school)

But anyways other than his s/o pestering him to make lunch for the team he adores you.

Hes especially fond of you hair (since he has none, oops-)

If your bald then that's another story but-

He doesn't care if your hair is rough, short, long.

He just loves running his fingers through them and if your hair is short and fuzzy like his he loves to give you little headpats.

He also loves when you bite your nails unconsciously and then he gives you a light smack on the back of your head because you two were working to fix your nail biting problem and then you look up at him with your apologetic eyes while you give him a peck on the cheek as a sorry. He falls in love all over again.

(Okay I've probably gotta stop now because I fear I continue I won't be able to stop)

Like Oikawa he gets jealous very easily.

He literally growled at Yahaba once when he tried flirting with you jokingly.

After that Yahaba was too afraid to talk to you.

But he's quite cute when he's jealous.

Tbh personally I find it really annoying sometimes in fanfics where the whole plot is based around the s/o being jealous and when they call being jealous ‘cute’ but I feel like in Kyotani’s case he would really be cute.

(Sorry for going on a minor rant there)

If he was jealous he would just stand at the side by you holding your hand and just having this very cute grumpy look and just having a light blush on his cheeks from puffing out his cheeks.

And then after that person would leave he would give you a light kiss on the cheek and grumpily mumble out a little, ‘mine’ and grab your hand and pull you towards an ice cream stall.

Cause what's a better way to cool off than eating ice cream.

Talking about ice cream, Kyotani once took you out for an unlimited ice cream run for your anniversary once.

And you were not disappointed… but your mother sure was.

Both of you came back home hyper from all the sugar and destroyed the backyard playing volleyball so you mom had to kick you guys out.

(don't ask me how much money a highschooler has okay)

Also one time you gifted Kyotani an eyeliner and showed him how to apply it and he's been using it ever since.

Once he tried to draw a pattern on his cat once with it and you had to rescue the poor cat.

The cat was scarred.

But honestly Kyotani as an s/o is chaos/10

#haikyuu kyotani #hq kyotani #kentaro kyotani #kyotani #kyotani x reader #kyotani prompts #kyotani headcanons #kyotani dating hcs #x reader #xreader #x gender neutral reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyū!!#haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu prompts #haikyu x reader #anyways #bye😃

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siriusmydeer · 4 years

Note

Oh and Hello to you today you fine and brilliantly skilled author who I have came to love and adore, you see I know I’d already recently requested something from you but I had a taste of your absolutely amazingly fine talent and just had to come back for more

Ya see, this person here (hem hem, me) would like to ask if she could request something dealing with Young Remus Lupin Remmy Boi being a sweet older brother during the summer to his adoptive sister who is almost his age and very gay and him letting her hang out with him and the Mauraders because her friends were douchbags and skippy skip to Remus letting her rant about it while they sit in his bed, her head in his lap while she’s curled up in a ball and he’s half-heartedly reading while talking to her about her douche-bag friends before he cuddles his sis to his chest and lets her sleep in his bed that night

Anywho, sorry for annoyin you again but I’ve had a shit day and wanted to relax with one of my fav authors and a cuppa tea

baby i was so excited to write this, my internal message to homophobes lies within this one shot. y/n’s vent gave me very “gia ranting her her friends about being bi and it should be nobodies business”

my little sister

brother!remus lupin x fem!reader, girlfriend!marlene mckinnon x fem!reader

warnings: homophobia, mentions of slurs, mentions of conversion camp, angst? but not rly, fluffy remus, WOLFSTAR💋, swearing, jokingly mentions of murder, big brother energy from remus, um mentions of penises and masterbating😭, lowkey ravenclaw slander (ONLY MALES I PROMISE) and y/n being a baddie

word count: 1.3k

you were.... happy. yes, not in a sarcastic way. you had finally found a girl that didn’t just want to be your friend, or hate crime you. you found a girl that you wanted to kiss, a girl you wanted to love and girl that reciprocated that love. but unfortunately for you, your love choices had consequences and everyone else thought it was there business, commenting on it.

“𝗼𝗶, 𝗹𝘂𝗽𝗶𝗻! 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝘆𝗲𝘁?”

“𝗰’𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗹𝘂𝗽𝗶𝗻, 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗳𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘆𝗲𝘁?”

“𝗶 𝗯𝗲𝘁 𝘆/𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗿𝗺 𝘀𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗿. 𝗶 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹.”

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵 𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝗲, 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁? 𝗶 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝗶’𝗺 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.”

so to society, you weren’t normal. the worst part was you weren’t always the one hearing it, the girls in your dorm heard it, your brother heard about it and his best friends also happen to hear about it. that also never happened to stop them from shooting a hex or 20 in someone’s direction but, nonetheless, you “weren’t normal.”

you were sitting in the library studying next to your gorgeous girlfriend, marlene mckinnon. oh did something as innocent as studying get flipped into so much more, both of you working on mcgonagalls transfiguration homework. all fine and well until the 7th year ravenclaws decided to crawl up your butt and die.

“i see you two haven’t been sent away yet.”

“aw well if it isn’t the two girls who think they’re in love.”

“the two fa-“

one of the boys didn’t even get to finish his sentence before your wand was pinned against his neck, and suddenly he was speechless.

“‘m gonna say this as delicately as possible to spare your shit feelings but, before you finish your very derogatory sentence i would love for you to reconsider your words.” you started, “i personally think it’s hilarious that you gits are so bothered by whomst m’intimate with.”

“for being known as the smart house, you 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 are so bloody stupid. i could rip out my own brain and give it to you and it still wouldn’t be enough for you to learn how to mind your damn business.” you said firmly, “your 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗸 has sunken into the air, so me and my girlfriend are going to get going.”

you took your wand away from his neck before the 3 boys scrambled to the other side of the library, in fear. you gathered both you, and marlene’s things before slinging your bags over your shoulder and walking out of the library. before you could turn the corner, her other arm gripped your arm putting you both to a halt.

you turned towards her beet red face, and eyes shining in adoration. “dude, i think that was the hottest thing you have ever done.” she said before pulling you into a lip lock outside of the library. would you have been very nervous in any other situation?absolutely. i mean you were kissing a female, in public, at school, in 1975. but in this moment you couldn’t care less about anything or anyone, just the beautiful girl that you were besotted with kissing you right now.

“good.” you giggled as you pulled away before pulling her arm in the direction of one of the hidden corridors.

the next time you found yourself diminished over your sexuality, you went to people who you genuinely felt safe and comfortable with. you burst through the marauders dorm, forgetting to knock but quickly covering your eyes.

“i really hope none of you are masterbating right now, because i’m sure as not in the mood to see a penis.”

“c’mon mini-moony, you’re literally never in the mood to see a penis.” sirius replied, you uncovered your eyes and saw sirius walk over to remus’ bed and put his head on remus’ shoulder, and a light blush covered both of there faces. james on the other hand was on the floor writing lily, one of the only other people who supported you, another love letter.

“ok so let me start, sirius and remus please splash some cold water on your face. james, get off your arse and actually be a normal person and try and have a normal conversation with lily because i assure you she doesn’t even read those letters. and the grand finale, if i get called 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 one more damn time necks will be broken and body parts and fluids will scatter on the floor.” you huffed, and sat at end of remus’ bed nonchalantly.

at the part of your mini-monologue where you mentioned being called a slur, james and sirius happened to jump from where they were, surrounding you with questions. “who called you that?!” “i need names, now, mini-moony.” meanwhile remus aggressively grabbed his wand and made a bee-line to the door. “OI! BROTHER OF MINE.” remus stopped at the sound of your voice and turned around, his grip on the wand leaving his knuckles a shade of white. “sit. now.” he scoffed before sitting on the bed staring straight at you.

you debated for a moment, before looking at remus. “lucius malfoy and his toerag puppy dog, evan rosier.” you shrugged before all of them made a run at the door, messily grabbing their wands stomping down the stairs leading to the common room.

as fifth year came to an end, summer eventually came to a start. as you were unpacking your trunk and putting your clothes in there rightful spots in your dresser before you heard a knock at the door. “come in!”

remus opened the door, leaning against the frame. “hey, you okay?” he knew it was a stupid question to ask, but ever since you came into his family he felt a sense of protectiveness over you. he would always look at you like a little girl who needed her laces double knotted because she would trip on them, and how she needed to climb on furniture to grab something and especially when his little sister wasn’t his little sister anymore and became and illegal animagus for him.

“having your picture with nice little names on them, i’m brilliant.” you said sarcastically before sitting on your bed and remus following your lead. he leaned his back against the headboard as you threw your head on his lap, curling yourself to make yourself as tiny as possible. “i mean why the hell does anyone care anyways? it’s not like i’m intervening in there lives, i’m not killing anyone? it works the exact same except it’s a girl and not a boy. i just don’t understand why everyone thinks they should have an opinion on something that isn’t there business to start with.” you vented as he rubbed your back, while reading. “i mean, i understand.” you looked at him with a raised brow, “sirius?” he sheepishly looked up from his book and nodded before looking down at his book again and blushing.

“please, i could spot that from a mile away. i mean you aren’t exactly subtle, at the mere touch you both look like you got out of a sauna.” you said, matter of fact like and pointing your finger in the air sassily, “at least lily and james don’t care.” he mumbled trying to make you and him feel better. “everyone shouldn’t care, but then again everyone else in this universe is also a pest.” you sighed, as he continued reading but not before speaking.

“people are stupid.”

“you’re right, people are stupid.”

“but you know what makes us feel better?”

“what?”

“chocolate.”

“wow remus, it’s almost like i had no idea.”

“well i’m always right, so suck it up and take it.” he said shoving a chocolate bar in your face.

“i mean you could always have a sleepover with me where we eat chocolate and laugh at bad movies?” he said before looking down at you.

“remus, first yes, second how the hell does sirius put up with your ‘know-it-all-ness’?” you looked at him smirking, clearly he didn’t like that and he closed his book smacking it against your head.

“𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝘂𝘀!”

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klavebies · 3 years

Text

After being ill for several days with no end in sight, a sleep deprived (and very pregnant) Klaus Hargreeves went to the doctor.

Nothing out of the ordinary, his doctor assured him. Just your typical nausea due to pregnancy, a perfectly common occurrence. And sleep deprivation from difficulty finding comfort—also normal, when you have a watermelon strapped to your midsection!

Good.

He was glad to hear he wasn’t actually sick, at least that meant the little bean growing in his tummy would be just fine. His doctor prescribed him anti nausea medication, told him to catch up on some well deserved sleep and sent him on his way.

He knew he looked like shit. Of course he did. He felt like it, too. But the last thing he expected nor needed was to have paparazzi snap photos of him when he was already feeling his worst.

They didn’t know the truth. Hell, they certainly didn’t care, either. Especially when they posted those photos of him holding his prescription with the most blasphemous caption.

“Ex-Hero turned Zero Klaus Hargreeves: Strung out and pregnant!”

He was appalled. And while he knew he shouldn’t be, he couldn’t help the fact that he was ashamed. Yes, he’d been there before.

But not now.

He’d been sober for months prior to their little one even coming into existence, and the idea of anyone placing such blame on him; shaming him for harming his unborn baby when he would never do such a thing?

Well, it hurt.

And Dave? Well, it went without saying that Dave was pissed.

But he had an idea. While he knew Klaus wanted nothing to do with the spotlight; and he certainly couldn’t blame him, especially when shit like this would happen, but he wondered if they made a public statement—clear the air and his good name with their own words and on their own terms if it would be worth it?

Hell, if it would maybe even help?

After a lengthy discussion with Klaus they decided it would be worth a try

So, they contacted the magazine. Firstly to demand they remove those slanderous hateful lies from the shelves before they offered a proposition: the first interview with one of the famed (and easily most removed) members of the once world renowned “The Umbrella Academy” in over a decade.

The magazine agreed to their terms. They removed all copies of the absurd zine they’d published of him and set up an interview and photo op.

Klaus was nervous—understandably so. It had been so long since he’d done anything like this. To talk to them was one thing. He knew how to speak and could use his words to clear things up, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the photo shoot was entirely necessary?

He was 34 weeks pregnant with their first child. Couldn’t they see that he felt like a bloated whale?

He felt like shit and certainly wasn’t feeling up to having his photo taken, let alone being on the cover of Iconic magazine. Especially when nothing about him felt Iconic at all.

But Dave assured him that he was beautiful. Even going as far as to promise him that he’d always been, and he always would be.

He laid his palm over the swell of his belly, reminding him that he was crating a life.

“What you’re doing, right here,” he said with conviction, his strong hands so gentle against the delicate bundle squirming around inside of his tummy. “There is nothing in this world that is more beautiful than this.”

So, with Dave’s steady reassurance and love, Klaus did the interview. Then with his husband’s unwavering support, he finished off their busy day with the photo shoot.

He may have been exhausted, a little nauseous, and he definitely felt uncomfortable in his own skin, but Dave’s proud grin made the experience worth it to him in the end.

And when the magazine got published—they were proud to learn that their efforts had worked.

Klaus’s name had been cleared.

And wouldn’t you know it, Dave was right—even with their little peanut growing inside of him, Klaus really was beautiful.

***

If this is not something you enjoy—you are absolutely valid, and I respect your choice! All that I ask is that if you don’t like this, please respect mine and move along and keep any unsavory or unkind/judgmental opinions to yourself.

I’m not doing this for any “kink” stuff, I just think that there is something so soft and sweet about pregnant Klave! I’ve never been into mpreg until this pair. Don’t ask me how they work, they just do!

If you liked this I would love if you’d like and reblog! But if you do:

***PLEASE ONLY TAG THE CHARACTERS AND NOT THE ACTORS***

Please and thank you!! :)

#klaus hargreeves #mpreg #Klaus Hargreeves mpreg #dave katz #klave #Klave mpreg #Klave mpreg ficlet #pregnant Klaus fanart #pregnant Klaus Hargreeves fanart #Klave mpreg fanart #mpreg Klaus fanart #mpreg Klaus Hargreeves fanart #Klavebies

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justforbooks · 4 years

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The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

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somerandomdutchfangirl · 3 years

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Hetalia Family Week - Day 1: Hobbies

This is my entry for @hetafamilyweek day 1 - hobbies (and hugs)

Summary: They didn't have time for family hangouts often, with them being nations and all that, but whenever they did, it was safe to say it was the most fun any of them would have that week.

Sometimes, they would just go for a coffee or lunch or have a picnic. Other times, they would binge-watch a series while cuddling on the couch. And then, there were times like this.

This has also been posted to my a03!

Disclaimer: the opinions of the characters aren’t necessarily the authors opinion. Also, some of the sentences have been translated with Google Translate. If there is any mistake, please let me know and I'll fix as soon as possible! The translations are at the end.

Names used:

Willem = Netherlands

Femke = Belgium

Laurent = Luxembourg

Antonio = Spain

Matthew = Canada

Abel = Holland, @starflight-blog oc

Sjoerd = Friesland, @starflight-blog oc

Lieke = Groningen, @starflight-blog oc

Relevant headcanons time!

- Femke owns a cat named Mika

- Matthew and Willem are married (see end notes for more info)

- Matthew uses he/they pronouns

:readmore:

They didn't have time for family hangouts often, with them being nations and all that, but whenever they did, it was safe to say it was the most fun any of them would have that week.

Sometimes, they would just go for a coffee or lunch or have a picnic. Other times, they would binge-watch a series while cuddling on the couch. And then, there were times like this.

"Can't you two sit still for like five minutes? If you want this painting to actually look good, you're gonna have to let me actually have time to paint you!"

"What if we want it to look like Picasso?"

"Laurent, hoepel een eind op, Picasso sucks and so do his paintings."

"Don't let Antonio hear you say that."

"Antonio can go fuck himself."

"Guys, let's keep this fun, alright? I want to enjoy this day," Femke chimed in. Willem huffed but didn't complain further. Laurent grinned and continued composing a piece for the harp standing next to him.

(When Laurent had led them towards his "inspiration room" as he liked to call it, which was just a room filled with instruments, art supplies and more, both siblings had been filled with dread at the thought of Laurent playing the tuba, or god forbid, the trombone. Willem had said: "Laurent, I swear to god, if you're going to play the tuba or the trombone, I'm going to throw both you and the instrument out of the nearest window." To which Laurent had been a smartass and replied, "Can you even lift all that weight though?" That had ended up in a chase through the house that ended when Femke tackle-hugged both.)

The comfortable silence continued for a while, broken only by the occasional sigh from one of the siblings or Laurent trying the piece on the harp.

"Hey, Fem," Laurent walked up to her while he was taking a quick break, "What're you making?"

"Well, I'm trying to embroider our pets, but this stitch just won't work, godverdomme-"

"Maybe you should take a break and come back to it later? It's getting late anyway, we should eat dinner soon," Laurent suggested. Femke nodded. When no conformation came from Willem, they turned to him.

"Hey, earth to Willem! Did you hear what we just said?" Laurent asked, walking up to him and quickly stopping next to him. "Nondikass!" He exclaimed. "Willem, that looks amazing! How'd you do that in such a short time?!"

Femke, now curious, walked up to her brothers and peeked over their shoulders. "What the fuck, Willem," she gaped at the painting in front of her. It was clearly her and Laurent doing their respective hobbies, with beautiful lighting and background. The vibrant colours of the front of the painting was a stark contrast to the background, which had much softer tones. "You told us you were rusty! What part of this is rusty?!"

Willem, who was now looking more like a tomato, opened his mouth, no doubt to point out all the things that were wrong with it, but Laurent cut him off. "Nope, Mr. Perfectionist, you're not pointing out all the imperfections of this, and that's final. This is a masterpiece, seriously. Don't give me that look!"

"You know," Femke mused, "I might actually hang this in my house once it's dry."

"Guys," Willem said, flustered, "It's not that good. Really. Thanks for the compliments, but-"

"No buts!" Femke exclaimed at the same time Laurent yelled: "Not that good?!"

"Yeah, it's... the colour's off, the perspective is weird, and-"

"I am this close to actually strangling you with your scarf, Willem," Femke cut him off, her hands on her hips. "So what if it isn't perfect? That doesn't make it look any less amazing! I'll tell you what, we're gonna take a break, then we're going to come back here, and you'll see how amazing this actually looks."

Willem looked at her for a few seconds before sighing. "Fine..."

"Now don't go around brooding like that, it's no fun," Laurent said while shooting Femke a quick thumbs-up. Femke grinned.

"Now, come on! I'll make waffles!"

---

"Hey, Matthew replied!" Laurent exclaimed, effectively cutting off Willems' story on the antics of Abel and Sjoerd.

(Apparently, they had gotten into a fight over who had the most creative curse words. This had ended in Abel singing along to the curse word song in Dutch, until Lieke walked in. Sjoerd had promptly slapped a hand over Abel's mouth to stop him from ‘tainting Lieke's innocence’. It was weird.)

"What do you mean?" Willem asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, dearest brother of mine," Laurent replied with a shit-eating grin, which did absolutely nothing to ease Willem's worries. "Because you didn't seem too convinced by us literally shouting how amazing your painting was, we decided to send a picture to Matthew-"

"You what?!"

"-to see what he thinks of it," Laurent continued, unfazed. "Since, you know, you seem to care a lot about what they think, about as much as you care about what we think? I mean I would hope so, considering we're your siblings, but-"

"You're getting off track, Laurent," Femke cut him off. "Anyway, we figured that if anyone other than us would manage to convince you that your painting is amazing, it's gonna be Matthew."

"I-"

"Don't even try to deny it. We went to your wedding, remember? We know how much you care about him. Which is a good thing, by the way. So, Laurent, what did they say?"

"Well, there's an all-caps keysmash, followed by an all-caps 'what?!'. Scratch that, basically everything is in caps. So, the general train of thought is 'what the fuck, this is beautiful, how the fuck did he do this, he calls this rusty?!' And finally, 'I love it 10/10 would hang in my living room and/or show off to my family and friends. It's beautiful and I'll physically fight him on that.'"

"Awww, that's so sweet! See, Willy, your painting truly is amazing!" Femke, sporting a somehow genuine but shit-eating grin, patted her brother on the back. Said brother had his head in his hands and may or may not be crying.

"I hate you two," came the muffled reply with no real heat behind it. Femke and Laurens laughed.

"We love you too, you softie! Now come on, who's ready to spend more time together!" Femke cheered, already halfway across the room.

---

"Jezus Christus, Femke, that looks amazing!" Willem said, looking at the embroidery his sister had made. It pictured their pets, Pelutze, Mika, and Nijntje.

"Aww, thanks Willem!"

"Wait, let me see- wow, sis, this is really good! I love it!"

"Thank you, Lau! By the way, is your composition nearly finished? I want to hear it!"

"Me too, actually."

"Well, it's not done yet, but I can play what I have so far?"

"Yes please!" Femke smiled.

Laurent sat down and started playing the piece of music he had written on the harp. Moving his fingers delicately along the strings, the beautiful melody carried along the room. Once he was done, he looked up.

"So... what did you think- Femke are you okay?!"

"Yeah, sorry, it's just... it's so beautiful!" Femke cried, flinging herself at Laurent and crushing him in a hug.

"I agree with Femke, it was wonderful," Willem chimed in, walking over to his siblings. Femke quickly included him in the hug.

"You two are so talented, what the hell!"

"Fem, you're crushing me," Laurent gasped. "And don't you dare exclude yourself, have you seen what you just made?!"

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts, remember," Willem said, parroting her words back to her with a smirk.

"Why are you like this?"

Willem laughed at this. "You still love me despite it, though!"

"That's not an answer!"

"Is it not?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Guys, please stop. This is a stupid argument," Laurent rolled his eyes.

"Rolling your eyes at us? How rude, Lau," Willem said, locking him in a headlock and ruffling his hair.

"Hey, let me go!"

"Hmmm, let's see... Nope."

"Oh, come on! Fem, help me out here!"

Femke just laughed in response.

"Betrayal!" Laurent screeched, struggling to get out of his brother's headlock. Femke just laughed harder in response, almost falling over.

"You know, you could always just say the magic word to get out."

"The magic- What am I, five?"

"You certainly act like it sometimes."

"Fëck dech."

"Real mature, Laurent."

"Oh, like asking for the magic word is so mature."

"Absolutely. I haven't heard it yet, by the way. Femke, are you doing alright?" Willem asked, as his sister was now lying on the floor, tears streaming down her face. Gasping for air, she shook no.

"Seems like you'd better let me go before we make Femke choke," Laurent commented. Willem tsk-ed.

"Fine, fine. Fem, get up," he said, letting Laurent out of the headlock and extending a hand towards Femke.

"Give- give me a... minute," she said, still gasping for air. After she managed to get enough air in her lungs and not burst out laughing after she saw her brothers standing in front of her with worried (albeit semi-irritated) looks, she finally took Willem's offered hand.

"You two are utter morons."

Willem gasped. "Are you hearing this, Laurent? Slander, complete and utter slander!"

"Well, she's right about one of us, and it isn't me."

"Laurent, ik tyf je de Noordzee in als je niet ophoudt-"

"Try me, old man-"

"Who're you calling old you little-"

''Oh for- hou uw bakkes! If this becomes another argument, I will smother both of you!''

''You wouldn't dare,'' Willem said. After a beat of silence and a fierce glare from Femke, he added: ''Would you?''

''I don't know, why don't you find out?''

''Fem, you're scaring me a bit here,'' Laurent said nervously. Femke hummed. Laurent looked at Willem, wide-eyed. Willem just looked back and shrugged.

''Could you even reach me though?'' Willem, who apparently had a death wish, asked.

Femke whipped around, glaring at her brother. Willem just glared back.

''Guys, no, no one's getting killed today,'' Laurent interjected. ''This is supposed to be a fun family meeting, remember? If there's any way anyone's going down,'' he added on, a devilish grin on his face as he slowly inched closer to his still glaring siblings, ''It's going to be this way!'' he yelled as he quickly poked Willem in his side, who immediately yelped and tried to get away. To no avail, because Femke quickly latched onto his arm and started poking him in his side too.

''No, Fem, wait- What did I do to deserve this?!''

''Well, uh... you took the last waffle?''

''Are you asking me, or-'' Willem started to ask, then yelped again as his siblings started to tickle him.

''No! Please, mercy!''

''Hmmm, Lau, what do you think? Should we stop?'' Femke asked, looking at her younger brother.

''I don’t know, Fem,'' Laurent answered back, devilish grin still on his face. ''He hasn’t said the magic word yet.''

''Godverdomme, natuurlijk is dat het antwoord. Kut! Laurens, stop!''

''Hmm, let me think. Nee.''

Femke snickered. ''He looks like a worm, wiggling like that.''

''How the fuck-''

''Oh my god you're so right,'' Laurent said. ''Willem the worm,'' he started to say, but burst out laughing halfway through. Femke laid on top of Willem, wheezing. Willem, meanwhile, looked absolutely mortified.

''You two are so immature,'' he said.

''Says the guy currently laying on the floor because he's ticklish.''

''I will strangle you,'' Willem threatened.

''Try me, bit- Hey!'' Laurent started to say, before Willem had reached forward and pulled him besides him.

''You know, this is actually surprisingly comfortable,'' Femke commented after a beat of silence.

''No, you're heavy. Get off me- Lau don't you dare lay on top of Femke or I swear- oof!''

''Hmm? What was that?''

''I'll kill you.''

''Aw, we love you too!''

''... Ugh, fine, if I say it, will you get off?''

''Maybe!''

''You two are gremlins, oh my god. Fine, I love you too.''

''He said it! Lau, he said it!''

''Yeah yeah, we all heard it. Now get off me.''

''I mean... technically I never promised I'd get off-''

''Off. Now. Or I'll never bring you stroopwafels again.''

This earned him a scandalized gasp from both of his siblings.

''You’re so mean! How dare you deprive us of stroopwafels?!''

''You can't do that!''

''You two are impossible. I said off,'' Willem complained, trying to sit up. Which was hard, considering Femke was literally laying on top of him.

''Say the magic word first.''

''Are you serious right now? Femke, we are not five.''

''So?''

''... Fine. Femke, can you please get the fuck off me?''

''Fine, close enough,'' she said as she got off Willem, who immediately took a deep breath.

''Finally, oh sweet air how much I've missed you.''

''You’re so weird. Anyway,'' Femke said, turning towards Laurent. ''You recorded the whole thing, right?''

Laurent laughed and rolled his eyes. ''Like you had to ask.''

Willem gaped at them, before jumping up. ''Godver- Laurent give that camera here, right now!''

''No, I don’t want to. I must say this is great blackmail material.''

''Laurent, als je nu niet die camera hier geeft, dan-''

''Du muss mech als éischt fänken!''

Needless to say, Willem ended up chasing Laurent through the house, Femke following closely behind. In the end, all three of them ended up in a dogpile on the couch, laughing. Yeah, family meetings were fun indeed.

-------------------------

Translations:

Hoepel een eind op (Dutch) = a nice(ish) way of saying ‘fuck off’ or ‘go away’

Godverdomme (Dutch, Flemish) = goddammit

Nondikass (Luxembourgish) = used as an exclaimation, meaning something like ‘damn’.

Jezus Christus (Dutch) = Jesus Christ

Fëck dech (Luxembourgish) = Screw you

Ik tyf je de Noordzee in als je niet ophoudt (Dutch) = I will throw you into the North Sea if you don't stop. (The word ‘tyf’ is pretty rude though, albeit used by a lot of teens in my experience, so I would not recommend going around actually saying this.)

Hou uw bakkes (Flemish) = shut up

Godverdomme, natuurlijk is dat het antwoord. Kut! (Dutch) = ‘Goddammit, of course that's the answer. Fuck!’ (even though the word 'kut’ doesn’t mean ‘fuck’, it's used as a replacement pretty often. The more accurate translation would be ‘vagina’, as that is literally what it means, but it's used as a curse word more often than not.)

Nee (Dutch, Flemish, Luxembourgish) = No

Laurent, als je nu niet die camera hier geeft, dan- = Laurent, if you don't give me the camera right now, then-

Du muss mech als éischt fänken! (Luxembourgish) = youre gonna have to catch me first!

Stroopwafels are a Dutch delicacy, I love them so much. Basically, they’re waffles with syrup in between. Google them for examples and probably a better explanation.

I am physically incapable of not adding in a sprinkle of NedCan. I'm sorry (but actually not really,, as stated, Willem and Matthew are married so technically Matthew is family- *gets smacked*)

The ending is more crack and longer than I intended because I have no self-control. Sue me.

Moral of the story: don't anger short ppl. They’re angrier cuz they’re closer to hell-

Yes Willem is ticklish, I said what I said.

Bonus scene: ''Wait, so if Willem is a worm, would Matthew be like... a moose?''

''I am begging you two to stop. Laurent, stop laughing!''

#hetafamilyweek2021 #aph benelux #aph netherlands #aph belgium #aph luxembourg #hetalia #hws netherlands #hws belgium #hws luxembourg #aph friesland #aph holland #aph groningen #fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #sibling banter #somerandomdutchfangirl #somerandomdutchartist

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b1ksh88p · 3 years

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Be Mine Chapter 3

Plot: A storm is brewing in Valentine, and you’re in the middle of it. It’s been a few days since you’ve seen Harry and there’s already been a horrendous murder. With tensions high and everyone finger pointing your ex, Edmund, makes everything worse by spreading gossip. With the sting of rejection still weighing heavy on your heart you attempt to clear everything up only to make things worse.

Describing your mood as sour would be a understatement. You were numb. A grey cloud loomed over your usual cheery exterior as you went through day to day activities. Whenever someone asked if you were alright you’d chalk it up to trivial excuses. When in actuality you were torn that you’d been stupid enough to try and have a picnic with a killer. If you were sane maybe you’d tell the Sheriff and get some of his boys in uniform to smoke Harry out somehow but you had no taste for revenge. All you wanted was to move on.

But it seemed your ex had other plans. You worked in the diner, usually taking up the night shifts to rid yourself of boredom. As you were cleaning a table you overheard a couple chatting away about you of all topics. Why your name was in their mouths you didn’t know but from what you got out of it made you want to raise hellfire.

“I heard she goes down there every night to see that killer.”

“Edmund said that the sherif saw her go in with food and came out empty handed.”

“No way, maybe she’s a killer.”

There’s no way you could allow these two peons spread such outlandish babble. You’ve never killed anyone nor would you ever. The thought of murdering another made you sick to your stomach. “Edmund is a long-nosed good for nothing asshole who spends his time making up calumniations and dumping his girlfriend on Valentine’s Day for a dumb blonde with a baby voice. You two and the rest of your bubble headed friends would be fools to believe anything that comes out his mouth.” You finish with a astute turn into the back for a extensive smoke break.

If you saw Edmund or that sleazy sheriff you’d be sure to give them a piece of your mind. And speak of the devil, there he was. Your blood was replaced with boiling water as you stomped your way towards him. He was with the sherif and some other random cop you didn’t know. Both of them saw you coming and started to drift apart before you whistle and jogged towards the two snakes.

“Where we going boys? Running away from the new killer of the town?”

“Now listen Y/N I didn’t mean to start anything.” The sheriff assured.

You weren’t impressed. “You’re just the last one seen in the mines so...it makes sense.” Edmund shrugged.

“And you were the last one fucking the blonde bimbo you cheated on me with and she has crabs....so it makes sense right?” You snap back garnering a chortle from the other cop.

“It’s not my fault you’re a boring bitch who can’t get anyone to date you except for some psycho?!” He growled.

“I’m not dating anyone and I’m not a killer. Instead of gossiping like little girls how about you three go investigate and find the real killer.” You throw down the cigarette and stomp it out beneath your heel.

“We apologize if we’ve caused you any trouble Miss, we’re doing the best we can.” The Sheriff whispered.

“Keep my name out your ass licking mouths and out the fucking paper.” You demand before walking back inside the diner.

After your shift you began to walk home. The ominous glow of streetlights did little to scare you. On your way to you lovely home you stopped by the liquor store. A bit tipsy you ventured the winding fucked up roads. The quiet sounds of the night were ruined by the sounds of sirens. It had been what? 72 hours and some change since the last murder what the hell could the coppers be speeding for? Even in your mildly drunken stupor you noticed where they were heading. The mines. Sober you would’ve kept walking like any sane person but you were running on anger, worry, and rum. A mix that didn’t bode well when making good decisions.

You knew a shortcut through the trees and made haste. By the time you fought through flora and fauna two cars were already there. The sheriff and Edmund were there holding lanterns and guns. You step out from behind the trees, face bathed in red and blue lights. Softly stepping towards the shit show. “What the fuck are you two asswipes doing?!” You call out as you make your way to the entrance of the mine. Before they can stop you you’re in front of the cold entrance.

“You protecting your boyfriend again?” Edmund spat as he loaded his gun.

“You don’t have a gotdamn clue who killed those two. It takes you dumb mother fuckers months to even get close to closing a case!”

“We know he’s down there Y/N and he’s gonna fucking burn for what he did. And if you gotta burn with him so fucking be it!” He aimed the gun at you which almost made you piss yourself. You stumble back as he aims it at you. The thumping of your heart beat in your ears.

“I’m not you enemy! And neither is he!” Your words were bold but hoarse.

“That son of a bitch killed family. I don’t care what you think he’s going to die, and if I have to shoot you to get to him I fucking will!” The sheriffs attempts to calm down Edmund were futile. He had his eyes on you. They were large and red and full of rage. He looked like a rabid animal and you his prey.

“...You’re angry I get that but this is a mob attack not a lawful pick up. You have no evidence-“

“DONT GIVE ME A FUCKING LESSON IN LAW BITCH I AM THE FUCKING LAW!” He shot at the ground beneath your feet sending dirt into your eyes. The muffled scolding from the sheriff did nothing to stop your beating heart. In fact there were bigger problems.

Another shot cracked through the night sending you to the ground covering your head. The grotesque sound of choking made you gag. The Sheriff was on the ground, clambering hands grabbing at the gaping hole in his chest as he bled out. Edmund was in shock. He held the man’s dead hand with wide eyes. Perfect time to get away. You book it into the mines. It was dark and cold, even chillier with a fresh murderer on your heels. At first you didn’t hear him but a shot echoed through the caves followed by some demands for you and Harry to reveal yourselves. That wasn’t happening so you keep running, ducking into random corridors to try and throw him off your trail.

Apart of you was afraid of running into Harry. What if he was angry at you? Running into one killer to escape the other was a chance you really didn’t want to take. You’d rather wait it out and hide. Hopefully Harry would take care of Edmund and you could run away without interacting with either of them. You stop running to hide in a old mining cart that was turned over. Covering your mouth with shaking hands you listen. A heavy set of footsteps past you, Edmund more than likely. It wasn’t like Harry to be so loud. He taunted what you assumed were the shadows to face him like a real man. He didn’t really see him right? You wish you could peek but you were far to afraid you’d get your head blown off.

“So that’s what you look like. Y’know it’s crazy. You don’t look like a monster.” He cocked the gun. “Tell me how you did it. How you killed my dad you fucking monster.” He demanded.

There was no response on Harry’s end. You hear something fall to the ground and then Edmund’s smug laughter. What the hell was going on? You quietly peak from out your hiding space. The minimal lighting made the scene hard to make out but by the looks of it Harry had...given up. He had thrown his pick axe ahead of him, taken off the mask, and dropped to his knees. A gloved hand on the barrel of the gun pointing it to his head. You couldn’t believe your eyes. Was he insane? Edmund goes into a end game spill about how long he’s waited to do this. How he’d pin the Sheriff’s and I’s murder on Harry and walk out the mines a hero. During this you start to crawl towards them, ready to rush him or throw a rock, anything to buy Harry time. Your chest is tight as you hold your breath. Nearing the both of them as quietly as you possibly can. Edmund cocks the gun and says something to the effect of “everyone dies, somebody should’ve take your sorry ass out long ago.” Before you hear a shot.

It hits the ceiling once you use all your might to swing Harry’s pickaxe into Edmund’s head, through his cheek. The blast was so close to Harry he fell back in pain. Edmund leans on the wall holding the left side of his face, still turned away from you. When he does look at you all the blood drains from your body. His tongue hung from the broken jaw like a salivating dog, torn flesh dangled around missing teeth, with so much flesh exposed blood spritzed out every time he moved closer to you. He couldn’t move his jaw so when he spoke it was a gurgled cacophony of rage and disbelief. You lift the pick axe once more but see him lift the shotgun and take aim. This makes you freeze like a deer in headlights. You close your eyes, bracing for impact. But to your surprise it never comes. Instead Harry had gotten up and tackled him, only problem was that he got shot.

The two men fell to the ground. Edmund kicking him off and frantically reaching into his pocket for two more shells. Without thinking you kick the gun from his hands. He tried to get up but you stomp on his chest with all the rage bottled up inside. He looks up at you with that mangled face and large eyes but mercy was the last thing on your mind. You look over him, raise the crude weapon, and allow the cold metal to pierce through his chest. You let out a exasperated scream as you continue your onslaught. Hammering down years of neglect, wasted time, slander, and abuse into what’s left of his broken body. When you’re done he’s left torn apart. Rib cage broken and organs exposed. In all the madness you vomit from the stress and overall exertion of energy you used up. The groans from Harry snap you back to reality and you go to aid him.

“Oh god oh shit hold on hold on.” You ramble. Your hands try their best to cover the wound. He was shot in the side. Luckily it wasn’t a direct hit but without medical attention it was gonna get nasty. You use Edmund’s jacket to help stop the bleeding. He was just staring at you. “What? What the hell are you gonna yell at me for now???” You yell trying not to cry. He lifts a bloody hand to your face.

FIND OUT NEXT TIME ON DRAGON BALL Z

#harry warden #slasher #slashers #fanfic

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love-patient-0s-writing-world · 3 years

Text

Thorns

Shuichi x Reader

Class: SFW

Word Count: 2k

CW: Hanahaki, blood, cursing/swearing, a few headcanons of mine about hanahaki slipped through, tiny bit of Kaede slander(sorry), jealousy, Harukaito, Ishimondo, talk of death,

Part: 1, 2(coming soon)

Note: Sorry this took so long! Life in general happened and this story got out of hand and a lot longer than expected, so I’m chopping it up into parts. Also please let me know if you’d like me to add something to the CW.

‘Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid STUPID.....I’m so fucking stupid’ why did I have to fall for him of all people, the boy who very obviously likes someone else and that somebody else clearly reciprocates them; it’s only a matter of time until either of them confesses and then their perfect love story would start, it was destined to be.....so why did this have to happen? This horrible tight feeling in your chest, the cuts that were littered through out your esophagus and mouth, the awful myriad of vibrant rose petals and fully bloomed ones accompanied by their thorny stems which were stained pink with blood.

It all started when you lost your sweater, running around the school searching like a mad man for it. That’s when you quite literally ran into the poor detective, you two were in the same grade and shared a few classes, you even sat behind him in homeroom but never really talked outside of the usual formalities, that was understandable due to your somewhat questionable reputation; so maybe caging him beneath you in the middle of a hallway wasn’t the best outside of class introduction. You very quickly got off him apologizing profusely, when you saw his bright red face only one word came to mind ‘cute’. You helped him get off the ground, remembering about your missing sweater you decide to ask if he’s seen it. “Hey Shuichi, you wouldn’t have happened to see a (F/C) sweater anywhere have you?” he took a second to respond “No I haven’t seen one, sorry” “It’s ok don’t worry about it, besides I’m the one who lost it” trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

“Well...I better get back on the hunt-” but before you could say goodbye he interrupted you “I-I can help you look for it if you want?” “Well I guess having another pair of eyes isn’t bad, plus you’re the Ultimate Detective right?” “Y-yeah.” you started walking down the hallway without warning. He followed after you quickly like a lost puppy, both of you walk into various classrooms getting more and more disheartened when you didn’t find it. That’s when it hits you “I think I might know where it is. But you can’t tell anybody about where this place is, ok?” he looked rather hesitant but curiosity got the better of him “S-sure.” You waved for him to follow you and he did, as you walked towards the back of the school he started to get nervous “H-hey isn’t this the area where M-Mondo and his g-gang hang out in?” “Yes but there’s no need to worry...unless you need or want to leave then please feel free to go, you’ve already helped me a ton today.” You looked back at him with a reassuring smile “N-no...I’ll keep looking with you.” You just kept walking until you stopped in front of a door with the Crazy Diamonds logo on it, Shuichi just stared at the door with wide eyes. Before he could ask any questions you knocked on the metal door, a little window slides open “Heey (Y/N)!” “Heeey Ryuji!” but before he opened the door fully he saw Shuichi who was hiding behind you. “Who’s the runt?” “Don’t worry he’s with me.” you gently pulled him next to you. “...Alright, but he better not snitch.” “I made sure he wouldn’t.” You smlied at Ryuji as he opened the door to let you both in.

You leaned into him and whispered “Stay close.” he nodded and did just that. It was a rather large room with bikers and delinquents alike entertaining themselves, they had turned an abandoned storage area into a rather nice rec room. As the two of you walked towards the back of the room, you noticed how Shuichi was being jostled around. You snake an arm around his waist and pull him close to you “Sorry, but it wouldn’t be good if you got injured somehow because of me.” leaning in to whisper that in his ear, an extreme blush burned across his face “I-It’s ok.” You just tried to quicken the pace so you could let him go from your hold although for some reason you really didn’t want to. Once you reached the back you turned into a dark hallway with a door near the end, when you reached the door you knocked on it. He could hear shuffling from inside when all of a sudden the door swung open, causing him to jump a bit. Standing in front them was the Ultimate Biker Gang Leader, Mondo Owada “WHO THE FU-(Y/N)!?” his demeanor did a complete 180. The anger on his face melted off and his voice lost it’s gruffness “What are you doing here kid? You rarely ever come here after school.” before you could answer him, he looked over and saw Shuichi. He was shaking like a leaf when Mondo’s sharp gaze landed on him. “Who-” your arm was still wrapped around his waist, holding him close to you, this did not get past his sharp eyes “Heeeeyyyy! Did you come here to tell me that you finally got a piece of ass! Congrats kid!” he pat your shoulder as if you’d won an award. You stood there silent from shock, sure you thought Shuichi was incredibly smart and extremely pretty even while he turned into a tomato right next to you. Your grip around him subconsciously tightened, when you finally shook off the shock. You were about to correct him and ask if you left your sweater here, but as usual you were cut off.

“Hey! That’s a very unwholesome thing to say! Especially to underclassmen, we’ve got to be a good example to them!” Taka marched up to the door and stood next to Mondo his face resembled that of an angry disapproving mother. He looked over to you and Shuichi “Hello (Y/N)!” “Hey Taka.” he stuck his hand out towards Shuichi “You must be (Y/N)’s boyfriend! What’s your name, are you an ultimate as well?” Shuichi hesitantly shook his hand “Uhhh...m-my name is Sh-Shuichi Saihara, I’m the Ultimate D-Detective.” he was clearly nervous and didn’t want to possibly upset them by correcting their assumption, at least that’s what you thought with the way he leaned further into you. Mondo started to chuckle a bit “Wow kid you’re more like me than I thought.” “What do you mean?” quirking an eyebrow at him “We’re both delinquents and are dating a goody two shoes.” “We’re not date-ing!” your voice cracked hard but you continued anyways “We’re just friends.” Mondo stared at you a bit before chuckling again the smile on his face getting bigger “Ahhhh I get it friends” you just sighed in defeat as the biker wiggled his eyebrows at the two of you.

Taka cleared his throat getting everyone’s attention “Anyways, (Y/N) what did you come here for?” by the sounds of it he already knew why you showed up. “I came to ask if I left my swea-” “Yes you did in fact leave your sweater here.” you could practically feel the lecture coming. He walked into the room and returned shortly, with a neatly folded (F/C) sweater in hand “You really shouldn’t forget your sweater, what if you or your...friend was freezing, you could’ve caught a cold!” ‘Wow he doesn’t believe me either’ snatching your sweater away from him “I know, I know” letting out a small sigh ‘finally I can leave’. “Alright we’re going to leave now!” “Alright kiddo! I’m sure you and your friend will have lots of fun together!” you started to walk away faster with Shuich still glued to your side. When you both were out of earshot Mondo slung his arm around Taka “How come every relationship that’s with an ultimate detective is kept secret?”

You quickly walked towards the exit before anyone else could embarrass you even further. Pushing open the slightly heavy metal door you said a quick ‘bye’ to Ryuji, as soon as the door slammed closed behind you, you let out a sigh of relief. Shuichi was obviously tense but as you let out the soft sigh he relaxed significantly into your side, to an outsider it would’ve looked like you two really were a...couple. ‘OH SHIT MY ARM IS STILL AROUND HIM’ you had to coax the limb into letting go of him especially with the way he had melted into you. It must have taken him a moment to realize that he was no longer in your arms, he took a large step to the side his cheeks flushed pink “S-sorry!” “It’s fine, no need to apologize.” giving him a soft smile. You took a few steps forward hinting at him to follow you and he did, quickly standing by your side again as you brought him back to the ‘safer’ area of the school. “So...uhmm how do you know Mondo” “That’s a looong story....but you don’t need to worry about him” you got close to him and whispered “he’s actually a huge softie once you get to know him.” Giggling when you remembered how the big bad biker started crying over a small stray puppy. His cheeks were a light pink when you looked back at him a small smile ghosting his face, ‘UGH he’s too cute I just wannna scoop him up and...NO, NO I DON’T’ scolding yourself mentally for thinking of something like that, Mondo must have really messed with your mind when he kept talking about dating.

You sighed as you continued on autopilot to the front of the school, somehow forgetting the subject of your VERY UNTRUE thoughts was walking right alongside you. Feeling the cool breeze on your skin made a shiver run down your spine, so you put on the sweater that caused you so much of hastle today. As you slipped it on a soft voice snapped you back into reality “(Y-Y/N)....” “Mhm?” Your eyes drifted over to the fidgeting boy next to you, while straightening out the sweater. You stared at him as he seemed to plan out his words carefully, he’d open his mouth only to close it again, it was actually kinda cute...’AAAAHHH WHY DO I KEEP THINKING LIKE THIS!’ you wanted to slam your head into the concrete wall that surrounded the school. He took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, effectively grabbing your attention. “A-are you heading h-home?” his voice got quieter ‘Huh?’ “Yeah.” ‘So that’s what he was so nervous to ask?’ You thought to yourself for a moment after seeing his what seems permanently tinted cheeks and shy smile, looking away from him to get an unbiased answer ‘Should I...no this is just a one time thing, I shouldn’t get attached to him.’ You turned back to the blushing boy “Well...I gotta go home, thank you for all your help today Shuichi.” a sweet smile on your face “N-no problem.” You started your walk home but before you stepped out onto the sidewalk you turned around and waved him goodbye, he waved back.

Now it was back to your ordinary life, popping in your earbuds as you made your way back home. When you reached it you opened the door to the almost always empty house, you plopped your bag and stared at the books peaking out cringing a bit at all the homework you need to complete. ‘Well at least I just have one more day until the weekend’ letting out a sigh as you grab the needed books and notebooks to start, it was surprisingly easy so when you finally finished it you went about your usual routine until you decided to crawl into bed. You stared at the ceiling thinking about what exactly happened today, you could feel your heartbeat quicken as his flushed face and soft smile appeared in your brain, instead of shaking it out of your mind you let yourself indulge in the thoughts as you drifted off to sleep; cuddling into one of your plush pillows with a sleepy smile on your face.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this! Apologies for not posting much writing but that is soon to change! Remember to drink water, eat something and get plenty of rest! Feel free to return whenever you want traveler, take care!💜

~Love Patient 0

#🌹x reader rose🌹#shuichi saihara x reader #shuichi x reader #danganronpa killing harmony #killing harmony #ndrv3 #drv3 #ndrv3 shuichi #shuichi saihara #shuichi #hanahaki

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snowe-zolynn-rogers · 3 years

Text

Pairings: Past Aizawa/Mandalay

Word Count: 1,9218 Words

Summary: The Sports Festival, part 1.

Warnings: Food Mention, Death Mention, Caps, Cursing, Teen Pregnancy, Fighting Mention, let me know if I should tag anything else.

Usernames: Existence Is A Prison Aizawa: feral cat dad, Aoyama: gay salt, Hagakure: ranch flavored jello, Tokoyami: foil-mecha, Shinsou: farmer toshi, Kuroiro: life is a nightmare, Shiozaki: saviour, Tsunotori: schrodinger better run, Honenuki: pure, Monoma: nat20, Yamada: President Megaphone, Bakugou: deku-deck-you

Aizawa, We Agreed No More Cats: Chapter 8

7:00 AM

Existence Is A Prison

gay salt: Tokoyami, I know it's the sports festival and all today, but you didn't need to bring everyone sandos and sports drinks again.

foil-mecha: Thing is, I didn't.

farmer toshi: No, no, because my whole class has sandos and sports drinks on their desks too. And I heard the other Gen Ed classes causing a ruckus over them too. Seems like someone put sando throughout the whole school.

feral cat dad: That would be me. I'm not letting any of you kids go without eating during a major sports event where you'll likely get injured and your bodies need fuel to fight and I won't let you not eat.

feral cat dad: My old Gen Ed teacher, Miss Rin, began this tradition of giving out sandos and water at the gate to students on the day of the Sports Festival. Nezu sanctioned of course, since he refused to allow her to pay for it herself. And now it's carried on through me since she passed on a few years ago.

ranch flavored jello: That's actually really sweet, Dad.

feral cat dad: If you tell anyone it was me who put them out, I'll make you clean the roof level.

ranch flavored jello: We have a roof level?

feral cat dad: You guys didn't know the dorms have roof access?

ranch flavored jello: Well, now we do. Where even are the stairs to it?

feral cat dad: Literally next to my room, I don't know how you haven't found them.

deku deck-you: It's the door next to his room, Toru. Even I found it. You've been here five more days than me.

ranch flavored jello: I THOUGHT THAT WAS A BROOM CLOSET!

feral cat dad: Oh my gods, these kids will be the end of me.

8:30 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: God help me being alone with this idiot.

feral cat dad: I'm using this chat for extra commentary because there are things I can't say on live national television commentary so they'll all be said here.

feral cat dad: Oh god, Katsuki, no. Don't slander our name.

feral cat dad: Please.

feral cat dad: GOD DAMMIT

feral cat dad: Obstacle Course? Fuck.

feral cat dad: Most proud of my son managing to evade Todoroki's ice despite never dealing with it before.

feral cat dad: Also, Todoroki, who hurt you as a child? That was purposeful so nobody could catch up!

feral cat dad: Get it, Pikachu.

feral cat dad: I'm proud of my gremlin children.

feral cat dad: I'm not paid enough to make commentary on this obstacle.

feral cat dad: Except for my son. I care about my ground-bound son getting across the pit to Tartarus shit.

feral cat dad: Gods, mines. I remember those landmines. I hate those things. They almost made me temporarily blind during my second year Sports Festival.

feral cat dad: What the FUCK Midoriya!?

8:45 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: Alright you're probably in the break room for the twenty five minute break by now. Katsuki, what's wrong with your arms? You were holding them.

deku deck-you: Just a lot of work. Overworking. I guess it can't be helped, this is why I have so much wrist support in my hero costume, to help keep my hands from feeling cramped from the explosions.

feral cat dad: Come up to the box, I'll shut old parakeet up if he tries to speak.

deku deck-you: Why?

feral cat dad: I have some ibuprofen, come take two, it should help the pain at least.

deku deck-you: Thank you.

9:00 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: Am I allowed to ask why Vlad King is taking care of a small child when he, in fact, doesn't have children?

feral cat dad: Just realized I won't get an answer because you all made it to the next round. I'm so proud but dammit, now I'm curious.

9:20 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: I...What?

feral cad dad; I hate the cavalry battle, that was difficult to keep track of. I don't know how Hizashi does it.

schrodinger better run: Obviously, the answer is very carefully.

feral cat dad: I'm sorry you didn't make it through, Pony. I have candy if you want some.

schrodinger better run: Thank you! I'll stop by and grab it on my way to lunch.

feral cat dad: If you're going to meet back up with your class, text me why there's a child.

schrodinger better run: There's a child?

feral cat dad: smallchildinvladkingsarms.jpg

schrodinger better run: He looks a lot like Tokage.

9:30 AM

Existence Is A Prison

ranch flavored jello: Mr. Aizawa, this is Mina, Toru's busy crying so she asked me to ask you. Mineta and Kaminari are telling us 1a girls that you instructed we wear the cheerleader uniforms for the afternoon. What should we tell them?

feral cat dad: Tell them they have three weeks of detention each to look forward to and don't wear those fucking uniforms.

schrodinger better run: Okay, so apparently the kid's here because Tokage brought him in? I still don't have a full explanation, but his name is Mitsu and he's 2 years old.

feral cat dad: Okay. So Tokage brought her little brother or something?

nat20: I'm not so sure about that. He just called her Mama.

feral cat dad: So Tokage has a son?

nat20: It seems like it.

feral cat dad: Oh, Nezu won't be happy about this. He wanted any young parents to report to him after the opening ceremony and alert him if they had any children so they would stay in the dorms.

nat20: To be fair, it would seem Tokage would be the only one out of all the first year classes, so it might have been too much pressure to fit in. Or she may even just has help enough at home that she didn't feel she needed to tell anyone.

feral cat dad: He'll still be mad. Believe me, he'll at least force her to accept a UA fund card so she doesn't need to work to support the baby.

saviour: We got to talking and, apparently, she gives him to a daycare while she's at school and she picks him up when she leaves school.

feral cat dad: Yup, she'll probably be moved on campus if she's not having her family take care of the baby during the day. Nezu's very adamant that his students have help if they're struggling.

10:45 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: Alright, so Shinsou against Rikamaru Kana from the Support Course. I don't know if this will be easy for him.

nat20: I am offended Kendo thinks so little of me.

feral cat dad: Why?

nat20: She said I'm perverse! And, when I asked her about it after, she said it's because I wear the girls' uniform sometimes. She thinks I'm some pervert trying to invade the girl's bathroom to creep on them.

nat20: I swear I haven't, Mr. Aizawa, I've never even gone into the girls restrooms, I use the men's or the one in Recovery Girl's office. And I change in the men's locker room. Tetsutetsu will tell you, he's guarded me before when I was uncomfortable changing.

feral cat dad: Don't worry, kid, I believe you. Come up to the box, you need a hug. I'll talk to Kendo if you want.

nat20: Please.

10:50 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: Oh my god, he actually did it. I'm so proud, Shinsou.

schrodinger better run: Shinsou fucking yeeted her.

life is a nightmare: Equal opportunity yeeting.

feral cat dad: Next up is Hatsume vs Tokoyami.

nat20: I hope Tokoyami does well next.

11:00 AM

Existence Is A Prison

feral cat dad: Tokoyami, I'm proud of you for being a good sport and helping her up after.

foil-mecha: I'm nothing if not a gentleman. Plus, when she fell down, she sprained her ankle. It's the least I can do to help her to Recovery Girl.

farmer toshi: I'm betting a grocery shop tonight that Ashido's going to win against Midoriya next.

feral cat dad: Be careful kid, you might eat those words.

11:10 AM

Existence Is A Prison

farmer toshi: Fine, I guess I'm getting dinner. And I'm also very happy Toru won against Iida.

feral cat dad: That's if you don't get injured. Remember, there's now two people you know against you.

ranch flavored jello: I still can't believe I won against Iida, honestly.

feral cat dad: Well, Shiozaki is against Shizuka Inei next. A Gen Ed Course student.

nat20: Do you know him, Hitoshi?

farmer toshi: Kind of hard to miss someone when they're that fucking loud all the time.

foil-mecha: Is that son of a bitch harassing Ibara?

nat20: I have lost faith in humanity. How dare a peasant's filthy hands touch our Ibara.

farmer toshi: Yeah, I'd defend my classmate in it being an accident if I didn't know that Shizuka is a blatant misogynists.

feral cat dad: I'll fight him. Disgusting little trash.

life is a nightmare: And HE gets to advance while our Ibara loses? Unacceptable.

feral cat dad: The Min*ta of class 1c.

11:25 AM

Existence Is A Prison

nat20: Thank goodness Kiyomi's advancing. I do feel bad she'll be fighting a misogynist though.

pure: I felt kind of bad about it, I didn't really want to fight our Akari!

nat20: I'm sure Akari understands and also didn't want to fight you either, but you two can't just refuse to fight because you're friends or you'd both be either disqualified or forced to fight by now.

gay salt: No ill will is held on my end, Kiyomi! I think our fight was rather fun!

pure: Okay, as long as you promise you're not mad.

gay salt: I'm not, I'm proud of you, mon amor.

nat20: Any bets on Kaminari here?

farmer toshi: I'll bet on Pikachu winning.

schrodinger better run: I'll bet a grocery trip that Fujioka wins.

life is a nightmare: That would be the furthest a Business Course student would have gotten in the Sports Festival.

schrodinger better run: I'll still bet on him.

feral cat dad: Well, you were wrong, Pony.

schrodinger better run: All as well. I didn't expect Fujioka to have an equip quirk, to be fair.

feral cat dad: Next is Tokage vs Fukumura from General Studies.

saviour: Let's go Tokage!

11:30 AM

Existence Is A Prison

deku deck-you: Is Tokage okay? I heard she passed out.

feral cat dad: She's overworked and malnourished from what Recovery Girl will tell me when I ask and Nezu is speaking with Tokage and asking her what got her to this.

feral cat dad: I

feral cat dad: I don't think I'm at liberty to discuss her tragic backstory with you guys, sadly. But she'll tell you when she moves into the dorms tonight.

11:35 AM

Existence Is A Prison

farmer toshi: Todoroki, aka Mr. Overboard. Poor Sero.

farmer toshi: Oh god, I might need to fight Mr. Daddy Issues.

farmer toshi: Gods help me.

foil-mecha: To be fair, he'd have to get through three brackets to get to you and he'd be fighting you in the three-way fight.

ranch flavored jello: He'd have to get past Katsuki too.

deku deck-you: He won't.

feral cat dad: Alright then, Mr. Overconfident.

Taglist: @everythingisstardust

#mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #aoyama yuuga #fumikage tokoyami #shinsou hitoshi #aizawa shouta #hagakure tooru #katsuki bakugou #pony tsunotori #monoma neito #ibara shiozaki #kuroiro shihai #juzo honenuki #snoweywrites #aizawa we agreed no more cats au

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 23.2)

CHAPTER 23.1

WOTN MASTERLIST

Summary: Higher Vampires are known to be incredibly intelligent. Whence, Tybalt of Toussaint may also possess some humanly emotions just like how mortals do.

Warnings: Blood. Gore. Gory. I think I haven't been too descriptive in this part? I don't wanna say any more in the summary. I don't wanna spoil anything. The usual blasphemy.

Words: 3.2k (short, I know. Heh. Should've been included in the last chapter but I didn't. I think this deserves to have an own chapter.) Short but would give such emotions. I hope. 😉

A/N: Ugh. I thought school has been postponed in my country. It should've been postponed. I have no money and I'm terribly not in the mood everyday to even do anything---what about studying then? Updates will be slower because of the anxiety I'm having. Your words help the anxiety lessen a few whenever you comment for WOTN. Heehee! Mwah!

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! I apologize for errors!

Disclaimer: PNG's and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. (All taken from Tumblr so credits to the rightful owners of the gifs) However, the edits and this fanfic is definitely from moi. Character development and personalities are based from my understanding and how I want them to be. This has no connection towards the books, games or show. First line was taken from a Geralt quote. (Here in Tumblr) I don't know if it was from the show because I hardly remember lines or scripts. (I'm forgetful as heck) LMAO. But, I can hear him saying it inside my head rn.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

"I run into dilemmas all the time. Situations where it's hard to judge, hard to know what's right, make a decision. This is not one of them. You both disgust me and deserve to die,"

"What---what the bloody fuck, Witcha'?!"

"I didn't peg you to be an adopted vampire who suckles on that hag's slandering, inimical greed for power. You're intelligent. But, you use it for foolish purposes,"

"Feckin' heck! Yer' attacking me now? Want to pick up a battle in the middle of feckin' Bethleheigm's forest?!"

"Tybalt of Toussaint. You and your cunning sorceress wasted my time all along,"

Geralt of Rivia snarled through gritted teeth, the vampire grounded to a tree where the witcher has him pinned with a tough hand on his shoulder, while the other held a blade pointed to his heart, "---have been blood-guilty since the prince has even been born,"

He was certainly led on by their wiles. The sorceress and the higher vampire. Geralt was sure that the queen had no idea as to what they've done; as to what Ingrith has done. From the curse of Makeda's son up until the point where she has been the king's mistress. Though, the witcher knew he was done for all their bullshit that has been put up. All his energy wasted for a devil's snare that he obviously has been caged in.

He should've listened to you instead when you have tried shushing him in the middle of his impulsive decision making with the king. The white wolf trusted more of his knowledge rather than the instincts that his guts have been telling him.

Geralt should've trusted his midget more than himself. Most of the time, his decisions were always the worst if we could talk about what happened in the past.

"I wasn't taken in that time yet, Witcha'! The feckin' sorceress didn't take me before the prince has even been born!"

Tybalt struggled against his hold, fighting off Geralt's strength and trying to shrug his hand away. He could simply wave him in hand to hand combat, their strengths matching with one another. Perhaps, the Higher Vampire was stronger than the witcher. Yet, Geralt's anger was rather compelling versus Tybalt's sudden cedes, "---Guess, the truth always and will be set free no matter how we---!"

The latter heard the blade of his silver sword ripping his fabric apart due to being constraint physically. Geralt growled beneath his chest, vibrating through his armor that startled Rohesia who sat on a piece of log.

As Geralt convinced the old woman to come with, they've left her home. Notwithstanding his newly found strength of convincing or better yet, begging that he somehow catches himself trapped in. He sounded pitiful to be begging from a mortal to save his own human. The witcher couldn't imagine nor see himself to be in his own shoes right at that moment.

They've went on with their journey going back to Kaedwen. Tybalt looking oh-so-dumbfounded to see the woman who he talked to years ago about Geralt's existence---how they wanted this specific witcher to lure them in for another shitful death. Vesemir's prior visits never being mentioned to the vampire because she knows how they were trying to remove them in the continent one by one with their unreasonable rationales.

The white wolf was quiet, utterly speechless when he'd seen the vampire. His teeth tightly gritted together behind close mouth. Jaw set to bark deep profanities as to how he has been foolish not to point fingers at them from the start.

Hence, which is why; in the middle of hunting for a deer, Geralt had wildly attacked Tybalt. Face being punched from the witcher's fist and having no time to draw his sword from his back. The latter stumbled from his attack, but eventually recovered in an inhumane amount of time---at least, a second of using his agility to fight back. His vampire claws itching to grow but he was trying not to use them for what guilt was setting him reluctant over a battle with the witcher.

Tybalt needed the blood that Geralt spat on the ground when he'd given him a strong punch to the face. Their brawl being a release of their own frustrations over each other until the higher vampire began to try and use his invisibility with Geralt that made the witcher huff and growl, making him draw his sword out of his back as Tybalt stood on top of a tree branch, invisible and owning no shadow.

The witcher felt where he was hiding and had to use Igni to push him back. Fire slightly burning the side of his bearded face that instantly regenerated in a few minutes. Geralt's vexation for him even becoming more insufferable when the higher vampire hauled him over to the ground, pinning him down. But, the white wolf's anger was determined to come back to the castle with his cut-off head in his hand.

Resulting onto their current position against a tree with hearts blaring for rage, the witcher's resentment over your heart being kept at a trembling bay for whatever was giving you more and more questions about him.

"This was an endless hunt---Midget was right." he grumbled and barked, sending a nasty scowl.

"She knew?" Tybalt spat with a sardonic laugh, "---I thought it was er' affection that ye' didn't trust---I didn't thought ye' actually don't trust er' at all."

Geralt's conscience tingled with the need to have a battle with him until he was contented. He pushed him further against the wood, his amber glazing with a major amount of fury. Red as people can describe for his fueled wrath for anyone in his way.

Tybalt wasn't fighting back as he could read him through his eyes, indignation filled within them that made him emit a shaky cackle because of how he explained to Ingrith that their horrid truth will eventually be set free in the future. The unlucky fate they had was that Geralt has happened to know it rather than another mortal that they could murder just like the previous ones who Rohesia has spilled the beans over the issue.

But, this was Geralt. Gwynbleidd. The infamous butcher. If he would tell Tybalt how he didn't have feelings, then it was all just a damn lie because he was being controlled over his own spleen.

Tybalt of Toussaint was a cuckoo for even trying to rattle his cage. Geralt's teeth untamely barred as time was being spent with him. His hostility skyrocketing after knowing how he has been fooled.

"Heard the visions inside yer' head when ye' were talking in your sleep, Butcher." a heavy beat of silence, "---Ye' believe she'll eventually leave because it might be the destiny for a lass who lived in another world. Yer' fearful that she'll die in your hands. Scared that she'll leave ye' behind and grow old earlier than ye' do because she ain't no mutant like ye. The fight ye' had with er' was quite entertaining to be honest. Too childish to think that yer' still feckin' that sorceress ye' had. No questions asked. I must prefer to choose the unchaste one if ye' ask me---no wonder you want the woman who makes my palates tingle. She's fresh, young and smells bloody good! Sure enough, she's no vestal as she may seem anymore because I know ye' fucked that woman---oh, fuck ye' bloody mutant!"

Tybalt hasn't finished his sentence about diminishing his old flame and current one. The witcher didn't hesitate but give him a strong jab to his jaw, making Tybalt spit his own blood on the ground with a hearty laugh, earning a grimace from Geralt himself. His jaw tensing and clenching tighter than ever from hearing such things.

The higher vampire grinned like a Cheshire cat, teeth painted in crimson red from how the witcher has made him bust his lip from being punched in the face. He could avoid them if he wanted to, but he felt like his assaults and madness were well deserved for what they both have caused to his family, especially to you. It was about time Geralt would seethe into his own pique. The witcher should've done it since then---but, Tybalt has escaped back in the marketplace; escaping his profound wrath.

"Is the mighty witcher's weakness, a mere mortal who knows nothing of you, yer' past and the continent---were ye' even honest to her? told everythin' about yer' nauseating stories?"

Geralt growled another, his words vibing a snappy snarl as he grumbled so deeply, "Fuck. You went deep inside my head." he held onto his sword's hilt tighter, penetrating the sharp blade onto Tybalt's skin, blood seeping through his clothing which has ignited a deep groan and whimper from the latter.

"---Vampires. I loathe your kind."

The white wolf was about to deepen his blade against his chest, Tybalt's punctured wound oozing of claret blood. Geralt's actions making the old woman gasp from where she sat afar, seeing that they weren't having their little playtime anymore as it was all serious. Blood and wounds involving his interrogation over the Upir.

"Stop...Stop yer' horses," Tybalt whimpered, not knowing whether to laugh or revel in the pain as to how it felt to be stabbed on his chest. This was like an imbecile move for him; to accept such blade for the guilt he was feeling over his actions towards you---a mortal who had no idea what was happening in the first place.

Maybe, there was still a teeny-tiny amount of contrition left inside of him. The baby growing inside being the cause of his sudden compunction and change of events because of what the sorceress in the castle's next move would be and his sincerity would be the least that Ingrith wanted nor hoped to see.

His next words would cause him his life and what will be outside of the castle---for what was waiting for him and of being Ingrith's shadow since the moment he was taken.

Repentance is always achieved when one is left with no choice for his or her sins. Regret and realization for one's mistakes happens in the end. Though, in most cases, people living in malign don't realize it at all.

"It's in the cup! Inside the feckin' cup, alright!" Tybalt sneered and hissed, feeling the blade slowly being pushed further. His candor being answered with dubiety from the latter and a hoarse reply.

"Hmm. What lies must you be playing now. You're distracting me from sticking this blade inside your cold, withering heart, Upir."

The higher vampire held onto his silver blade with his hand, his skin frothing against the sword, palm burning for what Geralt has coated back before they even arrived in Rohesia's hideout. Vampire Oil. He was still dubious about Tybalt despite of being unaware for their clandestine schemes. Geralt never trusted his thirst for sins after all.

Tybalt accepted the pain, letting his skin burn from the blade. More blood seeping out of his fingers from how he tried wretching his sword off his chest. But, with all of Geralt's willpower, he kept the vampire in his place. His shoulder slightly beginning to burn and it took him one look to see Geralt fighting off to use one of his signs. Igni that he was also susceptible with.

"Ve...Venom from a female royal Wyvern, Cockatrice and a mixture of acid from a Bloedzuiger's insides---mixed with a taste that wouldn't let er' know that it is poison she's consuming," he stammered with a whimper, hissing another and growling back when Geralt pushed through the vampire's heart, paying no remorse over stabbing the vital parts of him.

The witcher only answered with silence. A death stare being thrown back, trying to understand what he wanted to say. His brows tightly netted in confusion, dazed and long enough for Tybalt to continue his divulge over Ingrith's secret agendas.

"She...plans to destroy her insides---make her bleed." pause. "---If she's protected by the Djinn where yer' lass could resist Ingrith's magic, then there is no doubt that she could accept the vile that will be passed through her throat. Down...down, through her stomach,"

Her. Was it you? Geralt silently pondered at the thought, the gaze in his eyes faltering and turning livid. Teeth bared for his acrimonious comment said.

"Know when to fuck off with your lies! I'm tired of it!"

Geralt growled, his skepticism made the vampire weakly shake his head for his incredulity, mutely sparing his bleat with a low whimper and growl as he sent daggers over the blade stuck in his chest, "I...I spare my tongue to you when this is all an actual lie,"

The witcher scoffed, knowing that he was making a fool out of himself again and it was making him go on the warpath because he knew that cutting his tongue would be nothing to Tybalt.

"You regenerate. You can't outsmart me this time."

Tybalt's clothing was drenched in his own blood. Fresh cochineal saturating the under tunic concealed before his body armor that the witcher had no problem to prod. The higher vampire breathed deeply through his nose, his eyes mentally telling that he was relinquishing every ploy to achieve the sorceress' goals.

"Behead me then with yer' silver sword, Weccan. Cut all me' limbs and feed me to a Selkiemore. But, yer' little woman's drink shall be poisoned in the night of the feast. Three cups of wild fruit juice given to er'---safe for---safe for her as a token of appreciation and another for what she would gladly ask from the king. However, I do not know what cup is poisoned or what not. That's all I can say."

Geralt was snarling before the vampire. His nose scrunched in contempt. The idea slowly coming to his senses. They plan to poison you without a doubt. He needed to come back to his midget as soon as possible. The witcher will be risking your anger that hasn't faded still. Their poison was strong---potent as other mages or wizards may know that even it would take him effects once consumed.

Come what may, rue did not move the witcher's heart. He'd punctured Tybalt's heart, his blade passing through the body of the Upir who minimally spat blood out of his mouth. The silver sword being coated with more blood, splattering the tree behind him, drips of blood painting wood. A gash being given to his most vital organ.

Geralt knew it would take him months or even decades for such bodily destruction. Howbeit, he'd only punctured him in a part that would exhibit a vast amount of pain for his sufferings to yours; for what pain they've given to you was felt from the witcher. He came with you in terms of physical and spiritual---your existence had him coming in two's when it should've been only himself.

Nonetheless, Geralt of Rivia knew in order to survive was to exterminate each and every one who would hurt you because you were the most vulnerable including Cirilla. The witcher would do just that. Give agony to human or any other kind who breaths in the continent until you were safe and sound; to shed blood as he may see with the lesser evil on his side. As he may now try to see that particular side of it with no doubts.

He was not done with Tybalt as he pushed the blade further until the hilt, his heart clouding in blue when Geralt could know that something was happening again back in the castle---the heavyness going back and forth, every hour of the day dropping stones on his chest for what was happening to you.

Tybalt spat more blood once Geralt forcefully yielded his sword away. Crimson liquid filling the ground, his Ivory hair somehow catching onto the gore he has created in the middle of the forest. The higher vampire will be taking decades to recover---lucky if another higher vampire would help him with his regeneration but they both knew that no grudges will be held after because he gladly accepted the pain.

Gwynbleidd has lifted his blade off Tybalt's heart, staring with no remorse and filled with fury. Tybalt was mumbling onto something he couldn't understand. He could only decipher the words 'she' and 'save' over his anger, clouded thoughts before Geralt held tightly onto the handle of his sword, slashing through Tybalt's jugular with determination. Beheading the vampire with his own actions in silence as his amputated body and head fell onto the wet, bloody ground.

He stared, thoroughly emotionless upon his work, thoughtlessly giving heed to the closed eyes of the former living vampire laying lifeless on the dirtground. Geralt grumbled a hum beneath his raging chest, scowling whilst he took a step to pick up Tybalt's head, leaving his body for whatever fate lays for him because the witcher knew he wasn't entirely dead with the slowest beating of heart.

Rohesia was stunned and speechless over watching the scene afar. The witcher's will and determination being sensed from the distance and she knew that this princess he was trying to save was an important person in his dangerous, ill-fate life for the risk he was willing to take---giving her knowledge that Vesemir have been telling the truth in which Geralt of Rivia looked up to him like a father figure and a son that he may never get to have forever.

If you go back to my chapters, you'll know that I had a hint that this would happen to our precious wittle reader. If anybody remembers or had a hint on what chapter, COMMENT! Mwohahaha! RIP to our boi, Tybalt. You shall be missed. Can’t believe this was my first OC whom I killed off in a story. *sobs*

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when-a-humble-bard · 4 years

Text

in ways that can’t be said

Summary: Geralt lives in a very dark and violent world. Good things are few and far between. He doesn't know what it means, really, to be in love.So when he falls in love with Jaskier, it happens slowly. Gradually. Reluctantly.Or, 10 moments where Geralt falls a little more in love with the bard no matter how much it scares him. Geraskier.

Companion piece to this fic but can be read separately.

Word Count: 6961

Warnings: canon-typical peril and violence, blood, injury, death mention (but no actual death), light Geralt whump, feral!Jaskier, headaches, fear of sensory overload, cursing, interpretation of canon scene with shipping lens, Yennefer makes a brief appearance, Ciri is part of this at one point, emotionally constipated Geralt, and then emotionally-overwhelmed Geralt, lots of softness and hurt/comfort elements, let me know if other warnings should be added.

A/N: These two have so much story to explore together, and I’m apparently just along for the ride. Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Read on AO3!

...

Geralt is on his second ale when the bard starts his set. The Witcher stays tucked away in the corner of the tavern where he usually prefers to sit, as it provides a decent vantage point of the room. That it also encouraged other people to leave him alone was, really, just an added bonus. Tonight seemed to be no exception that rule. Jaskier had sat across from him and jabbered on as he always did—his energy especially heightened given that it was right before a performance—but he had been the only one to engage the Witcher in conversation thus far.

The bard usually burned off his excess energy during his set. Geralt finds himself hoping the bard doesn’t expend too much of that energy, as they needed to head out early in the morning. Tired Jaskier was an even chattier Jaskier, and Geralt wasn’t sure he had the patience for it.

Jaskier is standing on the small stage across the tavern. Through the haze of idle chatter and drinks being poured at the bar, Geralt listens to Jaskier finish tuning the lute. The final string the bard plucks sounds slightly higher pitched than usual to the Witcher. He sees the tip of Jaskier’s tongue poke out between his lips in concentration, adjusting something on the instrument. He plucks it again. It sounds right to Geralt now, and the bard seems to agree if his satisfied nod is anything to go by.

He starts off with a popular tune—the one about the daughter of a fish merchant—and Geralt turns his attention to the venison and potatoes the barmaid sets in front of him before she quickly ducks away. Geralt stops paying close attention to Jaskier’s performance as his mind drifts to the rumors he’d caught wind of regarding a wraith. The trick would be finding someone who could confirm or deny the rumors; and if confirm, then someone who would pay him a fair price to deal with it.

He could also go kill it himself and hope to be able to sell it for parts, perhaps. That was riskier business, though. Still, Geralt considers the merits of it as Jaskier performs.

“Bard!” A sharp voice yanks Geralt from his thoughts. An older man, with thinning blonde hair and a stocky build, has leapt to his feet and immediately claimed the attention of the room. “If you keep singin’ the praises of the fuckin’ Butcher of Blaviken, I’ll break that fuckin’ lute o’er your fuckin’ head.”

Geralt’s jaw works. He’d always hated that name. He hates how it follows him like a shadow, the way it makes his arms feel heavy with Renfri’s unconscious weight every time he hears it. Still, it’s not a fight worth starting when he needs work and the man’s worst offense is using a name that travels with Geralt like a curse he can’t get rid of. He flexes his grip around the tankard in his hands instead.

“Sir,” Jaskier says, an odd and barely constrained edge to his voice, “the White Wolf is widely regarded as a hero across the Continent.”

“The Butcher ain’t no hero,” the man spits. “Just a monster gettin’ off on the sufferin’ of others.”

It’s an unoriginal insult, Geralt thinks. The Witcher’s lips press into a thin line before he swallows down more of the ale in front of him. If Jaskier is smart, he’ll let it go. He’ll stick to the songs in his repertoire that aren’t about Geralt, and he should still be able to charm the audience enough to earn a bit of coin for his trouble.

But Jaskier is—evidently—not a smart man.

“Bold words coming from someone who is too much a coward to face down the wraith plaguing his own town. The only thing you have less of than honor, sir, is shame. You slander the name of the very person ready to risk his life so that your crops don’t wither.” The bard’s eyes are aflame with indignation so strong it brings Geralt up short. “You call Geralt of Rivia a monster, but he is twice the man you will ever be.”

It’s such an impassioned, sincere defense… and all Geralt can do in the silence that seems to echo in the tavern after it is stare at the bard as something knots in his chest.

One of the man’s friends tugs on his arm and he sits again. Jaskier’s gaze doesn’t waver as he starts the next song.

“When a humble bard…”

II.

Jaskier drops a bucket of water onto his head, and Geralt hums at the welcomed shock, scrubbing the metallic, rancid scent of selkiemore off his face. The water smells faintly of rose, which the Witcher knows to be Jaskier’s doing. It’s… pleasant, if unnecessary.

“Now now,” Jaskier chides, “stop your boorish grunts of protest. It is one night of bodyguarding your very best friend in the whole wide world. How hard could it be?”

Geralt glances over at the bard. “I’m not your friend.” He wasn’t sure what Jaskier was to him, but friend seemed like the wrong term. It didn’t fit right in his mouth as a way to describe the bard.

“Oh, oh really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub chamomile onto your lovely bottom?” Geralt levels a glare at Jaskier, but the bard seems unphased. “Yeah, well, yeah exactly. That’s what I thought.”

It’s all Geralt can do to not roll his eyes, watching Jaskier cross back to the salts and oils in front of him as he rambles. “Every lord, knight, and twopenny king worth his salt will be at this betrothal. The Lioness of Cintra herself of Jaskier’s triumphant performance!”

It’s a deflection at best, even as Jaskier throws some added salt to Geralt’s bath, and the Witcher just stares at the bard framed in the candlelight around them. He has the feeling Jaskier may be hiding something. Or rather, trying to redirect attention from something else.

“How many of these lords want to kill you?” Geralt asks flatly.

Jaskier’s façade deflates just a bit. “Hard to say,” he replies, and Geralt is reminded once again of how openly honest Jaskier tended to be. “One stops keeping count after a while. Wives, concubines, mothers sometimes.”

Geralt could do without the list, really. It sends a twist of unexpected annoyance through his chest. Jaskier notices—but then again, he’d always had this habit of paying more attention to Geralt’s expressions than most humans did. The Witcher isn’t sure why.

The bard sits on the edge of the tub, framing Geralt’s form with his outstretched hands. “Ooh, yeah, that face! Scary face. No lord in his right mind will come close if you’re standing next to me with a puss like that.”

Geralt reaches for his ale—he’s really not drunk enough to deal with this—when Jaskier snatches the cup out of his grip.

“Ooh, on second thought…” Jaskier continues, because he never seems to stop talking really, “might want to lay off the Cintran ale. A clear head would be best.” He pats Geralt’s shoulder as he stands.

It an unusually casual touch and Geralt’s skin tingles with it even after Jaskier steps away. Still, Geralt tries not to dwell on it. “I will not suffer tonight sober,” he growls, “just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone. Not over the petty squabbles of men.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” comes Jaskier’s voice from behind him. “You never get involved. Except you actually do, all the time.” Geralt snaps his gaze over to him, but he can’t find it in himself to argue with the bard on that point. Perhaps Jaskier had a point. At least on that front.

Jaskier crosses back in front of him. “Ugh,” he continues. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbearably crotchety and cantankerous?”

Geralt sighs, pulling his arms off the edge of the tub in the hopes that it will ease the way his shoulder is still tingling slightly from where Jaskier had rested his hand on it a moment ago.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know. Do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah,” Geralt snaps. “When they slow and get killed.”

“Come on,” Jaskier says, his voice softening just a little. “You must want something for yourself when all this monster hunting nonsense is over with.”

“I want nothing,” Geralt replies immediately. Instinctively, more than a legitimate answer. He hadn’t wanted anything for a very, very long time. And anything he may have wanted at one point certainly had proved itself impossible for a Witcher like himself to achieve, so what even would be the point to desire it in the first place?

There’s a waver to something in Jaskier’s eyes that puzzles the Witcher, but it’s gone before Geralt can put a name to it. “Well, who knows?” the bard says, crossing to the tub to crouch in front of Geralt. Jaskier is abruptly close like this, facing Geralt head-on while the Witcher sits in the wash basin. Geralt averts his eyes. “Maybe someone out there will want you.”

The idea that someone might want him one day like that—like how Jaskier is suggesting—sends a thrill of something almost like fear through the Wticher’s stomach.

“I need no one,” he replies immediately. Then he looks back at Jaskier. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet,” Jaskier says softly, meeting Geralt’s gaze unwaveringly. “Here we are.”

And that—well. The almost-fear feeling in Geralt’s stomach turns to something a little less sharp. A little warmer. No less terrifying, and yet somehow… nice.

Geralt tears his gaze away, desperate for a distraction from that feeling. “Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?”

III.

Geralt has lost track of just how many performances of Jaskier’s he has sat through over their years of travels together. He knows the bard’s musical repertoire nearly as well as he knows monster classifications. So really, the Witcher does not have an explanation, even to himself, of why this time is different.

But the bard is making his rounds, strumming his lute with a practiced ease, singing an exaggerated song about Geralt fending off a bruxa with one hand tied behind his back… and Geralt can’t take his eyes off him.

The Witcher had never enjoyed being the center of attention. A part of him had gotten used to it a long time ago—in his line of work, looking like he does, one has a nasty habit of drawing unwanted gazes—but he’d never sought it out. Then there was Jaskier, who thrived in environments just like this one, where he could command the center of attention. He thrived in backwater village taverns full of people desperate for mediocre ale and a good story.

And Geralt has to give credit where credit is due—Jaskier can spin a good tale. The bard reveled in it, even. Geralt hadn’t asked him, but he could tell from the man’s unrelenting enthusiasm that as much as Jaskier was a performer, not all of it was an act. There was an earnestness to him every time he sang. A genuine belief that what he was doing mattered.

Geralt takes another bite of the stew in front of him, his gaze not wavering as Jaskier finishes the song to enthusiastic applause. He grins, thanks the crowd graciously, and launches immediately into the next song. And still, Geralt watches.

The bard had discarded his blue doublet several songs ago, tossing it into the seat across from Geralt as he passed. Jaskier’s off white shirt is tucked into the blue pants that are several shades darker than his eyes, and those eyes are really what Geralt keeps finding his own gaze drawn to. Eyes that are vibrant with energy and life when they briefly meet Geralt’s across the room.

There’s a very unexpected, soft squeeze in Geralt’s chest.

The bard had always radiated light and joy on a level that Geralt privately thought outshone most other humans. Jaskier is a beacon—evidenced by the near-blinding grin that the bard throws to him before turning away—and Geralt feels the odd urge to shy away from it. As if that light might expose all the parts of him that he’d spent years hiding away.

But Jaskier is nothing if not relentlessly and stupidly persistent. And he seems—had always seemed—entirely unaware of how rare his own vibrancy truly is. It is an integral part of him that chooses again and again and again to share with others. And no matter how much they take from him, Jaskier seems to always have more he is willing to give.

It seems like a kind of selflessness to Geralt, and the tightness in his chest gives a sharp, aching clench.

IV.

Geralt and Jaskier end up at the same party completely by accident, really. The Witcher didn’t even know that the bard was in town; the last he’d heard of Jaskier’s recent exploits had him giving a guest lecture at Oxenfurt. Geralt had been passing through Temeria when he was approached and none-too-kindly asked to attend the king’s banquet. Geralt had almost turned the offer down—he didn’t like being seen as some novelty to be ogled at—but the promise of good food and decent drink didn’t sound horrendous, and besides. The king had demanded it, and Geralt really didn’t want to deal with the bloodshed that could’ve resulted from his refusal.

So he begrudgingly attended, and did his best to stick to the outskirts of the collection of boisterous ladies and lords that had amassed in the banquet hall. He’d seen Jaskier the moment the bard stepped into the room—sporting a golden doublet and a beaming grin—and Jaskier had seen him almost as quickly. There’d been a flicker of surprise, but then Jaskier was being asked to play a song to start things off, and he’d busied himself with performing.

The food is good, Geralt will grant that much, and the wine is some of the best that he’d consumed in a long time. He’s ribbed for a story or two by curious nobles, and Geralt tells them enough to pass for stiff politeness and little else. Jaskier had always been the one to fill in the details. Besides, Geralt finds that he doesn’t like telling them to the men who appear to only listen until they feel insecure in their own manhood.

Jaskier wasn’t like that, Geralt finds himself thinking. Jaskier listened for other reasons. Always attentive. Always… enthralled. Even when he was “stingy with the details”, as the bard often accused.

The party has stretched for hours when Jaskier finally takes a break and Geralt sees him starting to weave through the drunken crowd towards him. Geralt takes a long swallow of wine and arcs an eyebrow at the bard as he approaches. Jaskier smells of honeysuckle and sweat, his doublet open to reveal the light blue shirt underneath.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright, but there’s a slight crease between his brows. “How are you managing, Geralt?” he asks, with far more sincerity than Geralt is prepared for.

Geralt arcs a brow at him.

Jaskier just tilts his head, then gestures vaguely to the drunken dancing the attendees are doing. “It seemed a question worth asking, given tonight. It’s rather loud, even for me, and Temeria always overseasons their food in my opinion, not to mention the smells involved what with sweat and ale and food. I can’t imagine the assault it is on your… Witchery senses.”

Geralt stops, blinking at him. Jaskier was worried that he—a Witcher—was… overwhelmed? Geralt wonders if he should be insulted, but he isn’t. There’s an odd feeling in his gut, something warm that isn’t alcohol, that stirs at Jaskier’s explanation. Geralt doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at him.

Jaskier holds his hands up as if in surrender. “Forgive me for checking in on a friend.” He drops his hands, the tilt to his head returning and his gaze… softening somehow. “You’ll tell me, though, won’t you, Geralt? If it gets to be too much?”

Suddenly, that soft, concerned look in the bard’s eyes is too much. Geralt looks away and distracts himself by taking a swallow of wine. “Hm,” he agrees.

Geralt hears Jaskier scream something that sounds almost like his name before he even feels the bite. The sharp jaws clench around his thigh and Geralt grits his teeth, swinging blindly with the silver sword. It makes contact with the basilisk enough to make it shriek and pull back. But it already released venom, and Geralt feels it pulse with a blinding pain.

His vision swims. His knees buckle, slamming into the stone floor of the cavern.

“Fuck.” The world tilts sideways as the rest of him falls.

A voice, high and panicked and oddly familiar, is yelling something distantly. Far away. Too far away to help him, really.

He has to get up. He has to. Geralt grinds his teeth and pushes against the ground with as much strength as he can manage. He gets his chest off the ground but his legs won’t cooperate and then suddenly someone is leaping over him and snatching the silver sword beside him.

“You want him? You’re gonna have to go through me, fucker.”

Jaskier?

Geralt watches in a haze as the bard lunges at the basilisk with the silver sword in his hands.

“Jaskier!” he shouts, because the bard is stupid and reckless and he is going to get killed.

But the bard doesn’t respond, and Geralt watches as the blade flashes in the dark cavern. The Witcher struggles to push himself up but now his arms won’t even support him and he’s going to die, but first the world is going to make him watch Jaskier die and that thought fills Geralt with a cold, desperate dread.

“Jaskier!”

There’s a sick squelching sound and when Geralt looks, he sees the bard is up against the creature with the hilt of his sword buried into the basilisk’s chest. It screeches and thrashes, and Geralt’s breath chokes in his throat. But Jaskier is nothing if not nimble, and he rolls to avoid the wings that whip around towards him. The screeching gets louder for a moment. The creature stumbles. Collapses.

There’s a sudden, echoing silence that is filled only with the sound of Jaskier’s labored breathing and, at least for Geralt, his pounding heartbeat.

“Jask—” Geralt rasps, wanting to ask if he’s injured but his voice cutting out with the sharp burst of pain as the venom seizes.

He’s going to die.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier is suddenly right above him. When did that happen?

Geralt feels Jaskier brush a hand back through his hair and cup his head. Something is getting pushed against his lips.

“Drink it, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, so softly that Geralt wonders—perhaps deliriously—if the bard is even aware that he’s just called Geralt darling, of all things.

When he looks back on this moment, Geralt will say that the venom coursing through his system made his thoughts hazy and his will pliable. That his weakened state is why the warmth in his chest happens even before the potion Jaskier is forcing to his lips reaches his mouth. It has nothing to do with that term Jaskier used.

Nothing at all.

VI.

It’s the soft gasp that really gets Geralt’s attention, causing him to halt Roach and glance at the bard beside him. They have maybe about two hours before sundown and had spent most of the day traveling along this road headed towards Kaedwen. Jaskier had filled most of the long hours with aimless chatter and half-composed songs. Geralt half-listened, grateful for the familiarity of the lilt in the bard’s voice even if he wasn’t constantly tuned in to the precise words the bard happened to be rambling on about. He’d missed the way Jaskier filled the silence since their parting after the dragon hunt.

Then Jaskier’s musings had broken off with a sudden, sharp inhale.

“Oh, Geralt, look!” Jaskier breathes with surprising reverence. Geralt doesn’t have time to ask the bard what caught his attention before he’s rushing off into the field of wildflowers just ahead of them, nearly 70 yards away.

The Witcher goes to call out to him, but something makes the bard’s name die in his throat. He watches as Jaskier spreads his arms out as he rushes into the expanse of yellow and violet and blue. The sun sits low in the sky and frames him in a soft halo of light as he rushes delightedly through the flowers. Geralt’s chest warms slightly.

Jaskier looks over his shoulder at him then, like he can sense it, and offers Geralt a dazzlingly bright smile. He kneels then, in the middle of the field as if he’s about to meditate, and his fingers brushing softly against the petals of the flowers around him before he flops onto his back. Sinks into the flowers around him.

Geralt had never really known what it meant to love. He’d read once that most people learn of love from their parents when they’re children, but his own mother had abandoned him to become a Witcher—a process so few boys survived that, really, she might as well have abandoned him to die. Geralt refuses to believe that was what love was supposed to look like. Or how it was supposed to feel.

Earlier in his life, Geralt used to ask. He’d see couples who claimed to be in love, and he’d wonder what that meant. What did it feel like, because Geralt didn’t know. The answers others provided to him were either full of derision—what does it matter, Witcher? You’re not capable of it anyway—or too vague to be of any help—it’s just something you feel, I think.

Then he met Jaskier, who seemed to be brimming with love all the time it was a wonder the bard didn’t burst. He sang songs that talked of love in romantic, elaborate metaphors that Geralt understood at surface level, but that gave him a bit of a headache when he thought too long about them. Jaskier seemed to understand this concept of love so readily and intrinsically that it was, in truth, a little intimidating.

But when Jaskier sits up as Geralt approaches him—flower petals and grass clinging to his hair, his blue eyes sparkling in the near-setting sun, a warm and content smile gracing his lips—the thought whispers unassuming in Geralt’s mind.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what love feels like.

VII.

“You, Princess, are beginning to take after Geralt with the amount of brooding you’ve been doing today,” Jaskier chimes lightly, but Geralt looks up and sees the crease of concern between his brows. “And that will simply not do, because I can’t very well be surrounded by brooding, angst-ridden individuals, now can I?”

Geralt glances over at Yennefer, who merely arcs an unimpressed eyebrow at the bard. The cottage Yennefer had recently taken up residence in was small and unassuming on the outside. It seemed larger on the inside, more spacious, and Geralt knew it to be the work of an enchantment set on by the sorceress. Ever since Sodden, Yennefer had needed to be careful in her own right about avoiding and evading the ever-growing presence of Nilfgaard. She moved every few months, but had taken Ciri under her wing the past few weeks to teach her control her “chaos”, as she’d called it. Geralt called it magic.

They’d been dropping by to check in before moving on, and Jaskier’s comment wasn’t off the mark. Geralt had noticed it as well.

There were days when Ciri’s quietness rivaled the Witcher’s own. Where the Lion Cub of Cintra seemed saddled with a weight too heavy for a girl of her age. On those days, Geralt thinks he understands more than most would—the dullness in her icy blue eyes is brought on by the fog of grief of losing everyone she loved in a night and watching her city burn as she fled. It reminds the Witcher of how he’d felt following sacking of Kaer Morhen.

But just because Geralt understands doesn’t mean he’s known what to do on those days. He hates it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to help her, because nobody had been there to help him.

Ciri glances up at Jaskier from where she sits beside Geralt. “I just… miss home, Jaskier. That’s all.”

Jaskier’s lips press together in thought, his head tilting slightly. Geralt watches as something brightens in his eyes before he says, “Well, I have just the thing for that.” He glances over. “Yennefer?”

The sorceress looks as surprised as Geralt feels, but Jaskier just quirks a brow at her and Yen smiles faintly before inclining her head. Geralt doesn’t have a clue what silent request the bard has made, but he starts strumming a familiar song on the lute in his hands for several seconds—it’s upbeat, and though Geralt can’t place the title of it, he knows he recognizes it as one of Jaskier’s jigs. A few seconds go by, and then Jaskier’s fingers stop plucking at the strings but the music continues to fill the space.

Jaskier grins, and when Geralt glances at Yennefer, he sees that she’s got a faint smile as well.

The bard sets the lute aside and jumps gracefully to his feet. He extends a hand out to Ciri, his smile soft and sincere. “Will you dance with me, princess?”

Ciri hesitates for only a moment before she takes Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s grin brightens, and the two of them fall into a dance that Geralt recognizes as one usually done at court amidst nobility. It doesn’t surprise Geralt that Jaskier knows the dances of court—he has to play them often enough so it makes sense to Geralt that he would also know the steps—but a part of him is surprised when he hears Ciri laughing.

As she and Jaskier spin in circles and the bard adds an extra flourish to one of his steps, Ciri smiles and laughs and something in Geralt’s chest gives a sharp squeeze. Jaskier grins back at her, looking as relieved and content at the spark of mirth in her eyes as Geralt feels, and the Witcher feels a very slight, and unexpected lump in his throat.

VIII.

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Will you let me try something?”

The question is asked surprisingly quietly in the dark forest around them, barely louder than the crackling fire between them. Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier would be speaking so quietly, but a part of him counts it as a small mercy. Because the pressure behind his eyes that had started this morning had steadily grown to a dull throb up through the top of Geralt’s skull by mid-morning. By late afternoon, the headache wasn’t quite so dull anymore.

Geralt hadn’t seen a need to say anything about it, though. He just rode on Roach and tried to not squint too much against the blinding sunlight that made his head spike. Jaskier had seemed to lose steam in conversation as Geralt was even more unwilling to engage with him than normal. He hoped the bard wasn’t too offended, as by the early evening, it was really all Geralt could do to stay upright on Roach and keep moving forward.

“A new song?” Geralt muses, and carefully manages to keep the internal wince off his face.

Jaskier huffs something that’s almost a laugh. “No. Just… here.” He turns to the bag beside him and rummages through it. Geralt watches in the dim light of the fire as the bard pulls out a small cloth and a vial. He dampens the cloth with part of the contents, then pushes himself to his feet and crosses over. He kneels beside him.

There’s something soft in his eyes, Geralt thinks. Or maybe it’s just the way his face is shadowed that makes his eyes look bigger than normal. “Close your eyes, Geralt.”

And Geralt does. He tries to tell himself it’s because even the firelight is too much with this pounding in his head, but he knows it’s not just that. It’s such a simple, easy request and it’s Jaskier that makes it. So Geralt lets his eyes fall shut.

He feels Jaskier drape the cloth over his face. “Breathe in for me.”

He does. It’s lavender oil, he realizes. The scent is faint, diluted—careful to not be too overpowering, even given his enhanced sense of smell—but it blocks out most other scents around him. Geralt feels part of his jaw untense just a fraction.

“That’s it. Keep breathing.”

He feels Jaskier’s hands brush against his temples, then a slight nudge and some shifting and suddenly, Geralt is being guided to rest his head against something softer than the log it had been on a moment ago. Jaskier’s lap. Through the lavender, this close, Geralt can smell the faint honeysuckle traces that seemed to cling to the bard.

“Let me help,” Jaskier whispers in the dark, and then his fingers are moving deftly against Geralt’s temple, gradually up through his scalp, encouraging Geralt to breathe.

Through the ease of his muscles and the lightening of the tension in his head, Geralt becomes aware that somehow, Jaskier had known exactly what was wrong. Geralt is sure he hadn’t said anything about it, and a headache is hardly a life-or-death situation. But Jaskier knew and, more than that…

Let me help.

The Witcher feels a little dizzy all of a sudden and so abruptly vulnerable that it scares him a little bit. It sends a jolt of something sharp and electric up through his core but Geralt swallows down the urge to pull away because… it’s nice. This softness, this gentleness that Geralt does not and has never deserved is offered so willingly, and Geralt cannot bring himself to pull away.

Instead, he breathes and listened to Jaskier’s fluttering heartbeat.

IX.

Geralt feels the drops hit the top of his head seconds before the rain begins a steady sprinkle. Geralt isn’t shocked, exactly. The sky had been a flat overcast since this morning, and he could smell the promise of rain clinging in the air as he and Jaskier had gathered herbs about a mile outside of the village they were staying for the time being.

But then the sprinkle turns to a downpour. “Fuck,” Geralt sighs under his breath.

He glances over at the bard beside him, who a moment ago had been rambling about his recent lecture at Oxenfurt regarding the role of narrative music in shaping cultural perspective. Geralt had a feeling that the bard had, in fact, just delivered the exact speech to the Witcher, but he hadn’t minded. Not when Jaskier’s voice carried that familiar, melodic lilt that underscored his excitement and passion on the subject.

There’s a teasing mirth in Jaskier’s bright blue eyes that eases into something softer. Geralt doesn’t know why. For a moment, it looks like the bard—for once—is lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t speak aloud. It’s… unusual.

Geralt opens his mouth to ask him or tease him—he’s honestly not sure which is about to pass from his lips—when Jaskier cuts him off.

“And you thought the lute case was a poor investment. Well, how do you feel now, Geralt?” Jaskier sets his hand on the strap across his chest, almost protectively. “We still have a mile to go before shelter, and such time for a lute to spend in rain like this…” He shakes his head, his dark hair dripping rainwater onto his nose. “It would be nothing short of an absolute, irrevocable tragedy.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, because perhaps the bard has a point. A raindrop unceremoniously drips into Geralt’s eye and he blinks, then shoots a glare up at the sky.

“Not a fan of the rain?” Jaskier asks.

The truth is, Geralt isn’t a fan of the rain. Not really. It makes it harder to see, and it clings to his lashes in a way that makes his already sensitive eyes sting a bit. Which isn’t anything he can’t handle—he’s done it hundreds of times before, he’ll do it hundreds of times yet to come—but the rain would also wash away most of the tracks he’d been hoping to follow later this evening to the kikimora that was terrorizing the town.

“It will make it harder to track—what are you doing?” Geralt cuts himself off when he looks back at the bard, who is half-way to shedding his violet doublet. Jaskier finishes pulling out of it. His dark blue shirt underneath is immediately drenched.

Unfazed, Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You left your cloak back at the inn and I know, though you will adamantly deny it, that the real reason you hate the rain is because it gets into your eyes and makes it harder for your sensitive, Witchery eyes to see. So, here.” He holds the garment out, his gaze looking down the road ahead of them.

Geralt stares at it. This was… ridiculous. Jaskier was sacrificing his own comfort so that Geralt could… what, block some of the rain a bit easier? Not only did Jaskier gain nothing from this but he actively lost something in the name of Geralt’s comfort and… the Witcher doesn’t know what to do with that. It was such a small, simple gesture but there’s a weight to it that Geralt cannot ignore.

Something heavy, warm, soft sits in his stomach as he stares at it.

“Jaskier…”

“Honestly, Geralt, you’ll be doing me a favor. Wet doublets are dreadfully heavy, and as I am already saddled with carrying the weight of this lute and your reputation…” Jaskier glances back then and offers a smile.

It’s a flimsy attempt to make Geralt feel better about accepting Jaskier’s simple selflessness. A part of Geralt wants to refuse. But when Jaskier is smiling at him like that, offering such a small piece of him that doesn’t feel that small to Geralt… well. Geralt finds himself taking the doublet from his hands gently.

And if Jaskier spins away to welcome the rainfall as Geralt holds the doublet above his head to shield the rain, well. Maybe that heavy, warm, soft feeling spreads through him in a way that makes the rain feel not quite so cold and annoying.

Geralt hears it first. There’s the sound of something snapping with a flash of green light behind him and it’s all less than a second but Geralt still feels that he should have been faster.

Because he looks over his shoulder, sees Jaskier hit the ground with the sound breaking bones echoing in his ears.

Jaskier screams.

“JASKIER!” Geralt roars, but panic closes his throat in the next moment. He slashes viciously at the figure in front of him, and the head of the injured soldier in front of him rolls off his shoulders. Geralt growls low in his throat—Jaskier is silent and Geralt is shaking—and hurls the knife at his belt towards the mage almost blindly.

It sinks between her eyes. The sting of copper in the air barely registers to the Witcher because all he can focus on—all he can smell—is the acrid, sharp scent of pain that radiates from Jaskier on the forest floor, several feet away. Geralt’s eyes snap to him before the mage has even hit the ground and he sees the way Jaskier is trembling so hard he’s vibrating but at least he’s moving. At least he’s breathing.

Geralt makes sure the mage isn’t, and then he’s sprinting the short distance to Jaskier and sliding to him on his knees. Jaskier is on his side, his back to the Witcher. As gently as he can, Geralt places a hand on his shoulder and rolls the bard onto his back.

Jaskier whimpers, his face ashen, and the sound turns Geralt’s stomach. The bard’s eyes clench shut.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s slow-beating heart is hammering so loud and so hard he wonders if the bard can hear it. This close, the scent of Jaskier’s pain is so pungent and potent that it clogs Geralt’s throat. He dove in front of a spell for you, a voice hisses in Geralt’s mind. That pain should be yours.

“Fuck,” Jaskier manages to wheeze out weakly.

“What the fuck were you thinking, you goddamn idiot?�� Geralt grits out, and his voice very nearly breaks. It’s the wrong thing to say—Geralt always says the wrong things. Always, always, always. And always when he’s afraid. But it’s the only ones of the words he can think to say that will push past his tight throat.

“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier replies, his own voice strained but for a different reason, “you’re quite lucky I love you, or else I might be insulted.”

The words echo in Geralt’s mind. I love you, I love you, I love you. Over and over and over. They ring with an ease and sincerity, because Jaskier never did anything by halves, even when he may be dying. Dying. And Geralt feels something breaking inside of him.

And still, the words repeat. I love you, I love you, I love you—Until the words sound less like Jaskier and a lot more like his mind repeating it back to the bard.

“Jask,” he whispers, his throat too tight to even get the bard’s full name out. His hands are shaking a bit, but he thinks Jaskier won’t mind, and he brushes his hand against Jaskier’s face. “You can’t—you…” He can’t just… just say things like that, so boldly, so cavalier.

With a courage that Geralt cannot match.

“Fuck,” he says instead. Because the words that flood him cannot find their way through his chest to his lips.

His swirling thoughts cut out as he sees Jaskier try suddenly to push himself up. Mindful of the damage to the human’s ribcage, Geralt lets the hand on his face slip to the back of the bard’s neck and grabs his less-injured arm to ease him up. Then Geralt just holds on tight. An irrational part of Geralt thinks that if he lets go, Jaskier might really slip from him in a way that Geralt cannot fix.

The Witcher breathes in, and the sharp scent of Jaskier’s pain is starting to lift. Jaskier offers a faint smile. “Not a lethal spell, it would seem.”

A distant part of Geralt goes a little weak with relief. The rest of him wants to shake the bard. “You didn’t know that,” he snaps. Because Jaskier didn’t, he’d just decided to dive in front of a spell that could have been anything. He could have… he almost…

“A moot point, really, Geralt.”

And that… that hurts, in a different kind of way. There’s no regret in Jaskier voice or his scent or his eyes. He would do it again, Geralt knows this, and it terrifies him. Jaskier would risk himself for Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head a little and starts to reply, to ask why, but the breath he takes still has that haze of acridity to it. He frowns instead. “You’re still hurt,” he says. It’s not a question.

Jaskier then has the audacity to wave a dismissive hand. “Some broken ribs.”

“Hm.” He could help with those, he thinks. His gaze flickers over Jaskier’s chest. He knows how to help with those injuries. The spell wasn’t lethal. Geralt should be feeling relieved and a small part of him is. The rest of him feels like the ground has shifted beneath him and Geralt still doesn’t know how to hold himself steady. I love you, Jaskier’s voice echoes in his mind, but it only makes Geralt feel a little more cracked open. Because maybe Jaskier didn’t mean it. Maybe it was just something he said in the throes of dying--

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, so unbearably soft. He instinctively meets the bard’s gaze. Jaskier’s bright blue eyes are remarkably steady. “I meant it, you know. I do. Love you, I mean.”

Geralt’s breath hitches in his throat. Because here was this remarkably fragile person who had followed him across the Continent for years, had seen the absolute worst that Geralt had to offer… this person who radiated warmth and light and love, so much love, and was everything Geralt wasn’t, and was saying these words so easily. Geralt’s fear had come true—Jaskier’s light had seen the darkest parts of him, but Jaskier chose to love him anyway.

“Jaskier,” he manages, and his own voice has never sounded quite so weak to his own ears. He leans forward until his forehead is against Jaskier because Jaskier was that beacon of light calling to him. Grounding him. “I… fuck.” He can’t find the words again. “Fuck.”

He does the only thing he can think to do in this moment, to try to convey all the words he can’t find. He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s, softly. Afraid to demand or hurt, afraid, afraid, afraid. So he presses his dry, cracked lips against Jaskier’s impossibly soft ones. Questions he dare not ask taste like salt that he passes to Jaskier’s own, and Jaskier answers with silent promises and a breathless little huff of contentment.

Jaskier is more than a beacon. He is a lighthouse, calling Geralt home. And Geralt cannot help but feel that he’d follow that light to the ends of the world.

#geraskier #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #witcher fanfic #cursing #in which geralt struggles with feelings #and then is overwhelmed by how much he cares #is that he jaskier or geralt himself? you ask #the answer is yes to both

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chasseurdeloup-retired · 4 years

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Hallucinations and Salutations || Leah and Kaden

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The woods PARTIES: @phoenixleah and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: Kaden goes hunting in the woods and finds a phoenix instead of ballybogs.

Somedays Kaden wished he could just ignore what he knew, just stay at home and maybe have a nice, normal relaxing night, warm and comfortable, dog curled up beside him. That wasn’t his life though. So here he was, walking through the woods. There were reports of large frogs along one of the hiking trails in the woods. In isolation, not terrible news. Weird but fine. However, the reports also said that some of the people who crossed their path ended up in the hospital with symptoms of poisoning. If Kaden had to guess, he was pretty sure once he got there, he’d find ballybogs. He could have let it lie stayed home. Sure, it was winter, there were less hikers than normal, but that didn’t mean no hikers. He could have just closed the path. No, instead he was going to take care of the problem personally. He’d made sure to wear gloves and a scarf wrapped around his face and hat. He really should have brought goggles, too, to protect himself from the poison but he hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. And he wasn’t sure he had any. Along the way, he heard a heartbeat up ahead and paused. There was no way to tell for sure what sort of creature it belonged to just by that, but the rhythm and the footfalls certainly suggested human. He fucking hoped. “Hello?” he called out, voice muffled by the scarf. “Anyone here?”

Despite the rain’s miserable qualities, there was always something special about a walk through the forest after a storm. The way the puddles settled on the ground, like temporary pools of reflection that begged to be explored or splashed in. Leah, of course, would never venture close enough to something so dangerous to her, but they were certainly nice to look at. Especially now, when they seemed to be dancing, swirling different shades of blue throughout them. If she were being honest with herself, she didn’t even know how she ended up here, or why she was in the forest on this particular day. A more lucid version of herself might have explained that she was attempting to get back on her feet and exploring the forest alone like she always did seemed like the best way to do that. It had been working, too, until she came across a rather large toad that she immediately recognized as a ballybog. A ballybog who viewed her as a threat and shot some of it’s poison right onto her face. That didn’t matter now, though, because the puddles colors were still dancing, intoxicating and bright, and she wondered what kind of unknown magic they possessed. A voice she recognized shook her out of her thoughts, it echoed through the trees around her. She looked up, spotting the most annoying person on the planet. “You again?!”, she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I’m trying to watch the show in peace, Kaden. Is nothing sacred anymore?” Behind him, a dog was juggling on a unicycle, and she scoffed out a short laugh. “Is that yours?” she asked looking beyond him.

Of all the people to find out here, it was Leah. Kaden thought about rolling his eyes and walking away, he was sure she wanted nothing to do with him anyway, but she beat him to the punch. At least on the former part. He still was planning to opt for the latter himself but her words threw him off. “Again?” he asked, scrunching his brow. “Leah, what the fuck are you talking about? A show?” He glanced behind him, following her finger and gaze, only to see nothing there. He whipped back to look at her. “Is what mine? Leah are you al--” The pieces came together and Kaden sighed. He was out here looking for ballybogs. Either the librarian was off her rocker, or, more likely, she found the monsters first. “You know what, you’re right. Nothing is sacred. In fact, I’m here to take you to the show,” he said reaching his hand out to her. “Come on, we have to get out here.” Before more ballybogs found them. She was clearly already under the influence and the last thing they needed was for him to fall under, too. “It’s, uh, it’s not-- I mean, the show is… somewhere else. Not here,” he said, trying to play along. Only he had no idea what he was working with. Or if she was going to trust him in the slightest.

“The show is there, you Indagor,” Leah said, pointing to the puddle of rainbow colors. If only she had seen that type of representation when she was a young teen. Still, she looked to his hand and reached to grab it, something about it seeming warm and inviting. Warm, warm, warm. She gasped, realizing his trick almost instantly. “No!” she shouted at him, pulling her hand back just before it grabbed his. “You may not feel my skin. It is no warmer than yours!” She rolled her eyes, stuffing her hands into her pockets and swallowing, anxious about how close that had been. Was Kaden here to steal her tears, then? She furrowed her eyebrows at his words, looking to the rainbow puddle. Was this just the pre-show? She turned to him again, suspicious, but taking a few steps in his direction. “I’ll allow you to show me, but don’t think you’re getting any tears out of me, buddy.” She should really try to be nicer to him- he was Bea’s friend and someone Regan liked to kiss, for some reason. “I like your beret and striped shirt”, she muttered stubbornly as she walked behind him. “You must get along so well with the other mimes.”

“In-da-what?” Kaden said, brow furrowing. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. Clearly his attempts to persuade her wasn’t working. The hallucinogen from the ballybog was too strong. At least he hoped like hell that’s all this was. “Fine. I won’t take your hand,” he said, holding his hands up in a bit of surrender. It would be so much easier to just leave her there and walk away but no part of him could ever actually leave someone behind like that, let alone someone he knew. “Tears? Putain, did our conversations before make you cry or something? Why would I want you crying? I just want to get you out of, uh, the way. Out of the way of the performance.” He hoped this would work. Hell, at least she was following him. That was something. “My what?!” He stopped dead in his tracks and she ran into his back before he turned to look at her. “I am not a mime. I’ve never been a mime. And I’d sooner die than be a mime, got it?” He didn’t care if she was practically high, he wasn’t going to stand for this slander.

“Inda-goooooor”. Leah sang out the last syllable, holding her hands out triumphantly as she walked closer to Kaden. “They’re monsters that look like buttholes and never leave you alone. It was rude to call you that, but sometimes that’s just. How. I. Feel.” A wave of relief overtook her when he relented and seemed to not need to feel her skin just yet. Perhaps there was a way she could distract him long enough to get away, just in case he got that idea in his head again. She furrowed her eyebrows at Kaden, his words jumbling and stretching and mixing together. There was no deciphering what he was saying, and suddenly, concern overtook her features. “Kaden, Bud, you doing alright? None of that coming out of your mouth sounds like words.” She watched the ground as she walked behind him, fascinated by how all the little people down there managed to create such intricate choreography on the spot. As she walked into him, she let out a grunt, reaching for her collarbone and rubbing it, though none of the pain she’d been used to appeared. “If you’re not a mime, then why are you dressed like that?”, she mumbled under her breath. Hearing calming music in the distance, she looked beyond Kaden, noticing a creature dancing in a rather large puddle a few paces ahead of them. “Now that is fascinating!” she said, squinting her eyes to get a better look. “Is that the show?”

“Putain de merde, really?” Kaden said with a sigh. Of course she was insulting him with rare supernatural lore. That was about the only thing that made sense right now. “Pick a simpler insult next time, alright?” For a moment, he considered asking her how she knew all this, where she got those supernatural books she had at the ready. She was clearly under the influence of the ballybog poison, she might tell him. But even if he did ask, there was no guarantee anything she said would be coherent. And even if it was, he was damn sure he didn’t want to be the sort of person to even ask right about now. “What do you mean it doesn’t sound like words?” he asked. Well that made it clear now was not the time for any conversation. He needed to get them out of these woods and get her home in one piece. Quickly.

Kaden’s brow furrowed as she mentioned mimes. Why was it always the fucking mimes? “Dressed like what?” He looked down at his clothes, checked his shirt. It was flannel. And his jacket was black. Nothing was striped. He was damn sure of that, he would never willingly walk out of the house wearing black and white stripes. But it was nice to see that Rumpleskuffs hadn’t messed with his wardrobe on his way out the door. What wasn’t great to see was Leah leaning over into a puddle that had a hand rising up from it. “Leah!” Kaden shouted as he reached to grab her and yanked her away from whatever the hell was crawling out of the water. It was strange how warm she was given how cold it was outside. Maybe the poison was giving her a fever. Merde, they had to get out of there. “Come on, we’ve gotta g--” His words were cut off by a scream as he felt something wrap around his ankle, trying to drag him down and backwards.

Leah nodded, satisfied with herself. She wasn’t sure if his frustrated mention of poutine was due to the fact that she was definitely smarter than him, or if he was just that upset that there weren’t any fries around. Either way, his reaction was funny, and a snorted laugh escaped her. Normally, she would have been mortified at such a loss of composure in front of someone she was not at all comfortable with. “I mean you’re talking all jumbled up, almost like a song. Remember the mirror house at the summer carnival? You sound like that.”

“You know… all stripped. Red Scarf. Beret. Face paint. Isn’t that the mime uniform?” She said as she walked over to the puddle creature to get a better look. She was sure she was a safe distance away, and huffed in annoyance when Kaden made the dramatic move to yank her away. She turned around to face him when he screamed, looking him up and down with concern. First, his words were jumbled up, and now he was screaming. Clearly something was wrong with him, they really needed to get him to this show to calm him down. After staring and searching for a while, her eyes fell to his feet, and to the hand wrapped around his ankle. “Oh look! That’s weird. That thing looks like it’s trying to pull you into the puddle.” She furrowed her eyebrows, watching as the hand danced around Kaden’s ankle, coaxing and curling and cunning. It seemed familiar, like the horror stories about water monsters she and her siblings used to tease each other with when they were children, prompting fear in her belly after every rainstorm that plagued White Crest. She shook her head, snapping out of her thoughts, and focused again on the man in front of her. The mime clothes were gone, but Kaden’s face was filled with distress. She licked her lips, stepping forward to grab his hands, attempting to pull him away from the monster in the puddle. “Don’t worry Kaden, the water won’t kill you like it would us, but the monster’s teeth probably will.” Her feet were getting dangerously close to the puddle as well, but she was too focused on pulling Kaden to safety (and maybe too high on ballybog) to realize. She tried as she pulled to place the name of the monster- Voltron, Virginia, VapidHunterMan- “Vodnik!”. Saying the name aloud stirred something deep within her, and her eyes locked with Kaden, concern suddenly lacing her features.

Kaden didn’t have time to question her about whatever strange mime illusions she was seeing. Not now, not as he felt himself being dragged down towards a puddle. “The water won’t what?!” he shouted back as he clawed at the ground and rocks and roots, trying to find something to hold on to, anything to pull himself out of the iron grip around his ankle. His heart pounded in his chest, what a fucking shitty time for Leah to be under the influence of a hallucinogenic supernatural frog. Would she even reach out to take his hand? Even try to help? His eyes grew wide as he watched her, chest heaving as he dug his fingernails deeper into the dirt, trying with all his might to keep himself from being yanked away. It was possible that even if she were in her right mind, she’d leave him there. If he found the breath to speak again, maybe he should tell her to run. At least one of them would make it out alive that way. Then he felt her hands around his and his head shot up to meet her gaze. She was helping? Right, she was helping. He did his best to help let her guide him away from the monster, hoping she was strong enough to at least afford him some leverage as he kicked backwards, flailing to hit whatever it was trying to pull him away. “Vodnick?” he said on an exhale? Putain. A fucking vodnick? Shit fucking shit.

Kaden scrambled even more, got his free foot square on the ground and used it to push himself forward, out of the monster’s grip. He tumbled to the ground, landing on his side, shoulder sliding through the mud and grime of the forest floor. He groaned as he stood up and straightened himself out. It looked like the monster was gone. For now. But they were surrounded by puddles. And one of them, maybe all of them, contained a monster. “We have to get out of here. N--” Before he could say now, a roar split through the forest and a creature burst up from the ground, water splaying and spraying around it. Kaden threw himself in front of Leah like a human shield, reaching for his knife. It felt small and pointless against the growling creature but he was going to do his best. Not what he came prepared to fight, but he was damn sure his training wasn’t about to let him down now.

Leah pulled and pulled with all her might, her eyes now traveling between Kaden’s face and the monster that threatened to pull him deeper, deeper, deeper. It was hard to focus, because his face morphed and twisted as she pulled, like the puddle she was looking at earlier, but with more less color and more eyes. When Kaden was finally free, she plopped back onto the ground with a grunt, feeling the slight sludge of mud underneath her. What an interesting texture- she had an urge to reach out and touch it with her- No….Mud wasn’t good- mud meant moisture, and moisture meant water, and water definitely meant ouch. It was a better idea to reach for Kaden next to her for support as she stood up, and that’s exactly what she did. Although he was saying something, Leah barely registered it, instead focusing on the trees that swayed and danced behind him. She was about halfway to standing when the monster roared out, but it wasn’t the noise that gained her attention. Small droplets of water made contact with her arm and a harsh, sizzling noise could be heard underneath the roar. She cried out, covering the skin with her hand, eyes wide as she looked between it, Kaden, and the Vodnik. There was something about the pain from the splash that sobered her up considerably, though only enough to cause her complete confusion in what around her was real. She grabbed the small of Kaden’s back as he jumped in front of her to shield herself, the gravity of the situation finally sinking in.

“I can’t-... Don’t let it… It wants to get me we-” Her words were cut off by another cry of pain as a wet, slimy hand wrapped itself around her ankle from behind them. Water from the creature’s hand soaked through her jeans immediately, and the stinging from it hurt worse than she expected it to. There were always times growing up that she’d had the occasional contact with water, it was almost inevitable, especially living in White Crest, but something about this felt heavy and elevated, so much so that she didn’t bother hiding the pain from Kaden like she normally would. As it attempted to pull her down, Leah was thrown to the ground. She thrashed and struggled, attempting to get away before she was submerged. “Kaden!”, she cried, her voice fearful and desperate. “I can’t get wet! I ca- don’t let it take me, ...p-please!”

Kaden kept his eyes in font of him. Which was his first mistake. The vodnik had shifted behind them and the hunter twisted back to face the screams from behind him. “Leah!” he shouted as he saw her being pulled down. Shit, she was on the ground before Kaden had a chance to figure out what was going on. Putain de merde. He reached out to grab her back and missed her at first. Shit, the knife was in the way. He dropped it and tried again, gripping her hands and wrists, pulling her away from the monster. “Hold on! I’ve got-- What?” His brow furrowed at her shouts that she couldn’t get wet and nearly loosened his grip as she slid back. Shit, shit. He threw himself towards the monster and her ankle and started prying the beast’s grip off her. Still, it didn’t make sense. Vodniks didn’t secrete acid, did they? It was just water. Why was she afraid of it? Putain, didn’t matter, he’d figure that out later. Right now he needed to get her away from harm and kill this fucking monster.

Kaden’s mind raced as he tore the monster away from Leah. Vodik. Shit, had to run through his memory for what he knew about them. Water monsters. Great, that was obvious. Came out of any water, right he saw that right now. Weaknesses, what the fuck were their weaknesses? He was pretty sure anything would kill them, nothing specific needed. But there had to be a catch. There was always a catch.

Putain. That was right. “We have to get it out of the water. Back up!” he shouted once she was free. Kaden then reached into the puddle before it tried to slink away and dragged the beast from the water. A shiver ran down his spine as his hands touched the water, worse than any werewolf, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. He reached down for his knife, any knife, only to find it wasn’t there. Shit. “The knife!” he yelled, hoping she’d figure out to toss it over.

A searing pain continued to pulsate from Leah’s ankle, where the Vodnik’s hand was securely wrapped with no indication that it had any intention of giving in. In the depths of her mind, a monster like the Vodnik was always something she was most afraid of, and it was some sick twist of fate that she was stuck begging for help from someone she trusted so little. Still, she wrapped her arms around Kaden as he pulled her free, and for the first time, she was grateful he was a hunter. She couldn’t believe that thought had even crossed through her mind, but it was true- she just hoped she’d forget about it before she completely sobered up from whatever was making her feel so loopy.

As soon as she got her bearings about her, she backed up like he asked, being sure to avoid any other puddles dancing on the ground around them. The water still swirled and twisted inside, but it no longer looked inviting or entertaining. Something shiny caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, but she needed to deal with something much more important first. Sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth, she pulled at the wet jeans around her ankle, rolling them up to reveal her smoking skin underneath. The water from the Vodnik had done a number there, but it was nothing a few tears couldn’t fix. At least none of it had burned off- Kaden had gotten to her just in time. Kaden… was he speaking again? Whatever he said sounded hollow in her ears, like he was worlds away instead of 7 feet. She furrowed her eyebrows, trying to make out his words in slow motion. The knife. Oh! The knife! Did he lose it? She looked around her feet, trying to recall where she’d seen the shiny silver twinkle just moments before. “Ah!” she said when she finally located it, picking it up and turning to him triumphantly. Except, it wasn’t a knife she was holding at all, it was a twig.“The knife!”, she called, tossing it across the way to him.

His grip slipped and slid aas Kaden tried to hold onto the mossy, slimy monster that was thrashing against the grip of his arms. The vodnik wanted desperately to drag kaden back to the puddle, deep down into the murky waters and devour him. It tried to find a way to grab the hunter, pull him down. A chill shot through Kaden as he did his best to keep it contained, shoving his elbow into the monster, slamming his boots against any loose limb he saw. It wasn’t fear that brought the chill, though. It was something else. If only he had a fucking knife. He took a chance to glance back at Leah to see what the hell she was doing. That glance didn’t provide much answers, she was wandering around near aimlessly. “Putain! Any second now!” he yelled back as the monster clawed at him and roared. It was trying to grab onto his wrist, pull it away and drag him back.

Just when Kaden thought he’d have to reach for a rock and make shit up as he went along, his head shot back to see the knife flying towards him. He caught it and twisted it under hand, stabbing the monster in the gut, digging the blade deep into its flesh. The screech of pain that waled through the forest was loud, but Kaden had heard much worse. He kicked the thing away and leaned over to slit its throat, pulling the blade across swift and clean, before stabbing it in the heart for good fucking measure. It wasn’t long before the creature stopped writing and screaming and lay there in the forest dead. Certainly not the worst fight Kaden had endured, but all the same, he felt drained in a way he couldn’t explain. Like there was a fog around him and like he was freezing at the same time. “I don’t-- Are you--” he started to ask before he slunk back down to the ground to sit and hold his head. He needed the world to stop spinning. “Okay,” he managed to say at last. “Are you okay?”

Wait-... no. The twig knife Leah tried to throw fell halfway across with a plop, and she realized a moment later that the weight had been all off. Maybe whatever was making her feel loopy was making her see things as well. Focus, Leah. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep breath in before opening them again, noticing a glint under a few leaves a few feet away. “Sorry, I got it!”, she called grabbing the new knife and tossing it back and forth, making sure it was the right weight. “Here, this should be right!” she called to him, tossing it across to him, hoping she was right this time. She let out a breath of relief when he caught it deftly. There had never been any doubt in her mind that he’d been lying about being a hunter, but watching him do his work made her want to close her eyes and turn away, especially at the scream the creature let out- desperate and agonizing. It didn’t feel like Nell with the Ustra, or how she and the others had dealt with the reanimated corpses. The way Kaden killed the Vodnik felt much more final, but she supposed that when you were trained to kill your whole life, finality was to be expected.

The skin around ankle still stung like a bitch, and she still couldn’t tell up from down, but she was fine. “I’m okay”, she nodded, watching in concern as he slunk to the ground. She walked over to him quickly, and warm skin be damned, she placed her hands on his arms- gently, as if to get his attention. He was freezing, and something gnawed in the deep precipice of her memory, begging to come through. “Are you?”, she asked, tilting her head to try and make eye contact.

His first instinct was to push her away, refuse the help, soldier on by himself. It was what he always did, it was what he was supposed to do. But Kaden didn’t have enough energy to fight her help. He couldn’t tell if her skin was warmer than usual or if he was just that cold but it almost hurt it was so warm against his skin. The exact opposite of what he was used to whenever Regan or Morgan touched him. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. The thing was dead. That meant he should be okay. “We have to get out of here, there could be more. And the bally--” Kaden tried to push himself up off the forest floor and start marching ahead, but the trees looked sideways and his head was light and dizzy so he reached out to brace himself on her shoulder, trying to steady the world. It didn’t do a whole lot of good. “Back. Have to. Get there.”

“Woah, okay… Kaden, you need to stay sitting”, Leah said, trying to guide him back down. “You’re… not, we-...” The bally. Ballybogs? That certainly explained why nothing seemed to make sense… had she had a run in with one before Kaden found her? She looked back at him, her face questioning and full of concern. “There’s something… we’re forgetting something, Kaden… it’s why you’re all out of whack.” Something about Vodniks that would explain why Kaden could barely speak. She searched him for injuries, holding up an arm, tilting his head to look at his neck, moving his legs to make sure they had the proper dexterity… but everything was in perfect working condition. Everything except… his body temperature. His skin was so cold. Oh! “You’re hypothermic...” she said, squeezing his hands gently between hers. “Common Vodnik tactic. Too much contact with its puddle, that’s why.” She looked him over again, and with each passing moment, he seemed to be getting worse and worse. She grabbed his wrist and felt for his pulse, and paled when she was met with one that was irregular and weak. It was getting bad fast, and if she didn’t do something quick, he was going to die out here. Letting out a nervous breath, she surveyed the area, and then she quickly pulled her coat off, draping it over him.

If you would have told her 4 months ago that she was going to do what she was about to for a hunter, she would have never believed you. She would have told you that he got what he deserved for messing with a vodnik, that this is what hunters got for trying to play god on a daily basis with their sick cruelty. But even as the images of Kaden blank faced and slitting the vodnik’s throat danced through her mind, her heart hurt at the idea of letting him die here. “Don’t worry”, she whispered, though she wasn’t sure he was processing anything she was saying. She placed her hands on his arms once more, closing her eyes. With expert precision, she released the heat from within her, feeling it flow from her hands and into Kaden, coaxing him back to the warmth of the world.

The words felt like they were going through cotton to get to reach his ears. Kaden furrowed his brow and tried to piece them together again, find the meaning through his haze. “Hypothermic?” he repeated, hoping maybe saying it aloud would help give it some more meaning. It sounded bad, it was bad. What it meant for real, he couldn’t say right then. He just knew he felt bad. And if that was bad, he had to trust her that was the bad thing happening right now. “N--no. You need your c-coat,” he said, teeth chattering as she put her coat on him. He wanted to refuse it, it was still winter and cold in Maine, she needed it. He would be fine. Just fine. Still, he didn’t have the energy to knock it off. He didn’t manage to reach his hand upwards before she took both of them in her own. Maybe he shouldn’t question it. She was clearly doing better than he was right now.

Kaden had no clue what was going on, what she could manage to do with her hands to cure him of whatever hypo-thing was happening to him. Wait. Was she magic? She said she couldn’t get wet. Did she think witches would melt like in the wizard of oz? But she wasn’t green. And they weren’t in Kansas. Or Oz. Thinking was still hard, but the heat coming from her hands felt like it was spreading, pushing its way through the rest of his body, almost as if someone had turned on a space heater and thawed him out. Slowly, he felt some of the fog lifting as the warmth settled in around him. His brow continued to crease as she continued to help. “Are you… what are you, exactly? Because I’m pretty sure librarians don’t normally do that.”

It was finished as quickly as it started, and Leah could tell just by glancing at Kaden that her plans to warm him up had worked and that he was feeling much better. What she hadn’t expected were his questions so soon. She was sure it’d take him a while to come to, so that Leah could formulate a believable enough explanation that would make sense to someone with as much supernatural knowledge as Kaden had. She pressed her lips together, pulling her coat off of him and slipping it on, now a bit more aware of the frigid temperature now that she had given Kaden a good amount of her heat. “Librarians don’t normally do what?”, she asked as she zipped it up slowly, avoiding his eye contact. It was surely only a matter of time before he worked it out, and for once, she didn’t know how she felt about Kaden knowing what she was. “What makes you assume I’m anything but human?”

“Function like a human space heater or get burned by water,” Kaden filled in as he wiped off his knife and put it back away in its sheath before standing again. “It was just water, right? I mean, I didn’t think vodniks shot acid but I could be…” He didn’t think he was wrong, though. Curious that she mentioned the word human. His head tilted to the side at her statement. Here he was assuming she was a spellcaster when it might be a touch more complicated than that. “Not much. Just, uh, well... that. What you just said.” He waited for the churn in his stomach, the unease of the thought of standing next to someone not human, a monster. But it didn’t settle in the way it once did. He was left feeling blank and a bit confused. Was that worse? Kaden didn’t know. There was guilt, or something like it creeping in. From what or why it was there, that he didn’t know.

“Vodniks don’t shoot acid”, Leah answered quickly, shoving her hands into her pockets. She was going down an incredibly stupid path. Alone, in the woods with a hunter, practically guiding him toward what she truly was. Her family would practically disown her if they found out about it. All the teachings churned through her mind, that hunters were awful- desperate for a kill and would turn you over for information or tears at a moment’s notice. They were trickers and evil and wrong. And Kaden proved that, right? He was insufferable and a know-it-all and just incredibly broody in every sense of the word. But then why did she feel a sense of trust toward him? Why did she feel like she could tell him and he wouldn’t use it against her? “It’s no secret between us that I’m aware of the supernatural, Kaden. I just thought you were implying something, is all. I guess my coat was just extra warm, that must have been what helped you.”

Kaden wasn’t sure why the lack of trust stung him. There was no reason he should care. And there was no reason for her to trust him. None at all, really. Sure he saved her from the vodnik, but that was just his obligation, just because of what he was. His training. He was a hunter. And he knew how she felt about those. About him. Maybe he should just shut up and be grateful that she didn’t let him die out there. “Yeah. Must have been,” he said, shuffling and not meeting her eyes. Still, he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “You know for a second I thought you might be like Bea. Considering, you know. Friends. All that.” That sounded stupid even to him as it left his lips. “Guess I was wrong. And it was just the coat. Nothing supernatural at all. Guess I should thank your coat and not you. In that case.” He wondered if she would take the bait. Probably not.

His hurt tone made Leah pause, but it was the mention of Bea that really caused a pang in her heart. He was being so incredibly dramatic, as always, but he had never brought her up directly, before now. She let out a huff and started walking out of the forest slowly, knowing he’d follow close behind. After closing her eyes for a short moment, she began to open up, finally. “You’re not far off, actually”, she started, clearing her throat awkwardly. “When Bea and I were little girls we were total opposites- still are, in some ways. Bea was confident and stood up for herself, and was always taught to be proud of what she was, and I was quiet and shy and would have rather folded into myself than given an oral report to the whole class. And I can’t even remember how we discovered we could both start fires- can you imagine two tiny pyromaniacs on the elementary school playground? That’s how I always picture it, now. But it connected us, irrevocably and forever. And it’s something that’s so purely part of each of us, but not for the same reason. There were things she could do that I couldn’t, and vice versa.”

“But as a phoenix”, she glanced at him, only for a moment, desperate to read his reaction and desperate to hide from it at the same time, “I always knew it was important to hide who I am. Not out of shame, but out of pride and protection. In the same way that you were taught that the supernatural were dangerous, I was taught that hunters were. Are.” She paused her speech, but kept walking, wary of the awkward silence that hung between them. “I almost brought you tears when I found out what happened with Agatha”, she admitted.

Kaden stood there blinking for a moment, stunned by the vulnerability Leah was displaying. He hadn’t even really asked for it. Alright, maybe he had poked for it at little, but it was more about her than she’d shared with him maybe ever. Here. In the woods. A few feet away from a dead vodnik and probably a few ballybogs now that he remembered. All he knew to do was stand there and listen. For a brief moment, he believed she was also a witch, just like Bea and Nell and Luce. Even Cece and once upon a time, like Morgan. But what she really was stunned him even more. “A what?” he blabbered before he could even think. He could have put the pieces together. In fact, he was almost there, but it just seemed unreasonable to think it was possible in a way. A phoenix? He knew a banshee (two, even, unfortunately) and now a phoenix. He couldn’t comprehend it. Both species that he was told were rare enough he’d likely never cross paths with one of them his whole life as a hunter. He could only manage to blink some more, trying to process what the hell he’d just learned and what it meant. And why he was now the sort of person who just accepted that and didn’t reach for a knife. “Oh,” was all he managed to say in response. “I… thanks. I-- I mean I heal pretty quick but, uh...:” Kaden shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down, to the left, right, anywhere but right at Leah. “That makes sense. You know. You and Bea. Now.”

Leah let out a long sigh, nodding. It was over. It was out, and there was no taking it back anymore. She glanced at him again, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for him to call all of his hunter friends to come and kidnap her and her family for their tears and steal all the information in the scribary. Well, he didn’t know about the scribary, did he? But instead, she was just met with thanks. Thanks, and maybe a bit of shock as well. “You have to understand why I haven’t exactly been… the warmest to you now, or comfortable sharing what I really am. I don’t share it with anyone, really. Which, ...please keep this between us, Kaden.” She nodded, chewing on her lower lip anxiously. “And I’ll do my best not to set you on fire”. Her playful tone, she noted, was probably foreign in Kaden’s ears, but she hoped it shone through earnestly. Suddenly the dog on the unicycle from earlier road around them, tipping its hat at her. “I think I’m still hallucinating a bit…”, she said, her eyes wide as she waved back at him.

“Right, makes sense,” Kaden replied, still reeling a bit from everything she’d just told him. And even more so after she threatened him. But with a smile. Right. It was so easy to forget how dangerous she could be when talking to her. The same way it was easy for him to forget that Regan, Morgan, or Ari could be dangerous at times. It was the same trap he’d watch bleeding hearts fall into for years. And here he was, falling into it all on his own. He rolled his shoulders back, like he could shrug it off physically, whatever weirdness he was feeling. It didn’t go anywhere, but he could at least pretend it was all just a result of the hypothermia he’d felt earlier. “Yeah, try to keep that at a minimum, thanks,” he finally said back. With a sigh he started taking some shaky steps forward. “Let’s get out of here. For real this time. Should be this way. Come on. We’re going to avoid any and all mimes. Real or imaginary.”

#writing #wickedswriting #chatzy #leah #phoenixleah #Hallucinations and Salutations

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muckrakerhq · 4 years

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PRESENTING … FONDUE FOR TWO, HOSTED BY JOEY HUMMEL-ANDERSON.

featuring… this week’s guests, @giannastone & @angel-alexanderr

fondue for two is a weekly internet talk show hosted by joey hummel-anderson. fondue for two, joey, and the muckraker team strive to get all the steaming gossip while he interviews guests of his choice over a steaming pot of cheese.

[JOEY'S ROOM, SAME SET AS BEFORE]

JOEY: Hello everyone and welcome back to Fondue for Two! We're doing a Glee Club edition this month, which means that I will invite the captains of each glee club that actually matter around here... Today we have the captain of the Warblers, also known as my boyfriend, Xan Puckerman! And we have a very good friend of mine, Gigi Stone! She's not captain of the Canaries, but after the so called slushie incident, Aubrey won't talk to me... Either way, are you guys excited to be here?

XAN : Always excited to be in your bedroom, Joseph.

GIGI: Can we keep the flirting to a minimum today, boys? But yeah, I’m excited to be here. You clearly made the best decision by inviting the most talented Canary.

JOEY: Don't worry Gigi, we'll try. Okay, first question is for Xan... Is it true that everyone at Dalton is gay? Or is that a rumor that was created many years ago?

XAN : While I personally believe that everyone is at least a little gay. The number of out and proud homosexuals at Dalton Academy is lower than you might think. So yeah...definitely a rumor. Possibly a little bit of a problematic one while we're at it.(edited)

JOEY: Well... That's interesting to know. But I'm pretty sure that most people will still think that. Gigi, next question is for you! Do you have a date for Candyland? And if you do, who is it?

GIGI: Duh. Of course I do. I’m going with your brother, actually. Trace asked me the other day.

XAN : Love that for you two.

GIGI: He’s so cute, right? I’m excited.

JOEY: He didn't tell me that! That's cute... Why did you say yes? You know what, that's not important... Since we're talking about Valentine's Day, the next question is for you two: if we weren't all going to Breadstix, what would your perfect Valentine's Day be like? JOEY: Let's stop talking about my brother...

XAN : honestly? i'm not a big holiday person. being born on a holiday kinda ruined all holidays for me i think. but for sake of not looking like an asshole on the internet, i'll say i would be doing something cute with my boyfriend

GIGI: That’s... cute. In a sad sort of way. My perfect Valentine’s Day is being pampered from start to finish. Flowers, jewelry, chocolate. The whole nine yards. GIGI: Trace, if you’re watching this.. Play your cards right and you might be promoted from bench warmer to MVP.

JOEY: 4th of July is a holiday? I thought people just liked to throw fireworks on that day because it's fun, I don't know... But all of those are good answers. Okay, next question, what is the hottest piece of gossip going on at your schools right now? And this is an important one.

XAN : i'm simply not a messy bitch so i have no clue.

JOEY: C'mon, there's gotta be something going on at Dalton!

GIGI: Margot’s dad like literally paid off our coach so she could have a solo at Regionals. Embarrassing, right? Couldn’t be me.

XAN: i will not tolerate Margot slander in my presence. XAN: she's my favorite canary.

JOEY: Wait, did she really do that? Who told you that? I need to know if this is real. Sorry Xanny!

GIGI: It’s literally all anyone can talk about at Crawford? Which is annoying because there’s a lot more interesting things to talk about, but regardless, let’s just say it’s not the first time it’s happened.

JOEY: You heard it here first, people! It won't be a problem though, since you guys lost either way... So sorry about that. But at least the Warblers won! Moving on, who do you guys think will win at Nationals?

XAN : i might be biased. but this is the most competitive warblers year of recent years. i think we could go all the way.

GIGI: Obviously Vocal Adrenaline. No offense to either of you. GIGI: Well, I guess that’ll only happen if they finally kick Giardi off the team.

XAN : i will say...i've heard some rumors about vocal adrenaline's regionals set and i'm a little....terrified for lack of a better word.

GIGI: Say more.

JOEY: Say more right now!

XAN : not to incriminate myself, but i produce rap tracks for this freshman in the warblers. In exchange, he keeps tabs on some of the other show choirs in ohio. let's just say....vocal adrenaline is tributing one of the best vocalists of all time. XAN : expect to cry if you have tickets this weekend.

JOEY: Dua Lipa?

XAN: Not Dua Lipa babes.

GIGI: Interesting. Thanks for the tip, Puckerman.

JOEY: Well, that's kind of scary then... But to answer my own question, I'm sure that the New Directions have a chance too, but we'll see... JOEY: Next question, while we're talking about the show choir world, am I the only one who thinks there's some sexual tension between Julien and Gooby?

XAN : who the hell is gooby?

JOEY: Davis!

XAN: I don't know. That guy gives off heavy asexual vibes to me. Like the definition of soulless automaton. I should know I shared a room with him on the ski trip.

GIGI: (laughs) Davis is the farthest thing from asexual. Soulless? You might be onto something there.

XAN: have you copulated with the enemy???

JOEY: Yeah, have you Gigi? Because that's kind of weird and I can only imagine having sex with Gooby is like sleeping next to a loud breather...

XAN: Or a very unsexy android

JOEY: Or even an emotionless Henry Cavill!

GIGI: Do you two seriously live under a rock? Davis and I have been on and off for the past year and a half or so.

XAN: i don't really pay attention to heterosexual mating patterns...

JOEY: Wait... I thought people from Vocal Adrenaline weren't supposed to sleep with people from other schools... Isn't that why Ivy broke up with Julien?

XAN: i thought Ivy broke up with Julien because he's a cabbage patch kid in a high schooler's body

GIGI: I don’t know why Ivy broke up with Julien, and quite frankly, I don’t care. And to answer your question, they can’t date people from opposing teams during competition season.

JOEY: (chuckles at Xan's comment) Xan, don't be mean! JOEY: Well, yeah, but... Haven't you guys been hooking up for the past year? How does that work?

GIGI: Next question. I didn’t come on here to talk about Davis.

XAN: You heard the lady, stinky.

JOEY: Fine... Who do you think is going to be the most shocking couple at Candyland?

GIGI: Some of these losers actually landing dates is shocking in itself, but I, for one, am interested to see who shows up with the belle of the ball.

XAN: i don’t know about shocking, but I watched Chad texting Bri while we were eating at breastix....and if those two end up back together it would be the LEAST shocking thing in recent history. XAN: actually no...the canaries losing with an all country set would be the least shocking thing in recent history

GIGI: Interesting jab from someone who sang songs from a children’s movie. All I have to say on that front is that the Canaries will never be singing another country song again. You can bet on it.

JOEY: Chad and Bri dated? I had no idea about that... JOEY: But I have to agree with Xan, it was kind of lame... And Trolls isn't a kids' movie! It's a movie for all ages! I love that movie... I'm kind of curious to see who Leo McCarthy is going with, I feel like I haven't seen him in a long time. JOEY: What do you mean about the Canaries though? I thought Aubrey was captain still...

GIGI: And I thought Ivy would never let Julien out of her clutches, but here we are.

XAN: (laughs) not clutches!

JOEY: Okay... Well, that's all the time we have! Before you go, you have to say one nice thing about Gil the Fish... I feel like we haven't been giving him enough attention lately. [points at his fish bowl]

GIGI: I think it’s SO sweet that you bought a fish that looks like Kenna Giardi.

XAN: gil don't listen to her she didn't mean that. you're much sexier than kenna giardi!

JOEY: And that's it! Thank you for being here and for everyone else, don't forget to tune in for Fondue for Two some other time! Bye!

[ THE END ]

#Fondue For Two #fft: episode vi #gianna stone #xan puckerman #joey hummel-anderson

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