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cablyunkataplum · 1 month

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Stanford Filbrick Pines

Words: 4,524

Summary: He was so small next to him, he could fit in the palm of his two-dimensional hand and peel millimeter layer by millimeter layer to do whatever he wanted with the raw materials and waste. Previous enjoyment, at this moment repulsion for what is felt.

Written Curse: What can I say, saw someone suggesting it on Tiktok and I did it, Descriptions of insanity and more insanity, suicidal behavior, manipulation, paranoia, kind of religious trauma, self-harm (thoughts and action) depictions, and maybe more sensitive topics, please be aware, MDNI. it's kind of different from what I'm used to writing in some aspects but I enjoyed iy Seeeeeee yaaaaaa darlings!

Versión original-español

I walked through the mists of a gloomy limbo… If such a vague description makes sense, I paid attention to every step I took but I didn't feel it, almost as if it were a dream until my attention it was redirected, something was heard in the distance and I wondered what it could be. It carried with it a sinister air, perverse dyes that dripped phlegmatically, the forbidden, the temptation, the sin that, as its passage, seduced me to approach, thus, little by little, it was not only an unusual song but also a particular smell, a sensation that made one's skin crawl but as everything here was far from comprehending.

Time was distorted and my mind fell into a spiral that I didn't even know I had entered until seeing me in a dreary reflection a realization revealed, it was me.

That smell, that sound, everything… It was nothing more than my own body, that empty and rotten container that wanders aimlessly waiting for an end but even if I succumbed to the clutches of mortality, I know that my corpse would be nothing more than poison for this earth that now curses my existence. I beg for mercy even if I am not deserving and as a heretic I receive cruel punishment that lurks in the depths of my being, which from the beginning eats away at me, what led me to this state.

A simple act like the sliding of curtains felt so treacherous, he was turning his back on him and leaving him adrift. He deserves it, after all he did it was absurd that he thought he would receive any defense from him. He placed the reminder of the freshly made wound in the trash and tried to fall asleep but at no time did he blink, the minutes passed ignorantly to his situation and emotions so overwhelming that they seemed to mock without decorum. He had found a motivation that vanished at the same speed with which it arrived, he had to find another goal, a purpose, something that would give him what he had always longed for.

The days passed without anything remarkable, a blind and tired routine between corridors, living rooms and his bedroom with the irregular change of going to the library or chatting with his roommate, with whom he shared certain hobbies. He was about convincing that he enjoyed it, that despite being an unexpected result, he could take advantage of it and prove to himself that others were wrong, that he was better.

When he made the decision to live in Gravity Falls, it was as if that little flame struggled to remain incandescent and wanted to get bigger. It could be taken as an escape from home in a certain way, miles and miles away from his parents which doesn't make much difference from what it was in Backupsmore.

Everything was different, a new life that he would not let anything or anyone spoil. And so it was for quite some time, there was no day or night in which he did not find something fascinating, a distraction and a temporary relief to his thoughts that dejected him the most, but then, like a rose, it began to wither and the petals fell. Leaving a voracious appetite again.

And what happened when the snake approached him? He fell for the deception. So desperate for a shred of recognition, acceptance… And what person could resist a being greater than their own existence? It was an honor to be the favorite of such a sublime presence, a powerful being who did respond to his prayers, to his doubts, where he believed he was walking on the same floor as this one and not below as he was for so many years with his kind, he was finally an equal.

A nosedive into veneration.

The night was paler than the moon itself, its emanations were blunderbussed as they passed through the stained-glass windows with motifs that I distributed with my own free will throughout my cabin. Immersed in my inscriptions, Bill prowled in the same space and chatted about things that I didn't pay enough attention to since I was used to his actions. When I finished my last stroke I placed the pen aside and closed the bottle of ink to let it rest and therefore dry the contents of the page.

"Hey, Sixer" I turned my head and the first thing my eyes met was the triangle reflecting my appearance, I raised my eyebrow until he continued "Look, someone with science of humor" he laughed to return to his color, he snapped his fingers and pointed at me "Did you understand my pun?", "Of course I did, It's a simple enough thing not to" I adjusted my glasses before closing my journal, getting up from my chair and walking over to put it on the shelf next to the other books in my collection.

"You demean yourself a lot, don't you think? Give yourself some credit" he turned around as he moved forward with me, "I do credit myself but I know when things are easy, Bill" I rolled my eyes and left the room, on the stairs he was behind me "That's because you're very intelligent and perceptive, not everyone would have understood it the first time or the second" At these words I smiled but not for much since the day had exhausted me enough to use my muscles. The cabin was as lonely as the day it was finished, on one hand it was reassuring not to have to deal with those noises resulting from annoying habits of other people but on the other hand I couldn't help but feel more lonely… at least I had Bill by my side, even if I got desperate but very rarely. Maybe I should make a statistic about that.

"It's better as you are if you ask me," I heard his voice again but this time I didn't look at him, I went down step by step until I finally reached the floor. "What are you talking about?" I really had no idea, "Nobody deserves you, Ford" that confession intrigued me now in the kitchen where I didn't turn on the light bulb and only opened one of the drawers in the cupboard for a glass. "I mean, just look at you, six fingers; attractive, intelligent, funny, organized. You're out of their league, much better than all of them" he stood in my field of vision and crossed his arms, "And I doubt very much that you would settle for that anyway".

The circumstances that led to such a fatal encounter…

I closed my lips and remained silent, his words like gasoline for thoughts and speculations to nest in my head "We'll never know, they're counterfactual events and hypothetical situations" I drank from the glass I had previously filled with water "Besides, it makes me sound like a narciss-", "Hey, hey, stop your car, friend" Bill pushed and pulled his arms in the space between him and me "I don't say that with those implications, you're very humble Stanford" he moved his body in such a way that it gave the impression of shaking his head, he raised his arms "Everything you're doing will benefit humanity, for me that's not being selfish, quite the opposite" he approached and placed his elbow on my right shoulder.

"What I mean is that you're better off like this" with the open hand of the other arm he pointed at me, moving up and down, to emphasize his point. "You're happier than you could have been" I was still with my eyes on him without speaking "I'll show you" he moved away a little to extend his arm. "You trust me, right?". It was a bit strange to me that Bill used to ask about my trust in him as often as he did, but I always assumed that being someone with his powers was normal, after all it was logical that when he gave me knowledge and his friendship he needed to know that I would not misuse his generosity.

"Of course I do" I took his hand, his eye curled "You can always trust me, Sixer".

The cabin began to crumble and suddenly the environment changed to an impeccable construction that I did not recognize, at least not immediately, laughter and chatter filled my ears while my eyes ventured to get used to the interior, the sound of some open doors made me spin slightly where I saw something that squeezed my heart, in front of seats and more seats there I was, walking on the stage with a toga, I received my title and it was clear. I was graduating from West Coast Institute of Technology.

It was something unreal to see myself in this situation, to see how my face reflected true enthusiasm and happiness at achieving one of my many dreams that I had as a teenager. My parents were there, Stanley was there and his face was a mixture of pride and joy for me; disappointment, loneliness and doubt in those small details. It continued with a family celebration until the scene changed for the second time where I now worked as an inventor in a company of sorts, I knew that time moved forward thanks to the fictitious calendar, which at first filled the Stanford in front of me with motivation, now it filled him wit sadness. It caused him misery as he was limited by his contract, he no longer had time for his own projects or the family with whom he maintained contact.

And everything changed again, I was on Backupsmore and another possibility unfolded, I met someone and we developed feelings for each other and then, we get married? That would be a waste of my research time and even more so as I watched how we both settled in Gravity Falls and then started a small family, with similar results I gradually fell into the same thing: misfortune, sorrow, and suspicion due to the dissatisfaction with the life I was leading. I separated from my spouse to try to have some serenity but nothing, I constantly saw my other self immersed in the memories and torments of his decision, of the intensity of those discussions; about what was said or not said.

When I turned to the other side, my eyes widened when I found myself in front of the same person, they were talking or rather vociferating, it had taken me a moment to process that change so that their words made sense. "Who is going to want to be with someone like you, Stanford!?" Their face was like a slap that burned even before it landed aggrievedly on my face, but I couldn't mutter so shocked by the constant receipt of information "You're a damn selfish man!" they pointed accusation at me while they continued with their argument. Each syllable only served to sharpen the stake and in the end when it stuck in my heart I looked down, it seemed it could never escape me. Something I never asked for.

Then I knew that my insides were questioning and mortifying. Love is such a complicated concept for a mind like me, I have witnessed finite ways to demonstrate it and I can't seem to fully understand it, from my childhood until now, I still think that it is nothing more than frivolities that everyone pretends to know and handle. and then judge those who try to reach it with simplicity.

On many occasions I had witnessed my father's demonstrations towards Stanley and much more aware when they were for me. So many times I heard the expectations, his disappointments or simply his thoughts about us and each time I felt the need to relieve him but without leaving my brother aside, I wanted to be the one who was deserving enough to let me into his vulnerability and let him know that just as he loved me, I loved him. His words...they hurt , they made me feel insufficient and had the same effect on my brother but... I guess it was his way of showing that we were important, that he knew we could be even better.

That's how this person vanished and windows surrounded me to show hundreds of other situations, no matter how different they were, they all ended in disappointment "Do you see what I mean?" Bill finally decided to make his presence again and with an irritated attitude. He stayed in front of my eyes without the windows stopping rotating around us "They wouldn't appreciate you, six fingers. They are the selfish ones, the fatuous ones who couldn't stand someone as genuine as you" with his hands he enlarged one of the windows that remains motionless to show the image "Even before you moved here" my mother appears, then my father, Stanley and other people with whom I once crossed paths "They hurt you but expect you to give everything for them without complaining" he sighs "And that is why this is better for you".

"You have me by your side, I have seen what the others have not" now we moved to the usual space and he made me sit down, a cup of tea in hand "And I feel very lucky that it was you who called me and not a trashy scientist or something like that" he rolled his eyes and I just laughed, I adjusted my glasses with a little push of my index finger and sipped the liquid "I'm the lucky one, Cipher. It is not an everyday occurrence that such an intriguing and wise being decides to respond to my call" I thought the conversation would go to a more pleasant one immediately but Bill just looked at me "You are very important to me, Sixer" I didn't know what to do or say. because of the seriousness with which he said it "I need you... I would love to be in your dimension to spend more time with you, you know?" I stood up to finally be able to say something until his laughter was the next thing "I mean, at this point you are like my family and that is what all those corny things do to someone" I smiled and nodded, amused at his choice of words "Do you also need me as much as I need you, six fingers?"

"I need you, Bill".

Years later, standing on the bow looking out over the vast sea, he meditated while the other Pines was resting. The waves combined with their reflections induced a peaceful state but a hollowness different from the others persisted. The movement reminded him of thoughts and internal debates at his worst, where he let himself be dragged into the darkness and suffer in it.

If he jumped, it was likely that he would find the sense to live, hewas barely visible due to the stars that saw themselves still, the wood under his feet did not creak or seemed to recognize him, a ghost in pain that wanders in the icy night. He took a step closer to the edge but didn't take anything off, the weight would do. But with half his feet suspended and the other half still on the dock he stayed like that. How long did it take until his heart even beat? When he regained consciousness he was in his bed without a shirt or any clothing for his torso, mere soaked socks the only fabric on his body other than the blankets that maintained an acceptable temperature.

The next morning he left the cabin and walked unconsciously into the forest. Some creatures that he had already studied looked out timidly when they saw the afflicted figure of the man, who acted with the nature of a magnet. He arrived at an area where the trees contained peculiar lines that kept following him. Murmurs began to greet him and say nonsense. When he tried to ignore him, he realized where he was standing and froze. Thousands of eyes stared at him without blinking, they did not have an iris so the blackness of the pupil made him more gloomy and as if they were reading his thoughts, they began to manifest throughout him until he was no longer but a cluster of these organs.

He had come to consider removing his eyes, the simple fact of remembering that he had those orbs caused the most unpleasant reactions in his body, the immediate rejection of a similar object in a metaphorical or literal way, in any information format, just like the other geometric figure. What was once a paradise in their home now behaved like hell. His knuckles were still in limited recovery but his mind was an uncertain omen.

Or he would see his wrists that palely denoted something that he had come to hate and he would think that perhaps, with the help of some instruments he could manage to remove those ropes from his entire body, no matter how long or how painful it meant that Bill would not be able to use him never again. And he tried. What did it matter, if he was already alien to any humanity. His mania for sharp things was not discouraged, if there was the possibility of being there, it was, but; of not, did it by force. Like that time, one of the many times.

It was a moment like the other, he was wandering through the forest, now the ardor flamed between the distances from one flora to another, the aberrant calm. His body rocked because his swollen feet tried not to feel his condition, as well as making himself sick until he couldn't take it anymore and sat down against a tree. He removed his glasses to rub his eyelids with the impression of not being lucid. When he opened them, he realized that the tree in front that reached to the heavens was no longer a tree, a block splintered in its place surrounded by other thorns as a replacement. He knelt before standing on his feet and walking until the tips of his shoes touched the messy roots and he got back on his knees, his hands resting on the edge of this circle, how could he see in such detail without his glasses on?

There was no room for that question because he hunched over and brought his face closer…closer…even closer. His skin instinctively repelled his face but the word is there, instinct. Macabre allusion when the fine fabric did not hold for long and spilled on the wood until its anatomy prevented it from breaking, he moved away with complicated motion as some tried to continue in him, and at a slightly considerable distance. Whipping. And the snap didn't take long. Paralyzed it oozed with more current, the thorns appropriated the rest until they swallowed the last piece.

He hurriedly opened his eyes and sheltered his head to check that everything was still together to get out of there without waiting. It was just a dream.

Few interactions with other people made his delusions worse, strangers who were crafty, stupid, lacking in judgment, narcissistic, filthy... he was 100% sure that they reeked of Cipher. But he would not make that 'knowledge' evident, with his hands and elbows on the table he turned his back to the costumers and workers, he knew that they were watching him with that damned smile and those devilish eyes. Disgust to the one who touched his shoulder, his left imprisoned the outer wrist but what he saw was fear in normal pupils and a short circuit occurred within his logic, his face became grim when the woman began to laugh.

Another woman followed a few tables in front, so that like an infection all the faces would lengthen. Without control he imitated, the sweat reflected the terror that the experience gave him, his right hooked half of his face. His nerves had jammed as well as his vocal cords with the same sound quality as a phonograph. At the windows, palms slapped against this surface, their eyes moved quickly and in the opposite direction to the complement of their pair "I still have my eyes on ya, Stanford" they spoke in unison "Too bad you won't have any!" and some of the limbs that were hitting the windows passed through them and lunged at him, with specific emphasis on his eyes. He bent down and pulled the woman so he could leave the establishment.

Was it a good idea to have sent that postcard? It made him an easier target, he didn't know what Bill's supposed henchman could do to find him but if he was under his orders it was common sense that he already knew his location. There was no way to know what tactics he would be able to use. It could even already be at his house and he wouldn't know it.

He was so small next to him, he could fit in the palm of his two-dimensional hand and peel millimeter layer by millimeter layer to do whatever he wanted with the raw materials and waste. Previous enjoyment, at this moment repulsion for what is felt. When he turned the handle and the door gave him permission to enter, everything contained his essence, from the rugs to the money he carried with him. With his chest almost touching one of the tapestries, he wrapped himself up and inhaled the intoxicating fragrance, pressing it to his ribs. and began to rub his face against the fabric. As he raised his head, it was now suspended by his semi-extended arms, he looked at the ceiling and tears flowed. He still needed him.

"Wow" Bill spined his cane while he continued to see me in the mirror "It looks great on you, tiger" I arched my eyebrows without stopping smiling "Really?" I turned my body while taking my eyes off the mirror and adjusted my coat "Do you call me a liar?" he made clicking sounds and helped to adjust the garment "Come on, man…you're pretty much the definition of romantic, Beethoven would be jealous" this made me laugh and I restated my posture now with my fingers adjusting my neck, I had to admit that the costume was quite refined and just as I expected a period costume to feel.

"Ready to go?" he bowed and took off his hat that I reciprocated with another bow, we walked until we reached the place of the event where the most outstanding intellectuals of all time waited with cocktails in hand and chatting with each other. When I entered I had a drink and went to talk to a small group with Bill's company, even with the magnitude of the revelation I did not feel nervous, in fact, I was sure of myself and deep down I did not care what opinions they would give me as soon as the curtain came off.

When the time struck we both took the lead and gave a speech, his jokes were not lacking. When I pulled the curtain and the portal was in sight I heard exclamations, there was a silence until everyone began to applaud and ask its mechanism, my smile was so big that Cipher pushed his elbow against my arm and we only smiled before addressing the others to answer their questions.

When I woke up I didn't wait to stand up and go to work in the portal.

He remembers when his palate caught the improper corroded and pulled his upper lip that showed his red teeth in the mirror, he ran a finger to clean them but did not investigate further, convinced that Bill, by using his body got into a fight and that this was a mixture of his fluids with those of others. There were several times that it was repeated and that he decided to accept his explanation. How much had he done while using his body? For God's sake, the photographs showed him but he was a piece of something bigger, what repulsive things that being must have been capable of.

During the 30 years out of his dimension the thirst for revenge never paled, on the contrary, it grew stronger with each day that he felt his blood boil at every mention of his name. He lived for that, he had to… to see the day when Bill Cipher ceased to be a threat to reality.

But he never expected his defeat to happen in the circumstances in which they occurred. Seeing his brother with his head down and now empty as him, added to his guilt and afflictions, Stanley was always strong, determined and confident in his eyes. The other side of the coin.

The days went as the whole family and even Soos or Wendy helped Stan regain his memory and with that he tried to get his life back, which he now knew Stanley didn't take from him but Bill.

He used to think that he had to give everything to receive the minimum, but when he returned and got forgiveness… love… It was difficult to accept it at first but the night he found old photographs as well as home videos from his childhood that the brothers reminisced about, something changed.

"I can't believe you actually did that," he put his hand on his stomach and laughed, Stanley only crossed his legs and arms before extending his last ones with a failed attempt to look annoyed at the comment "It's pure comedy! A brainiac like you wouldn't understand my developed sense of humor" a blow landed on his twin's shoulder. "It drives ladies crazy" "Oh, I don't doubt it, completely crazy," he nodded mockingly in his way of doing it.

Stan hit him again "Idiot" Ford rubbed himself before returning the blow with greater force, to be fair "Nerd". After a while sleep began to come to them, Ford put his head on the shoulder of his hand while his held the bowl on his lap, and on the verge of succumbing to it he heard "I love you, Ford" a long second passed until the words came out of his mouth "I love you too, Stanley."

People could love him for who he was, not for how deserving he could get that affection.

He continued with his eyes on the wide sea remembering the details of his whole life and with that voice that told him that he was still broken. "Ford, the children are calling us!-- Stan shouted on the other side of the Stan O' War II, "Coming!" so he made his way, but not before stopping and turning to see the sea again, with an inhalation of the salty air he whispered, "I don't need you."

"Hurry up, Poindexter or else I'll throw you overboard" the sound of the seagulls, he pushed his glasses higher and resumed his steps. "Greetings children, how are my favorite kids of all dimensions?", "Uncle Ford!".

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #ford pines #gravity falls stanford #Stanford fanfiction #trauma #bill cipher #bill gravity falls

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cometcon · 1 year

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I did it. I wrote fanfic for Helluva Boss. Striker is consuming my mind. XD

So I was looking through the Striker tag on here for more of my favourite bastard snakey boi and found this really neat artwork. :D

And it's a really interesting concept and the artwork is so well done and they've kept just enough of Striker's sinister energy in the images that my brain just wouldn't leave me alone about it. And it got me thinking: Redeemed Striker cuddling up to Moxxie for warmth is definitely cute and even I love it (and I'm aromantic as fuck XD ). But would it be possible to write something with the same basic concept, just making it a different scenario to involve my first impression of Striker instead, without having to redeem and develop Striker first? Can I have my cake and eat it too? XD

I've changed my mind since I first posted this so here's the freshly edited new introductory waffle:

I want to flesh this out a little and write it as a whole oneshot partnered with my Blitz/Striker fic which is also set during Harvest Moon and maybe ending along the lines of the events in the canon episode, but in the meantime my brain churned out about 800 words for the specific prompt. I think I'm leaning for the fic being about Moxxie's perspective of Striker arriving at the farm as in canon. Moxxie dislikes him immediately and since Striker is an egotistical supremacist piece of shit he just doubles down on the dickwad behaviour, but keeps it subtle enough for Blitz and Millie to do their usual thing of overlooking Moxxie's concerns about things they don't see as a problem/threat/red flag (I promise I'm not hating on them; I enjoy their characters but also sometimes it does seem like a fair bit of the shit Moxxie gets dragged into could have been avoided if they'd listened to him. XD Though then we wouldn't have the parts of the show I enjoy, so again, not complaining, just playing with it. Don't kill me lol.) And Moxxie understandably gets sick of Striker's shit and they begin a tit for tat resulting in Moxxie shooting Striker's window 'by accident' and then 'forgetting' to fix it. XD And since they're all sleeping in the farm house, Striker chooses to escalate with a cruel and unusual punishment...

Behold, my first ever attempt at dark fluff. XD

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The sound of the door opening and soft light spilling across the room made Moxxie's eyelids flicker, a low growl of annoyance building in his chest.

Millie had a bad habit of laughing off their boss' infuriating behaviour, finding it amusing. Cute, even. Moxxie vehemently disagreed, yet his complaints typically fell on deaf ears, so he usually just endured. But these night-time visits were reaching the absolute line and Moxxie had had enough. He didn't care what his wife said, he was going to fucking murder Blitz if he took even one more step toward-

His back tensed in surprise as the covers lifted, the mattress behind him sinking beneath Blitz's weight. The night had finally come. He'd suspected his boss would escalate, but the fact it was really happening took its sweet time trickling through his outraged mind. Moxxie's vicious attempt to slam his elbow into the licentious imp's gut was too slow and easily thwarted as a large hand latched onto his arm, halting its trajectory.

"Blitz, I swear to fucking Satan, I will claw your eyes out of your skull and feed them to Luna! Get off me," he hissed quietly, hoping not to wake his snoring wife. She might just tell him to move over and give Blitz more space before falling asleep again anyway.

Before he could do much else however, a long, clammy, lithe body that was decidedly not Blitz pressed into him, strong arms wrapping around his much smaller form and pulling him closer. His heartbeat accelerated and a bolt of fear shot down his spine.

"Shouldn't make threats you can't follow up on, rodent."

Striker's breath wafted over Moxxie's ear in a gentle caress. He shuddered, tugging uselessly at the unyielding grip trapping him against the assassin as he felt Striker curl further, moulding himself into every part of Moxxie he could reach. Moxxie's tail twitched, caught between them and unable to find a gap to escape.

"What the fuck?"

It should have been a shout, but his throat was tense with fright, the words emerging in an embarrassingly pathetic whimper. One hand searched for Millie, desperately praying he could wake her before they were both slaughtered in their sleep.

"Quit wriggling," Striker rumbled, fingers lacing through Moxxie's to draw the hand back into his chest.

"Why are you in here? Get out."

Moxxie still couldn't manage more than a choked whisper, but the fact there seemed to be no intention of actually harming him allowed a rising indignation to take fear's place. He tried kicking, though that only served to annoy Striker, who immediately enveloped the flailing legs between his own. It was like being stuck in a patch of quicksand; the more Moxxie struggled, the deeper he sank.

"Someone hasn't fixed my window yet. It's cold."

That long, spiked tail snaked across Moxxie's shivering skin, coiling around their tangled limbs and draping itself over his abdomen. The quiet rattle as the tip continued upward and settled by his face sent a chill through him and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"That doesn't mean you get to- mmph!"

His final, barely audible attempt at protest was swiftly cut off by Striker's free hand covering his mouth.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," came the deceptively soft admonishment, arms and tail constricting in a painful warning. Moxxie groaned and went limp, hoping it would be enough to appease, the understanding he really was at his captor's mercy sinking to the base of his stomach like a concrete brick on the ocean floor. Striker chuckled and thankfully granted him the ability to draw breath after a moment, though he remained tightly entwined with the trembling little body in his clutches, chin resting in mock affection atop Moxxie's head as he murmured, "Good boy. Go back to sleep."

This was just another one of Striker's games, he told himself. If he stayed very still and didn't cause a fuss, his tormentor would get bored and leave.

Any minute now.

The dark outline of Millie's senseless form under the blanket was silhouetted against the window, her peaceful snores the only sound stirring the atmosphere. Striker's breathing had slowed too, apparently content to stay snuggled against him, leaching his warmth and sanity alike.

Well, fuck.

When several minutes had passed without any further threat, Moxxie forced himself to relax. There was nothing he could do anyway. If Striker wanted him dead he would be already. Staying alert all night would play right into the other's aims, showing him the intimidation tactics were working the second he saw his victim's tired eyes and frazzled demeanour the next morning.

Moxxie refused to let him win that easily.

He listened for Millie, his breaths steadying as he timed them to match hers and held the image of her beautiful beaming grin in his mind. Striker was bound to slip up eventually and when he did, Moxxie would be prepared for him. A new thought of slicing the trecherous demon's throat with his own knife flashed through Moxxie's head and he smiled, playing it slowly on loop until he managed to drift off again.

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eldrai · 2 years

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Sleepless Nights [Hotch/Morgan]

Whumptober 2022 - Day 19 - Prompt: head lolling

Summary: His head tilts forwards and jolts back up again. None the wiser to the milliseconds of sleep between them, Aaron just stares at the paper as if it'll make more sense the next time he reads it.

1.0k

Hotch/Morgan :)

Read on ao3

This is the exact opposite of the last fic, probably the fluffiest thing I'll write this entire month. Enjoy.

They don’t wake Aaron.

It’s just the sort of rule which falls into place without anyone mentioning it. The jet is one thing, when someone who’s asleep gets left asleep, but with Aaron it is a little firmer than that, operating on the general knowledge he’s running on much less sleep than he should be. Derek had known it even before he’d slept with him—knows now that the extent he’d imagined was far better than reality.

Sleepless nights aren’t exactly a rarity on the job, when the weight of everything they deal with turns suffocating at night, but a straight eight hours are for Aaron what those are to the rest of them.

He’s used to the tossing and turning in the evening, to the soft light from the living room or study spilling into the hall in the early hours of the morning, when sleep really isn’t happening. To the earthy aroma of the herbal stuff supposed to help—doesn’t seem to do much, in Derek’s opinion, and Aaron doesn’t seem to actually enjoy the taste but maybe it does do something. It can’t hurt. And the weekend often finds him catching up on half an hour here, an hour there, laid out on the couch or in bed on top of the covers. The insomnia comes in bouts, and it’s no exception for when they have a case.

The relative ease with which Aaron handles it suggests it’s a long-standing thing, one he’s adjusted to as best he can. Derek really doesn’t envy him. Their days are so long he can’t imagine not being able to crash out—hell, even two or three hours on a particularly fast case is a godsend, so having to go an entire day without any seems like it’d fall under cruel and unusual punishment. If there isn’t much he can do at home, unfamiliar hotels only exacerbate the problem, all creaking pipes and rowdy neighbours.

During a particularly bad couple of weeks, Aaron looks worse than he has in months one morning. Usually he manages an hour minimum but Derek had known without asking that Aaron hadn’t slept at all; he’d refused breakfast and the coffee he clearly did crave, nauseous and feverish from going without, and hadn’t eaten until midday when the hunger overwrote that. He’d gone through as much advil and tylenol as he could, neither of which had helped much with the headache, and though he was surprisingly present all things considered his eyes were a little dim with exhaustion.

Derek senses it’s a relief to be able to go home. Because he might not be able to sleep but there’s less of a presence demanded of him, less of a performance when it’s just the team; Aaron is allowed to be tired. He doesn’t like letting himself be but there’s nobody else holding him back.

Despite the bags under his eyes, Aaron sits down with the file propped up on his legs resting back against the table. Doing the paperwork at the minute is out of his reach—Derek has watched him rewrite the lot when he’s been dissatisfied with what he’d produced at the height of his tiredness, so really he’s glad Aaron has realised doing it now would be a fruitless endeavour—but reading over the details is easier. Familiarising himself like he’s going to somehow forget in the six hours until they’re back.

It doesn’t take long before Aaron slows down, taking longer and longer to read the words on the page until he’s rereading the same paragraphs multiple times. He wants to suggest that he lies down—and JJ meets Derek’s eyes and raises her eyebrows in a silent question, ready to move from the couch if he agrees—but Aaron being Aaron means that he’d refuse. And insomnia is a bitch: there’s a chance that just the little movement involved in resettling over there is enough to stave off the tiredness for a few more hours. When he’s falling asleep, it’s best let him sleep.

His head tilts forwards and jolts back up again. None the wiser to the milliseconds of sleep between them, Aaron just stares at the paper as if it’ll make more sense the next time he reads it.

Each time it happens he’s less and less focused, losing his place, trying to power through it to work—because of course he is. There’s not much Derek can do except sit back and wait and hope he succumbs instead of blinking his way through the wave of exhaustion. So that’s what he does.

It takes four full songs of nodding off and immediately waking up until Aaron’s head lolls forwards and he stays like that; his grip on the file starts to slip and Derek catches it before it can fall off his lap and spill the papers everywhere. He’s convinced there is nothing Aaron does the easy way. Still, he’s finally sleeping, his chest rising and falling to a slow, even rhythm.

Derek can’t help but wince at the position he’s in though, his neck bent forwards uncomfortably. Aaron had managed nearly four hours asleep like that once and they had all heard the crack when he straightened up. But a sore neck is a minor thing if it means he can get some overdue sleep.

He isn’t concerned for long.

They hit a patch of turbulence; nothing bad enough for the pilots to warn them about but it’s enough to jostle them around a little, coffee lapping at the side of their mugs. Aaron sighs and stretches out his legs. Derek hardly dares to move—waking up after ten minutes honestly seems worse than not falling asleep at all—but he only sinks back into the seat, head tipped back. Sitting so upright with the turbulence doesn’t last much longer than slumped over.

Aaron’s head tilts to the side and he rests against Derek’s shoulder with a quiet exhale, settling into a more comfortable position. With his own eyes closed, he almost goes for his hand before he remembers it’s the jet, not home. Not that he suspects the others mind—to the contrary, they’d just never escape the friendly teasing—but Aaron certainly would. So Derek smiles to himself and lets him lean against him, all the way back to Virginia if needs be.

#cm fanfic #hotch #morgan #hotchgan #whumptober 2022 #angst #fluff #eldrai does whumptober

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isoldmysoultojonahclemence · 3 years

Note

hello! I was wondering if u could make a summary of all the suitors' flaws n how Jonah would react to them

I would be more than happy to!

SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

Ray: his main flaw is his willingness to trust others that are close to him. That doesn’t really sound like a flaw, but in Seth’s route, even though he knew that there was a spy, he still refused to believe that his one of his friends could’ve betrayed him. That’s super nice of him as a friend, but I feel like Jonah wouldn’t consider it as a good trait for a King.

Sirius: he has the physical inability to express his feelings properly. Like, in his own route, he barely ever said “I love you” to MC, and I feel like he’s trying really hard to fit into the “mature and stoic guy” category. Jonah kinda struggles with the same things (can’t talk about feelings + tries to be cool), but I don’t think he’d appreciate them in someone else.

Luka: he’s unwilling to change his own perceptions. For example, in his own route, one of the big things he struggle with is feeling unimportant because ppl don’t need him. That’s not actually true, bc he’s the Jack of Spades now and an entire territory is depending on him, but he’s so stuck in his own idea of himself that he can’t even see it in another way until MC comes along. He also applies this to Jonah, and strongly believes that Jonah abandoned him when Jonah was training to become Queen. I don’t know if Jonah will understand why Luka acts likes this, but he’s always going to be sad when his beloved little brother detests him.

Fenrir: he’s way too obsessed with fights. Look, I know that his description is “a battle-crazy gun maniac” and he uses magically modified guns and he doesn’t mean any harm by liking to fight bc he’s a super active guy, it’s still kinda unsettling (also bc I can’t actually think of any other character flaws bc Fenrir is a good boi). Jonah would definitely find this behavior untasteful, especially since Fenrir also comes from a good family.

Seth: probably how manipulative he is. In his own route, his mission is to “seduce” MC into joining the Magic Tower (remind you of anyone else???), and he succeeds in making MC fall in love, like, 10 parts in. He also fell in love with MC along the way, but he lured her with his body XDD. Jonah probably disapproves of some of his methods, but he can’t complain too much because he kinda did the same thing.

Lancelot: he’s too self-sacrificing for his own good. I mean, when Amon became a threat, instead of telling everyone else about it, he chooses to shoulder the burden himself. I can understand that he’s trying to spare those that he cares about, but he should know that the others aren’t exactly weak and fragile. Jonah would be super frustrated by this (like in part 23 of his own route), and he’ll try to help his King in whatever way he can.

Edgar: his shadiness oof. Like, at first you think that he can be trusted, and then you think that he can’t, but in the end you find out you actually can. He’s like an inverted oreo: white on the outside, black on the inside, but actually still white deep down inside. Being the honest person he is, Jonah probably struggled with Edgar’s personality at first. But they’ve known each other since they were children so Jonah probably got used to it over time.

Zero: you know what? After mulling over this for ages, I can’t actually think of any of Zero’s flaws. He’s literally the goodest boi in Ikerev.

Kyle: his insensitivity to others’ emotions. He cannot read the atmosphere most times and he’s also one of the most emotionally clumsy people in the game (afsdfdf he’s adorable). However, Jonah is the type of person who needs to be handled with care, since he’s not the most emotionally able person ever. It would’ve definitely rubbed Jonah the wrong way at first, but just like how it was with Edgar, Jonah probably got used to it over time.

Harr: his unfrienliness probably. He’s literally the nicest person once you get to know him, but the emphasis is on once you get to know him. Unfortunately, not a lot of people have that privilege, and this is even before he became the infamous Joker. He’s just naturally introverted and aloof. Actually, pre-Joker!Harr reminded me of Jonah, because they’re equally tsundere and bad with expressing their feelings. Apparently Harr and Jonah didn’t get along great tho, so maybe Jonah doesn’t like to see his own personality reflected in others.

Loki: he’s a bit too clingy and has a tiny bit of yandere-ish tendencies (though I wouldn’t consider him as a yandere). Jonah would understand the clinginess to those he cares about (he’s the cling of hearts for a reason guys), and he could probably understand Loki’s desire to hold on tightly to people that are important to him.

Blanc: he’s a jerk because he’s only giving us glimpses of his backstory without any clarification and it makes me want to tear my hair out. Jonah is gonna march up to Cybird HQ and demand a route for Blanc.

Oliver: in Ikerev TW, one of his descriptions was “毒舌” and it literally means “poisonous tongue,” which describes Oliver pretty well. I get that some people are pretty attracted by his quick wit, but generally speaking, insulting someone every other sentence isn’t exactly a good habit to have. But like, just imagine Oliver and Jonah getting into an argument. Idek who’s gonna win.

NOTE: I don't really know that much about the next three suitors (Mousse, Dean, and Dalim), so I'll have to make my best guess about their flaws. If their route comes out (goodness knows when that'll be), I'll come back and see if I've got anything wrong!

Mousse: definitely his sleepiness and tendency to fall asleep in places other than his bedroom. I totally understand the desire to sleep all day every day, but I can see why it’d be super annoying. At any rate, Jonah certainly seems to think so, since he abhors laziness and Mousse is pretty much the epitome of laziness (unless it comes down to the things that he like, and then he turns super energetic).

Dean: his cruel and unusual ways of punishment that’s referenced many times throughout the series??? I don’t know much about him tbh (sorry to all the Dean stans!!!). Jonah has never complained about it (or even mentioned Dean at all), but he must’ve been Jonah’s teacher during some point in the Ikerev universe, especially considering that Jonah and Harr were in the same grade and Dean makes an appearance in Harr’s Class Companions event route.

Dalim: probably that he’s overly-dedicated to those he’s loyal to. Dalim knows that Amon is not a good person and what he’s doing is very wrong, but he still does Amon’s bidding because he is a firm believer in Amon supremacy. However, he has tried to save Cradle on multiple occasions, so I guess that makes up for it. In fact, I think that Jonah would actually appreciate this flaw, because he’s just as dedicated to Lancelot as Dalim is to Amon, and they both tried to intervene when they believed that their King/Lord was up to something bad.

THIS FOLLOWING PART IS FROM @theboredhawk!!!

You could also say that one of Dean's more obvious flaws is that he's very blunt. While he's a smooth talker when it's convenient for him, more often than not he doesn't sugar coat his words when he's pointing out other people's flaws.He says it like it is. This might lead to Jonah being offended on more than one occasion. On the other hand, i don't think Jonah likes Dalim's debauchery. He might think that he fools around too much. He might've chastised him at some point, but gave up when he saw that he wasn't listening. Dalim is hard to tame. There were a few times when he didn't listen to Amon's orders and he also did that thing at the end of Ray's ttlg route which proved that he's not as loyal to his lord as he seems.

BONUS:

Jonah: Jonah literally stated himself that he knows how reckless and stubborn he is, but he doesn’t have any intentions of changing that. And I just. That’s actually such a strong thing to do??? He legit accepts himself as he is without trying to change anything about the way he is. Self-acceptance level 10/10.

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a3theatrejunkie · 4 years

Text

“Go Stand In the Corner”

A3 characters reaction to being told by the director to "Stand in the corner."

🌸Spring Troupe🌸

Sakuya Sakuma- This is Sakuya we’re talking about. What could he have done to get sent to the corners? Well, he just kept forgetting things. At first it was his script. Then, when he returned he realized he was wearing his normal clothes. He left got changed and came back. All was well and they could finally get started. Until he realized he had grabbed the wrong script for the wrong play.

“U-uh, Director?” “Yes Sakuya?” “I grabbed the wrong script...”

The Director just sighed. “Go...Stand in the corner and collect yourself.”

Sakuya looked like a kicked puppy but, complied. He stood in the corner and waited for the director to release him. When released he apologized and went to go get his script, making sure everything was PERFECT before heading back.

Masumi Usui- Fucking Heartbroken. His Crime? Loving too much. Today the Director got frustrated with his constant compliments and advances, they told him to go stand in corner away from them. Masumi watches them from the mirrors reflection. Once released he’s a model actor, perfect behavior, remembers all of his lines, and perfect choreography. Anything to get on the Directors good side again.

Itaru Chigasaki- “F!” He’s actually kind of pissed. He was playing a game on his phone, old habits are hard to break. He missed his cue one too many times due to this and the Director told him to stand in the corner, without his phone. They just don’t understand he hasn’t used up all of his in-game energy yet and you’ve gotta maximize that shit. “The more you complain, the more time you get in the corner.” All Itaru could do was pout like a child and stand there, without a phone. It was agony. It was only five minutes.

Tsuzuru Minagi- He was tired and needed a nap. The Director let him shut his eyes for a few minutes.

Citron- Just kept talking. An important scene was going on? Citron was talking. Stretching? Talking. Just talk talk talking. When he was told to stand in the corner you’d think you’d told him he was gonna die. “Nooo! Please! Have mercy!” He begged, apparently in his homeland being sent to the corner means you’re being exiled and dragged out by the mouth of tigers.

☀️Summer Troupe☀️

The summer troupe had been a lot more rowdier today than usual. Perhaps it was the summer heat that was making them act like a bunch of preschoolers but the Director had had enough. If they were gonna act like children, then they were gonna be treated like children.

"ALL OF YOU! GO STAND IN THE CORNER! NOW." The Director bellowed.

They all stopped and looked at the director in shock, then shifted eyes at each other and then back to the director, they looked serious. The summer troupe members all awkwardly shuffled to a corner in the room and waited out their punishment.

Tenma Sumeragi- "This is so humiliating." He'd whine. He's a professional god dammit, and here he is standing in the corner like a child. Soon enough he realizes that he's the leader of the Summer Troupe and should’ve realized the directors frustrations sooner. When he’s finally allowed to leave the corner he apologizes and gets the troupe on track.

Yuki Rurikawa- Doesn’t even know how to respond, just stands there facing the corner, arms crossed and rolling his eyes at Tenma’s whining. You’d think they’d choose spots on opposite sides of the room. Nope. They chose corners adjacent from each other.

Kazunari Miyoshi- #FreeMiyoshi20XX is now trending, Brought his phone with him to the corner and he’s blogging to his followers. ‘why you in jail man?’ ‘I was being a dick. lol.’

Misumi Ikaruga- He’s so Happy! In the corner he becomes one with the triangle. if he didn’t have to eat he’d never leave. It reminds of his childhood, always in the corner, Isolated from the other children, but it’s okay! He’s got his triangles and maybe one day they’ll appreciate triangles too!”

Muku Sakisaka- Terrified when the Director raised their voice at him, he starts apologizing and calling himself worthless junk but the Director just repeated themselves. One problem though, the training rooms a rectangle and all the other corners are taken. The director sends him out to the hallway. Sakyo walked by him and asked what the hell he was doing?

“I was being a wet sock puppet with no buttons and the Director made me stand in the corner.” Muku said with watery eyes. Sakyo just continued his walk.

🍁Autumn Troupe🍁

Banri Settsu- Yeah, He and Juza were fighting, AGAIN. But did he deserve to be treated like a child, No. He was Banri Fuckin’ Settsu, the LEADER of the Autumn troupe, and the baddest bitch for miles around. He was trying to tell the director that but kept getting time added to his punishment, had to stand in the corner for 20 minutes.

Juza Hyodo- “Tch.” He complied much more easily than Settsu. Didn’t really care about the punishment, it gave him some time to cool his head and calm his nerves. Was only in the corner for 5 minutes. Once he got out het kept a close eye on Settsu to make sure he behaved.

“Director, Settsu’s flippin’ us off.”

“That’s another 2 minutes Settsu.”

“FUCK!”

He had fun.

Sakyo Furuchi - “No.” He’s a grown ass man, he doesn’t get sent to the corner.

“Yes!” Responded the Director. They had been fighting about the budget of the next play and things were heated.

“No.” He responded. Sakyo and the Director glared at each other for a moment.

“Fine then! Sakoda!” They Called.

Sadoka bursts into the room “Yeah Boss Lady?”

“Go stand in the corner!”

Sadoka looked confused but complied. The Director turned to Sakyo “You did this.” Sakyo just sighed and went back to the budget.

Taichi Nanao- He kept getting distracted. Was just off his game today. The Director gave him a few minutes in the corner to get himself sorted.

Omi Fushimi- Made a comment about curry that the Director would not tolerate. Was Jokingly told to go stand in the corner and he did. When he was finally allowed out he faked a tearful apology.

❄Winter Troupe❄

Tsumugi Tsukioka- I can’t think of a reason for him to get sent to the corner, but if he did he would reflect on his actions like the goody goody he is.

Tasuku Takato- He was taking his acting more seriously than usual and it was stressing the group out. To lighten the mood the director sent him to the corner. He stood there, and then started doing wall push-ups out of boredom.

Homare Arisgawa- “Solitude, Isolation, Confinement, Silence....” Like Citron he wouldn’t stop talking. Finally the director told him to just stand in the corner, Homare just talks to himself, making up new poems about his unfair imprisonment. “OHOOHOHO Director you’re attempt to silence me with a cruel and unusual punish has failed! Instead my eyes have been open to a new darker and mature form of poetry!”

Hisoka Mikage- You can’t really put him in the corners as a punishment, he’ll just fall asleep.

Azuma Yukishiro-” Oh? the Director’s giving me a punishment? How interesting~” The Director got flustered from his flirting and sent him to the corner. “I wonder what other things our Director has too offer~”

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miminorenai · 4 years

Photo

Surprised by the sudden question, I reach back into my memory, but I don’t recognize him... He hands over me something like that — “—··· I hope to see you again.”

CHAPTER 02

The man with crimson eyes “...Have we ever met somewhere?”

Surprised by the sudden question, I reach back into my memory, but...

MC “...I don’t think we ever met, probably...”

MC “Because I just came to this place a month ago...”

(...At any rate, it just doesn’t seem that I’ve forgotten. I think I’ll never forget such a beautiful person if I ever meet one.)

The man with crimson eyes “Really...?”

MC “...? Yes...Ah!”

When I *get a hold of myself, I notice that there’s a wagon with flowers is placed beside the person.

(*領き返し - 領 means territory, reign, possession, something you acquired, get hold and owned, while 返し means return, put back and restore. It’s still in hesitation, but I put my own mixture and analyzation that the sentence means ‘something that you possessed being returned and restored’, hence getting hold of herself. But if other readers have better explanation, or perhaps better translation, drop in the comments or DM, alright?

The flowers are unprotected and exposed to the snow, dyeing the petals white.

(That’s not good...!)

MC “If we let them get hit by snow as it is, the flowers might be ruined, you know? Let’s carry it over there!”

I put my hands on the wagon and run towards the eaves of the confectionery in the snow.

(...They won’t get hit by the snow here, right?)

MC “...I’m glad they are all right. It would be sad if such beautiful flowers wither.”

The man with crimson eyes “...”

The moment I feel relieved, I realized the person is staring intently at me, as if to probe into my heart.

MC “...I’m sorry. Did I do something unnecessary...”

Then, the person in front of me gently shakes his head.

The man with crimson eyes “No...thank you.”

After saying that, he suddenly turns his crimson eyes towards the flowers in the wagon, and touches the flowers with beautiful gesture.

And then, the person makes a bouquet of colorful flowers in a blink of time, as if he’s using magic.

The man with crimson eyes “Hmm, this is fine. If it’s this big, it should fit in your arms.”

The man with crimson eyes “Here, as thanks for your help.”

A big bouquet gently jumps into my chest.

MC “...I can’t afford to receive such a big bouquet. I didn’t do much...”

The man with crimson eyes “Just accept it.”

The person untied his pursed lips and smiles sweet enough to captivate me instantly.

The man with crimson eyes “Since I was so happy.”

The man with crimson eyes “Well then, I’ll go with this.”

With a delightful smile, the person puts his hand on an empty wagon and starts walking through the snow.

MC “Excuse me...”

When the person stops walking, he looks up at the sky again...and draws an arc on his thin lips.

The man with crimson eyes “Oh...the snow will stop soon.”

(Huh...?)

Staring at the similar scenery as reflected by the crimson eyes, the snow gradually becomes sparse...

Then, the snow stops.

(...It was a sudden snowfall.)

As I look up at the sky, leaving behind only the signs of snow, a clear voice flows into my ears.

The man with crimson eyes “—··· I hope to see you again.”

When I look back in a sudden, there is no one there anymore,

I feel like I’m dreaming while it was snowing...

(He was a beautiful person...)

(Somehow it seems that he’s a human, but sort of like not human too...he was such a person. Even so —)

I wonder why did he look at me as if we had met before?

(...Have we ever met somewhere after all?)

While I’m thinking about it, I heard footsteps right next to me.

Leonardo “I’m sorry to have kept you keep waiting, Mimi. Huh...? What’s with that big bouquet?”

Leonardo “Leonardo-san! To tell you the truth, just now —”

***

Leonardo-san grunts and stifles his laughter as I tell him the whole story of what happened while it was snowing.

Leonardo “I think he was happy with your kindness. ...Hmm?”

Leonardo's fingertips touch the light blue petals that bloom quietly among various kinds of flowers.

Leonardo “Forget-me-not flowers shouldn't bloom in such a cold winter. Is he growing them in a greenhouse? Or.”

Leonardo “—*Off-season flowering, huh.”

(*狂い咲き - 狂い means insanity, madness and crazy while 咲き means to bloom. Literally it means a crazy flower that’s blooming out of order

Shakespeare sets foot into an old castle and finds the lord of the castle in a beautiful garden.

Vlad “···— 𝅘𝅥𝅮 ···”

Wearing a coat that’s darker than the night, the figure that’s gazing on the flowers illuminated by the moon is so beautiful that you leave it as it is.

Slowly approaching, Shakespeare stands next to Vlad and opens his lips.

Shakespeare “My lord, is there anything good happened to you?”

Vlad “Yeah, something really nice.”

Nevertheless...as he mutters, the pair of eyes with different colors directed his gaze towards the flowers that are blooming in the flower bed.

Shakespeare “Forget-me-nots shouldn’t bloom in this season, and this flower too. ...Ah, this flower too.”

Shakespeare “How on earth are you growing them...?”

Vlad “Rather than that sort of thing, it’s rare for you to come here, Will. Don’t you have something to talk about?”

Shakespeare “...”

Shakespeare’s expression becomes stiff when a straight gaze is directed towards him.

After a seemingly eternal silence, a faint shaking voice echoes through the night.

Shakespeare “In search for tragic real experiences for my creation, on that day I left the mansion...I joined hands with you.”

Shakespeare “I’m in pursuit of tragedy, while you’re trying to revive the great men for your ambition. Our interests were aligned.”

Shakespeare “My heart was certainly moved by the person you revived for your experiment.”

Vlad “...”

Shakespeare “But things like disregarding lives and treating them with disdain, I just can’t accept it no matter what.”

Shakespeare “...I understand that it’s a selfish excuse, but I don’t want to get my hands dirty anymore —“

Vlad “Hey, Will.”

Shakespeare “...?”

Vlad “Do you know why forget-me-nots came to be called by this name?”

Although confused by the sudden question, Shakespeare easily/leisurely repeats the words.

Shakespeare “Knight Rudolph tried to pick flowers that bloom on the river quay for his lover, but...he accidentally fell into the river.”

Shakespeare “I know it got its name from the anecdote that was left behind saying [Don't forget me] at that time.”

Vlad “Yes, that’s correct. As one would expect, a rare playwright has an extensive knowledge.”

Vlad “I think, the great men in the Count’s mansion look a lot like this flower.”

Vlad “Although their lives have ended once, they were afraid that their existences would disappear from this world.”

Vlad “That straightforward obsession so far as cruel and abnormal has brought them back to life again. Hey, Will.”

Shakespeare “...Yes.”

Vlad “They will surely be the cornerstone to grant this heartful ambition. That’s why I have to choose.”

Vlad “—··· A strong person to help me, right? I thought you understand what I wanted to do.”

His voice is calm like a calm sea, but the air Vlad’s cladded in is too sharp and ferocious...,

But Shakespeare raises his voice to encourage himself.

Shakespeare “I can’t dance in your palm anymore, but I’m the first one who took your hand.”

Shakespeare “If you want to kill me, do it then. Since for you...I’m an unnecessary flower.”

Vlad’s hands extend towards Shakespeare’s neck.

Shakespeare “— !”

But, the beautiful hands on his small neck move away on a whim.

Shakespeare “...Why...”

Vlad “’Cause it seems like a severe punishment for Will is to continue living and suffering. See you then, Will.”

When Shakespeare’s figure disappears, the footsteps of Charles and Faust echo in replace.

Faust “Is it fine to overlook the playwright easily, Your Excellency? It seems to me that the treatment is very sweet...”

Charles “Lord Vlad has Lord Vlad’s own *consideration. Isn’t that right, Ōsama?”

(*考え - thought, idea, intention, expectation

Responds with only a smile, Vlad turns his beautiful crimson eyes towards the night sky.

Vlad “The world is still beautiful today. That’s why I can’t give up this ambition in my heart.”

Vlad “We still have a long way to go, but...I’m sure it will be done.”

Charles & Faust “...”

Without minding both of them who are becoming speechless at the profile with appalling madness in his beauty,

Vlad straightly crouches down on the spot and watches forget-me-not flowers intently.

Vlad “Don’t forget me, huh. Did that girl forget about me?”

Vlad “We met on a distant snowy day...”

Charles & Faust “...?”

Vlad “I hope we can meet again. Fuaa~...”

Charles “Eh, Ōsama?”

Charles “...He falls asleep.”

Faust “Sleeping in a place this, after muttering an incomprehensible monologue.”

Faust “Truly a selfish old man. Shall, I’m going back.”

Charles “Eh, let’s carry him, Doc.”

Faust “If you leave him alone, it seems that he’ll wake up soon.”

Charles “Eh? People would usually die if we leave them behind in this cold winter.”

Faust “Your Excellency is unusual, so there’s no problem.”

Charles “But, he’ll catch a cold, right?”

Faust “Haa~ He’s really such a troublesome old man.”

The profile of Shakespeare who’s leaving the castle is as lifeless as a doll.

As he looks up at the night sky with dark eyes, the moon, which is about to transform into a full moon, comes into view and brings back a certain memory.

A month ago, a woman who appeared in front of him in what sort of fate, was an ordinary human without any talents.

Vlad doesn’t need that kind of person...he thought so, and didn’t give any information about Mimi.

— That’s to say, he put up a façade.

Somehow she felt like a factor that could change this chaotic situation, for better or worse.

He felt that even God didn't know if Mimi’s fate and that beautiful person would cross.

Shakespeare “What can I do right now is keeping an eye on what’s about to occur after this, and if anything happens, I’ll *firsthand —”

(*身を以て - with one's own body/action/experience

Every time I went to the city from that snowy day, my eyes came to search for that person who looked like a snow spirit.

However —

(...Isn’t it hard to find him in this big city?)

(If only I asked for his name at least, I could get a clue to search for him.)

I want to convey a proper gratitude for giving me an armful of flowers.

Also...I can’t put it well into words, but I wish to meet that person again, truly from my heart.

MC “I don't know when, but...I want to see you again."

As I mutter alone, I could smell something like floating spring mixed in the winter air.

When I follow the scent that gives color to the cold winter —

The man with crimson eyes “...”

The person is beside the wagon with plenty of flowers, as if he’s bringing along the spring.

(...At last, I met him.)

As I approach him, his crimson eyes slowly catch me —

The man with crimson eyes “I found you ‘again’, after all.”

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevam #ikevam vlad #vlad #i haven't read much yet #but mc definitely meeting the little vlad through the door lol #hence not the 1st meeting for vlad

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i-make-questionable-choices · 4 years

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When the Hurt Comes, So Does the Happiness.

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: Torture, SPN level gore, mentions of rape/non-con, mentions of forced bestiality(nothing graphic), angst.

Summary: When Alastair disappeared after Anna’s death, he took you with him, holding you simply to torture the Winchesters. With the knowledge that angels are tracking him down, he sets out to hurt you as much as he can.

A/N: This kinda replaces the end of 04x15. Also my first work so please please please let me know how I did or anything else. Feedback is golden!

When Dean came back to life after 40 years in the pit, he had had trouble believing he was, in fact, alive. Paranoia followed him from hell, and it took a while for him to realize that his resurrection was not some cruel joke. It had taken some time, but slowly, he had accepted that this was real. That you were real.

But now you were gone. Plucked from his grasp like a child plucks a flower from the earth. It made Dean wonder if he ever left Hell.

—

Alastair hummed softly, relishing in the cries of his latest victim. It had been surprisingly easy to take his best student little pet away from him, and, though he was no where near either of the Winchesters, the knowledge that they would be driving themselves into the ground looking for you almost had him singing.

He hadn’t felt such exhilaration during a torture session as he was feeling since the righteous man had fallen onto his rack. And while he couldn’t use some of his preferred techniques, considering he wanted you alive, the knowledge that Dean was suffering at your mere absence was delicious.

Carefully selecting a pair cuticle nippers from his cart of tools, he turned with a flourish, grin falling as he realized you were unconscious. You were no fun unconscious, after all, he liked your screams.

With an aggrieved sigh, he dropped the nippers back on the table and, begrudgingly, snatched up a heavy leather collar. He sulked over to the rack where you lay unconscious and cinched it around your neck, far too tight for it to be comfortable, then stormed out of the room

—

When you flickered back into consciousness, all you could do was try and breath.

The still air chilled your bare skin, raising goosebumps along the paled flesh. The leather around your neck, though suffocatingly tight, was eerily comforting, and though it confused you, you lent into it. You needed all the comfort could could get.

Despite the freezing air and the chills that ran along your skin, the outside of your left thigh burned with a vengeance. Tears welled in your eyes as you recalled the moments before you fell unconscious.

The pain from the brand had cast all other thoughts from your mind when Alastair had seared what he called a ‘permanent reminder’ of himself into your skin.

It was all too much, the cold, the pain, your hunger, and the confusing comfort of the collar. You didn’t see it coming, but you barely had seconds before you passed out once more.

—

Alastair waking you up by pouring water on you wasn’t unusual, as a matter of fact, it seemed to be his preferred method. But each and every time the water had been icy.

This time, it was boiling.

You screamed as it awoke you, drowning out Alastair’s cruel laugh as you gasped and sobbed. Your body spasming against its restraints, desperately trying to evade the pain.

“Good morning, pet,” the sickly sweet tone of his voice sent shivers up your spine, “did you enjoy your bath?”

A slight pull choked you for a moment as Alastair undid the buckle before the collar disappeared.

“You fell asleep on me last night, quiet rude don’t you think?” He grinned as tears streamed down your face, tinting pink as they washed away bits of dried blood. “No matter, we have plenty of time for just us today!”

A flash a metal caught in the cold light as Alastair brandished the cuticle nippers once more.

Slowly, delicately, he lowered them to your face, tracing your features just as Dean used to in the wee hours of the morning. If Alastair knew this, he would rejoice knowing that the seat gesture was now ruined by his doing.

He reached your lips, then without warning, split your upper lip in half.

Your wail was music to his ears, the fading sound leaving him yearning for more. He forced you to count threatening you with harsh punishment should you refuse.

By the time they got to one-hundred, your body was shaking with sobs, voice cracking. To add insult to injury, your stomach, having gone four days now with out food, rumbled and groaned.

Humiliation flooded through you, your cheeks burning.

Through tears you spared a glance at your torturer, furrowed brow widened as you perceived the look of sadistic joy upon his face.

“Pet!” He cried, the same way a mother or parental figure does when you do something unexpected. "You should have told me you were so hungry!”

He released the nippers, letting them clatter to the ground.

“I wasn’t going to feed you just yet but I suppose we could switch things around a bit…” The strap across your forehead prevented you from turning your head completely, but your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw the contraption Alastair selected; a long tube, open on one end with a funnel connected to the other.

In a desperate attempt at self preservation, you clamped your lips tight, ignoring the burning pain that spread across your face at the pressure on your cut lip. Alastair snorted, the corners of his smirk curling up further.

“Very well then, if you insist on being difficult…”

You cried out as he shoved the tube up your nose. It wasn’t a large tube, but good god was it to big for such a small space. You could feel it scraping away at the inside of your nose, could feel the blood trickle down to your mouth.

There was barely a warning before it entered your throat; a slight tickle at the top of your mouth, perhaps.

You coughed and gagged as he slipped it down you throat further, eyes leaking tears like a faucet.

Finally, after what felt like ages, the tube stopped moving. Sniffling, you sobbed, not bothering to muffle the sounds of crying.

“Bonne appétit, kitten.”

You couldn’t see what he poured into the funnel, part of you didn’t want to anyways. Your muscles tensed in anticipation, waiting for whatever pain you would feel next. You did not expect to feel a tickle in your chest before your body spasmed into a coughing fit.

“Whoopsie!”

Alastair’s voice sent shivers up your spine. “Wrong way. I’m so sorry, kitten, how careless of me.”

Pulling it back out was just as bad as him pushing it in, it was unnatural and you so longed to claw at your neck.

It took him a moment to actually get the tube into your esophagus, but with a sharp jab and a feel around your neck, he was pretty sure it was in the right place now.

He was halfway through, ignoring your gags in an effort to repeal the foreign device, when his head shot up, eyes gazing towards the door, before a smirk adorned his mug.

“Well, pet, it seems that we have a guest,” he reached for the collar, tightening it more than he ever had before. “You’ll be a good girl while I go and greet them, won’t you?”

With a slight bow, he disappeared from your vision, exiting somewhere behind you and slamming a door you couldn’t see. The only sounds now audible were your gags as your body fought to expel the tube from its system.

Tilted onto your back, it was excruciatingly hard for you to vomit up the tube and you needed up spewing several mouthfuls of bile onto yourself before you could spit it out.

With Alastair gone, you began to process your situation.

Naked, shorn, and weak, covered in cuts and burns and bruises, sticky with blood and bile and the filth of the dogs Alistair had set on you. Helpless. Alone. Collared, branded, and chained like an animal. For the first time in these two weeks, it hit you just how pathetic you were was.

It was the straw that broke the camels back. The loneliness. The time to think. With a shuddering gasp, you descended into tears

—

Dean sprinted through the halls of the warehouse. Slamming his hands into every door, yelling out your name. The desperation raw in his voice.

He reached the end of the hall and tried the door; locked.

At first, he backed up, trying with all his might to kick it down, and then to bodyslam it open. When his body couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed his gun.

Aiming it at the glass square in the door, he fired several times until he had a hole large enough to reach through.

Shards of glass still clinging to the door frame pierced his jacket at sliced his skin, he didn’t care, he had to check everywhere.

It was an awkward angle, and Dean could barely reach it, but he managed to twist the knob on the inside until the door swung open; revealing the carnage inside.

—

It took the Dean a moment to register that the form on the table was indeed the women he was looking for. No longer did you sport your gorgeous H/C locks, the hair barely dotting your shaved scalp as it began growing back. Your skin was so stained and burned and bruised it didn’t look human.

Hesitantly, as if approaching a frightened rabbit, Dean paced forwards.

“Y/N?” His voice as hesitant as his steps.

Your eyes flew open, fearful as a rabbit chased by dogs. The relief that flooded them as soon as you realized who it was was immediate.

“de-an?” Your voice choppy and hoarse.

“Hey there, sweetheart.” Dean struggled to blink back tears.

“s-sammy?”

“He’s okay, I’m gonna get you outta here, okay sweetheart?”  You hummed, eyes half closed as your head lolled to the side, a couple tears cutting through the grime on your cheeks and nose.

Silence hung between them as Dean fiddled with straps around your wrists, slick blood and bile. The straps had been locked so tightly that they had rubbed the skin raw and left it paled as blood smuggled to fill back in.

As the moved to your ankles he grimaced, noticing the sticky white mess that dripped down your inner thighs.

You didn’t make a sound as he adjusted your prone figure to sit forwards, letting you lean against his shoulder as he fiddled with the too tight buckle around your neck. He didn’t care about the vomit that dribbled down your chin, staining his shirt, nor did he care about the blood that seeped into his clothes.

His only focus was you.

The collar fell away from your neck leaving behind rubs and bruised skin. Dean had expected the removal of the collar to calm you, not for your breathing to speed up ten-fold, nor to be able to feel your heart pound against his chest.

“no.” It was barely a whisper, a hint of a word, but Dean stilled, pulling back as he gripped your shaking shoulders. His mind was scrambling for answers, what had Alastair done to you? Why were you wearing t-

Oh.

He pulled you tight against his chest once more, murmuring reassurances in your ear as he hid his own tears from view.

His rage burned as he recalled his time apprenticing under Alastair; the time that monster had shown him one of his more ‘refined’ techniques.

Conditioning.

Training the victims mind into associating the removal of a collar or chains or the opening of their cage with extreme pain. It was a technique so ruthless that Dean had never been able to bring himself to do it.

Not even at his worst.

It took Dean a moment, but, as he desperately tried to banish those horrid memories from his mind, he shrugged off his jacket. Gently as he could, he draped the fabric over your shoulders and carefully guided each arm through the sleeves.

It was a bit too big, your fingers still hiding in the sleeves, but it gave you a shred of modesty and you clutched at him tighter.

When his arm wormed its way under your knees, you stifled your whimper as best you could but you could not conceal the tiniest of squeaks that escaped your cracked lips.

Deans eyes filled with pity, mouth parting to apologize but you beat him to it.

“P-please, just get me out of here.”

He hesitated a moment then steeled himself and nodded, his other arm supporting your lower back.

“Sorry about this sweetheart.”

You gasped softly as some of your injuries rubbed against his shirt and fresh tears sprang in your eyes. As he lifted you closer to his chest, you brought your trembling arms up around his neck, leaning your chin over his shoulder.

The beat of his steps both jarred your injuries and provided comforting sounds, lulling you into a more restful state. You would have fallen asleep had Dean not stepped outside moments later.

The air was crisp, slight breezing chilling you to the bone. Shivering, you burrowed deeper into Deans arms and he tightened his hold on you. As he carried you away from the hellhole in which you had been trapped, the sky came into view. And with the sky, came the stars.

They twinkled, blurring in you teary eyes and you took in a long, deep breath of fresh air.

You couldn’t help yourself; sobs wracked your body as it truly set in that you were finally free. Free from Alastair and his pain. Free from his torture. Free.

Dean didn’t say a word. He knew exactly the emotions that were coursing through you. When he had first come back, he had been hesitant and as wary as a rabbit. Not daring for ages to believe that his resurrection was not some cruel joke.

As he reached the Impala. He had to shift his hold on you to reach the passengers side handle and even then he had difficulty opening the door, but he managed. Not daring to set you down and the unforgivingly cold concrete.

Slowly ducking his head, he lowered you onto your back onto the cool leather seat of the Impala. He made to pull away but your arms tightened around his neck, terrified of losing him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay sweetheart, I’m just gonna grab you a blanket, okay? I’m not going anywhere, okay?” He took time to check that everything he did was okay with you, letting you know everything so as not to leave you dreading something he would do, even if he knew he wasn’t going to hurt you. Gently he took ahold of your forearms, clutching them between fingertips, and lowered them to your chest. Pulling away quickly, he opened the door to the backseat, reaching up onto the rear dash to grab one of the thick blankets they kept there. He shut the door as quietly as he could, but that didn’t stop you from reflexively tensing at the abrupt noise. Though Dean noticed, he said nothing, it wouldn’t help you right now anyways.

Carefully, he worked the blanket underneath you, then laid you back down on the leather, wrapping you up nice and tight. He ducked back, about to shut the door when the rustling of feathers sounded behind him, alarming the both of you.

Quiet as a cat, in all his trench-coated glory, was Castiel. His eye were stoic and matched Deans fiery gaze.

“What do you want now?” Dean snarled, turning completely and shielding you from the angels view.

For a moment, Castiel was silent, eyes dropping to stare at the road beneath him before he returned his gaze to Dean, stepping forwards.

“This hasn’t been easy for you.”

“Yeah no shit! What the hell do you want?”

“I’m here to help.” He nodded at you.

“Why the fuck would you do that. You’ve done nothing for us since you pulled me outta hell!” Deans voice was low and angry, yet cautiously quiet.

Behind him, you shivered as the night air crept in through the open door.

Castiel said nothing, lifting his chin to regard Dean. The look he sported was not judgmental, but perhaps slightly inquisitive. And not the type of inquisitivity that came alongside confusion, no he knew everything he wanted and needed to, but instead a type of inquisitivity that prompted Dean to stop and think.

For a few tense moments, only the stars dared to move, it seemed even the air around the angel and the hunter stilled. Then, slowly, cautiously, Dean stepped back.

“Fine, but hurry the hell up!”

Periwinkle eyes softened, a look of compassion that one might expect when they thought of an angel, and he leant over you.

At first you shrunk away, not willing to be near anyone other than Dean, but you had to trust Dean, trust that he wouldn’t let anyone he didn’t mildly trust near you.

Eyes glowing blue, Castiel pressed but two fingers to your forehead. The tenseness in your shoulders seemed to relax and the frown upon your lips softened. A wave of warmth, like a loving hug, washed through you, chasing away the pain Though the bloodstains and other substances soiling your skin remained, the physical damage was slowly washed away.

He stepped back, allowing Dean to approach you and examine his work. Though Dean still had his back to him, Castiel gave one last thoughtful comment.

“We’re not all so stuck-up, if you give us a chance.”

Dean had barely started to turn before Castiels wings rustled once more and he disappeared into nothingness.

He stared long and hard at the spot where the angel had once stood, the let his gaze wander upwards. Overhead, a patch of cloud was slowly pushed across the sky, and the moon glowed brightly. She smiled down at the hunter as he gazed at her in return.

Dean lowered his gaze.

He stood there for only a moment longer then turned, shutting the passengers door behind him and walking across the front of the car. He pulled the door open and plopped down in the drivers seat, exhausted.

He hadn’t expected it, but a soft smile graced his features as you scooted closer to him, wresting your head against his thigh.

Starting the car he pulled out from the curb, placing one hand on your head. You murmured then nuzzled into the touch.’

It would take weeks, maybe even months, but, as he sped away from Alastair’s hellhole Dean knew you would be okay.

Both of you, would be okay.

#dean winchester #deanwinchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester angst #dean winchester whump #dean winchester one shot #supernatural one shot #spn one shot #supernatural angst #supernatural whump #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #alastair #castiel #SamWinchester #I Make Questionable Choices #Questionable-Choices writing

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tokoyamisstuff · 4 years

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Betrothed Ch. 6 - Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Chapter 6: Bold

Summary: Two pretty unusual family meetings, but one of them lacks a happy end.

Warnings: Angst, Family Drama.

Words: ~4300

Story Masterlist

A/N: Tumblr accidentally posted the unfinished draft a few days ago. Sorry for the confusion! As a treat, you get a very long chapter! (:

Before you were married, Illumi was rarely at home.

He had no one to come home to anyway, let alone someone who cared.

Anyway, this was only one of many things you had changed.

These times, whenever he left, it was only for a good reason like missions, training or caring for his siblings. Sometimes family conferences you were allowed to attend as well, yet not to talk.

Whenever he got home, it felt so cozy and peaceful.

Like he was welcomned and safe here - unlike anything he knew before.

Your home would always smell like scented candles, the many flowers you had planted at the balconry, and whatever you were cooking at the time.

It was very lovely and kinda cheesily decorated by now. Most of the things were stuff you asked Illumi to bring home from his missions, but lately he got you anything he thought you'd like.

Of course you were grateful for everything. It meant he took the time and actually think about what you'd appreciate!

Occasionally, you’d bring home injured animals you found in the forrest surrounding Kurokoo mountain. Sometimes your husband reluctantly assisted you, even though he found kindness futile - he just couldn’t say no to your begging eyes, so be it.

From you, he got love and care in return for his efforts. But a wild animal? Well, if he thought about it, he consdiered himself lacking a real consciousness just as much as the pets you kept.

One day, he’ll understand why people help each other without wanting something back - you promised him. Even though he always emphasized that saving such small lives won’t redeem him anyway.

Yes, the weight of his sins was sure massive - especially now that it all broke down on him, suffering under his newfound sympathy.

You swiped through your phone, adoring all the photos you persuaded him to take together.

It filled your heart with joy to notice every small change he underwent:

He'd run himself a bath from time to time, buy sweets or other things to try out, and spent his free time reading or wandering the estate's forrest instead of thoughtlessly staring into the void.

And for the more nasty things, well...let’s just say Illumi is a quick learner. And you were glad that he began taking the initiative and try out things he may enjoy.

Your husband was more and more developing a personality.

"She's so pretty!"

"Yeah, right?" you proudly commanded the owl to come back, and she immediately landed on your lap. "Her name is Luna."

“She was a gift from big bro Illumi, right?” Your familiar had grown strong very fast, yet it's claws never hurt you. Sometimes you almost forgot that Luna was a dangerous animal rather than a cuddly pet. “Yes, she is!”

"Maybe we can play in the forrest some day. I just need some time to convince your parents."

Alluka was sitting on a chair next to you, cheerfully petting the patient bird. "Thanks, big sis!"

Illumi's little sister was probably the only normal person in this building. No nen, no assassin training either, and a loving nature.

If only there wasn't-

"Y/N!" Oh no. Your husband was back earlier than you expected. "Did you bail her out again?!"

"Big bro!" the little girl cheered, jumping down the stair and wobbling to his direction.

There was not the slightest hint of hate inside of her. Even though she was alone all the time, she was blissfully unaware about her own family resenting her.

"Illumi!" That was the first time you actually raised your voice against him. "Take.down.the. needle. Right now!"

You kept Alluka from getting closer to Illumi, defendingly wrapping your arms around her.

God knows what he'd do...

"Then get that thing out of my face."

Actually, you didn't want to fight in front of a child, but Alluka needed constant superveilance . "How can you be so cruel? She's your sister!"

"Did you make a wish?"

"Of course not! I used my nen to get her out unnoticed, so she could spent some time like a normal child. I would've brought her back tonight. That's all, really! I promise!"

Suddenly, you felt a foreign, powerful aura under your palms.

Damn it.

You forgot her last wish was a hug, which was exactly what you gave her right now.

"Aye."

"That's enough." Illumi already had his needles prepared, infusing them with nen. "I'll end this right here."

You knew he didn't mean it like this. He was afraid of Nanika's powers, and even if this wouldn't end in a disaster, his parents would punish you for your reckless actions.

"Nanika?"

The girl answered, her blackened orbs obediantly glaring at you. "Aye?"

"Y/N" Illumi almost growled, still hesistant. "Know your place."

"Give Illumi a hug."

Baffled, Illumi's needles disappeared into thin air. The girl didn't even reach up to the tall man's thorso, rather embracing one of his legs.

She was so small and weak and fragile - and for the first time, Illumi was able to acknowledge the affection his sister felt for him.

"See?" you calmly explained, now hugging him as well. "Nanika is not evil. Only the people's wish are."

"...she's all alone" he spoke to himself, trying to at least logically understand the situation. "Just like you when I'm gone."

He didn't get it.

Hard enough to understand why you were caring so much about him, but Alluka? The sibling he always despised, insulted, abused, and locked away?

There were still so many things he didn't know yet.

"Well, if it's only the two of you, and I'm supervising..." he mumbled, kneeling down to the girl's height, "Then I guess I can promise you a few liberties."

Alluka's face and aura were back to normal, her glimmering eyes blinking happily at her brother, who was absentmindedly petting her hair.

"Great!" You clasped your hands together, disappearing in the kitchen. "Let's make a hot chocolate for you guys!"

Quickly, you reappeared to the two sitting on the sofa with an awkard distance, until you wrapped them in a blanket.

Illumi sat in middle of you two, deeply buried in thought while you and Alluka were watching TV until she fell asleep.

"I'll bring her back now" you whispered softly, but Illumi already cradled the snoring girl into his arms. "No. I will."

For a second, you were taken aback, unsure about his intentions - but you wanted to believe in him, so you stayed quiet about your apprehensions.

"She's cute, right?" you noticed as Illumi got a strand of hair out of her face. He held her with such great care and insecurity, it was a truly cute sight.

"Dunno. I know the definition of cute, but I don't think I really understand it."

"You are cute, for example." Placing a wet kiss on his cheek, you waved him goodbye as he walled out the door - but in the frame, he stopped.

"You're changing so many things at once."

"For better or worse?"

Illumi wouldn't turn around to look at you, instead watching Alluka's soundly sleeping face.

"I don't know. We'll see."

When Illumi took longer than expected, panic began to rise inside of you.

Did his parents find out? Due to your powers this should basically be impossible, but still-

"Alluka wanted me to stay and play with her" Illumi's voice appeared behind your back, making you jump a little.

So that's why he took so long.

"Was it fun?"

"I'm not a good brother" he murmured, "Not to her or any of them."

He remembered the time he got Kalluto a kimono you picked out for him, as a gift.

“You’ve changed” the boy said back then, and the confusion in his eyes made Illumi painfully aware that the child was close to become just as inhuman as he was.

And he was the one who teached his siblings to be that way.

Your husband sat on the edge of the bed, with you already laying inside. He buried his face into his hands, seemingly distressed.

Yes, it was fun. Even though he didn't know how to properly entertain a child, Alluka seemed to enjoy her brother's attention inconditionally - just like you did.

Was that love?

"You just tried to protect your family, Lumi" you cooed, massaging his tensed shoulders.

"What about yours?" he suddenly asked, turning to you with a stony expression.

"I, uh-"

"Do you miss them?" Seems like he was afraid to lose you.

You tugged on his arm until he'd finally let himself fall into the bed, and you put an arm and leg around him, effectively trapping him into your hold.

"Of course I do. But this is my home now."

"And they're nice people?" he wondered, since your parents were assassins too.

He laid his head onto your chest, trying for your heartbeat to lull him to sleep.

"They are...special. Strict but loving. I think all parents fuck up their children somehow. But I still love them."

Both of you had already closed your eyes, his cold skin feeling refreshing on your warm one.

"Then let's meet them" Illumi suggested as his hand ran across your bodyline, before he stopped himself with a tender kiss on your skin.

"I want to know what other families are like."

Only a week later, you were allowed to leave the Zoldyck estate for the first time. Wether it was because of Illumi’s curiosity or maybe that he knew you missed your family, it didn’t matter.

Two different worlds.

Your family was living in the midst of the small town, loved by the inhabitants. Being honorable head hunters who mainly killed wanted criminals and acting as protectors of the city, you had kind of a reputation.

So it was no wonder everyone you saw greeted you with great respect, yet also as if you were never gone.

That was what a real home must feel like, Illumi thought as he watched you casually talk to anyone who recognized you while both of you wandered the main street.

“They sure think highly of you” he deducted out loud, seeing how anyone was smiling and cheering at you.

“Well...” Flustered, you rubbed the back of your head as you kept on walking, “I’ve grown up in between those people. Of course they know me! That’s all.”

“Mhh” he murmured, still eyeing everyone quite suspecting. This was your first day outisde the manor, and your husband would be damned if something would happen to you.

“There it is!” Already running ahead, you pointed at the tallest building of the town - your birthplace.

“Y/N Y/L/N” a familiar voice behind you spoke, trying way too hard to keep a straight face.

Turning around, you saw all of your siblings gathered at one spot. Of course you knew they had followed you this whole time, due to your nen - but it was still a pleasant surprise. “You guys!”

Giving each one of them a wholeheartedly hug, you immediately began to chatter about all kinds of things. You haven’t seen each other for a while, and you wanted to know everything.

“Better tell me next time” Illumi abruptly cut you off, and only now you realized the needles in between his fingers. “I almost killed them.”

Oh. So he noticed them too.

Well, your family had it worse, so they just laughed it off.

“So this is your husband, huh?” They didn’t dare speak his name - the family was too infamous, and not in a positive way. it wouldn’t really gain you the good kind of attention. “I thought you’d be more...intimidating.”

All of your siblings got way too close to Illumi, aving hands in front of his face and eyeing his appearance, at least trying to make the stoic man react in any way.

“Nice to meet you!” One of your brothers offered his hand for your husband to shake, yet Illumi decided on staring him down instead.

“Pleasure is all mine” he retorted in his robotic way, sounding way too fake for anyone to buy it.

At least they were not afraid of him. Your husband was very talented in hiding his bloodlust, after all - even though it was constantly there, not even a skilled nen user would notice.

“Mother and father are awaiting you at the usual spot.” Your brother’s voice was more serious now that he had assessed the situation.

It was clear from the very first moment that they didn’t only come to greet you - their main goal was the eldest Zoldyck.

“Seems like he’s now our leader” you pondered as all of them dispersed into different directions.

Things had changed. Of course they did.

Back then, you declined your fate of becoming the clan-leader, even though it had been the centre of all your ambitions up until now.

Meeting Illumi made you question anything you expected from life.

You didn’t even know why: What would it matter if you left an assassin family just to join another one?

Even your youngest sister was different. You could feel her steady aura, meaning she had completed her training.

The situation made you both nostalgic and anxious.

“Do you regret it?” Illumi’s blank stare turned to your form, black orbs interrogating you. He knew you were meant to be a leader, yet you gave up on that dream and had laid down all your independency.

“Not really.” Shrugging, you quickly linked arms with your husband, leading him to the secret entrance of the headquarters. It was sealed with nen, just like back then.

At leas that didn’t change, and so you’d soon find yourself in the middle of the hall where you’d plan all of the operations back then.

“You’re home.” That solemn tone was fitting for your father: Hard to detect his emotions, but easy to understand. “Welcome home.”

Illumi took a few steps back, almost withdrawing into a dark corner of the room as if he wanted to disappear from this earth. He was more likely to be a mere bystander or observer than to be in social situations.

“My little angel of death!” your mother almost cried out, both incredibly happy and sorrowful. “You’ve returned to us!”

“And that handsome young man over there?” After she was done smothering your face in kisses, she directed her welcoming nature to Illumi was well. “C’mon, don’t be shy. Take a seat!”

That’s right. She’s never seen him before. He was here exactly once to propose in front of your father - god knows how he even got inside. Obviously it wasn’t really a big deal to him.

Your family was so insignificant compared to his heritage - not that it mattered to you, it was just an observation.

“When we heared your wish to bid our humble fort a visit, we were greatly honored” your father declared as all of you sat down at the great, round table. Now everyone was there: Siblings, uncles and aunts, even your grandparents and great-grandparents. “And we are glad of your safe arrival.”

Illumi didn’t really seem to be impressed, being able to silence the room with a single gesture of his hand. “Don’t go out of your way. I am here because Y/N wished to see you.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at his polite manner, even though he wasn’t very talkative. Trying to get a hold of his hand under the table, you’d spend the day just like that.

Hours just flew by as your family held a great dinner to honor ‘the happy couple’, with Illumi absorbing every little detail like a dry sponge: Daily conversations about irrelevant topics, tales about the past and especially the childhood.

He even managed to show a lopsided smile when he realized something made you particulary happy.

Yet everytime someone of your family tried to get close to you, all of you noticed how tense he became.

Of course he was very possessive, and didn’t want to share you with anyone. But it was so damn sweet that he at least tried to get himself together...

“I’ll be waiting outisde. Might give the town a visit.” Even through all of your objections, your husband was gone faster than any of you could comprehend. “Take all the time you need.”

“He’s amazing” you thought to yourself, not noticing how much you were trembling due to your excitement. Being here together with him was such a huge progress, and he was doing so damn great.

“Y/N?” Your father was the first one to take the word, clearing his throat before continuing. “Now that we’re alone...”

Of course he knew they weren’t. Illumi was supervisioning everything somehow. But they waited for so long, and needed to let it out.

It was ‘speak now or stay silent forever’.

“Tell us about life with the Zoldycks.” Your sister once again let her hand run up and down your arm, and you realized this wasn’t just loving closeness - they were searching for injuries. “Are they harsh on you?”

“His family is pretty crazy, but it’s nothing wild, really. I manage” you stated, pulling away from the touch of your siblings.

All of the eyes were on you now, dropping the act. Everything left was sympathy and...guilt?

“So...what’s your point?” You didn’t know why, but their glares made you furious somehow. Maybe because you knew what they were hinting at. “Just speak your mind.”

“Y/N, dear...” Now your mother was the one taking the initiative, squeezing your hand ever so slightly. “We’re so, so sorry! You need to understand why we did this, okay?”

“Did what?” When they didn’t respond, you repeated the question with a much weaker, almost broken voice. “Did...what?!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” your brother now spoke, almost disgusted by what he was about to say. “Giving you away to this...freak.”

“Huh?”

Your mother now clung to you, as if you were about to disappear if she was to ever let go. “There was no other choice!” she exclaimed, while your father dramatically swung his balled fist on the table. “The Zoldycks are dangerous! We knew your fate was sealed when he came asking for your hand in marriage...”

“Of course we despise that sick weirdo. Who would wish for their child to be with someone like him?!” your father continued, his explanation wrenching your heart dry. “But if we hadn’t complied, they would’ve taken you by force. You know they would’ve killed all of us. It was to protect the family, so we had to give you up! My sweet, sweet child-”

“-shut up” you whispered as you felt tears burning in your eyes.

“It’s okay, Y/N” your sister was trying to wipe them away, letting her thumb run over your cheek. “We’ve grown stong now, Y/N! You don’t need to protect us anymore, we’re-”

“You still don’t stand any chance against them.” You got up from your chair, slamming your palms on the table. “But that’s not the point!”

“What did that monster do to you?”

“Oh, he? Nothing!” you now screamed, slamming a plate to the ground to release some of the built-up tension. “In opposite to you, who abandoned their daughter to save their own skin!”

You didn’t know. How could you have missed that fact? Those people weren’t glad you married him, they just weren’t honest with you.

And they were selfish - for all they cared, they would’ve given you away to die if Illumi had been that way.

“My husband-” you choked on a sob, feeling as if the love you felt for Illumi was crushing you, keeping you from breathing freely. “He’s been here with you, wanting to understand what a normal family is like. But only now I realize this one is just as fucked up!”

“Don’t say something like tha-”

“I’m not done!” Suddenly, an outburst of your aura shook the whole room. “Illumi is a kind and confused person. He was benevolent with you, against all of his teachings. And you are talking behind his back? How cowardly of you. I thought we were a family of proud warriors!”

All of them were looking at each other, nodding in unity as they all thought the same.

“Illumi Zoldyck is probably the most dangerous of them all. Maybe not the strongest, but the most mad of them all.” You grid your teeth, almost snarling at your grandfather’s words. “Don’t fool yourself, Y/N. Love is a foreign concept for him. The word has spread across the whole continent: Even his own family, those bloodthirsty monsters fear that young man!”

“You don’t know him like I do.” Turning around, you prepared to leave - but your siblings blocked the way. “As if I’d listen to the opinions of people who gave me away just like that.”

“Listen to us, Y/N. Maybe you can free yourself. He might’ve placed a needle-”

“That’s enough.”

Your eyes widened in wonder. How did Illumi get back in without any of you noticing?

Yet here he was, and his aura had turned purple, stained with black from all the disappointment, hurt and anger he miraculously contained without breaking down.

“I think Y/N is tired and wants to leave.” His voice was as unaffected as always, yet one look of him was enough to make your siblings freeze in terror.

“You’re Y/N’s family, so I won’t kill you” your husband declared in an absentminded tone, grabbing your wrist and turning towards the exit without anyone daring an attempt to stop him. Just after he shoved you out of the door, Illumi would turn around one last time - a threatening ember sparkling in his eyes.

“But consider this a warning: Y/N belongs to me.”

“Why?” your father asked with an almost begging undertone. “Why did it have to be Y/N?”

“Because your child is important to me.”

Illumi had carried you all the way out of the town, only getting to a hold when you were at a mountain far enough away. Not that your family would follow you anyway.

After being done crying to your heart’s extend, your husband let you down in the slightly wet grass, and you were able to see the dim lights of the city far away at the horizon.

“We’ve played here very often” you sniffled, trying to get a hold of yourself. “My siblings and I.”

“Ah.”

You appreciated moments like these. Illumi was a very good listener, even though you weren’t even sure that he actually cared about what you were saying.

It just felt good to have him near when you were sad.

“I’m so terribly sorry, Lumi...they shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay.” No, it wasn’t You knew he tried to hard to be the best version of himself today, to try and respect boundaries and to trust people, and yet- “I am aware I’m a repulsive person.”

“Not to me.” Gently stoking his face, you could feel him rubbing his cheek on your palm in return.

“That’s enough for me.”

For a while, you just sat there, enjoying your closeness and the absence of anyone else in silence.

“So this is what family is like” Illumi cut through the nature’s sounds, “They protect you. And they only want your best.”

“They only ever thought of themselves.” You pulled your knees onto your chest, burying your face in them.

“I refuse to believe that.” Your husband wanted to pat your back, but decided against it just at the last second. “They seemed to be in great pain because of their actions. Can’t this only be because they cared about you?”

He was right, of course. The man with the heart of stone was great at knowing other people’s feelings, apparently. What an irony.

But you were too angry at that moment to listen to his rational explanation. That was only human, too.

“You know, when I was a child, my parents-”

“Please.” You wanted him to stop right there and now. “Don’t elaborate.”

Every time Illumi would complete a story about his childhood, it usually ended up with you having a crying fit. Then he was the one having to console you instead of the other way around, and it made you only feel guilty.

Of course you were happy that he’d finally open up a little, but...no. Just not now.

“You defended me” he changed the topic, quietly adding “Even though they were right...”

“That’s only natural. You’re my husband.”

Back then, you didn’t know Illumi’s intentions when he asked you to become his. But truth was, you didn’t regret it - not even for a second.

Illumi on the other hand was as overwhelmed as always.

“I was afraid you’d stay with them.” His voice sounded impassive, yet you knew him better than that. “But now-”

Listening to you passionately defending your husband’s honor was satisfying, obviously - yet knowing you broke with your family left a foul aftertaste in his mind.

No one ever stood up for him like that.

What a day.

His mind was racing, still trying to catch up with everything that had happened today: You did all of that, no - gave up so many things, just because of him.

His entire life was going one set and predetermined way, revolving around his family. Yet meeting you had changed both of your fates in a completely different direction.

And this meant he now had to learn with the consequences of actions he did out of his own, free will.

What for? And was it good or bad?

Now that he was with you, he had liberties. Choices. But freedom felt wrong and made him feel...scared? Not even he could decipher his emotions very well.

All that was clear from now on that - to a certain extend - you were free to draft your own ways - and together, it didn’t seem all that bad for him.

_____

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#Illumi Zoldyck #Illumi x Reader #Illumi Zoldyck x Reader #Illumi x You #HxH #Illumi Zoldyck x You #Self Insert #Arranged Marriage Au #Writing #Fanfiction

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joonsdiary · 4 years

Text

worth fighting for (08)

pairing: jungkook x reader genre/warning: royalty au, historical au // humour, fluff, angst / tw: mentions of character death, alcohol consumption, playful!general jeon and over-thinker!reader is back, this chapter is me trying to juggle scene vs. plot, even more yearning, slowburn word count: 6,775

summary: fresh out of the perils of war, jungkook didn’t think that his task as the newly appointed general would be to look after you.

EIGHT.

Dawn arrives without sunlight, carrying along with it the crispness of the air that signals the finality of summer. It’s unusual for you to feel such coldness so early in the year, but that only means that you’re much closer up north than you are in the capital. Your home. The mere thought of residing within the safety of the palace seems foreign and unfamiliar; remembering specific details feels as if you’re looking into someone else’s mind instead of your own.

Home now resides in the carriage you sleep in for much of your travels, or whichever dense forest you decide to stop over and rest for a few days. Home is the warmth of the quilt Jimin lends you; it’s the food he and Miyoung whip up in a pinch when ingredients are scarce, yet manage to taste delicious. Home is embodied in the way Jungkook’s eyes linger far longer than he intends to, thinking you haven’t noticed; it’s his noticeable hesitance around you, always teetering on the ledge between familiarity and professionalism.

Home is in the callousness of his stern voice when he instructs you to move in a particular way as you struggle to carry the long sword with both of your hands. It hadn’t been anything like the one he had lent you previously; the current one is much heavier, evident by the way your arms work strenuously just to be able to hold it properly.

The grass blade’s morning dew permeates into your shoe-less feet and you wobble from your position as he kicks your left leg further backwards.

“Like this?” you ask, unsure of your position. It feels awkward and unfamiliar; the weapon does nothing but makes your arms quiver in pain. Jungkook clicks his tongue as he uses his index finger to lift your elbow slightly higher than previously. You grit your teeth as you hold back the uncomfortable throbbing of your shoulders.

He finally nods in approval and you relent, groaning in frustration as you drop the hefty metal on the ground. It hasn’t been an hour since he woke you from your slumber to practice, and yet your forehead is already beaded with sweat. It’s hard to resist laying on the ground when the soft gust of wind tempts you to do so. Jungkook watches, eyes filled with curiosity as you yield to your whims and press yourself against the cold grass.

“That was intense. I didn’t think you’d make me hold the sword up for that long. If I didn’t know any better,” you pause to gaze suspiciously up at him, “I’d think this was some sort of punishment.”

“I thought you wanted something intense,” he shrugs nonchalantly, but the action comes across as a terrible attempt at hiding the roguish grin crawling on upwards on the corner of his lips. Smug bastard, what little remains of your dignity as a royalty prevents you from speaking the thought aloud.

“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d lend me the blade you use. Whatever happened to the wooden swords?” you whine, watching as he picks up the weapon with ease.

“It’s not too heavy,” he examines the sword before offering it back to you. “And you need to build up your strength—your arms are too weak.”

You simply stare at him impassively, hating that he has a point.

“It’s unfair. You’ve had twelve years of a head start, so you can’t say things like: It’s easy, Your Highness,” your tone is childish. But he stays impassive, undeterred by your mockery of him.

A few days ago after your full recovery, he met you in the middle with a compromise, promptly suggesting the idea himself that you should get back to practice if you were still willing to learn. Of course, you said yes in a heartbeat. It seems Jungkook’s mood is dictated by the moon and you know better than to simmer on a decision for long since the tides might turn against you in an instant.

You hadn’t known at the time of agreement how serious he would take the whole ordeal, jumpstarting you far off from where you left last time. At first, you took the challenge head-on but after three days of gruelling lessons and drills, fatigue is beginning to settle nicely deep within your bones.

“All the more reason why you should keep training.”

“You are cruel,” you finally take the weapon from his willing hands as you push yourself up with a groan. “One day, I will snap and drive this blade straight into your heart. Please be aware that all responsibility falls onto you for any such actions hereafter.”

His expression morphs into a lopsided grin; the kind that steals precious oxygen right out of your lungs. The absence of the morning sun’s warmth is scarcely felt when he’s practically bursting at the seams with radiance.

“I’d actually like to see you try.”

“I’m serious, General Jeon.”

“So am I.”

The palpable challenge in his eyes vexes you enough to accept, doing so by wordlessly picking up right where you left off. You stand, but not without much difficulty, before bending your knees into position. It takes all your remaining strength to ignore the ache in your muscles that soon follows. Taking a deep breath, you step forward with one foot as you sling the weapon with all the energy you have left. It undoubtedly fails as your unstable hands drop the sword once again.

You groan as you land on the ground for the second time. You appreciate that he’s fostering your growth towards improvement, but a little part of you is still convinced that he’s doing this solely out of spite.

For what, exactly, you’ve yet to coax the answer out of him.

“Aw, is the princess giving up?”

Especially when he says the right words to rile you up.

“No,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard not to act silly when he invites such reactions from you. “General Jeon is just being spiteful. But I suppose that’s nothing new.”

“I’m merely following direct orders from you, Your Highness,” he extends his hand in an effort to help you up, but you brush it away with a scoff. “Your stubborn streak continues, I see.”

You prepare yourself for a barrage of snide remarks, or perhaps even a lecture about your feeble attempt to learn sword fighting when you shouldn’t. Much to your surprise, he sits across from you instead, tucking his legs neatly underneath him. He slouches forward, resting his elbow on his thighs as he places his chin on top of his palm.

“Um, what are you doing?”

“It’s unfair if you’re the only one who gets to rest,” he says as he mindlessly plucks several pieces of grass at once before opening his palms to let the wind take them. “Barking orders at royalty turns out to be an exhausting task. Who knew?”

You grin in lieu of a verbal answer, and he returns the favour with a soft smile. There’s a pause, and when you don’t say anything further, the lids of his eyes flutter slowly before closing shut. There is no question that he seems to lack proper sleep, evident by the dark circles and heavy bags under his eyes. You’re beginning to suspect that staying up well after dusk has settled in order to stand guard is beginning to catch up to him — certainly now more than ever if he’s cutting hours of slumber just to train you.

Your pulse hums unabated at the thought, and you have to quickly remind yourself that he’s doing this not due to his own volition, but because you ordered him to.

“Jungkook,” you make an effort to whisper as quietly as you can. You didn’t mind that he hadn’t heard you, you’d simply pretend you hadn’t called him out in the first place. His breathing stays even, and you smile to yourself; if there is one thing you’ll never grow weary of, it has to be seeing him simply be at peace. It’s maddeningly frightening how one person has the capability of banishing all your worries away, no matter how trivial they might seem.

If you weren’t in trouble then, you certainly are now.

Like a moth to a flame, your gaze lands on his lips, reminding you of the kiss you had so boldly initiated with him. What seemed like seconds at that moment feels like a lifetime when it’s embedded deep in the crevices of your memory. It appeared to be a good idea then, a quick way to dispel an itching curiosity.

Curiosities like: Would your attraction for him dissipate in thin air if you kissed him? Would he even try to kiss you back? Would it progress your relationship further? Did you want it to progress? Do you even have time to be thinking about all these things?

(The answers are: No, no he didn’t, no it doesn’t seem like it, maybe so, and perhaps not.)

Now that your concerns have been partially satiated, only regret remains. That very same foolish curiosity only brought an insurmountable amount of consequences you’d preferably avoid. You’re grateful Jungkook hasn’t asked anything yet; you hope it stays that way, for the sake of your well-being. It’s reached a point where it seems as if he’d much rather avoid than confront the topic, as well.

(But would it have hurt for him to care in the slightest? His non-reaction makes your stomach coil uncomfortably more than it should.)

“I hate you,” slips out of your lips unprompted.

“So you keep saying,” he mumbles, and you flinch back at his unexpected response.

You know the consequence of him catching you is nothing serious, but that doesn’t stop your heart from knocking steadily against your ribcage. “I thought you were asleep.”

“Me? Never,” he cracks one eyelid open as if to wink. With a sly grin, he says, “I’m always watching.”

“In any other context that would sound extremely repulsive,” he laughs at your displeased expression before he stretches both his hands up with a yawn. “Thank you, regardless.”

He shrugs in good nature as his arms fall back down, shoulders slackened. You thought you’d learned to ignore that part of you that tugs painfully at your heartstrings every time he smiles, but apparently, that’s not the case.

“It’s what I’m here for, right?”

That’s right, Jungkook’s not here due to his discretion. He’s here for a specific reason, tasked by the king to look after you and ensure your safe deliverance to the hands of somebody you’ve yet to meet. You’ve not forgotten the mere fact, but the almost month-long voyage only reminds you of how delusional you were to think that mulling your feelings for Jungkook would end anywhere but devastation. You even went as far as to put him in utter discomfort by giving into your foolish desire and kissing him, with a lack of remorse as to how he would feel afterwards.

“What’s wrong?” your attention collapses back to Jungkook, who’s now staring at you with confusion. “I feel like you’re always having some sort of crisis every time we’re conversing.”

You want nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders, shake him out of his boots and say, “That’s because it’s you. You’re the cause of my woes.”

“I feel like I owe you an apology,” is what you tell him instead. You’re unsure of how to begin when his attention is fully focused on you, and instead wish he were still half asleep. Perhaps then you’ll find the right words. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“I knew it,” he crosses his arms and straightens his back with a newfound sense of confidence. Your eyes widen in surprise; have the not-so-subtle hints of your proclamation of affection been made known to him?

“You were the one who ate the remaining piece of red bean rice cake last night. Jimin told me it was him, but I had an inkling he was covering for you.”

Of course not.

“What?” you gape at him, trying to blink your anger away at his sudden accusation. “No, it wasn’t me!”

“Mhm, sure,” his nose wrinkles in discontent. “You were well on your way to apologizing but now you’re denying it altogether. Tsk.”

“I wasn’t talking about that!”

“I’m hurt, Your Highness. You know that’s my favourite dessert.”

You did know. That’s why you didn’t even bother eating a piece of it after seeing how much he prefers them.

“I was going to apologize for the unwarranted kiss I gave you, but now I’m not so sure,” you mutter. He must have heard what you said regardless of the quietness of your voice because he visibly deflates, back slouching forward and eyes seemingly bugging out of their sockets.

“W-what?”

You resist the urge to smirk despite your embarrassment at his change in demeanour; all his arrogance is chased out with a mention of one word. Although you’re unsure if you should act with such haughtiness in the first place. Your own heart, after all, feels as though it’s about to erupt from delight. So you continue, making sure to tread forward cautiously.

“I don’t know if it was right of me to do such a thing without your permission.”

For days you’ve been battling with yourself for the right words to say. You’re still unsure, feeling as though everything that comes out of your mouth consists of the wrong words to say. Yet at the same time, holding on to it doesn’t seem feasible. Telling him outright is the best option, for better or for worse.

You study Jungkook’s expression, or lack thereof, as he stares into the distance with an impassive gaze, mouth agape and evidently unresponsive.

“General Jeon?” you wave your hand in his line of sight. Nothing. “Jungkook?”

His gaze finally meets yours, but only for a brief second, before his eyes scan the vast surrounding. He clears his throat before idly rubbing the nape of his neck. You can gauge his struggle with what to say by the way his mouth opens without uttering a word, then quickly closing.

“Apologizing is not necessary. I mean…” he trails off, and you hang onto every syllable he says. Your expectations soar to unattainable heights. “You weren’t feeling well, to begin with, so I’m aware you might not have fully realized your...um, actions at that time.”

Your mood quickly spirals, bringing along with it your hopes. And your poor, poor heart, always bearing the brunt of your misfortunes.

In essence, you should have seen that type of response coming. There’s nothing Jungkook did, or said, which would have made you misinterpret his intentions. This has always been a one-sided charade from the beginning, fueled by nothing else but your disillusion. Recalling the way you had acted so wantonly before him weeks ago even before the kiss occurred feels silly and juvenile. If you’re ever given means and the power to reverse time back to that situation once more, you would, only if it means saving your past self from your present heartache.

“I wasn’t apologizing because I was half asleep and didn’t realize what I was doing,” you mutter under your breath with a frown. You’re apologizing for the lack of consent, not because you think you made a mistake as he interpreted it. The fact that he even thinks it’s a mere slip-up says all you need to know.

“Hm?” with his furrowed brows he leans forward, encouraging you to repeat what you’ve said.

“I said it’s good we finally cleared that up,” you heaved a sigh as you noticed a movement from the corner of your eyes.

“I had a feeling you two would be slacking off,” Jimin offers his hand, which you gladly take. He pulls you towards him and with a bright grin, you mumble a quiet thank you. Jungkook mumbles something but you give your outpouring attention to Jimin instead.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been hard at work for the past few days,” you cross your arms with a pout. Jimin grins as he gently pats the top of your head.

“I know, Your Highness. That’s why I’ve come to save you; General Jeon asked if I could provide a less brute lesson. I couldn’t say no,” he angles closer to whisper, “or else he’ll have my neck below a guillotine.”

“Hey, there was no intimidation of sorts!” Jungkook protests.

“Jimin, your new dancing master, at your service,” he bows. When he straightens his back, he tosses you a wooden sword, which you catch with ease.

“We’re going back to these?” you inspect the material, brows furrowed in confusion. Wasn’t Jungkook preaching to you just moments ago about having to build resilience towards brandishing broader swords? You glance towards the general in question and catch his gaze momentarily but he looks away while scratching the back of his head. You glance back at Jimin instead. “Also, you never told me you were skilled.”

“You never asked, and I never thought to share,” he grins, slipping one hand behind his back as he holds the weapon with another. “I’m teaching you a different method than the general did, so yes, we’re using these again. But only for a little while.”

You grip the object with both your hands and Jimin shakes his head.

“One hand,” he instructs sternly, and you chew your lower lip in hesitance. You relent, however, and point the sword towards him with your right hand. Its heaviness is magnified by the soreness of your muscles, but you grit your teeth instead of complaining.

“I suppose he grew tired of teaching me, since he asked you,” Jimin strikes swiftly above your head and you parried, albeit clumsily. Jungkook laughs somewhere behind you.

“He practically begged me to let him take over.”

Your eyes trail back towards Jungkook briefly, allowing Jimin to jab you on your torso. You push his sword off with yours as you frown, but he merely grins with glee.

“Eyes to me, Your Grace,” Jimin catches your attention with another stab on your lower shoulder. “You just died.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue as he folds his hands above his chest. The way he mockingly shakes his head puts you in a foul mood. “You’re always unfocused. I thought we’d gone over this before.”

“That’s because you’re the one distracting her, General,” Jimin says pointedly, and you nod in agreement before you realize what he said.

“Exactly! Thank you, Ji— wait, no.”

“I highly doubt that.”

You and Jungkook speak over each other, prompting you to face him with a scowl. Jimin merely watches with a bemused expression. “Miyoung was right, this is going to be entertaining.”

The following morning, it’s Jimin who wakes you before daybreak. He explains that it might be the last proper training you’ll have before you embark once more. It’s not like you’ll decline otherwise, so you do your best to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. You work to move with as little noise as possible so you don’t wake Miyoung, who’s still sound asleep, as you slip in a pair of unworn trousers lent by Jungkook previously. Because according to him it seems tough to move in a billowy skirt, which is something you both agree on without any argument (for once, it seems). The fabric is large, undoubtedly, but they weigh less than your dress; movement is not much of an issue as it had been.

Much to your surprise, it’s Jungkook you see outside of your tent, however, who continues to sport fatigued, sunken eyes.

“I thought the point of Jimin taking over was so that you can catch up on sleep,” you greet him with a soft nudge to his arm.

“I don’t remember that being the reason,” he replies with a lazy grin before running his hands through his dark hair. You belatedly remember that you hadn’t exactly pointed it out to him the day previous.

“Well, it should be. You’re in dire need of rest, General Jeon.”

“I’ll catch up on sleep when I’m dead.”

You know he means it in jest, as evident by the playful lilt in his tone, but there’s nothing amusing about imagining his demise. The thought of losing him, now more than ever, sends your stomach spiralling into intricate knots.

He frowns when you stay unresponsive, and inches closer before reaching up to pinch your cheeks. “Good thing I work for you as a general and not a royal jester. Or else the frown on your face would get me thrown in the dungeons.”

“I don’t recall permitting you to touch me,” you glower, but no effort is placed into moving away even an inch.

He stares at you in disbelief. “Who was the one that decided, completely unprompted, to put their lips on mine—”

You’re swift to place your palm on Jungkook’s mouth to silence him when you spot Jimin emerging from his tent.

“Did I interrupt something?” he looks between the two of you as he approaches. You free yourself from Jungkook and he doesn’t protest when you pull away.

“I was just telling General Jeon that he didn’t have to come with us so he could rest,” you give Jimin a strained smile before giving Jungkook a pointed look.

“Alright, as you wish,” it still surprises you, however, when he relents without much protest. “I shall not be a distraction, as you so-kindly point out I was being, for you this time around.”

He winks at you and gestures a salute towards Jimin before walking towards his sleeping quarters.

“Does he always do that?” Jimin asks as you both watch his figure disappear behind the tent.

“Do what?”

“Pretend to be all smug. I’m only speculating, but his ears were practically bleeding scarlet.”

You bite your lower lip to prevent a grin from spilling, but they curl upwards nonetheless. No matter how direct his words may seem or how rough he wants to appear, he still gets shy, after all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize why Jimin refers to himself as a dance master, despite the name baffling you the first time you heard it. The man moves with such poise and grace that you would never expect in someone teaching sword fighting. It’s a skill no one possesses but him, and him alone.

When the afternoon arrives, you forgo resting altogether and push Jimin to use the sabre he brought along with him.

“Right,” he announces just as you deflect his oncoming blade with yours. “Right. Right. Left. Low. Left. Right,” he’s relentless in his attacks, not letting you breathe even just for a moment as he steps forward with each command. You move back, but meet each blow with calmness as you keep your left hand training behind you.

“Heads up,” he thrusts forward as you sidestep, swiping his sword with yours and subsequently disarming him. You point the blade, barely touching his neck as you huff with satisfaction.

“I win this round,” you announce with excitement, as you lower the weapon. Jimin claps in the wake of your triumph and you make the effort to amuse him with a bow.

“After losing seven in a row,” Jungkook points out. You wrinkle your nose in annoyance but choose to ignore his snide remarks; so far, your attempts to combat his presence as a distraction have been working. Hours prior, he arrived to convince you to take a break, but you refused when Jimin admitted he wasn’t tired yet, so Jungkook opted to stay on the sidelines and watch, instead. “You are picking this up faster than I thought.”

You finally turn to him, chin high with pride. “It’s easier since it’s lighter than your sword. And I actually don’t mind having to carry it with one hand as much anymore.”

Pain clambers from your back shoulder all the way to your right arm as you boast, but you repress the affliction with the grit of your teeth. You hope none of them noticed the slight change in your demeanour as you turn to Jimin.

“Thank you for being patient with me.”

“It’s an honour to be able to share my knowledge with you, Your Highness,” Jimin bows, but you’re quick to push his shoulders and straighten his posture back up.

“No need to be so formal. I should be the one who’s honoured. I feel quite embarrassed to not have known you possess such talent.”

His cheeks turn ruddy as he looks away. “Ah, well…”

“Yeah, we could have used your expertise weeks ago when we were attacked. Maybe I wouldn’t have been injured, then,” Jungkook adds, slinging an arm around Jimin. The latter huffs as he crosses his arms defensively.

“To be fair, I thought you had that handled, General,” he deadpans. “Thank heavens the princess was there to save us.”

The statement must have rubbed Jungkook the wrong way as he moved to place Jimin in an uncomfortable headlock. Despite the obvious disadvantage he’s in, Jimin giggles, whining about how Jungkook should learn to respect his elders. Jungkook relents with a chuckle and Jimin sulks, gently rubbing the nape of his neck.

“I knew I should’ve shared sooner, but I honestly thought you’d be insulted by it,” your brows knit in confusion at Jimin’s words, but you let him continue. “A lot of people don’t prefer this style of combat because it’s slower and often a defensive method. There’s a lot of waiting and anticipating the enemy’s moves. General Jeon’s style is more straightforward; you’re taught to attack, which is the usual training for our infantry. Also, the blade isn’t as impressive.”

You examine the steel in your hands — it’s merely a little more than the size of your fingers. You offer to return the weapon to him, and he takes it. “It’s much easier to wield, nevertheless.”

“That’s what made me reluctant, to begin with. I wasn’t sure if you were going to take offence simply because it might seem easier.”

You profusely shake your head in disagreement. “I can only hope to be half as skilled as you while emulating your poise.”

“I swear my ego is always being fed every time we talk, Your Highness.”

“If anything, you deserve all the praise in the world for being such a gifted mentor,” you hear Jungkook clear his throat beside you.

“It’s really the least I could do. After seeing you dedicate yourself, I couldn’t just stand by and watch idly, twiddling my thumbs.”

You grin shyly at his words, unsure of what to say next. It’s Jungkook who breaks the silence as he nods towards the direction of your campsite. “If you two are done flirting, I think Miyoung is trying to call Jimin.”

He quickly sheathes the sword and turns to wave back at her. “I almost forgot I was going to help her pack up before we embark tomorrow,” his attention returns to you momentarily, his smile mischievous. “It turns out you carry a lot of items with you, Your Highness.”

“H-hey, most of the items were bought along the way. I didn’t,” you pause when he runs off. “I’m demoting him from dance master back to a stable boy. I swear.”

“I highly doubt that. You can barely resist the man,” Jungkook mumbles impassively, and you chuckled in agreement.

“That I can’t deny.” You turn to follow after Jimin, but before you could take one step, Jungkook grabs your wrist tightly causing you to hiss in pain.

“You’re injured,” he murmurs, forehead creasing with worry.

“It’s fine,” you twist your arm to free yourself from his hold, but it only brings you more discomfort. You bite your lower lip to prevent a moan from revealing your true condition. You watch as he rolls your sleeve up. “I’m fine, General Jeon, I don’t need you—ack!”

This time, Jungkook allows you to pull your hand back, and you cradle it against your chest protectively. “Please don’t do that.”

“I barely pressed your skin.” He gently tugs on your arm and despite your early protests, you relent and let him examine your hand. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble as he drags your sleeve further up, revealing a newly formed mark on your forearm. Jungkook turns to you, eyes thinning to slits in an obvious look of disapproval. “It’s not! I’ll be fine.”

He grows quiet as his grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go of your arm completely. Gaze downcast, his thumb runs gently across the bruise, as if doing so would ease the pain.

(It does. Because for the briefest moment your attention is shifted away from your burning muscles and onto the singular point where his skin meets yours.)

“I’m not a fragile porcelain made simply for display, Jungkook.”

“Says the person who almost got swept away by the river.”

“That was one time.”

“One time is still too many, if you ask me,” his bottom lip juts into a pout. It took quite a lot of self-control not to giggle at his defeated state.

“As you said, that’s what I have you for,” your free hand finds its way up the top of his head to ruffle his hair. You feel his body go rigid upon your touch. “I’ll try not to get killed to make your life easier, don’t worry. That’s why I want to become stronger.”

Jungkook hesitates, before inhaling sharply. “You know that you don’t have to prove yourself to me, or anybody for that matter,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. The sudden seriousness in his tone almost gives you whiplash.

“What do you mean? I’m not doing this to prove anything,” you intend to keep your voice level to let him know you took no malice in his words.

His forehead creased in confusion, nonetheless, eyes searching yours. “Then what?”

Prior conversations with him play in your mind, persistent and foreboding. One wrong word could send Jungkook spiralling into the limbo between a stranger and someone seemingly only there because he’s bound by the duty to serve his country. The thought of laying down parameters for you to walk around each other is terrifying.

Therefore, you believe there’s no use in being privy to your fears anymore; not when you’re about to enter the lion’s den. “The same reason as before. I just want to be able to protect myself, and everyone for that matter, including you. That isn’t to say that I don’t trust you, but I want to be of use if there comes a time when—” you pause, unsure of how to continue. Jungkook’s worried gaze is unnerving, but he allows you to finish your train of thought. “Hearing your horror stories about the dangers that might be waiting for us when we cross that border…”

“I’m not saying everyone who lives there has evil intentions by default. I’m just relaying whatever information I’ve been told by the others.”

His statement makes you wonder even more why your father decided to ship off his only heir if they weren’t the kindest people, to begin with. Surely, he was aware of their reputation despite how diplomatic he thought the matrimony would be.

Jungkook continues. “I’m sure Min Yoongi is reasonable. I heard he refused to let his men get killed in battle, so they yielded. He probably agreed to this deal because he’s a pacifist, unlike his father.”

No matter how reassuring his words are on the surface, there’s still an underlying tone of uncertainty in his voice. It’s understandable because neither he nor you know what type of danger lies when you step foot beyond the safety of your kingdom. You couldn’t bring yourself to muster even a smile as a response.

Jungkook must have sensed your distress as his fingers slid down to clasp his hand in yours. The gesture might not be anything other than a mere consolation, but it’s enough to keep your nerves buzzing with intensity.

“I won’t let harm come to you. I promise,” the gentle breeze seems to heave a sigh, ruffling the fringes of his hair ever so softly.

You hold the weight of his words gently between the warmth of his palm against yours. In reality, no matter how much you try to shield yourself by swimming away, you’re caught by the hooks and reeled right back into him, always. The space he occupies within the confines of your heart grows infinitely larger each day that passes by, and you’re unsure if you should feel elated or terrified.

* * *

Min Yoongi reckons he has a great sense of proclivity for fortune without ever having to work for it; all according to hearsay, that is. He never quite understood where such sentiment roots from. The last time he checked, the inheritance rightfully belongs to him so any notion that he has to “work” for anything is moot. However, being within close reach of the throne does come at a costly price; one that is paid with people’s lives as currency. It seems that when one barters with Fate, Death comes tagging along.

The first victim is his younger brother.

During the tail-end of the recent war that passed, he catches wind of the crown prince’s demise and immediately orders his men to withdraw from their position of defence to return safely behind enemy lines. Retreating at the first whiff of danger is not his proudest moment, admittedly, but at the time he decided he wanted to be alive to see another sunset rather than being buried six feet below the ground to become a feast for maggots. As much as he’s a man of pride, he still values his life to a certain extent; at least enough to get himself out of peril.

It seems to be a backwards decision to the people of Tuo, but he is to assume the crown prince’s responsibility, therefore assuming the position to control what little remains of their infantry. The subsequent and constant deterioration of his father from an unmistakably paralyzing disease no one in the kingdom knew the cure of only brought about his hurried ascension to the throne. Yet, instead of being elated in the position he finds himself in, he’s inclined to feel otherwise.

And rightfully so, because the provision to him being a ruler includes marriage to a certain princess who heralds from the land which they sought war in order to stake a claim on.

His father, unbeknownst to Yoongi during the genesis of the agreement, promptly carried out a deal with the so-called scums of the South to unite the two countries together through matrimony. The inclination to roll his eyes is strong with such a clichéd premise.

“Even on your deathbed, you manage to make life a living hell for me. I commend you for that, I suppose,” he mutters under his breath, tightly clutching the neck of the ceramic vial that holds his rice wine. He’s well aware that his father couldn’t hear him from a safe distance. He isn’t even sure the king is alive at this point—for all he knows, the queen could be playing it up to prevent Yoongi from fulfilling the role of the king.

His father lays peacefully, bed surrounded by a thin, almost see-through muslin fabric. The canopy serves both as a barrier and a warning; unless you’re an experienced physician or the unfortunate chambermaid who has to look out for him, you should not pass through.

“You despised that your favoured son to inherit the throne died, making me the next in line. That’s why you’re doing this, am I right?” he raises his voice, unconcerned with the fact that servants and guards just outside the room can possibly hear him. “A matrimony I never agreed to.”

He’s unsure whether it’s a well-known truth among the nobles and anybody else living inside the palace walls, but it does raise questions in their minds as to why Yoongi hadn’t been the second in line to the throne after his father. But then again, nobody questions anything the Mad King did or said, not when he raised hell against his enemies in the South, and certainly not when he declared his second-born son as his successor.

Except for Death, of course, who’s seemingly the only true entity that’s able to cripple the king in his tracks. He likes to think Death is on his side and took away the bane of his existence, the stain in his claim to the throne. But then again Death also took the only person that matters in his miserable life, so Yoongi concludes one simply cannot have everything they covet. Perhaps he is lucky after all, and fortune will willingly land on his lap if he so wishes.

Too bad it’s not what he truly desires.

Yoongi takes a swig of his makgeolli wine, taking pleasure in the way the fiery water washes down the undesirable lump in his throat. He chugs and chugs, ignoring the excess liquid that spills from the corners of his mouth, as he desperately wishes for the goddamn ache in his chest to disappear. Once the ceramic decanter runs dry, he tosses it across the room and the chambermaid yelps in surprise when it shatters into tiny pieces.

A low chuckle emits from within his chest as his legs buckle from underneath him, bringing his knees down on the wooden floors with a thud.

“Do you really expect me to roll over like an injured beast and be receptive to whatever it is that you’ve planned for me?”

He didn’t think the people who they called enemies merely a few months ago would easily submit to such a fallacy for the sake of maintaining “peace”. But they immediately sent out the only heir to their throne, and without so much as a mere palace guard as a form of protection! Yoongi partially believes they’re more foolish than any palace jester he’s met, but the failure of the men he hired makes him conservative against such prejudice.

Perhaps dealing with their princess will be quite entertaining, after all.

“It’s a damn shame you won’t be alive to see what will become of this kingdom and its people whom you failed,” he hollers in between his unhinged laughter as he clutches his stomach. He swipes the spill on his chin using the sleeves of his golden speckled black robe. “Don’t worry, my only aim is to uphold your vilified reputation. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything sacrilegious, certainly not one that you haven’t already attempted in the slightest. After what you did to her, it’s the least I could do in return—”

“Sorry to bother, Your Majesty, but the queen has arrived for her visit,” the eunuch’s voice pierces through the closed doors, interrupting him. Yoongi hisses in indignation as he staggers to get up from his position. “Do you need a bit more time?”

“I’ll be right out, for fuck’s sake,” he manages to get to the door without stumbling over. The door slides open to reveal the eunuch in question, as well as the queen herself, in all her youth and glory, and the now noticeable bump on her belly. Yoongi doesn’t know how she managed to procure such a thing from his father, at that state, not to mention at her uncertain age to bear another child, but he digresses.

“Queen Dowager,” he slurs, choosing the name for no particular reason other than to draw ire from her. She finally shows her maturity when her forehead wrinkles in displeasure, showing certain lines that cannot be hidden by the flaked lead she generously patted on her face.

“What an abhorrent name to greet your mother,” she seethes and Yoongi couldn’t hold back his scoff. “Especially when the king is very much still alive.”

“Is he, though?” he points behind him with his chin mockingly, before his grin widens. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mother. Be careful though, he just won’t shut up. I could barely get a word in.”

Yoongi collapses on the floor when he takes another step, prompting the eunuch and some court ladies to rush to his aid. He waves them off with a mumble and a hand gesture, before pushing himself up using the wall.

“Sober up, will you,” the queen calls out from behind him. “Our guests should arrive tomorrow.”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth curls up in delight as he locks gazes with the eunuch, whose face blanches with fright.

“Finally.”

— previous ; next ; series masterlist

note (edit): now that i don’t want to claw my eyes out from being sleepy, i just want to give credit to “game of thrones” (book one) for bearing inspiration to this chapter. again i hope you enjoyed reading ♡

taglist: @apurpledheart @koochiekoo @fan-ati--c @grandqueen1533 @awsome-small-k @novusluna @yodakoo14 @politically-acurate @bangtandongsaeng @taevkimchi @ausjeons @zxlummxxd

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenario #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #bts fic #writing #jungkook

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literatehiss · 4 years

Text

Maypole Dance

Read on AO3 here

Daisy was one of Jon's dearest friends (not that she had much competition at this point in season four) Her taste in radio drama's might be his breaking point though.

There was time, in between the monsters and the rituals and the revelations that Jon may be eating random people’s trauma, for a brief respite.

Jon lay on the break room couch, palms pressed against his eyes in a fruitless attempt to block the oncoming migraine threatening to wipe him out for the rest of the day. His body lay tense and shuddering from the pain when a sudden heavy weight covered him.

He uncovered one eye only to get a face full of long hair.

“Daisy!” his voice was muffled into her neck and he could just about feel her fiddling with something on the table next to his head.

The spluttering soft static of her turning the radio on.

“Oh god, no Daisy. Let me up. Please Daisy”

She just laughed and got herself comfortable, like a weighted blanket that could, and would, force you to listen to it’s terrible favourite radio drama.

“Get comfortable Sims we’re going nowhere. I didn’t have time to listen to last week’s episode so its a double bill. Hope you didn’t have plans.”

He knew she was being sarcastic, the episodes were blissfully short and even two back to back would take less than half an hour. Though that was half an hour wasted that he would never be able to get back.

There was something very comforting about the rumble of Daisy’s voice. He had compared it with Basira to the rumble of a cat’s purr but bass boosted. He was sure he’d read something about a cat’s purr being healing and he contemplated to himself if Daisy’s voice could do the same.

He doubted it seeing as she was currently trying to bore him to death.

He wondered who had introduced Daisy to the Archers.

He wondered if they had any fears he could pull out of them.

He was sure he could convince Basira that they deserved it.

Jon flailed an arm in her general direction so that he could take a breath without getting a lungful of her long hair. He was getting better at repressing the jolt of fear whenever she appeared out of no where. He knew she wouldn’t hurt him, not any more, but knowing something logically didn’t help his instinctual fear that one day she would get upset with him, drive him out into the woods and he would end up digging his own grave.

He wasn’t as helpless now as he was back then, and that was his only comfort.

He was getting distracted, Daisy wouldn’t do that. She was stronger than him, had cut herself off from her patron and had accepted all the consequences of doing so.

He accepted this cruel and unusual punishment that, even with all he had done, he wasn’t quite sure he deserved as the first few opening bars crackled out of the old radio. Jon did his best to let the voices fade into the background, into an ignorable buzz of static and noise.

The Beholding didn’t like ignoring things.

So despite his best wishes, Jon just lay there listening to the trials and tribulations of the small town of Ambridge.

Two episodes went by, something about a dig that they didn’t want the townspeople to know about? Jon didn’t really care and he had done his very best to forget what had happened the previous week, even if he generally failed. The Eye could be a cruel master and forcing it’s avatar to remember the detailed lives of these characters may not be the worst thing that had been done to him but it was the most annoying and the most prolonged.

At this point, he had wrapped an arm around Daisy’s waist and was feeling pretty comfortable and warm. He could fall asleep like this. It would be murder on his back but he thought it might be worth it. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knew Daisy was completely riveted by the show, he would have thought she had fallen asleep herself with how relaxed she was.

The sound of the, at this point unforgettable, ending music filled the otherwise silent archives.

Daisy reached over, fiddling with the radio before it eventually cut off. She settled back down and he could feel the swift movements of her messing with her phone.

The music started up again.

“No. Daisy. What is this. What have I done to upset you? I have things to do, statements to read, I could re-sort the entire archive.”

Daisy just laughed.

“I realised since you only started listening with me, that you haven’t heard the earlier episodes. That’s a real gap in your knowledge Jon.”

He now understood that her earlier “I hope you don’t have plans” wasn’t as sarcastic as he had thought at the time. He made a desperate grab for her phone, he had no plan of what to do with it other than to cut off the unending stream of music and voices. It was laughable how easy Daisy, despite her weakness from the coffin and from not feeding, was able to take it back from him and pin him back down. He supposed the version of him from before the Unknowing would be terrified of being trapped under Daisy, unable to escape, but now he was more worried about having to listen to fifty years of this audio drama.

Three more torturous episodes in, with their inane plot and god-awful audio quality (which Daisy said was hypocritical when he complained, considering what came out of his tape recorder.), Basira finally came back from whatever task she had been up to and Jon could have cried with relief. He extracted himself the best he could from Daisy’s death grip to look up at Basira, pleading for help.

Basira took one look at them, another look at Daisy’s phone and let out a laugh.

“Oh you poor bastard. Good luck Jon.”

And then she left. Leaving Jon to Daisy’s tender mercy. Daisy seemed very pleased with herself as she brought Jon back in to the cuddle. Yawning and showing off a row of unnervingly sharp teeth.

He asked the Eye how many episodes there were. 18740 at the time of him asking. Jon wondered if he could upset Peter Lukas enough to get him to send him into the Lonely.

Resigned to his fate, Jon relaxed, drifting off to the bouncing melody.

#jonathan sims #daisy tonner #basira hussain #NaNo 2020

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wordsfromthesol · 5 years

Audio

A Better Reality

Author: @wordsfromthesol Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: You just began a new job at Arkham Asylum and your newfound talent allows you to help a certain masked vigilante. Warnings: Language…I think that’s it? Word Count: 2.8k Taglist: @ghost-brocolli (You seemed real excited for it, so I tagged you 😉 ) A/N: So, this so isn’t where I was expecting this story to go…but oh well. Here it is! Also there’s a song...so recording is how I envision it sounding, but like you obvi don’t need to listen to grasp the story.

Everyone said you were crazy to move to Gotham, and you totally understood but you couldn’t help feeling like you were meant to be here. It seemed like everything went wrong in your life all at once, and everything else was pushing you towards Gotham. A psychologist position opened up at Arkham Asylum, just as your old job let you go. Granted, a position opened up at Arkham every few months, but you chose to overlook that fact. You had an unusually high tolerance for psychopaths and thought you may actually be able to help some of these people.

You started work just days after you moved in and quickly realized you had a knack for helping those affected by Scarecrow’s fear toxin. An earlier formula had caused several people to go insane and unshockingly they all ended up in Arkham. After a few months, you even started treating Jonathan Crane himself. Though, you only got in three sessions before the villain broke out of the prison.

It had been a long day, everyone at the prison was frantic given the escaped convict, and all you wanted to do was curl up on the couch with hot chocolate and a good book. The universe had other plans, on your way home you saw people running from the metro station. No. Not already. You immediately got out of your car and tried to calm those far enough away from the station – after all you saw first hand what the gas was capable of and you did not need that toxin in your brain.

“Okay, miss…miss can you hear me?” The woman nodded as you approached her, careful to maintain your distance. “I need you to listen, find a sound and focus only on that. It can be the sound of the cars going by or the buzzing of the streetlights. Can you do that for me? Focus only –” your voice cut off as you noticed a figure standing on the ledge of the nearby apartment building. No no no, not on my watch buddy. You ran towards the building and leapt up to the fire escape. I think this is the most I’ve exercised in years. Finally, you reached the top of the building and slowed your pace. You didn’t know how the toxin was affecting this person and you definitely didn’t want to be attacked tonight.

“What a beautiful night, you come up here often?” The masked figure briefly turned their head in your direction before resuming their gaze over Gotham. Okay, well at least they won’t attack me. You get a little closer and sit on the ledge of the building before you look up and realize that the figure is the infamous Red Hood. You could only imagine what the gas was projecting into his mind. “Listen to those police sirens. I wonder how long their sirens will be on. The noise of the sirens must be distracting so many people.” Giving him time to reflect on your words, and hopefully focus on the police sirens, you watch the panic spreading below. When he didn’t step back from the ledge you started again. “Hey, can you do me a favor? I’ve been working on this song and it would be great to have someone else’s opinion.” You noticed the slight nod he gave, at least I think that was directed at me. “I need you to really listen though, focus on the lyrics and the sound of my voice. Only my voice.” With that you began to show part of yourself that no one had ever seen.

“I’ve lost my grip on reality

Can’t seem to trust my reality

Don’t know who to turn to

I don’t know where to go

No one hears me crying

As I’m fighting back the pain

I’ve lost it all

And I don’t know where to find it

How do you start a search

When you don’t know what you’re looking for

But it’s echoing through you like a ghost

Oh it chills me to the bone

How do I not know

I’m choking back the tears

As the world is shattering

How do I not know

I’ve lost my grip on reality

Can’t seem to trust my reality

Don’t know who to turn to and

I don’t know where to go

No one hears me crying

As I’m fighting back the pain

I’ve lost it all

And I don’t know where to find it

Can it be I’ve disappeared

Or gotten lost along the way

Oh I’ve risked it all

And now the darkness is calling my name

Where’s the strength to push it back

Oh how do I not know

I’ve just…

I’ve lost my grip on reality

Can’t seem to trust my reality

Don’t know who to turn to and

I don’t know where to go

No one hears me crying

As I’m fighting back the pain

I’ve lost it all

And I don’t know where to find it

How do I begin to find it

Where do I find it…”

The masked vigilante, at some point during your outburst, sat beside you and was now staring directly at you. He placed a hand on your knee before letting himself fall off the building.

“NO!” You screamed before you saw him land on a nearby rooftop. Has to be fucking dramatic doesn’t he. You got up from the edge of the building and slowly made your way back to your car.

As soon as you got home your head hit the pillow and you were out like a light. Waking up the next morning was brutal, you kept replaying the rooftop moment in your head. The toxin didn’t seem to affect him the way it did others, he only seemed to want to hurt himself. He didn’t abandon all his morals or start hallucinating (at least you think). What could possibly be in his head, that his greatest fear is himself?

Work was surprisingly dull, but you were grateful that it was Friday. You could go home and try to forget about last nights events. Or so you thought. Knee deep in a new book, you heard a knock at the fire escape. Red Hood? What the hell. You motioned for him to come in.

“You know, this is Gotham. You should probably lock that.”

“Oh look, he does speak when his mind hasn’t been infected with fear gas. Good to know.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I guess I wanted to thank you.”

“Of course, it’s kind of my job so.”

“But I’m not one of your Arkham patients.”

Of course, he already knew who you were. “Not yet anyways” you arched your eyebrow and gave him a sly smirk. Without another word, he seemed to make himself right at home. Walking into the kitchen, he opened all the cabinets in search of a mug and poured it full of the hot chocolate sitting on the stove before joining you on the couch.

“So is that like your go-to song when people tweak out on fear gas?”

“Heh, I don’t usually break into song during my sessions.” You lean in closer to him, “Despite what you’ve heard, life isn’t a musical.”

“Damn, well if I had your voice I would make mine a musical. Think of all the fantastic numbers I could do while punching people in the face. So much material to work with.”

“I don’t even think you would need to punch them if you broke into song. They would just collapse on the floor out of shear surprise.”

“Hey, whatever works doll…I just asked because. Those lyrics.”

“Yeah, I thought they may be applicable, that’s why I picked it.”

“You have more?! I gotta hear them now.”

“Psh, in your dreams maybe Red. I don’t even know you.”

“Do you want to?”

“Well,” you chuckled to yourself, “you’re in luck. I just moved here and don’t know a soul. You seem like a good person to start with.”

You must have talked the whole night with the vigilante before falling asleep on the couch, at least you don’t remember ever making your way to the bedroom. Yet here you were, waking up Saturday morning in your own bed, with the smell of French toast and coffee coming from the kitchen. What the fuck, is he still here? You pull back the covers and make your way to the kitchen to find someone cooking breakfast. Though that someone was no longer in his Red Hood get up, but you caught a glimpse of a mask.

“You’re in my apartment.”

“Yeah, I made a ‘thank you’ breakfast.” He turned from the stove and did a half bow. “You’re welcome, you’re welcome.”

Rolling your eyes, you walked over and grabbed coffee before gesturing at his outfit. “Did you even sleep? Or was the outfit change more important?”

“Well I didn’t want to hide this jawline from your view. That would just be cruel and unusual punishment.”

“And we wouldn’t want that after I saved your life.”

“Exactly. Now sit and prepare to be amazed.”

***

“Wow, okay, I’m amazed.” You mumbled out while shoveling more of the delicious food into your mouth.

“Slow down there, you aren’t on death row.”

You glared up at him but were too enveloped in the food to formulate a response.

“So, did you ever figure out how to find it?”

Can’t he just let me eat in peace. “Find what?”

“Your reality?”

“Oh man, are we going there?” Red Hood just shrugged if off, though he was actually curious. “Alright, Red. The truth is, not always. Some days things seem to be going well and the next day it feels like my entire life has exploded in my face.”

“Heh, I thought you were supposed to be the sane one.”

“Everyone is fighting their own battles.” You watched the vigilante stand up and walk over to the window, as he crawled out, he looked back at you.

“I like you, Y/N/N.”

Welcome to the life of a vigilante’s therapist, you thought as you cleaned up the mess from breakfast.

***

It had been nearly a week before you heard from the masked man again. This time there was no breakfast, only blood.

“What the hell, Red?”

“You’re a doctor, thought you could help.”

“I guess, technically, but not that kind! Why don’t you go to a real doctor?”

“Eh, it’s just a flesh wound. Come on, Y/N/N, you can manage.” You rolled your eyes as you walked to get your first aid kit.

“If this is going to be a regular thing, you are going to need to bring me actual medical supplies because I am so not funding your stupidity.”

“Deal.”

You sat next to him and got to work, “So, why come here? Don’t you have someone who patches you up.”

“Didn’t really think about that, just wanted to talk to – someone outside the life.”

“And what ever would you want to talk about Red.”

“Hmm…what did you do today?”

You couldn’t hold back you laugh as you finished bandaging his arm. “Seriously?” A small grin spread across his face. “Alright, I woke up at a solid 10:00am and made breakfast. Then played video games until about two hours ago, when I started writing some songs.”

“Oh, I wanna hear!”

“No.”

“Buzzkill…”

“Yeah, well. You’ve already heard more than anyone and I don’t even know your name.”

You continued to talk the rest of the night, until you put on a movie and fell asleep on the couch. Though you awoke the next morning, yet again, in your own bed, this time to the smell of eggs and bacon.

“This just going to be a weekend routine then?”

“If you’re lucky.”

***

You started getting visits, on either Friday or Saturday nights, every week. The same old story, he wanted to talk about random every day nonsense while you patched up his latest scrapes. You would wake up to the smell of breakfast and he would leave shortly after. It had been a few months now, and it was nearing 3 am Sunday morning, yet your new vigilante friend hadn’t shown up. You began pacing in your living room.

“What if he’s dead somewhere? How would I even know? I don’t even have a damn name. Of course, I had to go make friends with a damn vigilante. I mean, I’ve never even seen his eyes. Just the red and white of that domino mask he insists on wearing…because heaven forbid I see the color of his damn eyes.” Your rant is cut short by a faint laugh coming from your window. You ran over and slapped him in the shoulder. “YOU CAN’T FUCKING DO THAT I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.”

“Aw, you care.”

“OF COURSE I FUCKING CARE YOU IDIOT. GET IN HERE NOW.”

“Alright mom, calm down. I was put on stakeout duty as punishment.”

You glared at him, “Punishment for what? Wait…punishment from who?!”

“Uh…Batman. I may or may not have taken the Batmobile on a joyride Thursday night.”

You stifled a laugh, “You really like to piss him off don’t you.”

“What can I say, it’s a gift.”

“One he probably would like to return.”

“Yeah.” Red Hood hung his head and walked over to the kitchen, in search of hot chocolate.

“Wow, alright. Struck a chord there. Wanna tell me what’s up Red?”

“I don’t need you to be my therapist, Y/N.”

“Okay, not trying to be. I know it’s probably strange for you…but generally when people care about someone, they do like to know what’s going on in their life. Including the shitty parts. Oh, and the hot chocolate ran out about two hours ago.”

He huffed and began stalking back towards the window when you grabbed his wrist. “Uh huh, buddy. One, it is 3 in the morning, I don’t care if you are the Red freaking Hood, you aren’t going home this late. Two, you DEFINITELY aren’t going home at 3 in the morning when you are this upset.”

“I’ve left your apartment later than 3 before.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t awake to stop you so…now I am. Sit your ass down.”

“I could easily get passed you and leave you know.” He mumbled as he stumbled over to the couch.

“Yeah yeah, big tough masked man here.” You followed him to the couch, “What color even ARE your eyes?”

“Really, Y/N/N, really?”

“Well if you won’t tell me your damn name and I have to try and describe you to the police one night when you vanish off the face of the earth…it would be nice to have accurate information.”

“Jason.” He took off the red helmet, “Jason Todd,” and then the domino mask. You couldn’t form any words, you just sat there staring at him, mouth agape. Not because you knew who this person was, after all you were not native to the city and the rest of the world tended to sleep on the craziness that was Gotham City, but because after all this time he so nonchalantly revealed his identity. You figured he would have to be dead or on his dead bed. By the time you got over the shock of the reveal you got lost in his eyes. They were the most intense steel blue eyes you had ever seen. Impossibly blue. Could this man look more perfect, what the actual fuck.

“Uhm, Y/N/N? You good.”

You shook yourself out of your own mind, “Your eyes are like impossibly blue. You had to show off the jawline, but not those? Red, you are focused on the wrong attribute.” With that Jason’s mouth turned upwards as he doubled over laughing. You rose from your spot on the couch and waved your hand as you made your way to the bedroom. “I don’t lie and I better wake up to an amazing breakfast after the heart attack you gave me tonight.”

You did and Jason spent the entire day at your apartment, he said it was to make up for the time he lost on stakeout, but you didn’t really care about the reason.

“Alright, I’m going to let you get some sleep so you can deal with the crazy people tomorrow.” He finally said while getting off the couch.

“They aren’t crazy.”

“Sure Y/N/N. Normal people go to an asylum.”

You shrugged, “But what is normal?”

“No fun, that’s for sure.” Jason made his way to the window.

“You know, you can use the door…like a normal person.”

“If people saw the Red Hood walking out of your front door, what ever would they say?”

“One, like I care what they say. Two, I guess you’ll just have to keep some boring old civilian clothes here then.”

“Only if I can bring along a toothbrush too.”

“Deal.” You got off the couch and headed towards your bedroom, when you felt his hand grab your wrist and spin you towards him.

“Good, because I finally found a reality that I don’t ever want to lose.” Jason mumbled just before his lips crashed into yours.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #jason todd #jason todd x y/n #red hood #red hood x reader imagines #red hood imagine #red hood x y/n #dc imagine #dc comics x reader #fanfic #batboys #batboys imagine

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funkzpiel · 5 years

Text

Recover

The second and final part to ‘Smother’, because wow this story was way more exhaustingly elaborate than I thought it would be. Fun. But fuck.

Also they fuck now, so that’s a thing somewhere in these 27-fucking-pages-of-word-doc-hell. The first half of it is relatively decently edited, but shit unravels quickly. I’m tired, I’m sorry. Enjoy.

For all her long years, Yennefer had always assumed that a witcher’s proclivity to accelerated healing came purely from their trials and mutations. Sterility in compensation for longevity. Even now as she traced a faint, gnarled pock mark of a scar on Geralt’s shoulder idly, she remembered the first night she had ever laid eyes on it. How it had been hot and puffy under her fingers as she traced its edges, lying in bed with him one night after having rendezvoused at some nowhere inn. She had been high from a newly found boon of research and he had been freshly bathed after a contract done exceedingly well, his purse unusually heavy.

She remembered how the gash had been barely closed and somewhat weeping when they started, although the witcher didn’t seem bothered by it at all except for a hiss through his teeth here and there when he moved it just slightly more than he ought to have. They had their fill of each other, supping from the cup of one another’s company and victory, and by morning the wound had closed. Puffy still, but it looked more like a gash three days along rather than hours. She remembered being fascinated. At the time she had wondered what, if anything, could keep a witcher down. It was thrilling to bed a creature as tailored by human machinations as herself. Thrilling, comforting even, to be known by someone so intimately familiar with that very distinctive existence, that pain. Like hearing the pitch of a string plucked that matched the sound of your own heartbeat, vibrating in your bones.

But now, the more she was left to suffer with a bedridden Geralt, the more she wondered if a witcher’s inclination toward swift recovery was not in fact simply a blessing from the gods to spare both witchers and the mortal world from their impatience and bullheadedness. Surely they’d all be dead, if not. Particularly Geralt.

She sat at his side, her back cushioned by pillows and the headboard as she took her time perusing the world-weathered pages of one of the Kaer Morhen’s very many bestiaries. Despite the white wolf’s restlessness, he was not recovering from his weeks-long stint of suffering as quickly as he or any of them hoped. Vesemir had mentioned more than once that Geralt was the first known case of a witcher surviving what they referred to as a ‘witcher’s blight’ or a ‘witcher’s passing’ – the end of the “Path”, so to speak – so there was no telling how long it would take the wolf to recover, particularly given how closely the man had come to death. The older witcher didn’t seem surprised that Geralt slept for hours at a time and woke for less. She tried to take comfort in that. Tried to take comfort in watching her witcher rest, but neither she nor Jaskier found much comfort in it at all – particularly when Geralt began to press for freedom from his sickbed.

She remembered still leaving him for but a moment and returning to the sight of the wolf just after having picked himself up from the floor – hip already blooming into something purple and puffy, cheeks red knowing he had been caught. Jaskier had rushed to him, hands on the witcher in an instant as he lifted Geralt’s shirt, babbling all the while like a panicked mother. Dramatic as always.

“M’fine,” Geralt had muttered, but she knew how much the fall had smarted his pride. He wouldn’t meet either of their eyes, and furthermore, he allowed Jaskier to fret over him instead of shying away or snarling something cruel to hide his own apprehension. His surprising patience was likely a mixture of leftover guilt for the things he had said to both of them, despite having been forgiven as he vomited his self-inflicted punishment – and perhaps, just perhaps, the smallest sliver of fear. The wolf had never been left weak for long before this. She wondered if he had ever fallen like that after standing from any of his prior stints in sickbeds. He was used to returning to his feet quickly.

Instead he shook like a fawn before them, all lanky and trembling limbs. Despite how he towered over the bard, exhaustion stooped him somewhat from his normal stance, and Yennefer could tell by the cant of the man’s hips that he was using the bard as a crutch in whatever way he could that displayed that fact as little as possible and yet still supported him. Perhaps Jaskier could not tell, consumed in his fretting as he was, but Yennefer’s eyes were keen to the lies of a man’s body. Most men were like books written by children, perhaps four pages long at best.

“Fine? You’re black and blue! Why didn’t you just stay put, we were coming right back!” Jaskier bickered, giving Yennefer a look as though he expected her to weigh in.

She was hardly about to fault the man – particularly one used to fending for himself – for hoping he could make use of the privy under his own volition. But that hardly meant she would allow the witcher to keep making foolish choices either. Just as she knew why he had done it, she also knew he had purposefully waited for them to leave lest one of them insist on supervising at best, assisting at worst. Prideful beast.

“I did not think we had all reached this point in our relationship yet, but I’m more than happy to introduce ropes and bindings to how we share our bed, Geralt. Jaskier and I have discussed it at length, even, while on the road. Evidently our learned bard knows a lovely way to frame a body such as yours with knots.”

Surprising them yet again, Geralt blushed something beautiful at that, pale as he was. It rose up his neck to the tips of his ears, made a rosy home in the flesh of chest that peaked out from beneath his night shirt. And his cheeks!

That had cowed the witcher suitably; for a day.

They took turns watching him after that. Slowly, he began to regain the energy to leave their bed, albeit for small stints. It began with relieving himself, then bathing. Short walks, making it to a table to eat – a feat he conquered eventually, albeit as pale as a sheet that hung in a field and shaking like the wind that dried it. He improved, always with one of them beside him like a shadow, chatting casually as they tried their best to look as though they were not always anticipating the possibility that he might fall again. He got better slowly. Still, unease curled in Yennefer’s gut.

Despite his longevity and his hair and his eyes and every inch of him that said ‘I am more than a man’; despite the names society called him and the stories they told about the ferocity of witchers… he was so painfully mortal.

Even now Yennefer could not help but feel ill at ease despite the peace of it all. She had Geralt curled against her hip, his face pressed into the warm curve of her thigh, fast asleep. Jaskier had left to stretch his legs, and with any luck he’d return with a treat for them all – a plate of cured meats or fruit or cheese, perhaps. This particular little “nap” had already lasted four hours. And to think, he once struggled to sleep in the slightest… A part of her enjoyed it, of course. It brought a strange flicker of warmth to her chest to see the normally stoic man like this: soft in his sleep in a way he refused or perhaps simply did not know how to be while awake. Unburdened by his many layers of mental shields and emotional barriers that training had engraved into him as deeply and stoically as the groves on a bloodletting table.

But another part of her worried. She wanted him to rest just as much as she wanted him to wake and prove he was healing, that he’d be fine. Patience, as it turned out, was perhaps not her strong suit either.

He was still so thin, and his thinness only served to draw his scars tauter about his body. Not that they were unsightly – rather quite the opposite – but it served to make her larger than life witcher look strangely small. He’d eat, he’d regain what he had lost, she knew this. The question was not ‘how long until he was back to full form’ but rather ‘could they keep the witcher still long enough to heal before his restlessness got the better of him’.

As if he could hear her thoughts Geralt huffed against her skin, lips parted sleepily and just barely grazing the curve of her thigh from his nearness. A quirk of his she now recognized as the witcher growing closer to waking. She knew what would follow: a grumbly, stir-crazy wolf without the energy to back up his restlessness. Her hand drifted down to his hair out of habit rather than any true intention, nails grazing his scalp kindly as she burrowed her fingers into those thick white locks made soft as silk thanks to Jaskier’s endless soaps and oils. Beneath her hand Geralt slowly but surely settled, his breath evening once more. Another moment of peace bought, however brief. She’d let him wake when Jaskier returned, armed with meats and no end of rambling thoughts with which to distract Geralt with. Until then, she let the hush of the witcher’s breath and the beat of his heart against her leg soothe her worries – perhaps she too just needed to learn how to enjoy rest.

— • —

Jaskier woke, curled into the sheets alone. It wasn’t altogether uncommon in one sense – Geralt and Yennefer were both terrible sleepers. Yen had likely gone to the library to read her restlessness away. Since coming to Kaer Morhen, however, Jaskier usually woke with at least one large arm around his waist and Geralt’s nose pressed to his hair. The man had yet to return to his lighter sleeping habits, still neck deep in recovery. And yet, Jaskier woke alone with only sheets to keep him warm.

He came to slowly, his body and mind fighting waking viciously. His eyes felt swollen and gritty and he knew immediately that it was not yet close to morning, his lethargy far too intense to be even remotely close to a full night of rest. He felt struck dumb, everything connecting slowly. He had woken – but why? A sound. Wheezing. Close and relentless, steadily getting louder, more frantic.

Slowly that began to rouse him. It set off a warning bell somewhere in the sleepy fog of his mind, shrilling and ringing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The moon spilled in through the window, shadows from the tree outside dappling the man sitting on the edge of the bed in shifting greys and pale moonlit patches. He could see the way Geralt’s back was quaking in tight, twitchy bursts. He had seen the look before, the way the coughing could seize the man up into a terrible knot of tightness. But there was no coughing, no flowers. Just awful, wrenching wheezes.

“Gr’lt?” he mumbled first, rubbing the worst of the grit from his eyes as he tried to understand what was happening. When the witcher didn’t immediately reply Jaskier tried again, “Geralt?”

Wheezing, high and thin and reedy. Now that Jaskier was looking, he could see the painful stretch of Geralt’s ribs against the taut stretch of his skin, flexing and expanding in short, aborted bursts – as if he couldn’t breathe. That sobered him.

“Geralt!” He gasped, fighting with the sheets to disentangle himself and make his way across the bed to him. Geralt turned somewhat to look at him with wide eyes, feverish with a glaze of fear and embarrassment. He had one hand to his mouth, trying to smother the sound of his panic beneath his knuckles as he waved Jaskier off with his other.

He tried to wheeze ‘sorry’ and failed spectacularly.

Jaskier pressed a hand to the man’s broad shoulder and he could feel every ripple of struggle in those muscles, every cut off breath that couldn’t quite be drawn deep enough. Geralt felt cold to the touch.

“What is it? More flowers?” Jaskier stammered, words coming in a quick tumble as adrenaline burned the last of his sleepiness away. “Geralt, what’s wrong? Should I fetch Vesemir? Yen? By the gods, Geralt, say something, I don’t know what to do!”

Geralt reached for him, nose flaring wildly as he struggled through the wheezing. A large pale hand curled in the front of Jaskier’s nightshirt and for a mindless moment the bard feared he might be struck – the movement far too similar to the men he’d cuckolded who’d caught him – until that fisted hand suddenly went flat against Jaskier’s chest. Bracing, as if trying to use him as an anchor.

“M’ – M’fine,” Geralt managed to mumble through whispered, harsh exhales and short, throbbing little inhales.

Jaskier grabbed his wrist, something hot and fierce rising in him at that as he snapped, “Don’t you dare lie to me. Not right now. Not after I nearly watched you die coughing flowers because you were lying to yourself. Don’t you fucking dare, Geralt. Do I need to go get someone?”

The witcher watched him for a long moment, yellow eyes flickering eerily in the low light of the room until finally he shook his head no. No, as if everything were fine, as if he wasn’t panicking. But Jaskier had seen Geralt face down all manner of monsters and bandits and dangerous situations. He knew what Geralt looked like when he wasn’t afraid because he was certain everything would be fine, confident in his training. He knew what that looked like, and it certainly was this: Geralt, wide eyed and wheezing and shivering so hard that Jaskier could feel it through the hand firmly planted on his chest.

Jaskier pressed forward. He grabbed Geralt by the jaw and looked for any sign of petals on his lips, in his teeth or on the bed. Then, and only then, did he feel some modicum of comfort fall over him. There were no flowers, no petals, no blossoms. It was more the memory of choking that choking itself; as if, even after being cured, Geralt’s body could not quite forget.

“M’fine,” Geralt wheezed again, jaw tight under the cradle of Jaskier’s hands. Pained. Afraid.

“How can I help?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head weakly, fingers digging into Jaskier’s chest ever so slightly, and bowed his head. His breath whistled and clicked something awful, but beneath all that, Jaskier saw Geralt’s breathing steady ever so slightly. Just somewhat deeper than before.

Jaskier wasn’t a stupid man. A man doesn’t go to a university like Oxenfurt and walk away with nothing under his belt but debt. Cause and effect, dots connecting like stars shooting across the sky, illuminating constellations. Jaskier was an anchor. An example to set his breathing to like a Skellege war drum urging rowers on to battle.

“Come,” he said firmly, taking Geralt’s hand from his chest and urging the witcher to follow him further back onto the bed. Confused, Geralt stiffly remained on the edge of the bed, eyes narrowed. Jaskier blew out an exasperated breath and reached forward again – twisting awkwardly – and tugged the witcher to him with a pleading, “I know I’m not mage or healer, but just trust me.”

Begrudgingly, wariness high in the exhausted fever glaze of his eyes, Geralt gave in to him. He followed the bard’s hands until he was sitting back against the head board, legs spread. Jaskier removed his shirt and wormed his way into the witcher’s lap in a flash, not hesitating for so much as a moment lest Geralt question him. He caught a glimpse of a struck-dumb expression on the wolf’s face before Jaskier was pressing his back into Geralt’s chest, his slighter frame engulfed against the witcher. He took either of Geralt’s hands and wrapped them around him, placing either palm flat against his belly and his chest, his own hands and fingers entangled in the witcher’s, keeping them firmly in place.

“Follow my lead,” Jaskier said, then took a slow breath – just a few seconds – held it for a short beat, then exhaled it. Each time he drew in a little more air, held it a little longer, exhaled a little more. Geralt didn’t catch on, not quite at first. Jaskier could feel the awful hitch of his breathing through the skin of his back and the slim curl of his ribs. But slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt began to follow the tempo of his breathing. In, hold, out, hold, in, hold, out, hold. Jaskier, despite himself, did not talk. He didn’t want to talk over the sound of their breathing. Didn’t want to miss one second of Geralt’s breathing as it steadily began to even out. He ached to babble comforts and frivolous encouragements, but witchers took actions to heart with much more gusto than words and he knew without looking that the sound of their breathing was helping Geralt far more than any conversation might. The hands he cradled began to warm in his. The wheezing eased, the clicking faded and the whistling disappeared. At some point Geralt had fully curled around him, his stubbled jaw a soothing burn against the smooth skin of Jaskier’s shoulder. Heavy and anchoring as Geralt’s limbs loosened around him.

The witcher hummed against him, soft and acknowledging. A thank you, Jaskier liked to think. Not that he could ask, what with the witcher quite nearly asleep. He eased them both down, careful to keep Geralt’s front to his back and his hands on his chest. And like that, finally, they fell back to sleep – legs entangled, the wolf’s nose in his hair, breathing easily.

In the morning, while Jaskier was still dizzy with waking – loathe to leave the warmth and comfort of sleep – Geralt pressed a kiss to his neck and murmured, “Thank you.”

Jaskier mumbled sleepy nonsense at him and Geralt kissed him again, confident in those early moments where Yen and Jaskier’s cleverness was made soft by morning and he could make small gestures with abandon, the two of them too sleepy to comment on it or see.

— • —

Jaskier told Yennefer the next day about the little episode. Privately, of course. He wouldn’t wish that scare upon anyone. Not the terror of seeing Geralt that way, nor the heartbreak of seeing that frustration in his eyes. The question rang in all their heads: why wasn’t he better yet?

— • —

Eventually, Geralt demanded to see Roach. It did not matter that she was safely tucked away in Kaer Morhen’s stable or that she had a whole pasture to graze from and enjoy. It didn’t matter that Vesemir was looking after her. Geralt needed to see her and that was that. He refused for them to bring her directly outside the entrance to Kaer Morhen. He’d make it to the stable or not at all, he had told them, and they could see by the set of his jaw alone that the matter was not up for negotiation. Not when it came to Roach.

He made it – nearly as pale as his own hair and stinking of sweat, but victorious nonetheless. Yennefer saw the softness on Jaskier’s face as the bard watched the witcher with his horse. Not that she could blame him, it was hard not to love Geralt in these moments – glimpses into a world where the man lived and loved openly because Roach would never tell him not to. Not like his training, not like the people who rebuked him and feared him.

He had a special sort of calmness to his face whenever Roach pressed her head into his chest, demanding attention. Without a doubt, the horse had worried. It fretted and nibbled and lipped at Geralt’s hair and the shoulder of his shirt, snuffling and touching as though convincing herself that her human was upright and alive. And Geralt, despite his weariness and the way the wind destroyed the mask his clothing had built to hide his thinness, looks years younger in her presence.

“I know emotions aren’t a witcher’s thing,” Jaskier whined playfully from the entrance of the stables, one hip pressed to its frame, “But I can’t believe I’m jealous of the way Geralt looks at a horse.”

Roach paid him no mind, far more enraptured with eating apple slices from Geralt’s somewhat trembling hand. He was strong enough to love her, and that was all that mattered to Roach. Geralt, though, couldn’t help but snort through a small, wry smile – an expression just as much a part of his vocabulary as words to a linguist.

“Speak for yourself,” Yennefer purred, taking up the other side of the door frame, “I’ve seen that look before.”

“No, no,” Jaskier continued, “You’ve seen a look. But I am quite fluent in witcher, and not every look is the same. He’s shared many a loving look with us both, but there is a special one for Roach, his first love.”

“First love,” Geralt grunted, the sound flirting with the tenor of a chuckle. When he moved for the brush, Yennefer sighed.

“Geralt, you cannot be serious,” Jaskier said, brows dipped in concern as he expressed, as he did in all ways, his theatric concern.

“I don’t often agree with the bard on principal – far more fun that way – but I can’t deny him now. Grooming is a long endeavor, Geralt,” she said, and it was as close as she could come to saying ‘I don’t think you’ll last that long’ as she could manage without fearing his pride anchor him mulishly.

Geralt merely grunted again and said, “The promise a man makes when he takes in a horse is a simple one: you carry me and I’ll carry you. If I don’t have the strength to see her well-kept, then my right to her companionship and service is forfeit.”

“Speaks more about the horse, too,” Jaskier scoffed, crossing his arms as his face twisted somewhat, as though he were taking into consideration something distasteful. Yennefer knew the look, her face likely matched. Neither she nor the bard had ever had a liking for taking care of working animals, and yet here they were, all for their fawn-legged witcher.

She sighed, the roll of her eyes heavy and pointed as she hung her lavish cloak onto a peg as far from the animals and the stink that followed them as she could. Then she took up another brush and said, “Jaskier, tie back my hair, if you’d please. If I’m to do this fool thing for our witcher, I refuse to let Roach’s lovely perfume follow me home too.”

The bard didn’t utter so much as one complaint, taking to her hair as though it had been something he had wanted to get his hands into for some time. She took note of that, but not before she turned her gaze to Geralt. Geralt who was staring at her somewhat owlishly, as though she had grown a second head.

“Don’t give me that look, I’m hardly heartless,” Yennefer snapped, sniffing disdainfully even as something playful flickered in her eyes. “But this doesn’t come without a price, Geralt. You’ll agree to a stool if we are to do this. And dry maintenance only.”

They spoiled her that day, the three of them. Roach whickered and nibbled at them cheerfully as three sets of hands went about taking care of her hair, her fur, her shoes and anything else Geralt deemed worthy of their attention. Surprisingly Geralt stuck to the terms of their agreement. He used the stool Jaskier found him, albeit grumbling somewhat at first. And by the end of it, despite his love for Roach, he seemed just as eager as the rest of them to return to the warmth of Kaer Morhen.

He didn’t even argue when they pressed close to him, worried by the way he stumbled. There was a glaze to his eyes that bespoke how much energy tending to Roach had costed him. A sluggishness in his grumbling and a lack of protest as they handled him that was both relieving – tired as Jaskier and Yennefer were – and concerning.

Yennefer had long ago enchanted Kaer Morhen’s tub into something larger, something far more similar to the one she and Geralt had first shared. It was a squeeze, but they all managed to slip into it together; a memory that, if pressed, Geralt actually thought was a dream and still didn’t quite believe it happened. But it had. Together, Jaskier and Yennefer had tended to him first – Jaskier behind him, kneading the worst of the tension from his shoulders as Yennefer went about erasing Roach’s smell from him. By the time they were done with him, the witcher was leaning back against the edge of the tub nearly asleep, watching them with lazy eyes as Yennefer and Jaskier then tended to one another with an easy familiarity that once again reminded him of the time the two had spent without him.

“M’we shoul’do this ‘gain,” Geralt had murmured, eyes fever bright beneath the glaze of exhaustion that dogged him.

“You like what you see?” Yennefer purred, reaching an arm back to cup Jaskier’s neck behind her, her breast exposed beautifully by the motion, twisting her face easily into the crook of his neck to peck a light kiss into the curve of the bard’s jaw, lilac eyes on Geralt all the while. That woke him up. “Perhaps if you are a very, very good witcher and don’t argue when we feed you – no, don’t give me that look, I’ve noticed your lack of appetite – and tuck you to bed early, we’ll keep that in mind. For when you’re better.”

He grunted, that crisp, growly sort of sound she was ever so familiar with; and behind her she felt Jaskier stiffen, his hands tightening around the soft give of her waist, dimpling her hips with the long fingers common to artists. Amber eyes watched them keenly, lazily, as they bathed one another. Watched where Jaskier’s hands cupped a firm breast. Watched as they switched, as Yennefer’s slimmer ones ran slowly down from Jaskier’s chest, over the slope of his flat belly, down to the thatch of hair at his crotch and semi-hard dick between his legs.

“But we could give you a show in the meantime,” Yennefer mused, now behind Jaskier, her chin on his shoulder as she exposed the bard to Geralt. She took her time stroking the slim man. Clever fingers tracing the slit of his head, making him grow fully hard as he whimpered and croaked, “Don’t tease, Yennefer, it’s cruel.”

“Should I stop?” She asked Geralt, one brow raised, her hand still on Jaskier’s prick. Jaskier looked at him like a drowning man.

Geralt ached to join them, but even now he knew willpower alone was keeping him awake – willpower and curiosity. To stand and join them felt like a feat more akin to climbing a mountain. But watching? His dick twitched in his lap and he rumbled, “No.”

He wanted to see this.

Jaskier mewled, something torn between surprise and eagerness and overwhelmed as Yennefer brought one hand up to tweak a soft, pink nipple – eyes on Geralt all the while.

“You need not be an inactive participant,” she said to Geralt, drinking in the hunger building in the witcher’s bones, “Direct me. I shall be your conduit.”

Jaskier moaned.

Geralt watched them a second more before he grunted and said, “He’s sensitive,” and let his lips curl ever so slightly into a smirk when Jaskier’s startled eyes darted to him. “Think you can make him come with just his nipples?”

“Mercy above,” Jaskier gasped as Yennefer crooned, plush lips against his shoulder. He could feel her grinning against his skin as she purred, “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

He whined when her hand left his prick and Geralt took his own in hand, eyes on them both. He felt hollow from their excursion to visit Roach, but if his cock could harden, he could find the energy to attend to it. The witcher thumbed the head as Yennefer brought both of her hands up to Jaskier’s chest, letting the man lean into her weakly as his knees threatened to buckle – but held.

“What lovely songs you sing,” Yennefer hummed between kisses to the man’s nape and shoulder and jaw. “I don’t know what I enjoy more, your lyrics or the sounds you make when you’re incapable of words in the slightest. What do you think, Geralt?”

Geralt growled, his cock twitched.

Yennefer grinned with a slow, “I agree,” and bit Jaskier’s shoulder. The man made a keening sound that made Geralt dribble a spurt of precome excitedly, unexpectedly. But he kept the tempo of his hand slow and steady, intent to follow Yennefer’s pace as she unwound their bard. Jaskier’s hands went absent mindedly toward his prick, but Yennefer gave him a more pointed nip and said, “None of that now, you heard the witcher. No touching,” and Jaskier moaned a wrecked, “I can’t.”

She flicked one nipple and pinched the other, and Geralt bite his cheek at the sight of how that made Jaskier’s cock jerk openly, neglected and aching.

“Perhaps I should suck them,” she mused, pinching and tugging and rubbing those small nubs mercilessly into hard little peaks. Jaskier brought a hand back to clutch the nape of her neck, to steady himself, and something hungry flashed in Yennefer’s eyes – pleased.

“Please, Y-Yen,” then, when she didn’t answer pointedly, he looked to Geralt and whined out his name.

“Tell him what you would do to him, Geralt,” Yennefer said, eyes on him over Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier – horny by words as he was prone to be – was helpless as Geralt finally spoke.

“I’d fuck him,” he started, eyes sharp and bright and locked on them both. “Open him up with my fingers. Maybe my tongue.”

Jaskier jerked in Yennefer’s hold, an aborted sound caught in his throat as he craned his head back to rest on the woman’s shoulder.

“Gods, have mercy,” he wheezed as Geralt continued.

“I’d go in slowly. So slowly he’d be writhing. Maybe have’em on his hands and knees so he could service you while I service him. Put his clever tongue and fingers to use making you wet while I focused on making him sloppy from pleasure. Not let’em off until he got you off. Bring you off together. Fuck you by fucking him, like a chain.”

“F-fuck! Fuck!” Jaskier stuttered, hips jerking uselessly, seeking friction – anything – as Yennefer tweaked and rubbed. He wanted her mouth on him; on his cock or his nipples. Anything. “I – oh – fuck.”

“I’ve never heard him so ineloquent,” Yennefer purred.

“Yeah, well—” Jaskier’s words fled him in a shout as Yennefer did something tricky with her fingers. Something magical and electric, and a burble of precome dribbled helplessly from Jaskier’s cock.

“I can’t,” Jaskier babbled, “I can’t, I can’t!”

“You can,” Geralt said, voice so low it sounded more like rocks sliding down a mountain than a man, “You will. Do what you showed me in that tavern in Velen, Yen.”

Her eyes twinkled, and she said, “Gladly,” before drawing Jaskier’s face to the side for an awkward kiss, distracting him as one hand left his nipple to reach down into the bath water and slip a finger inside the bard. Geralt watched Jaskier’s eyes widen, then his mouth fall slack against Yennefer’s own domineering lips as she found that place inside him and pressed.

“Oh,” Jaskier whined, breathy and lost as he came, his whole body drawing taut like a sail in the wind. He came without a hand on his prick, one hand buried in Yennefer’s thick hair, the other braced against the edge of the tub and shaking, knuckles white. Geralt came to the sight of it, jaw tight as he grunted and released.

Jaskier melted into her a second later, chest heaving as he said, “You cruel, tricky devils,” with no real heat. “Utter monsters, you are, the both of you.”

Yennefer just looked pleased as punch as she guided the bard’s face up to look at her – soft and fuzzy from orgasm – and asked, “Think you can do one more thing with that beautiful mouth of yours?”

She traced his pink, puffy lips with a thumb. Jaskier sucked in a tired and yet intrigued breath, and Geralt saw it the moment the bard decided to rally.

The two of them agreed to wait for the bed though. First they had Geralt sit on a stool outside the tub. Jaskier dried the wolf’s hair as Yennefer attended to her own. Then they moved to the bed, Geralt beside them as Yennefer lowered herself onto Jaskier’s face. The witcher pet her sides, traced her breasts, brushed back her hair as Jaskier did his utmost to return the favor and render the mage just as senseless as she had him. Yennefer was unabashed with the sounds he drew from her. Long, lingering purrs and moans meant to direct him. And Jaskier – musician that he was – followed her music beautifully. Leading her to stunning crescendos and heady choruses until finally she came, his chin wet and his smile glossy. He cleaned himself up on shaking legs and returned to curl with them both.

Geralt made a contented, grumbly sort of sound, at peace – pleased to find the two people who had been taking care of him sated and satisfied. And then they curled together on the bed, the craft of fitting three bodies on the groaning thing long having become a science with Jaskier tucked into one of Geralt’s arms and Yennefer tucked into the other. The two of them traced idle patterns into his skin and made light conversation until slowly, inevitably, they lulled the wolf to sleep.

— • —

Kaer Morhen was no lord or lady’s courtly estate, that much was certain, but the longer Jaskier lingered in its marble halls, the more he found himself charmed by the place. It was a strange mixture of old and decrepit, and yet homely and comforting. Despite its delipidated look, it was obvious that the witchers of the School of the Wolf had made a home of this place; or at the very least, Vesemir had. In its nooks and crannies Jaskier found odd luxuries such as the open window seat that overlooked the gardens; although ‘garden’ was likely a generous word. It was not so much a garden as it was that the training fields had become somewhat overrun by flora. All the same, it looked beautiful and served to bless him with quite an astounding view whenever he took to playing his lute there as a ruse to watch over his rather stubborn witcher.

He and Yennefer had managed to persuade Geralt to bedrest for a week by various means, but the inevitable had come for them all – riding on Vesemir’s heels, of all things. The older witcher had made the case that Geralt should train now that his feet were beneath him again, that weeks of choking on flowers and focusing on getting to Ciri to Kaer Morhen above all things had taken its toll. And Geralt had latched onto that olive branch immediately.

It did not, however, go quite as Geralt had undoubtedly expected and precisely as Vesemir had thought. The white wolf had slowed. He was spryer than a man, yes, but slower than a witcher ought to be. Vesemir led him through grueling sessions, short at first and increasing each day – each one leaving the wolf dusty and more exhausted than the day before.

“Is this truly wise?” He had asked Yennefer from his perch one afternoon, eyes caught on Geralt as he let loose a font of Axii that knocked him back – his stance correct but his legs too exhausted to bear it. “How can he recover if Vesemir beats the shit out of him each day?”

Yennefer held her silence for a moment, lilac eyes drawn to their struggling wolf as well, before finally she said, “We could not keep him in our bed forever. He’s a witcher, not a pet.”

“Never said what he was or wasn’t,” Jaskier pouted, too worried to react as he usually might to the barb, “I just… I’ve never seen him struggle like this. How long before he goes hunting for contracts again?”

Yennefer drew closer then, her hip against the bard’s ribs as she lured his face away from the training fields to instead look upon her. She brushed the boyish cut of his hair from his brow with a seriousness that nearly made Jaskier comment on it, and yet he couldn’t find the words in the face of her intensity. Her hands were soft, softer than his own despite all the oils he used. Soft in a way human hands just couldn’t be, the double-edged reminder of her power and the price she paid to have it.

“I’ve come to find that the moments in which I was told I couldn’t do a thing only drove me to ruin as I tried to prove that I could,” she mumbled, eyes distant even as she stood so close. A memory played behind those lilac eyes and for a moment, Jaskier thought that maybe he could see it. Fire. Pain. “Perhaps the best thing we can do for him now is have faith, despite what our eyes tell us, lest we run him into the ground with our worrying.”

Through the open window and out on the field, Geralt gave a bitten off shout as the sound of a wooden sword striking his knee pierced the quiet, gliding in on the breeze that swayed the curtains. Jaskier’s gaze drifted in Geralt’s direction but Yennefer would not let go of his face. That alone made him return to her, face twisted in a grimace, nothing elegant or theatrical about it.

“How can you stand it?” He asked.

“Because that is what he needs: for us to stand it.”

— • —

Even as physically he improved each day, the sessions drew his emotional well-being tighter and tighter until Geralt was nothing more than a thread pulled too tight – practically singing with tension – ready to snap. Jaskier and Yennefer could see it in him. Could see that storm brewing in the painful constriction of his shoulders and the way he stopped himself during his training to close his eyes and breathe through flared, frustrated nostrils, jaw tight and teeth grinding. Witchers were quick healers, and yet the ways of witcher appeared to return to Geralt slowly; as if his body were loath to leave the peace of those healing days.

Learning as they were, it was hard to gauge whether he needed space or comfort – harder still because even when he needed comfort, he often ran from it. Reminding them all just how he had ended up in that state in the first place.

But no one turned out to be a better buffer in those early training days than Ciri. She sat in the yard often to watch him. At first Jaskier and Yennefer had worried if Geralt’s pride might be exasperated by the extra witness, but Vesemir had said letting her stay was a good idea -- and he wasn’t wrong.

Ciri crowed for Geralt often. Everything the man did was awe-inspiring to a mind so young, so new to fighting and so enamored by the man who had almost died protecting her, but didn’t. The first man who had survived the mark of fate and destiny that had ruined her life for unknown reasons. She’d sit on broken pillars or warped scaffolding. Sometimes she’d even attempt to mimick Geralt’s forms – crudely, but adorably, and Yennefer and Jaskier often enjoyed watching from afar as Geralt’s little shadow performed behind him.

Her opinion was only that of a little girl, Geralt knew it just as much as anyone. He was still recovering slowly, and that knowledge lingered on the heels of his patience, snapping at his ankles. But the company of a girl so innocent and optimistic despite everything that had happened to her seemed to soften Geralt like a bloom thawing in the spring. Ciri was sunlight and cheer and warmth wrapped in a small body, with small hands and too large eyes – and damn if her excitement wasn’t contagious.

“You were right,” Yennefer mused one afternoon, watching from the library window as Vesemir began to stack books for Ciri’s eventual education. The old man looked excited almost at the prospect of teaching again. It seemed no one was immune to Ciri’s charms. “She’s good for him.”

“Geralt may not remember this way, but this is a technique we’ve often used with mending witchers. Not everyone is as well off with their mutations as Geralt, afterall. He was always an almost unnaturally adept healer. For the others, when impatience and frustration began to rankle them, we’d put the new lads into the ring to watch. Their excitement and awe always did wonders for a man’s brittle ego. Geralt’s no different.”

“You mean to tell me Geralt was once one of those little boys cheering like Ciri?” Yennefer asked, amusement obvious on her face and in her tone as she turned from the window to look at the elder witcher.

Vesemir was smiling ever so slightly, fond and introspective – eyes blind to the room itself as he remembered days long since past.

“Yes,” Vesemir mused. “It took him time to open up. Geralt took his role as his father’s child surprise as sourly as any child would – but he eventually opened up to be a wild young boy, eager to learn. Had somewhat of a hero complex, actually.”

“Still does,” Yennefer laughed.

“No,” Vesemir chuckled, hanging onto the vowel, “Not in the manner that he does now. He has finicky morals in comparison to a lot of the witchers that have passed through these halls. No, when he was young, he had more a mind of being a hero than a monster hunter. He confused the two in his training. Learned the truth of things right quick though.”

Yennefer frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

Vesemir looked up from his stacked books, surprised, and said, “You’ve seen the signs, how townsfolk treat us. Mutants. Geralt could save a babe from a fire, and maybe that mother might appreciate it, but not a single man or woman – mother included – would invite him into their home to rest or sup or drink. He is a monster hunter. A damned good one. But witchers can’t be heroes. Not the way that little boys hope, at least.”

“You haven’t heard Jaskier’s songs then,” Yennefer said, turning back to the window. She watched as Ciri hooted, excited as Geralt’s tempo steadily began to pick up on a training dummy. He was improving, thank the gods. “Many have changed their minds.”

“Love, like hate, is quite contagious.”

That startled her. She turned to look at him, to delve deeper into that insight, but Vesemir was already heading out of the room – leaving her to stew in that way, she quickly found, he loved to do.

— • —

Geralt had never been a fussy eater. Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri – all three of them had seen him eat all manner of (sometimes revolting) things on the road, albiet Ciri less so. Of them, she was the most accustomed to his recent lack of appetite. How he’d gag when trying to eat, only manage a few morsels or bites, then ultimately give up. Flowers, cloying and smothering as they had been, had made eating all but miserable. The petals and stems had scratched up his throat, made it a swollen and tight terrible mess. Swallowing anything heavier than water had been an exhausting task, and the aversion that followed had ultimately taken its toll on Geralt’s body.

They wanted him to eat. He wanted to eat. A witcher that could be blown over by a stiff breeze was no witcher at all. But even the mere sight of food sent his stomach flipping – torn between cramps of hunger and nauseating memories of the pain of swallowing.

Thus he found himself at a table, a bowl of stew before him and Yennefer looming across the table, both hands braces as she scowled. He drank the broth, picked at the vegetables made soft by the stew, but the meat – hearty and thick – laid untouched at the bottom amidst dregs of broth. His stomach curled painfully. He could practically taste the meat in his mouth. He wanted the protein, knew he needed it. Knew that Vesemir was excellent with beef, that each cut would be thick and juicy and satisfying.

But the thought of swallowing something so thick, even after chewing, made his gut clench dreadfully. It was stupid. The affliction was gone, his throat long since soothed since the flowers’ passing. Yet the memory persisted, cloying and demanding attention.

“Surely this isn’t too heavy for your stomach,” Yennefer said, hand waving at the bowl, agitated, “You can’t live off broth and vegetables, Geralt.”

“I know,” he growled, earning a sharp look from the woman. He hadn’t told them of his aversion. He didn’t even know how to describe it. It was nothing; a nonsense paranoia that was slowly starving him. It was easiest to say his stomach needed time to adjust to food again. They had done their best to cope with that – starting with bread and soups. Bread, well… they had long given up on that but soups, at least, he could make it look as though they were making progress.

It was Ciri that noticed first.

Children, so absorbed with learning everything that they could like sponges, saw it the moment Yennefer left – frustrated and needing space. Had seen how Geralt had grimaced and rubbed at his throat, just as he used to by the fire and in the many inns they eventually began to stay at. How he’d set his plate aside and rub at his throat. Pour himself something hot and soothing, sometimes even just hot water if they had nothing else. As if he could burn the pain away.

She went to Vesemir. He reminded her of Mousesack and Eist. Steady, clever as a whip – albeit much more subdued than either. Like the stone that won’t bow to the river’s wrath, worn smooth by experience and time, but still unmovable. Despite his quietness and despite how hard he drilled Geralt, there was a tempered kindness there – back, far behind his eyes. Something patient and weathered, the soft of love that grows in even the coldest of people after years and years of attending to children, watching them grow. Getting invested.

“Do we have apples?” She asked. ‘We’, as though this were already home. Something flickered in Vesemir’s wizened face – surprised and a little soft.

“Apples?”

“Yes,” she said, “I want to help Geralt.”

“Did he ask for apples?” Vesemir asked, one brow quirking. Ciri shook her head, but offered no other explanations – and much as she expected, that kindness bade the old man listen, even despite the way he grumbled. Just like Geralt.

He brought her one apple. She said she needed more. So he brought more.

She took them to the kitchen and Vesemir followed – more curious than anything else. She watched as she looked in drawers and cabinets before she finally pouted, turned to him curtly and asked, “Do you have anything to smash them?”

“Oh,” Vesemir said, smiling not so much with his lips so much as his eyes as the dots slowly connected, “Kaer Morhen’s kitchen may be no castle’s kitchen, but I think we can figure something out.”

— • —

Ciri found Geralt on the training field, battering a practice dummy with his silver sword. Vesemir had warned her to wait if she found him like that, so she did – more than willing to watch the witcher work. She had heard the adults whispering about her. That soon, once they no longer had to worry over Geralt, she would need to be trained to protect herself. How to focus and hone her magical talents as well. She was eager to get started, and that excitement and impatience grew every time she saw Geralt train in the fields or witnessed Yennefer perform an act of magic as if it were no harder than breathing.

She sat atop a large stone, one of Kaer Morhen’s many fallen pillars or walls, and set two bowls beside her, careful to cover both with a napkin.

If Geralt noticed her, he didn’t make it obvious. He continued, legs working into fast, firm formations to support the twist of his waist, the reach of his arm, the swing of his sword. Despite the fluidity of his form, however, he was breathing hard, nearly thready. She saw him sway and have to readjust his footing more than once – the movement so quick she almost missed it.

But she knew what it was like to go hungry. A princess was expected to fit into no end of fine, slim gowns, after all. Yes. Even young as she was, even as Eist coaxed her and Calanthe scolded her, she knew hunger. ‘You look as though a stiff breeze might take you, love,’ her grandmother used to say, her crisp critiques made softer by the worry in her eye. ‘Like a bird, you are. My little bird.’

Yes. She knew hunger. And she knew how it made one swoon.

She saw when it finally hit Geralt – both the swoon and the dummy. A strike made too wide, one he rebounded from too slowly and which gave one of the dummy’s many arms too much momentum, costing him a smarting blow. The wooden arm slammed into his shoulder and made him stumble with a short, cut off grunt of pain. He stepped away, watched until the arm slowly drew still, then let his eyes crawl over to where Ciri perched. He sighed, set the sword aside to be cleaned and sharpened, and made his way over to her wordlessly.

He sat on the ground, his back pressed to the stone she sat on, and leaned his head back. His eyes drifted closed.

“I’m not ready to teach you,” he finally said, as though expecting that to be why she had come.

“I know,” she said, making him open one wry, narrow eye at her like a sleepy, wary – albeit amused – wolf. She smiled playfully, then grabbed the bowl beside her and said, “I made you something.”

Geralt grunted quizzically.

She passed him the bowl and watching him pale ever so slightly.

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” she said, partially pouting, partially excited for the eventual reveal. Because while she had often been left helpless in the face of Geralt’s pain, hunger she was intimately familiar with. This, she could help.

He lifted the napkin with another grunt, then raised his brows. She could smell the crisp, sweet aroma of apples that wafted up. The kiss of cinnamon, the notes of something sturdier and bland hiding beneath it. Chill in his palms, just as hers was as she grabbed her own bowl.

“What is this?” He asked.

“Apple sauce,” she said cheerfully, not looking at him as she made her grand reveal that she knew what the clever adults didn’t. “Eist used to make it for me when my throat was sore.”

And that… that hurt to say. More than she expected, even as she had tried to prepare herself. But it felt good to share this piece of him with someone. As if this small meal meant he carried on. It was a recipe from Eist’s mother, and her mother before her, and her mother before her. A remedy for every little boy or girl who felt fussy at the table, whether it be due to a scratchy throat or an upset stomach or even just the whims and moods of childhood. Eist had recognized in her what others hadn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat, it was just the thought that eating something so heavy – thick slabs of pork or heavy cuts of steak, buttered and roasted and complimented with side dish upon side dish – brought forth a dread so fierce she could not swallow. Not when her figure was so closely tied to her worth, her destiny. Not by her grandmother’s standards, of course, but by the courts. She had heard their whispering. She still remembered a group of gossipers commenting that another princess not far from her age was sure not to get any reputable suiters with a waist of that size.

Not that any of that mattered anymore. That realization nearly made her laugh – something weak and trapped like a bird in her ribcage. To think she had starved herself for nothing.

She remembered Eist drawing her aside. Remembered how he took her into an empty kitchen because the recipe was top secret, not just any chef could know. Her throat felt tight as she recalled his hands steadying hers through the movements of smashing the apples. How one had flung across the room on accident, how they had laughed until they were a giggling pile on the floor.

Her eyes felt hot, but not like before. Not like how they would get in the forest, when she would try to smother her cries in her fist lest Geralt notice. It was more like a gentle reminder of the pain than anything else. As if Eist had passed by and squeezed her shoulder fondly. Warm, like hello. Bittersweet, like goodbye.

Geralt didn’t comment on her phrasing, nor on her sudden silence. He never did. He always seemed to understand, and she him, as though they had a language all their own. She wondered if it was because she had been promised to him. She liked to think it was just because they had found the words together their own way.

He tried it. She knew what he would taste. Sweet red apples, making the sauce both sweet, tangy and textured. Cinnamon, to make it warm and spicy. Small oats, to make it filling, and finally powdered protein, to make him strong and fend off the ache of his hollow belly. Easy to swallow. Cool on his throat. Soothing and sweet.

He hummed as he did whenever he knew not what to say. In its inflection she knew he was pleasantly surprised. Touched, even, though he would never say it. Geralt bumped his shoulder against her leg where it dangled over the stone and she said simply, “You’re welcome,” knowing what he meant.

From the balcony, Vesemir smiled knowingly and watched one child surprise share a meal with another; as was the way of witchers.

— • —

The biggest celebration they have is the night that Geralt is deemed well enough to climb the vast set of stairs of Kaer Morhen’s tower. For at the top is not only what Vesemir had dubbed as ‘Geralt’s Room’, it is also where the largest bed in Kaer Morhen resides; and while they had enjoyed learning each other in the tiny sickbed, every one of them was eager for the space of a bed made for more than one and a half witchers.

It is a large thing – evidently a gift from a merchant Geralt had once saved. With no home of his own, he had sent it to Kaer Morhen. Since it was his boon, it had gone unused until now. They washed the sheets, aired out the quilts and furs. And that night, they slept in a bed big enough for all of them –

And woke one atop the other, like always. Like a pile of puppies, drawn to each other like moths to the flame as they slept.

“I suppose your witchering was good for something,” Yennefer moans as she stretches into such ample space before curling back into Geralt’s front, his back confidently and skillfully spooned by Jaskier who has turned out to be more octopus than man now that they all had space to utilize.

“Glad I could be of service,” Geralt said dryling, the littlest curl to his lip at hearing a boon of his journeys had brought one of his lovers’ pleasure. It was nice to provide for them, for once, since their reunion.

— • —

Geralt began to sleep lightly once more as the worst of the Witcher’s Blight finally ebbed from his bones, leaving him feeling more and more like the man he once was. That was how he found himself in the library one night, wandering the halls with an apple and knife in hand, cutting off small and idle slices to nibble on as he paced. Ciri’s apple sauce had done wonders in easing him back into eating, and the comfort that taste had brought him while at his hungriest had transferred into a love of the fruit in general now that he was back to eating solid food. He had just bit into a crisp slice when his roaming eyes had fallen upon Yennefer in one of Vesemir’s high backed chairs. She had a pile of books that reached up nearly as high as the arm rest, her attention lost in the pages in her hands.

Geralt smiled, something making his heart flutter for just the briefest moment. He liked this, he realized. He liked seeing Jaskier safe in his large bed and Yennefer curled pleasantly in Kaer Morhen’s high backed chairs. He liked seeing them here, in what he had suddenly realized was in fact his home.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked, “Or just can’t sleep?”

“When is it ever truly just one or the other?” She mused and he could hear in her words the breathy glaze of exhaustion that dogged her. She was close to being able to return to bed, then. Good. He wanted her to rest. Wanted to see her curled into Jaskier, their limbs entangled, the both of them safe in bed.

“Hmm,” he said, because he couldn’t exactly argue that. Not that he particularly missed the ability to fall asleep easily at the moment, not after so long bed bound. He would, eventually. But not now. He was more than happy to wander the halls in his sleeplessness for now if it meant he was improving, returning to his former self.

“I should have thought to visit ages ago,” Yennefer mused, eyes still caught in her book, “You witchers have an astounding collection of knowledge in these ugly old stones.”

“Kind of you to say,” Geralt chuckled wryly, amused by Yennefer’s amazement of their library as much as he was by her inclination to avoid admitting that she liked it here. It was no castle, no lord or lady’s house she might be used to – but it was charming in its own right, with more a sense of home than those of royalty or glamor.

She looked up at him then, her eyes roving up, then down over the sight of him.

“You look good,” she purred, letting her book fall closed in her lap as she better focused her attention on him, “Very good.”

“Feel good,” Geralt agreed, cutting another slice from his fruit. She leaned up at that and plucked it from his fingers, eyes blazing merrily as she placed it to her lush lips and took a bite, gaze on him all the while.

“Eating again too, I see. Good. The white wolf returns.”

He hummed again, moving to sit at her feet in lieu of dragging another chair across the stones. A part of him, though he would not admit it, sat there if only because it increased his chances of having her fingers in his hair again. He put his back against the chair, his shoulder pressed against the long line of one of her legs, and spread his own out before him lazily. He cut another slice, offered it up to her, before cutting one for himself as well.

“I’m happy to see you up,” she said idly as she nibbled at her apple, “But also displeased. Can’t sleep?”

“Was bound to happen eventually.”

It was her turn to hum this time, and Geralt tried not to think too hard about the little electric bolt of pleasure that flared in his chest when – just as he had hoped – Yennefer’s fingers drifted to his hair. He leaned his head back against the chair and her leg as she dragged her nails lightly over his scalp, sending pleasant shivers down his spine.

“You really are more wolf than man,” she said lightly.

“Hmm.”

“Though Vesemir tells me that before you were either, you wished to be a hero?”

His eyes slowly fell open at that, his body still. Her fingers continued to brush through his hair, soothing and steadfast. Geralt swallowed. He didn’t precisely want to talk about it. It felt foolish. A childish desire that had been stomped out of him quickly. But bottling things up had nearly killed him, and after everything she had done to save him, trusting him despite the Djinn, he could offer this at least.

“Yes,” he croaked. Winced. He cleared his throat and tried again when it became obvious that Yennefer was waiting for more, her fingers still against his scalp. “Yes… a foolish story, hardly exciting. As boys, we don’t run into many folk outside of Kaer Morhen. Those we do tend to have a generally decent opinion of witchers. I was… unprepared for how afraid the world would be of me.”

Yennefer leaned her own head back at that, her eyes falling shut.

“I can sympathize,” she said softly, resuming her stroking. After all, how many nights had she spent asleep with the flour sacks, dreaming of a prince charming coming to rescue her from her abuse? How many nights had she prayed her father would come for her even after he sold her to misery? Or that she’d actually found love in the circle, even as she knew better? Childish hopes, all crushed – then crushed some more.

“I know,” Geralt offered softly, one hand falling to curl around one of Yennefer’s ankles.

“We make quite a pair, you and I? We both grew up wanting the best, to be the best. Look where we are now,” she mused slowly.

“I quite like where you are now,” came a voice from the doorway. Both of them turned to see Jaskier there, done up in their quilts in such a way that he looked more like a kicked puppy or a sleepy boy than the man who could swoop into a pub and charm everyone into dancing with nothing but a lute and his voice.

Yennefer watched him with smoldering, considering eyes for a long moment before she patted the arm rest on the free side of her legs, opposite of where Geralt sat, and said, “I did not expect to see you, puppy.”

“Rude,” he said, but came to her nonetheless.

“Which part?” Geralt asked, a wry curl of amusement every so slightly tinging his mouth.

Jaskier just glared balefully, the effect ruined as his sleepiness turned the expression into more of a pout than anything serious. He settled in next to Geralt, the two of them crowding either side of Yennefer’s legs. She slide the fingers of her free hand into Jaskier’s hair and felt that man, too, slowly calm beneath her touch.

Jaskier mumbled something.

“What was that, dear?” Yennefer purred, almost certain she had caught it but unable to resist having him repeat it.

Jaskier drew in a deep, annoyed breath – utterly put upon – and repeated brattily, “Ican’tsleepwellaloneanymorethankstoyoutwo.”

Geralt watched him, something unfathomable in his face – blank but steadily showing more and more each day. Jaskier almost called it fondness. Above him Yennefer hummed happily and said, “How sweet. Now was that so hard?”

Jaskier curled his legs up to his chest and hid his blush in his knees, but did not pull away from Yennefer’s clever fingers.

“Used to sleep just fine, thank you,” Jaskier whined. “You’ve both ruined me. Your sleeplessness is contagious and unwanted.”

Geralt let out a soft, hushed bark of a laugh before leaning back into Yennefer’s touch, his eyes sliding closed, and grunted warmly, “Welcome to the club.”

— • —

The time was vastly approaching in which Geralt would finally be able to help supervise Ciri’s training. He could feel it building in him, day by day, and while he was not at full force quite yet, he was strong enough to begin what Vesemir and the others had long held off. Soon, but not quite. However, Ciri was restless. In her he saw himself – eager to leave his sickbed, to be back in his armor and on the field. To be well again.

She had to wait a little longer, but that did not mean he could not help her divert a little of that impatience and steam. He took her down to the stables one morning as Yennefer busied herself in the library, building a curriculum with which to begin Ciri’s training of magic; and as Jaskier took up perch in the garden, working on new tunes and songs with which to work through everything he had not yet had time to even think about.

“Roach saved us, you know,” Geralt said as they walked – swiftly now. It felt so good to walk swiftly. Ciri was skipping beside him with the same energy of a bouncy border collie capable of sprinting and yet choosing to stay by its master’s side. Buzzing with excitement and surplus energy.

Ciri swiveled her too large eyes on him and said, as if it were plain as day, “I know.”

Nothing else. He smiled at that. Ciri felt like a jigsaw piece he hadn’t realized was missing, and while he’d be forever bristly about the fact that that feeling was large and wide because of fate rather than any built up relationship – he still enjoyed it. Perhaps that was fate’s doing too. He shook his head of the thought before it drove him mad.

“Good,” he said with a nod, holding the stable door open for Ciri to pass in. She went to Roach immediately, and Geralt felt a strange flutter in his chest – affection, he told himself, working on identifying such things – at the sight of Roach pushing her long face happily into Ciri’s hand with a cheerful whicker. “One day you’ll have a companion like Roach.”

“I will?” Ciri turned to look at him, excited.

Geralt arched a brow and said, “Don’t expect me to believe your Grandmother didn’t give you plenty of horses.”

Ciri blushed a little, but went back to stroking Roach when the horse made it plain that she did not approve of Ciri’s sudden distraction.

“Not like Roach,” she said, and immediately Geralt understood. They had learned to talk like this on the road. Bits and pieces that would mean nothing to most, but said everything to them. Of course she had had her pick of horses, but she was right. None of them would be like Roach. Those horses – pretty and thorough bred – were made for royal aesthetics, symbols of power. Horses like Roach were different beasts entirely. Bred from only the most loyal and steady steeds. Trained as a colt to remain steadfast in the presence of danger, albeit sometimes with the help of a swift Axii. Raised beside their witcher-to-be until an unbreakable bond was forged. Roach was no mere horse. Roach was Geralt’s partner, his trusted confidant, and she had more than once saved his life.

“You’ll have a steed like her one day, yes,” Geralt said, stepping forward to brush some of the mare’s forelock from her brow. Roach watched him with big eyes. “We’ll select a colt for you when the first of the colts are born and begin the process of training you both. In the meantime, there’s things you should know about horses like Roach. Things I don’t think you had a chance to learn as a princess.”

He almost expected her to whine when she found out what those things were. Stables had to be shoveled, after all, and attended to. Roach needed her blankets washed, her coat and mane brushed, her shoes maintained. It was not a beautiful process. In fact it could be downright tedious – but it was important. It was the deal a witcher made when they took up a horse.

“Your horse carries you, as Roach did us,” Geralt explained as he guided Ciri’s small hand on the brush in long, slow stripes across Roach’s body. “And in return, you must provide for them.”

“So like you, Yen and Jask?” Ciri asked innocently, the question no more blithe than if she had asked after the color of the sky. Geralt’s hand fell still and Ciri’s continued on without him, unaware.

“What do you mean?”

Ciri looked up at him, her little brow furrowed as if she thought he was making fun of her.

“You all do the same thing, don’t you?” She asked. “I’ve been watching. Listening. Jaskier talks when you can’t. Yennefer is bold where Jaskier might cower. You are steady where Yennefer wants to do three things at once. You all give and take. Like we do.”

“You and I give and take?” He arched a brow now, something amused if a little exposed edging into his tone now, any embarrassment blown away by his amazement of how keen children could be.

“You teach me, watch over me,” Ciri nodded, continuing to work on Roach, eyes focused on her task. “And I watch your back, teach you things too.”

“Like what?” Geralt asked, amusement plainly obvious now.

“Like the apple sauce,” she pointed out, and he hummed dutifully, “Or, uh…”

He smoothed back her hair as she thought that over, drawing her gaze back to stare up at him. He had the wildest urge to kiss her brow but managed to smother it down. Instead he allowed himself a smile – she’d die, people who get too close die, they’re mortal and they die, and they’d be gone from old age soon enough anyway long before he began to feel the weariness of witchery in his mutated bones – and said, “You saved me on the road when you listened to Roach and fetched help instead of trying to fix things yourself, you’re right. We give and take.”

She beamed up at him, and that warm feeling rose in his chest once more like sunrise peeking over the horizon after a long night.

“Come on, let’s finish up. Roach detests blathering.”

“You detest blathering.”

“Hmm.”

— • —

By the time Geralt had finally healed, Yennefer and Jaskier quickly realized that they had a much different problem than they had anticipated. Although, honestly, they should have anticipated it. It was as if the white wolf felt he had to make up for lost time, because the man had gone from a cantering amount of activity each day to full out galloping through chores and training and building curriculum for Ciri and brushing up with the bestiaries and attending to Roach and, and, and –

“He’s going to wear himself out at this rate,” Jaskier said from the kitchen table before he plucked a grape from the vine and tossed it in his mouth, watching with an expression mixed between awe and horror. Geralt was currently leaning with one hip against the counter, a spread of pages across it, his hands full with a book and totally oblivious to the kettles beginning to steam and rattle behind him. He licked the tip of his quill and quickly jot down another note, only to startle comically when the kettle finally began its shrill screaming.

“Serves you right,” Jaskier snorted, grinning when Geralt cast him a dark glower over one shoulder before returning to pouring out water into three mugs, setting each to brew.

“I know this might be rich coming from me,” Yennefer said idly, watching Geralt work, “But you can afford to narrow your work to one thing at a time, Geralt.”

“No really,” the man grumbled, flipping a page, “We were lucky nothing happened while I was down, but that doesn’t mean that Ciri’s safe. Or any of us, for that matter. She must be taught. Trained. We—”

“—must be ready for a fight, if any, at any time,” Jaskier said, reciting the man’s words perfectly. Geralt glared at him again, but Jaskier didn’t back down. Instead he stood, taking a vine of grapes with him, and forced them into Geralt’s hand when the man had become distracted with his notes once more. “Eat. At least in this you must agree that you’re useless without food.”

Geralt grunted, but obliged.

Yennefer rolled her eyes at the table and muttered, “Stubborn mutt.”

They wouldn’t see him again until evening, they knew. And like clockwork, Geralt disappeared to fulfill various tasks until evening, returning only once his shirt was thoroughly ruined by the scent of a full day’s work, his hair tangled and the line of his shoulders weary. They managed to convince him to sit for another meal – relieved to hear that Ciri had managed to get him to eat lunch when he had insisted they break so she might eat lunch. Why should she eat and not him? Clever girl.

But when Geralt moved to return to the study where Vesemir would normally be waiting for him to go over next steps in training Ciri and reinforcing the keep, Jaskier and Yennefer struck. Yennefer came in behind him – one hand on his shoulder easily leading the witcher back down onto the bench – and Jaskier came to her other side. The two of them crowded him into his spot, and Geralt looked utterly bewildered. Or at least as bewildered as blank-faced witchers ever looked.

“Vesemir—” he started.

“—Is resting. As you should be.”

“Resting,” Geralt repeated dumbly, as if not familiar with the meaning of the word.

“Yes, you know, that thing when people sit down for a moment to decompress, just exist? Take a bath, lay down, read a good book?” Jaskier blathered easily. Geralt snorted.

“I’ve bathed and laid and read plenty,” he said, and tried to stand again, only to be forced down. Again. He blew out a haughty breath, bristling and confused.

“This is unhealthy and unnecessary, Geralt,” Yennefer pressed.

Geralt grit his teeth, but didn’t bother arguing. They were right, after all. There was no immediate need to act as though war were on their doorstep. But the sickness that had stolen so much time from him curled in his stomach, filling him with dread.

“I’ve done enough ‘resting’,” he said finally. Yennefer hummed as though Geralt had suddenly pulled back the curtains and revealed everything.

“There isn’t just one way to rest, Geralt,” she purred, bending and looming over him to brush back a wild lock of white hair and whisper in his ear, “And you haven’t rested with us yet.”

And that drew Geralt’s attention.

— • —

They coaxed him to the bedroom – two foxes luring a white wolf up the very many steps that led to their bed. They had set the mood as well, it would seem, because there were candles burning, filling the room with the heady scent distinctly Yennefer’s. Lilacs and gooseberries. If not for how far they had come, the things they had forgiven in one another, it might have made Geralt shiver – remembering the first time he had smelled it, the first time Yennefer had bent him to her whims.

“If you’re so restless,” Yennefer said smoothly, walking toward the open window to gaze upon the moon and twinkling stars beginning to rise in the sky, “Perhaps it is our fault.”

He expected Jaskier to balk, unsure of where this was going himself, and yet Jaskier just slid up beside Yennefer – looking downright scolded if not for that mischievous glint to his eyes – and said, “We’ve been poor masters indeed.”

“What?” Geralt asked dumbly, blinked, but in his gut something stirred hungrily, like a beast waking from a long nap, and yawned with sleepy interest. He nearly flushed.

“A master is expected to wear out their energetic hounds, lest they drive themselves mad,” Yennefer supplied helpfully, one hand slipping up to her shoulder to gently expose the skin beneath, the collar of her dress dropping down her arm somewhat. “I imagine a wolf is no different.”

Jaskier grinned with too many teeth, drawing up to Yennefer to give her a quick peck on the corner of the mouth and murmured softly, “I’ll get things set up,” before going to the vanity and picking up a box that Geralt couldn’t remember being there that morning. A chest, actually – one that Jaskier brought to the bedside and opened, plucking out vials and ornate jars, among other things Geralt couldn’t quite name.

“What’s going on—”

“—I didn’t say you could talk.”

Geralt’s jaw clicked shut despite himself, his eyes darting back to Yennefer who had removed the top of her dress, two round breasts illuminated by the milky light of the moon. Her nipples were peaked with chill. That hunger in his gut woke more properly now, actively invested. Distracted enough that he didn’t even question the order or when orders like that had started in their bedroom.

“Ah. Thought so,” Yennefer said, eyes twinkling and smiling a pleased, knowing little smile as if Geralt had revealed some great tell in a game of Gwent. “Excellent. You’re doing so well, Geralt.”

And that stoked the beginning of a blaze, catching him off guard. He had liked that. More than he ever thought he might. But there was a simplicity to her orders; they were easy to follow, chased by praise. It made it easy to turn off the racing thoughts that had been haunting him ever since he had properly recovered, and he found himself wanting to chase that feeling. To turn off.

“Strip.”

This was it. Now was the time to decide how much power he was going to give them. Should he continue the game or should he leave? He didn’t have the sense that leaving would ruin some element of their relationship that could not be fixed. Yennefer was testing, experimenting. He had a decently certain feeling that if he didn’t play along, she would not force his hand or try again – and there would be no ill will. They were merely learning one another; and there was no better way to learn than to try.

He grunted, but obeyed. Neither of them helped, but they both watched. Watched as he untucked his shirt without flourish, unlaced his britches, ditched his shoes. He stripped himself clinically, with the efficiency of a man who was unused to stripping for the pleasure of others. Yennefer was decently certain that the concept of stripping lewdly had never crossed Geralt’s mind – a game for another day.

He stopped with his underthings still on, maintaining his last step of modesty, and forced himself not to react when Jaskier chuckled, amused.

“Everything, Geralt,” Yennefer purred, eyes already roving up and down his body.

So he stripped himself of everything but the medallion of his house and stood there, flanked by two lovers – two very clothed lovers – and gestured with his hands in a ‘now what’ sort of maneuver.

Yennefer smiled, plump lips pulled into a pleased little line, and directed her gaze to Jaskier as she asked, “Well? What do you think?”

Geralt’s gaze followed hers and met Jaskier’s – smoldering with a hunger that was both naked, bold and unabashed. Jaskier very much looked the part of the fox, perched on the corner of the bed nearest the nightstand, hands loose around a bottle of some sort. Distracted by Geralt, he realized. He felt… strange. Not a bad strange. Just not familiar. He had seen Jaskier chase skirts and trousers alike in bars and court affairs. He had watched Yennefer take him apart with her hands in that tub. He had seen Jaskier aroused.

But he had never been on the receiving end of that look before, not directly. Not like this. Not just from Jaskier, but in general. He had never received a look that appeared as though someone wished to eat him. Well, not like that.

Plenty of monsters wanted to eat him, of course. Just not fuck him. Fuck. Shut up, Geralt. He felt his cheeks flush hot when Jaskier’s grin just grew wider – sensing that the witcher was off balance like a shark might scent blood in the water.

“I think he’s being startlingly good for us, Yen,” Jaskier praised, and Geralt startled when that shook a shiver down his spine and stoked the fire in his belly. “So good as to deserve a reward, in fact.”

“You heard him, wolf,” Yennefer said, catching Geralt’s very divided, very frayed and confused attention again. They were doing it on purpose, he realized. Corralling him now just as they had corralled him to their bed. They were dangerous together. Hunters working together. Geralt felt small between them. He shouldn’t like that as much as he did, but gods above, his cock twitched openly where all might see. And they both knew somehow he would like it. Foxes. “Time for your reward.”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, not following their train of thought. He looked between them – and even in hindsight he wouldn’t admit that he was looking for direction – at a loss. Jaskier took pity on him first. The bard patted the bed beside him and said, “Come on, wolf. Belly down for me.”

Now he was really lost. He glanced between the two of them again, but when they both just kept watching him approvingly, waiting – still both bloody dressed – he went to Jaskier and laid himself out prone on his stomach. He tried to brace himself up on his elbows to keep them in sight, but the bard merely tsked at him sweetly and gently guided him until he was completely flat.

“The effect isn’t the same without music,” Yennefer said, gliding over to the bed to sit beside him, not close enough to touch but enough to be present, to watch. “But Jaskier is about to have his hands quite busy, so you’ll have to do without.”

Geralt turned his head to look at her, still so utterly confused, and asked, “Without wha—” the question choked off when something decidedly warm trickled down onto his spine in a long line. He felt like a startled cat, bristly and arched, but Jaskier didn’t give him more time to react than that before he was climbing atop him, straddling his ass.

Another position Geralt was unfamiliar with.

“Hush, Geralt. Close your eyes, trust me, and be a good boy.”

Geralt shivered again, eyes on Yennefer because he couldn’t see the bard without breaking their unsaid desire for him to remain flat. She nodded at him, looking oh so pleased – an expression that grew when Jaskier pressed the heels of his hands into the small of his back and dragged them up the column of his spine. He full body shivered, something fluttering in his stomach. Even at brothels a touch like this was uncommon. He was a bit clinical in his general approach to sex. It meant that sensitive areas like his back – areas he never would have guessed were sensitive – left him reeling with new sensations. Jaskier did that move with his hands again, the heels of his palms digging into the thickly corded muscle beneath, and Geralt couldn’t hold back the shocked little breath that squeezed out of him.

“You witchers, I swear,” Jaskier sighed, rolled his eyes dramatically, “How any of you have survived is astounding to me. Have you really never had a massage before, Geralt?”

He opened his mouth to answer but Jaskier chose that moment – likely intentionally – to zero in on a knot in Geralt’s shoulder. He worked it with palm heels and thumbs, putting some leverage into it, and Geralt would never admit it, but his eyes had rolled up from the sheer relief of it. He hadn’t even realized the knots had been there, that they shouldn’t be there; what it felt like to have them loosened. He huffed out a long, slow breath – lashes fluttering weakly against the span of his cheeks – too melted into the moment to care when Yennefer let out an amused chuckle.

“So good for us,” she purred.

“Our soft witcher, our beautiful wolf,” Jaskier agreed, then a little more tightly when he worked on another knot, “Our mess of a beautiful white wolf – gods above, Geralt, you’re as tightly wound as a priest whose made his vows of abstinence with the gods!”

He didn’t answer. His brain was mush. The oil was so warm, Jaskier’s hands so soft and confident. Every knot released left him more and more like loose clay to be molded, his lips slack and his breathing sleepy.

Jaskier’s hands loosened his back, his shoulders, his biceps. They moved down, down past his lower back and – ah, yes. This was familiar.

“Can you really say we’re not friends when I just rubbed chamomile on your lovely bottom?”

Yes, this was familiar. Jaskier kneaded his cheeks like they were a baker’s dough. Pressing in with his thumbs, rolling them in steadily wider and wider circles.

“Don’t think I believe your sleepy ruse for a minute, Geralt,” Jaskier said cheerfully, his thumbs slowly moving in a way they hadn’t before. “I fully intend to put you through your paces before the night is done.”

What did that mean—oh.

Jaskier’s thumbs had slipped between the crack of his cheeks, brushed over the tight ring of muscle beneath. Slippery as they were, it was easy for the bard to flirt with his entrance. Pressing in with a thumb nail only to pull away and press with the flat of his thumb instead – again and again. He felt as though his limbs were made of molasses, his reactions slow.

“Far less resistance than I anticipated,” Yennefer commented, her hands reach out to brush back a sweaty lock of hair from his brow. The wolf’s gaze looked positively hazy, lost beneath his touch. Soft and trusting and curious, she noted, so curious. “Though I’m pleasantly surprised to see how utterly receptive you are, Geralt. Such a good boy.”

Geralt moaned despite himself, then turned to hide his face into the pillow when he realized what he had done, what he had let slip out. Yennefer chuckled fondly and curled a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck soothingly, her thumb petting over the knob of his spine. Jaskier’s progress was so steady, so minute, so gradual that Geralt didn’t even realize he had a finger up his ass until he had two of them in there.

“Jaskier,” he murmured into the pillow, feeling picked apart and exposed in a way he couldn’t even describe. That steady buzz of anxiety that had driven him to working nonstop these days was a distant thing now – buried deep beneath a layer of thrumming, hot-blooded pleasure.

“I’ve got you, Geralt,” Jaskier promised gently, so surprisingly gently, as he adjusted his fingers, his angle. “You’re being so good.”

Good. Theirs. Good. A good boy. His head felt abuzz with it all. Then that buzz scattered like stars streaking across the night sky when those fingers bent, crooked inside him, and left him reeling. White hot pleasure seared up his spine, tightening and rippling every muscle Jaskier had just loosened deliciously. Geralt had just sucked in a breath when Jaskier and Yennefer said something pleased to one another that he couldn’t make out and Jaskier crooked his fingers again. He clenched his teeth around a sound that was building in his chest, threatened to slip free, but managed to hold it in.

“Next time I’ll eat him out, I think,” he suddenly came back to, down from the high, Jaskier’s fingers gone as he adjusted his position. “If he reacted like that for my fingers, well… it’ll be quite a show with my tongue.”

“Tongue…?” Geralt repeatedly, woozy and fuzzy in a way that was not unlike being drunk, but so much better because he didn’t feel sick, didn’t feel dizzy. Just pleasantly floating. He didn’t have to think, have to move. Just follow orders and feel. He wish he had known about this feeling ages ago.

Jaskier’s hands were slipping under him now, coaxing him to kneel, and while his mind felt distant, Geralt’s body did it’s level best to follow on instinct. It left him propped in Jaskier’s lap, his ass above the bard’s crotch – his naked crotch. When had that happened?

“You undid him so beautifully, Jaskier. Remarkable work,” Yennefer hummed, that electric current of hunger sharp in her voice. He opened his eyes as she cupped his jaw, suddenly in front of him. Not just in front of him, but practically in his lap and getting closer. “Are you certain this won’t crush you, darling?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jaskier said.

Something was parting his cheeks again. He nearly twisted to see, to understand, when suddenly Yennefer had her hands on his prick, slicking it with that too-warm-just-right oil that Jaskier had used on his back. He moaned, the sounds too strong to hold back now as Yennefer teased the slit of his cock with a thumb nail. He tossed his head back, white hair spread across Jaskier’s shoulder, leaning heavily into the bard’s chest.

“I’ve got you,” Jaskier promised in a whisper against the flesh of his throat, peppering it with kisses and nips as he babbled, “You’re doing so well. So proud of you for trusting us. For letting us in.”

And in he definitely let them, because he was decently sure Jaskier was slipping into him with his cock. It spread him slowly, so fully, taking him in a place he had never been taken before – too buzzed to be anxious, perfectly content in letting Jaskier guide him to whatever destination he had in mind.

“Such a good wolf we have,” Yennefer said as she lifted himself over her lap. Something sparked at that, he knew this, knew this posture, this look. Her eyes met his as she sunk her wet heat onto his prick and his slack lips pulled back to bare his teeth at that – overwhelmed, taken at two ends. She clenched and writhed around him, walls of slick warmth undulating and tugging him deeper as she shimmied down further. He couldn’t even lift his head from Jaskier’s shoulder anymore, too torn between two worlds to function as Jaskier began to set a pace for both of them, fucking up into him, thus into her.

Above him Yennefer moaned like a litany, her hands cradling his jaw, forcing him to look at her, to keep eye contact as she said, “I want to see you. All of you.”

Gods above, how much more was left to see? He felt scraped clean and laid out to dry, every bit of him exposed and over sensitized. Her hands moved to loop around his neck – as well as Jaskier’s – and she kissed the bard over his shoulder before returning her attentions to him. Jaskier’s hands moved from his hips to his nipples. Yennefer’s hands guided Geralt’s to her breasts, urging them to cup and pinch and grope.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geralt breathed in a reedy, broken chant. That fire in his belly was a blaze now; roaring and searing him from the inside out, stoked that much higher with every order – kiss me, now my neck, suckle my breasts, reach back to cup Jaskier’s neck, yes good – and every kind word of praise – so good, our good boy, our witcher, so good and all ours. There was a sound now, high and breathless and keening, and with a blink he realized it was him. He was whining, as close as he could get to begging, as Jaskier and Yennefer both closed a hand over his cock and began to stroke him as one.

Jaskier, the bastard, had remembered where his fingers had pressed to make Geralt react like that before and he was relentless in his dogging of that spot. Thrusting in short, abortive little burst, then in hard, deep slow strokes, then bursts again.

Geralt moaned, words beyond him, lost in the haze they had dragged him into. They had peeled him of every layer, laid him out beneath them, framed him on either side until there was nothing left but more and tell me what to do and don’t stop.

There was a deep, instinctual, almost animal pleasure in this. In simply existing, sandwiched between them, worrying only about rutting and being good. Something relieving in not making the decisions or the plans after decades of having no one but himself to make every decision and bare the weight of every plan. He melted into them totally, finally, and let them drive. He drifted, lulled by the hum of their voices now – nonsensical and far away, dancing over him like a stone sending ripples across a still pond.

“So good, such a good man.”

The haze broke only when that pleasure-heat had finally been stoked to a writhing inferno. It gripped his gut, sending his hips into a rolling, writhing mess atop Jaskier and pinned beneath Yennefer as he came, the force of it blinding him, head thrown back against Jaskier’s shoulder, mouth open – deft to his own howling. His hands would leave bruises on Yennefer’s hip and Jaskier’s thigh beneath him, he would find out later, but for now he held onto each of them like a life line until his orgasm passed. He wilted between them, chest heaving, as Yennefer chased her own pleasure atop him and Jaskier followed quickly after inside him – teeth buried in his shoulder and growling with more force than a bard had any right to growl.

“Downright territorial of you, Jaskier. Beautiful, albeit surprising. I was much more inclined to believe you would wax poetic to us or sing,” Yennefer mused as she removed herself from Geralt’s lap.

“Anyone else, I would,” Jaskier said, the littlest bit surprised himself it would seem, “But this was different.”

“Indeed,” Yennefer hummed, easing Geralt off of Jaskier’s prick – eyes on his hole as it gaped slightly with Jaskier’s absence, pearly cum beginning to leak from it. She gathered his jaw in her hands again, sought out his eyes, and smiled wolfishly as she said, “He opened up to that rather beautifully, didn’t he?”

Jaskier hummed, just as pleased, as he peppered Geralt’s back with kisses. “Better than expected, I really thought we’d need to coax him there with far more guidance. How long do you think this will last?”

“This deep? Hard to say with a witcher,” she said, easing up from the bed, drawing Geralts hands in her own as she murmured warmly, “Up we go, wolf. To the baths, then some meats and some cheeses, and bed. Up, up. Be good now.”

He followed. In a pleasant, cared for haze he let them ease him into the tub. He hummed and purring and grumbled pleasantly as Jaskier washed his hair and Yennefer cleaned his skin, each of them taking their time. He watched lazily as they attended to one another. They dried him. Plied him with food.

Then they tucked themselves into either side of him, petting him through the submissive daze they had helped him reach. It was some time later, the three of them dozing lightly in the bed, that finally his lashes fluttered open – some semblance of clarity in his amber eyes.

“Ah, there he is,” Jaskier said, propping his chin up on Geralt’s chest to beam at him, “Hello there.”

He felt Yennefer’s gaze fall on him as well, expectant and waiting – although for what, he wasn’t sure. His mouth worked open and closed a few times, but he had no words, no idea of where to even start. Yennefer smiled, pleased.

“Good. It worked. We struck the witcher too dumb to keep working himself into the ground,” she said. He grunted, grumpy – albeit too wrung out with pleasure, too loose from sex and exhaustion for there to be any real heat to it. She leaned over his chest to share a celebratory kiss with the bard, short and sweet and chaste. Geralt just stared on, almost owlishly, before letting his head fall back into the pillows with a soft, stunned ‘fuck’.

Jaskier patted his chest consolingly, but his grin was anything but remorseful as he said, “Don’t worry, Geralt, you’re in good hands.”

And he was.

#the Witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer #GeraltxJaskierXyennefer #OT3 #Recovery #Food Issues #PTSD #hurt/comfort #Sub Space #Geralt has a praise kink #and he's weary #he just wants someone to take the reigns for a bit #good thing he has two bossy partners #now back to the trash from whence I came #witcher writing

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