#fic by me
tumblr ate the first write up of this and i’m mad about it but this is still hella cute if i do say so myself. because @hoechlder is the worst and knew exactly what her tags were doing on this gifset. I SEE YOU. anyway the title is hilarious, don’t @ me.
ice ice baby
eddie/buck, soft soft fucking soft
“Ice goes on the eye, buddy,” Eddie says.
Buck sighs, dutifully lifting the bag of ice to his eye. He flinches, but slides it against the bruise. “S’cold.”
“It’s ice,” Eddie says, grinning when Buck gives him a look.
Predictably, it doesn’t take long for Buck to shift the conversation into something else, but Eddie’s looking for it and a few minutes into Buck’s plans for the weekend and where they’re taking Chris, the bag of ice is dropped against Buck’s knee.
“Buck,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. He slides his beer amongst the empties already on the small table. He steps between Buck’s legs, taking the ice out of his hand. “It won’t heal if you don’t keep it there.”
“I know,” Buck bites out. Up close, his eye looks angrier, red thickening into a dark purple and Eddie winces on his behalf. He picks up the bag of ice and presses it to Buck’s eye, free hand resting at the nape of Buck’s neck. Buck hisses, tries to move away from the ice; Eddie’s grip is gentle but firm, and though Buck grits his teeth, he stays. “It hurts.”
Eddie nods. “I know.”
The silence between them feels heavy and thick with something Eddie can’t name. Buck’s mouth is parted, and Eddie can see his throat bob, words dying on his tongue before he can say anything. When Buck moves, the beer bottle clinks against the others, the sound loud against the silence between them.
Buck’s eyes are bright and blue against the red of his bruise, the birthmark still visible between the pinks, reds, and purples. The silence stretches, settles around Eddie like a comfortable blanket, and he moves his hand, fingers sliding to the side of Buck’s neck, then up to his cheek. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t want to stop, not with the way Buck’s watching him, waiting. Eddie’s thumb is pressed to the warm, smooth skin under Buck’s right eye. It heats a little more as Buck flushes, but Eddie doesn’t stop.
“Eddie,” Buck says softly, his name carrying easily on the small balcony.
A hand rests against Eddie’s hip, fingers sliding up and under his dress shirt. Buck’s breath hitches and the fingers of his free hand wrap around Eddie’s arm, Buck’s cheek turning into his wrist. It’s soft and intimate, and Eddie lets out a slow breath, feels good and happy for the first time in so long. His fingers move to Buck’s hair, stroking gently through thick strands.
Buck tips forward, the right side of his face turned awkwardly into Eddie’s stomach until Eddie moves gently, keeping the ice against Buck’s face as he manages to find a comfortable way for Buck to lean against him. He resumes stroking Buck’s hair with soft, soothing motions. “You’re so good, Evan.”
“It doesn’t feel like enough,” Buck says, the words almost muffled against Eddie’s stomach.
Eddie crouches down, the bag of ice dripping against the floor as it lowers. “Hey,” he says, lifting Buck’s chin when he tries to look away. “Sometimes it won’t be, but that’s not on you. You’re more than enough and if someone can’t see that, then they’re dumb.”
Buck stares at him, apprehension flicking across his face. “Do you see it?”
“I see all of you,” Eddie says without hesitation.
“Eddie,” Buck says and Eddie pushes up, fingers once again on the back of Buck’s neck. Their lips meet, Buck’s hand fisting in the front of Eddie’s shirt. The kiss turns hot, perfect, and when they part, Buck’s lips are curved into a smile.
Eddie meets it with one of his own.
“What?” Eddie asks, feeling his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with panic at the way Buck looks at him, sees him.
Buck grins, lifting Eddie’s hand still wrapped around the bag of ice. “Ice goes on the eye.”
Eddie barks a laugh, but dutifully presses the ice back to Buck’s eye. He leans forward for another kiss, and Buck meets him halfway.
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Possessive but very attentive Sesshomaru
That's all 👀
Your arm is on fire.
Rin keeps glancing back at you, brows furrowed in a worried pout. The bandits who had attacked you had been dispatched before they could do any lasting damage and you’d long since wrapped a torn piece of cloth around your wound, but your arm is a grisly sight, covered in drying blood.
You give her a smile, reassuring her without words, though your expression falls as soon as she turns around, her voice carrying excitedly as she speaks of your exploits to her precious Lord, how you’d gathered wildflowers together and spotted a snake slithering through the reeds.
The acrid scent of poison clings to your nostrils, and you fight the urge to rub at your nose. You had never seen Sesshomaru exert that much effort for a human enemy. In truth, there had not been much of the bandits left after the demon lord had dealt with them.
His eyes are on you - you can feel the weight of his golden gaze bearing down on your shoulders. You had seen his anger before - or what little of it he allowed himself, and this does not feel like rage, though you would deserve it. You had been too distracted to notice the bandits’ approach, and Rin could have been hurt.
You wrap your hand around your arm, wincing at the pain and the fresh scent of iron spilling into the air. If you were alone it would be a problem, but with Sesshomaru’s scent overlaying your own there’s no need to fret about a demon attack. None would dare to lay a hand on what had been touched by the demon lord, a lesson those bandits had learned the hard way.
You don’t know where he’s leading you, but your shadow along the ground has grown two-fold by the time Rin approaches you to press her bundle of wildflowers into your hand.
“You can give these to Sesshomaru-sama,” she whispers, wrapping her small fingers around yours until you’re cradling the slightly bent stalks in your sweaty palm. She doesn’t give you a chance to respond before she’s off again, and it’s only as you lift your head to watch her go that you realize A-Un and Jaken have arrived, the imp muttering in displeasure atop the dragon’s back as Rin scrambles up behind him.
You remain rooted to the spot as they lift into the air. It isn’t until they’re a fading blur in the sky that you can bring yourself to face the demon lord.
He’s watching you, and though his face is a blank, perfect mask, his eyes are a storm. You flinch, squeezing at your arm and ignoring the twinge of pain the gesture elicits. Maybe he is angry after all.
“Come,” he commands, the only word he’s deigned to speak to you since the attack, and with a swallow to dislodge the building lump in your throat, you comply.
By the time you draw to a stop by a slow moving stream nestled deep within an unfamiliar forest, dusk has descended and your arm is throbbing. At Sesshomaru’s wordless command, you collapse gracelessly to the forest floor, cradling your injured arm close to your chest and reaching for a handful of water to soothe your throat, grateful for the shadowed coolness and isolation the stream provides.
You don’t expect Sesshomaru to join you, and though you try to ignore the demon lord’s presence by focusing on your arm, unwinding the dirty cloth from your wound, it’s impossible not to react to the sudden influx of familiar poisonous fumes spilling into the forest air.
You jerk your head up, staring in shock at the demon lord’s hand, magenta-striped skin absolutely coated in poison and fingertips dripping with the noxious green toxin.
It’s thick enough to bring tears to your eyes, but you’re more concerned with Sesshomaru’s reaction to it - the minute tightening of his eyes and the displeasure curling his oftentimes impassive lips before the poison disperses.
The silence that descends upon you is nearly as thick as the poison had been, and you’re suddenly eager - almost desperate - to break it.
“It’s not deep.” His golden eyes drift to yours, and somehow that’s easier; that he’s looking at your face and not your wound - your wound that affected him enough to cause an involuntary response. Sesshomaru doesn’t have involuntary responses. “It’s just a scratch. I can take care of it.”
You start to do just that, dumping the cloth into the stream and attempting to clean the blood from your skin, but a clawed hand stops you. You stare in muted shock at the forest floor, fingers slackening around the cloth as it’s pulled from your grasp, and can do little else but watch as your wound is tended to.
For all the power that Sesshomaru possesses, poisonous claws and all, his ministrations are gentle enough. You feel no fear as his claws brush your skin, and though your wound is painful, your skin aching as dried blood is scraped away, the pain barely registers.
You can focus only on Sesshomaru’s downturned face, the way his silvery hair spills over his shoulders, and the subtle tightening of his lips as he tends to you.
He is angry, you realize, but not at you.
“Filth.” You’re startled by the sound of his voice, having grown so accustomed to the silence between you. “To mar what is mine. To touch what belongs to me.” His eyes are a fierce, burnished gold, his pupils ringed in red.
Your throat works for a moment, struggling to form around words. Mine, he had said. Mine.
“It won’t happen again,” you say, and your hand trembles as you place it over his, feeling the flex of his fingers beneath your own. You think of the bandits, think of their screams as Sesshomaru’s poison whip lashed at their bodies. You think of his face turning to stone once he’d seen your wound.
You tell him, “You’ll make sure of it.”
The rage in his eyes flares a sharp, brilliant red, and you know it’s a promise.
sequel - tether
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The impossible has happened: I wrote readerfic? 😳 Not sure how I got from a to b here, but well.. this particular AU seemed to beg me to take a reader’s POV on the whole thing.
Basically, this is the “Ubbe and Hvitserk and Ivar own and run a bar”-AU nobody really asked for. Exactly 5k in length. Only shippy if you squint particularly hard. You’re welcome. 😂💕
You check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time. Look up only to find that, yes, you are in the right street, and no, you still aren’t any closer to discovering where the bar is located.
“Between the red-bricked wall,” you mutter, “and the yoga studio?” You squint at the nearby windows and walls. Curse as you realize that there is more than one red wall in this particular area and no yoga studio in sight. “Sigurd, you little shit..”
Sigurd Ragnarsson had texted you in a blind panic earlier. I’m going out on a DATE, he’d written, capitalizing the event as if he was still in disbelief over how that happened, and now my stupid brother wants me to take a shift at his bar because they’re swamped tonight. Bail me out?!
You hiss as you scroll through the text conversation. You’d been parked on the couch, perfectly content to curl up with Netflix and a warm blanket, and it’d taken Sigurd some uncharacteristic begging until he’d finally resorted to a full-on bribe. I’ll give you two hundred just for showing up, he’d texted, and another five if you work the whole shift. You’d smirked as you’d texted still no concept of money, huh back before finally saying yes.
Sigurd is one of those guys who’re rich without actually knowing it – throwing cash around like it’s nothing, puzzled at working to make ends meet – and you would’ve probably hated him on sight if he didn’t constantly course-correct your more atrocious college essays. The seven hundred that is on offer here is more money than you make waiting tables in a week’s time, and that had been before he’d added the extra hundred if you survive Ivar.
You’d heard the complaints about Ivar. Actually, anyone who vaguely knew Sigurd knew about Ivar by sheer osmosis. Ivar, the kid brother who was apparently far from little and twice as obnoxious as your regular kid brother would be. Ivar, the good-for-nothing demon spawn who’d always gotten everything from their mother and had been their father’s favorite. Ivar, the wheelchair-bound nuisance who seemed determined to make Sigurd’s life a living hell. You’d withstood many a complaint about Ivar, but you’d never actually met him. Sigurd seemed to think this would change tonight, though right now you’re not so sure.
Just as you tap the message box, determined to give Sigurd a piece of your mind about sending you out here without any clear directions, the slam of a door against a wall and the ensuing racket of sound gives you pause. There’s a commotion happening almost right in front of you, with two men exiting the nearest building in a hurry, and the other noises that escape the building seem to befit those of a hole-in-the-wall bar the likes of which Sigurd had attempted and failed to properly describe to you.
“And you fucking stay out!” comes the roar from a wiry-built man as he throws the remainder of a pint into another man’s face. “Cops might not enforce it” – another snarl that makes the other man back away in a hurry – “but come near that girl again and you’re gonna wish they had.”
You quirk a brow as you look at the hurriedly retreating man and then at the red-bricked wall beside the door. Music spills out from the illuminated space behind the first man – you recognize the dragging, swaying notes of a classic rock tune – and you take a step closer to him now that his fist relaxes and he rakes a hand through his rather disheveled hair. Laughter spills out from him in such a way that at first you think he is utterly drunk, but then he turns on his heel and walks back to the door in a too-straight line.
“What?” He turns his head. A frown creases his face as he looks at you. He snorts out another, rather ugly-sounding laugh moments later. “Please tell me you’re not gonna read me the riot act.”
“Why would I?” You shrug as you take in his cut lip and the fact that he seems to favor his left arm ever so slightly. “Bar brawls happen all the time.”
His answering smile glitters in the light. “Never a brawl with me. More like re-education.”
“Nobody wins a fight from me,” he nods to your rather deadpan expression. His hands deftly pull his long hair back and tie it into a bun at the back of his head. “You gonna come in for drinks, or you gonna stay out?”
“Actually,” you hum, “I’m here only because Sigurd asked. Something about a shift that needed taking?”
“Smokes, you’re fast. Ubbe got his text only minutes ago. Said he wasn’t able to make it or some shit like that, but had gotten us someone else. Guess that’s you, huh. Well, uh, come on in? Welcome to the Shield Wall.”
“Shield Wall?” you question as you follow in his loping footsteps.
“My kid brother Ivar named it,” he shrugs as he glances at you. “He’s nuts about history and old battle tactics and all that. We got this place when Ubbe was feuding with a few jocks from Dane College whose daddies had bought them one of those fancy uptown bars.” Another laugh, some jostling past haphazardly-hung coats and burly individuals, and you’re struggling to keep up with his easy gait as he picks his way across the corridor toward a set of double doors. “Uptown bar lasted three months before they got busted by the cops for peddling drugs. Shield Wall’s been ours for about five years now, so not too bad huh.”
“Not too bad at all,” you agree readily. There’s a slightly proud glimmer to his smile that speaks volumes about how he feels about this space. You take a deep breath before you hazard a semi-educated guess as to his identity in your attempt to recall the names of Sigurd’s many siblings. “You’re.. Hvitserk?”
“Yup! And you’re..?”
You offer your name with a smile just as you walk into the bar’s main area. Hvitserk shoves his hands into his pockets. Has the audacity to smirk at you when you gaze around the room and almost feel your jaw drop.
Sigurd hadn’t been lying when he said they’re swamped. The booths on both ends of the walls are filled to the brim with people laughing, drinking, and eating. Crowded are the pool tables to your right, even more crowded is the open floor to your left that seems to consist of a rather strange mix of darts games and dancing people. The music shifts from the dragging kick of the rock song to a jazzy little number, while some raucously sing another tune altogether.
“How come,” you frown at him, “I’ve never even heard of this place and yet –”
“We’re busy? Word of mouth.”
Hvitserk’s arm comes to rest in the crook of your elbow as he expertly picks his way through the crowd. You can’t help but raise your brow at how easily people move out of the way for you as he steers you toward the large bar at the far right end of the room. It seems that Hvitserk’s presence is enough to make just about anyone veer out of your path in a hurry. He gently shoves his way past a particularly large crowd, which is met with some irritation from these men until he catches their eye in turn.
If you already thought Hvitserk commands the room, it’s nothing compared to the easy sway the bartender has over people.
“–had enough, don’t you think?” is the first thing you hear as you come into earshot, spoken in a deep and rather amused-sounding voice. The bartender in question is leaning toward a slightly swaying, vastly inebriated young man and simultaneously removing any shot glasses in reach. “You go sit over there, my friend. Let us get you some food, huh?”
“Ubbe!” cries Hvitserk as the young man drunkenly stumbles back into the waiting arms of his friends. “Sigurd’s help arrived.”
Blue eyes crinkle into a smile as the bartender turns toward you. “Welcome,” he booms, gesturing at the bar with all the air of a man who owns the place. “You know how to tap a beer?”
“Uh, yeah?” you hedge, though it’s been some time since you last did. “Can mix simple drinks, too.”
“Yo, Am,” shouts Ubbe over his shoulder, “help’s here! Knows enough to be without a babysitter, too.”
“That’s Amma,” supplies Hvitserk helpfully as the girl behind the bar raises both thumbs up in approval. Her dark hair is mixed with varying shades of blue. “She’s a total fucking saint for putting up with my brother.”
“Hey,” grins Ubbe as he taps two beers at once, “she has to put up with you vaulting over the bar and punching guys in the face all the time. I’m much more mild-mannered.”
You snort out a laugh as Hvitserk’s face turns outraged and his counterarguments start to rise swiftly. “– needed stitches in three places, including your ass” – is the loudest of the lot, spoken to a roll of Ubbe’s eyes and general laughter from the crowd – “and that’s not the worst –” Hvitserk continues to gesture, to great hilarity, and you smile as you move behind the bar. You miss a part of the argument as you start taking orders and setting drinks in front of waiting people, though you tune back in just in time to hear Ubbe’s booming laugh as Hvitserk finishes a retelling. “And that, my friends, is how Ubbe lost a fight with a priest-in-training!”
“Ah, but you punched his lights out for me,” says Ubbe, wrapping an arm around Hvitserk’s shoulder and leaning against him a moment. “My brother. The great big hero.”
“Shove the fuck off!”
“Hah! See what I’m dealing with here? All my brothers mean to kill me!”
“That says something about you!” calls Amma, grin quick and hands even quicker as she shoves drinks at a group of giggling girls. “Common denominator and all that.”
Ubbe staggers back from the bar as if wounded. Clutches his chest a moment in vast drama as he looks the pierced, tattooed woman up and down with a huge frown on his face. Amma smiles back, entirely undeterred by the affront that’s written all over his face, and it isn’t long before Ubbe lets out another loud laugh.
“Where’s your bedside manner, little nurse?”
“In the hospital, avoiding what’s left of your ass,” snarks Amma as she brushes past you. “Even the kids I work with there are better behaved than you.”
You raise an eyebrow as Ubbe’s hand lands in Amma’s neck and he pulls her in close. There’s a low-voiced conversation between them, too quiet in the absolute din of sound you’re facing with orders being shouted at you, and a slight frown creases her features before she offers him a weak-looking smile. You almost miss the touch that passes between their hands, though Ubbe’s hand lingers on her wrist a while. She hurries past Hvitserk moments after and vanishes through another set of double doors.
“Kitchen duty,” offers Ubbe by means of explanation.
“Ubbe gets distracted by her,” says Hvitserk moments later, sotto voce, as he helps you remember how to mix one particular drink by offering you the ingredients in quick succession. “There’s a bet on them. Bar-wide bet.”
“When he’s finally going to make a move. His track record ain’t too great,” hums Hvitserk, “what with the vapid blonde and our half-brother’s ex-wife and some other unmentionables..”
You stare at him. Echo the standout thing about that explanation. “His half-brother’s ex-wife?”
Hvitserk actually shudders at that. “The sound of her name makes me break out in hives, is that enough answer for you?” he asks, grinning all the while. “Ubbe’s fucking stupid with women. So’s Ivar. Latter’s the reason why I can no longer do any kind of yoga.”
“You.. did yoga.”
“Yeah. I like my chi aligned with me,” quips Hvitserk as he taps a beer and attempts to work the cash register simultaneously. “But then Ivar fucking took up with this starry-eyed chick who practiced all sorts of asinine be-your-own-god bullshit” – he grunts out, displeasure written all over his face – “and if I have to listen to her high-pitched voice telling me I’m doing downward dog wrong one more fucking time I’m going to commit an act of violence. They broke up last month though and she vacated next door in a hurry, so..”
“You might get your chi aligned again,” you hum. “How the fuck can you do downward dog wrong, though?”
“No, no,” says Ubbe, shoving Hvitserk away from the register in a hurry, “you don’t work the money and you do not talk about yoga in front of me.”
“Ubbe has bad memories of seeing his next-door neighbor in tights,” stage-whispers Hvitserk. “Poor Alfred just wanted –”
“Serk, thin fucking ice.”
“Too soon for the ice threat, brother, too soon.”
“It’s been twenty years?”
“I almost died.”
“So did I, now shut up and go see if Thora needs more help.”
“Thora?” you inquire as Hvitserk grumbles something to himself and stalks off toward the same double doors you saw Amma disappear through earlier. “Who’s..?”
“Serk’s half in love with her because she makes the best pancakes in town. Also keeps people coming back here. Best hangover food you’ve ever had.”
“Pancakes for a hangover?”
“Don’t knock it,” grins Ubbe, though the smile is quick to slip off his face as he’s confronted with a patron who bursts out in tears over the drink he sets in front of her. “Ah, fuck me,” he frowns, already reaching for a tissue box he keeps under the counter, “there you go, love, just cry it out, there’s a good girl.” He pats the girl’s head a little awkwardly, then leans over the counter. “Bad breakup or something I need to get Serk for?”
“Th-th-the f-first,” sniffles the girl.
“Ah, yeah. Cry it out, huh. And go easy on those drinks!”
“Why would you need to get Serk?” you inquire as the immediate crush of orders begins to die down slightly. Your back is to the crowd as you work another mixed drink in quick movements. “For that girl?”
“Serk doesn’t take well to anyone harassing someone. He vaulted over the bar earlier tonight, fucked his arm up again,” hums Ubbe as he comes to stand beside you. “Didn’t you catch him right as he threw that guy out?”
“Oh, yeah, I did.”
“There you go.”
Now that the crowd is thinning somewhat and orders slow, you’re able to take an earnest look at the bar. You spot Amma weaving her way through the crowd with stacked plates of pancakes, while Ubbe seems to be able to carry on several conversations at once. You catch him laughing one second and creasing his brow in emphatic concern the next, which somehow never strikes you as dishonest because his attention is always square on the person in front of him at the time. The sound of his voice going “hey!” over the crowd is enough to break up the small fight that breaks out near one of the darts boards, too, and there’s a natural command to his presence that lets people listen to him.
You make a mental note about asking Hvitserk more about that betting pool when Amma sways back to the bar, leans atop it, and whispers something into Ubbe’s ear that makes his eyes glimmer in the light. The quirk of her lips as she pulls away and walks off again is something that could tell a story, if you were inclined to be curious enough to ask.
Falling back into bartending is something that comes easier to you than you thought it might. You enjoy hearing the scattered stories from customers, now that you’re not too busy to lean in and ask how they’re doing, and there’s something charming about the groups of friends that come back for another beer haul before they move to a game of darts again. Their throws aren’t straight by any means, but their laughter fills the bar.
Hvitserk, freshly returned from the kitchen, wolfs down a stack of pancakes faster than you can blink. His contented hum beside you is that of someone who’ll eat anything, but takes special pleasure in indulging in actual good food. Sigurd had complained about Hvitserk’s appetite more than once, alluding to it stretching beyond food and into all sorts of proclivities, but you don’t frown at it until he tilts his head and leans against his older brother again. Ubbe’s hands remain steady, but his huff of breath isn’t.
You blink in the next moment as Ubbe lets out a very firm “no, no!” and actually slaps the top of the tap with no great amount of restraint. The shot glasses atop the bar rattle. “Get out from behind the bar!” comes the demand, authoritarian as anything, and for a moment you think it’s meant for Hvitserk before Ubbe’s glare intensifies. “We don’t need your help, Ivar.”
You whirl around, only to find intense blue eyes studying you from a rather comfortably seated position. He perches in his wheelchair the way a king would reside upon a throne, somehow looking down at you even as he has to gaze up to meet your eyes.
“Of course you don’t,” agrees Ivar, “but you made this ramp for a reason.”
“Yeah, to make rolling the kegs easier,” mutters Ubbe.
“Yeah, so don’t you go feel special or anything. You’re like a keg, brother,” quips Hvitserk as he moves to clap Ivar on the shoulder, “except way less fun.”
Ivar bats his hand away with a rather irritated air. “Who’s this?”
“Helping hand.” Hvitserk offers your name moments after. “Be nice, huh?”
“Did Sigurd arrange this? Do you go to school with him? Where is he?”
“Yes, yes, not here,” you grunt as you start tapping a round of beers for a couple of waiting men.
“You’re in business school?”
“Yeeees,” you drawl as you shoot Ivar another glance. You’re not surprised to find that his glare has intensified. “What, does that offend whatever delicate sensibility you have about who’s allowed to tap beer in this place?”
“No,” he scoffs, “but it explains why you’re doing it wrong.”
You scoff back. “It’s beer, not rocket science.”
“And clearly your calculations for both would be off.”
“Beer doesn’t need to be calculated,” you say as Ubbe’s resounding slap lands on the back of Ivar’s head in passing. “It just needs to be drunk, am I right?”
A hefty cheer from your customers drowns out the scowling, vicious mutter Ivar directs at you. You have half a mind to challenge him on it – what the fuck is his problem? – but you recall Sigurd’s text just in time. Extra hundred if you survive Ivar. It flashes across your mind as you set the final beer down in front of your customers and turn to face the wheelchair-bound nuisance.
“I’m sure the rest of your two hundred questions can wait until after I’m done with my shift,” you tell him with slightly more confidence than you actually feel.
“Yeah, brother, roll your keg to the nearest booth and set yourself to scaring people into going home on time,” laughs Hvitserk as he ruffles Ivar’s long hair that’s only haphazardly pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck. There’s something of shared mischief in the look they share, though Hvitserk is quick to pull back when Ubbe returns. “We’re doing one more round and then everybody’s gonna be shit outta luck.”
Final call at the bar means you completely lose track of anything other than which drinks you’re pouring and how much money passes through your hands. You’re surprised to find that Hvitserk finds the space to laugh as Ubbe disappears to help Amma clear the tables. Hvitserk works under pressure the way other people work regular jobs, or so it seems when his assured hands find the time to guide yours through a last-ditch drink you have trouble recalling the appropriate mix for. His eyes are focused on the crowd as a whole, picking out names and orders and other things in a heartbeat, though his tongue darts out to lick at the remaining injury on his lower lip more often than not.
Between the two of you and Ubbe’s return to the bar, you make quick work of final call. You’re surprised to find that Amma is best at clearing the stragglers in the crowd, using a voice that Hvitserk calls ‘the nurse voice’ on even the most difficult of customers, and the riotous laughter when she clears a particular customer out the door – “no, Magnus, final call is final even for good little altar boys like you” – speaks volumes about how well-liked the slip of a girl is here.
As the crowd thins, you can practically sense Ivar’s glare burning into your back. He’s taken up residence at the nearest booth, where the seat has been adjusted to accommodate his wheelchair, and seems wholly content to spend the entirety of final call staring at you.
“He makes me break out in hives,” you hum to Hvitserk, echoing his earlier words about his half-brother’s ex-wife. “The fuck’s his problem?”
“The world is his problem,” mutters Hvitserk, chancing a glance at his younger brother. “I can ask him to stop, but not sure he’d listen.”
“He wouldn’t,” asserts Ubbe, on your other side, before he nudges you. “Go hand him a drink, maybe that’ll calm him down some. And tell him you’re not close to Sigurd, eh?”
You frown. “Who told you that?”
Ubbe holds his phone up. “All my brothers are shit liars,” he says with no small degree of relish. “Sigurd says he helps you with homework but you never hang out otherwise. Which makes sense, because Sigurd doesn’t really do the friendship thing. Trust issues.”
“Yeah, between us and Ivar.. Recipe for disaster at the dinner table.”
“Serk,” warns Ubbe, low-voiced. “No.”
“What, no family therapy session? Got it. Hey, Amma, do you have–?”
Hvitserk bounces off to swing an arm around Amma’s shoulders as he inquires after something or other. You catch the rather indulgent smile on Ubbe’s face before he schools his features into something calmer. There’s affection in his gaze even now – warm for Amma, who now smiles and gestures, but warmer still for Hvitserk – and you laugh as you remember what Sigurd had said. He’s the dad of the family. More than our real father ever was.
“Look.” Ubbe’s calm voice stops your movements. “Ivar’s.. He’s a lot. Been through a lot.” His mouth twitches as he strokes his beard. “He likes his tortured artist air.”
Ubbe unlocks his phone. You catch a photo of himself and Hvitserk mugging off at the camera before he clicks an app and swipes through his photo albums at break-neck speed. He hums contently to himself as he hits the one he’s looking for.
Bright colors flash across his phone display in sweeping, graceful motions. There are jagged black lines, too, as he scrolls through wordlessly, and more than enough dark patches that seem to arc and weave into nightmare fuel as abstract figures give way to meticulously drawn creatures. Endless wings and eyes flutter past on-screen as Ubbe’s movements slow enough to allow you to drink some of the details in.
“He made these,” says the eldest brother, then, and there’s an unmistakable note of pride in his voice now. “Ivar.. He never shared them with us, until his work hung in a gallery. Serk took these photos. I bought two paintings.” A smile curves the corner of his mouth up as he speaks. “We never told Sigurd about it. Don’t let Sigurd’s opinion tell you shit about Ivar, all right?”
“He sort of confirmed Sigurd’s opinion, earlier,” you mutter.
“Yeah, well, that’s Ivar. At war with the world, as usual.” Ubbe holds out two glasses and a bottle. Nudges you again. “Up to us to make peace, huh. To try.”
You remain motionless. “Ubbe, I..”
“Yeah. I know. Thing is, he’s been moping around since his break-up. His ex wrecked half his paintings, took the cat he was crazy about, then had her twin sister play some kind of fucking mindgame with him.” Ubbe’s voice lowers in barely contained anger. “His exchange with you earlier was the most life I’ve heard coming from him since he blew up at Serk two days ago. Just..”
You sigh. Take the proffered glasses and bottle. “Fine.”
The colors of the paintings flash across your mind as you stalk toward the booth where Ivar’s glare has now shifted over to the table. Your eyes travel to his legs, thinner and much more frail-looking than his muscled arms, and the meaning of the myriad of wings almost slaps you in the face moments after. Give these clay feet wings to fly, you nearly murmur aloud. You sharply set the glasses down in front of him. Pour him a drink, then pour yourself one. He doesn’t look up from the table.
“I don’t want a drink.”
“Tough,” you tell him as you slide into the booth opposite him. “I need one if I’m going to deal with your crossfire.”
“You’re going to need more than one.”
“Depends on how shit your questions are gonna be,” you snort as you take a sip. Your nose wrinkles as the taste hits your tongue. Curse Ubbe for picking a particularly strong one. “Start asking before I’m drunk.”
Ivar’s eyes gleam as he finally raises his head. “Why are you in school with Sigurd?”
“Because I have to make something of myself,” you echo hollowly, having heard so many people parrot that exact argument at you. You amend your words with a sigh, remembering Ubbe’s advice just in time. “Sigurd checks my essays and calls me stupid in the meantime. We’re not friends.”
“But you came here because he asked.”
“I came because it’s good money. More than I make in a week.” You shrug. Tip the drink back until it burns your throat. “Not all of us can be trust fund babies.”
“How much is he paying you?”
“I’m starting to think not enough,” you warn him as you pour yourself a second drink. You don’t like the way his eyes have narrowed, nor the way he seems to be calculating something in his head. “He promised me extra if I survived you.”
“How much am I worth, hm?”
“A hundred,” you grin.
Ivar’s knocked his drink back before you can blink. “He’s such a fucking cheap louse,” he grouches as he wrangles the bottle out of your grasp and tips more liquid into his glass than should strictly be there. “A hundred. A fucking hundred. I’ll double that if you go back and punch him in the face.”
“Why the fuck would I punch Sigurd?”
“Because,” Ivar drawls, so slowly that it seems as though he thinks you quite dim-witted, “it’s Sigurd.”
“Do you always get other people to fight your battles for you?”
“No.” He pauses. Chances a glance at the rest of the bar. “I get Serk to do it.”
“And Serk.. does it?”
“Most of the time.” Ivar’s smile is feral as he sips his drink. “He likes a brawl. Never loses, but that’s because Ubbe saves him before anything bad can happen.”
“Oh, is that why,” you snort, unable to contain your laugh as you remember your earliest conversation with Hvitserk tonight. “Sounds like you need to talk Serk into punching Sigurd, because I’m not about to.”
Ivar’s hum is non-committal. His eyes blaze over the rim of his glass. You try to shift your gaze, but there’s something about the weight of his look that pins you firmly in place. You can’t tell if your stomach is squirming in discomfort or fluttering something far more annoying deep inside of your belly. When he speaks again, his voice is a languid thing that pools liquid heat into you.
“How much is he paying you, surviving me included?”
“Eight. Two for showing up, five for the shift..”
“And one for me.” Ivar nods. Leans back in his wheelchair as he observes you. “I’ll triple it.”
You almost choke on your drink. Splutter out a “what?” that’s got the corner of his mouth lifting up before he can school his features.
“Tripled. Twenty-four. Only one catch.”
“You leave those heinous shoes at the door and come shopping with me.”
“What?” You laugh as the remainder of your drink scorches your throat. “A, there’s nothing wrong with my shoes. B, why would I?”
“Because you’ve got a new job,” he preens. “You work here now.”
You can’t help the scoff that escapes you. “Do you always bully people into hanging out with you?”
“Yes,” comes the quick response. Ivar tilts his head. “Is it working?”
You contemplate him. Let your eyes stray to the bar, where Hvitserk’s head has come to rest against Ubbe’s back while the eldest brother counts the cash register. Let your eyes stray to the double doors, where Amma’s having a low-voiced conversation with a rather sweet-faced girl. You can’t help the smile that works its way onto your face. You like this place. Shield Wall, Hvitserk had called it, and a shelter’s precisely how it feels.
Ivar’s eyes are like a storm that’s about to strike when you meet his gaze again.
“You’re going to wish you hadn’t asked,” you finally chuckle as you nod your head. Yes. “I’m not easily bullied.”
His smile is a warning in itself. “I have all the time in the world.”
You smile back. Accept the challenge with a nod and the clink of your glass against his.
“So do I.”
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Beard/Bex (I know, what?!) with a lot of pre-ish relationship Ted/Rebecca energy comin' in at the end. But really, this is mostly a story about Bex Mannion and Coach Beard falling in love with each other.
3200 words | Teen & Up
CW for non-graphic mentions of emotional abuse
Written after 2x7 aired; contains minor spoilers through 2x7 and speculative plots based on s2 plot points. Takes place in the summer after the current football season, aka between my imagined end of s2 and beginning of s3.
Beard’s new pub is a pretty okay place.
Cons: No Mae. Bad pie. An old man named Alistair who always wants to talk.
Pros: Jane hates this place and has said as much a dozen times. Jane hates this place and is too proud to try to find him here. Jane hates this place and that’s good enough for him.
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For #1 Hild and Eadith meeting during or after the Siege of Winchester
"Well, I'll say this much." Hild winds the linen around Eadith's ribs. "Finan may not be a healer, but he's had his share of broken ribs, and arms, and toes, and noses, and every other bone you can break, I imagine. He wrapped you up quite nicely."
"That's good," Eadith grunts. He may have wrapped her up nicely, but breathing still hurts, as does speaking, and doing everything else that isn't sitting perfectly still.
Hild offers her a sympathetic smile. "The pain will go away soon. You'll get plenty of rest and care here."
Eadith manages a mincing smile. "Thank you, Abbess." She hisses as Hild knots the linen over a particularly sensitive bruise.
Hild adjusts the knot. "There." She helps Eadith into a fresh, clean shift, pulling the sleeves up her arms before carefully pulling the shift over her head and letting it fall around her body.
"So," Hild asks, helping Eadith to lie down. "Where will you go from here?"
"I don't know," Eadith says honestly. "I have family in Frankia, but..."
"Frankia's a long way away," Hild finishes.
They are both quiet as Hild puts away the spare strips of linen. "You could join us here."
Eadith gives her a small smile. "I'm afraid my sins are too great for an abbey."
"God forgives all sins."
Eadith shakes her head. "God may forgive me, but I haven't forgiven myself."
Hild glances at her. "You could always go to Coccham."
"Coccham? With Lord Uhtred?"
Hild smiles at her. "Coccham is...a haven for those who struggle to find their place in the world. Perhaps it would offer you the peace an abbey could not."
Eadith considers her. "Perhaps."
Hild turns back to her task, but she looks at Eadith out of the corner of her eye. "You would be in good company. With Uhtred, and Osferth, and Sihtric...and Finan."
Eadith turns the slightest shade of pink.
Hild smiles to herself. Maybe Eadith doesn't know where she's going yet, but Hild is fairly certain she knows the answer.
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SGA Fic: A Hundred Hundred Bolts of Satin
A Hundred Hundred Bolts of Satin
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Content notes: Brief, non-graphic animal harm (predator/prey), brief reference to potential eyeball harm; no standard notes apply.
Size: 1,900 words
Tags: Aliens Make Them Write Poetry, Teamwork Question Mark?, A Variety of Birds, Teyla's Patience is Taxed, John Was Laconic Once in Flight School and Liked it So Much He Never Stopped, Rodney Stops Talking Briefly, Ronon's Cool
Summary: The sun is high overhead, the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue.
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Fuck it, I wrote the fic I was thinking of as I watched the surfing at the Olympics. Inspiration very much struck down like lightning, an idea of Adrian competing with Deran nervously watching in the stands. It was great to write, 'cos I've not had time nor inspiration in a long while, so I was doubly excited to have both and fucking went for it!
I usually give fic time to rest and myself time to consider edits, but I'm a Olympic junkie and absolutely want to post during the games, so this has only had two days. That means plotholes and grammar mistakes are probable, please excuse them! Focus on the excitement instead :D
For Deran to be in Tokyo, covid had to disappear, and to make it work somewhat with the show's timeline, I moved the Olympics back to 2020. Meaning no restrictions to travel etc. I have huge respect and sympathy for the entire world affected by the pandemic and think it's kinda crazy the Olympics are even happening at all in our dark reality so I truly hope this doesn't come off as tone-deaf. It's supposed to be a fun, fast fic with some cool dudes and not at all a reflection on reality.
As for the show, it's canon divergent with all of S3 and S4 having happened except for Adrian's storyline. Let's pretend he and Deran were trying to navigate a healthier relationship but that money and drug use were creating obstacles on top of Adrian being away so much.
I hope you all enjoy! Again, I've not seen any of S5 so NO SPOILERS PLEASE :D
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Got Everything and Nothing in My Life | Matchablossom | 5+1 Things
24.4k Words | Rated: M
When you've known someone as long as Kaoru and Kojiro have known each other, it doesn't so much become about the length of time, as it is about the little rituals and habits you've shared over the years, and the feeling that gets mixed up with all of those.
Five times Kojiro braided Kaoru's hair, and the one time he undid it.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
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Witcher Femslash February - Chaos
Way back in January, @xxtorchxx got in touch with me to see if I would like to write a fic about an amazing manip she’d created. Of course I said yes and then immediately got writers’ block.
Working my way through @bamf-jaskier‘s list of femslash february ficlets has been my attempt at making myself write again so that I could fulfil my promise.
So it only feels fitting that the final one should be the fic I should have written in January. 😊
Here’s the pic:
And the fic is below the cut.
Once upon a time, it would have been unthinkable for Tissaia to be sitting in Yennefer's house, sipping wine and laughing over stories about the mishaps of shared acquaintances. It would have been absurd for them to be in each other's company without the situation deteriorating into a battle of words; a war of nerves.
But these days, it's not unusual at all.
Everything changed at Sodden Hill. The battle was hard won, and left both of them injured. It was during the aftermath that they started to grow closer. Tissaia's recovery had been long and beleaguered with setbacks. The healers had barely begun to rid her body of dimeritium when infection took hold and had her teetering between life and death once more.
Yennefer had been by her side as soon as she was allowed out of bed, her own injuries still healing. 'Allowed' being subjective, of course. The healers grew tired of chasing her back to her own room soon enough and just let her stay as Tissaia went through her own battle. Even if she couldn't fight alongside her, this time, Yennefer was determined that she would not be alone. She'd held her hand through interminable nights, counting her breaths, holding her own when it seemed the next one wasn't coming fast enough. She'd talked to her through her delirium, smiling through tears at the absurdities spilling from the usually sensible lips.
She had finally turned a corner when a particularly awful fever finally broke one night. She turned to Yennefer with eyes clearer than she'd seen them since the morning of the battle, and smiled. And Yennefer's heart found its rhythm once more.
Even once it was certain that Tissaia would recover, Yennefer never strayed far from Aretuza for a long time. It was many weeks after her own healing was complete that she finally struck out again, into the world. But she made sure to visit often, and urged Tissaia to do the same.
That is why it's not a surprise when Tissaia shows up at the house Yennefer keeps in Velen, with a very fine bottle of wine from Aretuza's cellar and a smile.
"I thought we could enjoy it in your garden," Tissaia says, once Yennefer has picked up a couple of glasses. "I'm not sure we'll keep this warmth for much longer."
"An excellent idea," Yennefer says, gesturing for Tissaia to walk in front of her out into the late summer evening.
They sit at the small table set on a terrace and Yennefer pours the wine. Tissaia picks up her glass and swirls the russet liquid around, inhaling its scent before taking a sip. She hums her approval.
"I knew this would be a good one."
Taking her own sip, Yennefer agrees. "It is quite exquisite."
She settles further into her chair and watches as Tissaia lifts her face to the sun, closing her eyes. Yennefer enjoys these moments more than any other, seeing Tissaia so relaxed and informal.
"So, what's been happening at Aretuza, then?" Yennefer asks. "Anything scandalous to share with me?"
"I fear not," Tissaia opens her eyes and smiles. "The new batch of girls are, thankfully, better than the last ones. There are one or two showing real promise already."
An age old spike of jealousy pokes at Yennefer's stomach and she frowns at her own irrationality. Tissaia's hand covers her own where it rests on the table between them and she turns to meet amused eyes.
"None of them are anywhere close to your ability, Yennefer. Don't concern yourself with that."
Embarrassed to have been caught in her feelings, Yennefer shifts in her seat and lifts her nose in the air. "Well, good. Can't have you finding a new favourite, can we?"
"No, indeed," Tissaia agrees, as Yennefer takes a sip of wine. "Sabrina would be most disappointed to be demoted."
The joke is so unexpected that Yennefer chokes on her wine. She doesn't quite manage to get a hand to her mouth to cover the cough, and she ends up with wine dripping from her chin, onto her chest and her dress. Before she knows what's happening, Tissaia is up out of her seat, dabbing at her face and her neck, then her chest.
"For goodness' sake, Yennefer," she tuts. "What a mess you've made of yourself."
"Me?" Yennefer croaks.
From nowhere, a picture appears in her mind.
Tissaia bends to press her lips to Yennefer's throat, her tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of wine still lingering there, before moving around and down, onto her chest and-
The vision slams shut so suddenly Yennefer jumps. It's only then she realises that the fantasy was not her own, but belonged to Tissaia. Blood rushes to Yennefer's cheeks at the very thought, and her eyes snap up to meet troubled blue ones. This has happened, on occasion, since Sodden; Tissaia has had momentary lapses in control, resulting in her thoughts being more accessible than usual. But not this kind of thought.
Yennefer puts a hand on Tissaia's wrist, where she's still holding the napkin against her chest. She decides not to embarrass the other woman.
"If you want to kill me, Tissaia, there are easier ways than suddenly developing a sense of humour." She coughs again, though her throat is cleared.
There's a slight crease between Tissaia's eyebrows, she clearly knows Yennefer has seen something. But her mouth twitches into a smile and she nods. She presses the napkin into Yennefer's hand and backs away.
"I'll have you know my sense of humour is very well developed," Tissaia says, sitting herself down again. "Perhaps it's only now that you're older that you appreciate my wit."
"Perhaps that's it," Yennefer agrees, wiping herself down. "Though I'd appreciate it if you gave me a little more warning the next time you are about to make a joke so that I can ensure I'm not drinking at the time."
"Agreed," Tissaia holds up her glass and Yennefer clinks her own against it in a silent acknowledgement of what has passed between them and an agreement never to mention it again.
The problem is, Yennefer can think of little else.
After Tissaia leaves that evening, Yennefer lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. She replays the vision over and over, embellishing it in her own mind, taking it further each time. She pictures Tissaia's mouth trailing down her chest, between her breasts, burying her face in them. She imagines small, powerful hands on her body, touching her everywhere. When she envisages what Tissaia would look like between her legs, framed by her thighs, she can't hold off any longer, and she has to touch herself to relieve the aching need that's been growing since the picture first appeared in her mind.
She gets herself off. It's not pretty, or slow, but it does the job. Once that's dealt with, she returns to her previous activity of lying awake with too many thoughts in her head.
It's a lot to come to terms with. While she has harboured confusing and contradictory feelings about Tissaia for most of her life, she had assumed Tissaia saw her as no more than a former student. Latterly, perhaps a friend.
After all, it had been Vilgefortz who had come to find her before Sodden, not Tissaia. Tissaia's own plea had followed a sound trouncing at the Conclave; confirmation that the endeavour would not be supported en masse. Tissaia begging her to come along had been a last resort. It did not speak of high regard nor special favour.
This vision of them together is more than likely just a result of a sexual fantasy, she decides. Yennefer is no stranger to those; both having them and being the object of them. Rarely, though, do the two combine. While she often pities men for falling over themselves just for a chance to be taken to her bed, the thought that Tissaia wants her in that way is thrilling.
She ignores the part of her mind that is telling her that to have Tissaia so close, and not have her heart, would be devastating. She sighs. It's not like she's unaccustomed to heartache.
And this? This might be worth it.
A week passes, and Tissaia has not contacted her. Yennefer is almost out of her mind with questions and desires. Sleep eludes her and she has no appetite for any of the sumptuous meals she orders or conjures. Simply put, she is on hold. She is at the mercy of a fantasy that's not even her own.
By the eighth day, she decides she will have to be the one to make the first move this time. She must go to Tissaia. Not only that, but she must offer Tissaia what it is she clearly wants. Then they will both be able to slake a thirst, and Yennefer might be able to return to some semblance of her normal life.
Give that this may be the only time in her life she gets to be with Tissaia, Yennefer decides that a bit of a show is in order. She conjures up the gown she had worn when they met in Rinde. It has always made her feel powerful, in control.
And Tissaia seemed to enjoy looking at her in it.
As she sits before her mirror, painting her lips, Yennefer recalls that day. Tissaia's voice appearing from nowhere, her smile in the mirror, her hands on Yennefer's shoulders. Even the memory of that very innocent touch now makes her shiver with want.
She applies a dab of her signature scent behind her ears and on the pulse points in her wrists. She checks her reflection in the mirror and smiles. Yes, this will do nicely.
Standing up, she tells herself that the flutter in her stomach is excitement, rather than nerves. But just before she conjures a portal, she takes a swig of strong liquor from a hip flask she keeps in her drawer. With a final nod at herself in the mirror, she calls the portal directly into Tissaia's study, and steps through it.
If Tissaia's startled by her appearing from nowhere, she shows no sign of it. In fact, her face shows relief for the briefest of moments, before her brows gather in confusion as she takes in Yennefer's outfit. She's standing by her desk, reading a document which she sets down and turns to fully appraise Yennefer.
"I- I wasn't expecting you," Tissaia says, still looking at the outfit. "Did you mean to come here? Are you going somewhere?"
Seeing Tissaia off-balance like this should make Yennefer want to pounce, to grab the control and hold on to it. But it just makes her want to take Tissaia in her arms and kiss the confusion from her beautiful face. But that's not what tonight is for so she straightens her shoulders, letting a confident smile slide onto her lips.
"Can I not drop by unannounced to see my favourite Rectoress?" she says, perusing the objects on Tissaia's shelves, trying to calm her stomach.
"Of course you can," Tissaia says, hesitantly. "I just-" A pause. "You seem overdressed, that's all."
Yennefer grins, but hides it as she turns to look over her shoulder. "You'd prefer me to be wearing less?"
Tissaia shakes her head, turning away. "I don't-"
She'll have to speed this up if Tissaia's not to balk. She lifts her head and saunters over to stand by Tissaia at her desk. "Come on, Tissaia." She takes Tissaia's chin in her hand and gently turns her face back around. "We both know that you like looking at me." She lets the tip of her tongue touch her top lip. "And we both know you'd like to do a lot more than look."
Realisation blooms in Tissaia's eyes, and it's like the sun going down. Colour rises in her cheeks and it sends a fire rippling over Yennefer's skin. "How dare you," she begins, her voice low and dangerous.
Yennefer presses a finger to Tissaia's lips. "Shhhh." She shakes her head, eyes on Tissaia's mouth. "Just for tonight, I can be whatever you want me to be." She reaches out and runs her forefinger over the buttons on Tissaia's chest. "We could be-oooofff."
The wind is knocked from Yennefer's lungs as she is thrown across the room by a telekinetic blast, crashing into the wall and sliding to the floor. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to clear her head where it's ringing from the impact and the magic. When she opens them, Tissaia's shoes are by her head. She looks up and can't help but cringe at the absolute fury radiating from the Rectoress.
"Do you think this is funny, girl?" Tissaia demands. "Taking my moment of weakness and exploiting it for your own amusement?"
"Wh-what?" Yennefer sits up, rubbing at her shoulder. "No! Of course not. That's not what-"
"I had assumed you would be an adult about my-" She turns and walks away a few paces. "About what you saw." She shakes her head. "Clearly I expected too much of you."
"Tissaia," Yennefer tries again. "That's not-" She uses the wall to steady herself as she gets to her feet.
Spinning to face Yennefer once more, Tissaia narrows her eyes. "I will not be one of your conquests, Yennefer," Tissaia says. Her eyes are hard, but Yennefer can see the pain swimming behind the anger.
"I was kind of hoping to become one of yours!" Yennefer mutters, regretting it immediately when she sees the flash of anguish on Tissaia's face.
"You would stand there and mock me?" Tissaia says, her voice hardly above a whisper. "After all we have been through together?"
"No, Tissaia, please let me-"
"Go." Tissaia says, turning away. "Get out of my sight.
"I'm not leaving it like this," Yennefer says, unsteadily marching towards Tissaia. She touches her shoulder, but her hand is batted away. "Tissaia, you need to let me-"
"I don't need to let you do anything," Tissaia says. She turns around, and the anger is gone, leaving only sadness so deep it cracks Yennefer's heart in two. Before she can do anything, though, Tissaia holds up a hand and Yennefer feels a wind behind her, she turns to find a portal spinning there, sucking her backwards. The last thing she sees before she is pulled into it is a tear running down Tissaia's face. "Goodbye Yennefer."
For the second time in five minutes, Yennefer is deposited on her backside. She looks around, disorientated. She has no clue where she is, but it's definitely unpleasant. A bog of some sort. With a sigh, she gets to her feet, determined to set things right.
She calls her own portal, but when she sets the destination as Tissaia's study, the portal collapses. Tissaia has clearly put up wards to prevent her entering. "Fuck." Yennefer curses under her breath. "Of course."
She changes tack, directing her portal to just outside Aretuza's walls. When she steps through, the wind is howling and it's pouring with rain. She's drenched through in seconds, but she pays the weather no heed, taking off at a run through the great gates of the school and in the main door. Thankfully nobody challenges her, even though she must look like a drowned rat. She makes her way through the winding corridors and stairways; so familiar she could navigate them blindfolded.
She reaches Tissaia's apartments, and doesn't bother to knock, only hoping that the wards were limited to portals and that the door will let her through. The handle turns easily and she barges in.
Tissaia is seated at her desk, her head in her hands. She looks up at the noisy entrance and Yennefer's heart breaks all over again at the tear stains on her cheeks.
"What on-" Tissaia stands. "Are you stupid?"
"Probably," Yennefer says, not slowing her pace until she's standing directly in front of Tissaia. "But not stupid enough to walk away without making you see-"
"See what?" Tissaia snaps. She takes in Yennefer's appearance, although it's far less admiring than it was earlier. "You're dripping all over my rug."
Yennefer ignores her, taking her face in her hands, well aware she could be taking her own life in her hands with it. "I'm an idiot, yes. But so are you."
Tissaia gasps. "I am not-"
"Yes, you are," Yennefer says, her confidence growing a little since Tissaia hasn't incinerated her on sight. She sighs, shaking her head. "I've gone about this all wrong, and I'm sorry for that, but I need you to see-" She can feel tears leaking from her eyes in response to the ones shining in Tissaia's. "I need you to understand what I feel for you."
"I think you made that perfectly clear earlier," Tissaia says, but her voice is wavering.
"No, I didn't. I thought that was all you wanted from me. I thought that was the only way I'd be able to be with you. But that's not all I want. Not even close."
Tissaia's hands come up to grip her wrists lightly. "Wh-what do you want?"
Yennefer tilts her head and smiles, the answer is the same as last time, but means so much more.
She pulls Tissaia in, wiping at her tears with her thumbs, and touches their foreheads together, opening her mind and letting Tissaia in completely.
"Don't you feel it? The serenity? I felt it at Sodden. I felt, for the first time in my life, that I was completely in control." She closes her eyes. "And it's because of this. Because of us. We balance each other. My chaos, it...settles, when I'm with you. When we're apart, something is missing and my I'm always restless, always looking for some outlet."
She feels Tissaia's breath against her lips a second before they are covered, enveloped in soft warmth. One of them makes a high, needy sound, and Yennefer thinks it might be her. Tissaia's hands move from her wrists down her arms, to her waist, deepening the embrace. As they kiss, Tissaia's mind slowly opens and Yennefer sees so much love and care that it threatens to overwhelm her.
Gently, she pushes Tissaia back, ending their kiss, but pressing their foreheads back together, gulping in air. When she can speak again, she laughs. "So...it's not just me, then?"
"No," Tissaia says, returning her smile. "Not just you." She traces her fingers down Yennefer's cheek. "Although I do have questions about your earlier antics." She plucks at the now limp and soaking bodice. "And your attire."
"I'm sorry," Yennefer murmurs, brushing Tissaia's lips with her own. "Forgive me?"
"Oh, darling." Tissaia makes a show of rolling her eyes, but there's no disguising the smile she's wearing. She tips Yennefer's face down with a finger on her chin and kisses her again. "Don't I always?"
Yennefer grins into their next kiss, allowing Tissaia's open mind to welcome her in once again, as she does the same in return.
She's kissed many people in her lifetime, but it's never felt like this. It's never felt like being seen, being known, completely.
But this? This feels like forever.
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Fandom: Narcos (TV)
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Vanessa/Steve Murphy/Javier Peña, Steve Murphy/Javier Peña, Javier Peña/Vanessa, Steve Murphy/Vanessa
Characters: Javier Peña, Steve Murphy (Narcos), Vanessa, Freckles - Character, Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: Threesome - F/M/M, Kinda, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Gay Sex, Cum Eating, lots of making out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Nervous Steve, Aftercare, Tenderness, Breast Sucking, Finger Sucking, Vaginal Teasing, Javi has a bit of a soft skin kink, he doesn't shut up about it, emotionally constipated
Javier brings Steve to his favorite whore house after too many long days, weeks, and months of suffering. Too bad things never go the way he planned them to
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Thranduil with an human S/O who has a fascination with his features when they first become close. They're in love with his silky, beautiful hair and his strong brows. Especially his ears. They don't touch without his permission (which I feel like he would give usually because it's quite funny and cute. He's so used to other Elves who don't look twice at such things) It's endearing that they look at him like he's the greatest thing they've ever seen (who wouldn't think that tho?)
i know you sent me this ask ages upon ages ago, sorry it took so long to fulfill it!
“May I, my Lord?”
Though you are alone in his chambers, your voice is hushed, your hands settled patiently in your lap as you await his answer.
It amuses him that you seek permission for what he deigns to give freely, and yet he understands his consent is of import to you, and dips his head in silent agreement.
The first touch is always his most treasured, for he never knows where your fingertips will alight - his cheek, perhaps, or the curve of his jaw? You seem fascinated by his brows and the sweep of his pale lashes, so perhaps you will begin there.
He waits, infinitely patient as only an elf can be, and - ah. His lips, then. They twitch imperceptibly beneath your touch, and your soft inhale in response brings him joy. He watches as you graze his lower lip with your thumb, how the warmth blooms across your cheekbones when he purses his lips in an impromptu kiss. So reactive to such a well-worn ritual.
“Are you seeking to memorize my features?” he asks you, tilting his head to accommodate the sweep of your fingertips over his fine cheekbone.
“I seek to know you, my Lord,” you respond, your words colored with guileless affection.
The Elvenking is moved to silence by your answer, his eyes trained upon yours as you push careful fingers through his long, silken hair. You have never been known to hide your true self from him, your emotions emblazoned across your face like an open book, and this moment is no different. Your words ring with truth.
Thranduil’s lips curl in a smile, affection softening the lines of his face. “Do you not know me well, meleth nin, after these many moons?”
You huff a soft laugh. “I know you well,” you acknowledge, pushing a stray strand of silver hair behind his pointed ear. Your fingers linger there, tucked warmly against his cheek. “But I would know you better.” Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and their depths enchant him. “I would know you best, my Lord, if you allowed it.”
“If I allowed it,” he returns, his voice tinged with soft amusement. He cups the back of your neck and draws you close, pressing his to yours. “Is this a boon you wish of your King?”
“Yes,” you murmur, your voice soft. Reverent, as though the weight of what you wished for would crumple you.
Again, asking so sweetly for what he would give freely.
“Then you shall have it.” With a fluid roll the Elvenking switches your positions, leaving you sprawled inelegantly beneath him, his knees nestled against your hips. A smirk curls his lips at your expression of flustered surprise, and as he dips his head, pale hair tumbling over his shoulders, he adds, “But only if you allow me this, meleth nin - to know you as you know me.”
You reach up to twine gentle fingers through his hair, and when your answer comes, it comes with ease - honest, eager, and desperately sweet. “As you wish.”
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Going off @vikingsdrabblechallenge’s prompt “Teach Me”.. a just under 500 words drabble about something we never really saw much of in the show. Ivar, after all, must have been taught to fight.. and who better to show him how than his older brothers?
count to ten
The demand, though soft-spoken, carries an edge of force that sets Ubbe’s teeth on edge. There’s been a whining sort of pitch to Ivar’s voice since early this morning, after he’d awoken in pain and had proceeded with his best attempts to lord over the breakfast table. Mother, of course, had indulged him as usual.
Ubbe grimaces as Ivar’s tone turns into a snap sharper than any whip. “Hvitserk! I said–”
“– Ivar, I will hurt you, I swear it,” seethes their brother as he whirls around to face Ivar. His blade rises with it, aligning with Ivar’s face at striking distance, and there’s a snarl on Hvitserk’s face that would make many recoil from him. “I told you four times today that you can’t!”
“And I’m telling you, fifth time now,” explains Ivar, though what it is that he’s telling is cut short rather abruptly.
“No, no, hey! Hey!” Ubbe scrambles to put himself between his brothers. Grasps hold of Hvitserk’s arm, only to have it tremble and tense beneath his hand. He tries to duck into Hvitserk’s line of sight. Snarls a warning of his own when his brother’s eyes glitter with ill-restrained malice. “Look at me!”
Hvitserk’s gaze is unfocused. His words are not. “If he finishes counting on his fingers,” he growls, indicating Ivar’s raised hand that’s midway through a counting motion, “I am going to cut them off and watch him cry about it.”
“I wouldn’t cry about it!”
Leave it to Ivar to sound offended at that instead of at the actual threat. Ubbe shuts his eyes. Performs a quick count of his own, in his head, one all the way through to ten, before he opens them again. He clamps down on Hvitserk’s wrist a little tighter when his brother shifts on his feet into one of the most common fighting stances.
“Hvitserk.” Ubbe keeps his voice low. Keeps it at the pitch he knows is going to reach his brother even in the midst of this mood. “Hvitserk.” He watches as his brother blinks slowly. Watches as the haze of rage recedes enough to make Hvitserk listen to reason. “He’s asked four times. How many more times before he complains to mother again, hm?”
Hvitserk’s roll of his eyes is a perfect mirror image of the mood mother’s been stuck in for well over a fortnight now. Ubbe smiles back instantly. Squeezes his brother’s wrist in silent thank you before he turns to face Ivar.
“Come, little man,” he says, and drops to his knees before his youngest brother, “up you get. Stick first, then the blade.” He tsks at Ivar’s frown. “Do you want to be a great warrior? Yeah? Then do as I say. And listen to Hvitserk!”
“Like he ever–”
Ivar’s voice lodges soft in his ear as Ubbe lifts his brother onto his back. “I will listen to him. Promise, Ubbe.”
“Good man. Now, on three – one..”
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The first in a two-part (two-part?) series about Rebecca x Ted and Rebecca x Keeley and. eventually, everybody x everybody, sort of!
Ted/Rebecca with some Keeley/Rebecca | 4814 words | rated Mature for why-let-one-person-being-in-Kansas-and-the-other-in-the-UK-stop-ya
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i’ll crawl home to her
Sihtric's return to Coccham after the siege of Winchester.
written for @tlkfanficfest bingo
read it on ao3 if you wish
It’s late by the time they arrive in Coccham. Most of the village is asleep, and it’s left to Finan and Osferth to stable the horses.
Uhtred carries a sleeping Aethelstan to the hall, and Sihtric makes for his own house, his pulse quickening at the thought of seeing his wife again.
The hearth fire is burning low, and just as he suspected, the house is so quiet that it can only mean the children are asleep, but Ealhswith comes out from the back, smiling sleepily at him.
“Sihtric,” she murmurs, opening her arms.
He crosses the room in two strides, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her with such ferocity it lifts her off her feet. She hums happily, wrapping her limbs around him.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
“I missed you.” He carries her to their room, closing the door carefully behind them. Any loud noise, he knows, could wake the children, and then it will be hours before he can have his wife. He loves his children, of course he does, but he wants to give Ealhswith a proper hello first.
“Later.” He lays her down on their bed, pushing up her nightgown and kissing the insides of her thighs. He will tell her about it all later, about Bebbanburg and Tettenhall and the siege on Winchester, and she will listen and stroke his hair and make it alright, but for now, he wants this. He wants her.
“I’ve missed you,” he says again, licking her. He smiles as she moans, her fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve missed this.”
“You’ve missed licking my cunt?” she teases.
“Licking it. Touching it.” He pushes a finger inside, crooking it until he touches that rough spot inside her. “Feeling it squeeze around my cock.”
She gives his finger a small squeeze now. “I’ve missed you, too.”
“Have you?” He pushes another finger inside her.
“Mm-hmm. My fingers aren’t as big as yours.”
The thought of Ealhswith touching herself when he’s not here makes him hard—or at least, harder—something that does not go unnoticed by his wife. Her bare foot slides up his thigh, her toes circling the unmistakable bulge in the front of his breeches.
“You really have missed me,” she laughs softly.
“More than you know.”
“Then show me. Show me how much you’ve missed me.”
Sihtric draws back, licking her from his fingers before he stands up to undress. Ealhswith crosses her legs as she leans back to watch him, looking for all the world like a queen on her throne.
He takes pleasure in baring himself before her, watching her feign nonchalance while her eyes darken with desire. When he pulls off his breeches, the last of his clothing to go, he can see her lightly squeeze her thighs together, her chest rising and falling as her breathing becomes deeper.
He takes himself in hand, stroking slowly. “This is how much I’ve missed you,” he says softly.
Ealhswith shifts back on the bed, her legs falling open. “Come here.”
Sihtric climbs onto the bed, moving over Ealhswith. She wraps her legs around his waist, running her hands over his bare chest and shoulders. He reaches down, guiding himself inside her, and uses his other hand to cover her mouth when she lets out a low groan.
“You’ll wake the children,” he whispers.
“I’ll be quiet,” she huffs. “Just fuck me already.”
So he does.
After, he rests his head on her breast, letting the words pour out of him while she strokes his hair. He tells her about Bebbanburg, and Beocca, and Tettenhall and Winchester, and as he does, the fear and anger and uncertainty leave him, and in their place is only a peaceful exhaustion.
“What’s happened since I left?” he asks, unable to keep his eyes open.
“Nothing important.” Ealhswith kisses the top of his head. “Sleep now. Your children will be up in a few hours, and you know how loud they are.”
“They get that from you.”
She smacks his shoulder, but lightly. “Turd.”
He lifts his head, smiling sleepily. “I’ve missed you.”
“So you keep saying.” But she’s smiling too. “Now sleep. I need you well-rested for tomorrow night.”
“What’s tomorrow night?”
“A continuation of tonight.”
He smiles, kissing her.
It’s good to be home.
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Fic: To Be Played at Maximum Volume, Ch. 4
Chapter 4 is up! Sorry for the delay, I’m back at work now (I’m a teacher, RIP my writing time) so this is a week later than I was hoping, but it’s done!
Kind of a placeholder chapter exploring Dick’s perspective on his relationship with Lew and some background on why he’s like this, lol. I need to find a picture of late-30s Damian so I have a good reference for Modern Dick... or I need some art. Anyone taking commissions? LMK!
So he couldn’t understand why this thing with Lew had to be so complicated. Playing by Dick’s rules, he and Lew had never had a chance. Lew had gone down on a triple-play, pretty much disqualified from the start, and normally this would result in a swift breaking off of contact or immediate relegation to the friend zone. It was clear-cut and precise, and whatever romantic tension still lingered would usually dry up faster than wet footprints on hot pavement. But that hadn’t happened with Lew. For reasons Dick couldn’t explain, some deep and inscrutable instinct was fighting to keep Lew in the lineup, even as a cool, sensible voice in his head kept reminding him that Lew was off-limits. Reconciling these competing impulses took a hell of a lot of self-deception.
Like accepting at face value the ostensibly platonic nature of their texting habits. He texted Harry that much, didn’t he? And Ron and Carwood, and the club group chat, and his sister.
But not all day, every day, the voice reminded him. Not just before you go to bed. Not first thing in the morning.
Read the rest at AO3!
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Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Characters: Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs, Nigel Kipling, Caroline and Cassidy Priestly
Additional Tags: Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, INTENSE AF, slow burn smut, Because that's what I like, Teasing, Seduction, Miranda's POV, because the people wanted it
Series: Part 2 of The Woman's Cause
Sequel to “Sink With Me”. After sleeping with Andy in Paris and being made to wait for the next time, Miranda decides turnabout is fair play and uses everything in her arsenal to seduce Andy every night for six days. Is Miranda ready for what she's unleashing?
Standing up, Miranda let out a throaty laugh. “I’ve always been a fan of silk and lace,” she said, pinching the collar of her open robe. Miranda smiled, watching Andrea’s eyes grow darker, and slowly dragged her fingers along the stitched edge of the cool fabric. She guided Andrea’s blazing gaze with her hand, sliding it all the way down to the hanging belt, and then moved upward, pressing the thin layers of the clothing beneath to lift the hem of her already short négligée a few precious inches. Miranda closed her eyes and hummed in satisfaction. “The way they feel against my skin is, well…”
“What?” Andrea asked, her voice hoarse. “What do they feel like?”
Miranda opened her eyes and smiled. “Sinful,” she twisted her tongue around the word.
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Fandom: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Nanjo Kojiro | Joe/Sakurayashiki Kaoru | Cherry Blossom
Characters: Nanjo Kojiro | Joe, Sakurayashiki Kaoru | Cherry Blossom, Higa Hiromi | Shadow, Chinen Miya
Additional Tags: Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Self-Doubt, Injury, Established Relationship, Clingy Kaoru, it's about the decades of being the person who knows someone the most and loves them the best
It's late, and they should be anywhere but here. With Kaoru in the state he is, though, there is no where Kojiro would rather be, no matter the cost to himself.
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Fandom: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Combeferre (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC, a number of Fourierist anti-giraffes
Additional Tags: Fourierism, Utopianism, pre-Darwinian notions of evolution, Crack, really just crack, and probably not as fun as whatever Fourier was smoking
The revolution succeeds beyond Combeferre's wildest dreams. But not quite beyond his wildest reading material.
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Is that a golden snitch (or my heart) you’re after?
/ hd fic by digthewriter
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for @werewolfdiaz because why not two fics in half an hour lmao
Buck’s long since stopped fighting Bobby and Ravi, but he’s terrified, fear welling up in his chest.
“I can’t,” he gets out, hands still clenched into fists. “He can’t go through this again.”
I can’t go through this again.
Eddie’s face is impassive, gun pressed to his neck, but Buck knows he’s terrified; he can see the way his expression shifts, the shaking of his hands, the tremor is his voice when he’d said, “we’re coming out!”
Now, there’s talking and flashing lights, and Buck’s terrified because he needs Eddie, he needs to touch Eddie, to make sure he’s alive and
I need you to hang on, Eddie. We’re so close.
“He can’t die,” Buck gasps out, and feels Bobby’s hand tighten on his arm. “I can’t tell Chris again, I can’t be what Eddie needs me to be.”
“Buck,” Bobby starts.
God, please let him go, he begs. Please don’t shoot him, don’t make me do this again, don’t make me be all Chris has—
Bobby’s hand tightens again and Buck doesn’t know why. “Buck, what?”
Buck shakes it off because the police are moving in and there’s a flash of a gun, Buck feels fear run down his spine, but then Eddie’s stumbling away from the gunman and Buck’s free. He races across the distance, almost trips up the sidewalk, but then Eddie’s gasping out, “Buck.”
Almost knocking Eddie over, Buck wraps his arms around Eddie, whispering his name over and over, and Eddie collapses.
“Buck,” Eddie says, his voice on a sob, hands fisting in the back of Buck’s shirt. He’s gonna break, Buck knows, gonna splinter into so many pieces that Buck might not be able to put him back together.
Buck holds him tight anyway, buries his face in Eddie’s hair. “I’ve got you,” he says, again, again, again. “I’ve got you.”
Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t;
For now, it’s enough, and with Eddie safe here, with him, Buck thinks they have a moment.
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