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ncssian · 3 years

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A Favor: Part Twenty-Four

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: a short update resolving where we left off last week, to be soon followed by another gwynriel bonus scene. after that i am never going off the tracks of my fic outline ever again.

***

Nesta is going to commit murder. She really is.

Gwyn is the first to hop out of bed, rapidly tugging her T-shirt down to cover her bare girl parts. “I can explain—” she starts.

“You.” Nesta points at Azriel, who’s still sitting shirtless and confused. “You. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Be more specific.” Azriel slides off the bed and picks up a pair of panties from the ground, trying to hand them to Gwyn. Gwyn smacks his hand away, but the sight enrages Nesta all the same.

She nods to herself, her thoughts whirling. “Actually, I’m really glad you’re here,” she says. “I was considering sparing you, but now my mind is made up.” She rushes at Azriel without warning.

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Gwyn jumps in front of a wide-eyed Azriel, arms outstretched to fend Nesta off.

Nesta reaches past Gwyn’s shoulder and jumps, trying to grab Azriel, hit him, anything. “My sister and my best friend?” she seethes, batting at him. “My sister and my best friend?”

“The hell are you going on about?” Azriel snaps over Gwyn’s head.

“You really have no shame, do you?” Nesta succeeds in pushing Gwyn out of her way, and comes up chest to chest with Azriel, all fiery glares. “You think you can get away with whatever you want because you’re the cool uncaring one, and you probably can, but not with me. We’re the same person, jackass.”

Before Azriel can respond, slim arms grab Nesta around the waist and start dragging her backwards into the hallway. Gwyn lets go of Nesta and slams the door shut after them, leaving Azriel inside the room alone.

“This is way too much for me to be doing without underwear!” Gwyn yells at her. “Will you please explain yourself?”

“What do I have to explain? He should be explaining himself!” Nesta flings her arm toward the bedroom. It’s not like Azriel is any random hookup of Elain’s. He’s also Nesta’s friend, and Nesta expected better from him.

Gwyn drops her head and rubs her freckled temples in exhaustion. “It’s not like I wasn’t there, too. Are you even going to ask why we were together? Do you have any questions at all, or are you just going to break into my home and assume he took advantage of me?”

Nesta shuts her mouth. She didn’t ask any questions, did she? She hasn’t even considered Gwyn’s part in this.

She clears her throat, her voice strained from shouting. “I thought you were at work.”

“Clearly I’m not.” Gwyn crosses her arms, then immediately drops them to readjust her short T-shirt.

Nesta bites. “Why? How? Since when did you guys even talk to each other?” Even after catching Azriel flirting on their ski trip, Nesta couldn’t have predicted that he and Gwyn would end up here. It’s far too much of a leap.

“It’s really not what you think it is.” Gwyn twists a piece of ruddy hair between her fingers. “He’s just… helping me get back into the dating pool. We made an agreement, and he’s doing me a huge favor.”

Nesta’s jaw drops. “By eating you out?”

Gwyn’s teal eyes meet hers. “I can’t ever have a chance with Max if I freak out when he eventually tries to take my clothes off. Especially when I want him to take my clothes off. So I decided after the ski lodge that I needed to get comfortable with sex again, and I… recruited Az to help.” She shrugs like it’s nothing.

Nesta is left with more questions than before. “So,” she holds up a hand, “the thought of doing it with Azriel doesn’t scare you? Not even a little?”

Gwyn scoffs. “If I didn’t know him from elementary school, then it probably would. Unfortunately, I’ve firsthand seen the guy shove crayons up his nose.” She casts a glance toward the bedroom door and lowers her voice. “And I honestly don’t have any proof that he doesn’t still do it.”

That’s—unfortunately understandable. It also explains why Azriel has been comfortable with Gwyn from the start, though Nesta doesn’t know why Gwyn didn’t tell anyone about their shared history.

“Look, Nesta, I know he’s your roommate,” Gwyn continues, “but I think you overreacted a little back there.”

Right. Does Gwyn even know about Azriel and Elain? “It wasn’t because of you,” Nesta tries to explain. “It was because—”

Before she can finish, the door clicks open and Azriel comes out, thankfully clothed in his shirt and gym shorts. He slides his hands into his pockets and says, “I’m joining before any more unflattering things can be said about me.”

Nesta’s lip curls into a sneer at the sight of him. “I wouldn’t let you run away from me anyway.” She crosses her arms and faces him down. “You agreed to teach Gwyn how to get comfortable with sex?”

The hallway is crammed now with Azriel’s height taking up most of the space, but he doesn’t seem to care as he leans against the wall and answers, “Hell yeah.”

Nesta is more than suspicious and untrusting right now, but she pauses to wonder: does Azriel know why Gwyn has such trouble with intimacy in the first place?

It’s none of her business, she decides. Except now she’s even more wary. “What do you get out of this little deal, huh? Or do you just volunteer to have sex with my friends out of the goodness of your heart?”

“I’m getting guitar lessons out of it,” he says without hesitating. “But it’s also the goodness of my heart.” He smirks.

Gwyn throws a surprised look in his direction. Nesta is more than ready to smack the smirk off his face with her bare hand, but she settles for her words instead. “What would Elain say if she knew, Azriel?”

Azriel’s face goes cold. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“I wish she didn’t,” Nesta says. “Explain why I have to comfort her when she wonders why you abandoned her without even a text message while you get to play around with my friends without a care in the world?”

Azriel might as well be made of stone. “You talked to her?”

“You’re a coward,” she hisses. “Do what you want, but know that you’re a coward until you explain yourself to her.” Nesta lets out a ragged breath and drags her stare to Gwyn.

Gwyn shakes her head quickly and raises her hands in defense. “I’m just trying to get laid. Don’t bring me into this.”

Nesta pats her arm. “Of course not, babe.” The last thing she wants is Gwyn involved with either of her sisters—which is why it would be preferable if Gwyn avoided Azriel altogether.

Gwyn lets out a big “Phew,” and cuts an unreadable look toward Azriel. He avoids her gaze.

“Let me get you a drink,” Gwyn says quickly to Nesta, starting to steer her toward the kitchen. Nesta shakes her off and steps away. “It’s okay; I’ll leave now. Also, I can see your—” She waves at Gwyn’s lower half.

Gwyn chuckles awkwardly and tugs her shirt back down, her cheeks flaring red. “I’ll go get your sweater.” She rushes back inside her room, leaving Nesta and Azriel alone in the hall.

Azriel says nothing, but Nesta stares him down until Gwyn returns wearing a pair of shorts and carrying Nesta’s sweater. “Here, I already washed it for you.”

Nesta breaks her gaze with Azriel to take her sweater. “Sorry for breaking into your room,” she tells Gwyn. “I didn’t mean to ruin your…” She nearly gags trying to finish her sentence, so she doesn’t bother. Instead, she turns back to Azriel. “I’m excited to see how those guitar lessons pay off. You’ll give us all a performance when this is over, hm?”

He doesn’t bother responding, and Nesta takes her leave.

***

“I still can’t believe him,” Nesta is grumbling while she and Cassian get ready for bed. “How long is he going to stay in the reading nook like that? I can’t get to my books and he knows it.”

“He’s punishing himself since you won’t,” Cassian says as he towels off his damp hair. Water droplets speckle his bare chest. “He won’t go back to his room as long as he feels guilty about Elain.”

Once Nesta decided that getting vengeance for Elain’s broken heart would do more harm to the cabin ecosystem than good, she chose to contain her anger at Azriel by pretending that he simply didn’t exist. As for Azriel… Azriel has been sleeping on the loveseat in the upstairs reading nook for the past five days. The two of them haven’t spoken since Nesta caught him in Gwyn’s bedroom.

Cassian himself has many thoughts about the choices Azriel has been making lately, and a part of him knows it would be easier for everybody if he just forced Az’s sorry ass back to Velaris. But Nesta is involved in this, too, and she has yet to give the order to kick Azriel out. Rather, she seems content to either ignore him or to burn judgmental stares into him.

Out of love for Azriel, Cassian can’t help but be relieved.

Nesta scoffs in response to Cassian, slathering lotion onto her legs. “Bullshit. He’s punishing me by taking away my reading nook, the bastard.” Done with her legs, she searches around the bed for her glasses, squinting because she can’t see a thing.

Withholding his amusement, Cassian goes over to her and plucks her glasses from the top of her head, sliding them onto her face. She blinks and gives a rare smile up at him when she realizes she can see again, then soon frowns as she casts her gaze about the room. “Where’s my book? Did I leave it at home again?”

Cassian knows Nesta calls the apartment home out of old habit, but it still makes jealousy sting in his chest. “I’ll get you another one,” he offers. “What do you want?”

She gives him the title for something that has to do with erotic Vikings that he immediately recognizes. It’s on the top shelf in the reading nook. He promises to return with the book.

The rest of the cabin is dark by now, but Az is still wide awake and staring up at the wooden beams that criss-cross the ceiling when Cassian sneaks into the nook. Moonlight coming in through the glass door leading to the balcony illuminates both of them.

Cassian doesn’t know whether to feel exhausted or irritated, so he passes by his brother without a word to look for the book.

He already confronted Azriel earlier about what the hell was wrong with him, and got nothing out of the man. Not even an apology. At which point Cassian wanted to beat some sense into him the way they used to during their school days, but restrained himself through some godly miracle.

He’s trying—really trying—not to shove his nose into Azriel’s decisions like that. If he does, he’ll end up being just as bad as Rhys.

Finding the worn paperback boasting a shirtless Nordic god on the cover, Cassian turns to leave.

“You know Nesta can get her books herself, right?” Az’s voice sounds velvety in the darkness.

Cassian bristles. “Don’t start.”

“You mad at me too?”

Yes, Cassian is mad. Mad that he seems to be the only brother with a working brain anymore. “When do you plan on getting your shit together?” he says.

“How?” Az replies. “By apologizing to Elain or by leaving Nesta’s friend alone?”

Cassian still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that the Gwyn who used to shy away from talking to him ran straight into Azriel’s arms for sex advice. On one hand, good for her. On the other, Cassian wishes she had less messy taste. “Both,” he grits, getting frustrated.

Az shrugs, still staring up at the ceiling. “I’m keeping my promise to Gwyn. No matter what.” He sounds nonchalant, but Cassian knows he’s serious.

His grip on the paperback tightens, because that’s still not a real answer to his question. “I warned you when you moved in that you were walking a thin line, Az. I’ve been nice for the past week, but at some point you’re gonna have to tell me why I shouldn’t kick you out right now and save myself and Nesta the headache.”

Azriel finally meets Cassian’s eyes, and his gaze is unreadable. “Do it, if that’s what you want. I don’t care.”

Cassian’s face darkens with rage. “Just watch me, then.” He leaves before he can throw the book at Azriel’s head.

Back at their bedroom, Nesta takes one look at him and asks, “What happened?”

He tosses the book onto the bed and doesn’t come any closer. “I told Azriel I’d kick him out.”

Her brow furrows in concern. “Will you go through with it?”

No. And Az knows it too, the asshole.

Cassian takes in a shallow breath. “I just want to be a good brother.” It’s why he can’t stop giving Az chances, even when it inconveniences the woman he loves. “I want to be a good brother, a good partner, a good friend. I want to be all those things at once.”

Nesta’s lip quirks up. “You’re definitely better at all that than I am.” She rests her chin on one bent knee and frowns. “What else do you want to be?”

“That’s it.” His shoulders slump. “Nothing else.”

Nesta gives an amused huff. “All those things are for other people, though. Forget me and Azriel; what do you want to be for yourself, Cassian?”

What do you want? Cassian remembers her asking him a long time ago.

That… he doesn’t have an answer for. He rubs the back of his neck and stares at the ground. “I dunno,” he says, trying to sound flippant.

Looking up with a smile, he goes over to Nesta’s side of the bed and crouches at her side. “Who has time to think about all of that, anyway? I’m already happy doing exactly what I do.”

Still frowning, Nesta shifts on the bed so she can better face Cassian on the ground. “Do you really not know?” she says quietly.

Letting his smile drop, Cassian presses his lips into a wavery line.

She takes his face in her cold, thin hands, and he lowers his head onto her lap. A pounding has started up behind his eyes.

“It’s okay if you don’t know,” she says when he doesn’t speak. Her hand travels to the spot between his shoulder blades, and she pats his back in consolation. “You’ll find out. I’ll still be here when you do.”

He doesn’t lift his head, because if he does he might cry, so she keeps patting his back for a long while.

***

The next night Cassian finds himself in the kitchen, as he often does lately. The gnocchi for dinner is missing something, but he can’t tell what it is.

Swiping some pomodoro sauce from his wooden spoon with a finger, he goes over to the kitchen island and holds it out to Nesta. She licks it off his finger and says, “More cream,” before going back to her rant. “But really, does Eris want me to hurt him? Because if he keeps acting like this I’m going to physically hurt him.”

“You should do it if it makes you happy, babe,” Cassian says absentmindedly, more focused on checking the potatoes au gratin in the oven than on their conversation.

Two heavy, heart-attack worthy potato dishes on the same night, all because Nesta was in the mood for it. It sickens Cassian to think of the unhealthiness of it all, but these days it’s like he can’t stop himself from making food. It doesn’t matter whether the meal is fatty or not, as long as it tastes good enough for date nights.

By the time dinner is served and Cassian is settled in next to Nesta at the island, the topic of conversation has moved far away from Eris and law school.

“I used to be a fitness freak,” Cassian says mournfully as Nesta piles more and more cheese-covered potatoes onto his plate.

“Your abs look the same as the day I met you. You’ll be fine.”

Cassian didn’t even think about his abs. He presses a hand to his torso in worry. How long until those are gone, too?

“Eat.” Nesta shoves a fork into his hand and starts to dig into her own plate.

Cassian takes it reluctantly. “You know, this is bad for you too.” He realizes suddenly, “Have I been poisoning your health this whole time?” That’s even worse than the thought of losing his abs.

Nesta’s fork stops halfway to her mouth. The look on her face is disgusted enough to curdle milk, as if Cassian might change his mind and try to take her dinner away. She visibly swallows her feelings back and scoots closer to Cassian, spearing some of his gnocchi on her fork.

“Come on, we’ll clog our arteries together.” She pats his back the way she always does. “We’re here for a delicious time, not a long time.”

Cassian can hardly say no when he’s getting food shoved into his mouth without warning.

But despite his defeat with dinner, he’s joined by a sleepy and irritable Nesta the next morning in the home gym. She refuses to speak a word to him at such an early hour, but her compromise is loud and clear when she begins stretching and warming up. She’ll be here while he figures out whatever it is he wants to be for himself.

***

a/n: what do y’all think. is cassian overreacting, is nesta overstepping, or are they right and azriel is a menace who needs to be stopped (asking bc sometimes i cant tell when my mcs are being annoying)

tagging: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @wannawriteyouabook @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes @readiajin @nessiantrashh @live-the-fangirl-life @ifinallygavein @xoblivisci @sjmships @jungtaekwoonie-is-life @lysandra-tiara @lanyjoy-13 @post-it-notes33 @loosingdreams @fromthelibraryofemilyj @18moneytoad @dontgetsalmonella @champanheandluxxury @togreblog @arinbelle @ladygabrielli1997 @meridainthedisneyland @moodymelanist @pixieelea

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #ncssianwrites #a favor #nessian fic #nessian au

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jaskierswolf · 3 years

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The Love We Have

Part 3/5 - AO3 - Previous

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe… I’ll add them later if I remember any.

________

They hadn’t found a solution that night. Geralt hadn’t been willing to talk about it, so Jaskier had reluctantly let it go. They had time to figure everything out. It’s not like they had to have fake sex every evening, and they’d already said they were worn out from the road. It didn’t stop Jaskier’s mind from running faster than Roach in a field full of dandelions. Geralt had eventually pulled Jaskier to his chest and started rubbing soothing circles into Jaskier’s side.

After that Jaskier was out like a light.

Which was totally unfair.

They’d woken up wrapped in each other’s arms, legs tangled and honestly in his sleep hazed mind Jaskier hadn’t been able to figure out which limb belonged to which body. It had all been rather nice, until Jaskier remembered Geralt was now his fake boyfriend not his real one and he pulled away from Geralt in a start.

He’d ended up falling out of the bed and almost giving himself a concussion. He was a fucking nightmare.

“Bard,” Vesemir barked just as he was finishing his breakfast, “meet me in the library. You have work to do. Geralt, there’s some tiles coming loose on the roof above the armoury.”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier just stared, wide eyed after Vesemir. “Wait what?”

“Chores, Jask.”

“Yes yes, but… why am I? I’m a guest!” he whined rather pathetically.

“We don’t have guests in Kaer Morhen. You’re family, you have to work.”

“Oh cock!” he grumbled, there went his relaxing winter.

__________________

It turned out he really shouldn’t have worried about having to fake his relationship with Geralt. They barely saw each other during the day. Geralt was stuck on the more physical tasks whereas Jaskier spent his days scribbling on potion bottles and ingredient jars, or helping Vesemir organise the vast library, a job he would have finished sooner if he didn’t keep getting distracted by the books. He’d never seen half of them, not even whilst at Oxenfurt.

Two more witchers arrived after Jaskier’s first week at Kaer Morhen, Lambert and Eskel. They travelled up the mountain path together and arrived just in time for dinner that evening. Thankfully, like Geralt and Jaskier, they’d been too tired to really say anything the first night.

The second night, however, was a different story altogether. Lambert, as it turned out, was a little shit. Jaskier, under any other circumstances would have adored him, but his questions about their relationship were driving him up the wall.

“So, you finally tamed the famed White Wolf,” Lambert snorted, taking a long gulp of white gull.

“Ah yes, well. It would seem that way wouldn’t it,” Jaskier said smoothly, not entirely a lie either which he was proud of.

“So when did he confess?” Lambert probed. Jaskier cooed over how he’d been in love with Geralt since Posada, love at first sight being all very poetic and exactly the sort of story Geralt expected from him. Geralt mumbled something about the Djinn and how Jaskier almost dying had opened his eyes. Jaskier wanted to laugh at that, but he kept his cool. The only thing he remembered was how Geralt had fallen into Yennefer’s arms and broken his heart.

“I found Jaskier in Oxenfurt in the spring,” Geralt explained, again not a lie. Jaskier was amazed by their combined ability to spin the truth. Jaskier remembered it fondly. Normally he had to track Geralt down so he’d been surprised to see Geralt on his doorstep come spring. “Missed him all winter, didn’t want to spend anymore time apart.”

“And the fool quite literally swept me off my feet,” Jaskier giggled, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder. He wanted to hold his hand under the table but… well…he had no excuse.

“I couldn’t wait to kiss him,” Geralt admitted, a stupidly fond smile on his face that Jaskier couldn’t help but return. He licked his lips and his eyes flicked down in a silent question. They’d spoken about kissing in front of the other witchers but this would be the first time.

Geralt’s smile widened, a rare occurrence that left Jaskier’s heart somersaulting in his chest. He swallowed and then leaned in to press his lips against Geralt’s. It was only a peck on the lips, appropriate for company, but Jaskier still felt dizzy. Gods, he was so in love. It was just not fair.

Geralt bumped his nose against Jaskier’s as they pulled apart and Jaskier could feel himself blushing furiously. How was Geralt so good at this?

“About time the idiot got his head out of his arse,” Eskel laughed, shooting both Geralt and Jaskier a fond smile, and raising his drink.

Jaskier choked, ale spraying all over the table. Some went down his throat the wrong way and he started to cough and splutter. He was wheezing for breath by the time he’d finished and his throat was sore. Geralt’s hand rested on his back, and Lambert and Eskel were looking at him like he was about to keel over.

“Fine,” he rasped “I’m fine, just… “ he coughed again.

What the fuck had Eskel meant? Geralt finally getting his head out of his arse? Come to think of it, Vesemir hadn’t been entirely surprised by Jaskier’s presence either. None of them were, and he knew Geralt had told his family about him.

So what exactly had his grumpy best friend been telling the witchers of Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier started thinking over the last couple of decades spent at Geralt’s side. The witcher barely admitted they were friends, going so far as to argue with Jaskier that they weren’t. At first that had stung but now Jaskier was starting to wonder if he’d read it wrong. Geralt wasn’t one for words or emotions, Jaskier knew that, but he would have thought that even Geralt would know that Jaskier needed to hear some kind of confession.

But Geralt’s love language was not words, and it never had been.

Geralt showed he cared in different ways. At first it was not riding away and abandoning Jaskier, despite his protests that Jaskier was just trouble, then Geralt would put away coin to save up for treats on the road. Treats that he didn’t indulge in himself, but sweet buns, healing potions that wouldn’t kill Jaskier, a spare bedroll, better shoes, warmer clothes. Piece by piece Geralt had made sure that Jaskier was well equipped for the road.

In turn, Jaskier paid for their rooms at the inn, helped to wash Geralt’s hair, which was honestly a gross job and Jaskier deserved a lot more thanks for it. Monster guts stuck to hair like a burr in a sheep’s wool. He played ballads and told epic stories of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, all around the Continent until the Butcher of Blaviken was but a distant memory. A cautionary tale told to children before bed but nothing based in truth. No one, outside of Blaviken, even remembered that it had been Geralt at all. That was also Jaskier’s doing, morphing the tales of the Butcher of Blaviken into a monster of its very own, far apart from witchers; a demon that the White Wolf had banished.

But that wasn’t Jaskier’s love language. That was just… helping out a friend. He was a bard, a poet, a romantic. If he truly thought he’d had a chance with his best friend then he would have adorned Geralt in pet names, flowers, sonnets. No one would have any doubt about who Jaskier truly loved, who his heart belonged to, and he’d foolishly expected to be wooed in quite the same way.

Fuck.

A fool.

An utter fool.

All he needed was a hat with bells and a tambourine.

“Oh fuck,” he finally muttered aloud.

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice cut through his turmoil and he blinked until he was back in the now familiar dining room at Kaer Morhen.

Four sets of golden eyes were watching him.

“I need a moment,” he stammered and then, like the coward he was… he fled.

_____________

He paced around the room until the sound of his footsteps started to annoy him, the never-ending echoing thud reverberating around the room. He threw himself on the bed, inhaling Geralt's scent. It usually helped to ground him but today was different. It just confused him. He felt completely off-balanced. Did Geralt actually want him?

As more than a friend?

It completely changed the last two decades of his life. The wasted opportunities he’d had if hadn’t been such a coward.

Fuck!

Why couldn’t he have just said something?

Why didn’t Geralt?

But what if he was reading the whole thing wrong? What if this was just false hope? That thought burned through him, making his heart ache. He felt like he’d been thrown into a fire, flames blazing around him, a slow torturous death as his love seared through his soul.

He sobbed helplessly and held a pillow to his chest. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He’d flown too close to the fucking sun and now he was falling, wings melted and falling apart, his tears glistening in the very rays that had been his end.

“Jaskier?”

“Go away,” he grumbled. He couldn’t face Geralt, not now. It was too soon and too overwhelming.

“I’m sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier threw his pillow at the door and Geralt ducked out of the way. He heard the door close and he went back to feeling sorry for himself, praying to all the gods he’d feel better after a good cry. He was pathetic. And yet again, Geralt had found him bawling his eyes out.

“Fuck!” He yelled, not even caring anymore who could hear him. Fucking witchers and their fancy mutations and enhanced hearing. It wasn’t fucking fair.

And the whole ‘only significant others’ rule was completely bullshit.

“Fucking shit balls,” Jaskier screamed into his pillow. “Cock,” he mumbled rather lamely.

It would have all been quite fun if he wasn’t quite so in love with Geralt. If they’d been just friends he would have enjoyed the easy flirtations, his personality was practically made for it. He was so fucking angry with himself for not being able to do this, even Geralt was putting on a better show. He sniffed and wiped the snot from his nose.

“Oh get a grip, Jask,” he muttered, grimacing as he looked at his hands. “Gods, I’m a wreck.”

“You’re not a wreck,” he heard Geralt say.

He sat up, slightly dizzy from moving too quickly, and glanced around the room. It was empty. Was he hearing voices now?

“Geralt?”

“I’m outside.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier stared at the door, longing to open it but something held him back. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw Geralt right now. Either yell at him or snog him senseless.

He wasn’t really sure if Geralt wanted either of those things.

So he crawled off the end of the bed and knelt in front of the door, pressing his forehead to the wood. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m normally better company, or at least I try to be… for you?” he whispered, knowing Geralt could hear him.

Geralt hummed and Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, tears still running down his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to cause a fuss.

“I didn’t think it would be so hard,” he sighed, his fingers scraping at his scalp.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted. “I know it can’t be easy, pretending to love me, but…”

Jaskier had scrambled to his feet and pulled the door open before Geralt could finish that sentence. The fucking bastard thought it was all so hard because he was unlovable! Jaskier’s misery turned to anger in the blink of an eye. Geralt fell backwards through the door, his head landing at Jaskier’s feet and he blinked up at him in surprise.

“Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier hissed.

“But…”

“You are my best friend in the whole wide world and I love you, so don’t you dare start spouting some nonsense about how no one could love you. You horse’s arse!”

“Jask,”

“Now get in here, you and I are going to pretend to have sex.” Jaskier’s words surprised him, they were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“What?!”

“We’ll tell the others that I was just being dramatic, I’m a bard after all,” Jaskier explained with a wave of his hand. He needed to stop moping and get into his role, plus if there was a chance that Geralt did love him back, which he was really beginning to suspect he did… then… well… what better way to find out?

#the witcher #geraskier #kaer morhen #fake dating #wolfie’s witcher writing

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cactusnymph · 3 years

Text

matters of the heart

“Sir Caroline, I must ask your advice in an important matter.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’ anymore, Angelo. We’ve been over this.”

“Excuse me, Caroline. Now, this important matter—“

“Is this about Ale? Because, and I cannot stress this enough, I do not want to hear anything about your love life, Angelo.”

Angelo has to admit that this is not the way he had hoped the conversation to go. He feels himself deflate a little as he looks at Caroline’s disapproving face.

“But S—Caroline, I wouldn’t know who else to ask! Usually my best friend and former rival would be my first choice, but he’s not available at the moment.”

Caroline looks at him for a moment then sighs, lowering her head into her hands for a heartbeat before looking up at him again.

“Fine. Just this once. Next time you can just write Damien a letter.”

“Yes, Sir—I mean. Yes, Caroline.”

Caroline starts massaging her temple.

“So. Spit it out. What is it?”

“I almost can’t believe that I am saying this—truly, I think it is the first time I understand my friend Damien. I must speak my heart—“

“Oh, for the love of—“

“You are married to Miss Quanyii, are you not, Caroline?”

“Yes, I am. What does that have to do with anything?”

“So you must be well-versed in matters of the heart! How did you court your wife? I admit, I have never attempted this before and I have no idea how to go about courting a man—“

“And why should it be different than courting a woman, Angelo?”

Angelo pauses for a second. It was brought to his attention many times now that the distinctions between men and women he has learned about all his life might not actually be as accurate as many people make them out to be. Truly, Caroline is the best example. And now he has met Ale and Miss Quanyii, who is sometimes not Miss Quanyii but Mr Quanyii.

Angelo considers Caroline’s words.

“So you’re saying I should court Ale in the exact same way I would court a woman”, he says.

Caroline rolls her eyes.

“I do not see how gender has anything to do with this, Angelo. The way you court a person depends on the person. Not all women care for flowers and candles and love letters. I have no idea what Ale would prefer as courting; maybe he doesn’t want to be courted at all.”

“Like Sir Talfryn, yes. I have learned about this. You are correct, Caroline and I am glad to have asked you. I shall speak to Ale about this to make sure that I am not overstepping any boundaries! I thank you for your wisdom! Hophophophophophop.”

Angelo is not afraid of anything.

He’s not afraid of pain or fighting or dying or even things as complicated as numbers even though he is not very good at them. But when he finds Ale sitting next to Olala, showing her how to start a campfire with her little hands, something tightens in Angelo’s chest and all he can do is stare.

Ale is beautiful. Dark skin, long hair, big eyes and long lashes, a soft smile as he tells little Olala that she’s doing well.

Angelo feels his stomach drop; a sensation that is very similar to falling and his heart beats so rapidly in his chest that he has trouble breathing for a moment.

Maybe he should have rehearsed this. Maybe it would be better if little Olala was not there with Ale. Maybe he was hasty when he concluded that speaking directly to Ale would be the best course of action. A warrior’s approach. Head on. The same way he always approaches difficulties.

Ale looks up when he notices Angelo and he flashes him a grin that makes Angelo’s insides squirm around like very lively snakes. Saints, if he starts using more metaphors for how Ale makes him feel he might turn into Damien before he knows it.

“Hey schoolboy, what can we do for you?”

Angelo isn’t sure why it makes him feel warm and tingly when Ale calls him ‘schoolboy’, but it absolutely does.

He clears his throat.

“I was about to—hm. Well.”

Angelo wishes Damien were here so he could tell him how to find the right words for this. Damien has such a knack for language and beautiful words, while Angelo—well. Angelo has never in his life understood one poem that Damien showed to him.

“We’re making fire, Sir Angelo! I made a small flame, all without magic! Look!”, Olala proclaims excitedly and waves at the little wisp of smoke her efforts have conjured.

“Very good, Olala. I—uh. I must take my leave.”

And for the first time in his life, Sir Angelo The Strong turns around and flees.

“Aw, Angelo, what is it?”

Angelo looks up as Quanyii appears out of nowhere right beside him.

“I am afraid that I have become a coward, Miss Quanyii”, he says as he looks down at his big hands.

“I highly doubt that, sweetie. Is this about our beautiful vigilante boy?”, Quanyii wants to know as she scoots closer to Angelo, her colorful hair surrounding her head like a cloud.

“Yes. I have spoken to Si—to Caroline about this and she gave me important insight on the matter of courting rituals.”

“She did?”, Quanyii asks, sounding surprised.

“Yes. She explained that courting is not a matter of gender but of the individual’s personality. She also pointed out that Ale might have no interest in romantic relationships which I had not considered before.”

Quanyii puts her index finger to her lips and taps them thoughtfully.

“Yes, yes, such wisdom. But have you considered asking me about this? Romance is a magical thing after all and sweetheart, I’m a witch! Caroline doesn’t know one itsy-bitsy thing about romance, let me tell you that”, Quanyii says and pouts a little.

Angelo raises his head.

“So you would help me in this quest to court Ale?”, he asks. The grin that spreads on Quanyii’s face makes Angelo pause. This might not be a good idea.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you worry your silly little head. I will give you one tip for free because we have become such good friends during those past few weeks! I know a little secret and that is that Ale does like romance!”

Angelo feels his face light up with a smile as relief courses through his entire body. He feels like he could do a hundred push-ups right here and now. Maybe even lift Porthos. Or the whole, fallen tree he’s sitting on.

“Why thank you, Miss Quanyii, that is most helpful!”

He grabs both of her hands and shakes them as Quanyii giggles.

“You are so very welcome, Angelo. For every other piece of help I’m going to require a little bit of payment. A witch has to make do, you know.”

Angelo doesn’t really understand but he nods anyway and gets up from the fallen tree trunk.

“I do not believe that I will need further assistance, now that the issue of romantic attraction has been resolved! Sir Angelo The Strong is back on his feet! Ha ha! Hophophophophophop.”

“Good luck, brave knight!”, Quanyii calls after him as Angelo runs back towards the camp.

Now that Angelo knows that Ale is not generally opposed to romance the path seems clear. That is, at least until Angelo arrives back at the place where Ale and Olala made their little fire before.

The two of them are still there, but both of them are asleep. Ale is sitting with his back against a tree, his legs spread, and Olala has curled up between his legs, her tail gently snoring. Caroline sits by the fire and sharpens her blade.

She looks up as Angelo enters the clearing.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Angelo”, she says as Angelo stares at Ale’s sleeping form. His long lashes are feathered out on his cheeks and for a second Angelo imagines to brush his fingers over Ale’s cheek and give him a kiss.

The thought immediately sends his heart into another gallop that would make Porthos proud and Angelo swallows heavily.

“I cannot report any ghost sightings at this point, Sir—I mean. Caroline.”

Angelo notices how Caroline’s eyes narrow as she looks him up and down and since Caroline has stated that she has no interest to know anything about Angelo’s love life he tries very hard to respect her wishes and to not look at Ale as if he’s the most beautiful thing that Angelo has ever seen.

Which he very definitely is.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, sit down, you oaf”, Caroline snaps and Angelo, still as an automatic response to her authoritative voice, walks over to the fire and sits down next to her.

“Did you talk to Quanyii?”, she wants to know.

“Yes. She cleared up a question I had and I thought it would make things easier, but as it turns out, it did not.”

“I wouldn’t make any deals with her, witches are fickle and cunning creatures.”

“Babe, you’re being so mean!”

“Oh, shut it. You know it’s true.”

“Yes, but when you say it like that it’s mean, mean, mean!”

Angelo watches them bicker for a while before his eyes drift back over to Ale and Olala. Ale’s hand is resting on Olala’s back and Angelo looks at it for a while. Ale’s hand is much smaller than his and Angelo wonders what it would feel like to hold it. It must be rough from all the sword-fighting, much like Angelo’s hand.

Maybe Ale doesn’t have any interest in holding Angelo’s hand. Maybe Ale doesn’t like men.

“What is it now, Angelo”, Caroline asks with an expression on her face that says she might regret asking.

“I forgot to consider another important thing regarding this whole courting business”, Angelo says and looks at Caroline. Quanyii seems to have vanished into thin air—something Angelo has seen happening multiple times during those last few weeks.

“Which is?”

“You made me aware of the possibility of Ale being averse to romantic relationships, but I forgot to consider whether or not Ale would be opposed to romantic relationships to men. I only ever knew one man who liked another man. Lizard. Does it count as a man if it is a lizard? I certainly don’t know. My point stands, though.”

Caroline sighs deeply and cards through her short her.

“It seems highly unlike you to ask all these questions instead of simply acting, Angelo”, she says and looks at him with a stern gaze.

Angelo sighs.

“Yes, I know. I am afraid I have found my most lethal opponent yet! Matters of the heart! No monster could ever best me in combat, but my own heart is betraying me.”

Caroline puts her blade to the side and leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees as she looks at Angelo with her piercing eyes.

“Just talk to him. It’s that easy. No one can ever truly know another person’s heart or thoughts unless they speak them out loud.”

“Unless you’re a witch”, comes a disembodied sing-song from somewhere above them.

“Unless you’re a witch in which case you should stay out of people’s heads”, Caroline barks up the tree and looks back at Angelo.

“I cannot believe that I should turn into a coward for something as simple as talking. It seems highly ridiculous.”

Caroline shrugs.

“Emotions are hard. And I... understand your hesitance. But you should not let your feelings rule over your rational thoughts.”

“That is a very Caroline thing to say, Sir Caroline.”

“Stop calling me ‘Sir’ already!”

“Certainly, Sir Caroline.”

“Ugh.”

“Ale, can I ask you a personal question?”

“You can ask anything you want, schoolboy. I can decide whether or not I want to answer.”

“Oh—yes. That is very reasonable. Thank you. Uh—“

“Sir knight, are you alright? Did you get sunburnt? Sir Caroline says it is important to not stay outside in the sun for too long!”

“I am not sunburnt, little Olala.”

“Ask your question, schoolboy. Is this about gender again?”

“Uh—no. Not—huh. I suppose it is! But not in the way you think!”

“Well then, shoot.”

“This is more about the genders of others, I suppose! A potential paramour, one might say! I have a friend who has a fiancée but who is also involved with a man. Lizard. Male lizard? I am not entirely certain about the lizard’s gender and I was told not to assume. Anyway. What I wanted to ask—“

“You want to know if I like lizards?”

“No, that’s not—“

“I was joking, schoolboy. Calm down. You want to know what kind of people I’m attracted to.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t much care about gender, but it doesn’t happen often that I’m attracted to people. Either romantically or sexually.”

“Oh.”

“I just don’t fall in love easily. And I don’t find many people hot.”

“Hm.”

“Any more questions?”

“Yes, but I am afraid they would be borderline offensive and highly invasive.”

“Well then. Let’s keep it at that, schoolboy.”

“Sir knight, are you feeling okay?”

“Yes, little Olala.”

“It’s just that you are usually very loud but you have been very quiet for a while. I recently learned about heatstrokes and it sounds awful and I hope you don’t have a heatstroke, Sir knight.”

“I don’t think I have anything of the kind, Olala.”

Olala sits down next to Angelo. He’s leaning against Porthos who’s lying down and nibbling on some grass. Ale and Caroline are investigating something and since Angelo is not the best at clues he offered to stay behind to guard their belongings and also Olala.

“Most adults do not like to tell children why they’re sad. But if you wanted to, I would certainly listen.”

“That’s very kind of you, Olala. Have you ever liked someone?”

“Of course! I like so many people!”

“Ah, yes. Hm. And were you ever scared to tell any of these people that you like them?”

“No, Sir knight. I grew up in the Garden of Graves and we tended to the dead and my sisters always taught me that it is important to speak your heart while the people you love are alive, for you never know when they might die and then you can’t tell them anymore.”

“That is... very wise, Olala.”

“Thank you, Sir knight! My sisters taught me a great many things and I am honored to pass their wisdom on to others.”

Angelo looks down at Olala’s small form and ruffles her hair.

“I will take it to heart!”, he promises.

“Hey, Angelo. Can I talk to you for a moment?”

They make camp by a river and Caroline takes Olala for a bath. Angelo turns around to look at Ale, who tied his long braids into a top knot. He’s wearing a white tunic that is a little too big for him and allows Angelo a view of Ale’s collarbone.

Angelo tries very hard not to stare because he refuses to be disrespectful any more than he already was when they first met.

“Of course, Ale.”

Ale looks at him. Angelo would never trust himself to read people’s behavior—that has never been his forté. But he could swear that Ale looks almost a bit nervous; something that Angelo hasn’t seen on him so far.

“So, remember that talk we had? About how I might like lizards or not?”, Ale begins and Angelo winces a little.

“It was poorly worded and I apologize—“

“It’s fine, Angelo. That’s not what this is about. But... you remember what I said. About not being attracted to people often?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Why did you want to know that?”

Angelo takes a deep breath and scratches the back of his head.

“I—uh. Well”, he starts, then doesn’t know how to continue. He remembers the talks he had with Caroline and Olala and straightens his back. Sir Angelo the Strong will not back down from a challenge. Any challenge!

“I would like to court you, Ale.”

Ale blinks. Once, twice, three times.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“You—what?”

“Courting. I would like to court you. Woo you. Win you over. In the romantic sense. But I was not sure if that was something that would make you uncomfortable, so I tried to figure out if you might be opposed against courtship. By men. Or anyone.”

Ale takes two steps towards him and Angelo has the great need to spread his arms and pull Ale close to him, but he doesn’t. He’s asking for permission and he will not ruin this by overstepping boundaries.

A slight chuckle pulls him back to reality and he sees Ale’s eyes twinkle, the corners of his lips turned upwards.

“Are you asking me on a date, schoolboy?”, Ale asks. His playful smile is doing things to Angelo he can’t describe because he is not Damien. But man, he almost feels the need to write a poem about that smile. That is how badly smitten he is with this wonderful, splendid man standing in front of him.

“I suppose so! Ale, will you allow me to take you on a date?”

Ale takes another step and raises his hand to softly flip one finger against Angelo’s forehead.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

#ale of milltown #tpp #the penumbra podcast #penumbra podcast #the second citadel #second citadel #sir angelo #sir angelo the strong #alengelo #mi writes #i'm still in the penumbra zone #and i love these two so much and also the whole weirdo brigade

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silhouetteofacedar · 3 years

Text

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 21: Body Talk

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Mulder’s thirty years past kindergarten, but the anticipation he’s feeling in his body is reminiscent of the excitement he felt as a child over bringing his new model airplane to school for show-and-tell. Except the context is very, very different.

He’s got an envelope tucked into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and he’s highly aware of every crinkle it makes as he strides through the halls, making his way down to the basement.

He’d expected to receive a clean bill of health, so the contents of the envelope weren’t a surprise. Even so… he’s fuckin’ thrilled.

“Morning, Scully,” he says cheerily, waltzing into the office and peeling off his jacket. “Another hot one out there, huh?”

“Mhm,” she responds, already elbow deep in paperwork. She’s always got her nose in some pile of documents, his Scully. God, she’s so cute, it’s unbearable. He thinks of when they first met, how rosy and round her cheeks were. He regrets not having done something earlier; he missed out on kissing her adorable baby face.

He really wants to kiss her now, but they’re at work, and she’s made it abundantly clear that At Work Scully is not open to the physical demonstrations enjoyed by Off Duty Scully. Instead he sidles up beside her, holding out the envelope in front of her.

She takes it, clearly noticing that it’s already been opened. “What’s this?” she asks.

“Just a little something, from me to you,” Mulder replies, going around the desk and plopping into his chair. He clasps his hands behind his head casually, grinning at her as she slides the folded paper out of the envelope.

Scully unfolds the page and scans it, nodding to herself. “Congratulations,” she says, glancing up at him. “This is… welcome news. But you didn’t need to bring me the physical test results, Mulder. Your word is enough.”

“Oh, but I know how much you enjoy solid evidence,” he says with a wink. “So, uh… do you have your results back yet?”

“This is definitely not an office-appropriate conversation,” she warns him, slipping the page back into the envelope.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “But…”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Last week. I’m in the clear.”

He smiles even wider at her. “So, given this new information, what do you suggest we do, Agent Scully?”

She holds the envelope out to him across the desk. “Right now, our jobs.”

He licks his lips, nods. “Of course.”

Ten minutes later, she gets up to put a file in the filing cabinet. As she closes the drawer, she lets out a soft cough.

“Friday,” she says in a low tone. “My place.”

Mulder feels a thrill roll through his stomach. “Now how am I going to get a single thing done around here ’til then?” Mulder asks. “All I can think about is-”

She gives him a warning look.

“-You,” he finishes. “Every moment, Scully.”

Scully gives him a little pout. “I’m sorry, Mulder. That must be very difficult for you. You know what you need?”

“What?”

She picks up a stack of folders out of their in-basket and drops it in front of him on the desk. “A case.”

Mulder doesn’t find them an actual case, but he does manage to annoy Scully with conjecture and conspiracy for two whole days until it’s closing time on Friday night.

This could be the most important romantic encounter of his life, and he wants to make sure he’s adequately prepared. He takes a cold shower when he gets home, scrubbing every inch of his body until his skin tingles. He clips and files his nails, plucks some stray hairs, trims a few scraggly ones down south. He almost shaves his face before deciding to leave it be. He suspects Scully likes a little stubble, after all.

It’s a warm evening, so he throws on a gray t-shirt and jeans and bounds out the door with damp hair and crisp, soap-fresh skin.

As a rule, he doesn’t sing while driving; but today, he’s humming just a little.

He knocks on her door at quarter to seven, bouncing on the balls of his feet, trying to shake out a little anxious energy. This isn’t a prom date, he chides himself. Calm down and be an adult.

The lock is turning and the door is swinging open and there Scully is, looking soft and inviting and dangerous all at once. “Hi,” she says, giving him a little smile.

“Hi,” he says softly, eyes drawn immediately to the low neckline of her simple wrap dress. He snaps his gaze back up to her face again. “Hi, sorry, I’m-”

“A little distracted?” she asks slyly. She opens the door wider. “Come in,” she says, beckoning.

“I, uh, didn’t bring anything,” he says awkwardly, following her into the apartment. “And now that I’m here that feels kinda thoughtless.”

“What would you have brought?” Scully asks.

He shrugs. “Flowers, wine, something that says ‘I want to get laid but I also respect you’,” he says.

“Well, that’s unnecessary,” she says, going into the kitchen and opening her junk drawer. “I already know that.” She pulls out a small stack of takeout menus. “I’m assuming you haven’t had dinner yet?”

I was kind of planning on having you for dinner. “I have not,” he replies.

She hands him the menus. “Pick a place, we can call something in,” she says. She takes a box of matches out of the drawer and walks over to the fireplace.

Mulder glances over the menus, but he’s mostly watching Scully. She seems relaxed and comfortable, lighting a few candles atop the mantlepiece.

“You want a little music?” she asks, blowing out the match.

“Sure,” he replies. “Surprise me.”

“Promise you won’t tease me for this,” she says, flipping through a stack of CDs.

“Any of those restaurants sound appealing?”

“The Italian place sounds good, but I don’t want my garlic breath to put you off,” he admits sheepishly.

She glances over her shoulder at him, giving him a little smile. “That restaurant usually sends a few mints in the bag; and you have a toothbrush here, if it’s that big of a problem.” She puts a CD into the stereo.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he says. “You want me to call it in?”

“Sure,” she replies. “You can order me a chopped salad and some of their spinach ravioli. And get garlic bread,” she adds.

When he hangs up the phone, he sees her standing by her stereo, nodding her head in time to the music. The song is slow and sensual, and somehow familiar. He goes to her, places a hand on her lower back. His spot.

“Marvin Gaye?” he guesses.

“Mm, no. Al Green,” she replies.

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Never took you for a Motown fan, Scully,” Mulder says, pulling her in by the waist. “You always keep me guessing.”

She closes her eyes, sways in his arms. “I save this one for very specific moods,” she admits.

“And what moods are those?” he asks, running a hand up her back.

She opens her eyes. “I’ll show you later,” she whispers.

She’s looking at him with so much heat and adoration, and her lips are so full and soft, he can’t speak; only lean down and kiss her.

They drift together, interlocking shapes moving through space, rearranging patterns of hands and lips.

“We’re going to get interrupted by a delivery guy again,” Scully says against his cheek.

“Mm… kinky,” Mulder whispers, lips brushing her ear. “This is gonna become a pattern for us. Are you an exhibitionist, Scully?”

“Baby steps,” she says, patting his chest as she pulls away. “I need to leave a few mysteries for you to discover later, right?”

They sit cross-legged on the floor next to her coffee table, knees touching companionably as they eat their dinner.

“You know,” Scully says around a bite of garlic bread, “This makes me think we should go on another picnic. Since the weather is more appropriate.”

“What, sitting on the frozen ground at night in February wasn’t your idea of a good time?” Mulder jokes, tangling his fork in linguini.

“I didn’t say that,” Scully points out. “In fact, that was one of my better birthdays in recent years.”

“Really,” Mulder says, surprised. “Why?”

She absently toys with a hole in his sock. “Because… because I’d had a rough year,” she explains, “And you put thought and care into doing something special for me. And it was perfect, in all its perceived imperfections. It made me feel that for once… you were finally paying attention. You saw me.”

“Saw you?” he asks softly, turning his head to look at her.

Her eyes shine into his. “Yes. You were there for me through my cancer, with Emily… you were becoming more attentive. And I felt like you were considering me, caring for me, knowing what I needed. Seeing.”

“I-I think that’s called love, Scully,” he says, chewing pensively. Part of him is surprised this is even happening; them sitting on the floor in her apartment, eating pasta out of styrofoam boxes, talking about their feelings. Hell, he just said the ‘L’ word without breaking a sweat.

“You’re right,” she says, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder. “It is.”

Supper completed, containers emptied, candles burning down to stubs on the mantle, Scully sitting across his thighs as they kiss slowly. She was right about the mints, it turns out.

“Mulder, I’m a coward,” she sighs, running her fingers down his jaw. “I’ve been in love with you for years and I still haven’t said the words.” She presses a kiss to his lower lip. “Even though I know you reciprocate.”

“Take your time,” he replies, carding his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. “I already know. And you technically did just say them,” he adds. “Besides, there’s more than one way to have a conversation.” He smoothes a hand over her kneecap, inching a finger beneath the hem of her dress.

“Mulder,” she murmurs into his neck, his name sweet in her mouth. “I’m ready. I want to be with you tonight. Completely.”

He can feel his pulse throbbing beneath her lips. “I… God, Scully, I want you so badly,” he sighs. “I can’t think of any other words. I'm all out.”

She kisses his nose, untangles herself from him to stand. “Come on,” she says softly, holding out a hand. “I think it’s time for a different kind of conversation.”

#oooh gurl they gonna DO IT #fmcr #xfiles #txf fic #msr #fox mulder closet romantic #my fic

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tillthelandslide · 3 years

Note

Hi, could I please request a fluffy Henry prompt from his POV with the numbers 1 & 14 & 25? 🥺😊

No worries if you have any trouble writing with this request, I’ll just be looking forward to your other writing. But thanks in advance and I hope you have a fantastic day dear!

No idea : Henry Cavill One Shot

A/N: Hi my love, hope this is what you wanted and I hope you enjoy it. My laptop was not working today so I had to type this on my phone. I haven't checked it for typos so I apologise if there is any mistakes.

I hope you (and anyone else reading) enjoys it anyway. Love you all - L

1. Do you have any idea how I feel about you?

14. Just friends don't fuck everyday Yn

25. I can't sleep without you beside me

No idea : Henry Cavill One Shot (based off prompts)

Thinking back, I can't remember a time where I didn't fancy her...fancy... What a juvenile word, I guess the real word is love. I am in love with her. And that in itself was a problem, because we weren't what you'd call 'exclusive'. God knows I want nothing more than to call her my girlfriend but I was too much of a coward to ask her, I wasn't sure if it was what she wanted. This.. Agreement, we had was what I think she wanted.

She was coming round for dinner tonight and to say I was nervous... Well I'd rather be naked in front of a million people than go through with this. I feel its about time I finally tell her how I feel, sure this arrangement is nice but I want more. Im taken away from my thoughts when I hear my doorbell ring and Kals loud bark sounded immediately after, the dog following me as I walked to the door.

"Hi" I say as I open it, a smile immediately appearing on my face when I see her.

"Hi" she says cheerfully, entering my house, dropping to the floor to stroke Kal, the large bear happy to see her.

"I missed you bear" she says as he licks her hand,making her giggle "can't steal all the attention, I've got to give some to your daddy" she says, making my heart beat out of my chest. She grabs my hand, using it pull herself up, a grunt falling from her lips as she did.

"God I'm getting old" she says as she hugs me making me laugh.

"You're younger than me, if you're getting old, what am I?" I ask, making her pull back from the hug.

"Ancient" she says, placing a kiss against my cheek before walking into the living room, plopping down onto the sofa.

"That's rude, don't know why I put up with all this bullying" I joke, sitting down next to her.

"Hmm why do you?" she asks and I smile, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Do you have no idea how I feel about you?" I say, smiling when I see her smirk at me, her lip in between her teeth.

"Care to enlighten me?" she says, as she crosses her arms over her chest. It's only then I realise she's wearing one of my own hoodies.

"You thief, this is mine" I say, poking the matietal of my hoodie.

"Don't change the subject, you were about to say how you feel about me" she says smirking again.

"Yeah... I was" I say nervously making her throw her head back in a laugh.

"I'm joking Hen, you don't have to" she says, before she throws her leg over my thigh, straddling me.

"In fact... We don't have to talk at all" she says as her lips hover over mine.

"Actually we do" I say, making her pull away. I really wanted to kiss her but that needs to wait for now.

"Oh" she says, beginning to move away from me but I hold her in my lap.

"Stay, this is comfortable" I say, making her smile and place a peck to my lips.

"Sorry couldn't resist" she says, a blush creeping onto her face.

"I like you" I blurt out making her mouth open. She's speechless and I'm unsure whether it's the good kind or the bad.

"Say something please" I say, my hand caressing her cheek.

"Henry"

"Say something more than that please love" I chuckle making her laugh which is a good sign.

"I don't know what to say" she says, her mouth falling open again before shutting.

"Say anything"

"I guess I'm a little confused" she says making me furrow my eyebrows.

"Confused? Why are you confused?" I ask curiously. She removed herself from my lap and I begin to be worried as she stands and begins pacing back and forth, her lip in between her teeth again as she crosses her arms over her chest. She's silent again and the beating of my heart is the only noise I can hear and it's making me panic.

"Love please stay still, you're making me nervous" I say, leaning forward on the sofa.

"Let me get this right..."she begins, her eyes flicking to meet mine before she looks back at her feet

"You: The Henry Cavill, like me?" she says her eyes finally meeting mine. I nod before uttering "Yeah. I think you're amazing" I almost cringe at that, why couldn't I be more smooth?

"But... But I thought we were just friends" she says making me chuckle.

"Best friends don't fuck everyday Y/N!" I say, laughing as I stand up, walking to her, placing my hands on her hips to still her movements.

"Yeah... I suppose you're right about that... I just thought that's what you wanted.... What we decided we both wanted" she said, her hand resting against my jaw as she looked at me. She looked so adorable, lines appearing in between her eyebrows her eyes glistening and blown wide.

"I suppose it is what I wanted... For a while... And then" I said, pausing to think "then I fell in love with you" I say, making her gasp as her mouth falls open again, her eyes opening in shock.

"You're in love with me? You say you liked me Henry! Not that you're in love with me!" she says but she's smiling which makes me smile.

"Yeah... I'm not very good at this... But is that really so hard to believe?" I ask and she shakes her head but doesn't look quite sure she means it.

"You're amazing y/n, you're wonderful and funny and kind and talented... And you're drop dead gorgeous and I'm in love with you" there I go again dropping those words. But I truly mean them.

"what do you think?" I say when she doesn't reply.

"I think you're mad" she says laughing to herself before placing a kiss to my lips.

"but I love you too" she says against my lips, making me pull back, this time my eyes are blown wide and I hear her laugh again, that perfect, sweet laugh. I pick her up in my arms, kissing her as I carry her to my room. What follows is the purest form of love making, two beings becoming one, almost as if their souls are intertwined, their bodies wrapped up in one another, pouring nothing but love into the other.

She's lying on her front, her head resting on her arms over the pillow staring into my eyes with a smile on her face. I sweep the hairs out of her eyes before gently supporting her face in my hand, leaning forward to kiss her.

"Be my girlfriend please?" I ask and feel her nod before she whispered "of course". I feel myself drifting into a blissful sleep, before I'm awoken by rustling on her side of the bed, I open my eyes and see her blurry figure picking up my jumper.

"Stay, I can't sleep without you beside me" I say sleepily, reaching out for her, my hand lands on her waist and her body lies back down next to me, my arm wrapping around her and pulling her back into me as my eyes struggle to stay open.

"Always. I love you bear" she says and I feel the feather like touch of her lips against my forehead as my eyes shut.

"I love you too" I mumble before sleep consumes me.

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#henry cavill #henry #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill imagines #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x yn #Henry cavill x you #Henry cavill x yn #Henry x Yn #Henry x you #Henry x reader #henry cavill fics #henry cavill requests #Henry cavill pov #Henry cavill prompt #Henry cavill imagine #Henry cavill imagines #Henry cavill headcanon list

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starlightsearches · 3 years

Text

Someone Else Pt. 2

Hello friends! No official request for this one but a few people did say they’d like to see part two and it kind of just . . . happened ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Here’s a link to part one if you missed it!

Warnings: Language, infidelity, minor sexual content, threats/violence against the reader, so much angst oh fuck, but a happy ending so i guess it cancels out?

General Hux stares deeply at his own reflection, searching intently for any hint of this deception. His eyes travel up from the bottom of the mirror, catching the shine of his boots as they pass upwards, scanning his uniform, which—as far as he can tell—is immaculate, without a spot or wrinkle. He checks his face next (blank, impassive) before his eyes roam over his stark red hair—combed back, neat. Not a strand out of place. And yet he can’t escape the feeling deep down in his bones, the one that leaches into his consciousness every time he’s with you and she’s still lurking the back of his mind: everybody knows.

Hux rolls his eyes and gives up on the hopeless view in the mirror, sliding it back into its hiding place before turning to face you. He needs another set of eyes if he wants to know the truth. “How do I look?”

His heart stutters again when he meets your gaze—stuttering like it did when your palms brushed over his chest, your nails raking thin red lines into his already flushed skin—and thinking about it is fire in his lungs. You’re still looking disheveled: half-dressed, hair wild, and swiveling back and forth in his chair behind his desk, your feet propped up on the surface—a move that would bother him if it were anyone else but you. A smile crawls slowly across your face, your expression blissful as you respond, “you look very handsome.”

Gods, he’s blushing again. It had taken minutes for the color to drain from his face the first time, but a soft look and compliment from your parted lips and brings it all back, alerting anyone who would look at him to his red-hot shame.

And when you see it, your smile turns sad.

You drop your feet from off his desk, straightening your own uniform with a little less care than Hux had, your steps tentative as you cross the distance between his desk and where he stands by the door—only a few feet, but it feels like miles when you stop just out of his reach, wrapping your arms around yourself, holding tight . . . like he wants to hold you, again. Hux balls his hands into fists, forcing them to remain at his sides, fighting the urge to brush his fingers over the edge of your lips, trace the delicate skin of your jaw. Peel the uniform from your shoulders and snuff out all of his unease with velvet kisses. Hux silences those desires. After everything he’s put you through, he hardly deserves to breathe the same air.

You examine him with sharp eyes, willfully ignoring his inner turmoil that he’s sure you notice to focus on the matter at hand. Your inspection yields good results; you meet his eyes again with the slightest frown.

“You look the same as before,” you say, corners of your mouth pulling down further, brows furrowing, “no one will be able to tell.” Hux lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a mixture of shame and relief filling the empty space in his lungs.

Had he always been such a coward? Hux had never thought of himself as one to give into such base wants, but so far he’s been totally unsuccessful in his attempts to resist you, to bide his time until he’s dealt with the root of the problem. No, he keeps coming back, each time the last time, fucking you in cramped closets and over his desk while she’s warming his bed. Losing himself in the iridescent high of your body and ignoring the sharp pangs of your love that he leaves unopened in your waiting hands.

Silence hangs, the air full of unsaid things and your lips part—words balanced on the tip of your tongue that would pierce like knives and Hux can’t hear them because it will hurt you to say them, and he’s already caused you so much pain.

“I have to go,” he says, cutting you off before you get the chance, “Bristol will be back soon.” Her name is out of his mouth before he can think to stop it, and your face falls, a grimace crossing your features that you can’t remove quickly enough. There are tears pricking the corners of your eyes, he thinks, but he’s not close enough to know for sure. He doesn’t step any closer.

“Alright.” You swallow hard, suck in a deep breath through your nose so that he won’t see you break, but the smile you plaster on your face chips at the corners, and it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll be here.”

The air in the room is stifling, filled with your deafening sadness, all the feelings you try to keep from him because you know it hurts him to see you like this and you care about him so damn much. You care too much. He doesn’t deserve you.

“This,” he whispers, like if he’s quiet enough he won’t have to hear himself say it either, “can’t happen again.” It’s not the first time he’s said these words to you, but it breaks you just the same. If it goes on for much longer, he’ll never have the chance to put you back together.

“I understand.” You turn towards the back wall, unwilling to let him see you cry—for his sake or yours, though, he’s not sure.

Hux leaves without saying goodbye.

No one gives him a second glance when he steps out of his office doors and into the commotion of the bridge; his worries were unfounded, just as the rational part of him knew they would be. Still, the guilt only grows as he moves through the halls of the Finalizer, on his way to greet his wife.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. After the wedding, after that night in his office when you had kissed him for the first time and everything felt right, he had made plans—how to rid himself of Bristol and Pryde, plans to keep you at his side, love you the way you deserved to be loved. Plans that had crumbled like dust between his fingers the second he stepped foot off the transport to the Alfospar system.

He couldn’t explain it at that time, the way his resolve shriveled like paper in water when he first saw that gleaming city, the towers and spires of the royal home so different from the sleek, black halls of the Finalizer, towers and spires that Bristol had walked her entire life. Now he knows what caused it: the fear that gripped his heart. Not just fear. Inadequacy. He had looked to his new wife, saw the haughty determination in her features as she surveyed the grand palace with a look of utmost boredom, and he hated her. But he hated himself even more knowing that she was capable in ways he could never dream. She was born to rule. He had done everything imaginable to earn that kind power, and still he came short.

The two weeks in the palace passed in a color-leeched blur. Hux attended meetings. He met Bristol’s family. They consummated the marriage. And he never stopped thinking about you.

When he returned to the ship, he made new plans, plans to remove his heart with surgical precision, plans that would leave him empty and miserable for the rest of his life but would save you from him.

Those plans had crumbled, too, the moment you whispered in the darkness of your quarters, “I missed you, did you miss me?” and he had been too selfish to lie. That was the first time he had fallen into your arms, let you drown out his pain without any concern for your own.

His father had been right all along. Hux is spineless. Everyone else managed to see it. He wonders how he had you fooled for so long.

______________________________

You’re having trouble adjusting to the quiet. It’s a feat of engineering, really—a true testament to his genius—that the general’s office manages to be quieter than a grave despite the teeming world of the bridge that lives just outside it. It had been the quiet that had first made his office such an appealing location for these meetings. That, and no one would question your presence here.

You had been careful from the beginning—given no indication of the affair, raised no suspicion, and had been ready to smother any rumor that might have spread. There was never a need for that kind of action; you covered your tracks. But sitting here in this demonic silence, you want to ruin it all. Turn every touch and kiss and loving look into a song, a battle cry. A death sentence. You want everyone to know what you’ve done. Maybe then you’d feel something.

Your cheeks are sticky with long-dried tears, and you try to brush them off with a sleeve, a brittle laugh escaping your lips thinking back to the day of the wedding. At the time, you had believed your heart to be broken. What a fool you used to be. How little you had known about how it feels to set your heart gently into someone else’s waiting hands and then watch them shatter it.

You stand from the chair abruptly, cutting off the image before it takes root in your mind. There’s no time for self-pity when you have work to do.

You grab your data pad from where you left it on his desk, turning the screen face you. Your heart jumps a little in your chest when you see the messages light up the screen, but you’re left feeling sour. None of them are from him.

He did that sometimes, after he left you—occasionally sent an apology, told you that he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Sometimes he wanted to see you again, already, and you’d go searching for whatever conference room or closet he had commandeered, the warmth pooling between your legs erasing any of the harsh feelings from the moments before.

But no message this time. Maybe he had meant it. Maybe he didn’t want you like he thought you did. Maybe he never had.

You’re sure, now, that the uncertainty will eat you alive, burst from your chest like some grotesque thing and feast on every part of you, rip and tear and bite until it’s sated and you’re left in pieces. You wish it would. Death is better than waiting.

There’s a gentle beep from your data pad, and you look down again, distracted momentarily from your spiraling. It’s an urgent alert, from one of the admirals. They need your help interpreting some notes the general gave them on a recent project proposal.

You stop just before the doorway, taking in three deep breaths, letting the cool air wash away the fire of your thoughts. There would be time later to ruin yourself over this mess, when sleep evaded you in the late hours of the night cycle. For now, duty calls.

You move through the bridge with ease, reading the messages you had missed. Your eyes scan them with practiced precision, sorting them by urgency and responding to the ones you can take care of quickly as you journey deeper into the ship. It doesn’t take long for you to get lost in the process, the dark tiles passing underneath your feet unnoticed as you lose yourself in your work.

The sound of footsteps in the otherwise empty hallway pulls you out of your trance, and you look up briefly, more out of a passing curiosity rather than any real interest. Your heart grows cold when you catch her eyes, and the feeling spreads like ice over a body of water.

“Hello, your highness,” you try to keep any tension out of your voice as you address Bristol with a small bow, skirting around her in the hallway in your best attempt to avoid her sustained notice. Her eyes narrow when they focus on you, and the cold feeling shatters, the dread climbing up your legs like the water level rising in a sinking vessel.

“You,” there’s venom in her voice, a kind of hatred you never thought you’d inspire in anyone and you feel every barb of it when she latches on to you, gripping your upper arm with such strength that you can feel the indentations of her nails through the fabric of your uniform.

The wall of the hallway meets your spine as you step back, your attempted escape only leaving you trapped, chest heaving as she stares you down like a predator. It’s clear in every aspect of her being that she’s ravenous.

“Well?” she snaps, and you flinch, the durasteel biting your shoulder blades as you try to gain as much distance as you can from her, straining every muscle in your body for any kind of relief, but she won’t let you take it, pressing you into the wall. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure where the general is right now, your highness,” you speak slowly, trying to gauge the direction of her anger, “I was under the impression that he’d gone to find you.”

The moments pass in deathly silence, and the waiting stretches each second into a lifetime, but there’s nothing comprehensible in her expression. She’s wild, animalistic, the same fierceness you’ve seen in her as a leader now morphed into something frenzied and feral. It’s only a moment before it's lost, replaced with something extinguished and icy. Her grip on your arm tightens.

“I know you’ve been fucking my husband.”

You plunge into whatever depths she’s created for you, the shock of it short-wiring your brain and all you can do is gape at her, your mind refusing to form a single thought, let alone any string of words that might convince her to believe a lie. It’s too late anyway; your expression tells her everything she needs to know.

“How dare you? Embarrassing me like this? I could end your life right here, and he’d have your replacement in his office tomorrow morning.” Each threat brings her closer until you can only see her in fragments—the corner of her mouth as she spits these vile words, the flash of fire in the depths of her eyes. Your heart rate spikes, a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins but your thoughts are still unfocused, without form or direction. Would she really kill you here, now? The look on her face tells you that she might.

You struggle uselessly against her grip, but she’s got you pinned—one hand on your shoulder and a knee at your hip. Your body goes still when you feel the whisper of metal at your throat. You didn’t know she had a blade.

“Gods, you’re just as pathetic as he is,” she laughs, quick and sharp, and the weapon quivers—you feel the gentle sting as it parts the first layers of your skin. The sting brightens as she pushes the blade further, leaning in close to whisper her parting words, “maybe you deserve each other.”

A flurry of movement clouds your vision, and the pressure lifts; in the periphery of your thoughts you can hear the blade clatter to the ground. Your knees threaten to buckle as you lean more heavily against the wall, trying to find the source of your salvation.

The general is there, but as unlike himself as you’ve ever seen him. He looks like a storm, towering over her, shaking with rage. Like a force of nature—it’s the kind of anger you’ve never seen in him before.

Time stops. Understanding crashes into you. It's like you've been blindfolded, without even knowing it, and the covering has given way to an astonishing brightness when you first comprehend what this action means. The realization staggers you.

"You don't-" he can hardly get the words out as he seethes at Bristol, speaking through clenched teeth, "don't ever-"

Bristol quivers, aghast, and it seems that she, too, is seeing her husband with new eyes.

The hallway is filled with loud, echoey beats of a heart, and you're not sure who it belongs to. It strikes you, this sudden fear that someone might be watching these events unfold, that it might be their heart making these sounds, alerting you to their presence. You search the corridor, whipping your head from side to side but there are no prying eyes, no silent watchers, and your heart settles minutely.

You turn back to the general, wondering how he'll react to the news, but his eyes are only on you.

Bristol pulls herself from Hux's grasp and the tension reshapes itself as her mood shifts again, haughty as ever.

"So," she looks between you and the general, and as much as she'd like to hide it, her anger is not gone, "you've chosen the little whore. Interesting."

Hux ignores her statement, still watching you.

"I won't stand for this," Bristol goes shrill now, attempting to pull his attention but his eyes are locked in place and you burn under his gaze. He wants something from you, a confirmation, you realize. He wants to know that you're alright.

You nod—still hesitant, not entirely sure that this is what he's asking for—and only then does he look away, turning back to Bristol with a stare so cold you feel the chill.

“The next breath you use to threaten anyone on this ship will be your last,” Hux speaks with an authority you’ve never heard him use around Bristol and she flinches, like she’s been slapped, “and you will stay away from my . . . assistant.”

His eyes flash to yours again, full of unsaid things—a kind of apology for this lapse in language, but you understand perfectly. There are no words to describe what he means to you, either.

Bristol laughs, one short barking sound, and you know she means to demoralize him, but Hux stands firm, unaffected. “You think you can scare me with empty threats? I’m sorry to say that I’m unimpressed. If only your father were here to see this-”

“But my father isn’t here,” Hux interrupts her, “he’s dead. Because I ordered it. And you should know,” he steps closer to her, his voice a deadly whisper, and she shrinks, “my threats are never empty.”

Bristol quivers slightly, unable to hide her fear and you don’t blame her. She gives up on threatening the general and looks to you instead, her eyes flashing with one last weak attempt to intimidate you before she stalks off, leaving the corridor empty.

You search for something—anything—to say, your mouth gaping open as the general turns to look at you, but there’s nothing, your mind blank and empty of any feelings small enough to be condensed into a few words.

There’s no need to shrink your feelings; before you can say anything, Hux has bridged the distance between you, pulling you into his arms with more force than you thought possible. It’s both suffocating and liberating—your lungs struggling for their next breath but your mind is euphoric when you can feel the press of him against you.

He has a hand around your waist, one cupped against the back of your head, and you can feel his whispered apologies as they brush against your hairline, followed by the slow drag of his lips. A low thrill crawls over your skin. How long had it been since he said he’d never touch you again? You’d live through that pain a thousand times if it meant you could experience this.

“Are you alright?” he pulls away slightly, just enough that he can look at you, the pad of his gloved thumb wiping away the thin streak of blood left by Bristol’s blade. His touch ghosts along the injury, but you still feel the sting, unable to hide the way you wince in response.

His thumb stills as soon as he catches the flicker of pain, and there’s deep fountains of regret pooling in his eyes, a sadness so complete you can’t fathom it.

“I’m- I’ll never be able to say,” he swallows, pulls in a shuddering breath, and you feel his hands threaten to part from you but you only hold him tighter, anchoring him to you, “how sorry I am for the way I’ve treated you.”

The anguish spills over, and he’s crying in your arms a second time, quick tremors shaking his shoulders. You can’t collect the tears fast enough, brushing them away with shaking hands, silencing his fears with soft whispers.

“I love you,” he says through hiccuped speech, “and I always have. And, if you’ll have me-” you silence his doubts with a searing kiss. For you, there has never been—never could be—anyone else.

#armitage hux x reader #armitage hux x you #general hux x you #general hux x reader #general hux oneshot #general hux fanfic #general hux angst #armitage hux oneshot #armitage hux fanfiction #armitage hux angst #my writing #tw infidelity

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teenage-mutant-ninja-freak · 4 years

Text

wolf in sheep’s clothing

Mob! turtles au Turtles x fem! reader

Leo x reader

Summery: The turtles are 4 brothers who run the mob in New York and their territory is under threat since a serial killer (you) has taken up residence in the area. Bodies keep dropping and it’s being blamed on the turtles which is bad for business so they decide to do something about it.

Warnings: violence, mention of drugs and weapons, NSFW

((A/N I’m not a writer, I’m a dumbass with a dream to write some dark fiction so please save any nasty comments. Hope you enjoy))

__________________________

November in New York was always beautiful, the leaves become this vibrant burnt orange and scatter throughout the parks and roads, you can see your breath in the air and occasionally there’s fresh snow on the ground. Nothing quite tops that. You sit in your regular bar, Paddy’s, and take another swig of the beer sat in front of you. You’re sat close to the door so it gets a little chilly with the patrons walking in and out creating a cold breeze but you simply shrug your jacket on closer and ignore it.

The city is at a pivotal point with gang activity, the mob known as “the turtle boys” runs most of up town New York- selling guns and narcotics to lesser gangs. It’s a dangerous time you think to yourself as you shake off the four sets of eyes you can feel watching you from the corner. You finish your beer and stand to leave. Outside it’s dark and freezing, typical whether, you light up a cigarette, adjust your scarf and continue towards the ally that leads home leaving a swirling trail of smoke behind you; the end of the cigarette gleaming orange in the dim light.

You can hear the footsteps following you but you don’t quicken your pace. They’re free to do as they so please and have no idea who they’re messing with. Along with gang activity, New York has one other big problem at the moment: a serial killer. Their calling card? Strangulation. 7 bodies have washed up along the Hudson in the last 4 months all with the same abrasions around their necks from what the police suspect is barbed wire as well as stab wounds. You know it’s barbed wire, though. You’re the one who put them there.

The footsteps are gaining on you now and you stop in your tracks, take a deep inhale of your cigarette and turn to face them. You didn’t quite know what you were expecting to see but, the turtles boys wasn’t it. All adorned in beautiful, presumably expensive, suits they stare back at you with blank expressions but a slight look of worry in their eyes.

“Y/n L/n” the one in a blue suit calls to you. “you’re a hard girl to track down”

“laying low is my speciality. What can I do for you boys on this fine night?”

“cut the shit” the biggest one out of all of them cuts in. He’s wearing a black suit with a red handkerchief poking out of the pocket. Raphael you make a note to yourself. He’s going to be the hardest to take down. You smile sweetly.

“we can do this the easy way or the hard way” he finishes.

“do I look like an easy girl to you?” you turn on your heels and begin to run, if you can get them into the next ally way there’s a chance you can take at least one of the down before the others get to you, you think.

Out of breath and cursing never sticking to your resolution to do more cardio you make it to the next ally but the one you know as Michelangelo has gained on you and slams you into the brick wall on your right side.

“that’s no way to treat a lady” you say looking up at him, he grins, spits and decks you in the face. Everything goes black.

There’s a thumping in your head, you feel as though you have a concussion and your jaw aches like a motherfucker. Damn it you think to yourself, they’re more to handle than I thought. There’s some kind of sack over your head that has a sheer texture to it so you can sort of make out where you are. There are cupboards and you can hear the steady drip of water so a tap must be near by, you assume you’re in a kitchen. You try and move your hands but they’re bound behind your back, the same with your ankles. Motherfuckers. You reach into the back of your jeans, you knife is gone. They must have searched you, they’re more thorough than you gave them credit for. you shouldn’t have underestimated them, you’re the one who likes to be underestimated. Just a sweet little girl, wouldn’t hurt a fly; you’re a vegetarian for fucks sake, who would think of you as the ruthless killer that you are? you try and slide your arms under your butt to have them in front of you, maybe then you can get this bag off your head and see where you are. Suddenly, you hear movement

“She’s awake” one of them calls to the others. More footsteps and you know they’re all in the room with you. You feel the bag being removed from your head, some of your hair being pulled with it but you ignore the slight sting that it causes. You’re face to face with Leonardo who’s crouching in front of you

“Now” he begins “I think it’s time we get better acquainted, don’t you, y/n?”

“I thought mobsters were supposed to be sweet on women. They Cray twins, Al Capone, all real nice when it came to ladies. What gives?” you say to him.

“you’re no regular lady” he retorts. “We have sources that put you at the scene of 4 of the murders that have been going on recently and we just need to have a little chat about what you were doing there. We’d hate to have the wrong person”

you scoff. “Me? A killer?” you feign an innocent look. “Whatever are you talking about”

Leo stands up and you can really see his true height now. He’s an impressive man, about 6′4 and all muscle. That suit was really doing him some favours as well, you would water at the mouth but you had other priorities at this moment in time; staying alive being just one of them.

“what were you doing by the Hudson on September 6th when James Masters was killed” he asks

“Look, you’ve got the wrong girl. I wouldn’t kill anyone” you flash him your big doe eyes hoping that’ll score you some points with the big bad mobster. They wouldn’t really hurt a girl, would they? “I’m an art major at Columbia, I’ve got 2 brothers who need me” you try and summon tears but you just can’t do it so you settle for the odd sniffle instead “My mum calls me at 12 everyday and if I don’t pick up she’s gonna get worried”

A sharp smack flies across your face and you’re taken aback by the impact. You can feel liquid at the corner of your mouth and know that he hit you hard enough to draw blood

“Cut the act, what were you doing?” he repeated himself.

You take a moment to finally look around the room. There’s a table to your right with stacks of cash and guns on it as well as lots of tightly wrapped bags full of white power; cocaine you assume. The 4 turtles stand in front of you, Leo being closest, all with their arms folded doing their best to look intimidating. You laugh.

“I get the feeling begging isn’t going to work, huh?” you say

“Not today, sweetheart” the one who knocked you out, Michelangelo, replies.

“Well, would it please you to know that I was there to get rid of a body? That I’m the one who’s been ‘terrorising’ New York as the papers put it? or did I give that away too easily?”

“That’s not quite what we’re here about” the one in purple pipes up

“Oh no?”

“you see, James was an informant of ours and he had some…Information that could be very harmful to our organisation if it got out. And since he was tortured before he died, we want to know what he told you”

“let me see” you you paused for dramatic effect “I believe his last words were ‘no please stop, oh god no’. Does that have any significance to you?” you smile

Another slap. This one hurt worse and was making your already aching jaw hurt even more, you would definitely have a bruise if you made it out of this.

“looks like we’re gonna have to use the old school method” Leo states

“the old school method it is” Donatello agrees

He leaves the room for a moment and comes back in with a black bag which he opens on the counter. He takes out a white plastic sheet and some things that you can’t quite make out from the floor but they make a metallic twang on the counter when he puts them down. They’re going to torture me. Your heart sinks to your stomach. You aren’t a coward and you’re no stranger to pain, half of your victims put up a good fight and rough sex was prominent in your life, but you truly didn’t know any inside information about what the turtles operation held and there was no way they were going to believe you.

Donatello approached you, laying down the white sheet and shimmying it under your form so that it lay underneath you.

“look, guys…” you began “We don’t have to do it like this”

“A bit too late for that, don’t you think” Donatello replied as he pulled a scalpel from his pocket and pushes it down into your hand. You howl in pain and try and pull your arm away but his hand is already on your wrist keeping you in place.

“Just tell us what he told you” He states in an eerily calm voice

“He didn’t say an thing about you guys!” you bellow “I caught him tryna sneak date rape drugs into a girl’s drink and that’s why I killed him! It had nothing to do with you!”

They all look at each other and Donatello draws back.

“Even so” Leo began “He wasn’t the best at keeping secrets. I imagine he tried to make some kind of deal with you for his life”

“Yeah, that he would leave the city and never come back” They stare at you, unsure as to weather or not you’re lying. Mikey uses his arms to propel himself backwards to sit on the counter behind him; his legs swinging casually as he sits.

“So nothing about us?” he inquires.

Leo moves towards you, crouching down again so that he’s eye level with you; his suit hugging his muscles in all the right places. You decided to take a gamble.

“well…He did tell me one thing” you croon

“Go on” Leo almost whispers

Your hand was bleeding pretty badly at this point and a bead of bright scarlet blood dripped down between your fingers and on to the plastic sheet beneath you. If you wanted to live, you had to make them like you in some way. You lean in closer, almost nose to nose with the turtle’s leader.

“you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” you say in your most seductive voice. He smiles at you, not quite sure what to make of your comment.

“I’m not following, little girl”

“Oh come on. Haven’t you heard that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar? Give me what I want, and I’ll tell you whatever you need to know”

He stays crouched in front of you, still staring into your eyes trying to gage weather or not you’re serious. “Leave the room” he commands without even looking back at his brothers. They do as they’re told, Mikey sighing slightly as he hops down from the counter and Donatello picking up his black bag of torture gear on the way out.

“what do you have in mind?” his eyes are locked on yours and you’re so close you can feel his body heat from where you’re sitting. He truly was an amazing creature, all muscle and strength. It made you wet just thinking about what he could do to you. You place one of your still tied up hands on his knee and run it down his thigh until you’re close to his crotch and look back into his deep blue eyes

“Oh, you know. A little bit of hair pulling here, some biting there. Just fuck me raw basically” your forwardness gets you a raise of his eyebrows and his mouth forms into a bigger smile. He looks down and then back up at you and begins to untie the restraints around your ankles but leaves your hands bound. This is going to be good.

He runs his hands down your thighs and begins to undo the button of your jeans to slide them down your legs, you kick off your shoes to help him get them over your feet. His hands go straight for your underwear. This guy doesn’t fuck around you think to yourself. Underwear off, he trails kisses down your inner thigh until he reaches your sex and parts your lips

“you’re wet already? Naughty girl” he jokes and you can’t help but blush.

He moves closer and takes one long lick between your folds exciting a moan from the back of your throat. He’s good at it, too, swirling his tongue in devilish ways over your small bead and occasionally sucking at it too. He places one thick finger inside your wet entrance and begins to curl it in pace with his tongue. you’re barely hanging on at this point as your orgasm is coming fast. He looks up from between your legs while still using his hand to draw circular motions over your clit

“It’s ok, babygirl. You can cum for me”

With one final stroke of his tongue and his permission your orgasm rips through you bringing tears to your eyes but he isn’t done yet. Moving up your body he lifts your top and undoes your bra taking his time to suck and kiss at your nipples. It’s as though he can’t decide which one he likes best but you don’t mind his indecision. You can feel his teeth pull the soft tissue of your left breast into his mouth as he sucks creating a small purple bruise and you humm in pleasure. He kisses your lips hungrily, inserting his tongue into your mouth just enough to taste the cigarette he must have been smoking before you woke up and you love the taste. It’s so manly. You take your still tied up hands to cup his chin as he does so and then move them down to feel his torso, His reptilian skin so rough yet smooth at the same time and you can feel his muscles twitch beneath the surface in anticipation.

He trails kisses and bites down your tummy before grabbing your hips and flipping you over, your face hits the floor but you don’t mind; you were guaranteed to be man handled and he did not disappoint. With your exposed ass in the air you can hear him behind you undoing his flies and you want to badly to look back and see him but the not knowing almost makes it hotter-that is until you feel him at your entrance. He’s thick. Almost too thick for you, he’s gonna stretch you open for sure and you can’t wait. Just as you think this you hear him spit and his fingers are at your entrance again making sure your wet enough for him. In one long slow motion he inserts himself inside you, filling you completely to the point where you don’t know if you can take any more. He bottoms out and you sigh in pleasure. He pulls out a little and then thrusts back into you hard over and over again at a punishing pace. His hands are on your hips but he removes one to smack your ass as he’s fucking you.

“harder” you almost beg

“that’s it baby, take all of me” he moans to you

the feel of the cold tile floor beneath your face is a nice contrast to the burning heat in your core and you know you can’t hold on much longer. He reaches around your body to play with your clit while he’s still pushing in and out of you at an astonishing rate while he takes his other hand and pulls at your hair forcing you to look up.

“Leo, I’m going to-I’m gonna” you practically scream before your second orgasm sends shock waves through your body. A few more thrusts and you hear him moan as he reaches his own ecstasy and cums deep inside of you. You almost collapse but his hands go back to your hips, steadying you. He pulls out and you can feel his seed and your own wetness leaking out of you and running down your inner thigh.

“wow, I haven’t been fucked like that in a while” you laugh

“I’m not done yet, baby” he taunts

flipping you back over onto your back you can see that he’s already hard again. Gods bless those mutant genes that turned him into whatever creature was kneeling before you. You don’t think you can take him a third time but before you have the chance to interject he’s inside you again and pumping in and out at an overwhelming pace. He runs his hand up over your breast to your neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, cutting off the blood supply to your head and you can feel your whole face redden with the pressure. He looks deep into your eyes, lost in his own pleasure. You’re mind is tingling with lack of oxygen and the force of his cock inside you and you’re close again. You slip your hands between your thighs and begin to play with yourself as he fucks you mercilessly, hand still at your throat. Suddenly your hands are pushed out of the way

“beg me to let you cum” he commands

you do as you’re told

“Please” you pleaded with him “I need this, I need it so bad please just let me cum”

He grunts as he thrusts harder, allowing your hands back at your pussy and you both cum at the same time. Bodies twitching in the afterglow of what had just happened.

He rolls to the floor beside you and lies on his back, both panting with exhaustion. He cups your sex with his hand.

“so, what did James tell you�� he says as he catches his breath.

shit. you hadn’t thought this far ahead.

Fin.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #leo x reader #tmnt leo #tmnt leonardo #tmtn x reader #one shot #mob! au #mob au #mobster leo #wolf in sheep's clothing #My fic

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ivarswickedqueen · 3 years

Text

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIS

My dear friend @lisinfleur celebrates her birthday today and here is my little gift for this amazing friend of mine ♥ I love you and I am happy and honored that I can call you my friend, babe ♥

Paring: Amma x Hvitserk Word account: 3285 Warning: none, oh there are spoilers for 6B, so if you didn’t watch it don’t read it ;)

Amma was sharpening her sword and her arrowheads and she was afraid to go to sleep, because tomorrow there will be a huge battle between her people and Rus army led by Oleg the Prophet. She has never seen this man, but she heard enough stories about him to fear the day when he could possibly walk into the Kattegat as its new ruler. She also heard that prince Hvitserk Ragnarsson is marching with the Rus army alongside his younger brother Ivar and she didn’t know, what to think about it. The last time she saw Hvitserk was when his own brother Björn wanted to burn him alive because he killed his mother - the most famous shield-maiden in the world - Lagertha. But his other brother Ubbe saved him on Björn’s command and Björn casted him out of Kattegat for good, shouting these horrible words to his face: “I saved you. And do you want to know why I saved you? Because I know you were happy to die. But I don't want you to be happy. No. I don't want you to enter Odin's Hall. I want you to suffer a living death, expelled from Kattegat and the haunts of men, destined to die in a ditch in some forest somewhere, utterly forgotten, wretched, insignificant, unmemorable! Like a flea on a sheep's back. Take him away! He won't survive the winter.” That day Amma couldn’t help herself and she felt so sorry for him. She spent so many days with the young prince. She watched him, when he was sleeping, shivering and murmuring nonsense words under his nose, trembling because he was an addict. He was obviously addicted to mushrooms and his brothers didn’t care enough to help him through the rough times. She knew why he started escaping his problems in the alternate realities created by the mushrooms in his system. His brother Ivar treated him like a dog and mocked him in front of everyone for a very long time, making him feel like a shit even though Hvitserk jumped ship for him and abandoned his beloved brother Ubbe. And when he found someone who finally made him happy, a beautiful girl named Thora, Ivar burned her and her whole family alive. And it was second of Hvitserk lovers who found death in his younger brother’s arms. The slave girl Margrethe was murdered by Ivar’s men even though he never admitted that publicly. Hvitserk suffered so much and he had nobody to care about him so he became this pitiful wreck of human being. She was trying to help him. She tried her best to keep him home, away from the drug dealers. She tried to make him eat properly and drink less ale, but he was stubborn and she had her own duties so she couldn’t be there for him all day. She felt so sad when she found him high as a kite every evening when she came back to the great hall, he was calling Thora’s name, saying the words full of love to someone who was long gone. He saw her everywhere, her burnt body telling him to kill Ivar, to avenge her, but he couldn't do anything, he was scared of Ivar, he was losing his mind and he saw him everywhere. Every shadow in his mind was Ivar, ever strange sound from outside was Ivar, slowly crawling to him, intending to finish him. He was slowly losing his mind and there was nothing she could do to help him.

But the real hell broke loose when he killed Lagertha. She couldn’t help him anymore. She was crying her eyes out when they took him away, tied him up to the stake and lit the fire under him.

But she quickly wiped out her eyes, when he was saved and casted out of the town. She quickly ran to her cabin, she took some food into a bag and few warm furs and clean male clothes that belonged to her brother, she also took one of her old swords and she quickly and quietly run to the woods. She knew that she will find Hvitserk there somewhere. He had nowhere else to run.

She found him after few minutes, trembling under a big tree. She gave him the dry clothes; she wrapped him into the warm furs and lit a fire. She cuddled closer to him, trying to warm him up because he was still trembling. She spent the night in his arms, feeling him hugging her tightly like if his life depended on it. Next morning she gave him the bag with food into one hand and the sword into another and with heavy heart she sent him on his way. She wanted to go with him, but she knew that her brothers would start looking for her soon and she didn’t want to cause him more troubles. And he didn’t show any interest for her to go with him. He seemed like he didn’t care what is going to happen to him. She watched him until he disappeared behind the horizon, thinking that it’s the last time when she saw his face.

And now he is back, leading the Rus army towards Kattegat. He obviously survived the cold winter and met Ivar in the woods. She was more than surprised when she heard that he is with Ivar again. She clearly remembered his terrified face when someone only mentioned Ivar’s name in front of him. Something obviously changed. She was wondering why he came back and for a very brief moment she let herself believe that he came back for her, but it was nonsense. He probably already forgot her face… He came back because he wanted revenge, he wanted to show Björn and Ubbe, that he was still worth something. That he is not some pathetic excuse for a human being. Amma finally put her sword down and changed her clothes and went to bed, trying to get some sleep before the big fight. She wasn’t very successful because she couldn’t fall asleep until four in the morning, Hvitserk’s face kept popping in front of her eyes, making her feel excited and frustrated, because she shouldn’t feel something like this for an enemy.

In the middle of the battle

Amma felt like if this battle took forever. It seemed to her like if it was days ago since Björn rode into the battle on his horse, mortally injured, leading his people into the battle for the last time. It felt like years ago, when her eyes found Hvitserk standing next to Oleg and Ivar. He looked so much better than the last time she saw him. He gained some weight, his hair were clean and braided again, he was sitting astride on his horse, looking majestic, looking around him with clear, intelligent and sober eyes. She could see that his eyes were green again, the blood stains were gone and so were his inner demons. His lips were no longer quivering. He looked again like a mighty warrior and she stopped worrying about him being easily striked down by the defending soldiers. She stopped worrying about him hours ago and right now she started worrying about herself. She was trained shield-maiden, but her arms were becoming weaker and weaker with every hit from their enemies. She let out a frustrated scream and stabbed her sword through the heart of the nearest fighter. But seconds later another two started banging their swords on her shield and she felt that her arms will give up on her soon if she won’t retreat. But she wasn’t a coward, she would stand her ground and fight until her last breath. She fell on her knees and the bangs falling on her shield became louder and harder. She felt that her shield started slipping out of her hand and she had no control over it anymore. She closed her eyes and prepared herself for the final blow, but it never came. She heard someone shouted above her, and when she opened her eyes again, she saw Hvitserk standing above her, yelling commands and pushing those two soldiers away from her kneeling form.

“Can you stand up?” he asked her and she nodded shakily. Hvitserk’s strong arm pulled her up, but her trembling legs failed her and if he didn’t catch her, she would fall down on the ground again. “I will take care of you this time, sweet Amma,” he said softly and carefully took her away from the battle field in his strong arms, into one of the healing tents. He gently put her down on the bed and shouted at the healers to take care of her. He stepped aside and let the healers do their work, his eyes never leaving her small body. “You can go Prince Hvitserk, we will take care of her,” one of the healers assured him, but he didn’t move. He wanted to personally make sure, that she is OK. It seemed like he didn’t even care what is going on outside the tent. Amma lost her conscience couple times and then she fell asleep. When she woke up she was alone. Or at least she thought that she is alone until she heard angry voices yelling outside the tent. “Where the hell have you been?” Ivar yelled at someone and she shivered. “I just needed to make sure that she is OK, Ivar!” Hvitserk answered, his voice also full of anger. “Who is she? Who are you hiding inside that tent?” Ivar asked again and tried to step inside the tent but Hvitserk stopped him. “Don’t you dare to go inside, don’t you dare to go anywhere near her!” he shouted, obviously trying to stop his brother to go anywhere near Amma. “Listen to me Ivar, I care about this girl, she is the reason why I am still alive. She helped me to survive my darkest days and without her I would never be able to make it to the woods where you found me. I owe her my life! So listen to me very carefully little brother! If anything wrong going to happen to her by your hand , I will hunt you down and blood eagle you on the nearest tree, letting you there as a feast for the crows, do you understand me!!!” he growled the last words. She couldn’t hear Ivar’s answer, but it seemed like he simply nodded, surprised by his brother's sudden burst of protective words. Amma didn’t have time to think about everything she just overheard, because Hvitserk stepped inside the tent and rushed to her, when he noticed that she is awake. “How do you feel Amma?” he asked her, obviously worried if she is OK. “Tired, but happy that I didn’t enter Valhalla today,” she said with light smile and couldn’t take her eyes from his face. She only knew the addicted version of him, and his sober face was much more beautiful and lovable. “Why are you staring at me?” he laughed and gently tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. “You are so handsome, when you are sober,” she blurted and quickly covered her mouth with her injured hand, wincing in pain. “I am so sorry, prince Hvitserk,” she mumbled but he took her hand gently into his and smiled at her bitterly. “My dear Amma, you have every right to tell me the truth into my eyes. You saw me at my lowest point and you didn’t abandon me in those terrible dark times. You were the only light and warmth that kept me alive those days. But I wasn’t aware of it back then. I pushed you away, I yelled at you, I called you names, I refused your help and continued my road to my own destruction. But when Björn kicked me out of Kattegat and when the drugs got out of my system, I started seeing things clearly. I remembered everything. I remembered your encouraging words, telling me, that I can get through the darkness surrounding me, your sweet voice telling me that you believe in me, that you believe I can become the man who I used to be. It was you who made sure that I ate a warm meal every day, it was you, who helped me to lie down on bed and take off my clothes and shoes when I was too drunk to do it on my own. It was you, who was holding me when the nightmares and hallucinations surrounded me in the middle of the night or day. And most importantly, it was you who gave me warms clothes, food and weapon when my own family abandoned me and let me die in the woods. I will never forget that, my sweet, little, caring Amma. I was thinking about you a lot when I was in Kyiv. I was wondering what you were doing. I was worried If Björn hadn’t found out that you helped me and punished you for it. I was wondering if you are still single or if you found a fine man and gave him your heart,” he finally looked at her after his long speech, his eyes full of tears, guilt and love. He left her speechless, but she couldn’t say a word even if she could because he quickly continued. “Amma, I know that I wasn’t very kind to you. You witnessed the worst in me and you stayed by my side the whole time. I would love to show you my better side. I would like to show you the real Hvitserk, son of the great Ragnar Lothbrok. I would love to give you all my love and respect. I would love to cherish you, protect you and take care of you until my last breath. If you let me, my little sweet, courageous shield-maiden,” he smiled nervously and looked at her with so much hope in his beautiful green eyes that all she could do was nod her head and smile kindly at him. She was overwhelmed by his unexpected confession and by her own feelings, because she realized, that she was in love with him for a very long time and that she could be never happy without him. Hvitserk’s face lit with the brightest smile she has ever seen on it and gently kissed her forehead.

Oleg the Prophet lost the battle and they had to retreat back to Kyiv and Amma didn’t have to think twice about it and left with them, never leaving Hvitserk’s side. She helped Ivar, Katia and Hvitserk to get Igor out of Kyiv and then she came back to Kattegat with the brothers. She didn’t expect warm welcome, especially when she heard that Gunnhild died. And she was right, people were hostile to her, because they saw her as a traitor. She wasn’t son of Ragnar so people of Kattegat did not forgive her so easily. So when Hvitserk told her that he would like to go with Ivar and Harald to go raiding in Anglia and to defeat young king Alfred, she didn’t hesitate and left Kattegat with both brothers. She was excited about the new adventure and about the new lands, but nothing went as they planned. Alfred won the battle and Ivar was stabbed to death and Hvitserk was seriously injured. They were both standing above Ivar’s grave, Amma was silent and let Hvitserk “speak” with his little brother for the last time.

“You don't know this, but you saved my life so many times. And one day, when we meet again, I can thank you. After all, one way or the other, none of us really lived a simple or ordinary life. And who wants to live an ordinary life? So enjoy Valhalla, brother, while it still exists. We can all see the sky darkening. We can all see the Twilight of the Gods. And I trust to be with you in that great defeat. So, hail and farewell, my brother. I wish I had something important to leave on your grave, but I sold my arm-ring to the drug dealer,” Hvitserk ended his speech sadly and Amma quickly started rummaging in her bag. She quietly walked to Hvitserk and put her small hand on his strong shoulder. He looked at her sadly and she took his hand and put something shining into it. “What is that?” he asked and looked at her in disbelieve. “It’s your arm-ring, my love. I bought it back from the drug dealer. One night I noticed that you no are longer wearing it and I asked you about it. You told me, that you sold it and I went back there and bought it back from that dirty scumbag. I thought that you would like it back one day,” she said softly and gave him a small sad smile. Hvitserk gaped at her, lost for words, feeling another wave of strong love for this little woman. He kissed her hand lovingly, unable to say anything, overwhelmed by his love for her and great sadness of losing his beloved brother.

1 year later

Hvitserk was coming back from one of the successful raids in East Anglia. After Ivar’s funeral he and Amma managed to escape from Alfred and they found safe haven in small kingdom whose king was Ragnar’s old ally and he welcomed his son with open arms. Hvitserk never wanted to be king and rule over lands or to be the most famous Viking who ever lived like Ivar. He wanted to find new lands like Björn when he was younger, but it didn’t interest him anymore. He didn’t want to be a farmer and settler like Ubbe. He wanted a simple Viking life. He wanted to raid, enjoy the rush of a battle, defeat his enemies, gain new lands for his king and after the successful raid go back to his home and find a loving woman inside, waiting for his arrival. He opened the wooden door of his house and smiled happily when Amma jump on her feet, rushing to him as fast as the huge belly allowed her to. “Hello, my love. How was the raid?” she asked him after she welcomed him with a long tender kiss. “Successful, the slaves will bring my share tomorrow. But tell me, how is my little boy doing?” he asked lovingly and gently stroked her belly. “He was a good little boy, but he is like his father, always hungry. I ate almost everything I found here,” she pouted and Hvitserk chuckled happily. “Ok, give me few minutes and I will get you more food from the market,” he winked at her, ready to rush out and buy some food and quickly return back home to her. “No need to rush, my love. Me and little Ivar will wait for you here,” she said softly and he looked at her surprised. “You want to name him Ivar?” he asked her with trembling voice, clearly moved by her suggestion. “If you agree, it would be an honor for our son to be named after his fearless, strong, intelligent uncle, who meant so much for his father,” she said and Hvitserk quickly walked to her and kissed her lovingly, caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. “I love you so much Amma,” he confessed. “I love you too, my sweet Hvitserk,” she smiled happily and her stomach made a loud noise. “Alright, alright, I am going for the food, don’t worry son,” Hvitserk chuckled and left the cabin, happier than any of his family members were in long decades.

#Hvitserk Ragnarsson #hvitserk x amma #Amma vikings #hvitserk fanfiction #marco ilsø #vikings imagine #my writing #Happy Birthday

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brinkofdiscovery · 3 years

Text

Arcane Camden-Cross

The stranger held out his hand. “Aren’t you ready for something new?”

Pirate introduction pirate introduction pirate intr

Contains: Alcohol

The tavern sat in a cloud of smoke and noise, whatever peace could be found on the empty streets outside, there was none of it here. Alexander Shaffer sat alone, a tired sailor comfortable in the anonymity of noise and chaos. The taste of sea salt air was still fresh on his skin and alive in his mind. His most recent contract was over and done with, and the vessel that had brought him in to shore had just as quickly set sail with another crew. He stared down at the half empty mug of ale in front of him and wondered--as he had many times before--whether he would take to the sea again or finally let himself settle into a quiet life on land.

The sound of glass sliding over wood cut through the noise, and a fresh drink was pushed in alongside his half-empty mug. The smell struck him first, light and fresh and honeysweet; it glowed golden in the tavern’s low light. It was mead, the house specialty; he had seen it listed above the bar, but the price had been too steep to even consider. He looked up to the man across the table: a tall, smiling man who didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down.

“I considered wine, but you seemed more like a mead sort of man yourself.” The stranger said. Alexander frowned as thin legs stretched out to prop themselves up on the seat beside him. The stranger reclined in his seat, watching Alexander expectantly. He didn’t respond, and he didn’t reach for the glass in front of him. The stranger continued: “Are you a sailor?”

“Right to business, eh?” He took a long swig of his ale, leaving the honey wine untouched on the table. “I might be. Depends on why you’re asking."

The stranger smiled and raised his eyebrows. “You might be a mead sort of man or you might be a sailor?”

Alexander blinked, unimpressed; he placed his hand over the glass of mead and slowly pushed it back across the table. “I ain’t looking for work right now, mate.”

Deft hands plucked the glass out from under Alexander’s fingers and placed it back down in front of him. The stranger was standing again, leaned in close across the table with his hand resting firmly on the base of the glass. He slowly looked up to Alexander, and held that eye contact as he took his hand away. “You don’t need to be looking for work to enjoy a drink, friend. All I’m asking for is a conversation.”

“A conversation?”

“A conversation.”

Alexander took a slow steady sip of mead and watched over the rim of his glass as the stranger sat back down. “‘Really sounds like you’re getting ready to give me a job offer.”

“Not quite.” The other answered, “I just want to tell you a little bit about myself.”

Alexander shrugged, waving his hand freely as he brought the glass to his lips again. “Alright, talk away. I’ll give ya til I finish.”

“Good choice,” The stranger smiled, he sat forward in his seat with his hands laid out on the table. “I’m a navigator. I work for an impressive little trading vessel. Beautiful Ship, hard working crew, on our way to Middlecave Harbor, if you know it? Just about a week’s travel west.”

Alexander laughed to himself, there wasn’t a sailor worth his salt who didn’t know Middlecave Harbor. It was a beautiful, thriving city, work and riches were easy to find, and you’d be hard pressed to find a sailor willing to turn down a voyage that’d land him there.

“I’m familiar.” He nodded, “What do you carry?”

“Odds and ends.” The stranger answered, “Whatever we can get our hands on. Truth be told, I’ve some personal effects I’m looking to sell in Middlecave if I can find myself the right buyer.”

Alexander hummed, mulling over the stranger’s chatter with another sip of mead. “You’re making yourself sound more like a scavenger.”

“Oh?” The stranger paused, frowning in thought at the implication. “Well, that’s not the word I’d use, but I’ll admit it’s one I’ve heard before.”

“What word would you use?” He studied the stranger from across the table: Thick, black hair and sun soaked skin. With hands just as worn and dirty as you’d expect from someone claiming to be a sailor, but rings and jewelry that shone far brighter than anything an honest sailor would have been able to afford. He knew what he was, and he knew the stranger could tell; he was just giving him an opportunity to confess.

The stranger smiled, “I think you have one in mind.”

Alexander turned his glass towards the ceiling and downed the last of his mead. With a terse nod he set the glass firmly on the table, ignoring the stranger’s wry smile as he stood up and made his way around the table and towards the door.

“Not interested, mate.” He said as he passed, with nothing else but a sturdy clap on the man’s shoulder.

“Now, hold on! Don’t be like that!” The man followed him out of the tavern,fighting past the crowd to catch him just outside in the cold night air.

“I saw you unload off your ship this evening.” He pleaded, “I can tell by the way you carry yourself that you’re good by the sword. Please, our captain is dead and I can’t lead on my own!”

Alexander stopped, turning on his heel to face the other just as he caught up to him. The stranger stopped just short of colliding with him, looking all but ready to fall to his knees and beg.

“I’m not a pirate.” Alexander hissed.

“I’m not asking you to be.” The stranger assured him, “I’m the closest thing my crew has to leadership right now. All I’m good for is navigating; I can’t play the role of intimidating captain, and even if I could I can’t fight off the trouble it’d bring.

“All I’m asking is that you come with us. I’ll do all the heavy lifting, you just sit back and look imposing, give orders, play the role.” His hands were in front of him, clasped tight into a pleading motion as he spoke. “Just come, be an intimidating presence. Take your share of what we make, and you’ll be free to go the second we reach Middlecave!”

“And what if I say no?”

“Then I’ll leave!” The stranger shouted, “I’ll leave, and you’ll stay right here, and you’ll be back on another fishing vessel by the end of week, I’m sure.”

Alexander looked down at him, frustration and anger rising in his chest. He looked up to the docks, to the sails rising high over the tops of buildings. He thought of setting foot on another fishing vessel, the grueling labor, the meager pay, the godawful smell of a fresh haul in the hot midday sun. The pirate was right, he’d return to it all without a second thought, and he’d hate every minute of it.

“But I’ll tell you this,” He spoke again, pulling Alexander’s attention back down to him. “You sail with us? I can promise you won’t ever have to take another fishing job ever again.”

The stranger held out his hand. “Aren’t you ready for something new?”

Alexander hesitated, he stared down at the hand with a dramatic sneer. Once again, he looked out to the furled sails of harbored ships. “When do you set out?”

“Tomorrow morning. Not much time for hesitation.”

Alexander looked back to the man in front of him; the desperation in his eyes had turned into a cold determination. This man was a pirate. A lying, thieving, coward of a sailor. Alexander couldn’t explain why he trusted him.

“Do we have a deal?”

Alexander reached out and took the stranger’s hand with a firm shake, “Alexander Shaffer.”

The stranger finally smiled again, “Call me Arcane.”

#Arcane Camden-Cross #Arcane #Alexander Shaffer #oh captain lets make a deal

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laketaj24 · 4 years

Text

Ransom: Sigtrygrr

Author’s Note: Backkk to the Last Kingdom writing! I love Sigtrygrr, if you haven’t watched season four this doesn’t have any spoilers, but it just shows a new character that is on the Show! My taglist and requests are open! Happy Sunday and Happy reading!

Requested: Could you write a Sigtryggr imagine where the reader is the chieftain's daughter, and sig kidnaps her for ransom. The reader stays in Sigtrygrr's tent for the night, where she tries to kill him in his sleep. But he wakes up and is unnervingly calm about it, and the two have some sort of chemistry. It could be smutty if you like.

Warnings: None, first part of three part series. Sooooo more to come.

Pairing: Sigtrygrr X Reader

The Last Kingdom Masterlist

“If she screams, cut out her tongue. No one is to touch her.” The wild-haired man had a mild voice. It was unsettling. He glanced over at you and smiled. The pristine look of innocence touched his eyes before he gave you a small nod and turned out of the tent. “I will return within the hour.”

It had been a day since the men had stormed your father’s hall and took whatever gold and silver they could get their hands on and then you. It was easier to kidnap and raid when the men were off fighting somewhere, cowards. You sat in the corner eyeing the place for weapons; like most Danes, there was bound to be one lying around here. Nothing. You pushed aside the furs searching for anything, and finally, a small dagger fell onto the floor. Quickly you tucked the leather holster into your shirt. They’d already searched you, the chances of it happening again were slim.

Minutes faded into hours, or at least it felt like once your eyes started to grow weary. You closed your eyes and covered yourself in blankets, and slept sitting up, prepared for whatever they may try.

“Let me see the little bastard.” The slurred voice from outside of the tent boomed.

And now it started, the drunken state of men was sure to make your life a miserable hell, but you didn’t hide, you welcomed the intruder. You’d cut his tongue out and throw it in the face of that asshole who’d threatened you earlier. The tent opened, and the cool breeze brushed in.

“Lie down, you whore.” His face was disgruntled, brow furrowed and eyes glassed over. “Or squirm if you like… I like my women to have some fight in them.” The barrage of chuckles from outside the tent only made your heart beat harder. His belt fell to the floor, and the wool pants he wore started to slip. There he was almost naked from the waist down, and you had no fear. You’d just kill the asshole, and if he took your life, then the valkyries were sure to lead you to the gates of Valhalla.

“Do not touch me. I am Magnusdottir.” He stepped towards you, and you just watched, waited for him to make his move.

“Shut up.” He laughed.

He moved closer to you, and the smell of ale and woods hit your nose. Your stomach riled. You clutched the thick string of the necklace around your throat, Thor’s hammer Mjollnir was given to you by your father when you were younger. He claimed it was carved by Ragnar Lothbrok, it was there for protection. “Allfather,” You whispered. “Give me the strength.”

The spatter of blood hit your face before the drunken man fell back, gurgling his blood. “My instructions were simple.”

“Sigtryggr.” He growled, rolling to his side, cupping the blood that dripped from his mouth. He stood on wavering legs.

“Get some sleep.” Sigtrygrr pulled the chair close to you and took his seat. “Now, Leidolf.”

Leidolf left staggering, and you looked up to your captor. “I am not afraid of you.”

“Of course you are,” He chuckled, poured water into the curved horn, and handed it to you. “Drink.”

You didn’t deny the water, your throat ached from all the screaming earlier in the day. The cool water hit the back of your throat, and you breathed deep before gulping down more. Then your stomach rumbled, you hadn’t eaten in nearly a day.

“You can eat after we talk.” He crossed his legs. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do not.”

“I am Sigtrygrr.” Sigtrygrr placed his large hands on his chest.

“Spare me the introductions.” Upon hearing his name, you knew him, and you knew all about his glorious victories on the battlefield. Sigtrygrr was young and revered throughout Irland and Denmark. But in England he was a no one. He had to make his mark here. This was why he had taken you, a first step into establishing who he was while gaining a stronger following. You were a chest piece.

“And you are Y/N, daughter of the richest and without a doubt the most traitorous man of our people.”

“My father is not treacherous.” He did not interrupt you, he just stared attentively as you continued to talk. “My father has fought in his battles! He wants what is best for his family.”

Nothing. Sigtrygrr smiled, and the silence filled the room. “What do you want for me?” The silence in the closed area made it easy for him to hear the protests of your empty stomach.

“I want nothing from you; I only wish to broker a trader with your father.” He clapped his hands. “Leidolf, bring her some food. Her stomach continues to talk louder in this conversation than either of us.”

You scoffed. “I’d rather eat at home.”

“Or you can starve?”

“Fine.”

He took the plate from Liedolf and handed it to you. And you scarfed down the food, satisfied with the portions that he gave you. “Tell me about North Umbria?”

“I know nothing of it.”

“Your father conquered more than half of its lands. I know you know of it.” He perched back in the chair, raising the front legs from the ground. “I like conversing, so if you were honest with me, this would flow better.”

“It seems that you know more than enough.”

“Fine, we don’t have to talk. Sleep.” In a fluid motion, he took the plate and tossed it outside. “Tomorrow, your father is likely to arrive, and then we can decide which limb to toss to him.” He smiled and laid back on the pallet of blankets. “Sleep well.”

It didn’t take much time for Sigtrygrr to find sleep, the soft snores came from him within an hour. The darkness had swept over the camp. From the shadows, you could see the two guards at the entrance. Sigtrygrr was trusting or dumb. The sword at the side of the bed could easily be used to impale him while he slept. You cared less if he was polite or not, you wanted to return home.

Climbing onto the pallet, you moved stealthily, avoiding contact with him until you were over him with the steel of the dagger pressed to the nape of his neck. His eyes opened, not shocked, frightened, or even nervous. His eyes appeared welcoming. “This knife belonged to my father.” He whispered. “With it, he cut the eyes out of 100 Saxons and fed them to the ravens.” Sigtrygrr cleared his throat. “He said their eyes were not worthy of him, arrogant and confident he returned the heads to King Ecbert… and screamed at his gates for a worthy adversary.”

“I prefer not to hear the old tales of your father.”

“Well,” He easily pushed your hand from his neck. “If you were to kill me… I’d be disappointed you chose this dagger to do it. I am a worthy adversary of your father… this death would be unfair.” He said with a smirk. He reached for the weighted sword and handed it to you. “Here you are.”

It wasn’t fair; even with no weapon, Sigtrygrr had found a way to win a quarrel. You tossed the sword to the ground. “I do not think you honorable.”

“Good, that surely was not my intention.”

“Why are you doing this? Ambition, fame? Neither is worth it.”

“A man with no ambition hasn’t a right to be called a man at all. Now, if you’re antics are of Magnusdottir. I’d like to sleep.”

Even in the darkness, you could see the grin on his face. The youthfulness of Sigtrygrr was only in looks, his intellect gave him years of advantages you’d never seen.

Tags: @ceridwenofwales @whenimaunicorn @titty-teetee @supernaturalvikingwhore @geekandbooknerd @captstefanbrandt @pokeasleepingsmaug @carlya65 @therealcalicali @sparklemichele @earthsmightiestasses @stardustnthings @dangerousvikings @greennightspider @awesomerextyphoon @allonesharingonebreath @rabeccablake @savismith @kittybites-94 @naaladareia @umnoyeahno @riottkatt @ariellostatci @funmadnessandbadassvikings @marvelousthronewars @thevikingsheaux @prettythingsworld @miahelizaaabeth

#the last kingdom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom fandom #sigtrygrr ivarsson #sigtryggr #sigtrygrr x reader #sigtrygrr x y/n #sigtrygrr x you #lets be danes #laketa j writes

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starrysnowdrop · 3 years

Text

A Shred of Hope

Yume Aino x Cid Garlond; Mentions of @otherworldseeker’s Severia x Nero

1,460 Words

Content/Trigger Warnings: Alcoholism, Mentions of Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Talk of Character Death, Mentions of Death of Unborn Child (AKA: Highly Sensitive Material)

A Conversation between Cid and Nero following the Eighth Umbral Calamity; Inspired by rereading the Tales from the Shadows’ short story “A World Forsaken”

At the edge of civilization, in the town square of one of the few remaining settlements, stood a non-imposing stone facade directly across from one of the last standing aetherytes in the wake of the calamity and the aftermath.

Late into the night, a tall blond man crossed the rather empty town square, walked up the small stone steps, and knocked on the wooden door. The man got no answer, but knew that the one he was looking for was not likely to respond anyway.

Shrugging his shoulders, he pushed the heavy, wooden door open. There were pieces of broken magitek armor and empty containers that once held ceruleum strewn about on the floor of the large open space in front of him.

The blond man looked across the way and spotted his target: a white haired man with a white beard, shorter and brawnier in stature than himself, was sitting at a desk, scattered papers and books in front of him. Only the light from a lantern on the desktop and the roaring fireplace nearby illuminated the man’s face, which even at that distance, it was clear that he had tears running down his cheeks.

As he approached, the blond saw what his counterpart was holding in his hands: a half empty bottle of ale in one and his trademark pair of goggles in the other.

Nero shook his head in exasperation. “Garlond, are you trying to drink yourself to an early grave?”

Not bothering to turn towards him, Cid took a swig of his ale. “What’s the point of living now?”

The white haired Garlean then slammed the bottle onto the wooden desktop, the sound echoing throughout the near empty workshop.

Cid’s lip quivered as he fought back more tears. “You bloody well know that I have nothing left! She is gone... our child never lived to see even one day... I have no future... no future that I wish to see.”

He finally looked back to Nero, his once shining silver eyes now seemed to dull to a cloudy grey. “I don’t want to live in a world without her in it. I won’t, I won’t do it!”

“If you truly beg for death, why haven’t you done so already?” Nero shrugged as he sat in a nearby chair, one leg crossed over the other. “Surely you have a gun at your disposal around your workshop that you could put to your head and end it all? Why do you hesitate?”

Cid looked towards the ground and chuckled. “Is this your idea of pushing me to do it? You wish to get the last laugh and finally see my demise?”

“You truly think so low of me? Nay, I was merely making an observation. Perhaps you haven’t given up all hope quite yet,” Nero pointed his finger at Cid, smirking while he leaned back further into his chair.

Cid looked over at Nero with a scowl. “Maybe so, or perhaps I’m just a coward and can’t get the job done.”

With a heavy sigh, Cid leaned back in his chair and looked straight upwards. “Yume deserved better. Hells, every single one of them deserved better. All the Scions and Warriors of Light did was fight for the innocent, tried to make the world a better place. Now, look at it all!”

Cid reached once more for the bottle of ale and gulped down the remaining contents before speaking again. “Maybe it was best that our child died with her... who would want their child to grow up and witness this hellscape?”

The blond sat upright and stared at Cid with a knowing look in his eyes. “Garlond, I understand you want to just drown yourself in the booze from your bottle. Many nights I do the same, whenever I think about...” Nero then closed his eyes, fighting to bury the emotions that threatened to reach the surface.

“Severia, I know...” Cid responded.

After a moment of silence between them, Nero shook his head and once again returned to his characteristic smugness. “But, you still have records of all your previous research, correct? The Crystal Tower, Alexander, and Omega?”

“Well, of course I bloody do! Though I may be a broken man, I surely still have my wits enough to preserve all the Ironworks’ research! What are you getting at?”

Nero rolled his eyes and shrugged, annoyed at how dim the intelligent man sitting across from him can be at times. “If you want to just give up and be with your wife and child in the next life, then I won’t stop you. But if you have any shread of hope left, why won’t you put down the damned bottle and figure out a way to fix all this?!”

Cid slammed the now empty bottle once again down on the wood of the desk in frustration. “Damn it Nero! Don’t you think I’ve mulled over the findings over and over again?! To develop the technology necessary to travel back in time, it would take much longer than our full lifetimes to accomplish such a feat! What’s the damned point?!”

Sighing, Nero stood up swiftly and looked down at Cid with a face that held a mix of pity and conceit. “Well then, if you won’t figure out a way to reverse the calamity, I’ll just have to take your research and do it myself,” he boasted as he tapped on his puffed up chest. “Then I will take all the credit! Your choice, Garlond.”

Cid didn’t look up at the boastful blond man, but instead longingly stared down at the goggles he still held in his hand. Even Nero’s taunting did not snap Cid out of his trance.

Nero dropped his head as he walked back towards the door in defeat. As he opened the door and stepped over the threshold, he looked back to Cid with a frown. He spoke with a quieter tone, just loud enough to be heard, “If you decide to pull yourself together and do something productive, you know where to find me.”

And with that, the door closed and Cid was left alone with only his booze, the scattered remains of the Ironworks’ legacy on his desk and covering the floors of his nearly bare workshop, and his memories of what once was the life he so cherished.

Though it only seemed like minutes to him, Cid guessed that several hours must have passed, due to the numbing pain he felt throughout his stiffened body. He looked down at the goggles that he still held in his hand while he, once more, relived several joyous moments of the last few years of his life.

Moments later, he shook his head to refocus on the present. With a deep breath, Cid reattached the goggles to his third eye and stood upright. As he tried to take a step, he wobbled back and forth but balanced himself after a few seconds and began walking through the rubble on the floor of his workshop. His head was pounding as if a sledgehammer was being smashed against it, but he knew he had to get out of the workshop where he had secluded himself for weeks now.

As he pushed open the large, wooden door, Cid had to squint from just how bright it was outside. After his eyes adjusted to the change in luminosity, he looked around the town square of Revenant’s Toll, but as usual, the streets remained nearly empty. The sky was tinted with striking purple and pink hues while a flock of birds flew by, high above Cid’s head.

The birds instantly brought him back to happier times, back to when she was by his side. He genuinely smiled for the first time since before the calamity, before Black Rose stole his family from him. It was as if he was hit with a sudden realization, as if his mind made its way through the fog.

“Yume, my little bird... you have flown so far. You never gave up. Even with your last breaths, you died fighting, didn’t you?”

Cid nodded as he stood up just a little bit taller. “Perhaps I should follow your example.”

The white haired Garlean then removed his black glove from his left hand and glanced down at the golden band still wrapped around his finger with tears forming in his overcast eyes. “Even if I never see you again in this life, I might be able to save you in some reality... in another world, we can be together. Maybe then our child would have lived as well... and we would be happy.”

Cid looked towards the rising sun on the horizon with a newfound dedication, with renewed purpose. “That’s worth fighting for, isn’t it?”

#my writing #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv fanfiction #cid garlond x wol #cid x wol #cid nan garlond #cid garlond #Nero x wol #nero tol scaeva #nero scaeva #severia x nero #yume aino #oc: paint it black #yume x cid #otp: always you

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ecccentrick · 3 years

Text

Jaskier Should Really Listen To Geralt pt. 2

Pt.1 || Pt. 3 || Ao3

This is my last writing post here, since I now have a writing blog @eccentrick-ramblings. Prompts and requests are open.

Jaskier had many talents. He could sing, write, dance, play multiple instruments, and was something of a scholar, if did say so himself. But one talent that was known but was hardly spoken of in polite company was the one that was going to get him out of this situation alive.

He was going to slut it up.

Making himself relax back into the bed, he slid one of his hands through the monster’s thick hair, humming as though content with the current state of things. The creature’s hand of steel relaxed minutely against Jaskier’s stomach and he forced himself not to take a shuddering breath, instead breathing from his diaphragm.

“So you’re one of those, huh?” Jaskier asked, letting his voice go slightly rough.

The monster stiffened.

“Of what?”

Jaskier widened his legs. The beast nestled deeper between them, his whole upper body splaying across Jaskier’s. He tried not to take that as the threat it surely was.

Turning his head so that his lips brushed against the monster’s ear at every syllable, he said, “Hm, one of those men who enjoys roleplay of the, uh, should I say, unconventional sort? Can’t say I’ve come across too many, but I’m always willing to give things a try.”

The beast pulled back from Jaskier’s neck to stare into his eyes, like he was going to ask if Jaskier was truly that dumb and horny. And Jaskier could hear Geralt’s reply in his mind, yes.

Wait. Geralt.

Shit.

Okay, so Jaskier had a new idea. He wouldn’t just deescalate the situation like previously planned, stall until Geralt came back empty handed and frustrated. Jaskier would actually have to save himself this time. And, now that he thought about it, the rest of the residents of the inn.

He was beginning to realize why Geralt was so crotchety all the damn time.

Something in the monster’s eyes changed, a dawning understanding and anticipation. It was feral and raw and Jaskier met it with one of his own, shifting his hips up. He almost had it.

With one hand still in its hair, he trailed the other up its torso, gently touching its sides, before getting to its shoulder blades, fingertips clenching the muscle and bone there, digging his fingernails in hard enough that if it were a human, there would surely be marks left behind.

“What is it you have in mind?” The beast slurred his words, despite having only one watered down ale that evening.

The hand holding Jaskier down raised up, higher and higher, until it came around his neck, a soft shackle. His heart beat double time, and he sucked in a breath that he could still blessedly take, for now.

His mind blanked for a few seconds, because, to be completely honest, this beast was hitting all of Jaskier’s buttons. If this man were a human, they would surely get up to some great fun. Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Geralt. Geralt leaning over him, Geralt holding him down, Geralt’s calloused and scarred hand around his neck, holding him in place, stealing his breath.

Without having the feign a moan, Jaskier said, “Well, why don’t you chase me?” he dug his nails in deeper. “Capture me. Hunt me down.”

The beast sucked in a harsh breath and Jaskier knew he had him, once and for all. Better or for worse.

“Perhaps I should give you a head start?” the monster asked. “But you’d have to be quiet, not wake anyone up. Wouldn’t want anyone to be in the crosshairs of a hunt, now would you?”

The creaking of the stairs almost did him in.

The innkeeper had muted the lights in the dining area, leaving them only bright enough to cast shadows and create a sense of unease. Or perhaps that was because he had a beast after him, coming for his blood. Literally.

He tried to move quietly. The steps creaked. That small sound, so inconsequential, made him realize all that was at stake. The innkeeper, who now most likely slept in the kitchen so her guests could have the rooms, the father and child that were staying in the room next to his, and the orange cat that liked to slink around guests' ankles...their lives were all in jeopardy, and only Jaskier being a good little lamb to slaughter might save them.

What the beast didn’t know was that the lamb intended to lead it to its end.

He opened the door slowly, silently. Fresh air filled his lungs, crisp and cool. The moon was high in the sky, lighting the way for Jaskier, his socked feet kicking up dust as he went from a slow creep to a desperate sprint in a span of seconds.

The village was close to a forest, and knowing it was the best place for cover, Jaskier ran for it. Once treetops came overhead, he stopped for a quick breather and to orient himself.

Geralt always told Jaskier what direction he’d be going in on any hunt. It wasn’t always that way; the bard searching and finding an overdosed witcher next to a dead leshen after he failed to arrive back at the tavern set that to rights. Luckily Jaskier had memorized Geralt’s potions long ago, or he’d be dead and buried.

Geralt had told him he was heading southwest, which was. . .which way was it? He was fucked, wasn’t he? And not even by a deathless death like all scandalous bards want to go out.

“Okay, let’s see. Eeny, meene, miny. . .moe! This way then.”

He dashed in that direction, heading deeper into the woods. He ran until his legs burned, until the wagon roads gave way to deer tracks, until there was nothing but trees, brush and silence. Not even an owl dared to hoot. The monster was here coming for him.

Jaskier took a deep breath, filling his lungs to their capacity. And then, in that creepy quiet, he screamed.

“GERALT! GERALT! GERALLLT IT’S AFTER MEEEE!”

Waiting only a beat, Jaskier continued his flight. There was no sign of the grumpy witcher, and he just gave away his ruse. Perhaps the fear had addled his mind. He should’ve been sneakier, hid in a hollow tree stump, or something. Taken his perfume bottle with him and doused a trail of potent fragrance behind each step. But, then, the monster could follow that too. Hell, even a particularly observant human would’ve been able to trace him; he always bought the strong stuff.

“DAMMIT!”

He was soon lost, hopelessly and completely. The lights from the village had long since dimmed and he didn’t know which way was the way back. At least if the monster got to him, the others might be spared until Geralt could find it and kill it. His death wouldn’t be in vain. Perhaps he’d even become a local hero.

A branch to his left cracked. A rustling, then a growl. Footsteps, and then the monster revealed himself, moving from shadows and into the moonlight. It was a great entrance, the bard had to give him that. Points for the dramatics. At the very least, Jaskier wouldn’t die a boring death.

“It’s as I thought. You were running to your witcher. I’d be angry, but that’ll make this more interesting.”

Jaskier grit his teeth. “You’re awfully arrogant for a monster in the sights of a witcher. The White Wolf. You’ll be dead by morning and Geralt and I will be walking the Path again.”

The beast came closer, his steps measured and sure. Suddenly, he was at Jaskier’s side, a hand at his delicate neck and another on his right shoulder. Back, back, back the monster pushed him, until he hit the nearest tree, bark digging into his exposed neck. He squeezed Jaskier’s neck, bringing a wheeze from the bard’s lips.

“Why. . .” the hand tightened and the longing to cough almost made him gag, “Why me?”

“Because of your blood, it smells so rare, so fine. None of these backwater hicks taste of anything but the dirt under my boots. But you. . .such fresh nectar.”

“Th-That’s a little insulting,” he took a harsh gulp of air, and it whistled in his throat. “That you- only - wanted me - my blood - not my - da-dashing good-”

“Enough, Jaskier. Save your breath.”

“G-Ger-”

His back, once against rough bark, was now against a hard chest. And there was that band of steel around his neck. Air fought to get into his lungs, and his voice demanded to be heard but he couldn’t talk, couldn’t make the words form on his lips. Eyes bulged and the skin of his face heated. He was being strangled, and instead of a thoughtless tumor it was at the will of someone who chose to steal his breath until he had none left.

Soft hands tore against steel. Feet dug into earth, kicked and scrambled, never meeting anything solid besides the ground. Reason fled his mind, and he was just a vessel. A vessel that wanted free.

“Jaskier, stay calm!” Geralt’s voice reached his ears, echoing. Oh, there was still some hope. He might survive.

“So I see that you’re a coward,” Geralt said.

Jaskier was about to be offended until the beast spoke.

“You’re trying to appeal to my ego. You do care for this bard, then?”

Geralt was all wobbly and misty, like he was made of liquid bones. His eyes were black, veins a dark gray. Jaskier tried to squint, rapidly blink, but he wouldn’t stay put, wouldn’t go back to normal.

His throat ached.

“Let the bard go. He played his part of the bait, now let him go and we can end this. You...you hunt and kill the weak and expect not to be confronted? Take a hostage, a meat shield. Pathetic and cowardly.”

“I don’t think I’m going to do that. I’m probably all of those things, now that I think about it, and I don’t rightly care. Now, can’t you see I’m celebrating a holiday? The moon is full.”

“Higher vampire. Shit.”

The vampire laughed and that’s when things got fuzzy for Jaskier. He wanted to come out of his skin, wanted to be able to see clearly. His heart felt like it wanted to gallop out of his chest and race Roach.

“You know what? I’ll just save this for later.”

A prickling sensation started at his side and spread, tendrils of numbness. It quickly became a burning feeling and with it came air, blessed air. The ground met his body. The steel band was gone.

He took a few moments to catch his breath. Each gulp of air felt like swallowing hot coals, his lungs screaming. Once clarity disrupted the fog over Jaskier’s mind he trailed a shaking hand to his side. It came back sticky with blood. He glanced up and saw the vampire lick long, protruding claw-like nails.

In the wise words of Geralt of Rivia, fuck.

#geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #gerlion #the witcher #witcher #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #rainy writes

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navigatrixnarrations · 3 years

Text

Sometimes Always Part 3: Thieves Like Us

Part 1

Part 2

The third chapter of a canon divergent kind-of fix-it set after Season 3. In which the past does not stay silent. You may recognize part of it from a Six-Sentence Sunday.

Warnings: brawling, mentions of hanging and gunshots

Word Count: 2231

The two fighters circle each other in their makeshift ring on the docks, stripped to the waist despite the chill night air. In the smoky torchlight, the scene could almost be a pirate camp. Margaret has woven her way to the front of the gathered crowd of bettors. She’s put coin on Vane, partly out of loyalty, partly because she remembers what a magnificent brawler he was. The other fighter is the clear local favorite; unlike Vane, he’s well-known in the area. He’s half a head taller than Vane and outweighs him as well, and he’s fast and strong, but Vane fights with a savage intensity, feral glee in his eyes at the challenge and the rush of it. And his technique and tactics are far better. Vane dodges the lighting-fast combination of punches thrown at him, getting in close to land blows of his own. It isn’t long before Vane’s ferocious onslaught has the other fighter down for the count. Yes, Vane is still magnificent, standing victorious in the center of the ring, sweat gleaming on his broad chest, long hair barely mussed, breath steaming in the cold. His piercing blue stare meets hers, and Margaret feels her pulse quicken. How does the bloody man manage to swagger while standing still?

Beside her, the merchant who’d been trying to chat her up during the fight notices the heavy look she and Vane are exchanging. He mumbles an excuse about how he “didn’t realize you were here to watch your man”, and hurries away as Vane approaches.

My man, Margaret thinks sourly. No, her man had brown eyes and a broad, easy grin. Her man never let anyone or anything come between them. Her man is at the bottom of the sea.

After Sully died, would-be suitors circled her like sharks. Most simply wanted an in with her father. Some were other pirates. Some were so-called respectable men, with their soft hands and their willingness to let others do their dirty work. She chased them all off with sharp words, and on at least one occasion, at the point of a pistol.

“Your friend didn’t want to meet me?” Vane’s raspy growl brings her back to the present.

“Alas, he wasn’t the sociable type.”

“Pity.” Vane’s right arm tremors ever so slightly as he puts on his shirt, and Margaret finds herself grateful that he’s left-handed. She assists him into his coat, briskly, before he can object. Back in Nassau, it took her too long to get a clear shot as Vane’s face turned purple and his body convulsed at the end of the rope. She prays to a god she is not entirely sure she believes in, for reasons she is entirely unwilling to name, that the delay didn’t cause him permanent injury.

They collect their respective winnings and make their way to a nearby tavern, less rowdy than some and known for its food and its anonymity. Margaret forces herself not to react when her leg brushes against his under the table.

“Do you think it’s wise, drawing attention to yourself like you did prize-fighting?”

“Hiding in plain sight.” The corner of Vane’s mouth quirks upward. “And you wagered on me.”

Margaret gives him an extravagant shrug. “Of course I did. I’m a chancer.”

“Ever the proper pirate.” There is nothing mocking in his tone or his face.

“These past couple of years, smuggling is where most of the work has been.”

“You mean after Sully…”

She cuts him off. “Yes.” She wants to snarl at him to keep Sully’s name out of his mouth, but there was a time when Vane and Sully called each other brother and meant it. She can’t begrudge him any grief he might be feeling, nor curiosity.

He raises his mug of ale to hers. “To Sully. And to thieves like us.” They both drink deep.

Their food arrives. Vane examines the bread that came with their oyster stew. “They’ve picked off all the weevils.”

Margaret smiles slightly, in spite of herself. “I’ll fetch you some, if you like.” An old joke. It’s all too easy to fall into old jokes. Margaret had extra duty once again for mouthing off at her father, and she was missing her meal because of it. She sat on the fighting top watching for sails, too proud to admit hunger or apologize, and Charles climbed up to bring her water ration, some dried meat, and some hard tack, though he’d have gotten in trouble himself if the captain caught him. She picked up a piece of the hard tack and examined it. “You picked off all the weevils.”

He gave her a cheeky grin. “I’ll fetch you some, if you like.” She started to laugh, but forced herself to be silent lest the sound draw attention to them, to the fact that he’d bent the rules for her. That bastard of a quartermaster, Israel Hands, already had it out for the both of them. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him to have another go at Charles.

She tells herself there’s no harm in reminiscing about the boy he was, with his rough voice and his rough demeanor and his tender heart that he tried so hard to hide.

That rough voice is quiet, even confessional. “All my life, there were consequences for wanting things. The taskmasters would take anything they thought we wanted, just to show us that they could. The bigger slaves would take from the smaller, and I was the youngest and smallest of all. So I learned it was safer not to tell, not to show, if I was to have any chance of keeping anything I wanted.” Vane almost sounds as though he’s thinking aloud, but he’s watching her face intently as though willing her to understand something he can’t quite bring himself to say. “Then she did more of the same, taking away anything she even thought I might want, just to prove she could.” There is no doubt as to who she is. Is Vane expressing regret? Trying to explain?

“There are also consequences for not asking for what you want.” She meant to sound arch, but it comes out harsh.

He looks down for a moment then fixes Margaret with a grave stare from beneath his brow. “So I’ve learned.”

The silence hangs thick as a fog bank. Margaret focuses on finishing her meal; it’s easier than focusing on the man across from her.

“I’m sailing for Nassau. Come with me.”

Margaret looked askance at her father. “Why would you ever want to return to that shithole? It’s nothing but backstabbers and cowards.”

“To get Charles out of there. They put a price on his head” he replied.

“He made his choices. He can live with them. Or die with them.” Margaret wanted to sound cold, wanted to be cold, but the ice in her voice sounded unconvincing, even to her ears. Why should the very thought of Charles still have the power to wound her like this, a decade later? What had ever been between them other than a few kisses, some confidences shared?

“I could use your skills, Margaret.”

“Yes, you could. But you’ll have to do without.”

He looks up from the brace of pistols he’s loading. “You think admitting you still care for him would be disloyal to Sully.” When she didn’t answer he continued. “Margaret, when your mother died I was ill-equipped to raise a daughter. You were so young and so angry, and her loss annihilated us both. All those wives, I was trying to replace what couldn’t be replaced. What I had with her.”

“All those wives were because you wanted a son.” This time he didn’t respond. “I’m glad you don’t further insult me by denying it,” she said grimly.

His nostrils flared but his voice stayed calm. Overly calm. “I loved your mother. I still love your mother. I’ve loved some of my other wives, each in different ways.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s possible for you to still love Sully and for that to be irreplaceable, and for you to love Charles as well.” He paused. “I must say I was surprised you didn’t choose him back then.”

“It wasn’t up to me,” she snapped. Damnation, he got her to admit it. If Charles had asked her to be with him, she would have said yes, without hesitation and without regret. But he didn’t, and Sully did. It was a good marriage, a happy one, right until the moment his brain ran out on the deck beside her.

“Will you be here when I return?”

“I’ll be here. But I don’t want to see him.” She turned to leave.

From behind her, her father's voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I wish you’d reconsider, for your own sake.” She left. The notorious Blackbeard, suddenly worried about her loneliness? This must be what going mad feels like.

“And people say I’m terse.” Vane’s teasing purr interrupts her thoughts. He’s trying to lift the pall that’s fallen between them.

Margaret risks a glance at his face. “I’ve been alone for a few years now. I’ve grown accustomed to it.” She drains the rest of her ale and slaps the mug down on the table.

“Surely you’ve no shortage of contenders.” His voice is still as light as the gravel in it allows, but his eyes remain serious.

“Perhaps.” A few days ago, she’d have said not a chance. Damn him. She sees him grit his teeth, the muscle flexing in his jaw. She stands. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He puts coins on the table and follows her. Outside, the clouds hang low and there is a sharp bite in the air. Snow is on the way.

She leads him to the back of the town, where the docks are even rougher and the respectable trades do well to avoid. To call the place a shipyard would be to flatter it, but it’s a yard and series of wharves where vessels of various types and in various states of repair are moored. She takes him to a sleek eight-gun sloop, built for speed and maneuverability, sitting in what might generously be termed dry dock. Recognition dawns on his face. “I haven’t seen a sloop like her since the last time I was on Ocracoke. Is that --”

Margaret completes his sentence. “The Adventure, yes. The old girl took a beating, but she’ll be seaworthy again soon enough.” At his look of consternation, she adds “Yes, I was on Ocracoke.”

He furrows his brows. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I didn’t want you to know.”

“Take him, and get the fuck off my beach,” her father snarled. Turning to Margaret, who had witnessed the entire duel while hidden in the crowd, had started pushing her way to the front and was readying herself to throw her body between them before Charles threw down his sword, “Go after him, girl. Keep him alive.” At her dubious expression, he leaned in to add “Promise me you’ll try!” She nodded. By day’s end, she was sailing for Nassau. The Adventure was fast, but she arrived too late to prevent Charles’s capture…

“When she’s repaired,” he starts, then stops, his face a question.

“When she’s repaired, I intend to leave on her. No idea where the fuck I’ll go.” She looks away from him, studying the currents, weighing something in her mind, then turns to face him head-on. “Come with me?”

Vane’s thin lips part in surprise, and Margaret braces for the impact of his answer. He regains a grip on his composure, and smirks. “How am I expected to deny such a request.”

Margaret cocks one hip out, puts a hand on it, raises an eyebrow. “You’re not.”

They grin at each other as the first flakes begin to fall. Side by side, they make their way back to the garret.

Vane stands with one arm braced against the window frame, still in his coat, watching the snow dance and swirl beyond the panes. Maragaret finds herself touched by his expression of wonder. He’s always been gruff, his default expression becoming even stonier in the years since she’d last seen him. Seeing him wide-eyed and earnest soothes something in her. He’s still there, the Charles she was once so close with.

He stretches out an arm to enfold her in the coat as well, pulling her close. She leans into him, if only to savor his warmth. She still fits as though she belongs there, tucked beneath his arm.

“I’ve never seen snow before,” he admits. So many firsts with her. First taste of freedom. First time over the side. First kiss, clumsy and nervous and sweet as could be. And now, snow.

His hand comes to rest at the spot where the musket ball ripped through her side all those years ago. “Margaret, I…” he breaks off.

Her voice is soft. Matter-of fact, but soft. “I’d do it again if I had to. Even now, after everything, I’d do it again.” She extricates herself from under his arm, then pauses to press her lips to his temple. “Good night, Charles.”

Her door shuts. He takes a deep, unsteady breath and wills his heart to slow its breakneck pace. On the other side of the door, she does the same.

#sometimes always fic #charles vane fic #black sails fanfiction #black sails fic #charles vane x oc

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 4 years

Text

oh, but you’re good to me

the wench and the witcher

"oh, but you’re good to me”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Black!OFC - Zahra Auberel. Platonic!Jaskier x Zahra.

Summary: Midaëte brings the height of summer, and a reconciliation.

Warnings: Rated Mature due to brief mention of sex. Please don’t interact if you are under the age of 18.

A/N: Well, what started as a simple reader insert character grew into a fully-formed OC through the course of this series. And now we have reached the end! Well, mostly. I have some random outtakes and drabbles that I’m sure will crop up, but my (eventual) multi-chapter will feature Geralt and Zahra as they navigate some... interesting magical developments.

But, for now, I call this the end of The Wench and The Witcher. Thank you guys so much for your kind words, reblogs, likes - this is honestly the most I’ve written in years and knowing that y’all have enjoyed it warms the cockles of my heart. Title and lyrics under the cut from Hozier’s “Would That I” which I think might be my favorite Hozier song full-stop, hands down.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty - @wastingmypotential - @inber

With each love I cut loose, I was never the same Watching still-living roots be consumed by the flame I was fixed on your hand of gold Layin' waste to my lovin' long ago

“Contracts from the butcher and the miller,” Lucja rattles off. “And Jaskier returned your message – says he’s very much looking forward to performing for the solstice festival.”

She gives a hum as she thumbs through the stack of papers on the desk. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, as well,” she teases.

Lucja’s pretty round face goes pink, making her employer grin. The older woman pauses when she finds an unfamiliar piece of folded parchment among the stack of invoices. Slim brown fingers unfold the sharply folded letter and suddenly her heart is in her throat. “Lucja… where did this come from?”

“Oh… it, ah, came with Jaskier’s reply. Do you want me to get rid of it?”

Though half-tempted to let Lucja burn the letter, she bites her lip and shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “Thank you, Lu’ – that will be all.”

Her young barmaid flashes a sympathetic smile and closes the door behind her. The neatly looped scrawl of the letter makes something around her heart ache. She’d always been surprised by how tidy the Witcher’s handwriting was:

I don’t

This isn’t what

I’m not – fucking shit fuck

The first time I saw you, it was like walking into the light of the sun after half a lifetime in the cold. And it was so fucking cold that night.

You were like summer.

It’s cold again now, without you. I don’t know what I’m doing

Two weeks later:

I wanted want wanted to bring you to see Kaer Mohren. I know you said you like the ocean more than the mountains, but I think this place could change your mind. You would get on with Eskel like a house on fire. He’s more of a southerner, like you.

I told him about the time you tried to teach me to cook and he nearly pissed himself laughing.

Lambert’s a shit. Vesemir already likes you.

You’d like it here. The kitchen is nearly as big as the whole front room of the tavern. Library’s bigger.

Garden’s a fucking nightmare, though.

We could go to the ocean, too. Anywhere you want.

The missives don’t come with any real regularity. A few at a time, a week-long gap, but they never stop. She thinks about writing back, at first, but deciphering where the Witcher is would likely be impossible and… gods, she’s still so damned angry. The White Wolf receives no reply.

Regardless, the letters keep coming.

The thing is, I don’t know what else there is besides The Path - this life of slaying monsters and getting paid in coin. I was told that was all I needed and I believed it for a very long time. There was nothing to challenge that, not until I met you.

You were are so fucking beautiful. And warm, and bright, and vulgar, and kind, and a pain in my ass and I should have told you how much you meant to me, but I couldn’t parse it out until just now, and I am an idiot. And a coward. I thought that telling myself you were an amusement would be enough, that I would be content with warming your bed, but I can’t do that anymore. I can’t keep lying about how much I need you.

I need you, Zee. It feels like I’m missing my fucking sword arm.

The words on the page blur together. She brushes them with her fingertips, almost smiling even as the tears catch in her lashes:

I miss the way you laugh at Jaskier’s dirty songs.

I miss the way you used my legs to keep your feet warm at night.

I miss that fucking rabbit stew.

I miss the way you’d look at me when I walked in the door.

I miss the sounds you make when I’m inside of you. The way you taste.

I miss your eyes. And your smile.

Your voice. Your terrible fucking singing.

You are my home. You’re my harbor and my safe haven.

I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

---

Midaëte approaches. With it, a week’s worth of festivities, and food and drink, leading up to the day of the solstice. It means early mornings in the kitchen and late nights in the tavern. The evenings are balmy, windows and doors thrown open to allow the scent of summer air and night-blooming flowers to drift through.

For a time, she is so busy that she forgets to be heartsore. Geralt’s letters – page after yellowing page – sit tied with a gold ribbon in her desk drawer. Confessions and apologies, promises and rambling stories that she keeps picking up to read again and again. It’s a veritable book, more than he’d ever seen fit to say in person and she’s not sure whether to be infuriated or hopeful, but there’s barely time. Thank the gods.

Business booms, between trades-folk coming in for the market day, then musicians, then families. She drinks a little, dances when there is time; she lets Lucja weave tiny yellow purple flowers into her hair for Midaëte Eve and dresses in white and yellow to enjoy the evening. Or try to, at least. The main room is full almost to bursting, patrons laughing, carousing, and eventually spilling out into the courtyard to dance in the falling dusk.

Zahra watches from the doorway. A few try to tempt her into the circle for a reel and they receive a grateful smile with her refusal. Jaskier, however, will not be deterred.

“You, dear lady,” he croons. “Look too lovely to be hiding in the shadows.”

“Jas…”

“One dance. Just one �� you might even have fun by mistake.”

She rolls her eyes, but the bard just grins and lifts her hand for a kiss. He leads her, hand-in-hand out to the courtyard; Jaskier gives a nod to his fellow players and they begin with a sharp beat that eases into a lovely, familiar melody.

“You know this one, ducky?” Jaskier queries with a smile. She nods and he takes the lead.

It’s a simple step, to start with. A sweet back and forth to match the sweet, flowing verse of the song. The touch of Jaskier’s hand on her low back offers guidance, keeps her moving in gentle circles around him until the real movement begins. Swinging, agile steps carry Zahra and her partner around in wide loops. The mingle with other dancers, threading hands to spin back together and then apart.

Jaskier grips her waist across the front, and she follows suit. The dizzying spin turns the world into a wash of summer colors for a moment and she can’t help but laugh. It feels good to be light again.

The bard turns her under his arm and into the hands of the next man. There’s a moment of hesitation, a moment where she considers bowing out and going back to her corner, but the tabor still thrums in her blood and it’s such a beautiful night.

Still smiling, she curtsies, and is lead back through the steps again. Her partner leads easily, light of foot and loose of tongue – from her ale, more like than not – but he’s kind, and sweet, and so funny that she’s nearly in tears when she’s suddenly spun away to her next partner. She catches the fabric of her skirts to add a flourish to the spin; the soft yellow cotton dances with her.

When spins to a stop, she sees black, at first. Matte black buttons, black tunic shirt – worn, but cleaner than it usually is. The silver wolf’s head medallion sparks in the torchlight.

Zahra looks up into the face of Geralt of Rivia and the music goes dull behind the roar of blood in her ears. It feels a bit like standing on a ledge cliff and looking down to gauge the fall. She feels dizzy, and terrified, and wonderfully breathless. Heart in her mouth, she spies Jaskier out of the corner of her eye.

The bard grins. Bastard.

“Zahra…”

The Witcher’s voice rumbles through her like soft summer thunder. Strong fingers grip hers, and he lifts her knuckles to his lips. His honey-gold eyes are more earnest and honest than she’s ever seen them – he asks the question without moving his lips. Zahra nods.

Geralt leads her in the dance and everything falls away.

She hears the music, feels it sing through her, but her focus remains on the white-haired mutant at her side. His hand spans her back, warm through her dress and stays; the lightest pressure of his fingertips, or palm, guides her to turn, or step, or pivot in time with him. It shouldn’t be surprising to her, how well he moves – she’s seen him fight, and his grace with a sword, and how would dancing be any different? He doesn’t look away from her once and the heat of his gaze flushes over her. The Witcher very nearly smiles.

Geralt turns her under his arm, guides her through the last few measures of the song. He steps away, takes his warmth with him, and bows. Zahra curtsies in return.

The crowd, the rest of the world, rushes back over them. The townsfolk whistle, and stomp, for a moment determined to swarm in and start up another country dance, and Geralt grips her hand tight for a moment. She sees him hesitate before he asks, simply, “Can we talk?”

Most of the party has spilled into the streets, leaving the tavern itself practically empty. Lucja still keeps to her spot behind the bar, green eyes going wide when she spies Zahra and her guest in tow. The girl’s pretty face splits into a knowing smile that makes Zahra’s face go hot.

It’s mostly dark in her study. The small hearth fire has gone to smoldering embers, and it gives her the opportunity to light a few candles and collect her utterly scattered thoughts. She flicks out the last taper and finally looks up at Geralt. He stands just inside the closed door, just as he used to. It’s familiar – it feels like it’s been years, or decades, or maybe just a few hours. His honey-colored gaze still holds a heat that sings over her skin. She drops her eyes to the desk.

The last letter sits there, creased and folded from how many times she’s read it. Zahra picks at the parchment. Keeping her focus on Geralt’s neat lettering seems easier than looking at the Witcher himself. “Did Jaskier put you up to this?” she teases half-heartedly.

Geralt exhales on a chuckle. “Something like. Threatened to garrote me with a lute string.”

She smiles, in spite of herself. When she lifts her head and meets his eyes, it takes a moment to catch her breath. For a few heartbeats, she simply stares. Gods, he is still so beautiful. She swallows hard and feels her throat go dry.

“Did you mean what you wrote?” she asks.

“You know I did, Zee.”

Gold eyes go guarded again. He doesn’t go totally cold, but she can see the way he builds up his walls to prepare for the worst. He steps forward. Second-guesses – stops.

“What I do – what I am – I can’t change it,” he rumbles. “I’m still a Witcher, Zahra. A mutant. I can’t… I can’t give you normal, sweetheart – ”

“Gods, Geralt - fuck normal.”

---

“Fuck normal.”

She says it with such passionate certainty that it startles a laugh out of him. The soft yellow of her skirt floats like woven sunlight around her legs. Like the sun, it almost hurts to look at her, but fuck all, that’s all he wants to do. He watches her face, watches her chew her lip; feels his slow pulse try to speed up when she steps closer. His fingers itch to curl around her waist.

“I never asked for normal, Geralt,” she whispers. The way her voice cracks pulls tight around his heart. “I don’t want normal. I want you. That’s it. Can… can you give me that, or no?”

The Witcher’s footfalls carry him to her. He studies her face; re-acquaints himself with the curve of her cheek and the dimple that presses there. She all but melts into his touch when his thumb brushes her cheek. He pulls her into the circle of his arms. She’s still soft, and warm; he closes his eyes, feels his muscles go lax with relief when she holds fast, locking her arms around his back. Geralt presses his face against the smooth curve of her shoulder.

It feels like stepping into the light of the sun after ages in cold and rain. “I love you, Zahra,” he breathes.

Her soft, tearful laugh settles warm into his heart. “I love you, Geralt.”

He gives a pleased murmur, lets the tip of his nose trail lazy circles over her shoulder. When he inhales, the warm, soft smell of her skin eases back into his lungs. From shoulder to neck, the Witcher draws in slow breaths and ghosts his lips over the exposed skin he finds until Zahra shivers. “What are you doing, Witcher?” she whispers, breathless.

“Hmm… taking your scent back,” he mumbles. “I missed this smell.”

His lips ease along the shell of her ear. She still gasps when he nips at the crux of her jaw. “I missed you, love,” he growls.

Geralt takes his time. He savors the smell and the taste of her skin, humming lowly when Zahra’s hands grip at his back. The sweetness of her begins to bloom with heat, with the richness of desire – want – and when he sets his teeth gently against her pulse point, she moans delicately. Insistent fingers tangle in his hair; she whispers his name and pulls him to her lips. She kisses him like a woman starved and it feels like his heart might thunder its way free of his chest. He lifts her onto the edge of the desk and comes to stand between her parted thighs, gathering the soft yellow cotton of her skirts up. Her fingers yank at the buttons on his trousers.

It’s a quick, desperate of coupling. Mingled breath and bitten off sighs – greedy kisses with fingers gripped in the front of his shirt. She flutters hotly around his cock with a whimper and a curse. He groans against her mouth when he comes. Zahra drinks down the noise with a grin on her lips.

Geralt stays put for more than a year. It’s good.

The Path still calls, and he still follows, but she finds she’s able to let go of the fear. It’s no longer a question of ‘if’ but ‘when’ in terms of Geralt’s return. And if he knows it’s going to be a long journey, or if the mood simply strikes him, he writes -

I miss you.

I love you.

Sometimes no more than a line, sometimes full paragraphs – even pages – but he always tells her when he plans to return. When he’ll be home.

It’s nearly spring next time he rides back in, market day in full swing as he passes through the township gate with Roach at his side. Vendors call their wares, families and merchants wander the stalls as he peers out from the shadow of his cloak. He finds the trail of Zahra’s scent past the cloying smell of cut flowers and rounds to corner to find her chatting with the butcher’s daughter.

The younger woman catches his gaze. Geralt watches the girl grin and give his woman – his woman – a nudge, nodding in his direction. Zahra is already smiling when she turns, and the Witcher has the pleasure of watching her face flash from surprise to joy in the space of a heartbeat. She moves to him, a walk that becomes a jog, and then a final sprint that launches her into his arms. He curls his free arm tight around her waist. Immediately, he has his face pressed to her hair. Zahra’s laughter rings softly in his ears when she draws back, just enough to look up into his face.

At her throat, the polished wolf’s tooth is bright against her brown skin. “Welcome home, my love,” she murmurs.

The greeting settles warm over him like the sunlight. Geralt pulls her close again, kissing her in full view of half the town. She shivers sweetly in his arms and pulls her fingers through his hair. He hears a wolf-whistle, and a smattering of applause that makes Zahra giggle against his mouth.

“People are staring,” she teases softly.

He smirks. “Let them,” he tells her before kissing her once more. She tastes of clover honey.

She smells of sunshine.

She feels like home.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x oc #geralt of rivia x ofc #geralt x ofc #the witcher #oc: zahra auberel #orignal character #the witcher netflix #fanfic #fanfiction #the wench and the witcher #tutu scribbles

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hoodharlow · 4 years

Text

Missed Opportunity

Summary: This the how Claudia and Calum met.

Warnings: none just two kids failing at flirting

Word Count: 2.7k

October 2018

"You know what I've been craving? Fish tacos from the place we went to in San Diego." Calum told his bandmates.

They had just finished sound check for their final show of the US leg of the tour. In less than two weeks they would be off to Europe for the final leg.

"Or you want to go see if you see that pretty waitress." Michael commented.

"What pretty waitress?" Calum asked casually as if he had no idea who Michael meant.

"You know damn well which pretty waitress we're talking about. The one that gives you free chocolate cake and flan." Michael retorted.

"What? No!" Calum's cheeks redden. He knew that they weren't going to let that go anytime soon. They hadn’t for the past five years.

Calum has had a crush on her for almost 5 years. It all started when she kicked out a bunch of fans that followed him and Luke to the restaurant. He tried flirting with her but failed miserably that day. The next day he went back to pick up an order. That time she was more approachable. She even apologized for her attitude from the day before, letting it slip that she was a fan of the covers they did. She awkwardly asked if it was okay for her to ask for a picture.

Since then, every time the boys had a show in San Diego, they went there before the show to get food. Calum's order always has a slice of chocoflan.

Calum stopped by a few days ago when they had their show, but she wasn't there. He asked one of the other servers if they at least had the chocolate cake and flan dessert. They came back with the owner, who told him that Claudia, the waitress, was in LA for school, and she was also the one that made the chocoflan. The news left him disappointed. He wanted to ask her dad more, but he knew any dad wasn't about to tell a stranger the whereabouts of his daughter.

"Cal!" Michael clapped his shoulder. Calum blinked a few times. "We gotta get going. We're late for that radio interview."

***

“Hey pa, what’s up?” Claudia answered her phone. Her face lit up when her dad's face came on the screen. She hadn't talked to her dad in days. He was sitting in the patio area of the restaurant.

"¿'Tas ocupada?" He asked her.

"Ahorita no because we're waiting for this band to show up. Their management called my boss y le dijeron that they're running late or something." She explained.

Claudia works at her university's radio station. Her and her housemate host a segment called 'Girl Chat' where they talk about the most random topics. From matching lipstick to ones areolas to environmental racism and how stratification affects it. She got the job her first week of summer bridge.

Claudia was a transfer student from a community college in San Diego, and part of the requirement for transfer students was that they participate in summer bridge where counselors and advisors help out students find a balance and the necessary resources to be successful at the 4 year institution.

She was on her way to a workshop when she got lost. The radio station booth looked more approachable than the surrounding frat houses. That was when the DJ commented on her voice and how it was made for the radio. She laughed it off at first, but once she heard of the different segments, she was hooked. 'Girl Chat' was the first to spark her interest. She met Dulce, her now housemate. They bounced off each other and had good chemistry that kept the listeners listening.

"What's up?"Claudia asked again. She pulled her legs up and sat criss-cross applesauce.

"I keep forgetting to tell you, but I remembered it because of something I heard on the radio. ¿Te acuerdas de ese grupo con el muchacho al que siempre le das chocoflan?" Her dad asked. Claudia's mind instantly went to Calum.

"No," She responded. She looked to the side avoiding looking at her dad.

"Yes, you do. I saw how your eyes did that thing." Claudia rolled her eyes at him. "Anyways, him and the other boys were at the restaurant a few days ago y pregunto por ti. Well not you, but he asked about the chocoflan. And then I mentioned how we only serve it when you’re in town. It looked like he wanted to ask me about you, but he didn’t.”

“Right,” Claudia laughed. How can someone like Calum Hood even ask about her.

Claudia and her dad spent more time talking until Dulce texted her that the people are about five minutes away. Her dad bid her bye and reminded her que se cuide Durante el concierto. Her other housemate, Sara, invited her to go see The Aces because something came up and her sister couldn’t go with her anymore. Claudia was very excited for it because they were opening for 5 Seconds of Summer. She was finally going to go see them. In all her years of being a fan, she never saw them live.

While she waited, she tapped through the Instagram stories. Claudia paused at the 5SOS story. It was a picture of the radio station captioned ‘Tune in to Girl Chat on KBeach Radio today at 12:15.’ with a swipe up link.

“No!” She whispered loudly to myself.

“What?” Dulce glanced at her phone.

“They’re the ones coming to campus?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Why are we interviewing them? Of all the bands, 5 fucking Seconds of Summer? Were there no soundcloud rappers available?” She began to ramble.

“Do you not like them?”

“No, I love them. I really fuck with their most recent album.” She calmly said. “But I have had the biggest crush on the bass player since I was 15 after telling off his fans.”

“Was that when you told your parents you were going to a church retreat but got caught?”

“In my defense, I was with my church friends. It would’ve worked if Danny didn’t hack my facebook and see the messages.” Claudia sat back. To this day she’s still mad at her twin brother for hacking her facebook. Not only was it a huge invasion of privacy, he had no reason for doing it. “I didn’t even straighten my hair. I look like a hot mess.”

She covered her face and fake cried. Dulce looked at her as if she had grown a second head and then laughed, placing a record on play. Claudia heard the beginnings of “If Walls Could Talk” and sank lower in her seat. The boys came in as the song played. They all introduced themselves, and she avoided making eye contact with Calum. The other boys looked at each other, at Calum and at her. She couldn’t helpbut notice how cuddly he looked in his iconic empathy hoodie and leather jacket combo. She’s seen one too many interviews where he wore the exact outfit.

Claudia pulled her mic closer to her once she heard the last few seconds played. She sat straighter and began, “That was 5 Seconds of Summer with ‘If Walls Could Talk’ from their most recent album, ‘Youngblood’. Theyare today’s guests on ‘Girl Chat’. Thank you so much for taking some time off your very busy schedule to chat with us.” She smiled.

“Thank you for having us. I think that’s the first time since we dropped Youngblood, that they played another song from the album. Everyone just plays ‘Youngblood’.” Ashton said after a few seconds of awkward silence.

“Well, ‘If Walls Could Talk’ is a bop and deserves more recognition.”

“You have a really soothing voice.” Calum said casually. Michael snorted trying to cover up his laugh.

“Oh, um thanks. I’ve been told that a lot.” She managed to say.

“To be honest, I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason why she hasn’t gotten fired.” Dulce cut in trying to pass the conversation . “She’s said pretty wild shit on here. Remember when you caused a riot at the food court?”

“A riot?” Luke asked in disbelief.

“It was not a riot, it was a gathering of angry people that took over and distributed all the food to all the students. In my defense, I was just bringing awareness to the food waste that happened. I never once said ‘start a riot’.” She explained.

“You just did.” Ashton pointed out.

“He’s got you there.” Dulce laughed.

“PSA, please don’t riot. I really like my job. It helps pay for my Roscoe's habit.” She added.

***

The interview ran smoothly. What felt like only 15 minutes turned out to be almost 2 hours. Dulce and Claudia’s boss signaled them to keep going after the one hour mark. It was the most listeners they had all semester. There were some even tweets about them. Most were about how Claudia and Dulce were able to keep up with the boys’ crazy antics and jokes, unlike other radio interviews where they kinda stay quiet and jump to questions.

During the interview, Calum not so subtly found Claudia’s instagram off the radio station’s instagram. It took everything not to request her right in front of everyone. He planned on asking for it after their interview, but the boys got bombarded with fans. The band hung back and took some pictures with them. He watched Claudia and Dulce leave, missing his chance, so he just sent her a follow request.

At home he paced around his room packing some things for Duke while also waiting for Claudia to accept his follow request. He dm’ed her once she accepted the request telling her that they— he — were able to get her and her friend backstage passes to meet The Aces and hang out with them and the boys if they were interested.

Minutes later she responded with a bunch of emojis and thank yous and that her friend is going to appreciate that. He quickly responds, letting her know that he’s going to be by the security box at the parking lot ten min before the show?. Claudia responded thirty minutes later with a thumbs up.

“It’s gonna be a good show, Duke. I just know it.”

***

“Are you fucking kidding me, Danny! This is why you made me come home?” Claudia pushed passed her twin brother and stomped to her room.

“Are you mad?” He asked entering her room.

“Yes, I am! Cuántas veces te tengo que decir: I don’t want to see Paco anymore.”

“I’m doing you a favor, Claudia. You’re being a fucking coward.”

“Get the fuck out!”

Claudia crawled into bed and hugged her pillow. She let her tears roll down her cheeks.

Today started off great. She formally met her favorite band and had a conversation with them that didn't involve her asking if they wanted salsa verde for their burritos. She was finally going to see them live. Something she dreamed of since she was 15.Only for her brother to call her, making her drive 3 hours for nothing.

Everyone in their friend group was pissed at her. According to them, she had fucked up the whole dynamic when she moved up to Long Beach. Only making it worse when her and Paco broke up.

If only they knew the truth, she thought to herself. Paco was the one that broke up with her. All because she didn't want to have sex with him. His words cut deep, claiming that she wasn't shit and how no one was going to want her like that once they find out she's a virgin. It wasn’t like there hadn’t been instances where they could've; shit, her head game is supreme. The thing was that she just never felt ready. There was something that kept her from giving herself to him.Instead he gave their friend group a bullshit excuse that she was then one that ended things because of school.

Now she's the bad guy in this. She hugged her pillow tighter and drifted off to sleep.

When she woke up it was well into midnight. She peeked at the driveway to see if her brother's car was there,and fortunately, it wasn't.

She still couldn’t wrap her head around the fact her brother thought ambushing her with a party was going to resolve anything between her and Paco.

Claudia wandered down to the kitchen for a snack. She saw a plate piled with flautas but opted for making grilled cheese. After flipping it to the other side, she checked her phone. She smiled at the message from Calum.

She had apologized profusely to him that she wasn't going to make it, but she was sending him a chocoflan with Dulce. Her and Sara convinced Dulce to go with Sara even though neither The Aces or 5 Seconds of Summer were her faves.

You have no idea how relieved I was when I saw the chocolate cake and flan. At the radio I was going to ask you about it, but I didn't want to seem creepy . He messaged her.

😂😂😂 my dad literally ft'ed me, telling me you asked about it. I'm surprised you remembered our restaurant. She replied. She flipped the pan over a plate and wandered back to her room.

How can I forget about it or you, you shooed my fans away.

Excuse you, I basically rescued you and Luke from a hoard of crazy teenagers

Ah yes my hero 😂😂😂

***

Around 3 am Calum stopped replying. Claudia assumed he passed out. She's on her 6th cup of coffee, and it was only 1pm. She decided to attempt to stay up the whole day so she can fix her sleep schedule. She had midterms in a few weeks, and she could fuck up her sleep then.

She was at the restaurant, sitting at her family's table and doing some homework while watching her niece and nephews. She occasionally checked her phone to see if Calum responded, but nothing popped up.

She checked who saw her story on Instagram, and Calum was one of the first to see it. With the help of her dad, who can't record boomerangs to save his life, she recorded taking out some chocoflanes from the oven. Well, it was supposed to be that, but it was a shaky video of her struggling to get up from her squatting position while her dad laughed at her. That was 3 hours ago.

She went back to her research paper on food deserts in lower income communities and the impacts they have on the environment. She was 25 minutes deep into an HBO documentary about some kids in Philly not having any food options at a corner store when she spotted a very familiar green hoodie sitting out in the patio area from the corner of her eyes.

Before Claudia could process that he was really here, her father walked up to him. She watched Calum laugh at something her father said. Then her father nodded and pointed straight at her. Her eyes widened, and she went back to the documentary as if it was far more interesting than anything else that was happening.

"Guito, watch Paloma and Damian, I'll be right back." She said after she saw that Calum was not looking at her. She stood up and awkwardly beelined to the dessert bar and grabbed a slice of chocoflan and a fork. She was thankful he had his back to her when she nearly tripped over the step.

Duke was the first to notice her. He yipped when he saw her approach them. Calum turned around and smiled at her.

"Have another show?" She asked. She almost smacked herself at how stupid she sounded.

"No," he chuckled. "I, uh, saw your story about making some chocoflan and just had to drive down for a slice."

He didn’t tell her how after the show last night, he had taken Duke out to pee, and when they came back the entire flan was gone. Someone had accidentally put it out on the giant snacks table for crew members and other people. It soured his mood since Claudia wasn't at the show.

When he saw her video, the next thing he knew was that he was by Pasadena on the I15. This time he was not gonna miss his chance.

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