#i’m not subjecting him to the indignities of being a bathtub

[honey-dont]

i think in my stex au conrad is specifically a hazmat tanker :) he has goggles for safety

#love how everyone is super specialized except doctor who is just a regular gondola BFJSJF #i’m not subjecting him to the indignities of being a bathtub #incomprehensible trainposting hours with david i need to finish drawing them 🏃🏻 #david.txt

[messysketchyobeyme]

Today’s Date

Leviathan/Reader

Summary: Leviathan knows what day it is, but he won't do anything about it.

Word Count: 2,562

AO3 Link: [Here]

---

Leviathan knew today’s date.

Of course, he did. What kind of otaku would he be if he didn’t know?

Still, that didn’t change his routine. Not one bit. Leviathan got up from his bathtub, as usual, he said good morning to his beloved Henry, as usual, and sat down at his desk, as usual. The shut-in was prepared for yet another day spent holed up in his room to game the day away.

It wasn’t like Leviathan didn’t want to celebrate the festivities, but he knew that nobody wanted to do anything with such a yucky otaku such as himself.

Besides, he managed to get his hands on the newest romance/action RPG recently and Leviathan couldn’t wait to play it. It was supposedly a prequel to Dogi✩Maji✩Memorium but without the whole ‘sucking you into the gameplay world’ gameplay. In Leviathan’s personal opinion, removing a mechanic that was so integral to the main game from the prequel was a foolish and dumb decision. Seriously, what were the developers thinking? Buuuuut who could resist the tagline: “Now with 100% higher resolution graphics, 100% bloodier gameplay, and a 1000% blander protagonist to project yourself onto!”?

He sure couldn’t, Leviathan thought, as he put on his headphones and inserted the disk into his Gehenna Station. The opening music started to play when he pulled up the main menu, and Leviathan was quickly immersed into the gameplay, tuning everything out.

After an hour (or four--it was hard to tell while gaming), someone had opened Leviathan’s door. Due to the loud music blaring through his headphones, he probably would not have noticed if not for his door suddenly slamming shut, sending a small vibration throughout the room. Surely it was Mammon trying to hustle some more Grimm off of him. Only Mammon was scummy--and clumsy--enough to try that on him.

Leviathan whipped his head around while slipping his headphones off. He pointed an accusatory finger at Mammon, ready to yell at him for trying to take his money and for forgetting to use the password. He haltered when he realized that it was not Mammon at his door but you, instead.

You were staring at him blankly with one hand on the doorknob and the other one stuffed in your pocket. You blinked, your gaze roaming from his face to his hand. He swiftly brought his arm behind his back as smoothly as possible, which, knowing Leviathan, was not very smooth at all.

He tried to stutter out an apology, but you beat him to the punch, “Hey, sorry about closing your door like that,” you said as you walked over to him, dragging a stray computer chair over, “It’s heavier than I thought.” You positioned the computer chair next to him. That made sense: Leviathan was always the one to open his door for you. After you would give him the password, of course.

Almost as though you could read his mind, you added, “I’m also sorry for not doing that whole password thing,” you sat down next to him and leaned back. Your knee bumped the corner of his chair, sending his mind into a tailspin, “I tried knocking and stuff, but you didn’t answer. I was starting to get worried.” you grinned, “Glad to see that you’re alright, though”

Were you an angel? Here he was ignoring you and then thinking you were Mammon (how awful), and you were the one apologizing and caring for his well-being. His heart swelled at the sight of your smiling face, and he nodded.

“You...were worried about me?”

You stuck out your tongue, “Of course, I was,” you laughed and ruffled his hair, earning an indignant ‘hey...’ from the demon. “So,” you changed the subject, nodding towards the direction of his game, “what’re you playing?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, having forgotten all about what he was doing for the past...hour…?...two hours…? Either way, he eagerly picked up his game controller, “Right now I’m playing Dogi✩Maji✩Memorium -1.” Leviathan started to move the main character around, their sheath moving wildly on their belt with each step. It was difficult to tell this was supposed to be a dating sim in the first place.

“Negative One?”

Leviathan nodded, “It’s a prequel.” An enemy started to run towards the main character. Without a second thought, Leviathan immediately unsheathed the sword and sliced it to bits.

“Are you sure this is supposed to be a Dogi✩Maji✩Memorium prequel?” you snorted, “It’s nothing like the one we played.”

Leviathan knew exactly what you were getting at. Honestly, it felt so long ago when he, Lucifer, Satan, Mammon, and you were all sucked into the original game. He was so different back then: he used to be such a shy otaku, and now he was...still a shy otaku, but he was slightly less shy now! And it was all thanks to…

“Ah, watch out!”

Huh? He dragged his gaze that had inadvertently drifted onto you back onto the screen. Another enemy had snuck up behind the main character and was quickly hacking an ax into their back. Leviathan gripped his controller, immediately killing the enemy in a couple of fell swoops.

Clapping your hands, you gave a quick cheer.

“Thanks for that.” he smiled, trying to forget how distracted he had gotten earlier. As much as he loved, no, liked, hanging out with you, you were seriously undermining his integrity as a gamer. How cruel could you be? “I--”

Leviathan stopped mid-sentence once he realized that your hands were on either side of his neck. You were so close to him, way too close. Why were you so close? He could feel your hot breath on his face. Or maybe that was his own hot face. He couldn’t tell.

Your hands grabbed onto his headphones and pulled them over his ears. “You seem to concentrate better with these on.” you gave the sides of his head a reassuring pat, “You were pretty distracted earlier. Wonder why?” you laughed, sitting back into your seat and giving him a coy grin.

How could normies deal with stuff like this? He seriously felt like he was about to die there. Were you trying to kill him?

You smiled at the blank stare he was giving you, “Go on,” you said, gesturing towards the screen. When he still didn’t do anything, you continued, “Play. I want to watch.”

Leviathan took a deep breath, “Okay,” he said, “I’ll play.” The cheery background music gave him a small confidence boost, and he was able to return to the game. With you around, though, he wasn’t able to immerse himself as readily as he could before.

He was constantly aware of your presence. The way you would swivel around the chair and how your knee would bump with his, sending a new, flustering shockwave up his spine every time. He also noticed that you were snacking on something. Since his eyes were glued to the screen, Leviathan had no clue what it was, but he was keenly aware nonetheless.

While he was fighting a mini-boss, Leviathan allowed his mind to wander. About why you were here of all places. You could have chosen any one of the brothers to be with. Instead of being with him, you could have been partying with Asmodeus, playing Fangol with Beelzebub, plotting revenge with Satan and Belphegor, gambling with Mammon, or even talking to Lucifer in his office.

But you chose to be with him.

Not any of his brothers but him.

A darker, more sinister side of him wants to say that you’re doing it out of pity. You feel bad for Leviathan, so you're only hanging out with him just to make his pathetic life just a smidge less pathetic.

The bigger side of him knows that you’re with him because you care about him.

You like him.

Maybe even…

Leviathan noticed his health was running dangerously low and returned his full attention to the game. His lingering thoughts were still there, as he fought the urge to glance in your direction. It would surely only distract him further.

After a couple of hours, Leviathan was finally ready to fight the final boss, who, in a strange twist of fate, was the heroine herself. So sad! 10/10 plot twist!! Would get amnesia just to play again!!!

He was spending the moments leading up to the boss fight maxing out his armor when he heard you say something. You were often providing commentary throughout the entire gameplay. Whether it was complaining whenever the main character said something stupid or screaming excitedly when you realized the heroine was the final boss all along, you were quite vocal. This time, Leviathan struggled to parse your words, like you were mumbling.

He paused his game and took off his headphones. “What were you sayi--” Leviathan gasped when he turned towards you.

You flicked the pocky in between your teeth, “You wanna play the pocky game with me?” You held the box in your hands, shaking it slightly. The few pocky sticks inside jangled around, as you did so.

“WHA WHA WHA WHA WHA--?!?!”

Leviathan jumped back, almost falling out of his chair. He was certain that his face was as pink as the strawberry-covered part of the pocky faced towards him. He brought one of his hands up to his lips, trying (and failing) to cover just how embarrassed he was. You chuckled and placed the box on his desk.

“So?” you asked, shuffling the pocky around between your lips. You leaned in a little closer, placing a hand on his knee. Why was it always the knee?

“Gah! How…” Leviathan’s mind was reeling so fast that he could barely parse words, “How can you be so forward?” He didn’t make any move to push you away, though. In fact, he quite liked the warmth your palm was emanating. If only you could keep your hand there forever…

You pursed your lips, “It’s fine if you don’t want to play, you know. I don’t want to force you.”

Of course, he wanted to play the pocky game with you! He wanted to do it so badly! He spent the entire night dreaming about this day! He woke up thinking about you, greeted Henry while thinking about you, and played his game all while thinking about you...well, you and pocky.

Before you could take the pocky out of your mouth, Leviathan grabbed your hand, “Wait! No, I want to play! I do! Just, just,” he sighed, trying to calm his racing heart, “Give me a second. To prepare myself.”

Realizing that he was touching you, Leviathan immediately let go. He never thought in a thousand years that you would want to play the pocky game with him of all people, but now that he was granted such a glorious opportunity, he was getting quite nervous.

Doing a couple of breathing exercises that you had taught him a long time ago, he calmed himself down.

“Alright,” he said, more to himself than you, “I’m ready.”

Leviathan slowly leaned forward and placed his lips around the other end of the pocky. It was difficult to ignore the bright smile you were giving him. Just like it was difficult to ignore how nice your eyes looked from up close and how nicely you smelled. Were you using a new shampoo? If so, it smelt nice. Really nice.

You bit down on your end of the pocky, bringing him back to reality. Right! He was playing the pocky game with you.

Oh.

He was playing the pocky game.

With you.

It took everything in Leviathan not to pull away. He didn’t want to lose! Not that early, at least.

“Levi…” you mumbled, “Aren’t you going to take a bite?”

“Yes.”

“Uh?”

“What…?”

“Then why aren’t you?”

Because his heart was racing. Because you were so close to him. Because he was afraid to kiss you. Because he loved you.

You took another bite, inching forward, giving him another one of your signature smiles. That infuriating smirk made him want to kiss you.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

He nibbled into the pocky and moved just a little closer to your face--your lips. It was small, but at least it was something. You seemed to enjoy it, as there was no denying the way your face lit up in reaction. Leviathan was certain that you just received a hundred more intimacy points for him just from your happy expression alone.

You bit a larger piece of the stick, and with a renewed sense of confidence, he took a bigger chunk, as well. The sweetness flourished in his mouth. Whether it was from the pocky or something else, he wouldn’t know. Humming in surprise, you inched forward, and Leviathan did the same. He was still sweating and blushing after each munch, but at least he wasn’t a statue anymore.

This back and forth continued until there was only a small morsel between you two. This time, Leviathan was certain that it was indeed your breath heating up his skin. The amused crinkle in your eyes was intoxicating, as he willed himself to come closer. Just a little bit closer, and he’ll be kissing you

He wanted to kiss you so much.

More than anything else right now.

But...he couldn’t.

He just couldn’t!!!

It was too much! Way too much! Leviathan was just a lowly otaku! Could he be bold enough to kiss someone so amazing as you? The same person who would watch movies with him, play video games with him, and bring him up whenever he felt down? That one constant in his life that would always support him through thick and thin, who would always say the sweetest and nicest things to him all of the time?

No, no. He just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ki--

It took Leviathan a good five seconds to realize what was happening.

You had bitten the last bit of the pocky off, and your lips had brushed against his.

It was a quick peck, but it sent his heart skyrocketing nonetheless. Anything more probably would have killed him. Your lips were sweet from the pocky, and Leviathan was certain that strawberry was slowly becoming his favorite flavor.

You gently placed your hand on the side of his cheek, rubbing your thumb against his cheek, “Thanks for playing with me, Levi. I appreciate that.”

Coming to his senses, Leviathan shot up and out of his chair, “WHOA!” he gasped, “I can’t believe that I-I-I-I-I--” He ran his fingers through his hair, “I mean, whoa! I can’t believe that I just did that!” Leviathan pointed towards himself, “I mean, this is an otaku’s dream! And I just achieved it!”

“You sure did,” you stood up and placed both of your hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

He looked at you straight in the eyes, “How did I get so lucky?” That brief kiss wasn’t enough. Leviathan wanted more.

You shook your head, “I should be asking the same.” You didn’t give Leviathan the time to process your words before you reached over on his desk and picked up the box of pocky.

You pulled out another stick, and gestured it towards him, “Now,” you asked, “Wanna play again?”

#Obey Me #Obey Me Leviathan #Obey Me MC #Fanfic #Reader Insert #Leviathan x Reader #it's pocky day somewhere out there okay

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1  part 2  part 3  part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 belongs to this

content warning: panic attack, detailed description of what it feels like to think a loved one might be dead, not knowing if a loved one is dead or alive, no major character death but it gets really damn close (that’s why i tagged it as such), something that might look like apoplexy (for someone not in the medical field), blood, mention of memory loss. not sure if it is a ‘dead dove: do not eat’ for anyone else, but it is for me, so i tagged it like that. It should be safe to read until “ The fabric muffled the no doubt indignant reply”. the next chapters probably won’t get any more light-hearted

almost 5k

Jaskier’s hands have always been beautiful. The way he waved them around when his voice wasn’t enough to express what he felt, the way he would use them to create music out of thin air, the way he would caress Geralt. Soft, smooth skin brushing over scarred one, then wrinkled and trembling fingers that weren’t so different from Geralt’s marred skin, though so much more beautiful still.

As Jaskier’s hands had turned into a canvas for hills and valleys, they had lost part of what they used to be able to do. Sure, he still talked using his hands, but the motions were smaller now for fear of his joints aching, out of tiredness and because Jaskier had hit his hands one too many times while talking animatedly, breaking and bruising the skin far too easily, leaving Geralt to finally return the favour of bandaging him up and pressing fleeting kisses to the bruised skin, knowing it wouldn’t chase away the pain, but at least it would curve Jaskier’s lips into a smile.

His fingers weren’t nimble and clever as they used to be. Jaskier had told Geralt so years ago, when he had admitted defeat in the same tone one would say that an old coat had served its time.

When Jaskier sat behind Geralt, braiding flowers into his hair, he was quieter than he used to be, needing all his concentration to get his fingers to work. It still wasn’t enough. The braids would be loose and the flowers would slip through the gaps, tumbling to the floor, surrounding them as if they were a young bridal pair.

Jaskier had stopped voicing his frustration with his hands some time ago, bearing the failure Geralt could see in his eyes with quiet disappointment, though Geralt never failed to tell him how proud he still was of him, picking up the flowers that had fallen and putting them behind Jaskier’s ears, before cupping Jaskier’s cheek gently.

“Beautiful,” he would whisper and kiss him, feeling Jaskier smile into their kiss.

For all the things Jaskier’s hands had unlearned, there were some that seemed to be so branded on his mind that even after all these years, despite wrinkles and trembling and bruises that bloomed as easily and unstoppably as dandelions, still came as naturally as breathing.

Geralt had seen such a thing before, back when Jaskier used to play the lute, his fingers finding the chords all on their own, without Jaskier needing to look or think about it, as though the motion was engraved into his very being.

This too, had faded with the calluses on Jaskier’s fingers. Geralt didn’t know when Jaskier had picked up the lute for the last time. He wished he did. It should have been something to never forget, a memory to treasure.

Now he could only assume it had been just like any other time Jaskier had played, beautiful, but something that would surely happen again. Had Geralt listened to the notes, not knowing it would be the last time he would ever hear them? Or had he been too preoccupied with something else to even listen properly, not knowing that he was missing the last chance to take in what he was about to lose.

Flowers fell, braids came undone even before they were finished and the lute stood propped up but silent next to the bookshelf where a half-finished notebook would never be filled, because the hands that used to give it life didn’t have the control to hold a quill anymore.

All of this had once been unthinkable to picture Jaskier without. And to think, out of all the things his hands had unlearned, the one thing they still knew, was how to make Geralt feel loved. How to smooth out the crease in his brow, how to slip into Geralt’s hand and hold it tight, how to undo the tangles that most likely have been put there by Jaskier himself.

Geralt closed his eyes and leaned back against the edge of the bathtub, letting himself get lost in the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers brushing through his wet hair, occasionally stopping to let his hands linger on Geralt’s cheeks.

Jaskier’s soft chattering filled the air, as it always did when they sat in the tub together like this. No silence was needed for concentration; this was something that came to Jaskier as easily as if he was born to hold Geralt like this; gently, lovingly, telling him with each touch that he cared.

Therein lay the beauty of this. This wasn’t just Geralt washing Jaskier, helping him out of necessity because Jaskier wasn’t able to bend his elbows enough to rinse out his own hair or reach his own shoulders to scrub there. This was something they did for each other, something they had done long before age had forced it onto Geralt. The calm intimacy of washing each other had been a choice they had made for themselves to show the other that even though they could do it on their own, they didn’t have to, because they had someone with them who cared and would take care of them.

Geralt relished the way Jaskier’s hand stilled in his hair more and more often, whenever Jaskier’s mind sprung another topic onto him that he needed to tell Geralt about, his voice never faltering, even when his hands did.

Jaskier reached for the soap that was drifting in the water between them.

“Are you happy?” The words came unbidden to Geralt, yet they were the most important thing he could say. For all that Jaskier talked and smiled and caressed his face, Geralt needed to hear him say it.

Jaskier dropped the soap and tilted his head to the side as if Geralt was a puzzle he was trying to solve. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

He resumed running his fingers through Geralt’s tresses, though there were no more tangles left, the soap forgotten.

Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave his, as Jaskier picked up his chatter again, letting the sound wash over him without really knowing what was being said.

As Geralt was letting the water gently slosh between them, Jaskier’s words drifting in and out of his consciousness, as they did Jaskier’s, Geralt felt himself wishing they could stay like this forever, in this moment where it was just the two of them, making sure the other was cared for. If Geralt could collect a moment in a bottle like sorceresses did lightning, this would be the one.

But the humid air was hot and Geralt could hear a faint rattling accompanying each breath Jaskier took, the steam of the bath battling with his lungs.

Geralt’s chest heaved with a heavy sigh.

“We should get out now,” he said, letting a teasing smile curve his lips. “Before my skin gets all wrinkly.”

Jaskier gasped in outrage and clutched the hand that only moments before had been in Geralt’s hair against his heart. “Oh no, wrinkly skin - heavens forbid! What a tragedy that would be!”

For good measure, Jaskier splashed some water after Geralt, who got out of the tub with an amused huff and went over to the bed to get his towel, taking his time drying himself. It wouldn’t hurt to let Jaskier enjoy some more moments in the water, before Geralt would help him get out, subjecting him to the cold air once more.

Putting on his trousers, Geralt raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the water that now formed a sad puddle in front of the tub.

“You are worse than a drowner,” he said, shaking his head fondly, before pulling his shirt over his head.

The fabric muffled the no doubt indignant reply; Jaskier’s voice sounding strangely lazy, as though his tongue was too heavy to form the words correctly, followed by more splashing.

“That’s not going to win you the argument,” Geralt said, a grin on his face as he turned back to Jaskier. His grin dropped. “Jaskier, what are you doing, sit back down. I’ll help you in a minute.”

Jaskier didn’t listen, or maybe didn’t hear. He swayed where he stood in the water, one hand on the rim of the tub barely enough to steady him.

“Jaskier?” his heart jumped into his throat. “Are you alright?”

A gaping hole opened up inside Geralt’s stomach, as Jaskier’s heart shuddered; a skipped beat where there shouldn’t be one.

“Jaskier, wait! Sit back down.”

He frantically tried to stuff his arm into the sleeve of his shirt faster, only managing to tangle himself up. He was wasting precious time, though he didn’t know what would happen if he was too slow. He didn’t want to find out.

Jaskier’s mouth formed words that never passed his lips. Had one of them been ‘Help’?

Geralt’s pupils turned to slits. It was like time was frozen around him. He dropped the towel he had still been holding, rushing to Jaskier’s side, but he knew what was about to happen, knew he would be too late, even before Jaskier swung his leg out of the tub, his foot landing in the puddle, slipping as if it were ice.

Geralt heard a sharp intake of breath – his? Jaskier’s? – as Jaskier’s hand lost its grip on the tub.

Agonizingly slowly, Jaskier fell, and yet Geralt was slower still. He saw blue eyes widen in shock, a mouth open in a silent gasp, before the splitting crack of Jaskier hitting the floor shattered through the room.

“No, no no, Jaskier!”

Geralt heared himself shouting as though from far away, felt his knees hitting the floor, as he cradled Jaskier’s head.

Blue eyes blinked up at him, confused, not understanding a single thing. And yet fixed on Geralt, as if he was the only thing worth looking at, a lighthouse in a raging storm, when really, he had wasted time, had not done anything to keep Jaskier safe.

“I’ve got you,” he said frantically, his cracking voice too loud, too rushed. “You are safe, Jask. I’ve got you.”

What a beautiful lie, made crueller yet by the faint smile that graced Jaskier’s lips. The puddle Jaskier was lying in turned slowly pink, the iron stench of blood hitting Geralt like a punch in the gut, clashing with the sweet smell of the soap dripping from Jaskier’s hair.

And still Jaskier’s eyes remained on him. With what seemed like an unimaginable effort, Jaskier lifted his arm. It shook helplessly, couldn’t find what it was reaching for. Geralt grasped his hand, his mouth twisting into a grimace at the barely-there pulse beneath his fingers.

He didn’t think. His body moved on its own, as he grabbed the dropped blanket, wrapping Jaskier in it and gathering him into his arms.

Jaskier was so light. He shouldn’t be so light, when it was his life Geralt was carrying.

He didn’t have time to put on shoes, didn’t have the presence of mind to care about the sharp edges of the stones on the path cutting into his feet.

His mind was screaming at him, overshadowing all other thoughts. Get Jaskier to safety. You can’t let him die!

Dark edges crept up on his vision, his heart hammering against his ribs, fighting to burst free of its confides, his breath stagnant. He was back in Rinde, carrying an unconscious Jaskier who was hurt because of him, who had blood dripping out of his mouth, who was dying.

Where was the damn healer? Why was there no one who could help him? Jaskier was dying damn it!

A cough shook Geralt, jostled Jaskier in his arms, as his voice gave out, scratching at his dry throat. Still, he continued to call for help. Someone needed to hear him. Someone needed to know what to do.

Geralt didn’t. He was small again, a child, alone and afraid and unable to do anything. He needed help.

“Geralt.”

A hand touched his shoulder. The voice sounded as if it was coming through a fog, Geralt’s heart too loud in his own ears. Too loud even to let him hear Jaskier’s heartbeat. If there even was a heartbeat to hear anymore.

“Come with me.”

He followed the tug on his shoulder, let himself be guided he knew not where. All he knew was that he couldn’t let Jaskier die. And that he didn’t know how to do that.

He was ushered through a door. There were voices around him, people. It was too loud. He couldn’t hear a thing. He couldn’t hear Jaskier’s breathing.

He could only see his eyes on him. Blue, so blue and so full of trust that he didn’t deserve. Jaskier’s mouth was moving, no words coming out, as if a djinn had finally granted Geralt his wish. His eyes were so damn soft. Why was he still smiling at Geralt?

Someone pulled on Jaskier, pulling him away from Geralt. He bared his teeth, clutched Jaskier tighter. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t –

“Geralt, please.” That voice again. It was familiar, safe, grounding. “You need to let him go. They are healers. They are going to help him. He is safe now.”

The dark edges receded. Ever so slowly, Geralt’s vision returned to him, let him see more than just Jaskier. Kris was standing next to him, their touch never leaving Geralt, gently prying his arms open.

When the healer approached Geralt again, reaching out for Jaskier, Geralt let them take him.

It felt something slip away with Jaskier. Geralt’s fingers clenched helplessly on his sides, as Jaskier was laid on a bed, out of reach from him – as if Geralt’s touch had ever done him any good.

But he needed – he needed –

The hand on his shoulder was back, stopping him. “Let them work.”

“But Jaskier –“ his voice broke off. One of the healers stepped closer to Jaskier, blocking Geralt’s view of him.

What if Jaskier’s unfocused eyes were still searching for him? What if he needed him and Geralt wasn’t there and he couldn’t help and Jaskier would die surrounded by strangers?

The healers were talking, asking questions Jaskier couldn’t answer. Geralt heard his teeth clatter as his mouth worked to form words. He heard the shift of the mattress when Jaskier dripped to the side, unable to hold himself straight, even lying down as he was. He saw the healers rush to stabilise him, while Geralt could do nothing but stand to the side and entrust Jaskier’s life into the hands of these strangers.

He found Jaskier’s eyes again.

One healer turned to Geralt, his face serious. Why wasn’t she looking at Jaskier? She shouldn’t be talking to Geralt when Jaskier was right there, needing help.

Somewhere in a corner of his mind, he registered that he was being asked questions. What happened? How long has he been like this? Are there any other illnesses we should know about?

An uncalled for sense of relief settled in Geralt’s chest. This, he could do.

His mouth opened without much thought, his voice steadier and surer than it had any right to be, when his hands were still shaking, still wishing for a sword to hold, so that he could protect Jaskier.

Geralt answered the questions, telling the healer all he knew. What if it wasn’t enough? He wrecked his brain searching desperately for more information. Jaskier had always said he was stingy with the details, had joked about it.

This was no joke. How could Jaskier have ever made fun of something that might one day cost him his life?

So Geralt kept talking. He had never understood Jaskier’s need to fill every silence. Now, talking was like a lifeline for Geralt. So long as he kept his mouth moving, kept giving details, he was useful.

The puddle on the floor, the skip of his heart, the blood like the red sky at dawn.

Except, he realised with a clarity that turned his blood to ice, he hadn’t noticed the details. He had not the slightest idea how long Jaskier’s body had been building up to this, how long Jaskier had screamed silently at him to notice.

Had the lingering hands that had forgotten their task been an intimate touch or a sign of what was to come, a sign Geralt had been too blind to see?

The lifeline came to an end and Geralt’s voice faded into deafening silence again. There was no more he could say.

A rattling sound burst through the silence. Like the breath in Jaskier’s lungs when the steam if the water had called him to leave. Only louder. So much louder and so much more final.

Then ear-shattering silence.

Utter chaos, as the healer on Geralt’s side rushed back to Jaskier, following calm instructions from the others. One voice above all, Geralt’s own voice, calling out Jaskier’s name. He needed him to hear. If this was the last thing Jaskier ever heard, it should be Geralt’s voice; he should know that he wasn’t alone, that Geralt was here, he was here and he needed him –

He hadn’t realised he had stepped forward again, the need to see Jaskier, to hold his hand, hold his body close to his own, overwhelming him until a hand pressed against his chest, holding him back.

“You need to leave,” the stranger said, calm and commanding. “We need space to work.”

Geralt was harming Jaskier just by being here. He knew he had to leave. He knew. But his body wouldn’t obey.

A gentle hand – too smooth, no wrinkles, no lute calluses, not fitting like it was meant to belong in Geralt’s hand – took him by the wrist, dragging him away.

While Geralt’s legs moved like the limbs of a stranger, he could hear the voices of the healers picking up again and beneath it all a heartbeat and shallow breaths.

The walk home felt so much shorter than it had before. He had been running, had done his best to get Jaskier to a healer as quickly as he could and still, walking back slowly, dreading the moment he sat foot in their quiet home again, felt like it passed in the blink of an eye.

Kris opened the door for him and gently guided Geralt inside, pushing him onto a chair.

If felt suffocating. Hollow.

The sounds Kris made as they rummaged through the kitchen were all wrong. There was no humming, no senseless chatter, no scraping of a quill against parchment.

Geralt’s hands shook. A quill. Where did Jaskier keep his damned quill?

He barely registered the scraping of the chair against the floor as he pushed back from the table, opening cabinets and drawers until he finally found what he was looking for.

He needed to get Yennefer, needed to write her a letter telling her she needed to come, now.

His hands shook too much. This letters looked almost like Jaskier’s writing did by now, unintelligible, useless except for the fact that they were made by Jaskier. What if Jaskier wouldn’t ever pick up a quill and write again? Wouldn’t do anything ever again?

The trembling in his hands got worse. He tightened his grip on the quill, felt it crack beneath his fingers, watched the ink spill over the few useless, frantic lines he had managed to write.

“Let me.”

Kris pried Geralt’s fingers open, taking the broken quill with them.

“Yennefer,” Geralt managed to croak. His throat was dry, but his voice didn’t shake. It was rough, but no rougher than usual, as if everything was normal. It should be shaking, it should be tight and choked, but it sounded so damn calm. “She has to come. She can help.”

Something was placed on the table before him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kris said, their voice a bastion of calm. “You should try to calm down. Here, drink this. It will help.”

The mug was pressed into his hands. Tea. The nauseating scent of camomile.

“No,” Geralt grunted. He couldn’t do this.

He needed – he had to do something. He wasn’t made to sit idly while people were dying. He needed to move, to be useful to prove to himself that he wasn’t fucking helpless.

Kris’ eyes were boring into his back, as Geralt left them behind. He didn’t know where his still bare feet were carrying him until he heard the quiet splash, when they hit water. The bath.

Almost mechanically he grabbed towels and sank to his knees, soaking up the water, scrubbing at the bloodstains it left on the floor. It needed to be clean for if - when Jaskier came back. He would fondly scold Geralt for getting blood all over their stuff. He had done so often enough and still pressed his own precious doublet against Geralt’s wounds when there were no bandages around.

Only now it wasn’t Geralt being hurt.

Jaskier’s blood dyed Geralt’s hands red, looking almost like the ink stains on Jaskier’s fingers whenever inspiration hit too forcefully to restrain his writing flow.

Geralt told himself the spilled blood was no worse than spilled ink, erasing carefully crafted words, erasing the illusion of the safe life they had pretended to lead.

His breath hitched and his throat got tight. In this room, Jaskier had tried to speak to him, his tongue unable to form words. What might have been the last thing Jaskier would ever say to Geralt and he hadn’t been able to understand him.

The dark splotches from before returned to his vision, but now they were red. Red, red, red. Like the blood that wouldn’t come off.

He needed to scrub it away. Nothing bad could happen while he was moving. Jaskier had always been moving, always flittering like a bird, always in motion as if his life was too short and he needed to cram all of his movement in as little time as possible.

He had been so still when he had been lying here, with barely enough strength to lift his hand. And still he had used the energy he needed to touch Geralt. To smile at him. So be near him.

A sob wrecked Geralt’s body, his head bend low and his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t think of that now. He couldn’t think of what might have been Jaskier’s last smile. But he couldn’t make himself banish it from his thoughts.

Had Jaskier known what was happening? Had he known this might be the last Geralt would ever see of him and decided to make it as beautiful a sight as possible?

And what had Geralt done? He had scowled and shouted and panicked, making Jaskier see him at his worst. The guilt of it came crushing down on him, pressing against his chest and making it impossible to breathe. He gasped for air, but none would fill his lungs.

“Breathe, Geralt.” Kris’ voice, suddenly close again was not as calming as Jaskier’s would have been. “I need you to focus. What can you feel? Hear? See?”

Water. Water and blood drying on his skin. Kris’s presence right behind him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat of his body radiating. The cold tiles beneath him. The cuts on his feet that he had pushed out of his mind until now.

Kris’ breathing and his own. Two heartbeats.

The towel in his hand, pink with blood.

“There you are,” Kris said quietly, pulling the rest of his mind back to the here and now. “Let me take that.”

“No. I need to get the blood off. The water – Jaskier can’t slip again.” Still, his hands released the towel without protests when Kris reached for it.

“It’s all gone, Geralt. You’ve done all you could.” Geralt let himself get dragged to his feet. “There’s nothing left to do but wait.”

“I can’t- “ His voice broke off when the truth of Kris’ words set in. The floor was clean. Jaskier was in capable hands, hands other than Geralt’s.

“Come on, get some rest. You need it.”

“I need to help Jaskier.”

He could feel Kris’ eyes on him, unable to return the look, knowing that it would be the wrong pair of eyes he would find.

“You have helped him. Now it’s time to help yourself.” They guided him to the kitchen table, sat him down again. The mug with the tea wasn’t there anymore. “I made something to eat.”

Geralt expected the food to taste stale. It didn’t make sense for anything to be good right now, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good eating something warm and hearty. Kris ushered him out of the kitchen when Geralt got up to do the dishes, saying that he had worked enough for the day, that they would take care of it.

Geralt hadn’t realised how dark it had already gotten, until Kris told him to go to bed.

Sleep didn’t come that night. Geralt kept tossing and turning, aching to put his arms around someone who wasn’t there and bury his face in the crook of their neck until all tension left his body. But Jaskier was in another bed, in another house, with strangers who were doing their best to make sure Jaskier wouldn’t fall into a sleep he wouldn’t wake up from.

It was no use trying to meditate. He was too restless, his mind alternating between going completely blank and running overdrive.

There was a cold draft coming in through the window. Jaskier would have shivered if he had been here, using it as an excuse to snuggle against Geralt, as though Geralt’s arms weren’t always open for him.

Was Jaskier cold now? Had the healers given him clothes or was he still wrapped in only the towel?

Geralt’s fingers itched with the need to get up, to do something. He went to their wardrobe, gathering things Jaskier would need. Geralt had always poked fun at Jaskier for packing too much, but now, facing the impossible task of finding what Jaskier would want, he understood.

A new set of clothes. And another, just in case. A book for when Jaskier woke up and was bored. His glasses. Would Jaskier need something pretty to keep dark thoughts at bay? Another blanket?

He had come out of the warm water, he must be so cold. So cold, with no one to hold him, only death offering its icy embrace.

The night dragged on infinitively. Kris found Geralt in the morning, still sitting on the floor, debating over what to bring Jaskier.

Geralt’s heart beat faster than it had in years, when Kris finally deemed him ready to go back to the healers, after forcing him to eat some more.

The sight of Jaskier shattered something in his chest. He looked so small, so vulnerable lying there with one healer by his side, reapplying the bandage on his arm where a long gash was mocking Geralt. At least, he wore clothes again. They were too big, too dull in colour and Jaskier would surely have the time of his life complaining about them once he woke up again. If he ever did so.

No, Geralt couldn’t allow himself to think such things, not now, when he was close to Jaskier again. It was different in the solace of his own company, where no one else would be affected by his strangling thoughts.

Geralt’s body moved on its own, taking Jaskier’s hand in his – so thin, so breakable – and caressing his knuckles, feeling the steady beat of Jaskier’s heart drum in his wrist.

A raspy breath escaped Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers twitched in his, his breath was deep and his heart was beating as it should. Yet his eyes were still closed.

Geralt didn’t leave his side. Wouldn’t ever do so again.

When the healers came to bring Jaskier food, Geralt took it from them with barely a word, cradling Jaskier’s head and giving him the soup as gently as he could, wiping away the drops that clung to his lips and ran down to his chin.

Geralt remained sitting by Jaskier’s side, brushing sweat drenched strands of hair from his forehead and talking to him quietly when Jaskier’s brows drew together in his sleep, Geralt’s name on his lips. Praying to gods he didn’t believe in that Jaskier would be fine.  

He didn’t know how much time had passed. It felt like an eternity. It felt like no time at all.

Finally, in a moment that to the world was as insignificant as any other, but that to Geralt felt as if his entire world had shifted, Jaskier opened his eyes.

Sluggishly, they drifted across the room, aimless and confused until they settled on Geralt and the tiniest smile crinkled the skin around his eyes.

Something burst in Geralt’s chest, a relief he hadn’t dared hope for, flooding him. Jaskier was awake. He was back.

His hand was still weak in Geralt’s and his lips didn’t form words yet. Geralt didn’t know what was to come, but for now, Jaskier’s eyes were open and looking at him with a smile and in this moment, that was all that Geralt could ever wish for.

#dead dove do not eat #memory loss #major character death #not really but it gets close #blood #injury #apoplexy #not really but might sound like it #read the warnings #old!jaskier #old jaskier #geraskier #geralt #geralt whump #jaskier whump #hurt #witcher #the witcher #witcher fanfic #fic #my writing #angst #Birds still sing when they fall from the sky #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #accidental multichapter #panic attack

[scapegrace74-blog]

X-Files Fanfiction Masterpost

It’s almost the second anniversary of my very first fanfic post on October 1, 2017, so here’s how I’ve frittered away an ungodly amount of time since then.

Drabbles

Driving - Mulder and Scully in the car, Rated G

Flashlight - Why doesn’t Scully like candles anymore?  Rated G

Basement - A character study of a different sort.  Rated G

Motel - Scully escapes an untenable situation.  Angst.  Rated G.

Pistol - Mulder meets his gun.  Rated G.

Cigarettes - Teenage Dana Scully wants to rebel.  Rated G.

Slideshow - How does Mulder do it?  Rated G

Guilty Party - Where do you go when you can’t go on?  Angst.  Rated G.

Suits - Even Mulder has to suffer the indignities of aging.  Humour.  Rated G.

UFO - Mulder and Scully’s first flight.  Rated G.

1013 Words - A compendium of adjectives describing Mulder.  Rated G.

Faith - A glimpse into Mulder’s inner dialogue. Post-ep for Revelations.  Rated PG.

Winter - Scully has dipped to the lowest point in her horizon.  Angst.  Rated G.

Family - Scully is Mulder’s chosen family.  Rated G.

Run - Meditations on a word.  Rated G.

Unnamed - Mulder’s thoughts during Pine Bluff Variant.  Rated PG.

Help - Mulder wants to be a father.  Rated G.

Travel - See the world, join the Bureau.  Rated G.

Unnamed - Smut biscuit.  Rated NC-17.

Detour - thoughts on the motel room scene.  Rated G.

Walking After You - Scully’s thoughts on the ice in Antarctica.  Rated G.

Unnamed - Mulder’s mind reading in The Sixth Extinction.  Rated G.

Unnamed - Christmas at the Unremarkable House.  Rated PG.

Mobius Strip - Mulder’s thoughts as he drives to South Carolina in My Struggle III.  Rated G.

None at this time - Mulder muses on Scully’s bucket of priorities in Jersey Devil.  Rated G.

The Things We Never Say - Mulder plans for the future.  Angst.  Rated G.

Knock Three Times - nobody does head games like Mulder and Scully.  Set during Plus One.   Rated R.

Inferno - my breakout hit of the summer.  A post-ep for Ghouli in which Mulder comes to grips with the events of that ep.  Rated R.  

Cinders - a post-ep for The End.  Angst ahoy, with a side of dubcon.  Rated R.

Love is to Die, Love is to Dance - the six stages of falling in love with your partners.  Rated R.

A Proposal - how it might have gone down, the first time they broached the subject.  Rated G.

Oxytocin - Mulder has an unhealthy habit.  Rated NC-17.

The Ocean Breathes Salty - Mulder being a douchebag, set around Three Words.  Angst.  Rated G.

Stalemate - Mulder being Mulder, set around The Blessing Way.  Angst.   Rated G.

Dressed to Suppress - Mulder muses on Scully’s evolving sense of style.  Rated G.

Two Weeks - a third person POV angst-o-rama, set during the Revival era. Rated R.

Fic trope mash-up prompt for Survival/Wilderness and Unexpected Virgin.  Post-colonization.  And its sequel.

Fic trope mash-up prompt for Summer Camp AU and Erotic Dreams.  Humour.  I sorta love this one.

Fic trope mash-up prompt for Green Eyed Epiphany and Hair Brushing / Braiding.  Angst.  

Fic trope mash-up prompt for Airport AU and Bathtub.  MSR.  

Fic trope prompt for Royalty AU.   MSR in medieval Russia.  Trust me.

Linguiphilia - dirty talk in the bedroom, MSR-style.  Rated NC-17.

Allotrope - romantic anal sex?  Is that a category?   Rated NC-17.

Prompt response - five times Mulder and Scully got caught kissing.  Rated PG.

Pandora’s Box - prompt response to Scully accidentally finding an engagement ring Mulder bought her, but prior to any relationship.   Rated PG.

Slightly Longer Fics

Files - Mulder thought he was in the doghouse.  Rated R.

Unnamed - Anger and lust - they’re two sides of the same coin.  Rated NC-17.

Hospital - How many times has Mulder been admitted, anyway?  Humour.  Rated G.

Last Full Measure of Devotion and its sequel We Take Increased Devotion - in answer to a prompt asking about Mulder and Scully’s first date.   Rated NC-17.

Detour - the road not traveled. AU for what would have happened if Mulder had stayed and drunk wine with Scully during the ep.  Written for the 2018 X-Files Pornbattle.  Rated NC-17, obviously.

Even Now in Heaven - a pre-XF fic in which Mulder and Scully have a one-night stand before meeting at the FBI.  Written for the 2018 X-Files Pornbattle.  Rated NC-17.

Fuchsia - written for the X-Files Pornbattle prompt “dry humping / frottage, both come”.  I’m such a classy lady.  Rated: NC-17.

No One Falls in Love Under Fluorescent Lights - early season sex, maybe?  Inspired by the Stars song of the same name.  Rated R.

Jude - sometimes healing and insight come from the least likely places.  Petfic! Set during the Revival separation.  Angst.  Rated G.

Sabine - a fic written for the XFilesFicExchange.  Amor Fati post-ep AU.  Mulder’s past catches up with him.  Angst and MSR.  Rated G.

Stories

Unnamed - Scully and Mulder hook up. Scully POV.  Rated NC-17

Unnamed - Mulder and Scully hook up.  Mulder POV.  Rated NC-17

The Wraith - Hallowe’en story.   Rated PG.

Severed - what happens when the ties between them are severed?  Angst. Housed at AO3.  Rated NC-17.

Vacationland - written for the 50 States of Sex collaboration.  I chose Maine.  Set after the failed IVF.  Angst and smut.   Housed at AO3.  Rated R. 

Cardinal Sins - a four part story (plus Epilogue) that explores the possibility of early season sex evolving into something more substantial. West - Lust.  North - Envy.  South - Gluttony.  East - Wrath (trigger warnings for dub-con apply).  Epilogue - Pilgrimage.  Rated NC-17. 

Perushim - a WIP series of one-shots about Fox William Mulder, and what makes him tick.   Housed on AO3.  Ratings vary by chapter.

Novel Length

Second Side of Light - housed at AO3.  A historical AU in which Mulder and Scully meet while crossing the Oregon Trail.   Rated PG for the most part, with exceptions marked in the chapter headings.  A sequel is in the works.

Seventeen - housed at AO3.  A romp through Fox Mulder’s past in search of what makes him tick, one sex partner at a time.  It’s a lot less libidinous than it sounds, but still, Rated NC-17.

Black and White and Red - housed at AO3.   A historical AU set in the 1950s (with flashbacks to World War 2) inspired by the genre of film noir.   Fox Mulder is a heretical photographer.   Dana Scully is a desperate woman.   This is what happens when they meet.

Coming Soon!  Saorsa - an Outlander AU novel.  Sorrynotsorry for jumping fandoms.

#my writing #masterpost

[hermannsthumb]

Hot tub sex??? *eye emoji*

scientists in a hot tub……what will they repress……..

18+/not safe for work below cut!!!!!

————————————-

Hermann is no stranger to shoddy motel rooms at this point in his career–indeed, on the shoestring PPDC budget, it’s more or less all he and Newton can afford when they’re shuttled out for conferences–but there’s a certain veneer to the crumbling Art Deco design and dusty plastic palm trees of this one that’s left him feeling strangely unsettled. It’s as if they’ve stepped into the past. As if the very motel is frozen in time. 

“Stop being so dramatic,” Newton says. “It’s just a stupid gimmick. Hold this, will you?”

He shoves his duffel bag at Hermann and (ignoring Hermann’s indignant hm!) continues, unsuccessfully, to cram a keycard into their door lock. “It’s upside down,” Hermann finally says.

“No it’s not,” Newton says.

“Yes it is,” Hermann says. “Flip it.”

“It’s not upside down,” Newton says.

“Flip the bloody card, Newton.”

Newton flips the keycard. The lock lights up green with a click. “Huh,” he says.

Their room is small, a bit cramped, even, with two twin beds (mercifully, they won’t have to share again, not like they did last time) draped in pink bedspreads, two nightstands, a beaten-up wooden wardrobe, and a single desk jammed in the corner. The pseudo-vintage wallpaper matches that of the hallways and lobby; the carpet, meanwhile, is too faded to make out what the pattern was once meant to be. “How terribly charming,” Hermann remarks, sarcastically. 

“I call bed next to the window,” Newton says, pushing past him to claim it.

Hermann busies himself with unpacking his belongings from his small carry-on suitcase as Newton takes stock of the room: poking around in the nightstand drawers, flicking through the wrinkled Gideons Bibles, fluffing his pillow, sniffing skeptically at the bars of soap resting atop their pillows. Hermann’s nearly finished settling in when Newton–flinging the door to their in-suite bathroom open–startles him with a sharp crow of surprise.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Take a look at that!”

Hermann sets down his last sweater on the bedspread, not bothering to look up. He can’t quite say he fancies finding out what kind of horror awaits them in there. “Roach infestation?” he sighs. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s a fucking hot tub, dude.”

Hermann does look up at that. “Hot tub?” he echoes sharply.

Newton pushes the door open wider. Sure enough, around his shoulder, Hermann can make out pink tile and the deepest, most elaborate bathtub he’s ever seen, complete with its own set of stairs. “There are jets,” Newton says. He lunges for a bottle on the edge of the tub and waves it excitedly. “Look, they gave us bubble stuff, too!”

“Oh,” Hermann says, not quite able to cover up his delight. There are very few things Hermann loathes more than flying: the cramped confines, even with disability accommodation, which leave his leg stiff and him tense and irritable–the fine layer of grime he’s certain sticks to him afterwards–how wretchedly exhausted he is when the whole affair is finally over. He can, frankly, think of nothing he’d like quite more at the moment than stripping down and getting into a hot soak in that tub. However filthy it may be. (And Hermann expects it’s quite filthy.)

He steps up behind Newton for a closer inspection. Pink. Dingy, but less so with grime, more so from age. Curved seats. Enough jets to already make Hermann feel woozy. Newton turns and shoots him a grin. “How many people do you think have screwed in there?” he says.

“Ugh.” Hermann winces.

“I’m serious,” Newton says. “It’s at least a dozen.” He nudges the faucet with the toe of his boot and laughs. “God, it’s so fucking sleazy. Why the fuck did they put this in here?”

“Perhaps the staff anticipated overstressed travelers would appreciate the opportunity to relax,” Hermann sniffs.

“Or perhaps,” (Newton says this in a crude mockery of his accent,) “the staff thought people like us might want a little extra bang for our buck, if you catch my drift.” He waggles his eyebrows.

People like him and Newton. Unable to help himself, and feeling suddenly rather flustered, Hermann blushes. “You’re so crude.”

“Maybe you just have a stick up your ass,” Newton says. He shuts the door. “Anyway, I’m gonna get a burger from the place next door. Do you want something?”

Hermann chooses not to remind Newton that he is a vegetarian. He’ll presumably remember it at some point on the walk to the restaurant–it’s rather a poignant thing to forget about one’s self. “No, thank you,” he says, and then, after reconsidering, because he is hungry, “Actually–yes. A sandwich. You know the sort I like–something with turkey. Or cucumber.”

“It’s a hamburger place,” Newton says, as if Hermann is a particularly dull toddler. 

“Surely they don’t only sell hamburgers,” Hermann says.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Newton says. He scoops up the keycard from where he tossed it on the dresser, pats his pocket for his wallet, and nods at Hermann. “I’ll be back in twenty. Don’t have any wild hot tub sex without me.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“That’s not,” Newton says. “Uh. See you.”

Newton’s not been gone five minutes when Hermann finally caves in and starts the tap for the hot tub. The water comes out hot–nicely hot–and the jets–oh, the jets--Hermann is suddenly frightfully glad he allowed Newton to talk him into packing swimming trunks in the event they’re able to make it out to the beach before the weekend is up. Though tub is just as much a bathtub as a jacuzzi, it still feels strange to enter it nude. Especially after Newton’s lewd comments.

The tub takes the better part of Newton’s promised twenty minutes to fill, and it’s still not quite finished when Hermann–now stripped down to nothing but his bland pair of navy-blue swimming trunks–grips the metal bars at the stairs and eases his aching, tense body into the steaming water. He tilts his head back against the pink tile; he groans, a little louder than he means to. The relief is quite instant.

Perhaps a bit embarrassingly, his prick begins to stiffen.

It’s automatic, of course. Pavlovian by nature. He’s not at all thinking of Newton’s implication that people like them have appropriated the hot tub for other purposes, nor of his slip-up right before he left to get them dinner. It’s only that Hermann prefers to reserve certain personal activities for when he’s in the bath. He’s more relaxed–the undercurrent of pain in his leg less distracting, and indeed, even nonexistent. Anyway, it’s not as if he’s about to start pleasuring himself here, in a bloody hot tub, where Newton could walk in and find him at any moment…

(A small, warm twinge in the pit of his stomach; Hermann parts his thighs just a bit wider, only to make himself comfortable, of course.)

Then there’s a small click in the main room: the door lock. “They literally only had hamburgers, dude, like I said,” Newton is saying. “So I got you–Hermann?”

“In here,” Hermann calls back lazily.

Newton practically kicks the bathroom door down, glaring ferociously, greasy takeaway bags cradled in one arm. “You asshole,” he says. “You’re using it without me!”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean,” Hermann says.

Newton sets the bag down on the sink counter and kicks off his boots. Then he begins to strip out of his t-shirt. Then his jeans. Hermann sits up in alarm. “No, no,” he says. “What are you–?”

“I’m getting in, that’s what I’m doing,” Newton huffs.

“No you are not.”

“I am,” Newton says. He reaches for the waistband of his purple boxers.

“No,” Hermann says, a little louder, and then begins to splutter indignantly when Newton ignores him and slips those off too. “You brought–we have swimming trunks. Why are you–?”

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Newton says with a shrug. The motion, full-bodied, causes certain elements of his anatomy to move. Certain elements of Hermann’s anatomy begin to move, too, in response, but for an entirely different reason. “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

This is true; Newton’s had enough lab accidents in their career which require use of the emergency decontamination shower that, hypothetically, Hermann should know his body like his own at this point. This does not make it any less alarming. Or any less exciting. Newton’s sturdy bare legs, verging on too-hairy, small scars on both his knees from what Hermann knows to be a rollerblading accident when he was twelve; Newton’s tattooed arms, muscled just enough from the demands of his lab work; Newton’s tattooed chest, his rosy pink nipples; Newton’s pudgy stomach, his love handles; between Newton’s soft thighs, his perfectly sized–well–

Hermann forces himself to tear his eyes away as Newton climbs in across from him. They’re so close their knees knock together. “Wow,” Newton says, and wolf-whistles. “This is awesome.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. 

He chances a small glance over. Newton has slipped off his fogged-up glasses; his body is a colorful blur beneath the bubbling surface of the water, but his chest, and his chest piece, are on full display, and his head is titled back in such a way that his soft throat is bared in a way that Hermann might call sensual. How terribly lovely he is. How terribly light-headed Hermann feels from the hot water–surely it’s why, not even bothering to pretend he’s not ogling Newton, he blurts out “What a marvelous tattoo that is.”

Newton furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

“Your tattoo,” Hermann says, and–for some reason–reaches out and grazes his hand down Newton’s sternum. He hears–no, feels–Newton’s breath catch in his throat. “It’s very interesting. I’ve never seen it properly before.”

Newton laughs nervously. “Oh,” he says. “I thought you hated my tattoos.”

“Of course I don’t,” Hermann says, and he’s surprised to find he means it. “I can’t say I approve of the subject material, but one would be a fool to deny their artistic value.” Hardly believing his own daring, he settles two fingers on Newton’s left pectoral, just above his nipple, and traces the edges of the great green kaiju’s head. “Was it terribly painful?”

“Nn,” Newton squeaks.

“Hm?” Hermann says. 

“No,” Newton says. He sounds breathless. “Hey, uh, you almost done–” The edge of Hermann’s thumb accidentally grazes his nipple, and Newton squeaks again, the rest of the sentence coming out in a high-pitched wheeze, “–uh, feeling me up?”

Mortified, and finally realizing exactly what it is he’s doing, Hermann snatches his hand away. “Ah–Newton–” he stammers, ears going hot, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Newton chooses precisely the wrong moment to glance down. Difficult though it is to make out definite shapes through the water, there is no denying that Hermann’s swimming trunks are quite tented. Newton’s eyes widen. “Hermann?”

“Oh, hell,” Hermann says. He buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Newton, I didn’t mean–”

There are strong, calloused fingers on his wrists, prying his hands away, and Hermann opens his eyes to see Newton’s face above his, Newton kneeling in the vee of his legs. His breath is warm, and smells like the bottle of soda he bought at a vending machine in the airport. “I’m gonna kiss you,” he declares.

Hermann blinks.

Newton’s tongue–pink–darts out to wet his lower lip–pinker. He presses his mouth–soft–to Hermann’s. For a minute, they move awkwardly, chastely, against one another, stiffly, even, and then Newton gives a tentative swipe with his tongue at the seam of Hermann’s lips.

The floodgates of desire open within Hermann all at once. A filthy moan rises in the back of his throat; he seizes Newton’s shoulders, drawing him forward, closer, until their chests are flush together; his mouth parts open eagerly for Newton, and he draws Newton’s tongue forward with his own. “Newton,” he breathes out. Newton tastes like the soda, too–sugary, too-sweet. “Oh, Newton–”

Impatient, over-excited, Newton shoves his hand gracelessly down Hermann’s trunks and wraps around his prick. “Fuck,” he pulls away from their kiss to whine, “were you jerking off before I got here? That’s so fucking hot. God. What were you thinking about? Were you thinking about me?”

Hermann had not been jerking off, but if Newton’s libido will be stoked to greater heights with a little bit of flattery, he can’t see how a small lie could do any harm. “I was,” he says.

Newton begins to slide his hand up and down Hermann’s prick. He’s very skilled at it. The other hand, he settles at the back of Hermann’s neck. “Fuck. Were you thinking about doing me in here? Over the side? Or me doing you?”

“Er,” Hermann wheezes out. “Yes?”

Clearly pleased, Newton begins to wank him faster. “Guh,” he says. “Touch my chest again, that was so hot. Please, please–”

Hermann obliges gladly. He splays his hands over Newton’s pectorals, squeezing, and–once he realizes how terribly sensitive Newton’s nipples are, because twice now Hermann’s only grazed one and produced a full-body shiver in the man–focuses his onslaught on those instead. With every small pinch, Newton cries out. When Hermann lowers his head to take one in his mouth, Newton straddles his right thigh and begins humping his hard prick against it in earnest.

“That’s so debase,” Hermann pants into his chest, blushing. “Really, Newton, you ought to just let me use my hand.”

“Guh,” Newton whines again. “No, no, I want you to touch me instead.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere,” Newton says. “Anywhere, anywhere…”

His hand is flying over Hermann so fast it’s difficult to think, let alone to consciously grope and explore Newton’s body, but–resuming variably grazing his teeth and flicking his tongue over Newton’s nipples–Hermann obliges again, dragging his nails down Newton’s sturdy back, digging his fingers into the soft skin of Newton’s backside and kneading at him gently. Newton’s movements against his thigh turn graceless, and Hermann is excited to feel small slide of sticky precome on his skin before the churning water quickly washes it away.

“I’m gonna come,” Newton pants. His head is tossed back in wild abandon, the image of hedonistic pleasure. It’s a wonder he can even still formulate whole sentences: Hermann imagines if he were as overstimulated as Newton obviously is, he’d black out. The simple handjob is almost too much to bear. “Yeah, I’m gonna come, are you–?”

“Kiss me, and I will,” Hermann says.

Newton stoops down, mashing their mouths together happily, and light fizzles behind Hermann’s eyelids as he spills over Newton’s hand. Newton gives a few more needy thrusts against his thigh; his cry echoes off the bathroom walls, and Hermann feels more sticky warmth on his skin. He slumps on top of Hermann when he’s finished. He’s shaking.

Hermann pats his back. “Well done,” he says, weakly, and Newton giggles just as weakly. He could go for a nap, he thinks. Preferably with Newton curled up next to him. The twin bed will be a tight fit, but they’ll manage.

#newmann #Anonymous #maria's fanfiction tag

[ninja-librarian]

Commission for @craftingandcats! Featuring Ryou, Zakuro, and their first pregnancy!

For info about commissions, click here!

In all honesty, this situation they were in was completely unexpected. Nothing like Ryou and Zakuro had discussed and planned many times. Emphasis on unexpected and unplanned, but most definitely not unwanted.

That was what both Ryou and Zakuro were thinking but not saying as they sat on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the pregnancy test in Ryou’s hands and the pale pink plus sign that stared up at them

But Ryou, ever the scientist, ever logical, ever the skeptic—especially when he thought things were too good to possibly be true—said softly, “You know, uh, these things… They sometimes give a false positive.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Zakuro said a bit flatly as she stood up, walking out of the bathroom. Ryou leapt to his feet to rush after her, apologies on his tongue, but before he could get a word out, Zakuro was back in the doorway, a plastic bag from the local pharmacy in her hands. She pulled out six more pregnancy tests—each dated with a sticky note—and laid them out on the bathroom counter.

Seven in total, including the one Ryou still held.

Seven little pale pink positive signs staring up at them.

Ryou stared, stunned, with open-mouthed awe as he looked at the tests on the counter, then the one in his hand, and then Zakuro.

“I knew you’d say that,” Zakuro said softly. “Because that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past week.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then they both broke into grins, throwing their arms around each other, laughing as they kissed.

“You’re pregnant!” Ryou exclaimed.

“I’m pregnant!” Zakuro echoed, wiping away a tear from her eye. “I’m pregnant… We’re going to be parents. A little sooner than we talked about, but…”

“No, no buts,” Ryou said, kissing her again. “This is perfect. Have you made a doctor’s appointment yet?”

“Not yet,” Zakuro said. “Let’s do it now. Find a spot on both of our schedules. I want you there.”

Ryou held her tight. “There is nowhere else I could possibly want to be than at your side.”

*****

A week later, they had a due date, had heard their baby’s heartbeat, and a prescription for neonatal vitamins.

They also had a long talk about when and how they were going to tell their friends.

“After three months was what the doctor recommended,” Zakuro said. “That’s about six weeks from now.”

Ryou nodded. “Considering we managed to hide the fact that we were dating for nearly seven months, six weeks should be easy enough.”

So they thought.

It became a little more difficult than they initially thought it would be.

“Let’s go out for sushi on Friday night,” Keiichiro suggested when he and Ryou discussed taking their wives out for dinner.

“Uh…” Ryou said awkwardly, not sure how to subvert this. “Actually, didn’t you say that you and Rin wanted to try the desserts at that new little cake shop? There’s a ramen place across the street from there.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.” Keiichiro agreed nodding.

Ryou heaved a sigh of relief, knowing full well he dodged a bullet.

Two weeks later, they faced a similar issue at game night, and the wine started to pour.

“How many glasses do we need?” Lettuce asked the room. However, she frowned slightly as Zakuro did not raise her hand. “You don’t want any, Zakuro?”

“Uh, not tonight,” Zakuro said, trying hard not to bite her lip or look nervous.

“Are you sure?” Ichigo pressed. “It’s your favorite brand.”

“No,” Zakuro said. “I’m… driving. I’m driving tonight. Designated driver.”

At that, the subject was dropped.

However, a few days later, Zakuro politely declined sampling a new tea Mint had acquired for the Café, as it contained caffeine.

“I’m avoiding caffeine,” Zakuro explained. “It’s healthier, you know.”

“But you practically live on caffeine with your schedule,” Kisshu pointed out.

“Yeah, Zakuro Onee-Chan would have to be pregnant to give up caffeine, na no da!” Pudding said, cheerfully oblivious.

Ryou spat out a mouthful of tea in shock and Zakuro just stood frozen with her actress smile plastered on her face but with wide eyes.

The entire room was quiet, then,

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE PREGNANT!” Mint screeched.

And that was how they told their friends.

More or less.

*****

They didn’t forget to tell Taka.

No, they didn’t plan to tell Taka.

There was a huge difference.

He noticed. Oh, yes, he noticed.

First it was some minor changes in routine. Ryou took care of the litterbox—which honestly Taka didn’t mind, given how much he hated Ryou—and the two were even more cuddly and close than Taka could ever remember.

Taka was concerned because Zakuro started taking pills every day, though. She shouldn’t; pills were the most evil thing in the world and Taka hated pills about as much as he hated Ryou, the vet, the vacuum cleaner, and the word ‘diet’. Pills were for illness and feeling unwell. But Zakuro did not necessarily look unwell, even though Taka heard her vomit early in the morning—way too early to be fed.

For once, he understood the humans’ frustration with him throwing up hairballs in the middle of the night.

Food was also a change. A bad change. A horrible, no good change.

See, Taka loved fish. Ate it for every meal.

But that came to an end when Zakuro went to prepare Taka’s dinner, popped open the can… and immediately dropped it and ran from the room, retching and gagging and yelling for Ryou.

Ryou, the ungrateful little wretch who had invaded Taka’s home and stolen his human, threw away the can of perfectly good cat food. Without letting Taka even having a nibble. Then he left the apartment, coming back with more cat food cans.

What was inside was not fish. Not even close.

It was chicken.

It was after nearly a week of being served this inferior food that Taka began to notice something else.

Zakuro smelled funny. She smelled too much like Ryou.

Taka was full of rage and indignation.

How dare he?

“Oh dear,” Zakuro said, frowning at the yowling cat. “Taka really doesn’t like the new food, does he?”

“Ignore him,” Ryou said, continuing to eat. “He’s yelling at me. It’s not about the food.”

Zakuro frowned. “Cat genes?

“Uh huh.”

“So, what exactly is he yelling at you about this time?”

“I’ve ruined your scent. You smell too much like me now, even after a shower. You should smell more like you. And by that, he means ‘more like Taka’.”

“Ah,” Zakuro glanced at the angry cat again. “He’ll understand when the baby comes though, right?”

“The baby will smell a lot like you usually do, and we could bring a blanket with the baby’s scent on it first,” Ryou said. He reached across the table, taking Zakuro’s hand, giving her a smile. “Don’t worry. In just a few months, we’ll all be a big, happy family. Or, at least, the three of us humans will be happy and Taka will just be as content as he gets.”

Zakuro laughed.

Taka stormed off, outraged at being laughed at and ignored, glaring at them both as he ate his chicken.

He refused to admit that it tasted good.

*****

One of Zakuro’s favorite things about being pregnant—and there was not many of those favorite things—was that every night as they laid in bed together, Ryou put his hand on her belly. She teased him about this initially, because she wasn’t even beginning to show and the baby was smaller than a peanut.

“Doesn’t mean it’s too early to bond with my child,” Ryou retorted. She had laughed then.

But now… Now it was the thing she looked forward to every night. Lying there in the dark with Ryou’s warm hand on her stomach, their child growing there.

It was often in those moments where she wondered whether the child would be a boy or a girl, what he or she would look like. Would that child be born with her dark hair or Ryou’s blond hair? His bright blue eyes or her dark gray eyes? Who would the child take after personality wise?

She loved the quiet, knowing full well it was the calm before the storm. Soon there would be a crying baby at all hours, diapers to be changed, and feedings. And she would welcome it gladly.

But for now, they’d enjoy the time they had to just be Zakuro and Ryou before they became Mom and Dad.

It was a moment like this where Zakuro felt the baby move for the first time, and the first time the baby kicked was against Ryou’s hand, making them both smile.

It was also these moments where they talked a lot about the baby. About what color to paint the nursery, about how they would parent, about names.

The discussion of names came up when Zakuro was about five months pregnant, her belly round and it was much clearer that a baby was growing, was coming.

It was Ryou who brought it up, which surprised Zakuro to some extent, the whisper that broke the silence in the dark.

“If it’s a girl, could we… could we name her after my mom?”

Zakuro, who had been dozing off, was suddenly wide-awake.

“Your mom?” She said. She thought for a second. “Your mom’s name was Lily, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then do you want it to be in English like hers, or the Japanese ‘Yuri’?”

“Could we do a variation of ‘Yuri’? Sayuri?”

“Small lily,” Zakuro said in English. She nodded to herself some, humming. “I like it. Shirogane Sayuri. And if it’s a boy, would you like to name him after your dad?”

Ryou was quiet and for a moment Zakuro thought he fell asleep, but then he spoke, “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can hear his name again.”

“Ah,” Zakuro whispered. “That’s why you wanted the variation of your mother’s name.”

“Yeah.”

She reached over and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “You know… I know we talked about not finding out the gender. But do you want to? It might help in choosing a name.”

Ryou was quiet again, then he said, “Can we? I know you wanted to be surprised…”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if it wasn’t possible, and if I didn’t mind.”

“Then let’s do it.”

A week later, they held the sonogram of their daughter, sitting on the couch together, just staring at it, smiling.

“Sayuri,” Zakuro whispered.

Ryou kissed her cheek, repeating, “Sayuri…”

*****

It was about seven months into her pregnancy, and Zakuro had already stopped doing appearances, signings, and performances, focusing on her health and the baby.

But there was also too much time on her hands.

She tried to fill it with her friends, reading, binge-watching shows, and preparing the baby’s room. But there was also a lot of time for self-doubt and fear to seep in.

She couldn’t stop thinking about her own childhood, the nannies and the dinners alone and desperate for any glimpse of her parents, let alone a hug or good-night kiss.

Zakuro thought of her own busy schedule, and Ryou’s. What if she couldn’t balance a career and being a mother?

Worse, what if she was a terrible mother?

And that was how Ryou came home to find Zakuro sitting on the couch, sobbing into her hands. He dropped the groceries he was carrying and rushing to her side.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, panicking. “Are you in pain? Is it the baby?”

Zakuro, her face still covered by her hands, shook her head, huffing and sniffling. “I’m going to be an awful mother…”

Ryou hugged her, and said, “No, you’re not.”

“I am!” Zakuro exclaimed, lifting her puffy, red-eyed face. “My parents were awful, and I’m going to be just like them. I’m going to utterly fail our child!”

“No, you’re not,” Ryou repeated. He cupped Zakuro’s face in his hands. “You are brilliant and wonderful and loving. You’re going to be an amazing mother. You love Sayuri so much already. And we’re in this together, you know? I’ve got my worries about becoming a parent, too, if that helps.”

Zakuro frowned at him. “What do you have to worry about? Your parents, they were so kind and loving and attentive…”

“They were,” Ryou agreed. “And that’s what I’m worried about. That I’ll never be as good as a father as my dad, that I won’t be able to do things as well as my mom. I’m going to ask myself every day, what would my mom do, what would my dad say? I’m worried that I’m going to fail and make a ton of mistakes. And I know I will. And so will you. But we’re going to be doing this together, you know. So it’s okay. We’re going to make mistakes, and that’s okay, as long as we know we’re allowed to make mistakes and our kids know that we’re allowed to make mistakes because we’re human. That’s just how life works. Everything—and everyone—will be okay.”

Zakuro sniffled and nodded. “So you’ll ask what your parents would do or say and do it, and I’ll ask what my parents would do or say and do the opposite.”

Ryou chuckled and hugged her. “Yeah, that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, still heaving slightly. Ryou just rubbed her back comfortingly.

He whispered in her ear, “You’re going to be a great mom. I just know it.”

She took comfort in his words, knowing he’d never lie to her about anything, let alone something as big as this.

All she could do was her best.

And that was what she was going to give.

*****

Ryou stood over the little bassinet, smiling as he looked down at Sayuri, sleeping soundly.

She was so tiny, so beautiful.

He loved her.

He loved her so much.

This beautiful little creation of his and Zakuro’s.

He glanced over his shoulder at his sleeping wife, then back to his daughter. He carefully picked her up, holding her close, making gentle shushing sounds as she stirred, yawning but cuddling in against his chest, her eyes staying closed the whole time.

Ryou sat down in the rocking chair beside the hospital bed, just rocking back and forth, feeling his daughter’s warmth and weight and presence.

How had he been so lucky?

“You sweet, beautiful angel,” He murmured. “What did I do to deserve you?” He glanced up at Zakuro, and smiled. “Either of you?”

To his surprise, the corner of Zakuro’s mouth lifted. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself.” She said softly, opening her eyes.

Ryou chuckled, shaking his head.

Zakuro shifted slightly, her smile growing. “Now this is a sight I thought too good to be true. I love it. Watching you hold our baby.”

“Well, you’re going to see it every day for the rest of her life.”

Zakuro let out a laugh at that. “Yeah, right. She’s going to be too big to hold eventually.”

Ryou instinctively held Sayuri closer. “Lies. Lies and slander. She’s my baby girl and she’ll never be too big to hold.”

“You hear that, Sayuri?” Zakuro crooned. “You haven’t been on the outside for five hours yet and your Daddy is completely and totally whipped.”

Ryou grinned at her. “For my two favorite girls? Completely and totally.”

Zakuro smiled and she drifted off back to sleep, the new family resting and relaxing and just enjoying these first few moments together.

They were more than ready to begin their new lives together, happy as happy can be.

And Taka? Well, he was just going to have to deal. And, eventually, he could admit that the weird human kitten wasn’t all that bad.

At least, he thought that until Sayuri learned to crawl.

But that was another story.

#Tokyo Mew Mew #Ryou Shirogane #Zakuro Fujiwara #Mew Zakuro

[forgetspecifics]

Such Sights are Bright - Chapter 3: So Glad You’re by My Side

Blake has some explaining to do. Yang's just there to love unconditionally.

Other links: Ao3 FF.net

Notes:

Not gonna say much more than I am super-duper sorry about the delay. I'll save my thoughts until you're done ;P

November (Fall)

/

The cold weather that had lasted since the beginning of fall had grown worse as winter approached. Although it was only the first week of the month, it seemed like they were going to be in for even more chills in December. Not that this really bothered Yang, no; it was Blake that was increasingly grumpy about it. Blake was thrilled when her athletic friends played their last game for the year, for she no longer had to attend and endure her torture (as she’d put it).

It became increasingly obvious that Blake had a particular disdain for being cold, after Yang had been woken in the early hours of the night that they had slept out on the lawn after their trip to Ozpin’s bar. Blake had claimed she’d turned into a popsicle, and demanded to go inside lest she get hypothermia and die. Yang, being very grateful of her friend entertaining her hijinks all night, had repaid her by swaddling her in blankets and carrying her all the way inside, to the bedroom. She would admit that it hadn’t been all that bad when Blake had snuggled up to get warm.

The problem Yang was now met with wasn’t to do with Blake at all – because everything was great with her. They’d been making good progress as friends and with their assignment.

She had been home from school for ten minutes, yet before she could even sit down to relax, there was a concerning whining coming from the front stoop. The rain had only begun to fall as she brought Bumblebee to a stop in the garage, but it was now pouring, the droplets hitting the pavement making the pitter patter more akin to elephants parading down the street.

Her problem was this: there was a small shivering black cat wailing its little lungs out just outside the front door, pleading for its escape from the torrent of rain. As the smell of the saturated trees hit Yang’s nose, so did the smell of garbage. Dark fur glossy, golden eyes wide, the cat immediately darted inside and rubbed Yang’s leg as thanks. Even though it’d wiped its stink on her jeans, she couldn’t resist letting the feline stay as it purred. In her opinion, it needed to be washed. She knew cats could groom themselves, but this one smelt like it’d been in a dumpster.

Gingerly scooping it up, she pulled out her phone to send a message to Qrow who just so happened to be grocery shopping right that minute. It was lucky for the little rascal that they had every means to take care of it until they could figure out if it belonged to anybody. Requesting food, cat shampoo and appropriate bathroom arrangements, she then carried the cat upstairs to the bathtub. Hopefully it would like warm water and not cause a big fuss.

Not long after she’d been able to settle it into a shallow bath and brush out its medium-length hair, her uncle had returned and handed off the much-needed shampoo.

“That furball is your responsibility, got it?”

Yang gently massaged the cleanser with her fingertips into the cat’s fur. It seemed to enjoy the heat it was now getting from the water and was cooperative with her efforts. “I’m only keeping it until I can find out where it came from. It’s kinda cute though,” Yang said as it meowed up at the man standing over the tub.

Qrow gave a noncommittal grunt. “I thought your favourite colour was yellow.”

“It is yellow,” Yang then used a cloth to wash its head, mindful to not get water in its ears. “Why?”

“You keep bringing home things in black,” he teased.

Taking a second, Yang then let out an indignant scoff as she caught onto his game. “Blake is not a thing. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Qrow might not be a social person, but he wasn’t blind – he assumed Yang would stop raving after the first few months about her new friends. She had made quite a few, but the kid wouldn’t shut up about Blake. Like it was all she thought about.

And yet, Yang didn’t see something in her that Qrow had. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what, but that girl was hiding something. Yang was so fixated on her that she hadn’t bothered to find more information out about Raven. And he couldn’t quite tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Oblivious to the actual implications of what he’d said, Qrow easily redirected the conversation. “You should ask her to help you deal with the cat. Since you say she’s so great.”

“Now that’s an idea! I’ll invite her over right now,” she wiped her hands dry and typed out a message, deliberately leaving out the part about her new friend. That was a surprise. Making sure the cat had been freed of its bad odour, she wrapped it in a towel and let the bath drain.

“There. Now you’re cuddle-worthy.”

After a thorough drying, the cat was once more pleased to be warmed up, as she carried it back downstairs to feed it – it being a him. She was pretty sure it was a boy, anyway. Blake had replied that she didn’t want to go out in the rain unless necessary, so Yang promised it was worthwhile and that she’d cook her dinner.

Blake gave in.

As the cat dug into his meal, Yang made sure to set up a litter box before deciding to get changed. Her clothes had absorbed some of the dumpster smell. “Don’t scratch anything up while I’m gone. Be a good boy.” The cat meowed back, and Yang hoped that meant he understood her. When she returned, to her relief, he was using the litterbox. “You’re a housecat, then. No wonder you’ve been so easy to take care of.” Which was clearly a good thing. It would be perfect if she took it to a vet or something tomorrow, and they’d find a microchip and be able to get the cat back home. Yang thought that his collar must have fallen off and his smell had made him appear a stray to anyone that might have seen him.

Again Yang was thanked with a leg rub as he let out a rumble of happiness. Unable to resist such an adorable thing, she picked him up and took a seat on the couch in the front room. He kneaded her legs before curling up. She gave him a rub on his smooth ears, which he seemed to enjoy. Content to wait until Blake turned up, she tried to brainstorm a temporary name for her temporary pet.

This however, proved to be harder than it sounded. No name she could come up with fit the calm-natured cutie. Name after name that popped into her head was rejected as the minutes passed, until she was distracted by said cat as he stretched and slowly padded over to the window that looked upon the street outside. Curiously, he jumped onto the sill and slid behind the privacy curtain, tail hanging down as it flicked back and forth.

Her own curiosity piqued, Yang also rose to look out the window. “Whatcha lookin’ at bud?” The question was pointless, but as her view outside widened, she found something outside staring at the cat.

Well, more like someone.

Eager to get out of the rain, Blake had hurried down the sidewalk taking care not to slip in any puddles. The umbrella she was using was holding up, but if the downpour from earlier returned, she feared she may just have to kill Yang for getting her into it. Coming up on the front lawn that she had frequented more often than not these days, she noticed something odd before she could take refuge under the awning at the front door.

There, in the front window, was a black cat. But they didn’t own a cat – Yang had even said she was more of a dog person, her family owned a dog and she missed him. The cat was staring at her, she was sure if it, and something compelled her to stare right back. Admittedly, she felt stupid doing so, which increased tenfold when Yang appeared at the front door, leaning on the frame with a questioning look on her face.

Blake hurried over and took shelter, closing the umbrella and forgetting the cat’s stare in her embarrassment. “Where did you get a cat?” she asked as she was ushered inside, her coat being taken and hung as Yang explained.

“After I got home, he was just crying on the front stoop, all wet and smelly! I think he’s just lost. I’ve been trying to think of what to call him until I can return him to his owner.” The subject of conversation appeared at their feet, sitting behind Yang and peeking up at the visitor. Again Blake felt its eyes on her, but tried to ignore it.

“Cats don’t just get lost, they know their way home. The rain must have hindered him, which I understand. And by that I mean, you got me to come out in that weather just for a lost cat?”

Yang rolled her eyes at Blake’s complaining. “You get a free meal out of it! I’m a great cook.”

“You better be.”

“Don’t be so grumpy!” Yang laughed, picking up the cat and cuddling him. “Look, he’s adorable!”

As the feline was held up in front of her, Blake had the opportunity to finally see him completely. Shiny black fur covered his body, with white dashed on his front toes and chin. Pointy ears stood tall on his head, and his eyes where a golden shade of yellow. It was almost uncanny, really, his appearance. Again, caught in a staring contest, Blake couldn’t help but mutter, “He looks a lot like me.”

Gasping dramatically, Yang then compared the two quickly. Black and white fur versus black hair and clothes with accents of white. Yellow eyes. Blake’s hair bow did look like ears. “You match!” She gasped again. “That’s it, the perfect name! Blake!”

“What? No. Nuh-uh,” Blake tutted repeatedly as Yang nodded furiously.

“Yes yes yes!”

Blake stamped her feet. “I will fight you on this, Yang, so help me.”

“Just don’t get my face, I like it unbruised!”

Yang dropped Blake – the cat – and they both made a run for it down the hall as Blake – the person – all but pounced, having taken Yang’s request as permission to actually fight her. Naturally, Blake’s lack of weight did nothing to hurt Yang as she jumped on the latter’s back and latched on, though the blonde did stumble with her altered balance. Yang grasped the doorframe to steady herself, Blake now noticing something she’d not seen before – that was happening a lot today – the room in front of her was empty, except for a dusty old piano. It looked to be well-loved, yet for some reason, Yang gave off an air of animosity as she too stared at it. The cat – she refused to call it by her own name – wandered inside, having found a new playground, letting out a short mew in interest. Blake too let herself drop the small distance to the floor, and followed him in.

Yang did not step over the threshold, as she watched her friend examining the first – and last – thing she’d discovered about Raven since she arrived. She’d not even come in here since that day, not feeling comfortable, like there was a presence still lingering. Even if she knew there wasn’t any such thing, she still didn’t like it.

Blake placed a finger on the dust cover; which was indeed doing its job, dragging a trail through the coating. “It looks like this hasn’t been played in a very long time,” she said, hoping that Yang would open up about what was bothering her.

“It hasn’t. Raven played it, you know, when she was still here.”

Blake recognised that tone of voice. The one that only was used when Yang spoke of her birthmother. She could see why her friend wasn’t so fond of it, now. The black cat that had been standing by Blake’s feet jumped onto the seat, and then onto the dust cover, and then agilely to the very top. He had left small feet prints in the layers of fine particles, but seemed to be pleased with a new perch to observe from.

“I guess you don’t like it, then?” she questioned, as Yang nodded in affirmation. “That’s a shame,” Blake stated matter-of-factly, “though I wonder if I could change your mind.” She sat on one half of the tall chair, patting the wood next to her in invitation.

Only now did Yang enter the space, slowly approaching. “You can play?”

Lifting the cover, Blake smiled sassily. “I’m more than just a book-nerd with a pretty face. Though I don’t know if it will sound very good if it’s not tuned,” though to her surprise, as she tested a chord, it sounded okay to her finely tuned hearing. “It sounds well maintained to me.”

“Qrow said it’s a family heirloom. Maybe whoever they got it from does it while I’m at school.”

Blake hummed in acknowledgement, fingertips dancing across the ivory keys, but not pressing down. The corner of Yang’s mouth quirked as she scooted on the chair to give Blake more room.

“Go on, change my mind then.”

Though it had been a very long time since Blake had last let herself play, it was the perfect time to share this part of herself. It had been even longer since she had recited this piece, but it was almost like she had no control over what her hands were doing as she began to play. The movements came naturally from memory – almost instinctively. For the longest time, she didn’t believe that she deserved to play it anymore, but this wasn’t for her. In some way, maybe she was changing her own mind and not just Yang’s.

Yang was now met with a problem that did involve Blake (this time it was not the cat). Her brain was trying to focus on three things at once; the notes in her ears, the way Blake gracefully worked the keys, and Blake’s face. It was almost a sensory overload, in the way that suddenly, she liked the piano so much more. It was like the connection to Raven had been overshadowed wholly and completely – replacing the feelings of contempt and abandon with a caring tenderness. She almost forgot to breathe as she sat and the music flowed.

Her problem seemed to solve itself as Blake’s expression became bittersweet as she smiled sadly. All Yang could do was wonder what this song meant; since it didn’t seem sad to her. As Blake finished playing, and the notes in the air slowly faded, Yang wasn’t sure what to say. The moment seemed to last for hours, even days, though it was only a minute. There was just…this thing about Blake. Like she was a mystery that couldn’t be solved.

The two were broken out of their reverie as the cat decided he’d had enough of sitting quietly, and made his descent right onto the high notes of the piano, the notes tinking and clinking as his paws made their brief stop before landing on the floor with a muted thud.

Blake let out a small sigh, closing the cover once more. “My father wrote that piece for me. He taught me to play, too.”

“It’s beautiful,” but Yang didn’t know if she meant the song or Blake. “You haven’t mentioned your parents before,” it seemed as good a time as any to bring up something that she’d been wondering about.

“They,” Blake swallowed audibly, “passed away when I was younger.” She was enveloped in an embrace, somehow, on the tiny chair they shared.

“Oh, Blake. I’m sorry,” Yang murmured, and Blake knew it wasn’t just a sympathy hug – her friend had lost both of her mothers. “You don’t have to say anything else if you don’t want to.”

Her head buried in Yang’s neck, the dark-haired girl whispered her thanks, revelling in the gentle comfort. It was not a story she was fond of, nor did she want to re-live it yet. It still felt nice to at least tell Yang, and not be obligated to explain, that her parents were gone. The hand that was slowly rubbing her back stopped as Qrow entered the scene, clearing his throat.

“I feel like I’m interrupting…something,” he said, face unsure.

The girls separated, and Yang gave a one shouldered-shrug that said yes and no. “Blake was putting this thing to good use,” she bumped her other shoulder against Blake’s, who remained quiet.

“I heard. You’re pretty good, kid. Whatever you two were talking about, I’m not gonna ask. I just came down here to give Yang something I thought might entertain the fluffball,” he produced and handed his niece a metallic object. “We don’t have cat toys, but this should do the trick.”

“Whoa,” Yang drawled, holding it up as if it were an incredible marvel, “ancient technology!”

As she broke into giggles at her own humour, Qrow didn’t appreciate her mocking his age. “You’re a little shit, Yang Xiao Long. Just like your dad.” She was her father’s daughter alright. He left promptly to avoid being dragged into playing with the cat. He had contributed enough, in his opinion.

Yang pointed her new tool down at the floor. “Let’s see if he likes it.” In the corner where the cat was sitting, his sharp eyes focused at the red dot that had appeared before him. A tentative paw swatted, but to no avail. As the dot suddenly travelled across the floor and into the corner, he scrambled after it at such a speed that his feet barely gripped on the lacquered wood. “Jeez! What a crazy cat,” Yang laughed, getting no response from Blake. Turning to her, it was almost like déjà vu as Blake’s eyes were also honed in on the beam from the laser pointer. Wiggling at a new spot on the floor, her gaze flicked to the new position. She was oddly transfixed, twitching forward when Yang moved the laser to their feet. As for the cat, he had sat back down in the corner, still watching with longing eyes, but holding back.

“Earth to Blake?” Yang called. Nothing. She tried again, and her vision caught an odd response. The bow Blake wore moved ever so slightly. Not sure what was happening, Yang directed the laser towards the door, with Blake abruptly standing and stalking after it. The cat had the same idea, but at a more uncontrolled pace – he bolted after it. Blake let out a noise of surprise as the cat sped past her, coming back to reality as she lost the red dot. After this suspicious behaviour, Yang wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions as to why her friend had suddenly acted like a cat, but…

Blake turned to her, sheepish. “Did I just…”

“Chase a laser? Yep.”

Once again, Blake had gone quiet, avoiding eye contact. It was like she was shrinking into herself. Yang knew if she didn’t address this now, she’d lose her chance. “So are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen? Or, are you gonna explain?”

At this point, Blake had no choice but to spill the beans. There was no other way to explain her behaviour. She’d wanted to tell Yang, she really had, but it wasn’t easy. “There’s a reason why I wanted to write our assignment on prejudice. Why you standing up for Sun impressed me so much. I’ve been hiding what I am from you, Yang.”

Seeing Blake so nervous had Yang’s heart in a vice. All she wanted was for her to feel safe enough to be her true self. “Blake,” Yang spoke measuredly, “I don’t care about what you are, I care about who you are.” When Blake gave a hint of a smile, Yang approached her, hoping that her words had been reassuring enough.

“I guess I should thank that cat for giving the perfect opportunity to tell you this.”

“And what are you telling me?” Yang asked.

Blake grasped her elbow with one hand, going for raw honesty. “I’m a Faunus. A cat Faunus. And I should have told you sooner.”

“Where’s the fun in playing all your cards at once? I think you’re charmingly mysterious,” Yang declared. She wasn’t mad – in fact, the opposite. “And I’m willing to bet that you’re hiding some cute ears under that bow.” They were probably soft. Would they be black, like her hair?

“You have no idea how much effort it takes to stop them twitching all the time,” Blake adorably huffed. She was basically outed by the very thing she tried to hide, the traitors.

“So you have super hearing or something?”

The least Blake could do was answer Yang’s questions. “To put it simply, yes.”

“Does your tongue feel like sandpaper?”

Blake shot her a questioning look. “Faunus only have one animal feature, remember?”

“Is that a no?”

The cat-girl sighed, giving her the facts of the matter. “I only have the ears. And night vision, obviously.”

Yang looked impressed, apparently forgetting that crucial piece of information at the time. “Ooh, that’s gotta be advantageous, right?”

“It is useful sometimes,” Blake admitted. She could read in low light, which was something she valued dearly.

“So after that night at Ozpin’s when I brought you inside, you could see me changing?” Yang sounded so casual, once Blake realised what she’d done, it was too late. She’d walked right into that one.

“I,” she stuttered, a red tinge working its way up her ears. “I will neither confirm or deny that statement.”

“You so could,” Yang wore a sly grin. “I was joking when I called you a pervert, but now I’m not so sure.”

Blake adamantly and loudly refuted. “I’m not a perv-” she lowered her voice, remembering Yang’s uncle was still somewhere in the house. “I’m not a pervert. Once I realised you were naked, I averted my eyes.”

“I’m surprised you had the self-control,” Yang had an ever-present smug smile, obviously enjoying learning of these events.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Blake retorted, trying to ignore that Yang had just implied that she’d wanted to stare at her naked.

“You couldn’t stop yourself when we were at the bar.”

Blake had no excuse for that. She distinctly recalled not caring that night despite being caught several times. That didn’t mean she had to admit it. “I was inebriated.”

“Hey, if that’s what you’re into. I’m not judging you.” The way the blonde said it was very sincere, like she wanted to make sure that Blake knew it.

But, of course, she knew that. “Yang, I know that you wouldn’t judge me if I was gay. You incessantly flirt with me and make innuendoes all the time, which in turn, is a dynamic that wouldn’t work if I was homophobic. In a way, it boosts my self-confidence. The way you reacted when I showed that crop top at the bar was incredibly ego-boosting, because you have a look girls dream about having,” Blake said, and this time it was Yang’s turn to blush.

“I am a firm believer of flaunting what you’ve got,” Yang mentioned, still a bit bashful.

“And besides, the night you fought with Cardin,” Blake added, knowing full well that she was about to embarrass Yang again, “I heard you when you said my request for you to promise to work on our assignment wasn’t as gay as you thought it was going to be.”

“Oh, fu…dge,” Yang was busted and boy was that awkward. This whole time, Blake had known and not brought it up. “You really do have super hearing.”

Blake smiled, but not maliciously. She’d had her fun teasing. “It’s fine. I provoked you, anyway. We’re teenagers with hormonal brains, it’s easy to mess around like that. I assure you that I’m comfortable with that dynamic.” What kind of a hypocrite would she be if she wasn’t supportive of whatever Yang wanted in life?

Looking notably more relaxed, Yang laughed, engaging in the back-and-forth dynamic that they were so good at. “And here I thought you thought all my jokes were stupid!”

Blake playfully jabbed Yang’s arm. “I do think some of them are stupid, but I still like them because they’re your jokes. I’ll enjoy listening if you enjoy telling them.”

“That’s super corny, Blake,” Yang said. Because it was corny – but she was glad on the inside, because it was kind of touching.

Golden eyes rolled good-naturedly. “Well, you’re super gay.” It was a lame comeback, but it wasn’t meant to be insulting anyway.

“Only for you,” Yang winked and pointed finger guns at Blake, smirking at her joke.

Blake pretended to think, hand on her chin. “Then wouldn’t you be Blake-sexual?” She looked expectantly at her friend, surprised when Yang made a noise of disapproval. “What?”

“That was Yang level-bad!”

“Now you know how I feel when you do it,” Blake countered easily, Yang pouting like she’d been terribly betrayed. Seconds later she snorted and chuckled, breaking the façade.

“Hey, you know, since I offered to make you dinner,” she began crossing the hall into the kitchen, Blake following, “is it mean if I ask you if you like fish?”

“What do you think, genius?”

Yang gave her a narrowed glance over her shoulder, now bustling about in the refrigerator. “But do you?”

Blake, arms crossed, now observed in interest. Maybe she did like fish. Despite it being a totally gross generalisation of cat Faunus.

“’Cause Ruby says I make a mean tuna bake,” Yang emerged holding two cans of delicious, delectable tuna.

Feeling her stomach growl, Blake tried to be nonchalant. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Yang gave her a knowing smile, gathering her other ingredients and utensils. “Why don’t you grab a book to read on the couch while I work my magic?”

“You’re appealing to all aspects of me. Clever.” Blake took up her offer without missing a beat. She chose a book from the bookshelf in the living room that had an old cover and had that distinctive smell she loved. Curling up on the cushions, she couldn’t help but be happy as she heard Yang sing something about bumblebees as she clattered around, obviously carefree.

It wasn’t too long until the blonde bounced into the room, with her long hair swaying in a ponytail. She must have put it up to prepare the food, but she quickly pulled the elastic out of her hair and tousled it before flopping down onto the sofa.

“Where’d the cat go?” Yang wondered aloud.

Not even bothering to look up from the pages of her book, Blake replied, “I’m right here.”

Yang giggled appreciatively at the humour of her words and plonked her head unceremoniously in Blake’s lap, well, moreso on top of the book she was trying to read.

“Excuse you,” Blake chided, but still rearranged herself so Yang had her lap-pillow while she could continue reading. It was like the cat had heard the earlier question, and leapt onto the arm of the couch at Yang’s feet. He obviously wanted to sap Yang’s warmth as he sat on her torso, kneading her flesh.

Yang flinched in Blake’s lap. “Watch the boobs Blake, geez,” she said as she guided the little cat paws away from her chest, talking to the cat with confusing name she’d chosen. “What is with the name Blake and pervs, huh?”

Peering over her book, Blake glared at her friend. “I still resent that claim. I am nothing more than a supportive friend, and thus, think you look like a goddess. It’s my duty to think that.”

“Heh, doodie.”

After they’d finished dinner (Blake had devoured it), Qrow had headed off to work. He’d been amused at the quiet and reserved girl’s fervour, considering she always acted aloof. He would agree that the tuna bake was quite delicious, but the kid had gone on about it like she’d never eaten in her life.

As Yang took the plates to the sink, Blake was still in her chair trying to savour the taste in her mouth. “Yang, oh my goodness. What did you do? That was amazing!”

“You said that three times already,” Yang tried to downplay the praise. Blake must just really like tuna.

“But it was,” Blake said insistently.

Yang waved her hand facetiously in dismissal. It wasn’t that special. She filled the sink with some hot water, dumping everything they’d used in. “I learned a lot over the years. I just threw things together sometimes, or substituted ingredients.” She leaned on the bench, facing her pleased guest. “If you must know, the secret is cottage cheese.”

Blake made a thoughtful noise. “I do like cheese.”

“It’s just like the sex on the beach cocktail. Tastes better than it sounds.”

That was true – Blake had liked the drink. She made a mental note to buy cottage cheese. “Since you made good on your promise, let me wash the dishes. You can dry.”

As they worked, the cat strode over after munching on his own dinner, bumping his head against Blake’s ankle and meowing. Yang was cooing over how cute it was and that he liked her now. Pointing out that the cat wasn’t staying, Blake wasn’t getting too attached, and she hoped Yang wasn’t either. Though her friend probably was just fine with having a cat Faunus around instead of an actual cat.

Her suspicions became confirmed later that evening. They were watching a classic mystery film in the lounge, and Yang had been designated as a space-heater by both feline-human and feline-animal. The cat was snoozing on her lap, while Blake sat at her side, watching the television screen attentively. It was a good movie and it was at a good part – so she payed attention.

Yang had a different idea. While Blake was distracted, this was her chance to get her darned bow off. It wasn’t a cunning plan per se, rather, it was the best plan she could come up with in the few seconds that she thought about it. She tried to be the sneaky, carefully snaking her arm to the silk fabric that sat upon her friend’s head. As her fingertips closed in on the loose end that stuck out of the knot, she held her breath, waiting for any sign that she’d been caught. Letting ten seconds go by, she assumed she’d gotten away with it and was just about to-

“And you said I don’t have self-control.”

Nope, she definitely hadn’t gotten away with it.

What was she supposed to do now? Go through with it anyway? Or-

“You should let go,” Blake’s voice interrupted her again.

Doing as she was told, Yang brought her hand back to her lap, choosing to go for the less guarded set of ears on the other Blake. “Sorry,” she told Blake ruefully. Because she was. Well, she was sorry that something so simple as ears had to be hidden. “I don’t want you to- I just,” Yang stumbled, for there was no easy way to tell somebody that was clearly afraid of prejudice to just let down their guard. “This is a safe place, with me. I like you, cat ears included. Nothing’s gotta change if you don’t want it to.”

“There’s nothing I’d like more than being able to sit here and not be self-conscious. In time, it’ll probably happen. But I want to make it clear to you. Don’t touch my bow, or my ears, without permission. I’m not a pet,” Blake told her, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Got it. Hands to myself,” Yang said, heeding her instructions. She had to, if she was going to respect her.

“And, I don’t want to make it seem like I don’t trust you Yang, so believe me when I say that I wish I didn’t have to make sure-”

“Blake,” Yang cut her off, taking her hand that was slightly trembling. “I’m not gonna tell anybody. I pinky promise,” she told her, offering her littlest finger in solidarity.

Blake let herself indulge in the childlike solution. If it was how Yang let her know that the secret would stay secret, that was all that mattered. Though she’d shed some emotional baggage today, and felt lighter for it, it was still draining. “I’m starting to feel everything catch up with me. Would it be alright if I took a shower before hitting the hay?”

“Whatever you want. I’ll grab you something to wear,” Yang switched the TV set off and gently eased the sleeping cat on her lap onto the couch. “Come on,” she gestured to Blake to follow, getting up and briefly stretching.

There was a short conversation about the proffered clothes. Yang’s tops were already a bit larger to accommodate her chest, meaning they’d be even roomier for Blake – so she made a point to ask for a shirt and not a tank, so that there wouldn’t be any chance of a wardrobe malfunction. The first (and last time) she wore a tank top to sleep; Blake had woken up to a bit too much of her boob outside the top. Never again. Yang had also leant her a pair of underwear, but dug out the brightest yellowest ones she said she owned. Just for her. They were gaudy and almost blindingly Yang’s style.

Now alone in the bathroom, Blake folded her own clothes neatly, freed her feline appendages, and tied up her hair in a messy bun. Turning the water on, she relaxed into the soothing steam and pressure of the water, and it was an effort to not use all the hot water. She made quick work of finishing up and drying off, trying to retain the heat she’d soaked up. Internally hating the yellow underwear she was now wearing, Blake was relieved the dark grey shirt covered them. Gathering her discarded outfit, and bow, she made a conscious choice to not put it back on. Might as well get it over with now, and not leave Yang stewing in her nosiness for weeks on end.

As Blake walked in Yang’s room, luckily the girl wasn’t indecent but rather slipping on her shorts. She had also retrieved the cat from downstairs and it was sitting on the bed; he was regarding her entrance with a lazy gaze. As Yang looked up to greet Blake, she did a double-take and must have realised that instead of a bow, there was cat ears. She lost all coordination; getting her foot stuck in the garment, she jerked and tripped, falling as the other leg she stood on couldn’t bear her mistake. Blake had to admit, it took all her being not to outright laugh at Yang lying on the floor with her ass in the air. Even the shorts had given up and fallen down her legs.

Stifling her amusement, Blake set down her clothes so she could assist her clumsy friend. “Only you could manage to undress while trying to get dressed,” she commented, now hauling up a recovering Yang.

“Well if that didn’t impress you, I could always try a striptease? It’s half off! Get it?” Yang laughed, referring to her state of undress, and presented herself with bravado. Even if she looked like an idiot standing there with her shorts around her ankles. It was honestly less surprising to hear such a question than it was to realise that Yang hadn’t said a single thing about her ears. It was odd.

And, for a fleeting moment, she wondered if Yang knew how to perform a striptease. Or could manage one. The answer was probably in-between yes and with difficulty. Blake snickered. “Does that include you falling over in the process? And most likely suffocating me in your boobs? Or do I have to pay extra for that?”

“Ooh, that’s a bit kinky,” Yang responded, hand on her hip. She wiggled her eyebrows at Blake.

Blake sent back a halting motion, stuck in the midst of being confused by such a ridiculous sight. “Alright, keep your pants on,” the stupid shorts were still around her ankles – it should be criminal to look attractive while simultaneously being the epitome of dorky.

“You mean put my pants on?”

“Yeah, that. Do that,” Blake pulled back the covers of the messily made double bed and jumped on, fluffing her pillow and trying to control her warm cheeks. Avoiding looking any longer at the vivacious blonde helped.

Behind her, a low whistle rang out. “Wow, Blake. You look good in yellow!”

So much for controlling her blush – she gave up and buried herself under the covers.

Blake’s muffled voice reprimanded Yang as she mercilessly tormented the reserved girl. “Can you stop looking at my ass, put your pants on and go to bed?”

Despite having the capacity to tease endlessly, Yang relented and put her shorts on (without falling this time). Avoiding disturbing the cat at the foot of the bed, she climbed in and switched the lamp off, the room falling into a deep darkness. Hearing Blake shuffle around next to her, but not say anything, she felt as though she needed to reaffirm her loyalty as a friend after literally falling over in shock at the sight of her Faunus ears. They were downright adorable, and Yang wished she could express that, but she’d already overstepped her boundary earlier. Avoiding making a big deal out of it was probably the best course of action – since Blake hadn’t even brought it up, she probably wanted it that way.

Taking into consideration what she’d learned about Blake today, there was something that she could offer as a kind gesture. Yang spoke softly into the silence, “Hey, Blake? Would you wanna…have Thanksgiving with us?” Surely, it was lonely around this time of year without your family. Yang had always felt the holidays were more difficult after Summer had died, especially with their absentee father. She’d not wish that upon anybody. She held her breath, pleading that Blake wouldn’t shut her out on this. She had said a while ago that she didn’t like the topic of her past.

“Yeah. That’d be nice,” she eventually replied. “Thank you, Yang.”

Relief flooded over Yang. This was good. “’Course. Goodnight.”

As Blake bid her goodnight too, Yang wondered what the hell she was going to tell Qrow. The thought didn’t last long as sleep took hold.

When her mind slowly bled back into consciousness, Yang was feeling a little overheated. Rested, but hot. Coming to her senses, it soon became clear that just like last time, Blake had gravitated towards her warmth. Like a moth to a flame. There was little space between their bodies; Blake tucked against her, angling her head into the cocoon of warmth of Yang’s neck. And, well, her boobs – Blake was in there alright, Yang beginning to feel a little humid at her throat as Blake breathed deeply.

Yang’s own shallow exhales came from her nose as her temperature kept rising, creating a tickling sensation on her chin. She could see Blake’s cat ears were twitching sporadically, dark fur fluttering at the breeze they were met with. It was soft and featherlike, almost soothing – if it wasn’t for the tickling. Yang wanted so badly to not wake her, but either she’d stop breathing or be tickled to death. And she was not going to lay a finger on those ears. She tried to ease her head away, but that only irritated the sleeping girl.

Resigning to waking her, Yang tried to not be too loud in her ears. “Blake.” There was a small grumble. “Blake,” she tried again, this time met with a sleepy murmur. “Blake, wake up, and I’ll buy you tuna for a year.”

“Tuna?” Blake breathed in the crook of her neck, sounding so hopeful.

That had her attention. “No. Blake, your cat ears are tickling my chin.”

Finally relenting, Blake retracted from her haven and Yang was able to get some much-needed space to cool down. She threw off her side of the covers, feeling a lot better already.

“You were too warm,” Blake realised from the multitude of blanket that was tucked around her.

“Sure was.”

“Why didn’t you move?”

Yang shrugged. “Didn’t want to wake you. The tickling really got me, though. So, sorry, I guess?”

Mulling this over in her lethargic mind, Blake thought she should be sorry, not Yang. Apparently, what she’d said yesterday about the no-touching-my-ears rule had its intended effect, and it was nice that waking her up was a last resort. And it was really nice that Yang allowed her to freely seek the warmth her body craved constantly without making a fuss, and even getting to the point of unselfishly being overheated.

Instead of apologising, Blake could return in favour, something she knew Yang wanted. “For going through that warm and ticklish discomfort, I want to repay you for being so accepting of me. If you treat me as if I am no different to you, I can try and get used to the fact. I give you permission to touch my ears if it serves you to better understand me.”

Yang stared at Blake as if- well, as if she’d grown another set of ears. Except that she was born with four ears and certainly did not just sprout extra ones as an infant.

Gradually, the shock subsided, as Yang recovered. “Okay. Yeah. If you’re sure?”

Blake nodded, trying not to flinch as Yang rolled to face her and slowly extended her hand. This was a trust exercise. Still, the hand hesitated, lilac eyes meeting amber for one last check. Blake trusted her – so she hoped her eyes conveyed it’s fine before closing them. Nothing says I trust you like being vulnerable.

She almost missed when Yang’s fingertips finally swept across the fine fur, it was that tentative.

Yang didn’t want to make a big fuss, the ears were so soft and Blake was just too cute, so she settled for just enjoying the moment while she could. “I’ll admit, this is a little weird,” she felt herself growing to like how silky the fur felt with the pad of her thumb, which probably wasn’t ideal.

“I know. I never thought I’d be doing this.”

“What? Lying in my bed letting me touch you?” Yang froze as she finished her sentence. She could have swore she never even caught that one being formed in her head. Pulling her hand away, Blake cracked an eye open, and Yang wondered how she could look that disbelieving with just one eye. “That came out wrong,” Yang said, because it had.

“Unintentional innuendo aside, yes,” Blake let the slip-up go. “I never thought I could trust somebody this much.” She had wanted to say trust a human, but that’d make her a hypocrite. She was trying to lesser the divide, not make it bigger.

“Thanks, Blake.” Yang was beaming at her now. “We should get up and at ‘em, got a lost cat to return home, and all.”

And so they did; Yang grabbing a quick bite to eat as Blake gladly settled for a cup of tea. When she first started coming over, they hadn’t had any, but somebody added it onto their grocery list as her visits became more frequent. She sat in a chair in the corner, progressively sipping until only the dregs remained, being a quiet observer. Yang was gathering the things she’d gotten for the cat to donate to the animal shelter at the front door, the feline meowing every time she came back, and staring at Blake in-between. Yang had been considerate to take care of the stray, trying not to get sentimental and think of herself as being taken in as a stray too. Because the fact was, she was much happier now than she’d ever been since she lost her parents.

Once Qrow had driven them to the shelter, they both got the vocal black cat inside and was able to get him checked for a microchip. Luckily, the owners had been smart enough to pay for one, and pulling up the contact info saved a lot of hassle. The girl that picked up the phone was missing her beloved cat, and wanted to thank Yang for keeping him safe, and after a brief chat they were on their way.

Walking back to the parking lot, Yang was just glad to help a creature in need. But one thing did bother her. “Turns out that his name wasn’t Blake, would you believe that? I think it suits him, but no, he’s called Adam. Stupid name, right?”

Blake tended to agree with that statement.

Notes:

Song: 'Cat' Piano piece: 'All Our Days' (credit to best boy Jeff Williams)

Dropping hints like WUUUUT You probably could guess where I was going with this as soon as the cat showed up. And whoever commented way back in the prologue about Blake being able to play piano, you win one internet credit.

So I struggled a bit with this. Caught a bit of a cold the first week of writing and have been feeling a bit off. Most of the time I felt what I had was not quite right, but in the end I think it turned out alright. It's really hard to write some things. Especially when I'm dumb and include two characters with the same name and with no individual features except for one being a person and one being an animal.

Cat is self explanatory. I find it works best if the choruses are about the actual cat, but the last verse is about Blake. She's finally pretty happy and has some good support by her side. And well, All Our Days is a perfect song to use because they used it in canon for Blake's talk with Ghira and I cried so hard because I'm emotional okay? Her dad loves her, Jeff wrote it about his daughter; it's sad but I wish I had that relationship with my father. It might make some more sense later on in the story :P

#rwby fanfiction #rwby fanfic #rwby #rwby bumblebee #bumbleby #bumbleby fanfiction #bumbleby fanfic #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #cats #otp #the bees #slow burn #rwby soundtrack #such sights are bright

[matsitle]

Dragon Loo - Mahungra Prayer Answered

Of course our lives are not so banal as to keep churning out the same devilry on our nocturnal walks. No; far from it. In fact, one could point to innumerable occasions where walking was a safe, uneventful exercise. The latter criterion however we cannot meet on the occasion of this past Saturday; hence the need to put finger to keyboard (the woke ones with their masochist nostalgia for “real” suffering would prefer the phrase ‘pen to paper’). The event concerns a godly billboard I encountered on First Avenue this past Saturday. From a company called Dragon Loo Toilet Hire. Finally, I had found the words to exalt my god: Dragon Loo!

 I am often mistaken for a better black; a woke one at that. I was cursed from childhood; my staple music diet was the Jazz Ministers and the likes. Zandile – a song by those lovely sentient beings – hasn’t a single word to it. Yet I know its lyrics from the first verse to the last. For in the beginning there was the Word; and the Word was God. And we blacks – cursed beings we are – have always mastered the Word. Yes, I dare say it: we birthed God! We are kings unto Him. So it is no surprise that I found words to Zandile. And to many other canvasses as well. I am thinking here Winston’s “Masihambe”. That one turned into a gospel song; a prayer I recited each time anything (especially church) was taking too long. All of this has taken me away, somewhat, from the broad masses of our people. People I love so dearly. It thus pains me that, for the past six years, we haven’t been able to spend our happier times together.

 Unlike them; I am not a music snob – I am not at all against listening to music I find uninteresting or downright trap; oh sorry I meant crap. Same difference really. In fact, given that those who have usurped themselves the slippery perch of thought leaders on a platform mainly used by an inconsequential one percent of the populace have found it fit to declare that #HoeIsLife, I can unashamedly admit to being a whore of music. Where it leads me I will follow. I mean for god’s sake I even go to church for the music! So what would prevent me from being with the broad masses of our people when they gather to worship under the spell of the mainly unseen but omnipotent gods with one ear covered by headphones pressing on buttons without any effect on the loud music barring recklessly from the huge speakers that were seemingly built to reach heaven for the attention of God’s big deaf ears (no wonder then the Pentecostal churches are never without these speakers; and no wonder their prayers receive more likes and retweets from the man upstairs than those of our poor spinning and drum-bashing churches in the ghettoes with whitehead Bishops who don’t even own a bicycle while the 20something year-old Pastor is on his fourth AMG – oh maigot!).

 You see, (why do poets like this phrase so much? It’s almost as if every stanza starts with this phrase, followed of course by the all-time favourite word: “I”. Fucken narcissists! Go get a bloody diary and phumakithi!). You see, I, unlike Bukowski, believe that all dumps are important to a young man’s life, not just the long beer-induced one in the morning. I give here special attention to those dumps that just sneak up on you unawares, in the most awkward of places. Those, I posit, are the dumps that gave birth to the “oh shit!” aphorism. You’re at your new bae’s birth home, to meet those responsible for their hang-ups and the main reason for the impending implosion of the cursed relationship (even if this responsibility only stretches to them fucking and conceiving that toenail of Satan – which in all honesty is rarely ever the case, but let’s leave that gossip to Sigmund Freud). You’re having a mighty good time impressing these supposedly nice people (we all know that they’re horrible old hags waiting for you to fuck up) when suddenly there’s stirring in your bowels (you have been too focused on ensuring there’s no stirring in your loins should a hotter sibling appear, your body forgot to govern other areas) and you feel a golden brown rush toward your anus: “Oh shit!” Or you are in a middle of a lie to high school kids about the importance of hard work, or R4,500 paying registered ‘hustlers’ to your weekend-long Forex workshop, (same naïve fucks; different LSM), when you realise that the next exaggerated ‘walk like a boss’ step on your kick-and-boboza shoes will result in soiling your white linen pants recommended by your mentor for their translucence as it signals transparency and honesty: “Oh shit!”

 Now imagine my entire self, the provocateur and general insultist I am, with an unsuspecting interlocutor-turned-intellectual punching bag on the ropes, and, unlike Helen Zille’s racist tweets, “surprise surprise…a dump is upon you.” Oh shit! I would, in the normal course of business, have to cease and desist my hearty derisive laughter at my victim’s pathetic attempts at a counter-argument. That is the first important step, laughter has a tendency to loosen the bowels. Hence people with no humour are so full of shit. The second step would be to announce to my audience – because in reality I’d have been carrying on this charade with this idiot for their sake – that I’d rather go take a shit than stomach the shit coming from the said idiot’s mouth. This is another important step; as I have to always control the narrative about myself – in this case I cannot admit to a dump imposing itself on me, that is counter my narrative as an existentialist, hence I frame the whole affair as an act of agency on my part. The third and last step, is to find the nearest, cleanest toilet to relive myself while retweeting some woke quotes.

 Mahungra, however, where the broad masses of my people gather, is no business as usual. The place – all half-hectare of it – is bereft of toilets. Not a single one on site! Let’s go back to the situation as above – let’s add, for effect, that I have engaged as many shots of cognac as I have schools of thought that night. Now, I have just successfully completed the second step and convinced everyone that the impending dump is completely dependent on my whims. I am hit by a serious obstacle; there are no toilets on the property I am patronising. The nearest toilet is at the BP garage; I would need some coins to use it, and also observe the first commandment of black life under the ANC: “Thou shall queue.” Together with the few ladies who decided that they were above squatting and squirting in the bush. There are two main problems with this scenario: firstly, it is entirely possible that neither me nor any of my companions would have cash on them; being civilised people of NFC and all. Secondly being on the queue will definitely give away my ‘number two’ dilemma to a lot of eyes I cannot sate with my lie of picking this shit over the one spewing from my interlocutor’s mouth. And to compound matters further, the fact of me subjecting myself to a queue would give me away to people who know me well enough to know that I would never do such unless there were extorting circumstances. Which would of course make piss of all the work put in into step two. The other option, the Shell garage across the highway, has the same two problems as the first option but to its favour has less eyes – however it carries with it the risk (especially given the cognac cursing through my veins) of being trampled over by a truck. Nna nka se shwelle masepa.

 It is clear to see that the above scenario is an “oh shit!” moment only surpassed by reliving yourself of putrid green slimy mess at your potential future in-laws during water-restriction hours (and being the landless blacks they are, the toilet is probably within earshot and eyesight of the masses dining from their laps in the lounge – how are you to clandestinely sneak in buckets of water from the bathtub next door? Nee mahn!).

 This is the only reason that propaganda has been able to thrive on my name: “heh heh Mpho is a snob?” the slob I am? “heh heh Mpho is a coconut” I can barely pronounce the word pronounce – coz rolling R game dololo! “heh heh Mpho is a better black” I too know the struggle of being grateful for food; I’m just very much anti-poverty-porn. I am not about to masochistically parade my pain for the world to pity for the sake of relevance.

 But all of this is about to come to an end – thanks to my (together with especially female Mahungra patrons in jumpsuits and any woman wishing away the indignity of subjecting their holy of holies to the risk of bush snake bites) Lord & Saviour: Dragon Loo. I was awed to the floor by the poster with the orange portable toilets. Even their colour was perfect for Mahungra as Mangaung’s prime party destination. Orange is after all the city’s official colour. And its brightness lends it visibility in the dark even to alcohol-compromised eyes. As if this isn’t enough good news; they also offer free delivery, that means no one ought to lift the finger to install nor rid the thing of our collective shame – the lazy buggers we are. But what finally convinced me that this was Jesus’ personal answer to my prayers was the cost of it all. Being ultra-concerned about the profitability and sustainability of black business, I was worried that such a venture for the sake of our fragile oft-ignored dignity would cost these entrepreneurs who saw a gap in the highway…uhm, I mean market…who saw a gap in the market an arm, leg and trip to Saxonworld Shebeen. But no, when eloah Dragon Loo still reigns ha a yo mathata: our dignity will only cost our business geniuses just less than ten of their (sometimes) diarrhoea inducing beef stew plates per week.

 Maigot! This is a win-win for everybody. Especially me – which is of course a more interesting development. Soon I will be able to Wololo with my people – or rather, if we are in the business of being honest with each other, hating on my people Wololo-ing. But those are just semantics; oksalayo I will be with the broad masses of my people. When they’re at their happiest. And nothing makes me happier than that. Except of course Jazz. And being alone. And drinking coffee. And writing. And loving a woman. And reading Kundera. And…ohk; let’s just say being with multitudes people in the bush next to a highway listening to Emtee’s “trapa trapa babaye” does not necessarily amount to the pain of landlessness, and thus somewhat tolerable. You see I – in the black tradition of begging for crumbs – only pray that they make it a bit slightly more tolerable by having ablution facilities on site. And Dragon Loo (what a kak name!) gives us an easy way out; and that’s all one requires from a deity. An easy way out. Hence I exalt it so. It’s probably not even worth shit, as are many businesses with ads with a star pop-up banners with tilted words inside, and many gods. But what more can we ask for? Like all black people I birthed a shitty god with my words. For that I have nothing to say but “oh shit!”

 This is really an awkward way to end a piece, quite shitty in fact. But it is what it is. Lemme go take a dump.