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shadowturtlesstuff · 3 years

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invisible duckling

hi!! im alive, slowly working of fics still. i havent been writing as much as i want to but my brain is honsetly tired, but i have this cressworth (obvioulsy) that started as an invisible string based one, but becuase @fangirling-again has been pestering me about writing one about adopting ducks the ideas merged. somehow. the title is also her idea

(also im working my way through acosf so ill be online more frequently very soon!)

“We aren’t leaving the bed,my love.” I murmur as I feel Audrey Rose sit up and our cat move from his spot at the end of the bed to her lap. “We are staying like this forever.” I roll onto my side, careful not to brush against her leg. Her laugh caresses my skin as she lazily strokes our cat. I would happily stay in bed with the women I love and our son for the rest of my life, perhaps we can both get some more sleep that way.

We’d gone to bed earlier than planned due to the amount of things we needed to get done today but our son decided he needed our attention and who was I to deny his wants. Sir Issac had sat on my chest as I layed and stroked him long into the night whilst talking to my beloved. Audrey Rose had rolled her eyes at me when I had told her he can stay in the middle of us so we can hug him all night long. I was content stroking him until my eyes had grown tired and I could barely stay awake, but he had just meowed until I continued stroking him. It had led Audrey Rose to face me and tell me that is exactly how I act when I don't get enough attention.

“As wonderful as that sounds, we need to leave at some point,” she tells me and I whine about my discomfort. The bed was warm, safe and didn’t involve dealing with people I wished not to deal with. Again her laugh fills the room and I open my eyes to find her face half concentrated on me and the other on our demanding son. I may have taught him too well.

“Remind me what we’re doing today so I can come up with valid reasons as to why we shouldn’t.” sir issac moves from audrey’s lap to sit right in front of my face, brushing his head against my own. I nuzzle against before I sit up and pull him into my lap. I fear the day when we get our second cat and sir isaac gets jealous of the attention we give it and not him.

“We are not getting another cat thomas,” she tells me and gives me the look that tells me she saw my thoughts on my face. We shall give sir isaac a sibling but I'll concede this argument for now. So I scowl at her and then rest my head on her shoulder. She sighs as she steals my hand and entwines our fingers. “We have to meet Dacinia at the restaurant near cornelia street. She has news for us, then my aunt wants to meet with me for an hour or so then uncle wants us in his office the rest of the day. Our case, it seems, has new leads that he is dealing with alone today but will fill us in and make plans for tomorrow.”

It has been months since we saw my sister and I've been excited since we got the letter she will be in town. We are visiting my favourite restaurant, the archer. We used to go as kids with our mother before she died. I have been meaning to take Audrey Rose but our lives are filled that we barely have time to do anything together like that. As soon as we are able, I'm bringing her to Romania to have a long overdue holiday. “Have you ever been in the archer, my love?” I ask just to keep her by my side a little while longer. Our grip tightens slightly and I know she knows my intentions behind the question. She always figures out how my mind works even when I do not understand it. Just as I do for her.

“I have, many times. My mother would take us all and we’d have dinner there once a month.” I trace shapes on the back of her hand, it shocks me to think we frequented the same place, for nearly the same reason for so long without knowing. There must be more times our lives have crossed without either of us knowing.

“It is a bizarre and wondrous thought that you were a part of my life, in ways i didn’t know, and now you are the most treasured thing. It is like we were pulling on a string, leading us to each other.” We are both silent, contemplating where else we may have crossed paths when she snorts loudly.

“It is absurd how put together that thought was when you have spent the entire morning whining at me,” her hand rests on my face as we smile widely at each other, “yet it is nice to consider that all our actions, all the mistakes and choices have led us to each other. Like an invisible string of sorts, that tied us to each other.”

“I'd go through all the hell again if it led me to you.” I tell her as she leans in and kisses me. I pull her atop of me now that our cat has lept of the bed, most likely to get us to give him food. We kiss, holding onto this moment before life crashes down on us. She pulls back, her smile blooming on her face and her face flush. It is a sight I wish I could witness forever.

“It is crazier to think our actions now are leading us to another cat.” I give her my most charming grin as she rolls her eyes but smiles at the thought of us having another cat. Slowly I am convincing her we should adopt another cat.

“It is crazy,” she begins, rolling off me despite me trying to hold her to me, “that a grown adult whines like a child every morning about leaving his bed.” Audrey Rose moves towards our desk to get her cane and my eyes are transfixed on the sight of her. Her hair is in a state, messy due to her not being a still sleeper, but she looks adorable. Her face still wears the smile that makes my heart flutter and her dazzling green eyes are bright as she faces me again with her eyebrows raised to challenge me into a retort.

“It is utterly crazy, that a man would want to spend all day in bed with the women he loves.” Finally I sit up as she walks back towards me, her face filled with emotions I cannot read through. She kisses me deeply and then rests her head on mine. Her hand rests on my cheek, her hands warm.

“I too, would go through all that hell, I would search for that string forever if it led to you, my love.” she whispers against my skin and I swear my heart either reaches out to hug her itself or explodes. I marvel at the women in front of me, of all the pieces of information about her I have discovered and all I am yet to discover and smile. “I want to stay in bed too, but we are adults Thomas, people relying on us. Soon, though, we will stay in bed all day.”

We stay like that, stealing kisses for a few minutes before we tear ourselves away from each other. The string we have between us loosens but as we go about our morning routine we always find our way back to each other.

~~~

“You little beast.” I hear Audrey rose hiss as she tries to carry a tray of food into the dining hall for us. I laugh and get up to help her, taking sir Issac in my hand so she has a clear path.

“This is why, my love, we are not getting another little pest.” she glares at the cat who meows back, seemingly aware of how much he has annoyed her. I sat him down on the chair beside mine and sat, helping Audrey Rose set the food.

“But if we were to get another cat, our son, not a pest or beast, will be occupied.” I try to convince her as best as I can. “Or we could get a dog, or perhaps even a duck-”

Audrey rose starts laughing, “A,” she tries to speak but cannot get enough air to do so. “A duck?” She breathes out finally and I roll my eyes. It was not my best suggestion, but if i can find any way to get another cat I shall.

“What is wrong with ducks?” as muster as much confidence in my voice as i can and that makes her laugh more. The laugh that fills the room with how genuine and adorable it is and I can't help my own laugh escaping. It's a tad absurd even for me.

She reaches out for my hand, trying to master her features into a serious look. She fails miserably but I take her hand in mine and rub circles on the back of her hand. “Thomas. Know that I love you. And care about you a lot. But have you hit your head today because honestly a du-”

“There was nothing wrong with my suggestion? What has a duck ever done to you?” I interject, both of us trying not to laugh.

“Nothing, because ducks are not pets and we aren't getting one either.” I glare at her as sir Issac climbs onto my lap. I tear my gaze away and pick him up so we are face to face. He scratches at my shoulder and tries to rub his head against my hand. I glance back to find Audrey Rose's face still smiling at my ridiculous actions. The smile that would make me do anything ridiculous just to see again, the smile I try and seek every day, more intoxicating than any drink.

“Son,” I say in a voice parents usually give their toddlers, “how would you like a duck as your brother and sister?” he meows at me so I take that as a yes. Audrey rose is shaking her head as she begins to eat her food, seeming to try to end this conversation. “That settles it, tomorrow I shall inquire about adopting a duck.” i had no idea how i was going to do it, or how i would later convince her to get another cat, as that was my main goal, but now i felt as though i had to get a duck. She rolls her eyes at me as I set sir Isaac down on my lap.

“Do not inquire about a duck Thomas.”

“Why? You said you didn't want a cat, and you heard our son, very lonely, so it seems to be the only plausible solution.”

“Thomas, do not inquire about a duck. Ducks are not pets. How would we even care for a duck? Why are we even considering getting ducks as a pet?”

“Consider this my love,” I try and be as normal as possible, try not to smile as i see her do the same, “we could buy it a little bucket to swim in or another bath with a little ladder,”

She shakes her head at me, our food long forgotten. It had been a tiring day for us, with a lot of walking, and when we'd gotten home she collapsed onto the sofa in our bedroom. So this conversation as silly as it is, is somehow needed for us both. “Why would the duck need a ladder?”

“To climb into the bath. It will be cute! The duck has little floppy feet. Oh! And we get make a tiny hut for our son here and the duck to cuddle in and we can have it next to our bed-”

“So at night we can hear both animals and never get any sleep? Thomas this is-” she once again shakes her head at me. “Madness. Utterly crazy. Are you sure you haven’t hit your head. I can call uncle over to double check.” We sit in silence, staring at each other for a second until we both lose it and start laughing.

“Would it not be adorable to have sir Isaac on your lap, with ducks on your shoulder and head?”

“Ducks? A second ago it was one singular duck, now you want multiple?”

“The duck has to have a friend.”

“The cat is to be its friend. If you get more ducks than sir Issac still is lonely as you like to claim he is.” as if in answer sir Isaac appears at her side, jumping onto her lap. She scowls at him but stokes his back. “Pest. you need to stop listening to your father, he is a bad influence.” our eyes meet and she smiles at me as I begin eating my own food finally. I can see the exhaustion in her eyes even as she smiles at our cat.

“Imagine love, we have our cat, a duck and a child. All under this roof. I did promise a lifetime full of surprises, with all of those in the equation we’d never have a dull moment.” her eyes soften as the mention of a child. We both wanted one, had discussed it, but as of right now it wasn’t the time. Yet I can picture a tiny Cressworth child, my charm and her wit, playing with sir Issac and our second cat. Even a duck.

“That sounds wonderful. Tiring, but perfect for us.” I stand from my chair and walk around to her side of the table. Her hand finds mine instantly as I lean in for a kiss. She deepens it, her body twisting slightly and her other hand on my chest. I may never get used to the thrill of kissing her, of feeling her love for me. I nestle my hand in her hair, pulling out the pins keeping it up. We pull apart as her hair falls down past her shoulder, her emerald eyes dazzling at me. “I love you,” she whispers, her breath coming out in pants. Sir Issac nudged her and she pulled her eyes away from me as he kept nudging her, demanding her attention be on him. I laugh as she scratches behind his eyes.

“This is perfect too.” I tell her as I offer my hand to lead her up to bed. I will get her settled then return with cake, both of us needed a treat. I could feel my own exhaustion settling in as she took my hand and we made our way upstairs, sir Issac following us and jumping atop our bed and taking over my spot. Wadsworth glances at me, a knowing look on her face. One telling me: ‘you still want another one?’ to which I give her my own smirk telling her yes and kiss her before she can start to tell me no again. I kiss her again one more time before I leave to get us cake.

@fangirling-again @goatahoan @kittycat2187 @city-of-fae @the-hoofflepooff @purplecreatorhorsewagon @padfoot-sirius-black-blog @boredbookwormgirl @goddess-of-writing-wars @lovecakeandmore @yikesitsmaddie

#cressworth #sjtr #stalking jack the ripper #hpd #hunting prince dracula #efh #escaping from houdini #ctd #capturing the devil #thomas cresswell #audrey rose

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dreamiesdotcom · 4 years

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slow | n.jm, l.hc

summary: Jaemin likes some things slow — slowly walking from your houses to school, slowly drinking warm drinks, slowly putting puzzle pieces together, slowly dancing to Jisung's upbeat playlist, slowly baring yourselves of masks, slowly learning to trust — but slowly falling in love, he's not very sure.

word count: 2563

a/n: this is based off this post of mine (as per @flirtyhyuck 's request) and im here to say that im sorry this wasnt supposed to see the light of day

"Can you please tell Jeno to tell his best friend to stop staring at mine?" Jaemin almost growls, pulling your chair over nearer to him. You whine a little at being closer to the scent of his coffee, scrunching your nose up and pulling away. He gasps at the rejection but you smile at him and reach for his hands instead. He rolls his eyes and faces Renjun, "Please."

"Na, you know I don't talk to people. I'm allergic." Renjun grumbles. "Talk to Jisung instead, he's been hanging out with the music kid for a project."

"He's older than you, and he has a name," Jisung grimaces over a cup of hot chocolate. "His name is Mark. Mark Lee."

"See?" Renjun shrugs as if to prove a point. "He even knows his 'name'."

"But this is so unfair!" comes the inevitable whine from the younger. "Chenle is friends with Hyuck-hyung!"

"Chenle is friends with everyone. Whatever, one of you needs to do it." Jaemin sighs, turning his chair to face you. He raises a brow, "What're you thinking?"

Your hand still loosely wraps around his, and he slowly entwines them together.

Warm. It's warm like a cup of whatever the hell it is Na Jaemin is drinking. What were you thinking, though? A while ago, there was a lot — random numbers, other subjects, an article you read yesterday, the way Jisung's eyes shined at the mention of Mark. Right now, there's only one; Don't catch feelings.

Those thoughts are regular and they were haunting. These days, they're not as incessant as the past few months, but they still come and they are unbelievably strong — don't catch feelings. Something tells you that it's too late and you already did. Something tells you that you are stupid.

But, what if things worked, right? He's soft and kind and he's lovely. You fit in a lot of things and you disagree in some but that's just perfectly balanced, isn't it? He won't hurt you — oh, how he won't do that. He never will. Na Jaemin, this magical boy — what if?

"Damn, Lee Donghyuck is really in love with you," someone chimes loudly, and you don't even need to see who's rushing to your table before Jisung groans in disdain and makes space for this odd friend. Chenle makes a vague motion, asking people to look away. "He talked my ear off about how pretty you looked while painting at Art's class. He's whipped."

What if, huh? You turn away from the idea with a smile. Don't be silly...

"No, he's not, Chenle." You reply to the boy but keep your eyes at Jaemin, smiling still. "I wasn't thinking about anything. That was me spacing out."

Jaemin rolls his eyes again, seemingly moodier than usual. His soft giggle later makes you laugh, though. Oh, how weak this boy was. How weak he became when someone smiled at him. Or maybe, only when a specific someone does it.

"What do you mean 'No he's not, Chenle'?" The brat refuses to get the hint and live him down. He makes a quick show of turning around to the other side to check Lee Donghyuck and his friends' table, then pointing at them, "He's staring at you."

"He's not!" You hiss, glaring at the people who are either eavesdropping or watching or worse, both.

"Is, though." Jisung shrugs. "I bet he writes you love songs."

"Does not!" you glare at the duo, begs Jaemin through your eyes to tell them to stop. Unfortunately, Jaemin is already gushing at the two. You stomp your feet to get their attention, "We don't even know each other!"

And that was a lie. Renjun's eyes read those words, he must've known. He probably knew about the accidental bumping into each other at the playground, or the awkward laughs you two share at the convenience store; maybe he saw him helping you with Mathematics at the library, or he stumbled upon most of your accidental meetings; those were by coincidence, right? They had to be. Renjun's eyes also read another set of words: Don't break his heart.

But how can you not? You weren't in love with him. You were in love with somebody else, and you wished that the sunshine boy didn't adore you like that. Why does Renjun care about Hyuck? They haven't even spoken to each other. You sigh, and at that very moment, you hear the door open and close. Donghyuck and his friends left. The room mourns the lack of the warmth of their muffled laughter.

"You know what, I'll just go see Lee Donghyuck." You huff your cheeks, palms slamming on either side of the table. Jaemin startles, tries to speak, but you're already cutting him off with a much more determined gaze.

"I have his number from when Chenle got it for me. I'll go home, change clothes, ask him to meet up and I'll prove you guys wrong." you stand up, tearing away from his stare. "It'll drive me crazy if I don't."

"But we—" he bites back a sigh, but you notice the way his hands attempted to reach up and pull you back down to your chair. It seemed like a quiet plead to hang around. He smiles, "Do you need a ride?"

That day you told him no, and you pinched his cheeks instead of your usual kind of goodbye; that one where you pout and tug at his sleeves, wishing for fifteen more minutes without words but only your eyes, knowing you'd meet each other tomorrow but not quite wanting to even part.

If Jaemin knew that it will be the moment where everything begins to change, he knows he would have held you tight and never let you go.

You officially got together with Donghyuck on the 24th of December. Jaemin isn't interested in knowing how it happened, but he briefly remembers the next few days after that: everyone talking about Donghyuck's sweet voice, Mark and Jeno playing the guitar, and a kiss under a mistletoe. Renjun and Jisung gave him as many sweets as they could manage to find, though they quickly realized that he isn't gonna give up on his little role of a boy not broken. Chenle was the one who talked him down, smacked his head, hugged him tight, and told him to snap out of it.

It was sure as hell disrespectful and he got an earful after that, but it did help Jaemin. At that moment, there was a silent agreement between the three that it was all that mattered: Jaemin accepted the pain and knew that he wasn't alone in all of this.

Heartbreak felt bitter and it wasn't kind, but Jaemin knew that much. Chenle's been saying those things to him for a while now — especially if it's because of someone you're close to. Even more if you haven't confessed yet, hyung. Damn it. It hurts so much — he said so many times Jaemin couldn't bother count. He never learned this, though, and he never even thought that he'd be in this situation: right now, he should be making a homework. Right now, he just realized that a heartbreak is even more extremely cruel if you never even realized that you had feelings until the moment you're hurting.

He looks down on his open notebook, glares at the unanswered question before ultimately giving up. Beside him, Renjun lost himself in a book and Chenle fell asleep. He searches for Jisung only to find him with a very familiar-looking boy — Mark Lee — shyly talking behind a bookshelf. Jaemin grits his teeth and wonders what the hell it is that this group has that he keeps losing his friends to them.

Sometimes, Jaemin falls into the ways of an escapist, as Renjun said once. He and his big words were normal. What's not normal is his daydream — it wasn't the two of you and your friends in Neverland, and it wasn't his imagination of how future plans would unfold — because sometimes he tends to do that, imagine how things would go. Right now, he's not thinking of that sleepover at Chenle's. He's not drinking up the image of a long, aimless drive (that will certainly happen. Jisung won't allow it not to happen), stargazing and exchanging theories on extraterrestrial life (that will definitely happen once again, because of Jisung as well, but now with the help of Renjun). His daydreams center on rain clouds today.

In his mind, you're both in some comforting cottage in the woods and there's a thunderstorm. The scent of petrichor and deep wood mixes with a calm and cozy atmosphere. You're tucked safely in his arms and he has you all to himself; right now, in his mind, he can be as selfish as possible. You're talking and laughing over sweet little nothings, and Jaemin has to catch himself a little so that even if he continues to fall, it wouldn't be as fast. He likes some things slow. He likes soaking up certain moments just as much as he likes the other events' turbulence. With you, he loved everything slow.

Slowly walking from your houses to school. Slowly drinking warm drinks. Slowly putting puzzle pieces together. Slowly dancing to Jisung's upbeat playlist. Slowly baring yourselves of masks. Slowly learning to trust.

Slowly falling in love, he's not very sure. More often than not, he would ask himself in his mind: 'Would it all be different if I fell in love faster?'

Maybe there were some things that needed to be rushed. Some things that needed to be instantaneous. He laughs inside his mind and asks again, 'Can this heartbreak be quicker, then?'

The false memory is ruined.

Jaemin comes back down to reality at the scent of roses. His shoulders ache a little from leaning at the lockers, so he stands properly and meets your confused expression. Roses. Chocolates. Letters. You. You look awfully flustered and the pink hue in your cheeks becomes bolder and bolder each phrase your eyes read. Jaemin smirks and takes a peek.

I don't know what went through my head or whatever hopeless romantic spirit decided to posses me today, but I love you. And I miss you. Let's have a date?

Cheesy. His grin grows wider but he promises himself that it's the last. He won't look at you so lovingly again. He won't feel like this anymore. Donghyuck is bratty and headstrong but he was kind and he cherished you, ready to give you the world — Jaemin finds that he can do that, too. Except that it's Donghyuck whom you intensely love. He promises himself that he'll get over you but only because he knew that he's bad at promises.

"Against Hyuck?" he drawls as if to make a joke. His laugh sounded way too wounded for it to be funny, though, and he leans to the lockers again because his knees buckle at your gaze, the one that slowly makes him melt all the damn time. "There was never really a chance for me, huh?"

He thinks you'd run away and go as far as possible from him from then on. He thinks you should — he implied that he liked you. He implied that he wanted a chance. He implied that he hoped for it. When you didn't do anything but tear your eyes away from the lovely note, he assumed you've taken it as a joke, that you were dense — that you were dense again. Instead, you tilted your head to him, "This is where it gets painful."

He aches to ask what it is that you meant, but he found that he couldn't speak. He's tongue-tied and he couldn't move, couldn't find the right words to say. It's as if his ability to make a sound was stolen from him. He's unaware of the world because all he can see is tender gazes and all that he can listen to is a gentle voice, then the words he never thought he'd hear — you were staring at him and then you sighed.

"You did, once."

A series of unexpected events have already unfolded, but this probably was one of the top three. He doesn't know where he gets the strength, but he stands straight again. He tears all the what if's and what could've been's and what will never be away for this moment, and he doesn't dwell on the fact that you loved him. That there was a chance. That he completely missed that chance because he was so afraid, so scared of falling in love and ruining all that you both have slowly built together. He doesn't understand how he even got to crack up at that realization, but he does — "And that was a perfect exchange. Jisung would love that."

You wink at him in quick humor, but you laugh at him with unrest, "Why Jisung?"

"He's into this kind of thing these days." He shrugs. "Speaking of, isn't it weird how Jisung all so suddenly likes sappy movies? Is he going through something?"

"He hasn't said anything. Maybe he's not yet ready to share with the class, Jaemin." You reply, smirking, "Are you playing detective, or are you nosy?"

"I'm concerned." He lights flicks your forehead. You giggle as he does that, eyes fluttering shut, and his heart stings again. When you open them, he's staring at you.

The look in your eyes screamed of honesty and pure truth. Jaemin understands, he always does. And he knows too, he knows that you're aware as well. He knows that you saw the same sincerity in his eyes and you knew that every single bit of that intense moment was true. At that, he swings an arm at your shoulders and led the two of you to the exit, opening a talk about your other friends and plans of meeting at 12 pm at the usual for lunch, then he cracks a joke, and you genuinely chuckle.

"I used to daydream about us," used to be said to prompt a laugh. On a normal day, that was the joke that makes you fall over and not the multiple bizarre versions of "Why did the chicken cross the road?". On a normal day, you two would talk hours and hours about daydreaming about each other, some sappy and some downright comedy. On a normal day, that's the topic you both center around as you walk your way to your other friends.

Today wasn't a normal day, though, because today you shine under the sun brighter than others, and you look very stunning in yellow. Today wasn't a normal day because you didn't take the normal route, instead, you made a turn to bid someone a quick farewell. Today, "Do you think there's another world where we're together?" doesn't feel like a question elicited from Renjun's multiverse theories and "If you knew, would you try?" isn't just a verse from Jisung's surprising secret stash of self-written poetry. Today, "You were a dream that shined brightly above me and just like the fate of a gazer and a star, you are so far from my reach" isn't just something he read out of the book Chenle reads.

Today, Jaemin watches you fall in Donghyuck's arms like it was all you were meant to do, and his heart breaks.

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artificialashley · 3 years

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Top Five taywhora fics 👀❤

Okay so I managed to return to Uni after Easter without my laptop charger and we all know what tumblr mobile is like so sorry this answer is so late!! This is such a fun ask and I wish Id been able to answer it on my night home alone (ps im still third wheeling a week later someone help me)

(also the degree part of getting a degree is actually feeling real rn so i honestly havent read that many taywhora fics?? im such a bad fan but ive honestly been busy so if youre an author seeing this and i havent said you i probs havent read it yet or if i have said you and havent left you a comment then sorry...if anyone has recs send them in xoxo)

- Me and You Together and I Don’t Know How I Know (But I Know) by Ortega // part of me wants to say ‘well you see the author, this doesnt need any explaining’ because we all know that ortega is such a legend but i want to stress that every single thing she churns out is perfect in its own way and these fics are no different. me and you together is incredibly relatable, just a joy to read and i LOVE how it plays with chronology?? its so clever. and the teachers au was so sweet and soft and made me feel really happy when i read it so thats on this list too - i will be going back to it whenever im sad.

- Down with the Recipe, Bake from the Heart by Juno // the way i grinned from ear to ear reading every single line of this fic and its only 4 chapters in (well 5 now but i havent read the latest one yet)??? i need to go back through and leave some detailed comments because the whole thing is golden. im obsessed with all the niche british references and also the way that little snippets of canon and speech are entwined perfectly into the au. despite being the same each chapter, the format never seems repetitive or boring and each chapter i was so excited to see how tayce and awhora would interact. its amazing

(honourable mention for Juno’s other fic Chase the Shadows Away too as it was also super cute and although i dont normally want my escape from the awful things going on in the world to relate to said awful things, I gave it a read because of how much i loved bake off and im so glad i did!! it made me feel nice and warm and reminded me that we can still fall in love despite the pandini!!)

- Something More by pureCAMP // again i havent had time to leave a comment about this but i loved it sooooo much. as a girl group fan (and someone whos tiktok has decided to show them band memeber dating conspiracy theories every day for some unknown reason) this fic was right up my alley and it delivered. one minute I was laughing at lawrence roasting the government and the next i was in awe at awhora wanting to wipe tayce’s smile off her face with her lips. plus the background Diamond Chaney was super cute!

- Don’t Just Stand There Staring Honey (Try to Move Your Feet) by Pinkgrapefruit // again this is another fic that plays with chronology/flashbacks which is something I love and it did it so perfectly, blending them into modern day so that i really got to know tayce and awhora. theres singing in the car to taylor swift (ps grapefruit if you see this i will read folklore eventually), playstation and slow dancing - what more could you want from a pair of not totally useless lesbians???

Honourable mentions to Just Below the Surface by Phryne which is super cute and funny and i think you should know (im thinking of you) by zyan which lives in my head rent free to the point where i asked someone to write it ahhaha. its 2am and im tired but just know i have love for these too! and everyone whose ever wrote taywhora even if i havent read it...

ask me my top 5 anything!!

#fic recs #ask game #ashley chats shite #sorry to the discord gang if your fics arent on here #its not personal lol blame the law degree #top 5 #fic rec #big fat fic rec

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queenofallwitches · 3 years

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an update and primer:

so the last winter was weird. I had a complete breakdown, went into psychiatric hospital for 40 days in total. two seperate times.

learnt a heap of new things, met a tonne of cool people and had amazing conversations and few fights but overcome my own demons by that.

brain speaking-I have a scarred brain stem and neurological disorder is not a mental diagnosis, but a neurological disorder, proven by MRI scan, ADHD.

also damage to my basal ganglia, and prefrontal cortex.

neurological diagnosis means ADHD is not a "mental" health issue, as some believe, rather a neurodevelopment disorder caused by structural differences in the ADHD brain.

other neurodevelopment disorders include: Tourettes, Autism, Cerebal Palsy, Dyslexia and other Motor and Intellectual Disabilities. (Which recieve, in my view, a lot of insight, media information and stigma reduction by the advocacy networks surrounding these types of disability).

Over the last few years Autism has been over everything, I've seen mainstream media cover Tourettes and yet ADHD is still HUGELY misunderstood, misconceived and misrepresented in media, be in from the angle of documentaries, personal insight of a "typical" case, films, tv, and other media.

one of the first things my dr told me was "in females it rarely presents as hyperactive red-cordial OD child"

which is what my mother BELIEVES, that is because I have an adopted cousin with the ADHD dx who was that growing up, but the representation I'm told is also divergent for women with a higher IQ score than the average IQ. I come in around 142 and tested 123 at age 3 when I was unable to focus, pay attention and had severe trauma. I tested 142 in grade 8.

I'll share my experience as a female who is intellectually gifted, with higher IQ than average, and an adhd brain:

I've been told gifted and talented "genius" children are harder to diagnose because the symptoms present differently, we hide it better (camouflage) and our focusing can be "faked" by mediocre efforts of academic success.. this is true, I would do the assignment the Sunday night hours deadline, last minute, or have my parents half do it for me, plagiarise it (fuck I've killed my whole academic career now) copied but changed my words

from old 1970s encyclopaedias I KNEW they couldn't cross reference (I went through 15 years of school never studying doing homework or assignments and still had top grades).

I literally did not listen, and spent my classes planning the end of the world survival strategies with my GT friend who, basically helped me with my calculus and hard fucking maths, which was the ONLY 50 minutes of the day I put attention into my work.

now I'm going to be heading back to full-time study in the coming months, I get anxious as the pressure of a Bachelor level degree, and the pressure it takes me to perform, is enough to break me down. I've been advised it might be wise to start light (like a basic vet style diploma) and then build up, which is logical, but I keep thinking I'm meant to be doing my thesis by now. which is the kind of pressure one gets as a kid who is told repeatedly, "your intelligence is exceedingly the average and you can do ANYTHING you want"

I wanted to be an astronaut, a storm chaser, and an architect, a town planner and then a journalist. I always held to being a "FBI agent" or spy (I wonder why). so when I found psychology is really a blend of all these things, I kinda found a niche in a psych and social science double degree. but I'm thinking my academic career is LIFELONG, and due to the fact I also want to work in my field alongside my many written thesis coming, I'll be in academics for a long time. I may fail a few things, which I have to come to terms with. I do not fail easily, or readily, but I'm a perfectionist type-a academic who will put my whole life on the line to achieve "merit". I get exams, I get assessments, I read journals super-easy, I talk the talk and walk the walk so well psychologists who are at masters level compliment me on my "knowledge".

when it comes to mental health and trauma, I will always have the personal attachment, called lived experience, which will make failure and burnout, 100 percent realistic. I have to boundary up, bootstraps on, and prepare that yes, my personal "bias" will probably be entwined in this.

which is why I'm looking at the social science for the statistics and thesis writing side of things, and the counselling for the trained therapist side. either way, the degree of counselling requires so much self-insight, and then the social-science will back me away from personifying it. the other choice is criminology, which leads to forensic psychology, which is eternally fascinating. my main concern is the pro-pedophile content Ill be up against, which will look at the anatomy of a shoplifter akin to the devil, and leave the pedophile in the DSM-5 dx "paraphilia" box.

I'm not joining or jumping to anything.

either way I've got 2 year of credit, a heap of pathways and a lot of "academic momentum" from all my life being aimed to be "academic powerhouse". I went through my files and found a lot of awards I'd won in my high school, and top place in the competitions we would be entering in. I remember feeling so sad if I had a "credit" vs a distinction or high distinction, only to see now, a credit in university maths in year 9 is a skillset I don't have anymore so, good on me. or a credit in English, or Science at that age was pretty impressive, considering these tests were random and not studied for.

just a general skills assessment only the top 30 kids in the year were to take on a year by year basis and put out to vet from the top universities and taken by other kids in the same grade around the state.

it puts so much focus on my intelligence, because it's primed to be that way, I know that is true. I know I feel good being academically successful and it gives me a feeling of "achievement" but is it really for me?

I also found 2 letters from my local politicians offering me job placement, work experience and I was 1/4 kids in my 10th grade graduation tom get the letter, and due to my behaviour I pissed ALL the idiots who bullied me off. I was "too pretty to be a nerd" "too smart to be pOpUlAr".

so I made a group of misfits, who are all highly intelligent, creative and my group had the ONLY gay male in the school AND THIS IS BEFORE YOU FUCKING RETARDS MADE IT "COOL". he was bullied badly, so fuck you, you fucks claim "liberalism" but I bet you were the type of idiot who bullied guys like him in high school while you pretended to like my chemical romance and fake cut yourselves. I hate you all, forever.

my grade was full of idiots who were fake emo, who left the scene the moment the scene changed to dub-step and club music. I was there, watching you all, like sonny Moore, went from FFTL to that dubstep skrillex shit he started in 2009.

I dated you, hooked up with you and I went to your gigs. I know who was real and who was fake. I met some of you years later and realised the more emotive ones were the less "alternative appearing".

I can say 1/10000 emo guys from the 00s were genuinely Into the music and scene for the right reasons based on my dating history and this can and will be analysed statistically using SPSS one day to prove a lot. I've had too many relationships from each sub-culture and I have had 4-11 males at a time per public "output" of my energy pursue me over life.

I'm not being cocky when I say I have a long line of "suitors" and its banked back about 50 men. it's been a thing I've avoided as it seems to grow based on my body shape, attitude, appearance, so I am currently out of touch with dating scenes, no interest to try that ANYWAY, given the fact that I have had so many LONG TERM relationships ANYWAY. I can't see another one going well, and at this case, I'm living with an ex but we never went on conventional and now our families label this 3 things: "asexual", "polyamorous" and "open relationship". I'm also "bisexual" but this all to humans outside, looks ridiculous on paper. (wild orgies and lots of swinging or some stupid sex magick probably is what J brother literally thinks we do).

bc humans are intrinsically designed to need to label things they don't understand. we share a lease, not a relationship, and fucking polyamorous, I WISH. there are no girl-girl-guy 3 some, or orgies, or sex magic parties.

this has changed the attitude and perception of this "relation' which Is non-romantic, non-sexual. he can date and likely, will, as can I , and I likely won't date.

I would say 14/15 have had ADHD, or other mental illness and or trauma. which means to me, nothing at all.

I think this "open book" non romantic relationship style of "friends and roommates" not sexual.

attachment is misunderstood by others but works well fro my adhd, meaning I'm not expected to marry, or be a wife in any capacity. he is free to do what he wants, as I am, and open communication is a novel frontier I brought into this in the start, and stayed with for the duration. we fight, but I fight with a lot of people in my life over many petty things. also down to my adhd, I believe, I have rejection sensitive dysphoria, which makes me hypersensitive to rejection, perceived or real.

im not sure if this is trauma or adhd or both. but

I have used sexuality as a weapon in many relationships but it cannot or will not be used here, so I have had to resort to uncovering parts of myself which I never knew, which will stay with me even if he decided to marry and wife up in 5 years, which I'm okay and expecting him to do, and I would much rather that then be trapped in a situation where I cannot be that "wife/mother archetype" as I'm too "femme fatal/other-woman/sex-laced seductress and siren" a "FWB, unicorn, drug buddy, hook-up where im a therapist" or "intellectual and cognitive mind-bender work-study obsessed woman".

both at once and many types of human, including one who is a full-time ceremonial magician of 7 years. I will drink, drug, fuck, fight like males and still be more feminine and high maintenance than 89% of women. I grew up a tomboy and don't mind getting into fun, adventure based situations, like hiking, or anything adrenaline, I would only be reluctant to eat weird shit.

I also have many "neurological" issues including ADHD, and trauma which causes a rupture in the average human and I dating.

I'll tell you how many men have said "you are the unicorn" and then realised what that means, I went as far as canvasing the PUA world back in 2014 after reading the game, a book on PUA, which is essentially, pick up artistry, based on NLP and hypnosis. I did this after reading the copy my ex in 2008 handed me before we dated saying "I gave this up for you". it took me years to open the book, buy when I did I truly believed the only way I would fall in love again, was through PUA. that failed in so many ways but gave me a training foundation for men who were candidates for that, I have trained up J, and the way that sounds is BAD. I know, but I got a lot of value myself, I just don't see it how I wanted to see it.

but that was my original intent, and I achieved this he knows that, knew it was happening and evolved for the best self.

I am thinking we can modulate this into a business model for how I was operating in the BDSM world was mainly psychological, not physical.

I get told all of is incredibly intimidating (I am told) to women and men.

I don't really care anymore, because people have always seen this part of me in the wrong way ANYWAY, but I own who I am NOW. which is what I needed ANYWAY. so it cannot be stolen again, and sexual healing has come from abstinence ironically.

I also don't care what or who is trying to tear up my relations, toxic or not toxic, all people around me will be on a healing journey by default, or cut out of my life, for I am radiating that energy so brightly its impossible NOT to feel that pull.

I will drag your shadows into the light, and make your secrets spin from your lips into my consciousness. its not what I do but its what is design.

I make your weaknesses mountains to climb over. you cannot hide from these in my presence, I won't be this controlling or obsessive female who wants 24-7 attention as I have a life full of meaning without love or sex. I don't want to be wined, dined or expensively gifted, unless specially requested.

I don't want love letters or romantic declarations, this isn't some femnazi bullshit, but it triggers me. I appreciate the efforts and won't make you feel bad about your insecurities, for mine are probably 30 x more pronounced.

I appreciate small things, that most males won't or don't know how to do. like remembering things I've said and being thoughtful. or knowing my silence isn't personal, or a game, but a protective wall. I've had songs sung too me, guitars played, songs written, or things made in ways that are heartfelt. but I've always had them used against me too. so it is the context. I value time, energy, conversations of depth and reciprocal exchange. I also value trauma understanding, my alters and fragments being accepted and valued as me as a whole and a person who is not afraid, or scared of stupid stuff like sensitivity, emotions, feelings as raw as my own. men feel intensely too, lol.

but will only give oral sex 100 times before I don't recieve it, I can communicate now so that wouldn't happen.

but I won't be a bitch about this stuff. I am extremely feminine and care in ways other people, do not, I forget nothing people tell me, so it can be a reward or reverse uno card pull in a fight, but I am not evil or deviant in my relations. I react, depending on how you treat me. I don't need your money, or providing source of income to be okay as I am my own queen, however sharing resources is okay to build something. I don't need to be seduced, but will need to be shown a person is trustworthy.

few cross that.

that will always be time-endurance and testing. there are ground rules I don't play with, or play games. or like being forced or forged into something I'm not. I know abusive and I know safe, and I am a psychology expert, trained psychotherapist and study humans for fun, so I'll always be analysing things.

and I know red flags and I know ego, I know how to placate and please and pleasure, but will only do so, for a bigger and better reason than the mere act of seduction. which is without value and transactional to someone like me, I won't lie.

and I know every tactic in the book, for the book was written by someone like me, many lives ago, and my karma is being burnt for that book.

in terms of walls, I have many, may it be called a maze. or labrnyth.

I will teach you things you never thought you'd know, and change your life in ways you won't ever be able to go back to before. I will blow your mind, sexually, emotionally, intellectually, on all levels, and I'll make your friends and family love me.

I'll bring your walls down and you won't be able to understand this, because you don't understand me, and thats ok.

but I'll always understanding you and make your life better because thats what I do anyway, and people talk to me about things I will never share, as I keep secrets. I am jealous, of everything but, only because I am attached in a disorganised way, and working on that.(I won't even mention how man women or men don't know basic psychology of themselves). I also am a therapist , for my friends and family too.i should not be , but I am. I care, I listen, If you think I'm not listening, I'm still listening. sometimes I interrupt, because I have ADHD and I am horrible at resolute planning, or being "normal". but I don't want to be normal anyway. I need you to recognise and understand my shit, for that is what I do for everyone in my life, and I have helped more than I receive.

I'll probably accidentally give you therapy, but thats fine, because you will uncover your depths and find meaning in this. it's not something that goes bad unless you are fundamentally, evil, even the most abusive relationship I was in, was benefited from this process. yes he's still narcissistic, but he is self-aware. and did I benefit, never, just know the anatomy of self-proclaimed narc and I still can't hate him. will get my civil claim one day.

I will fuck your mind without meaning too. but thats because I fuck my own mind. but the meaning is made in the man- some find this highly offensive or personal (its not). I fuck minds by my own overthinking, or over perception on many levels of reality. so join the ride, or don't come along at all. because once the rollercoaster is in motion, I have no control of what may or may not happen. it's purely experimental.

I am experimental.

and the women who are judging me, are not any better.

look within, and shut the fuck up. self-improve and quit this jealous divide and conquer bitchiness. I HATE gossip, bitches, snitches and fakers.

I look to other women who are intellectually, physically and spiritually "individual". and find value in superior status to my own, which is something my narcissistic ex taught me.

I look for mentors, and teachers and people who will teach me how to improve myself, which I am fearful to reconnect after something is amazing and I can't give anything back of positive value. I am sorry I am working on that.

I won't devalue those below me, but I also need to be mutually benefiting from a relationship.

I dont drag people down, I may disappear if I feel I am doing this by mistake. I am flakey as fuck, and sorry for that. its anxiety and lack of perfectionism, so I am wrong and bad for this. I can change. will change.

if you can find value with my relation, personal professional or romantic, we can move into a symbiotic beneficial agreement based on mutual "terms". but many won't or cannot see this, nor do I impose my bullshit into the lives of randoms at this age.

I don't care if this is cruel, it's real.

I value loyalty, compassion, self-insight/awareness, someone who understands all parts-spirituality, metaphysics while still having intellectual & logical & analytical brain-sight.

I enjoy music, magick and learning new things.

I do not care about appearances I dont think ive dated based on one time. I do value connections and chemistry which is far-few between, I hate fakers. I smell insincerity miles away. but I do respect women who are well-presented, or beautiful, with hair beauty and makeup, I can't do this shit well, so I look up to those who are in professions who do it like art. I find them to be genius level queens who scare me.

I call out bad behaviour and make people uncomfortable if they are repressed. I will change you without even meaning too, I don't even need to date you. its just my presence, over time, amplified by the intensity of the dynamics.

I don't want simplicity, but I also don't need over complexity.

I value passion, independence, creativity, curiosity, problem-solving, deep-disscussions, shared adventures and some occasional risk-taking (lol), sensuality and sexuality for a common cause beyond physical pleasure. I like being taught but not micromanaged. I need my own independence, and need to be trusted with that. I hate being scolded for that like a child, or being pushed to change my ways to conform to societal values. which I will push back and refuse to do. which is not healthy. I don't adult like many others do, but I try to proceed in other ways. and learn to adult like normal people, accept me.

I also value myself, and how I can be celebrated, enhanced and improved vs. the opposite.

I give space, and have boundaries, and understand human psychology, sexuality and relationships in ways few others unless they are trained, can do.

I value MY time. so you can have space to value YOURS. I dont need to be in anyones pocket for a long time. I love being alone, and being around people who are stimulating, but draining people will be drained out of my life quicker than I intend. I am sorry for the people who felt I disappeared, when I was only trying to be 'fair', if I feel I'm a bad influence, I will work on myself until I'm not. I'm still working on it.

I also use this psychology awareness, to enhance communication, connection. you may or may not become an accidental guinea pig. I will be upfront that I am experimental, but that is part of the buy ticket and take the ride. lets work together. not apart.

I am coming from a place of love, and love is what I feel for my animals, which you will be adopting as children.which I want to stop experiments being done on. I love love, in all ways, but hate cruelty of animals and children, violence and suffering. I dont advocate justice, because I find life is fucking cruel, unfair and unjust. by default, so I focus on myself. what can be changed, and what I am able to do in my own locus on control. I will always find myself drawn to the outsiders, the misfits, the vagabonds, the misunderstood. I want to help people who are society, or socially, disadvantaged by trauma and mental illness, but only when I have ability to help myself.

it's a journey.

I will not date anyone who is cruel to animals, outside of specify magical sacrifice, there is not any place for that. nor will I date or fraternise with anything or anyone linked or associated with pedophilia. I won't judge anyone on anything that are outside animal cruelty and pedophilia. I don't and haven't. I keep on good terms with every ex, bar 1 whom I only apologised too this year. it felt good to do that. I change my behaviour.

I am open, but also highly attuned to both logical, factual, empirical , scientific worlds, and spiritual, intuitive, psychic and the "collective unconscious". I walk in both these realms, and I am "conventionally attractive". which puts a lot of pressure on me, to be "stupid". I am always dumbing myself down to fit into normality, but I look ridiculous if I do that so I peacock my intellect.

only to be misconceived.

I give up because I no longer care how anyone but MYSELF can see ME. I won't dumb myself down , but I can enhance you UP. prepare yourself for graded education, evolution and self-growth on mass scales.sorry not sorry.

that sucks for the people who want to be living vicariously through me, for making up to lost trauma years, for family who sold me out for the success I'd bring home, or fake trauma enmeshed friends, or whatever they want or need from me. I value my time and energy, and have given that in abundance, and if you want to be with nut only "one part of me that is alters". I can't provide that now. not sorry.

I have to work on something or not be in a dynamic at all.

I no longer can switch on demand to adapt for you, it will not be effective and that upsets a lot of people. especially now I'm sober. harder to handle this, as I see the world for its ways and why it is, more vividly. I haven't had alcohol for almost 2 months, although, I could drink, I haven't.

I can't do it, anymore. it, being, faking, my selves fronting to impress. I can't. I have no more left to give, and I'm expected by everyone to be a way I can't do it in the way they want.

I will go to another year long outpatient DBT, followed by 10 weeks of A-C-T therapy, and however many ECT OR TMS may or may not help. I'm told it won't (ect) work. but TMS, is something I am open too. but I am telling you, none of this psychotherapy, that will be based on dbt skills, day therapy, intensive skills training, recommencing my studying, and resuming "life worth living" will or can wipe the traumas I've "recovered" memories for.

I will also shut the fuck up, and tell nobody about this if you leave me alone, I told that to my family, and this is open letter to the watchers, stalkers and perps who read this openly as I track the hits on here and have 200+ visits a day every day for the last month. globally. no idea how or who you are but I think its the same people who called the police for the "ayreon song lyrics" seen to be a suicide not last October.

thanks for that wake up call, I have shut the fuck up, since December, more so now. I will burn the journals, or lock them up.

my recovery is not linear, not yet fully integrated and I trust nobody so I don't think my psychotherapy will be deep, I focus on things like ADHD AND my EDNOS. and dbt skills. I won't be talking about sexual traumas.

enjoy the update, and thanks for the "attention".

I have my goals, my work, my meaning and what my life should and could and will look like, but I will not share that with anyone. that means everyone right now.

I've been tested, traumatised and terrorised to the point of not-tolerant of anyone who may bring that back, and banish the fuck out of my sphere every moment I need.

take me as I am, or watch me as I go, which I will go, where I am not wanted I will remove myself, but I will find where I am celebrated because I create that.

I will rise up against all adversity every time but that is survival and that created a resilient and brave woman, in me. who will not be destroyed or decomposed by humans who are fundamentally fucking evil.

I gift you my truth, in progression, and give up the pain of the past.

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until-we-fall-in-love · 4 years

Text

la volpe

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader, slight Marta Cabrera x Reader

Summary: You and Ransom have a complicated relationship.

Warnings: Smut, slightly dub-con because Ransom is an asshole, slightly unhealthy relationship, mild bdsm, rough sex.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello everyone!! no one asked for this and yet here it is!! i hate ransom!! but alas, now i have this smutty fic of him so lmao enjoy?? also i’m physically incapable of writing ana de armas and not making it somehow romantic im so sorry i just have too big of a crush on her and marta

let me know what you thought of this!!!

***

The musical clinking of glasses and cutlery is soft against the piano twinkling in the background. The lights are low and glowing, candles and sparkling, dim-lit chandeliers overhead. The restaurant is dark and lavish, velvet and smelling rich and spiced and enticing. Wine is placed before you, plum and bitter berry tasting. It’s fine and expensive and you swirl it delicately in your sparkling glass.

Your eyes flicker up to the man across from you, seated casually, leaning back in his chair with broad shoulders covered in a black, finely knit sweater. It’s expensive, you can tell simply by looking at it. Designer, you’re sure. You know his shoes have blood red bottoms. He drips wealth still, smug as ever, handsome as ever.

“You look good.” He says with a smile curling at his lips.

You take a sip of wine. Your back is straight, the black, cashmere turtle-neck clinging to your figure. The delicate, ruby earrings glint under the low light, your hair pulled back elegantly.

Of course you look good.

“What do you want, Ransom?” You ask, setting the glass down carefully. You study him with cutting eyes, skeptical, but composed.

“Can’t I take my girl out to a nice dinner?” He asks, his eyes glimmering.

“Haven’t been your girl in months.” You counter, drum your crimson colored nails against your glass. You grow impatient, sigh lightly and glance away from him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that, princess.” He croons all low and soft, leaning forward onto the table. You like when his eyes flash like that, sincere for you. Just on the right side of desperate. He deserves it, since it’s been months since you’d last heard from him.

You’re actually certain he has a new girl on his arm now.

And you want to make him squirm a little.

You roll your eyes at him, at the way he tries to butter up to you with the nice dinner and a few compliments. You know he wants something. He always wants something and the gleam in his eyes is too sharp and pretty. Greedy, greedy man that would gorge himself on you, on this life, if you’d let him.

You bite your lip, watch as his eyes track the movement like a predator.

He at least needs to work for it.

“I could be doing a thousand other things right now, Ransom. Why am I out to dinner with you?” You ask instead, your lashes fluttering prettily as your eyes land on him once more. Your features are aloof and cold and haughty. It makes his blood boil, you can see it in the curl of his lips.

He huffs lightly, “Oh, yeah, busy Harvard graduate student, isn’t that right?” His voice is just shy of a sneer when he asks, “How’s the dissertation going, kitten?”

“Well, thank you.”

You look down your nose at him as his own eyes settle into a glare. The blue of his eyes burns and smolders, bright and sparking on you. Your gazes are as sharp as knives, gleaming and ready to gut each other.

You wait until he relents, takes this loss to hopefully get a win. He lowers his eyes with another breath, concedes.

He’ll give you another compliment, maybe reach across the table to touch you. Then he’ll ask you for what he needs.

“I am glad to hear that.” He says smoothly, “I know how much it means to you. I’m sure it’s incredible.” And he offers you an earnest look, the one you’re sure he’s used to get into plenty of girl’s panties.

And like clockwork, he reaches over to brush his fingers against yours, which are gently resting on the stem of your wine glass.

He gives you a smile like that’s supposed to work.

You roll your eyes, pull your hand from his.

You watch the heat and anger rush over his features and wonder if he’s going to make a scene. Now that would be fun. You wonder if you’ll get to toss your wine all over that expensive sweater, storm out only for him to follow hot on your trails. And he’ll drag you to the car and you’ll scream at each other until you’re kissing and your nails are biting into his skin and he’s trying to teach you a lesson in manners—

If your cheeks flush, he doesn’t notice, because he snaps, “Are you always such a brat?”

You smile for the first time that evening.

“No, you just bring out the worst in me.” You quip back before taking another slow, savored sip of wine.

He scoffs, “I could say the same of you.”

“Then why am I here?”

Now he does soften a little, “I want you to come home with me for my grandfather’s birthday party.”

Your brows furrow and you settle back into your chair, skeptical. “Don’t you have a girlfriend right now? Why not just bring her?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to your own question.

“You know you’re the only one I bring home to my psychotic family.” He says and now he captures your hand with his, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, leans close and in your space. His cologne is familiar and washes over you, spiced and warm and musky. Expensive.

“You’re psychotic, too.” You respond, but allow your fingers to slip into his. His hand is warm against yours and it slides against your palm, open and large. His fingers brush over the pulse in your wrist, move along the sensitive skin there.

“That’s why you fit in there, princess.” He says and gives you a shark’s smile, so hooked and gutting. He lowers his voice for you, “And,” His eyes roll up to catch yours, “I’ve missed you.”

The hint of vulnerability in his face makes you hum lightly, amused or pleased or warmed by it. You’ve missed him, too, in truth. Nobody is like Ransom.

There’s something about him and you that always keeps you two returning to one another. He’s inevitable, you think. You’ve never known anyone to get under your skin in such a way, to burrow their way into you and refuse to leave.

He’s a disease.

One you can’t cure yourself from. He’s ruined you for anyone else.

But you think you’ve ruined him, too.

It’s been months since your last fling with him. Years since you officially dated but you’re both always circling back to one another. He doesn’t bring any other girls home besides you. He was only ever serious about you. You’re both fated in some way, your stars entwined, looped and crashing into one another again and again. A dance that never ends, that you never want to end.

“Yeah?” You ask, soft and breathy, leaning towards him now, too. “Whad’ya miss about me, Ransom?”

His eyes flicker lower, over your form and they roam slow and savoring. He licks his lips fleetingly. “Well,” He begins, “I miss fucking you.”

The vulgarity shouldn’t shock you, it shouldn’t make you flush, but it does. You blame the little wine you’ve had. You pull from his touch once more, continue your game of cat and mouse and try to keep your thoughts from sliding into memories of him on top of you. At your neck with teeth. Parting your legs.

“Pig.” You scoff, shaking your head and pulling your hand from his. “You have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but she’s not you.” He muses, “No one’s you.” He adds, tilting his head slightly. “So c’mon. Come home with me, baby.” He then almost purrs and smiles again, slow and charming this time. He means it now and it’s the kind of smile that gets him out of trouble if he ever tried to wear it. It could be boyish, if it wasn’t so hungry.

You pick up your wine glass once more, glare over the rim before taking another sip. A bigger one this time, let it burn down your throat and warm your chest. You think your heart is beating faster than it should as he looks at you as if he wants to lay you out on this very table.

“Get me a diamond bracelet and I will.” You tell him, your bottom lip sticking out a little as you gaze back at him.

His eyes spark, dance with the flame of the candle. He looks a little crazed now, like he’s lost a few screws and hasn’t bothered to find them again. He looks a little wild-eyed and it’s enticing, the uncertainty in him. The promise of pain and pleasure and the fast pace life of the wealthy. All beautiful and dirty and filthy fucking rich.

He takes your hand and kisses it, slides his lips to your palm. To your wrist where your pulse flutters underneath his mouth, beneath the touch of his tongue. The threat of teeth. He murmurs then, his voice smooth and low and so lovely it makes you shiver;

“Anything for you, princess.”

***

The Cartier white-gold, diamond bracelet catches in the sun proudly and flashes brilliant light as your hand slides into Ransom’s while he helps you out of his car. You step out onto the gravel driveway and smooth out the tight, leather black skirt hugging your hips and thighs. You inch it down as you ready to see the Thrombey’s once more after nearly a year. You adjust your cream, turtleneck sweater, too. The knitting chunky and loose, oversized on you but chic and soft to the touch.

You have to be sure the wine dark bruise on your neck is covered, the red marked rings around your wrist are drowned in the sleeves of your sweater. Can’t have his family realizing his tastes in bondage, not that you think he would care, but you certainly do.

In fact, the mere memory of it makes you flush with heat in the crisp autumn air.

You’d barely gotten into Ransom’s apartment in the city before he’d shoved you hard against the door. A picture rattles, swings precariously. He kisses you with a brutalness you haven’t felt in months, the quick cut of his teeth at your bottom lip. His hands on your body, hungry, greedy hands that want to take and take and take.

You’d shoved him back, tried to get him off you as you glared up at him with fever dark eyes. Your chest was already heaving, rising and falling in quick bursts, your face flushed with color.

You’d already look frazzled, hair slipping from the updo it’d been in. His little hell cat, little brat that’s gotta try and fight him on everything.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You’d gasped, your lips already raw and spit-slick and he’d wanted to absolutely fucking ruin you--

He had smirked lazily, as if the whole world was his to take. But there was a restless bite to him, a deep seated and painful desire. A desperate hunger that was raw and open on his face as he looked at you like you were his for the taking.

“C’mon, baby,” He purrs, nearing you again, despite your palm going to his chest. As if that’d keep him back for long. You could tell by the look in his eyes, the dark, sharp gleam that he was going to get what he wanted. “I just wanna show you how bad I missed you.”

And you could feel how bad he’d missed you, the hard line of him now pressing back into your hip as he crowds you again. Your back hits the wall again, his hands already dragging under your clothes to find sensitive, bare skin.

He groans slightly, maybe at how soft you are, maybe because he does just fucking miss you.

But you’re not done protesting, even if your stomach is twisting in excitement. Even if there’s heat building on the inside of you, making you grip at his broad shoulders slightly.

“Get off me, Ransom.” You try to snap, but your voice is getting all high and breathy like he loves. You squirm, try to push him off once more.

He laughs slightly as you manage to wriggle out from beneath him. You dart for the bedroom and if you’d truly not wanted him, you would’ve slammed the door in his face. But you leave it, let him follow after you.

He shuts the door behind him, then. Strolls in leisurely.

“You think after months of not speaking, you just get to take what you want?” You ask in the haughty little way that makes his blood sing. It’s more to taunt him, more to test is control.

You could tell he didn’t have much left.

“Yes,” He drawls, arrogant, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get on the bed for me?”

You inhale sharp and quietly, your wide eyes staring at him as he wanders closer. The bedroom, though large and luxurious, now feels too small. Like there’s no more oxygen and a single spark would send it up in flames.

“Make me.” You say, just to watch it all burn.

Within seconds, he’s on you, pushing you back onto the bed where the air leaves your lungs in a taken, guttering breath. His knee comes right up between your legs, his hands back on you and roughing you up.

You wrestle with him and he laughs again, excited, dark and knowing. “Oh, you wanna fight, huh?” He rumbles, grappling with your wrists. His strength shouldn’t make you all hot-blooded for him, shouldn’t make you want to sink into the silk sheets and let him do whatever he pleases but it does.

You ache already, in the core of your body.

He gets your hands down on the bed, pins you with his weight and his strength and his large hands. You arch your back, pull at your wrists to try and free yourself. Cry out when he squeezes harder.

“Am I gonna have to tie you up?” He says through his teeth, manhandling you, keeping you down with his weight. He releases your hands, but he’s on you, and it’s only so he can loosen his belt and slip it off.

You’re like a little doll, so easily possessed by him. So easily detained. You squirm and kick uselessly beneath him. The belt is slipped around your wrists, the cool leather tightening as he loops it in such a way that binds your hands together and above your head.

You’re about to snipe something about how the hell he’s supposed to get your clothes off now, but suddenly he grips the front of your t-shirt and just rips.

You gasp, mouth popping open in surprise for a moment.

“Fuck you,” You curse then as he starts pushing the shirt to the side, baring your chest to him, which is clad in a lacy, creme bra. His hands immediately glide over the skin exposed, the soft skin of your chest.

“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do.” Ransom snarks, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of your bra, digging in like he might—

“Don’t you dare!” You hiss, “This was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He tries to wager, pulling at the fabric a little, forcing you to arch up for him. And what a pretty picture you make for him, already all disheveled and roughed up, eyes shining, hands bound on his bed.

“No!” You try not to whine too much but your voice pitches upward as he palms a breast roughly through your bra, watches you with dark, hooded eyes. And thankfully, for whatever reason, he takes mercy on you and only pulls it downward, so your breasts spill from the top.

His fingers are gentler than you thought they’d be as he rolls your nipple slowly. He leans down to consume you in another bruising kiss, mouth hot and demanding, a little slick and open-mouthed. Messy in its roughness.

His fingers turn into a sudden, stinging pinch and you mewl lightly into his mouth. He swallows it down hungrily.

And then his lips drag to your neck, leaving you gasping and squirming, his teeth setting to fragile skin, mouth against your pulse. He sucks hard, until it turns into a blooming bruise of pain and heat.

“Ransom!” You yelp when it becomes too much, but the damage is done and you know there will be dark marks where he wants. You know there will be evidence of him all over your body by the end of this.

The rest of your clothes are removed in a hurry, tossed aside, thankfully intact.

He always gets what he wants, it seems.

It’d make you livid if it also didn’t make you so--

“Oh, princess, you’re so fucking wet.” He nearly purrs, fingers sliding through where you’re silken and petal-soft, velvety and flooded with heat.

He gets over excited, too desperate for you, only loosens his trousers, pulls himself out. You feel overexposed with his clothes still on, your bare skin littered with evidence of him, open and vulnerable to him.

He strokes himself, slow, with your slick before positioning himself. You can tell he’s painfully aroused, too impatient, because the smooth head of him glides along where you’re weeping and sensitive. You mewl, try to twist away from him but he grabs your waist with one, strong hand and holds you still for him.

“Do you have a condom?” You ask, breathless, watching as he makes another slow pass through your folds.

He snorts slightly, too fascinated with the feel of you, the way you glisten on him to even look up at your face. “No,” And then, “Aren’t you still on the pill?”

“Well, yes, but--”

He presses in a little too easily, just the head, and you gasp sharply at the stretch of him already. But! Your mind frets, but you should still be cautious! But it hasn’t been a full week of your new pack! But, but, but!

“Ransom,” You warn, wishing you could push at his thighs, straining slightly with the belt still holding you together. “Don’t-- unless you have a condom.” You get out.

“I’ll be careful,” He says flippantly, sliding out slowly and back through your aching folds.

He teases you more, makes you ache something awful. Makes your hips buck up and a whine be pulled from your chest. Gets you all desperate until he glides all the way in, bare, and fitting far too snug inside of you.

“Ransom!”

He groans, which falls off into a dark, rumbling laugh at the way you keen and squeeze achingly tight around him despite all your protests. A little velvet vice, and he’s delirious and heady with you, struck breathless at the sensation.

“But you just feel so fucking good like this,” He gets out, drops his head onto your chest, wraps his arms around you tight. You shouldn’t, but you give in to him, let your head drop back and moan, broken and soft, as he fills you.

He likes to fuck close and intimate like this, deep and dirty and with this violent sort of tenderness for you. He likes to make you lose yourself in the slow, rough push and pull of him, so you can’t do anything but take him and cry doing so.

Your memory is abruptly cut off when Ransom’s hand comes down on the back of your neck, the heated flashes of images you’d been thinking about burning through you. As if he can sense where your mind has gone, (and maybe he can, maybe he can see it in the way your eyes glow and get all wide-- the same way they do when he says something dirty that you shouldn’t like, but do, the slight soft desperation in them), because he smirks slightly. Hooked and curved and too sharp.

He quirks a brow, “Let’s make this quick.” He says, “So we can leave and I can push that skirt of yours up and--”

“Behave,” You hush, even if your cheeks are still burning, and you pinch his side for good measure anyways.

He hisses and swats your hand away before you tip your chin up and stride forward, only for the dogs to come rushing out towards the pair of you. Ransom grows upset, jolting back at their jumping and barking. He hates these dogs, whereas you’re able to press onward, allow Ransom to wallow for a moment.

He shouts at them, before hurrying after you and into the safety of the arching, dark doorway.

The party is already in full swing; you’re both late, of course. Ransom wanted to spend as little time as possible here tonight. But upon entering, you’re quickly and eagerly greeted by his mother, who has a drink in hand.

“Oh! Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” She says, perhaps too loudly, but rushes forward to wrap you in a hug. You’re well-liked by most of his family surprisingly, who usually let loose scathing remarks about Ransom not deserving you.

And you put on a good face for them, try to put on the air of the Harvard princess; you know wealthy people well, even if you haven’t always been the richest. Mundanely middle class for most of your life, but you worked hard to go to Harvard, to play in the big leagues. You know what they like to hear from you and see from you; so you play rich.

“It’s been far too long!” She continues, pulling away to look at you, and then, “Didn’t think you would’ve stayed with him!” She snarks then, squeezing your arm and you force out a laugh.

You know not to mention you haven’t been with her son.

“Well, you know Ransom,” You shrug lightly, a dainty, graceful lift of your shoulders, “He doesn’t like to come around much.”

“No, the little shit.” She shakes her head, but her smile reappears after a moment, “C’mon, let me get you a drink!”

And you are led deeper into the house, deeper into the Thrombey’s absurdity and vanity and spiraling greed.

Playing rich is fun for awhile; your diamond bracelet sparkles in the low light and the clothes are expensive and flattering but there’s only so much you can take. You grow tired of putting on your best fake, glittering smile and parading around the big house.

A moment of reprieve when you speak with Ransom’s grandfather, the man of the hour, Harlan.

He’s always liked you dearly. Not because you have expensive boots on or because you’re poised and can put on a mask of wealth for an evening, but because you study literature. As an author, he thinks it’s one of the most noble pursuits, one of knowledge found in digging through books, getting lost in the stories only to emerge with concrete ideas and arguments. Larger concepts and critiques of society, a bigger picture that so few seem to grasp and pay attention to.

So Harlan asks, as he does when he sees you, “What are you reading right now, my dear?”

And he doesn’t mean what you’re studying, but what you’re enjoying.

“The Beautiful and Damned.” You tell him and a sudden laugh rumbles from him.

“A good one to revisit while you’re with my family, surely.” He says, all good natured and warm.

But the moment is fleeting with everyone vying for his attention, and the evening slinks onward. Petty squabbles are had, more drinks are poured, food taken and eaten and taken.

While Ransom talks privately with his grandfather, you rest on the couch beside Marta, tucked away in an alcove, reclining leisurely beside the girl you’ve met the past few times at the Thrombey gatherings. She’s lovely and doe-eyed and she smiles very sweetly at you. It’s a little timid and soft and you wonder how her dark lashes might feel against your cheek.

You offer her wine from your glass, which she declines with a shake of her head. Her smile is earnest and you manage to make her laugh somehow, soft and quiet sighs and giggles that fall from both of your lips. She is slow to open up but now she unfurls before you, petal soft and wonderful and glittering eyed in the softly lit room.

“You’re my favorite part of the Thrombey’s,” You tell her with a slip of a smile, take another sip of your wine and you think her eyes are following your lips. You feel a flush crawl along your face.

“Not Ransom?” She asks, because you think she’s wondering. Everyone wonders about you two, about him. No one knows your relationship, no one understands it. They don’t have to, but while you can hear Ransom faintly from the other room begin to raise his voice, you let out a huff of air. Almost a scoff at her question.

“Please,” You say, eyes flickering over to the closed door, where Ransom and Harlan hide behind. “I haven’t been Ransom’s girlfriend in years.” You admit and maybe it’s the wine that makes the words slip from you, drop like precious diamonds from the cave of your mouth. Maybe it’s the honesty of her face, the twinkling empathy in her eyes. She’d be soft, so soft and gentle and--

“I hadn’t even seen him in months until a few days ago, when he asked me to come.” You add, take the last sip of your wine bitterly; it’s turned sour and puckered and dry in your mouth. You set the glass down.

“That’s awful.” Marta says quietly and you don’t realize how close she’s gotten, your thighs touching, almost hip to hip. Your arm is leisurely thrown over the back of the sofa, behind her.

“Yeah, well,” You say and it comes out breathier than you intend, “That’s Ransom.”

“Why did you come?” She asks then, not rudely, but genuine.

You hold up your wrist and your diamond bracelet sparkles in front of her eyes, catches in the darkness there to look like a star. “I got a diamond bracelet if I came.” You say and it’s meaner than you intend it to be, but maybe you’re a little more upset than you thought. Maybe you wanna throw a fit. Maybe you want Marta to comfort you with lips and soothing words.

Maybe it’s just the wine.

“That’s not the only reason you came, though.” Marta probes gently, “Is it?”

Your jaw ticks and your lashes flutter as you turn to face her. “Why else would I?”

“Because you love him.” She whispers.

“Love’s a big word, Marta.” You respond, hushed and secretive, and your fingers slip into the hair at the back of her neck. A strand of it slides over your knuckles as you twirl the chocolate lock slowly, silky soft against your skin, “It’s so heavy.”

She blinks slightly, a rush of pink spreading over her cheeks. “Sometimes.” She whispers, leaning into your touch.

You wonder if she’d whimper if you pulled her hair, how she’d feel against your throat with teeth and tongue. If she’d cry out all pretty and soft, if she’d give what she gets.

“It is with Ransom.” You say, but you don’t think it would be with her. It’d be as light as the sigh that escapes her, the little breath that comes from her chest. As light as feathers and silk, snowflakes that swirl in the night sky, petals on the wind.

A door explodes open, rattles on the hinges, through the whole house. It makes you both jolt away from each other.

Ransom barrels out. You huff, spring up quickly as you watch him grab his coat and wrench the front door open.

“I’m sorry,” You tell Marta, “It was nice seeing you.” You say earnestly and then move to follow, to find your coat, and hurry out the door and into the chill of the night.

“What the fuck?” You shout to Ransom as you slam the front door shut behind you.

His eyes flash dangerously in the darkness, “Get in the fucking car.” He says, “We’re leaving.” And he slides into the front seat and slams the car door just as hard.

He’s in a mood, then.

You hustle over, slip into the passenger side and he peels out of the driveway and down the dirt path.

He’s eerily quiet. Uncharacteristically so. The growl of the car fills the silence with rumbling, with an unsettled sound that rattles through you.

You don’t dare break the quiet first.

And the quiet stretches and stretches, stretches thin until it breaks--

“I forgot something.” He says suddenly, jerking the car to the right, pulling off the road.

“What’d you forget?” You ask, browns furrowing. He doesn’t answer you, though, only stops the car, kills the engine. He stares in silence for a moment, as if he’s making a decision. You can feel your heart in your chest, the steady thrumming that skips when he raises his eyes in the darkness. The red light of his dash casts him in crimson, in unnatural white light.

The whole world feels at a stand-still, on a teetering precipice.

“I’ll be back.” He says and he leaves you, slides out of the car and into the night. Your stomach sinks for some reason, the plummet catching you off guard.

So you wait for him, alone, as a decision that changes everything is made.

***

Ransom is quiet still, pensive, when you both return to his apartment. After all that anger, you thought maybe he’d take it out on you. You’d both yell and scream and then end up making up on the kitchen countertops, furiously trying to rip away clothes and egos and pain.

But he’s uncharacteristically gentle with you as he lays you out on his sheets. Silver light from the moon, the faint stars, cut across the bed like a knife. Slices over his face in a diagonal, one half eclipsed, and the other luminous and sterling silver.

He gets rid of your clothes with reverence, looks over you with hunger and thinly veiled tenderness. A violent sort of need that makes him seem wolfish, even in his gentleness. He covers you, enfolds you in shadow and the curling strength of his arms.

He slides down your body, parts your legs and rolls the warmth of his tongue against where you’re most vulnerable and soft. He flutters his eyes up to you, threads his fingers through yours so you have something to hold onto.

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying, arching off his sheets, twisting and turning and tormented. Until tears slide from the corners of your eyes and you’re aching and open and then he gathers you in his arms, nudges his waist into the crook of your own and fits himself in the depth of you.

You gasp, open mouthed, as he finds home. His own groan blooming from the pit of his chest and out against the hollow of your throat. His hands are bruising, gripped too tight, but you don’t even care, not as you toss your head back, let it fall against his pillow.

The way he looks at you is somewhere between desperation and viciousness. He wants to possess you, he wants to make you delirious with him. Maybe because you’ve made him as mad with you. He wants to infect you the way you’ve infected him.

He wants to belong, he wants to keep you forever. He wants to give you everything, and you think maybe he says so. Maybe he gets it out into the crook of your neck, maybe he presses it into your skin besides all the marks he gave you. His, his, his.

He curls around you afterward, slides his hands over your vulnerable belly, the skin soft beneath his broad palms.

“Let’s leave and never return.” Ransom says and you blink, bleary and sleepy, glance at him with a flutter of your lashes.

“Where would we go?” You murmur, carding your hands through his hair.

“Paris, maybe.” He rumbles into your skin, fingers creating a strange, swirling pattern on your stomach.

“You can read and study and write.” He says and for some reason, your heart squeezes painfully. For some reason, you’re still foolish to imagine it. Sitting pretty in a cafe, a worn book in your hands, glasses of wine between the two of you. He’d look stylish and handsome against a violet rose sunset.

“And what would you do?” You ask softly, a whisper.

“Anything I wanted.”

Quietness falls upon you both again, slow and heavy. He fingers the skin of your stomach, slides over it in strange rhythms only he knows. You’re nearly on the brink of sleep when he turns his face up to you, totally shadowed now, and says;

“I have to tell you something, baby.”

And you can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the beginning of the end.

***

He’d said it was his hour of need and you’re smart so you listen and you absorb. You’re appalled and you’re a little shocked but you--

You keep your head on straight. Ransom starts to unravel.

The moment it’s discovered that his grandfather apparently comitted suicide, he starts to slip into a dangerous edge. He starts ranting and raving and then he’ll go deadly silent and then he’ll become prickly and hot. You are cool and collected.

You are waiting for your time to strike.

A detective is hired by Ransom in an attempt to win it all; and you are careful, walk the tightrope slow and steady. You keep him sane and dull the sharp part of him.

And then, the way a ribbon is pulled apart, Marta slips right into Ransom’s jaws. His plan didn’t work; Marta didn’t kill his grandfather. Ransom technically didn’t, either.

You think, maybe, it could’ve been put to rest here. You think maybe he could've walked away. But Ransom never half does anything, doesn’t ever not finish the job. He spirals.

You wait for a time to strike.

***

Your time is quick and fleeting and you remember piece of a conversation, a snippet of information that could change everything.

You speak with Fran on the outskirts of the family as they discuss heavier matters. She chatters a lot, on and on about just about anything. And you carefully weave the conversation, guide it slowly but surely towards this one factor;

“You have a friend that does toxicology, don’t you?”

She nods enthusiastically, tells you about what he does, how interesting it is. How long she’s known him. You gaze at the family, at the way they try to be hush and talk and end up bickering. Fran’s voice comes in and out, the world turning slow.

Another argument breaks out. Voices raising, cutting over each other. Ruthless. And poor Marta who has to deal with them all, whose only in this position because--

You glance at Ransom, watch his handsome face screw up into a mocking smile as he speaks with his relatives. Smug, greedy, too arrogant. You think about what he said; running away to Paris. To Rome or anywhere in the world. You wonder if you could’ve been happy with him-- dream about a life never lived. A path never taken.

Because later, when Ransom tells you to keep watch so he can slip the antidote back in Marta’s bag, you step away. You hide in the bathroom, peak through the crack in the door, breathe slow and quiet as you watch Fran catch Ransom in the act.

Watch as it all comes crashing down; a domino effect that will slide into place now. You watch as you tip the first scale, as you set the life you could’ve had with Ransom up in flames. Fran disappears, obviously upset and reeling with what she’s discovered.

You emerge once more, greet Ransom with a kiss on the cheek.

A Judas kiss, betrayal placed softly upon his skin.

You force yourself to look into his eyes, so he doesn’t suspect a thing. You smile at him, the kind of smile that makes him kiss you. Hard and quick and furious. He calls you his Bonnie, says so against your lips.

You laugh and hope it doesn’t come out as tumbling and mad as it sounds to your ears.

***

When all is said and done, Ransom ends up behind bars, just as you knew he would. Just as he should be. He thinks you had nothing to do with it, he thinks you’re gonna help him out of this one, too, somehow.

So you visit him in prison, dressed in Chanel and fur and the Cartier white-gold bracelet that flashes so prettily. Your heels click against the cold, tile ground as your approach the stall to speak with him. He sits behind the glass in an orange jumpsuit, garring and horrible. It’s unzipped slightly, showing his broad, muscled chest, rolled up at the elbows. A far cry from his lavish coats and scarves and sweaters.

His eyes glint when they see you, a tilting of his head that is arrogant and predatory. His smile is hooked when he sees you.

With all of your grace, you glide to him, take a seat in front of him. In front of the glass. You both stare at each other a moment, his eyes always so hungry and wolfish. Heat flares slowly inside of you, an inkling of torment from hell, from the devil before you.

Slowly, with measured ease, he picks up the phone to speak with you.

You reach for it, too, your eyes still on him.

“Hello, princess.” He rumbles into the phone.

“Hello, Ransom.” You say almost hushed.

“I miss you,” He says with his curling smile, a flash of sharp teeth. You think of them at your neck, on your pulse that beats rapidly.

“When I get out of here, let’s leave.” He then says, soft and murmured, “Let’s leave and never look back. I’ll take you wherever you want.”

You hum on that, look over him slowly, and you think that seeing him here, in the jumpsuit, behind the glaring glass, leaves your dreams of Paris dashed and destroyed. The idea of loving him, sitting on that balcony with a book in your hands and his hand on your thigh as you watch the city fall into dusk shatters right in front of you. You can put it to rest once and for all, dig a grave inside the pit of your chest and bury it.

“I don’t think you’ll get out for a long time, I’m afraid.” You tell him finally.

His eyes darken, brows furrowing, “What are you talking about? I’ll get the best lawyers, you’ll help me--”

“I won’t.” You say, finding his eyes, shaking your head the slightest amount.

His eyebrows shoot up, his face becoming cold and hard and outraged, “You won’t?” He asks, and then, “Thought you were my Bonnie?” His jaw ticks in anger, in pain that bubbles up inside of him, “You know I could get you here on assisted murder. I protected you. You knew everything--”

“Oh, Ransom,” You say, a slight sigh, pitying and soft. And now it’s your turn to be sharp-smiled, a slip of fox’s wit, “Who do you think led Fran to look into the toxicology reports?” You ask lightly.

He blinks, his mouth suddenly falling open.

“How do you think she caught you replacing the antidote to Marta’s bag?” You ask him, tilting your head, the look in your eyes cunning and quick and burning.

He stares in disbelief.

“I know I’m psycho,” You sigh, lift your finger to the glass, draw a swirling pattern as if you’re stroking his face. All that you feel is the cold, clear glass. “But you didn’t think I’d let you get away with this, did you?”

He sits back in shock, staring at you. And then a laugh bursts from him, rough and hard and he looks at you with awe, with a wild sort of amazement.

“Backstabbing, rotten bitch.” He says, but it’s with fondness. Like he can’t believe someone bested him, like he can’t believe you could be so cutthroat or ruthless, “You really were made for me, weren’t you?”

He looks at you like he wants to take you up against the glass in front of everyone, like he wants to punish you and praise you and love you so violently that you can’t see or feel anything but him.

But there is no rough love making, there is nothing but the glass between you and the triumph and the ache inside your ribs.

“It seems so.” You say and you let your hand fall away from the glass, your diamond bracelet clinking lightly. You take a last look at him, sear him into your memory like this, looking at you like you’re both the best and worst thing the world could ever give him.

“Goodbye, darling.” You purr, even if your heart is burning, even if your breath is tight. And then you hang up the phone and rise, graceful and elegant as ever.

You can hear his laughter, feel the way his eyes try to keep you here, brand you and scorch you.

You walk out with your head high, a too-clever grin touching the corner of your lips and a weight off of your shoulders, but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You’ll miss him, you think, even if all the world knows you shouldn’t.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fanfiction #knives out fanfiction #knives out #ransome drysdale x y/n #ransom thrombey #ransom thrombey x you #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom thrombey x female reader #ransom thrombey x y/n

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shinsoups · 4 years

Text

- a thousand paper cranes

pairing: hinata shouyou x amnesiac!reader

genre: soulmate one shot; angst

word count: 993 (i got carried away)

orange = a love filled with warmth and comfort. communication is its foundation. most times two souls are the opposite of each other, nonetheless this creates a rather adventurous life together

There were worse cases out there and Hinata knew that. He should have considered himself lucky to only suffer a minor injury after their game, it was merely luck to not have a broken bone. But still, it bothers him to injure himself at such an important game for the Jackals. But what bothered him the most was the fact that the person he was waiting for never came today.

Waiting for his turn to be wheeled in a room to stay overnight for further examinations, he sat on the cold steel chair provided at the waiting area. Contemplating whether to call the number he was trying to reach for days now. But his calls never seem to go through and that bothered him too much. Must be busy or something came up, I'll try again later, he thought.

You stared at the white wall in front of you, as if haunting you once again of the nightmares that kept you up at night. It had been three days now. Your head ached once more from trying to remember anything about yourself. Amnesia, you laugh at the diagnosis after waking up in an unfamiliar room. The day you woke up, two doctors and some policemen were trying to interrogate you on what had happened. But you have no clue at all. Only the ring on your left hand was your remaining possession before everything went nothing.

The doctor assured you that this would be temporary, just the trauma you suffered from getting mugged in an unfamiliar place. Cruel as it may seem, you never thought that it could possibly happen in real life, let alone at someone like you. Investigation has been going on with the help of the local authorites, but to no avail you still got nothing.

Bored in your room you decided to take the stationary papers given to you by one of the nurses and started folding it once again. They say that folding one thousand paper cranes can make one of your wishes come true. You’re not sure whether you believe in such tale, but for now it’s one of the easiest way to distract yourself that one day some of your memories will return.

“The doctor said you need to stay overnight for them to run some tests on your leg,” Coach Foster said. “Hinata, you’ll be okay. Don’t think much of it, ok?” he assured before leaving the orange haired in the comforts of the hospital room.

On the opposite room where Hinata stays, he noticed paper scattered all over. Picking one up he found the room empty. A sudden rush of panic came bubbling down his throat. He tilted his head, looking for the patient who’s confined in the room. "It can't be," he murmured to himself. Just as he was about to leave he noticed the familiar figure on the corner of his eyes.

The first time your eyes landed on the guy that walked in your room was to ask him what he was doing, but your lips refused to do so. Instead, hot tears started to escape from your eyes. Noticing the orange hearts spreading from his hands as his familiar warm eyes landed on yours. A hazy memory started flooding your head.

“Yeah, yeah...don’t worry this is just between us okay? Don't tell him, mom. He knows I’ll be watching the game on D-day here on his team’s hometown..” You excitedly told your mom on the other line after arriving at the Osaka Airport.

“I sure hope Shouyou would be surprised as well. No- mom he doesn’t know I took a vacation leave for one week. I just want to spend some time with him before his game...That’s why it’s a surprise, right? Yeah...uh-huh... yeah love you too, mom. Bye.” You shuffled your bag on your shoulder ending the phone call.

Hinata couldn’t believe it. What happened? Why were you here? Are you okay? Hundreds of question ran through his mind but the sight of you crying made his heart ache. But what hurts even more was when he tried moving closer to you only to hear you say....

“Do I....Do we k-know each other?” you ask uncertainly, hoping he was the person you remembered. You flinched when he moved closer, a myriad of emotions flash on his face, tears welling in his eyes as he hugged you in his embrace. You unconsciously wrapped your arms around his warmth, seeing the orange hearts once again springing from him. Noticing the same pattern snaking slowly on yours trembling hands.

For a few moments, everything that was going through your head went quiet. Pushing yourself away from him you asked once again, “Y-you're Shouyou...right?"

Flashes of vivid images of him smiling at you filled your mind. The name felt comfortable on your lips, like it's something you say every single day in your life. He nodded, still unable to answer anything you asked.

"y/n," he called out. Y/n... you echoed your own name in your head, opening another door to your lost memories. Resting his chin at your shoulders, Hinata forced himself to smile as he saw the confused look you had on your face.

"Can I help you with the paper cranes you were folding?" there was softness in his voice. "How many more do we have to fold?" he asked, now beaming at you.

Hinata held your hand leading you back to your bed. You looked at your entwined hands, hope blossomed in your chest seeing the same exact ring you were wearing on his finger. You felt at ease.

Feeling the blood rush into your cheeks when you both saw how orange hearts were continuously springing out of your interlinked hands.

"U-uhmm just about twenty more to go..I think."

There was something about him that seemed so familiar. His scent, his warmth, his very presence made you feel like you're soaking under the comforts of the warm sun. Suddenly you felt like you were home.

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

author’s note: this is part of the ‘colors of love’ soulmate one shot mini series im writing. ahhhhhh *i got too caught up in giving some background story on this one.... 😔 also i was hoping to write a fluffy fic for hinata but it turned out to be like this... Oh gods why?? 😭

ps: colors of love is a soulmate oneshot series about the different colors associated with what kind of love and what will timeskip hq!!boys will have in the relationship. mostly the oneshots are first meetings

⚘ · read the other colors here · ⚘

#hinata shouyou #hq!!#haikyuu!!#hinata shoyou #hinata shoyou x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! colors of love mini #sey writes #ahhhhh i hope the tags are working this time

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pinesboi · 3 years

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hello this is a little ficlet that i’ll never write more on but basically Sleeping Beauty AU joe/nicky except nicky was captured while joe slept and aged while joe stayed young. nicky did eventually wake joe up, but he died not too long after from old age. im sorry.

tw for major character death. beyond the normal for TOG ;-;

Yusuf stands with his head bowed. His horse brays somewhere off to the side, a low, mournful thing that seems to mirror the cloying emotion that clings to the back of his throat. His heartbeat feels less like a drum in his chest and far more like the echo of water droplets in a cave, far too tinny and shallow to keep him on his feet. His legs buckle beneath him, kneeling down before the headstone. He can't quite bring himself to look up at it just yet. He knows what the words will read, he had told the stonemason what to write. But he has yet to see it in person, yet to sit atop the freshly dug plot of earth. The air sweeps around his head, warm with the promise of summer. They had planned to go out to the villa, that year, once everything had died down. Yusuf was going to paint a portrait of him in his current form, only having the ones from years ago when his hair had still been a rich brown and his eyes had not been so crowded by crow's feet.

Yusuf stares now at the grave, clutching the little box in his hand with a white-knuckled grip. The words seem so stark, so blank. Far too lifeless for the man they're meant to summarize. Though no words could have ever done him justice. Yusuf had tried enough times in his poetry to know that. He takes a deep, shaky breath, fighting off tears. He needs to do this. It is perhaps too late now, but he must anyway.

"I'm sorry it's been so long, my heart-" he says, though he stops. His voice wavers nearly too much to continue speaking. He sighs and tries again. "I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough to come. I hope you'll understand."

He looks up. The stone is neatly chiseled, some of the finest work he could find. It's a white rock, nearly glowing in the mid-afternoon sun.

"Things are fine at the castle. Everyone misses you dearly. I am trying my best to continue to be a good ruler for them. But-" Yusuf swallows. "I can't pretend that it doesn't tear my heart open to wake without you."

"Do you remember- this was before I slept- we went out to the stream to escape some banquet or another my mother wanted me to attend? You plucked berries and fed them to me. Your lips were stained purple with the juice." His eyes slip closed, picturing it as if it were yesterday. "I think I've never seen another color like it. I never will."

"You told me that day that even beyond death your soul would be entwined with mine." The tears truly begin to fall now, falling down his cheeks in a red-hot trail. "Is it horrible that I can't feel you? That I feel so alone, though I know you are with me?"

He shakes his head, laughs some of the pain off. "But, I did not come to disturb your rest with my grief. I have a question to ask."

He stops. Stares at the stone. For a second, he can swear he sees a set of sea glass eyes between the far-off branches of a willow.

"I never got the chance to ask in life, my heart. I apologize for that. But I had to do it one way or another, or I would surely rot inside with regret." He raises himself up on one knee, presents the small box and opens the lid. Inside is a simple gold band, engraved on the inside. He'd never been one for gaudy jewelry in life, it seemed fitting.

"Nicolo di Genova, king over my heart and my soul, with a gaze like iron and cashmere all the same and a kindness like the ocean, would you do me the privilege of becoming my husband?"

Of course, Yusuf receives no reply. However, there is a breeze that caresses his cheek. He sobs, and thinks if he shuts his eyes it could feel like fingers sweeping across the skin.

"Thank you. I will do my best to carry with me all the memories you have granted me my love, my moon, my everything. Until I join you, I am yours."

He buries the ring just to the side of the headstone. It's twin gleams on his own hand in a pure silver.

It takes him a long time before he's ready to stand, knees aching after sitting for so long. The sun has already begun to set behind the castle in the distance. His horse knickers at him, clearly anxious to return. He begins to saddle up, but spares a glance back at the little marker.

"I will be back soon, my love."

#my writing #joe/nicky #joe x nicky #ficlet #yeah.#did this one a while ago for the discord #but i like how it turned out

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ahh-fxck · 4 years

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Chapter 7: Fire and Ice

Hello beautiful hearts! The next chapter of my main AU Warrior’s Blues is up! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :) And if you do, like and reblog so that others can read!

The Ao3 link is here!

@stressedspidergirlsfandomblog thank you so much! You have been so much more than a beta. Thank you for co-creating this little universe with me through our chats and all of your wonderful questions. You rock!!

Please let me know if you’d like to be (un)tagged from the tag list!!

@astouract @smolpoe @ladyknight-keladry @yes-im-the-violin-girl

Warrior’s Blues

Chapter 7: Fire and Ice

Morning creeps into the room, slow lazy fingers of light brushing across the rumpled quilt, the clothing tangled on the floor, the soft blue, yellow, and white braided rug covering the wood floor. Daylight also reveals an antique desk underneath a window, piled high with unruly stacks of handwritten documents. There is a trashcan next to it which contains mainly crumpled paper, a few wads of which sit on the carpet forlornly nearby, having not made it in when they were unceremoniously tossed. Towards the back of the messy, quiet room is a large closet whose doors are currently closed. This is probably for the best, as there are visible lumps of fabric peeking along the very bottoms of the white folding closet doors.

In the bed, two figures sleep, their naked bodies entwined. At some time during the night Jaskier had moved, and was now curled loosely in the curve of Geralt’s body, spine pressed comfortably to Geralt’s ribs, waist trapping his left arm. Geralt is curled softly around him, his face nestled up near the back of Jaskier’s neck, his breath stirring the fine hairs there with every exhale. The sweet scent of his skin and soft, heavy warmth of his body weigh Geralt down, making it difficult to want to waken. A warm haze enfolds him, protecting him, blunting the harsh edges inside of him. He drifts, avoiding consciousness.

Jaskier stirs some time later, as the room begins to warm and become bright and sweaty in the summer heat. He turns his head against his pillow and yawns, snuggling into the welcome feeling of bare skin at his back.

Geralt startles a little at the movement, eyes popping open, noticing that he is not in a familiar environment. As consciousness filters in he feels the heavy warmth of the other man on his arm, along his side, sees the soft brown hairs at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, watches them shiver as he breathes. His heart skips a beat and he frowns. Half frightened and half fascinated, he leans forward to brush his lips along the hairs, feeling the prickle of them. He revels guiltily in the warmth of Jaskier’s skin against his lips, his heart twisting as he takes in the soft oaky, soapy smell. The world is trickling back in faster now, and with it, bleak sensations of sorrow and fear.

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt sighs, without any real rancor. He drops his head back against the pillow and rolls onto his back, his side still pressed up against Jaskier’s skin as if he can’t quite bear to part from him.

Jaskier lifts his head sleepily. “Hmm?” he murmurs, voice thick. He lets out a yawn and stretches, then rolls over and puts his chin on Geralt’s chest, looking up at him from under his lashes. Despite the morning stubble he looks younger in the morning light, face smoothed by sleep, his fine hair unruly. He combs his fingers lightly through it as he asks, “Everything all right?”

Geralt looks down at him, terror and profound fondness twisting around inside of him as he gazes into those wide blue eyes. Hesitantly, he runs experimental fingers through the soft short hairs at the back of Jaskier’s head, down along his neck, feeling the light prickle beneath his fingertips. As he does so he gropes for words, golden eyes searching Jaskier’s face as if he will find answers there.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he grimaces, voice low and rough with sleep. He clears his throat, shaking his head and breaking away from Jaskier’s gaze, glancing to the side to see out the window. There’s not much to be seen through the lacy curtains, just the driveway, Jaskier’s car, and a neighbor's high wooden fence. “This is what got me in trouble in the first place.” He takes his hand off of the back of Jaskier’s neck and scrubs his face with it. The other hand he keeps close to his chest. It aches fiercely, and the bandages on his knuckles need to be changed, but it is far less painful than it was the day before.

Tilting his head to the side, Jaskier studies his face. “What, being in my bed?” he inquires gently, full well knowing that’s not what Geralt meant. He gets more comfortable on Geralt, unselfconsciously splaying his hand across his lover’s chest, careful not to jostle his injured hand.

“No.” Geralt grumps, annoyed at Jaskier’s deliberate obtuseness, but obscurely enjoying the gentle touch that accompanies it. The warmth of it is intoxicating and weirdly painful, making his heart ache. He wants to bury himself in it and vanish again, but in the bright light of day it is so much harder to do that.

“Fucking around like this is what got me fired. I shouldn’t be here.” Geralt struggles to sit up, pushing the sweet heat of Jaskier away from him even though his skin silently cries out at the loss. Jaskier reluctantly lets him, sliding off to the side and pulling the quilt in around his waist. Concerned eyes watch the big man as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rubs his hand across his white hair, his two day stubble, his pale face. The silence stretches, and Geralt can feel Jaskier behind him, can almost feel him choosing his next words carefully.

Normally, Jaskier wouldn’t cut right to the chase like this, but he suspects that the big man is about to make a break for it. Praying his words won’t be received the wrong way, Jaskier asks, “Geralt, I hope you won’t mind me being impertinent, but… Is that really true?" He knew that the Army had a long and storied history of coming down on gay soldiers far more harshly than others; Jaskier had seen it too many times, one way or another. Not that Geralt hadn’t done anything wrong; if he had gotten caught with another man in front of a camera, he’d clearly been out of bounds. However, it wouldn’t surprise Jaskier if he had been excessively penalized for something that might have been otherwise swept under the rug.

Geralt turns to glare over his shoulder at him. “That’s none of your goddamn fucking business,” he growls, face hardening.

Jaskier spreads his hands out, putting them up in a gesture of surrender. “My mistake,” he says, but he sounds more exasperated than apologetic. “Just… you would not believe the amount of inappropriate sex stories I’ve heard from servicemembers. People get caught doing stupid things all the time. I just wondered…” He cuts off abruptly as Geralt growls again, a deep, unfriendly sound that makes the hair on his arms stand up just slightly.

Geralt glowers at the tousled man sitting on the bed behind him, then down at his fatigue pants on the floor. He wants to get up and walk away from this conversation, but the idea of putting on another pair of fatigues right now actively makes his heart hurt, so he hesitates. Behind him, Jaskier slowly subsides, thankfully silent for another moment.

It gives Geralt time to think, really think, which he hasn’t given himself much chance to do since being discharged. His eyes trace the folds and contours of his pants on the floor, rage, guilt, and sorrow boiling the inside of his body raw. The untold story sits on his tongue like a lead weight. And at his elbow the steady warmth of Jaskier’s body radiates, warm and reassuring. After a life of service, that warm presence is the only one left. No one else to talk to, no one else to lean on. A sudden surge of loneliness spikes through him, cutting through his anger, and he visibly deflates. Licking his lips, he hesitantly begins to speak. He’s surprised to find himself telling Jaskier the truth, but some part of him so badly needs to hear the words said aloud that he almost can’t stop himself. “I knew better. I… I should have never let him do. Uh. What he did. It was my own fault.” He presses his knuckles against his thick thigh and cracks them nervously. “I deserved to be fired.”

Jaskier’s face flickers as he processes this and he bites his lip, trying to feel his way across the minefield of a conversation in front of him. He scrubs his own hand across his face sleepily, wishing deep down that this could have waited until after coffee. On some level, though, he knows he brought it on himself. Closeted older men like Geralt didn’t always do well the morning after, even in the best of circumstances. And this? This definitely was not the best circumstances.

“Mm… that sounds like a very impulsive thing to do,” Jaskier muses delicately. “But was the… uh, sex, really the thing that got you fired?” He leaves this hanging in the air, trying desperately not to push Geralt too hard, not sure if he is succeeding. It is very difficult for him to see a queer man beating himself up like this though. The sheer outrage he feels about the way the Army treats its gay servicemembers is making it very hard for him to hold his tongue or act with discretion. He flinches very slightly as Geralt snarls, but aside from that, refuses to waver, watching Geralt intently. He notices that Geralt begins to flick his fingers rhythmically against his thigh as he thinks, and that the motion seems to calm him.

Geralt gropes for words, feeling like the air is getting sucked out of the room as he searches. After a long silence, he speaks, his voice thick and low. “You’re trying to ask me if I was fired for...uhm. For being with who I was with. Or if I was fired for being inappropriate. Right?”

“Yes, love. That’s what I’m asking,” Jaskier replies gently, wanting more than anything to reach out and run his hands over Geralt’s shoulders and back, to soothe some of the pain away. The man’s body is humming with tension though, nasty sparks of it crackling in the air between them, so Jaskier sits back slightly instead to give him room to think. He can see Geralt’s jaw working, clearly uncomfortable to be confronted with the question so baldly. Slowly, Geralt shakes his head. He looks defeated, and Jaskier aches to see his sadness.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds bone-weary. “I wish I knew, but I don’t.” The words are heavy in his mouth, difficult to get out. In a strange way, as angry as he is, he is also grateful for a chance to talk about it. A lifetime of choking silence feels like it is giving way to something new, though he doesn’t quite understand how yet.

Jaskier sighs, nodding, then tilts his head to the side and runs his eyes over Geralt’s back again. His heart sinks as he notices for the first time that there is a massive map of thin horizontal scars criss-crossing his back, from his shoulders all the way down what is visible of his buttocks. They are faded, old. Probably from childhood. Tears spring unbidden to his eyes, and he looks up at the ceiling quickly to stop them from spilling over his cheeks.

When he regains control, he swallows a few times, then says, “You’re not bad for… wanting… who you want. The world very much wants queers to think we’re bad for loving the way we do, but there’s no… no inherent harm in being interested in other men. No more than there is being interested in women, or anyone else.”

“Tell that to my commission,” Geralt snaps, still staring at his pants.

Jaskier grimaces, clenching and unclenching his hands and trying not to let Geralt’s anger throw him. He knows it’s not personal, but he is so upset about how unjustly Geralt has been treated that it is hard for him to retain his center. Wrestling with his own discomfort, he looks for something kind to say, and settles on, “Okay… yes. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want… I don’t think anyone should ever think they’re bad for being queer, Geralt. It’s just not… it’s not fair. It’s not fair to you, it’s not fair to anyone else.” He pauses, then adds softly, “I didn’t choose to be the way I am, did you?”

Geralt’s shoulders sink until he is hunched down, cheek held lightly against his splinted hand, all of the remaining anger draining out of him and leaving him feeling icy and frozen inside. Slowly, slowly, he shakes his head ‘no.’

The way he unconsciously pulls in after he shakes his head, like he is expecting to be hit, makes Jaskier’s stomach plunge. Unable to help himself, Jaskier reaches out to Geralt, but he twists out from under Jaskier’s hands with the speed of instinct. Jaskier leans back immediately, guessing how deeply upset the other man must be given how badly his own heart is racing. His lips thin in frustration and sadness. He pulls his hands back into his lap, eyes tracing over the scars on Geralt’s back helplessly as he thinks.

“Well… I didn’t either. And neither did Yarpen, or any of the people you worked with or served in my bar. I don’t know who told you what, Geralt, but…” Jaskier sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Look. In my house, you’re safe. No one’s here but me, and I’m not going to terrorize you. Ok? You can work out the rest later when you’re ready.” He slides his legs over the side of the bed, sitting carefully next to Geralt without touching him. Giving the other man an awkward little smile, he adds, “That is, if you don’t run away screaming. Was this all too much for you?” He gestures vaguely at the bedroom, including himself in the gesture, recalling the intimacy of the night before.

Much to Geralt and Jaskier’s mutual surprise, Geralt begins, quietly, to chuckle, a hollow painful sound. He puts his face into his hand, covering his eyes, and shakes his head. “Oh… I don’t know, Buttercup,” he groans, Jaskier smiling slightly as he hears the nickname.

“I feel like I’m going fucking crazy,” Geralt confesses. “I feel like I died and just haven’t stopped walking yet, and I’m wondering when I’m going to drop. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me anymore.” He presses on his eyes until he can see stars, trying to process everything he’s feeling, feeling like he’s drowning in icy water instead. He sits, caught in a whirl of gnawing guilt and profoundly lonely hunger. Everything he’s ever thought he was is falling out from under him, leaving him disoriented and desperately craving safety.

Feeling powerless, Jaskier sits at his side, wishing that he knew the magic words to make it better. He’d make it all go away in a heartbeat, if only he knew how.

After a moment, Geralt heaves a deep sigh and continues, “And I know I should regret…” he pauses, groping for words. He settles lamely on, “Last night. I know I should regret you. But I… Hmm.” And he reaches out suddenly and grabs Jaskier’s hand, surprising himself. He feels like he’s tearing in two, but he craves a return to the sunny warmth of Jaskier’s touch so badly that it doesn’t matter. The heat of Jaskier’s hand in his own makes Geralt’s hungry skin sing . Jaskier startles, but not unpleasantly. Then he lightly squeezes his hand back, a crooked smile lighting his face. Geralt grimaces, guilt and shame and desire causing his cheeks to heat and his heart to freeze, but he doesn’t let go.

“Thank you, I think?” Jaskier laughs softly, and Geralt ducks his head, embarrassed. “For what it’s worth, I very much do not regret being with you, either.” He gives Geralt a frank, curious look, running his finger over Geralt’s knuckles. Geralt twitches and pulls away, but when Jaskier stops rubbing, he allows his hand to fall back into Jaskier’s. He lifts his head slightly, watching his kind lover out of the corner of his eye, his expression guarded.

Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye and smiles at him, warm as the morning sun. “Thank you for your trust, dear heart. For your body, for your… mm, everything.” His eyes flicker fondly over Geralt’s naked, scarred body beside him, and his smile widens ever so slightly. “I so very much want to do it again sometime.” He gives Geralt’s hand a little squeeze, and Geralt feels warmth race up his arm, making his heart skip and flutter despite the gnawing icy ache.

“Maybe some coffee and a shower first, though, hmm? And we’d promised we’d have a bit of a talk,” Jaskier gently releases Geralt’s hand and stands up. “You’re welcome to use my shower, love, it’s right through that door. I’ll go put towels out for you and get some coffee going.” Stepping carefully around the tangle of clothing on the floor, Jaskier snags some boxer briefs out of a dresser.

Geralt watches as he hops into them awkwardly, taking in the long muscular lines of his body as he wrestles with his undergarments, oddly charmed by his gawky movements. He twists between shame and longing as his eyes linger on Jaskier’s strong hips and firm ass, finds himself already craving the soft heat of his skin once more even as some part of him quietly insists that he is broken for wanting it.

Jaskier, oblivious, slips through a door near the foot of his bed that Geralt hadn’t noticed in the dark. There’s sounds of rummaging, of running water, and then Jaskier emerges and flashes Geralt another brief smile before vanishing out the bedroom door.

Geralt watches Jaskier go, at a loss for words. His hand is still warm from Jaskier’s touch, tingling and prickling where their skin was in contact. He flexes it thoughtfully, eyes turning to the door of Jaskier’s bedroom, listening to the distant sounds of bustling coming from the kitchen. The heat of the man’s presence is like sunlight, and without him the room feels colder, empty.

He turns his head to take in the messy bedroom, finally registering all of the crumpled laundry on the floor, the paper outside the wastebasket, the lumps of fabric peeking out from under the closet door. The mess causes him to glower, makes him feel itchy under his skin. He wonders silently how Jaskier lives like this, with socks scattered on the floor like leaves. His own crumpled clothing lies near his feet.

Giving it a guilty grimace, he picks it up and smooths it out, folding it and placing it on the bed in a neat pile before heading naked over to the half-open master bathroom door. After military school, much less the Army, walking bare in a stranger's room barely phases him. What does bother him, though, is his skin. It pulls where come has dried on it, and he brushes his fingers over his hip musingly as he walks. The touch conjures a little flash of memory, of Jaskier's head thrown back in the moonlight. He flinches and draws his hand back, overwhelmed.

The first thing he sees in the surprisingly clean bathroom is a white sink under a mirrored medicine cabinet. It is fitted to a blue tiled wall. The cleanliness is a welcome contrast to the chaos of the master bedroom, and Geralt finds himself relaxing slightly. Immediately next to the sink is a tall white cabinet with several small doors, dividing the sink from the tub. The tub itself is huge, both deep and long, more than large enough for even a big man like Geralt to sink into and get a good soak. Draped over the edge of it is a large light blue towel, soft and fluffy, with a hand towel, a washcloth, and a fresh unopened plastic razor sitting on top of it. At the very end of the bathroom, built between the large tub and the wall, is a shower stall enclosed in rippled glass. It is steamed over, the water inside already running.

Geralt takes all this in numbly, feeling like his insides are slowly becoming one great big block of ice. The gnawing feeling that this isn’t where he should be sets in deeper now that he is alone, feeling out of context in this cozy, welcoming bathroom. Still, he needs a shower, and a shave, and he can’t think of a better way to go about getting them. So he goes over to the towel and picks up the razor. Every step he takes across the bathroom sees him sink deeper into chilly, crushing depression, an uncomfortably familiar part of washing a lover off of his skin.

He barely sees the inside of the stall, tuning it out as he goes through the motions of cleansing himself, careful to keep his injured hand as dry as possible. He uses the little mirror hanging on the wall to clumsily shave his face. The inability to perform his usual shaving routine makes him feel so tense that his shoulders and stomach physically ache, but the idea of the stubble overtaking his face is far worse, so he fumbles his way through until he is finished. When he is done he is nicked in several places, but finally feels clean. Heaving a heavy sigh of relief, he rinses and exits the shower.

As he exits, he hears music playing in the other room, far quieter than yesterday, upbeat and cheery. “ Roam, if you want to… ” he hears a woman sing, “All around the world…” The song is unfamiliar, but pleasant enough. He snags the towel and rubs himself dry with it, listening to the rustles and scrapes of Jaskier in the main living space. When he is dry, he wraps the towel and around his waist, leaving the bathroom. What he sees causes him to draw up short, depression snapping suddenly into irrationally potent rage. On the floor near the foot of the bed is a box, marked “Clothing.” On top of it are the attic keys.

“Jaskier!” He barks out, his voice cutting across the house like a gunshot. “What the everloving fuck is this?” His jaw clenches as he stares at the box on the floor. He hears a muffled swear from the other room, indistinct through the music, and then Jaskier’s feet thumping rapidly across the wood floor to the bedroom door.

Jaskier opens it and gives Geralt a worried look, unsure why he’s been yelled at. “Geralt! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, I just thought you wouldn’t want to put your dirty clothes back on…” he trails off, visibly withering under the weight of Geralt’s thousand watt glare.

“Don’t. Touch. My. Things.” Geralt grates out, standing stiffly over the box. “Did you touch anything? What did you touch?” He rounds on Jaskier, and Jaskier shrinks back, face going from worried to ‘oh shit,’ blue eyes wide and startled.

“Oh god nothing, Geralt, I’m really sorry, I promise that’s the only box I touched,” he replies, looking a bit panicked. Studying the tension in Geralt’s body, he brings his hands up in a gesture of unconditional surrender. “I swear, I didn’t even look,” he promises. “I just grabbed the one box and came straight downstairs, I haven’t even looked inside it. I promise I was just trying to help.”

“Don’t help me.” Geralt snaps, turning away from Jaskier. He considers the box for another moment, weighing his options. Though he is furious, rationally, there is no real harm in what Jaskier has done, providing that none of his other boxes has been touched. He settles on snarling, “Get out of here. I need to get dressed. And…” he turns back, giving Jaskier such a menacing look that Jaskier takes a step back, “If you so much as fucking touch anything else of mine, we will have a fucking problem. Got it?”

“Got it,” Jaskier gulps. “I’m really s-”

“Go!” Geralt barks. Jaskier startles and exits quickly, cursing under his breath. Geralt grumbles and kneels down, picking up the box and setting it on the bed, catching the keys as they slide and setting them back on the neatly folded pile of his fatigues. He feels obscurely guilty for the amount of rage he took out on Jaskier, but also quite justified in telling the spoony little bastard to stay away from his personal things.

Still muttering, he opens the lid to the box. As he pulls it aside he falls silent. Inside are his clothes from his first few years in the Army, undisturbed as promised. They look like they will still more or less fit him. White, crisp, short-sleeved button down shirts. Plain khaki pants. Belts. Even some rolled up dress socks that he had barely worn but felt bad about discarding.

A jet engine roared behind him as he strode confidently off of an air strip, dispersing from a column of men and heading for a steel door on the side of a tan building. Over his shoulder was thrown a duffel sack, and on his head was a neat black beret. Gold bars shone on his shoulders, showing his rank of Second Lieutenant. It was his first day on the foreign base, and he was reporting for duty.

As he approached the door, it banged open. From within the building emerged a slight woman with a mass of curly dark hair trapped in a neat braid, an exasperated-looking man at her heels. She was dressed in an impeccable black blazer and slacks with a white blouse underneath, a pass pinned to its lapel that identified her as press. And as she barged around him, snapping, “Move it, boot!” he could see that her eyes were a startling shade of violet. He stumbled back, surprised, making way for her and her companion.

The man following her was broad-shouldered and brown, with a closely shorn head of dark hair. He had an easygoing-looking face with a short beard, pockmarked cheeks, and kind eyes. He was wearing fatigues, and had the same press pass as the woman clipped to his tan shirt. Over his shoulder was slung a black bag, and over his neck hung a worn camera case. As he passed Geralt, he gave him a friendly wink.

Geralt turned, watching them head across the tarmac, feeling like he’d been hit between the eyes with a hammer. Never in his entire life had he seen a woman like that, one that made his heart race just seeing her. And on the air, surrounding him, was the smell of lilac and gooseberries.

He feels a lump rising in his throat as he reaches into the box, fingering the empty shoulders of his white shirt where the insignia used to be pinned. The anger is draining away, turning back into something cold and weary as he looks over the old clothing. Then he pulls the shirt out, flaps it once to unfold it, and begins putting it on. It is very slightly tight across the chest and shoulders, but still fits. He reaches next for pants, lost in memory.

As he stumbled into the darkness of the building, feeling caught off balance, a voice snapped from down the hallway, “Rivii! Is that you? Get your dumb fucking ass in here!” His stomach plunged with a sudden sensation of dread. That was an ominous way to be greeted by a commanding officer he hadn’t even met yet.

“Yes, sir!” he called down the hallway, speeding up to a neat trot and coming to a halt in front of the older man glaring in an open doorway. Snapping off a crisp salute, he said, “Second Lieutenant Rivii, reporting for duty, Sir.” The older man’s lip curled, and he grunted, stepping back into his office.

“You’re late,” he said to Geralt, who was not, in fact, late. Geralt suppressed a grimace, keeping his face carefully wooden as he watched the Captain stride across the room and sit behind a desk with an expression like a sour old bulldog. “Well?” he barked.

“Sorry, sir, won’t happen again sir.” Geralt replied cautiously, not sure exactly what was expected of him. This was not how he wanted his first day on the job to look. He planted his feet and placed his hands behind his back in parade rest, eyeing the other man stoically, waiting to see what was in store. What was in store for him turned out to be the lecture of a lifetime. The Captain chewed into him like a buzzsaw, taking him pre-emptively to task for every fuck-up he was likely to make as a green officer, plus a few unlikely ones that left him quietly impressed at whoever must have come before him. He made a mental note to find out what an ibex was.

As the Captain wound down, he pulled his attention back in, hands still held behind his back, shoulders thrown stiffly back. “...And the last thing,” the Captain barked. “Is that you will be taking that bitch from the AP off my hands. She is now officially your problem, Rivii. You keep that woman so happy she’s shitting rainbows, or I will have your commission. Got it?”

The sinking feeling that Geralt had been experiencing this entire conversation turned to cold dread. That woman was… the least happy looking woman he had ever seen. Oh fuck. “Yes sir,” he replied, carefully impassive.

“Good!” Snapped the Captain, turning to the papers on his desk. “You’re dismissed. Report to the barracks.” He gave Geralt a nasty smile. “Then, you better track that press bitch down before she wreaks havoc around here. Now get the fuck out of my office!”

He pulls on his pants, also a little tight around the hips but not unbearably so. They won’t do for long, but they will be fine until he can buy some civilian clothing. Out in the main room he can hear something sizzling, and the smells of good coffee and breakfast cooking are starting to reach him. He finishes dressing, slipping on the belt and socks, before sitting back down on the bed next to the box.

“Oh, you’re here to keep me happy?” The woman’s lip curled. “Might have to kiss that shiny new commission of yours goodbye, pretty boy. I guarantee I am about to make your life a living hell.” She turned away and Geralt started to follow her awkwardly, not sure how to handle this situation. “Oh for the love of-” she snapped, turning back to face him. “If you follow me around this whole base, how am I supposed to get anything done?”

“I’m supposed to help you, ma’am.” He looked embarrassed, and the dark haired man standing behind the woman grinned, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “I uh, can’t leave you unsupervised.”

“Fuck.” She muttered. “Fine, then, follow me. I have people to interview.” And before he could protest, she snapped an itinerary out of the bag at her hip and shoved it in his face, where he could see the official Army seal and a scribbled signature. “Don’t start. Where’s the Major?”

With a sinking feeling, Geralt gestured up the hallway. The woman took to her heel immediately, the man with the big bag falling in behind her. Geralt hesitated for just a moment. “Let’s go, Skippy! We haven’t got all day! ” the woman’s voice cracked out, startling him into motion. He jogged to catch up, swearing under his breath. Army upbringing had led him to expect a hard life in the service, but this? This he was not prepared for.

“Fuck my life,” he grumbled.

Slowly, he rummages through the rest of the box, checking to make sure everything is still in place. His anger has cooled considerably now he is sure that everything is in order. He relaxes slightly, sighs, and rubs his hand across his face again. The lack of stubble is an enormous relief, the sensation of his shaved skin under his palm serving to soothe him further. Placing the lid back on the box, he stands and pockets the attic keys, then grabs his shoes. He quietly slips out of the bedroom and heads for the front door without Jaskier noticing. Fumbling on his boots, he ducks out the door and into the hot summer morning air.

The wet New England summer hits him like a soggy, steaming blanket as the door closes behind him. Grimacing in disgust, Geralt heads around the side of the house. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he feels like his shirt is already sticking to him. He opens the door to the attic loft, feeling his stomach twist nervously, half expecting to see his things scattered all over the attic. Much to his intense relief, however, he can see that everything looks absolutely untouched. The box of letters on the bed is still closed, hasn't moved an inch. Every other item is still where he put it.

He heaves a quiet sigh of relief and drops the box of clothing next to the dresser. Then he snags his bag, fishing out his deodorant and a clean pair of underwear from its depths. As he paws through it, he sees the sheaf of letters that he keeps carefully tucked at the back, and hears the jingle of his dog tags at the bottom of the sack. He’d taken them off when he was discharged, stuffed them in his bag. Not ready to confront either of these things, he leaves them in their places and heads to the bathroom.

When he is done, he grabs his dress loafers out of their box before he heads back downstairs. He slips them on as he heads out the door. They are stiff, and shiny, but also significantly easier to get on and off than his boots were. The anger he was feeling has faded to a faint buzz of frustration, barely noticeable over the background of icy depression which has resumed its grip on his body.

As he slips in the front door, music washes back over him, the house filled with the pleasant sound of people singing in chorus, “If you need me, let me know. Gonna be around, if you've got no place to go, when you're feeling down...” He eases the door closed, disliking the “thump” it makes when closed normally, and toes his loafers off next to Jaskier’s unruly collection of shoes in the entryway. Quietly, he pads across the house to the kitchen, towards the coffee smells, towards Jaskier, who is singing and dancing in his underwear and bare feet while he watches something on the stove.

Jaskier is holding a coffee cup, which he sips occasionally between snatches of song. He lifts the lid of the pan on the stove, curses as he burns himself on the steam, drops the lid and sucks his fingers, then tries again. This time he is apparently more successful, because he nods in satisfaction. The steam smells good, eggy and rich.

Geralt approaches on habitually silent feet, coming to rest at the corner of the kitchen island. He clears his throat carefully, trying not to startle Jaskier too badly. This… utterly fails. Jaskier’s hands fly up, coffee mug dropping to the floor and shattering, hot coffee splashing all over the kitchen floor.

“Fucking Jesus! Geralt! Where the hell did you come from?!” he gasps, putting his hand over his hammering heart. Geralt, nearly as startled as Jaskier, gives him a wide-eyed look, eyes traveling between Jaskier’s wide-eyed face and the shattered coffee mug on the floor.

“Um.” Geralt manages awkwardly, at a loss for words. Coffee drips from the hair on Jaskier’s legs, and his bare feet are surrounded by little ceramic shards. Embarrassed, Geralt kneels down and begins picking them up. Jaskier goes to move and Geralt makes a little gesture, indicating that he should stop before he cuts himself. The look Jaskier gives Geralt is a little wild-eyed, but he complies, holding still while Geralt gathers the worst of the shattered cup up off of the floor.

“Sorry,” he rumbles apologetically. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He stands with easy grace, moving around the other side of the kitchen island to where he saw Jaskier stow the trash can near the back door last night. “I’m quiet on my feet.”

“You are… not wrong,” Jaskier gasps, gaping at his dripping legs. “Fuck, Geralt! How did you even get that quiet?!” He grabs the dish rag off of the stove and begins to gingerly wipe his legs off, trying not to move his bare feet and step on any of the shards. Then he shakes his head, muttering, “Sorry, stupid question, I just…”

Geralt kneels down in front of him carefully, trying to get in his line of sight before making eye contact. “Sorry,” he apologizes again, lips quirking in a little half-smile. He holds his hand out for the towel, and Jaskier hands it over to him, still slightly flustered. Geralt very carefully wipes the last of the broken cup away from Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier watches him kneeling there, broad shoulders moving beneath the white button down. Darting his tongue across his lower lip and trying to restart his brain, he stutters, “It’s ok. Um. Jesus fuck, Geralt, I’m going to have to put a bell on you.” He breaks out in a flustered grin, watching as Geralt rises and goes to the bin. He shakes the towel out as best he can and sets it on the counter gingerly, then goes to wash his hand in the sink. Jaskier rakes his hair out of his eyes and looks him over.

“Are you ok? No cuts?” He turns back to the stove, returning his attention to the pan.

“I’m fine. Are your feet okay?” Geralt asks, keeping his eyes on his hands.

“Fine, thanks to you,” Jaskier hums pleasantly, cutting a frittata apart in the cast iron pan and beginning to serve it. “And… look, about your stuff-”

“Stop.” Geralt grumps, frowning. “It’s over.”

“I just wanted to ap-”

“Stop! Just don’t touch it again,” Geralt snaps, shaking his wet hand off and looking around for a towel. With a slightly wounded look on his face, Jaskier fishes one out of a drawer and hands it to him. Geralt takes it, his face falling a little when he sees the look on Jaskier’s face. His habits of speech could be anywhere from rough to downright unfriendly, especially when he was upset, but he hadn’t meant to hurt or scare him. He grimaces and dries his hand off, passes the towel silently back to Jaskier, and goes to sit down on the stool he picked the night before. Settling onto it, he fiddles with his bandage, feeling guilty and wrong-footed.

Jaskier eyes him uncertainly for a moment, looking like he’s about to say something but then biting it back. Instead, he brings him a fresh mug of coffee and a plate with a quarter of ham and green onion frittata. There’s cheddar on top, and Jaskier pushes over salt and pepper grinders so that Geralt can season it. After serving himself and getting a new mug, he settles in on his own stool and eyes Geralt warily.

Geralt avoids his eyes and digs into his breakfast, embarrassed. After the MREs and mess hall food he had been subjected to in Somalia, the eggs are just this side of heavenly. He tries to eat this meal a little more slowly than the dinner of the night before, forcing himself to slow down and chew. There’s no rush, and although everything feels desperately unfamiliar, he also gets the sense that he is genuinely safe.

“This is really good. Thank you,” Geralt mumbles, poking a piece of egg around with his fork, still embarrassed.

Jaskier looks up over his mug and the corners of his bright eyes crinkle. He takes a long sip of his coffee, gaze softly roaming over Geralt. He seems more relaxed now, the dangerous tension mostly gone from his frame, and Jaskier finds himself slowly relaxing too. “You’re very welcome,” he responds, warming back up. “I really enjoy having the excuse to cook, I let myself get lazy being on my own. Too many frozen pizzas after the bar,” he drawls, and chuckles. “They’ll be the death of me but I love them.”

“Don’t you get home at three or four in the morning?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, don’t judge me!” Jaskier laughs. “Sometimes pizza and wine is the only way to wash down coming home at that ungodly hour.” He pauses and takes a sip of coffee, waving his long hands about. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my bar almost as much as I love breathing, but the schedule can be awful when the books come due.”

“What, you do them in the middle of the night?” Geralt shakes his head, forking up the last of his frittata.

“Well of course! Best time, when it’s all quiet and I don’t have any excuses to run off and avoid them,” Jaskier laughs. “There’s too many better things I could be doing during the day.”

“Hmm,” Geralt chuckles, shaking his head again in disbelief. “Sounds like a terrible plan.”

“Well, when you start running the bar, I’ll take your opinion into account,” Jaskier says lightly in return, a teasing grin playing about the corners of his mouth. “Speaking of which… What are your plans, now that you’re back in the States?”

The smile falls off of Geralt’s face and he looks down at his mug. He flashes on the boxes upstairs again and feels an icy rush of guilt that rolls across him like freezing water. Jaskier eyes him, then stands and takes Geralt’s plate back to the stove. He refills it with another portion of frittata and pushes it across the island to Geralt, before settling back in with his coffee to wait for his answer.

Geralt takes the plate back, grateful for something to focus on other than Jaskier’s inquisitive look, simmering with shame and disquiet. Using his fork to poke at the frittata, slowly pulling it apart, he waits for words to come. “Uh... “ he sighs deeply, shaking his head. “I don’t have any plans yet. I need to find my truck, I need to renew my US driver’s license…” he shrugs uncomfortably. “Need to get a hotel room or something. Find a job. A place. Figure myself out.” His stomach turns sharply as these words leave his mouth, feeling like they burn his lips. The future stretches out in front of him in painful relief, new and alien and empty.

Jaskier nods, rubbing his coffee mug back and forth absentmindedly on his lower lip. He takes a drink, then sets it down. “Your truck’s been towed by now, I should imagine. I have a phone book you can use. I think I even remember which tow service the city usually uses.”

Geralt grunts, nods, takes a bite of his frittata. It’s cheesy and warm, deeply comforting flavors that help anchor him to the here and now. He chews in awkward silence, studying his plate. To be perfectly honest, he had no clue how he was going to land a job with a dishonorable discharge on his record. People who would take an older veteran like himself on faith were thin on the ground, as far as he knew. He starts in surprise when Jaskier speaks again.

“You’re welcome to stay in the attic while you get your legs under you,” he tells Geralt, gesturing to the house with an open hand. “No need to waste money on a hotel. Not forever, mind you, but I should think a few days won’t hurt. My house is a little too quiet with just me in it anyway.”

Geralt lifts his head and looks at Jaskier, surprised and a little wary. “You don’t know me. Why would you do that?”

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, pondering his answer. He runs his fingers over the edge of the coffee mug, back and forth, back and forth, then puts it down and leans his elbows on the counter. “Because I can. Because it’s a nice thing to be able to do for someone.” He smiles again, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “And because I like you.”

Geralt flushes and looks away, grabbing his coffee and taking a long drink, grounding himself with the feeling of hot bitter liquid on his tongue. He feels grateful, confused, even a little alarmed by the offer. He also can’t think of anywhere safer to go, not with everything he’s lost. Besides… The idea of being near Jaskier longer feels inexplicably good, despite all of his misgivings. Warming. Groping for words, he settles on grunting into the mug, “It’s your funeral.”

Jaskier laughs at that, unphased. “It’s my pleasure, darling.” He goes quiet for a moment, watching Geralt as he eats. Then he says, “You should consider getting your server’s permits, too.” Jaskier nudges him lightly with his toe. “I was really impressed by how you handled the bar during rush. People who’ve been serving for years don’t stay as cool-headed as you did. How did you learn to mix drinks?”

Geralt blinks, not sure he heard Jaskier properly. “Server’s permits?” he asks dumbly.

“Server’s permits, that’s what I said! Food and drink! I can take you down to the city center to get the process rolling, it’s not far from here.” Jaskier replies. “I still need a server down at the Peg. Maybe you could try it… even just for a few weeks. Until you find something better. It’ll give you something recent on your resume, if nothing else,” he points out, then rises, asking, “More coffee?”

“Please,” replies Geralt, grateful for the opportunity to process what Jaskier just said. He holds out his cup and Jaskier refills it, then his own, with nutty, fragrant coffee. Taking another long swallow of the hot beverage to clear his head, he reflects upon Jaskier’s offer. After a few beats of silence, he speaks again.

“I um… didn’t like most of my co-workers very much, so I spent a lot of time in bars when I wasn’t working,” Geralt reveals, flashing his canines in an unpleasant smile. “Got to know the bartenders. Finally got a mixology manual from one of them because I was asking so many questions, and I got hooked.” He shrugs one muscular shoulder, looking out Jaskier’s kitchen window at the shady, ratty yard out behind his house. “Memorized that one when I was in Israel. Next one when I was in Lebanon.” Taking another long sip of coffee, he continues. “Gave me something to focus on that wasn’t... I don’t know. Wasn’t death, I guess. And,” he pauses and shakes his head with a little shrug, "it gave me something to talk about with the bartenders. They make better conversation than most soldiers do. Better friends, too, as far as that goes."

Jaskier tips his head to the side, listening. “Sounds lonely,” he muses, rubbing his foot against his ankle and playing with his coffee mug. Geralt snorts softly into his own mug and nods.

“It was,” he agrees, watching the dark liquid swirl in his cup as he turns it. After a long silence he queries, “What makes you think I’d be a good employee? I just got fired from my last job.”

Jaskier frowns. “Why wouldn’t I? Did you have any other major interruptions in your career?”

Geralt glances up at him, surprised. “No…” he admits, eyeing Jaskier.

“And how old are you, mid-forties? No, don’t answer that, it’s not important,” Jaskier waves his hand, taking a quick sip of his coffee and then continuing. “Point is, I guarantee you I’ve never had anyone else with a job history as stable as yours working in my bar, darling. Unless I’m missing some terrible secret, I’d hazard a guess that you’d be a wonderful asset to our little crew.” He gives Geralt a friendly look. Geralt looks back at him in bewilderment.

Geralt is accustomed to many things, but being trusted so deeply and immediately is not one of them. It’s disorienting. Much to his horror, he feels a deep blush creeping up the collar of his shirt and making a bid for his cheeks. Turning his attention back to his coffee, he tries to get his bearings. Jaskier watches him kindly, turning his mug in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” Geralt settles on saying, looking down at his plate. He feels so warm under that gaze that it makes it hard to think, much less answer a question like that clearly. Jaskier smiles gently as he replies.

“I’m trying to hire you, Geralt. Was I not being clear?” Jaskier teases lightly. To his surprise as well as Geralt’s own, Geralt cracks a smile. The white-haired man shakes his head, still staring into his coffee.

“Let me think about it?” he says finally.

“Ah, of course, darling!” Jaskier exclaims warmly. “Do you still want me to take you to get the permits? Just in case?” He forks up the last of his frittata, then stands and takes his dishes to the sink. While he waits for Geralt to answer he begins to rinse the dirty dishes and prepare them for the dishwasher. Behind him, Geralt licks coffee off of his lips and watches Jaskier move, eyes playing over the bare skin of his long back and broad, muscular shoulders.

“Sure,” he says, finally, and downs the last of his coffee. What the hell. His life had gone to fucking hell in a handbasket. While he felt too vulnerable to just say yes, the offer at least held up some kind of hope for his otherwise alarmingly blank future.

He shakes his head and pulls his plate close, cleaning the last of his breakfast off of it hungrily. "I'm going to get fat if you keep feeding me like this," he grumbles, standing with his dishes and rounding the island to take them to the sink.

Jaskier takes them with a sunny smile, tilting his head to catch Geralt’s golden eyes with his own. “I somehow doubt that,” he says, a little playful purr at the very edge of his voice. Geralt looks quickly up at the ceiling, not sure how to react but enjoying the feel of Jaskier’s warmth nearby. Jaskier gently elbows him, smiling to himself as he rinses the dishes.

“The phone book is right next to the phone, darling.” He gestures behind him to the section of wall between his bedroom door and the kitchen, where there is a low wooden bookshelf with a phone sitting on top. “I think the towing company’s called Meehan’s.” Teetering somewhere between gratitude and embarrassment, Geralt nods his thanks and crosses to the telephone.

What follows is a frustrating and instructive hour in the vagaries of municipal administration. Jaskier was right about the usual tow company’s name, but it turns out they were not the ones contracted for the industrial neighborhood Geralt left his truck in. Grumbling, Geralt takes down a few numbers with the pad and pen next to the phone, then begins his hunt.

By the time Geralt has found his truck, he is boiling with frustration. The rest of the morning and much of the afternoon is consumed with visits to various government buildings to deal with paperwork. The evening is taken over by the ordeal of retrieving Geralt’s ancient truck, which obliges eventually to start at the tow yard. Geralt drives it all the way back to Jaskier’s home with the heater on high and the windows all the way open, a grueling trip in the thick summer evening heat.

By the time they arrive back at the house, Geralt is miserable and covered in sweat, and Jaskier is running late to get to the bar. While Geralt showers upstairs and changes into fresh clothing, Jaskier quickly reheats some dinner for Geralt. By the time he comes downstairs, Jaskier is dressed in clean clothing and is pulling his shoes on by the door. He pauses before he leaves to squeeze Geralt’s arm fondly, indicating where dinner sits on the kitchen island and letting him know that he is welcome to pour himself some wine and make himself at home. Then he flits away, leaving Geralt standing in the entryway.

Geralt watches the door close behind him, feeling a little at loose ends. He trails through the darkened house, coming to rest in the pool of light that is the kitchen. The meal is leftover chicken and potatoes from the night before, still delicious the second time around. He hunts around in the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew, helps himself to some wine, and settles in at the island to eat his meal. The house feels smaller somehow, less full of life without Jaskier in it. His depression, which he has been holding at bay for most of the day, now returns to quietly envelop him as he eats.

The bottle of wine and the food both vanish silently in the cooling emptiness of the kitchen. When he is done, Geralt carefully rinses the dishes and places them in the dishwasher, then seeks out the recycling and dumps the wine bottle into it. This done, he dithers in the kitchen. The upstairs loft and its bed beckons, but he isn’t tired, and the idea of spending time in the company of reminders of loss and failure makes him feel like he can’t breathe. He can’t ever go home, and he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Instead he scans the house, searching for something to do that won’t leave him feeling like he is choking on cold water. The books, normally a draw, look like too much effort to read. The CD player looks a little out of his league, and after browsing Jaskier’s music collection (heavy on ABBA, light on the hand drumming Geralt prefers,) he gives up on that, too. Finally, his eyes settle on the television. There was almost always one running somewhere on base. While he’d never particularly gotten into watching it, he knew that sometimes it could be oddly soothing. Opening another bottle of wine and grabbing his glass, he brings them over and sets them on the little end table near the couch, grabs the remote, and flicks it on.

There isn’t much to watch at this time of night, and he ends up settling on some awful show he can’t follow about a kung-fu cowboy. It’s meaningless, and numbing. It’s something he can at least drink wine to while he watches it. The depression settles slowly into a gnawing background torment, and in it, he eventually finds a kind of quiet. After the show ends, he finds something else. When that ends, he eventually settles on a late night Looney Tunes rerun, which is at least familiar. He empties the wine bottle slowly as he watches, and when he is done, he disposes of it carefully and washes his glass before returning to the couch.

Jaskier finds him there some hours later when he returns from the bar, the television still flickering across his sleeping face. His injured hand is cradled against his chest, and the shadows under his eyes are deep in the pale light from the screen. Tsking softly, Jaskier turns off the television and brushes his fingers carefully over Geralt’s left wrist, waking him without startling him.

“Hey,” he whispers, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at the exhausted man on the couch. Geralt wakes as Jaskier touches him, eyes wide and lost. He looks like he is drowning in icy water, frightened and alone. As their eyes meet, Jaskier feels like a great shard of ice leaps between them, burying itself in his heart. He reaches out on instinct, gently drawing Geralt up off of the couch. He's seen dying men before, seen the look in their eyes, and his skin prickles coldly as he sees the way Geralt is looking at him. There’s no way he can leave this man alone tonight. He wasn’t intending to get this close with Geralt this quickly, but that look… it fills him with a quiet, abiding fear. Without another word, Jaskier leads him to his bedroom across the house.

Geralt follows him quietly, trailing in the wake of Jaskier's warmth like a moth seeking a flame. The wine has worn off in the intervening hours, leaving nothing to blunt the emptiness and pain he is feeling. But there, in the darkness, is Jaskier, all warm skin and good smell and kindness. He doesn’t really understand why he undresses next to him in the darkness of his bedroom, doesn’t know why he can’t just walk away and go upstairs to sleep. But, as they slide into bed together in the thick darkness of 3 am, he knows that the heat of Jaskier’s skin on his skin brings welcome relief to the desolation inside of him. He knows that the heavy weight of Jaskier’s head on his chest is oddly peaceful, that the sound of his breath in the silence is music. Laying in the darkness, he tentatively brings his arms up around the handsome man curled along the length of his body, and is rewarded by a contented sigh. Jaskier sinks heavily against him, and before long, he is asleep. Soothed, Geralt soon follows him.

Morning comes slowly, in pieces. First, a sensation of pressure, heavy warmth holding him to the bed. Movement, the minute feeling of his rising and falling chest pressed against another breathing person. Scent, the smell of sweat and skin and linen. And as he wakes more fully, the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Jaskier. The elfin man is lying fully on his chest, stomach resting between his thighs, quietly studying his sleeping face.

When his eyes open, Jaskier’s thoughtful expression transforms into a sleepy smile. “Good morning,” he hums affectionately, stroking his hand across Geralt’s broad chest. The warm weight of him is alien but also deeply soothing, and Geralt’s arm instinctively tightens where it has come to rest around Jaskier’s waist. Geralt can feel his heart speeding up as a tangle of longing and confusion and deeply-ingrained fear wells up in him.

Atop him, Jaskier firms his strokes across his chest, starting at the center and kneading outwards, providing deep, calming pressure. Geralt struggles with the fear while those soothing hands work. As consciousness trickles back in he realizes that, unlike most of his life, there’s no one here to discover him in bed with a male lover. No reason to be afraid, or to run. Safe.

He shivers a little as Jaskier looks up at him from under his eyelashes, feeling a spike of heat run from the crown of his head to the base of his spine, breaking up the icy grip of the fear. And when Jaskier darts his tongue over his lower lip before he leans up to catch Geralt’s mouth in a kiss, Geralt groans helplessly with pleasure. Feeling like he’s falling off of a cliff, he uses his good arm to draw Jaskier in closer. Their legs tangle and he shivers again, heartsick and dizzy with desire.

Jaskier gives a small murmur of pleasure into Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt feels his mind melting, the soft little sound washing away his worries in a flood of sudden hunger. He parts his lips slightly, instinctively inviting, and Jaskier slides his body up a little more so that he can softly tongue into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt can feel himself getting hard where his cock is trapped against Jaskier’s stomach, pressed against firm, warm skin. Jaskier purrs and shifts, releasing it so that it’s in a more comfortable position, then delicately lowers his body again. His own cock brushes against Geralt’s thigh, hardening as they kiss.

Geralt hums a delirious little groan, pulling him closer yet. Jaskier follows willingly, deepening their kiss, pressing his cock into the crease of Geralt’s hip as he shifts. Geralt takes a stuttering breath, the last of his mind vanishing as he feels velvety heat brush over his sensitive skin. He spreads his big hand across Jaskier’s lower back to keep the pleasurable sensation close, craving more of it.

Jaskier gives a soft chuckle into their kiss, experimentally rocking his cock against his lover’s sensitive skin again. He is rewarded by a soft, deep moan of startled pleasure, a sound happily captured between their hungrily moving mouths. Jaskier rocks more firmly this time, drawing another sweet moan from Geralt. They begin moving together, tentatively at first, mouths and tongues and hips seeking a rhythm. As they discover a good pace, they begin to move more confidently.

The hot sensation of Jaskier’s cock rubbing along the exquisitely sensitive crease of his hip is driving Geralt crazy. It’s all he can focus on, all he can feel, and soon he is trembling with desire. His body, unused to being able to relax into a lover’s embrace, is singing with unfamiliar tension and hunger. He finds a soft cry of disappointment escaping his lips as Jaskier lifts his hips away and draws back. It only takes him a moment to realize why, however. Jaskier breaks their kiss and winks at him, then leans over him and reaches out to fumble open the drawer in the small table right next to the bed. Inside, from what Geralt can see from his vantage point, is a stash of condoms and a blue-and-white bottle of lube.

Jaskier paws into the drawer and grabs one of the condoms, flourishing it playfully between two fingers before sitting back between Geralt’s thighs and smiling at him. Geralt gapes back at him, bewildered and so aroused he can barely feel his own face. He watches as clever fingers unwrap the condom, discarded wrapper falling to the side, watches as Jaskier reaches out and firmly grasps Geralt’s cock. A shock goes through Geralt’s body as fingers close around the base of it. He’s so sensitive that he jolts, but Jaskier is a quick study. He knows now that he has to hold firmly for it to feel good, and he does so with one hand, using the other to slide the condom skilfully down over Geralt’s aching erection.

Geralt watches this silently, a flush of pleasure creeping up his pale cheeks. When Jaskier slides back and ducks his head down, his eyes widen, his hand instinctively coming up to hold Jaskier’s shoulder. And when Jaskier’s mouth wraps around him he growls pleasurably, a deep bass sound. Jaskier moans in response, lowering his head and taking Geralt deep. Geralt gasps, his eyes fluttering shut, and he loses himself in the wet heat of Jaskier’s hungry mouth.

Taking his own weeping cock in hand, Jaskier begins to quickly stroke himself even as his mouth works its magic upon Geralt. His eyes roll back in his head as Geralt’s hand slides from his shoulder to wind in his hair, surprisingly gentle. He was expecting the big man to fist his hair firmly, but the way Geralt holds his head is soft, almost reverent. Tender, even. That gentleness sends a spike of hot arousal all the way through Jaskier’s body, and he moans deeply around Geralt’s cock.

Geralt cries out at the feeling of vibration, his hips unintentionally bucking. He gentles his hold slightly on the back of Jaskier’s head, not wanting to choke him, but his lover just moves with him, taking the thrust like he barely even noticed it. Jaskier bobs his head as his tongue works, skillfully pulling another cry from Geralt, another bucking motion of his hips. His hand comes up and wraps firmly around the base of Geralt’s erection and then he leans forward, fist pumping his own cock rapidly as he gulps Geralt deep into his mouth again.

“Ohhh, fuck, ” Geralt gasps, hand spasming on the back of Jaskier’s head, feeling a hot twist deep inside of him. “Oh fuck, oh, oh,” he pants, half leaning up off the bed, his body curling into a knot of humming tension. Encouraged, Jaskier bobs his head faster, tongue swirling. With a sharp, sudden cry, Geralt comes, his whole body shaking with the force of the release.

Jaskier whines happily around his cock, moving easily with Geralt as his body twists and shakes. Jaskier’s own hand works harder, faster, his breath coming in short little pants as his tongue works Geralt’s cock all the way through his orgasm. It only takes a few more quick strokes to bring himself over the edge, too. As he comes he releases Geralt from his mouth and throws his head back, releasing a ragged cry that sends a wave of hot prickles across Geralt’s skin. His seed spills between his fingers, dripping onto the sheets in the sticky, stunned silence that follows.

Geralt drops slowly back to the bed, breathing heavily. Between his legs Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh, wiping his hand on the sheet and shaking his hair out of his eyes. Geralt rumbles out a delirious chuckle of his own, bringing his hand up to cover his face as he tries to regain his senses. Jaskier leans over to the bedside table again and pulls open the drawer, fishing out a pack of wet wipes from the depths. He wipes his hand clean, then, delicately, pulls the condom off of Geralt’s cock and knots it. Geralt twitches and shudders, reaching out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder again; Not to stop him, but because the sensation is so strong.

Jaskier smiles dopily, giving Geralt’s thick thigh a kiss before he rises to dispose of the trash. As he does so he passes a wipe to Geralt, who cleans himself gingerly as he watches Jaskier walk across the room to retrieve the wastebasket from beside his desk. He brings it back and sets it near the bed, then crawls back up, laying himself along Geralt’s side lazily.

Geralt tosses the wipe into the trash and leans back, making room for Jaskier to lay himself out along the length of his body. The warmth of all that skin pressing against his own is delicious, and he finds himself feeling greedy for more of it. He carefully rolls and tangles himself in Jaskier, pulling his lover up against him until his chin is resting on top of Jaskier’s head and his arms are draped around him, holding him close. Jaskier hums contentedly, wrapping his own arms around Geralt, and together they drift into a sleepy daze. Geralt is quietly stunned, but the heavy satisfaction he feels spreads warmly across his body, wiping away some of his fear and shame, dragging him slowly down back into sleep.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #witcher fic #geralt x jaskier #geraskier pride week 2020 #geralt #jaskier #yennefer #ahh-fuck writes #ahh-fxck writes

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