#(implicitly)(subtly)

[hellonerf]

get home safe

[petorahs]

"preening his feathers" "crow-talk" HES SUCH A BIRD 😭 i love him! adorable! my deadly metaverse assassin can't be this cute⁉️

[beloveds-embrace]

Dukedom au masterlist (yes i need to update it ik) and we will not talk abt the abrupt ending 😭

The grand ballroom of glittered with the light of a thousand candles, their flames dancing across marble floors and golden fixtures hung from the ceilings. A symphony played softly in the background, a perfect complement to the hum of ongoing conversation and chatter. You stood at the center of it all, draped in a gown of midnight blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that mirrored the stars. A gift from Simon, one that had you staring at the beautiful dress in awe.

Tonight, you were the very image of grace and poise.

Your face and movements are calm and collected, hiding what you truly feel beneath. Lately, whispers of dishonor had begun circulating; rumors that your husband had fled a border skirmish back when he’d been deployed, abandoning his men, yet had paid for the matter to be buried. Vile lies, born of cowardice and malice. John’s name, his reputation, and the honor of your house were at stake; disloyalty towards the empire was seen as treason, and that was unforgivable.

You would not allow it.

The first spark of rage had ignited the moment you’d overheard the vile accusations from another lady, one of your more arrogant rivals who had laughed snidely. From there, the rumors spread like wildfire, poisoning the halls of the court and society.

But you were no stranger to such games like these. Tonight, after much planning, you’ll put an end to this farce.

You began with your loyal ladies-in-waiting. Each one owed their position to you, and in return, they offered their unwavering loyalty. “Listen carefully,” you instructed them during a private meeting in your sitting room, the door locked behind you. “Go into the court, the markets, the salons- anywhere whispers thrive. I want names, places, and patterns. Who speaks these lies, and who listens too closely?”

They curtsied and departed without hesitation, melting into the bustling world outside of the manor. Meanwhile, you turned your attention to your maids and house staff. Servants were the lifeblood of any noble house, privy to secrets thought hidden.

You met with them personally with Kyle’s help, ensuring they understood the stakes. “Speak subtly,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “Let it slip that those who spread these rumors do so for their own gain, that there’s no substance to the rumors. Plant doubt. Create cracks.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Kyle nods his head, hands on your waist. He leans down, and kisses your forehead, and you smile all sweet and pretty at him. “Whatever you want.”

While you wove your network of spies, John watched quietly from the shadows of the manor. Though he trusted you implicitly, he couldn’t help but feel a mixture of awe and unease. He didn’t want to doubt you, but he worried nonetheless for you.

In his study, he sat with Kyle.

“How’s she faring?” John asked, puffing a cigar as he leaned back in his chair. Papers were scattered on his desk, though they didn’t require immediate attention or replies. Pressed close to Kyle, bodies warm, he didn’t want to go back to working for now.

Kyle hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “She’s… efficient, John. The staff is utterly devoted to her even without my help. I’ve seen no signs of hesitation in her plans.”

John chuckled dryly, though there was a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. “I am not surprised. She’s scarier than any battlefield, Kyle. And they love her.”

With the groundwork laid, you began preparing to host a big gala at the manor. Invitations were sent far and wide, carrying the promise of exquisite dining, captivating entertainment, and the opportunity to curry favor with one of the most powerful families in the region.

None dared refuse.

Johnny worked tirelessly to ensure every detail of the menu was flawless, and though he would have helped anyways, he still enjoyed all the kisses he got as reward from yoh. “You’re pilin’ it on thick, Duchess,” he remarked one evening, wiping his brow as he inspected a rack of lamb. “Even for you.”

“This isn’t just a party, Johnny,” you replied, humming. “This is war.”

“War it is, then. Anything for you, bonnie.” he muttered, diving back into his work with renewed determination. After a very heated look from you that had him preening, though; he looked handsome in his element. And you’ll make sure to really show him your appreciation for all his hard work later, in the privacy of your rooms.

At every other gala and gathering, you moved through the crowd like a dancer with a purpose. You guided conversations subtly, planting seeds of doubt and faltering those who tried to be a bit too brave- and your reputation as a “people’s princess” helped so greatly. Your allies- the few you trusted among the nobility-played their roles perfectly.

Simon, especially. You had specifically asked for his help, curled warm and cozy on his lap one night. He’d kissed you breathless and told you he would always be there for you.

“Lord Marcan, was it?” Simon mused during one party, his glass of whiskey balanced effortlessly in his hand. The others immediately listen to him; though he isn’t the most talkative noble, his words carry weight. “I’ve heard some interesting things about him. Did you know he’s deeply in debt? I wonder how far a man would go to escape ruin.”

The other nobles exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces. You watched from a distance, satisfied as Simon delivered the blow with effortless charm.

Your web was nearly complete, each thread pulling tighter around Lord Marcan- the instigator of the rumors- until he had no room to maneuver. At the final ball of the season, the one hosted by you and John, you made your final move.

You descended the grand staircase as the guests gathered, your presence commanding attention. At your signal, the servants unveiled a surprise: a performance of actors reenacting a scene from an old skirmish. But this was no ordinary play; it was a dramatized retelling of that battle, one that highlighted John’s bravery and leadership even when Lord Marcan had tried to say John had fled that day.

The crowd was entranced, all earlier doubts finally wavering and shattering. You saw Marcan shift uncomfortably, his face pale as his lies unraveled before him and eyes turned towards him in disgust.

From the balcony above, John watched with Simon and Kyle at his side. “She’s terrifying.” he murmured, though his voice carried a note of awe.

Simon smirked. “You married a bloody tactician.”

Kyle simply nodded. “She fights for you, for us, John. And she wins.”

By the end of the evening, Lord Marcan was a broken man and his wife, Lady Marcan who had laughed at you by the rumor, was seething. Their allies abandoned them, their name tarnished by his cowardice and deceit and her aftions.

And the rumors about John’s supposed abandonment of his men? Gone.

That night, as you removed your jewelry in the quiet of your chambers, John approached you. His hands rested on your bare shoulders, his touch warm and grounding.

“You’ve been busy, beloved.” he said, his voice soft but laced with admiration.

“I did what needed to be done.” you replied, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “I know you could have simply challenged him to a duel… but we didn’t have full confirmation it was him who started. I had to do it this way.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re terrifying, love. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

From the shadows of the room, Simon leaned casually against the doorframe. “She’s not wrong, John. Best keep on her good side.”

Johnny’s voice echoed from the hallway as he came by with a tray of food. Kyle comes as well, carrying glasses of wine. “Aye, and keep feeding her. Keeps her from plotting.”

Kyle sighs, though he has a smile on his face as he sets the glasses down and instead comes to help you. “…he isn’t exactly wrong. You were incredible…. And scary.”

“Perfect, in other words.” John hums, an eyebrow raising. You do not have enough time to ask anything before he and Kyle are gently turning you around on the seat, face to face with John who kneels down. “You’ve worked so hard for me, for us, my Duchess. Let me take care of you now, hm?”

“John…“

“No more words, my love,” he shakes his head, Kyle’s hands reaching to unlace your dress, your corset, until your breasts spill out. John doesn’t even seem mildly bothered by the layers of your skirt, flipping them up until you are indecent in front of your men and he is face to face with your panties. The way they look at you, so much want…

You don’t mind. The slick spot forming speaks more than enough anyways.

“Tonight,” John murmurs, kissing your inner thighs. “Will be all about spoiling you, wife.”

[girlkisser13]

being married to erik lehnsherr would include

• erik is EXTREMELY protective of you. he uses his powers subtly to ensure your safety, like redirecting bullets or stopping potential threats without you even noticing.

• when you’re driving he will use his powers to move a car over if he thinks that they’re drifting into your lane.

• as his partner, you have a significant role in his plans and strategies. your insights and ideas are crucial, and he trusts you implicitly with major decisions.

• balancing erik’s often ruthless methods with your own moral compass can be challenging. you constantly strive to find a middle ground, helping him see different perspectives while understanding his deep-rooted convictions.

• erik loves to shares his vast experiences from different historical events, giving you a unique perspective on history and the evolution of mutant-human relations.

• being with erik means constantly learning and evolving. he encourages you to hone your skills, whether they’re related to your powers (if you have any) or other talents.

• despite his tough exterior, erik shows his softer side only to you. his love for you is profound and unwavering, and he cherishes every moment spent with you.

• you both enjoy challenging each other intellectually. debates are a common occurrence, and they often end in mutual respect and deeper understanding of each other's viewpoints.

• erik shows his love in small, meaningful ways, like always having your favorite tea ready or ensuring you have a warm blanket when you’re cold, using his powers to fetch things without you asking.

• you both share a strong commitment to the mutant cause. whether it’s through activism, helping mutants in need, or fighting against oppression, your relationship is a powerful force for change.

• despite the constant battles and responsibilities, erik always makes time for private getaways with you. these retreats are a chance to relax, reconnect, and enjoy each other’s company away from the chaos.

• HIM LETTING YOU WEAR HIS HELMET>>>

• the two of you often host gatherings for the mutant community, providing a space for mutants to connect, share their stories, and support each other. these events are filled with a sense of unity and purpose.

• trust is the cornerstone of your relationship. despite the challenges and dangers, you both have unwavering loyalty to each other, knowing that your bond is unbreakable.

• erik respects your independence and ensures that responsibilities are shared equally. whether it’s managing your home or leading missions, you both contribute and support each other’s strengths.

• if you have children, erik is a fiercely protective and loving parent. he’s dedicated to teaching them about their heritage, powers, and the importance of fighting for their rights.

• GIRL DAD MAGNETO>>>

• i mean come on, it’s basically canon that this man is a girl dad. look at the way he treats wanda and lorna compared to pietro.

• he occasionally shows off his abilities in small, romantic gestures, like creating intricate metal sculptures for you and arranging a metal flower bouquet that never wilts.

• your house is adorned with thousands of metal flowers he's crafted for you.

• he's also made countless pieces of jewelry for you as well.

• he made your wedding ring himself. <33

[dissapointu]

Hi! I LOVE your work so much, and I can't help myself to request something lol.

I'd like some HCs of Arcane women (your choice) having an otherworldly attractive fem!partner. Like, everyone will snap their heads just to see her walk by.

Flowers, love letters and confessions are always in her way, almost every single day. Oh, I'd LOVE to know how they'll deal with that.

Thanks for reading this lol ♥︎

UGH I love this one!

I’m so glad you love my work! And I’m excited to write these headcanons for you!!

————————————————————————

Jinx

Jinx’s eyes narrow every time someone gawks at you, and she immediately feels a surge of jealousy, her mischievous side taking over. She’s already hyper and protective, so seeing others fawn over you has her buzzing with a mixture of irritation and possessiveness.

“Look at them,” she mutters under her breath as a group of admirers watches you pass. “They think they stand a chance?”

When flowers, love letters, and confessions show up at your doorstep, she snatches them away, grinning with glee as she reads the messages aloud, dramatically mocking them. “Aww, how sweet! But she’s taken, losers!”

She loves your beauty, of course, but she wants it all to herself. The more attention you get, the more playful and clingy she becomes. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re mine,” she’ll say, with a wild grin, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake.

Vi

Vi is very used to getting attention herself, but when people start throwing flowers or love letters at you, her protective side flares up. She gives off an air of confidence and can’t help but puff up her chest a little when you walk by, eyes straight ahead. She’s proud of how stunning you are, but she doesn’t like anyone getting too close.

When she catches someone slipping a love letter into your hand, her voice drops an octave. “You’ve got eyes on you, huh?” she’ll smirk, crossing her arms. “Nice try, but she’s mine, you know?”

Vi’s not insecure, but she will keep a close eye on anyone who tries to get too friendly. She might walk hand-in-hand with you more often, or drop a kiss on your cheek in front of anyone gawking. When people stare too much, she might even pull you into a tight hug, making sure the world knows you’re hers.

Sevika

Sevika is not the jealous type, but seeing people shower you with attention definitely gets under her skin. She doesn’t say much at first, but her sharp gaze will quickly scan the crowd when someone dares to get too close.

She watches the flowers pile up at your feet with an eyebrow raised, and her voice will be laced with sarcasm. “I’m sure those people are real special. And you need flowers, huh? Got a whole garden in that pile.”

Sevika will keep her distance at first, but she can’t help but pull you close, her arm around your waist, possessive without being overt about it. “You’re my priority, but you can keep the attention. Just remember who gets to take you home.”

Caitlyn

Caitlyn has a bit of a more graceful, diplomatic way of handling the constant attention you get. She’s more the type to smile knowingly and subtly hold your hand as the crowd stares. She hates the idea of someone thinking they could steal you away, but she trusts you implicitly and prefers to just ignore the admirers.

“Isn’t it charming?” she’ll joke with a laugh as a letter slips into your pocket. “You always attract the strangest people.”

But when someone dares to flirt with you or send you too many gifts, Caitlyn will take matters into her own hands, letting her authoritative side show. “Maybe I’ll write you a letter,” she’ll say, completely confident in her relationship with you. Caitlyn knows she has your heart, but she won’t let others think they have a chance.

Mel Medarda

Mel is always composed, but when she notices people trailing after you with flowers, she lets a smile curl on her lips, though her gaze is cold and calculating. She doesn’t get jealous, per se, but she’s very aware of your allure and the attention it brings.

“How charming,” she’ll murmur, picking up a love letter that was carelessly left behind. “They think they can win your affection with flowers?” She looks at you with amusement. “I suppose you are quite stunning.”

Mel will calmly take your hand, and her voice drops in a low, soothing tone. “Just remember, darling, you’re mine. They can look, but they cannot touch.” She won’t let the admirers faze her—she’ll just deal with them with grace, and maybe a little discreet manipulation.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa? She doesn’t get jealous in the traditional sense. However, when she sees others trying to win you over with flowers or letters, a small, amused smile dances on her lips. She doesn’t get upset, because she knows that no one stands a chance, but she has her own way of asserting control.

“You’re clearly a woman of high value,” she’ll say to you, her tone dripping with pride. “But I’d rather keep the prize to myself.”

When the letters pile up, she might casually toss them in the fire, watching them burn with a quiet satisfaction. “It’s only natural that others desire you. But you’re mine to protect—and no one will steal you away from me.”

Ambessa’s attitude is confident, and she has no doubt that you belong to her. She’ll let others admire you from a distance but will always remind you, in her own subtle way, that you’re under her protection.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie might blush when others look at you too much, though she’s careful not to show it. She’s the type to softly smile and shyly brush off the attention you get. However, it does make her a bit flustered when love letters and flowers start piling up, and she can’t help but feel a little possessive of you.

“Should we… start keeping a vase for all these flowers?” she asks with a playful grin, trying to hide her nerves. “You have such a magnetic charm.”

She’ll hold your hand tightly, and when someone tries to hand you a letter, she’ll act as if she hasn’t noticed and gently pull you away, making sure the admirer knows you’re already spoken for.

Though she’s not super aggressive, Maddie will definitely make sure others know that you’re her one and only.

Lest

Lest is cool, calm, and a little distant. But when she sees people falling over themselves for you, there’s a flicker of something possessive in her expression. She’ll never show outright jealousy, but she will make sure the world knows you’re hers in her own subtle way.

“Another admirer?” she’ll ask nonchalantly as you receive a love letter. She doesn’t bat an eyelash but her grip on your hand tightens just slightly. “They should know better.”

Lest will handle the situation with ease, never raising her voice or making a scene. She might give a small smirk when she sees others around you, but ultimately, her quiet confidence assures her that no one can compete with her connection to you. When the flowers get overwhelming, she’ll either casually dismiss them or just take them and quietly keep them for herself—after all, you’re hers.

[betweenstorms]

Alright, hear me out, Simon Riley working for Sleep Token as their head of security.

Let me explain.

His life had always been defined by precision and control, by the kind of discipline that didn’t falter in the face of chaos. But retirement had come swiftly and unceremoniously, a necessity more than a choice. The regimented life of the SAS had ended, leaving him adrift in the civilian world, and that felt far more alien than any hostile territory he’d ever set foot in.

Somehow he found himself in the chaotic underbelly of the entertainment industry, a space filled with the metallic clatter of stagehands, the distant roar of soundchecks, and the pulse of a metal band steadily climbing the ladder to global fucking acclaim. And hell, the stage lights, the screaming crowds, the thrum of bass reverberating through his chest, none of it had ever factored into the life he’d imagined for himself.

But life had a funny way of taking plans and shredding them into something unrecognisable.

Simon still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here.

When he left the military he thought he’d bury himself in some quiet corner of anonymity, far from the public eye. Civvy life was cruel to men like him, and for months, he drifted between meaningless gigs, his skill set too sharp for ordinary work, too lethal for the mundane.

Then came the call.

Sleep Token’s manager had been a contact of a contact, someone who knew someone who’d served with him, someone who’d heard about him through the strange network of ex-military types finding unconventional second careers. The irony hadn’t been lost on Simon when he was first approached. A band draped in anonymity, each member masked and named only by cryptic titles, needed security. And who better to protect them than a man who’d spent his life hiding behind his own mask?

Fucking unbelievable.

Somehow Simon had ticked every box without realising it, and before he knew it, he was standing in a smoky room, hands tucked into the pockets of his faded jeans as he sized up the bloody Muppet Show who would earn his salary.

He’d scoffed at the absurdity of it back then.

It wasn’t his scene. Far from it.

And yet, something in him, a combination of pragmatism and the faint flicker of intrigue, told him to give it a shot. He was financially screwed anyway. And the pay was good, much better than what he earned as a high-ranking officer, the anonymity suited him just fine, and the job, strangely enough, kind of aligned with his skill set. Therefore, after a few days of mulling it over, he said yes.

Simon had learned to adapt quickly. This job—head of security, an overqualified bodyguard as he liked to call it—had its own rhythm, distinct but no less intense than the one he’d lived before.

Venues became his battlefields, and he mapped them with a soldier’s precision. Potential threats were assessed the way he’d once scoped out enemy positions. His vigilance rarely wavered, whether he was walking the perimeter of a festival or standing stoic in a dim corridor as Vessel rehearsed another one of his verses. To Simon, these kinds of threats were laughable compared to the ones he’d faced during his service, however, it wasn’t without its challenges. Crowds could be unpredictable, and fame had a way of drawing out the unhinged.

He took to his duties with the same precision and discipline he’d honed in the SAS. The members trusted him implicitly, and that trust was something Simon didn’t take lightly. They called him Riley and treated him like a constant, the way you’d treat the sun rising or the tide coming in.

Reliable, steady, unshakable.

At first, the job was simple enough. The usual security gig, albeit with a touch of bloody theatricality. However, fame has a way of turning everything upside down, even for someone like Simon.

It started subtly.

Fans started to notice him too. At first, it was just a handful of comments on social media, like “Who’s the guy in the black balaclava?”, but it grew from there. They were fascinated by him, by the idea of a masked man guarding a masked band. He was an enigma within an enigma, and the internet just loved enigmas. It wasn’t until Lynsey Ward, one of the backup vocalists, shoved her phone in his face one day that he realised how far it had gone.

The backstage in Paris hummed with a peculiar kind of energy and anticipation that Simon had grown accustomed to since taking the job. It was a strange but one of a kind lifestyle, this one, filled with hurried footsteps, clinking equipment, and the muffled roar of soundchecks vibrating through walls. Simon lingered near the members as they cycled through their usual pre-show rituals.

IV sat in a corner, his mask tilted upward as if in contemplation, while Vessel sprawled on a battered sofa, his makeup halfway done, face a patchwork of metallic hues. II drummed his fingers idly on his thighs, the rhythmic taps almost lost beneath the din, while III sat near the makeup station, enjoying the rare moment of downtime between soundcheck, preparations and the main show, reading something on his phone.

Simon leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his black balaclava masking his expression but not the faint lines of tension in his shoulders.

His sharp eyes swept over the room, mentally running through his usual checklist again that concerned necessary security measures. Entry points, exits, personnel movements, everything was accounted for, everything secure. The monotony of the job had become second nature to him, though he still approached each night like it might unravel at any moment.

Lynsey sat nearby, waiting for her turn in the makeup chair. She was scrolling on her phone, just like almost everyone in the room, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed but her smile mischievous. Simon didn’t notice her at first, he had his priorities, but her voice cut through the quiet hum of activity like a knife.

“Riley,” she called out, her tone playful. “You’ve got to see this.”

Simon didn’t move.

“Busy,” he muttered, his voice low and even.

Lynsey ignored him entirely, already rising from her seat and crossing the room with her phone in hand. “Come on, just watch,” she insisted, shoving the screen toward him. The glow of the phone illuminated her face, her grin widening as she anticipated his reaction.

Simon sighed, an irritated, tired sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest.

“What now?”

Reluctantly, Simon uncrossed his toned arms and stepped forward, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. The screen showed a video, a quick montage of him, no less. Snippets of him walking through crowds, standing by the stage, his balaclava catching the light just so as if he were a character in some fucking noir film. The background music swelled dramatically, and captions popped up over the footage, saying “If I ever get kicked out of a venue, it better be by HIM. Imagine getting manhandled by those arms.”

Simon blinked, his frown deepening beneath the mask.

“The hell’s this?” he asked, his tone flat but tinged with suspicion.

“It’s a thirst trap,” Lynsey said, as if that explained everything, her laughter barely contained.

Simon stared at her blankly. “The fuck's a thirst trap?”

Lynsey cackled, delighted. “Oh, you’re a relic, aren’t you? It’s a thing on TikTok. People post these little edits when they fancy someone. And let me tell you, mate, there are loads of these floating about. Like, ‘look at this mysterious bloke, isn’t he fit?’ That sort of thing.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “TikTok?”

From across the room, III chimed in, his grin wicked as he leaned back in his seat. “Nowhere to hide, Riley,” he said, his tone teasing. “You’re a proper celebrity now.”

Simon huffed through his nose, a sound that carried more weight than words. He glanced at the phone again, now firmly lodged in Lynsey’s outstretched hand, the screen flashing more of his edited movements cut and spliced into dramatic slow-motion. He stepped back slightly, folding his arms across his broad chest once more, muttering something about “kids and their bollocks” under his breath as he did.

Lynsey quipped, her grin only widening. “Face it, the internet’s gone mad for you. They’ve even got a hashtag—‘#SecurityDaddy.’”

Simon flinched, his head snapping back toward her like she’d just admitted to committing a war crime.

This made IV join the fray, a water bottle in hand as he ambled over. “Oi, show us the goods. I wanna see what’s got good ol’ Riley in a strop.”

Lynsey eagerly turned her phone to IV, who leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the screen with a wide grin already forming on his painted face. The video played again, the dramatic slow-motion edits of Simon walking through a crowd, his balaclava catching the stage lights as though he’d been directed by a Hollywood cinematographer.

IV let out a sharp laugh, nearly choking on his water.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of black paint on them. “‘Security Daddy,’ they’re callin’ you? That’s golden.”

Lynsey snorted and held up another video. “Oh, you’ve got no idea. Look at this one, ‘If he told me to leave the venue, I’d say thank you.’ And here’s another, ‘Is it weird to want to be tackled by him?’ You’ve got your own bloody fanbase, Riley.”

Simon’s gloved hand scrubbed down his masked face as if he could physically push away the madness unfolding around him. “You lot are takin’ the piss.”

“This one’s my favourite,” Lynsey said, clicking on yet another video. The screen lit up with a heavily edited montage of Simon in action—his eyes scanning a crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through a sea of fans, the flash of his gloved hand directing someone to stand back. The video was captioned with “I don’t know his name, but he can ruin my life anytime.”

Vessel, who’d been silent for most of the exchange, finally sat up, resting his elbows on his knees as he regarded their head of security with an amused expression. “It’s the mask, mate,” he stated. “It's like catnip. People project onto what they can’t see. You could lean into it, y’know. Like us. Give the people what they want. Maybe throw in a wink next time you’re standin’ by the stage.”

Simon sent Vessel a look so sharp it could have peeled paint off the walls.

II, who had been leaning casually against the wall next to them, joined in with a huge grin. “Yeah, might as well embrace it. You’re part of the act now.”

Simon’s glare intensified. “You wanna end up wearin’ your fuckin’ drumsticks where the sun don’t shine?”

II raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin never left his face. “Don’t tempt me.” 

The banter escalated quickly after that.

The room practically buzzed with the gleeful chaos that Simon’s presence had unwittingly unleashed. IV was now scrolling through the comments on one of the fan edits, reading them aloud to the room with unbridled glee, each of them taking the piss out of him in the way only people comfortable with each other could.

Strangely enough, it reminded him of Johnny, a familiar mix of camaraderie and mischief that tugged at a memory he hadn’t expected to surface. It stirred an unexpected pang of nostalgia in Simon, a faint echo of Johnny’s effortless knack for turning every moment into a laugh at someone else’s expense—usually his.

“He could snap me like a glow stick and I’d thank him for the privilege,’” II read out loud, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this one’s pure gold—‘Not to be dramatic, but I would sell my soul just to hear him say ‘move along’ in person.’”

That did it.

Simon unfolded from the wall with a deliberate grace, his imposing presence rippling through the room like a cold wind sweeping across still water. The breadth of his shoulders, the unyielding lines of his form clad in black, cast him less as a mere bodyguard and more as some silent, vengeful sentinel. His shadow stretched across the room, swallowing the laughter as it reached II and IV, Lynsey’s phone still clutched between them.

“You’ve had your fun,” he rumbled, his voice steeped in the kind of authority honed through years of barking orders in the SAS. “Now knock it off, before I confiscate that phone.”

“Go on, Riley,” IV shot back with a grin, entirely unafraid. “Confiscate me next.”

Simon didn’t dignify that with a response.

He turned away from them, a quiet dismissal, and walked toward the door. His hand reached for the handle, his gloved fingers brushing against the cool metal. But just as he was about to leave, a voice cut through the air again, the familiar, teasing tone of III echoing in the now-muted chaos of the room.

“Don’t forget to give us a little twirl on your way out, Security Daddy.”

Bloody hell.

If this gig didn’t kill him, these muppets just might.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[missy4176]

Subtle Jealousy

Cale Henituse x Reader

Cale Henituse is not the type of person to express his emotions openly. He is calm, composed, and often appears indifferent to many things. However, when it comes to you—his significant other—he has his own subtle ways of showing how much you mean to him. Cale isn't prone to bouts of jealousy, but when someone else starts giving you too much attention, his quiet but unmistakable possessiveness comes to the surface.

Cale is always aware of his surroundings, especially when it involves you. He doesn’t need to hover or keep a close eye on you, but he somehow always knows what’s going on. When he notices someone lingering too long in a conversation with you, or when they’re laughing a bit too much at your jokes, Cale’s sharp gaze zeroes in on the interaction. He won’t say anything—he rarely does—but his focus shifts entirely onto the person who’s vying for your attention.

You might notice his usual relaxed posture stiffen slightly, or how he silently observes the person, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. It’s his way of assessing whether this person is a threat—whether they’re overstepping a boundary they shouldn’t.

Cale isn’t one to openly declare his feelings or make a scene, but he’ll subtly insert himself into the situation. If you’re talking to someone who’s a little too interested in you, Cale will quietly move closer, standing just within your personal space. He might brush his hand against yours or place a light hand on your back, a barely-there touch that serves as a silent declaration of his presence. He doesn’t need to say a word; his proximity alone is enough to remind everyone that you’re his partner.

When you look up and catch his eye, he’ll offer you a small, almost imperceptible smile—one that’s reserved just for you. It’s a gentle reminder that he’s there, and that he’s watching over you, even if he doesn’t always show it.

While Cale isn’t possessive in an unhealthy way, he has a certain protectiveness over you that becomes more pronounced in these moments. If the person continues to monopolize your time, Cale will step in more directly, though always in his signature, understated manner. He might drape an arm casually over your shoulder or lean in to ask if you’re ready to leave. The question is phrased innocently enough, but there’s an undercurrent of tension in his voice that only you can detect.

If the person still doesn’t take the hint, Cale’s eyes will harden, and he’ll fix them with a stare that could freeze over a desert. His expression remains neutral, but there’s a clear message in his gaze: *Back off.* It’s the kind of look that sends a shiver down the spine of anyone who’s foolish enough to ignore it.

Cale won’t ever vocalize his jealousy—he doesn’t believe in making a fuss over something so trivial. But later, when you’re alone together, you might notice him being just a bit more affectionate. Perhaps his hand lingers a little longer on yours, or he pulls you closer when you’re sitting together. It’s his way of reaffirming his place by your side without having to say anything at all.

If you bring it up, teasing him about how he seemed a little jealous earlier, he’ll likely scoff and roll his eyes, brushing it off with a casual remark. But there’s a faint blush on his cheeks that gives him away, even as he tries to maintain his nonchalant facade.

Despite his subtle jealousy, Cale is never overbearing. He trusts you implicitly and knows that you’re fully capable of handling yourself. But in those quiet moments when it’s just the two of you, he’ll sometimes let his guard down a little. He’ll brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and affectionate, and murmur something like, “You know I’m always here, right?”

It’s not an overt declaration of jealousy or possessiveness—just a simple statement of fact. Cale Henituse is a man of few words, but when it comes to you, he’ll always make sure you know just how important you are to him, even if it’s in the most subtle of ways.

Ultimately, Cale’s subtle jealousy is tempered by his confidence in your relationship. He knows that you chose him, and that means more to him than any fleeting moment of insecurity. So while he might occasionally give someone a pointed look or stand a little closer to you than usual, he never doubts where you stand with him.

In the end, Cale’s subtle gestures and quiet reassurances are just his way of showing you how much he cares, without ever needing to say it out loud. It’s a language that only the two of you understand, built on trust, mutual respect, and a deep connection that goes beyond words.

[pradabambie]

the roommate. rafe cameron x reader x felix catton. pt. 2

masterlist

rafe's impending arrival had you on your toes. excitement to see your boyfriend was intertwined with worry about the whole felix situation – you knew all too well how protective rafe could get. 

"and... this is my room! nice and cozy, isn't it?" you said, opening the door for rafe. as he entered, he glanced around, noting the neatly organized chaos of college life. 

“oh," he remarked after noticing the extra bed, "i didn't know you had a roommate." his brow furrowed in surprise. 

before you could respond, the door swung open, and felix walked in, absorbed in a phone conversation. 

“no, ollie, i swear to god, her friend is hot, i swear-" felix gushed, turning around to close the door, finally facing the room and noticing the strange boy's presence.  

"ollie, i'll call you back. hey mate, felix catton, pleasure to meet you. i assume you’re the boyfriend, yeah?” felix greeted him with a wide smile, while you shot him a look, silently urging him to say the right thing. 

“rafe cameron” he simply said, extending his right hand. felix ignored it and went in for a hug. 

however, rafe quickly shot a glance at you, then back at felix, and finally at the two beds. the realization hit him, and a flicker of annoyance and anger crossed his face. 

“wait, you’re the roommate?” rafe looked straight at you, his face now red, and his jaw tight. 

you tried to lighten the mood with a light laugh, but it only seemed to fuel rafe's anger.  

“look, babe, long story short, felix's room flooded, and my assigned roommate never showed, so here we are.” 

you took rafe’s hand, praying a little physical touch would calm him down. 

“i swear, it’s no big deal” 

felix stood quietly, a goofy smile on his face that almost made it seem like he was enjoying the entire thing. his carefree attitude clashed with the undercurrent of tension you felt.  

“right lex?” with pleading eyes, you looked at felix, begging him to say something, anything. 

"yeah don't worry, mate. no funny business here—cross my heart." 

felix's attempt at reassurance didn't seem to appease rafe's growing displeasure. the air thickened with tension, but felix, seemingly unfazed, broke the silence. 

"so, rafe, what brings you to our humble abode?" felix's tone was lighthearted, though his eyes held a mischievous glint. 

rafe, still visibly perturbed, replied, "just missed my girlfriend you know." as he spoke, he sidled closer to you, placing his hand on the small of your back, as if subtly marking his territory.  

felix raised an eyebrow, catching the shift in rafe's demeanor. 

"hey, why don't we spice things up a bit? there's a party tonight. what do you say, the three of us? get to know each other a bit better?"  

you shot felix a warning look, implicitly asking him to tread carefully.  

the boy, however, continued with his flirty charm, directing his next words toward you. 

"come on, love, it'll be a blast. your boyfriend here can get to know me outside this mess," felix winked, his tone playful, referring to the disorganized room the three of you stood in. 

rafe with a reluctant nod, he agreed to the plan. "fine, we'll go to your damn party." 

felix's grin widened, sensing a victory of sorts. "brilliant! it's a date, then. i'll meet you both after dinner, see ya!" 

felix sauntered out of the room, leaving you alone with rafe. sensing his frustration, you approached him, offering a reassuring smile. 

"hey, don't let it bother you. felix is harmless, he’s just a bit quirky," you reassured, planting a quick kiss on your boyfriend's lips, relishing the sensation of his presence that you had missed so much. 

rafe sighed, his tension melting away. "i missed you, you know." 

you grinned, "i missed you too." 

as the two of you settled on the bed, rafe's smile began to appear on his lips. simultaneously, his hands started exploring your body, the touch turning you more and more needy of him. 

“so, how much time do you think we have until the party?” 

“enough.” 

[qweerhet]

i've also been picking up on some rhetorical strategies lately distancing intersex women from trans women, transfems, & in general the wide demographic of people for whom transmisogyny is a pressing material danger. implicitly positioning cis intersex women as only being in material solidarity with trans people due to other factors (being degendered due to race, for example, not due to their status as intersex), only acknowledging intersex women in discussions of systemic transmisogyny if they're trans women. perhaps most blatantly, carefully talking about intersex women as "cis women with medical conditions that affect their hormones" without once mentioning that means they are intersex.

intersex women are being acted on by the same colonialist structures and schematics of oppression as trans women. yes, even cis intersex women. yes, there are differences in how this occurs. yes, there are different rhetorical tricks used when these matters are discussed in the public sphere. yes, looking at the sex binary through the lens of transmisogyny and looking at it through the lens of intersexism will often result in subtly different takeaways, both of which are equally materially grounded despite their nuanced differences. but none of this is actually an argument against the fact that you, trans woman reading this, should see cis intersex women as people experiencing similar violence to you, under a system that categorizes and disenfranchises them similarly to you.

discussing the violence done by the gender and sex binaries will never be complete or accurate without centering intersex experiences in your analysis exactly as much as you center trans experiences. and you are not doing that so long as you carefully erase intersex women's intersexness itself in all discussions of transmisogyny and perceive cis intersex women as a fundamentally oppressive Other whose experiences are incompatible with your own or even appropriating your own somehow.

[halfbloodgf]

Can we talk about the fact that Severus Snape left everyone, both the characters and the readers, like this: 🤡🤡

I mean, no one knew wtf was going on with him. One moment u think he's bad, the next u think he's good. And then u think he's the villain again. But then he gives his memories to Harry and we all realize that he was the fucking hero all along.

In hp1, we think it's Snape who was trying to steal the philosopher's stone, or who tried to knock Harry off his broom. But then comes the end, and we find out that he stopped Harry from falling (saved his life) and was protecting the stone...🤡

We still hated him in hp 2 and 3...

In hp4 Harry suspects that Snape had the Dark Mark, and ends up discovering that he did. There's even the scene that Harry sees: Igor Karkaroff accuses Snape in court in front of the Wizengamot, saying he was a Death Eater, and we're all like😯😃 (finally know the truth!!). But then Dumbledore defends him😐🧍🏻‍♀️, and no one, not Karkaroff, not Harry, not us readers, understand anything. We don't know whether to trust him or not. So, again...🤡

In hp5 everything is confusing with him. We don't know if he wants to help Harry (occlumency lessons) or not. He calls Voldemort "Dark Lord" (only Death Eaters do), we see his worst memory, which, again, leaves us bewildered and not knowing what the hell to think of him now. Harry himself doubts that his father was a good person, even wondering if James didn't force Lily to marry him, and empathizes with Snape. Then the whole thing with the prophecies, and Harry trying to warn Snape about Sirius and his supposed kidnapping. The Order arrives to save Harry and his friends, which suggests that Snape warned them.

But along comes hp and the Half-Blood Prince, Snape appears to be helping Draco Malfoy with what the Lord entrusted him with —The scene where Bellatrix accuses him, tells him that she doesn't trust him, and then she is surprised:

In the books:

[...]Do you really think that the Dark Lord has not asked me each and every one of those questions? And do you really think that, had I not been able to give satisfactory answers, I would be sitting here talking to you?”

She hesitated. “I know he believes you, but…”

“You think he is mistaken? Or that I have somehow hoodwinked him? Fooled the Dark Lord, the greatest wizard, the most accomplished Legilimens the world has ever seen?”

[...]

“And through all this we are supposed to believe Dumbledore has never suspected you?” asked Bellatrix. “He has no idea of your true allegiance, he trusts you implicitly still?”

“I have played my part well,” said Snape.

In the movies:

The line where he says “Dumbledore is a great wizard”, Snape is actually being smug and subtly saying he’s such a good actor (I mean, come on, the man deserves a fucking Oscar), he’s managed to deceive Voldemort so well that he has revealed his grand plan to him. He practically seems to be laughing at the double meaning of his own words, mocking and lying to the black sister's faces like the fucking boss he is. The way he's literally drinking a glass of wine while laughing at the Dark Lord. The whole scene is just excellent.

So at the end of hp6, Snape reveals to us that he was the half-blood prince for whom the fucking book is named, ends up murdering none other than ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, and we all learn that all this time his true loyalties were with the dark side...🤡

Oh no, wait! Hp7 arrives, Voldemort kills Snape :0 (Yes!), gives his memories to Harry, and Harry sees his memories and... (NOO😦😨😰😭💔💀). We found out he wasn't the bad guy. That, in fact, he was IN LOVE WITH HARRY'S MOM —"always" still hurts :')— That all this time he was our ally...🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡🤡

He practically played with all of us, with LORD VOLDEMORT, the Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix, Harry... well, WITH EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WIZARDING WORLD. And he did it as if he were:

Harry fucking Potter named one of his sons after him, which must have made a lot of people roll in their graves (James and Sirius out of anger, Snape out of laughter).

This mf literally woke up one day and said: "okay, here begins my reputation era bitches.😎 Let's leave a few of them looking like🤡🤡"

PD: Sorry if something is written wrong, english is not my language.

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

the thing that allistics talking about social skills never seem to grasp is that i do not SEE body language or facial expressions. i am not some innocent adorably stupid little darling who's never been taught what a frown means and so now i feel like everyone is hostile to me because i'm not participating in the Necessary And Unbiased social ritual that lets everyone know i'm Safe and a Real Person.

no, i spent 10 years regularly attending social skills courses. as in, weekly at minimum, for a lot of it daily. i still cannot read body language or facial expressions because i LITERALLY CANNOT SEE THEM. i am partially faceblind. my visual processing is ganked to the point that even though i am not blind i need to use IDs to understand images. these are VERY common traits in autism, this isn't a special "just me" thing. if someone makes a face at me, i can't SEE it. sometimes i can tell that some of their facial muscles are moving, but i have no idea what they're doing and very little ability to piece together what the end result looks like as a whole picture. sometimes i can see when someone is leaning away from me, or if their whole body is shaking or something, but anything less whole-body and cartoonish than that is literally invisible to me.

allistic social norms are built around treating me as scary and unsafe for not participating in them, and i LITERALLY CANNOT SEE a good portion of what they're based on. the less physical bits--implications and social context, etc--are 10x harder when you essentially can't speak half the language, and that's not even touching on how those parts can be near impossible on their own if you have a slow processing speed--which i also do. it takes me 30-60 seconds minimum to fully process a spoken sentence and understand what the unspoken and nuanced implications of it could be, and by then i have already been slotted into "unsafe creep" territory by being entirely silent for 45 seconds. and i am considered socially adept and to have very fast processing among my autistic peers. my barriers here are MINOR compared to someone very severely socially impaired.

this is why explaining to autistics the purposes of allistic social rules and nuances and giving us tips on how to navigate them is condescending and cruel as hell. you're dangling in our faces how important and necessary and integral it is to do something we literally CAN'T do and implicitly justifying us being seen as dangerous and socially undesirable for not doing it. and you're framing it as helping because you're "teaching" us. but it's like teaching a colorblind person color theory; maybe once in a while someone will be interested, but it'll always be significantly harder for them to learn than someone who isn't colorblind, and their experience with it will always be profoundly qualitatively different and produce different results, even subtly. and their existence doesn't mean that the REST of colorblind people who don't have that energy and time and investment should just put up with literally every road sign being written in red on green when you could just make signs that are black on white to begin with.

[greenfiend]

Since your Will takes never miss, I need to ask: what do you think his thought process was like during his six months in Cali regarding his relationship with Mike? I'm sure there were days he clung to the energy of that last smile at his "not possible" and others when he slammed the mailbox while also glaring at the phone and never picking it up himself (your disordered attachment theory!) on the topic kinda, sorry: do you think post-s3!will ever even allowed himself to entertain the thought he could have a romantic chance with mike fr fr?

Buuuuut then how (or when) do you think the idea of creating the painting for Mike came to be? We know it was 'repurposed' in the van scene, so what do you think its original purpose was in Will's mind? Just an early birthday gift for Mike since they probably wouldn't meet in person in April? An olive branch of sorts? Was he, in earnest, only hoping to talk and go back to 'best friends' (their og dynamic or a more 'sociable' and with less yearning version of it) after the mess that was the summer of '85? < these are just shots in the dark; I'm positive the existence of the painting could have some bigger impact in the story beyond the byler subplot. Would really love to read you thoughts!

Oooo good question!

So, obviously Will missed Mike a lot and probably thought about him every day. At the same time, it was probably easier for him to love Mike from a distance but incredibly painful at times too. When I say easier, I mean that because he’s scared. There’s a lot of guilt and shame bottled up inside of him that he hasn’t worked through yet. Not just from his sexuality, but from his childhood. You know the saying “you accept the love you think you deserve”, and Will doesn’t think he deserves Mike’s love. Mike’s love alone won’t cure that, but Will’s love for himself will. I also think that we aren’t given Mike’s PoV partly because he likely has been initiating and reaching out to Will more than vice versa… we see what Will chooses to see, and that is his “unrequited” love for Mike. Will thinks all he deserves is to love Mike from a distance.

Because of the way the show is constructed, I tend to take clues from the symbolism as well. Will hasn’t been answering the phone. Sure Joyce has that telemarketing job, but that’s just a surface level explanation. Will has ignored Mike’s calls prior to that in ST2. Mike has been trying to reach out, but Will doesn’t answer. He’s afraid. It’s scary to be vulnerable like that.

When it comes to someone with an insecure attachment, connecting romantically can be complicated. The highs can be very high and the lows very low… any feeling of rejection can be devastating. I mean this because it triggers memories of the reason for the insecure attachment in the first place… the problematic parental relationships. In Will’s case, a father who not only rejected him constantly, attempted to shut him out, but also deeply betrayed him by stealing his innocence. Those wounds cut deep. Our relationship with our parents truly shape us and how we view the world.

So basically, Will is desperate for Mike’s love but scared of it at the same time. That’s why he doesn’t pick up the phone, or answer it. He’s stuck with such complicated feelings, not knowing how to express them.

Remember how we are told that Will prefers to draw as a way to communicate? He does just that. He decides to create an artwork for Mike, the best painting he’s ever done.

He works tirelessly, imagining Mike’s possible reactions. He likely decides whether or not to be so bold to paint a heart on Mike’s shield. Will he understand what I’m trying to say here?

I know many people think of the painting as simply an intended platonic gesture, an early birthday gift or an olive branch… but one specific fact makes me think otherwise. That fact is:

Will frequently communicates in code.

It’s hard for him to express himself explicitly, so he does so implicitly… subtly. He doesn’t want Mike to understand, but he also desperately hopes Mike figures it out. This is an important aspect of his character. Just like Stranger Things itself, Will shows and doesn’t tell. So yes, he wanted the painting to appear like a friendly gesture but he wanted the deeper meaning present there too for Mike to uncover.

This leads back Will’s first line directly spoken to Mike:

It is, and always has been, a code. That’s why Mike is confused. Will “didn’t say it” and hopes Mike understands so he “didn’t have to” say it.

Also, you’re absolutely right. The painting is about more than just Byler. It’s about conquering the demons of past, present and future. But this post is pretty long so I won’t go into that here.

[aramblingjay]

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

-

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

-

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

-

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

-

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

-

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

-

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

[frogspond200]

𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚖𝚘𝚗

Requested by: Anon

Ask: May we/I pretty please get Yandere Simon Petrikov with a reader whos kinda...stupid, like, they get into dangerous situations and dont exactly realize it-

Warning: General Yandere behavior

───────────────────────────────────

Simon is obsessed with the reader and their safety. He constantly watches over them, making sure they’re out of harm’s way, even when they don’t realize the danger they’re in.

Simon uses his charm and intelligence to subtly manipulate the reader into relying on him for protection. He offers to help with simple tasks, like walking them home, which eventually escalates to him always being by their side.

Despite his obsessive tendencies, Simon tries to maintain a facade of caring concern. He’ll often ask if the reader is okay, seemingly worried about their well-being, which endears him to them even more.

The reader frequently finds themselves in precarious situations, whether it’s accidentally wandering into dangerous neighborhoods or getting caught up in bizarre incidents. Simon is always there to rescue them, appearing as their knight in shining armor.

While Simon seems sweet and protective on the surface, his yandere tendencies occasionally slip through. He may exhibit bouts of jealousy when the reader interacts with others or becomes possessive over them. Simon’s love for the reader is all-consuming. He believes that he alone can keep them safe and happy, and he’ll go to great lengths to eliminate any perceived threats to their well-being. The reader remains blissfully unaware of Simon’s darker side, seeing him as a caring and dependable companion. They trust him implicitly and have no reason to doubt his intentions.

To maintain his facade of benevolence, Simon frequently showers the reader with thoughtful gifts and gestures of kindness. These gifts serve as a reminder of his affection and control over their life. The reader’s obliviousness to the danger they’re in contrasts with Simon’s growing obsession and darkness.

[liketwoswansinbalance]

A Gift-Giving Guide* by the Twins

*Don’t take this too seriously.

Warning: implied trauma incoming.

⸻

Rhian: Even if the person you’re buying a gift for isn’t important to you, you still must put in the effort to make a Good impression. Thus, if you can’t find anything your recipient would truly enjoy, just find a suitable substitute. Something, anything really, non-specific that no one will contest with will do. In addition, the gift must be of an acceptable quality, and as long as you invest in the gift’s presentation, you will probably not fail. Remember: as a giver, you’re more likely to be judged or faulted for an oversight sooner rather than later, so you must wrap the gift impeccably, with embossed paper and matching ribbons. Your best-laid plans will be the holiday equivalent of “dress to impress.” You’ll be less vulnerable to critique that way. And no one, absolutely no one, will shame you or claim you haven’t tried and given your all!

⸻

Rafal: What matters most about a gift are its contents and what such contents mean. No one will care what empty shells of wrapping paper look like, if they don’t like the contents. So, it’s best to choose a gift your recipient wants so desperately that they won’t be able to refuse it. Prepare for an influx of emotion from your recipient if they’re that type. And, it’s all the better if you went to great lengths to acquire the gift for them, and make that known, implicitly, so they don’t catch onto your power play. If you took every expense, you’ll deserve their recognition and henceforth, should subtly remind them, after the season’s over, of what their lives would be without your gift, of exactly how deprived they would feel if they didn’t have it. Then, they’ll subconsciously feel indebted to you and won’t ever leave you, for they’ll be too occupied by gratitude and guilt to consider other, worthless options or stupid exchanges, especially when they’ve already received something substantive of the objective, best quality because you know what’s best for them. Oh, and never give them the receipt. They can’t change their mind if it’s too late and they’ve already committed to something that cannot be replaced.

[rationalisms]

sorry to discourse about the sexuality of video game characters but re: the whole "playersexual" debate...

this idea that people always either subtly imply or outright state in arguments around this is this sort of snide "well why would any of these people caaaaare about something so frivolous as gender when they have Real Problems!" (which you can also swap as needed in sci-fi with "well obviously in The Future everyone would have learned to be bisexual").

which is like. wildly homophobic obviously. outrageously so. this idea of gay people as someone who's just hung up on irrelevant or superficial parts of a person unlike people who Care About Someone's Soul, OR the idea that gay people are not sufficiently progressive enough and need to get with the times, is not even a new or innovative strain of homophobia. and yet i constantly see people repeat it confidently in discussions around "playersexuality" or video game romances with zero thought or care to how insensitive and cruel of a statement they're making. it's bugfuck insane.

also, it's not even like bi people are winning with the current status quo either, because these characters are almost never actually textually bisexual, they're just whatever sexuality matches up with the player avatar's gender. very few of them are openly attracted to the same gender outside of the romance path, or at all part of the wider lgbt community. (and no, a few missable party banters here or there with wink wink nudge nudge style comments does not count as either of those things.)

i would rather there be characters whose orientation is incompatible with mine and whose romance path i therefore might never experience, than there be a world which either implicitly or explicitly features absolutely zero gay people.

(as a complete side argument, i find this obsession with having to Experience Absolutely All The Content in one go and it being somehow a bad thing if there's things you might not see in this specific playthrough of a game a really weird idea too. and it's imo also not a good philosophy for game design, especially crpgs which by nature are supposed to branch widely and allow the option to experience the story differently depending on the choices you make. but that's only tangentially relevant.)

anyway. lesbian party members or bust.