#Bea is so hot I want to eat my elbows

[angelofverdum]

Wentworth

Finally watched it after years of saying nothing can top Orange is the new black as a prison show.

I loved Wentworth. It was thrilling and engaging, but most of the time, the writers overlooked things because they needed to drive the story to a certain point.

Most things didn't make any sense, and the writing was all over the place.

Like they were using tools without any guards present or the cameras didn't have protection or someone watching them all the time so the prisoners moved them whenever they wanted.

They used the steam press for punishment but not even once did it cross their mind to have 3 guards in there or take that thing out of prison.

And the overuse of slow motion was crazy.

The first season was kinda boring because who cares about the guards, let alone the male guards, but they fixed that in the second season. Seasons 3 and 4 were excellent, after that, it went downhill.

Some things were shocking because why was there a child in prison? Of course, this is Australia, and things are different but I was expecting them to be living in hell because people reviewed this as "a real prison show, opposite to the joke that was OITNB"

But my girls had a television in their room, a microwave, and a fridge. They could make tea, they had individual rooms with doors that locked from the inside, comfy pajamas, and they could ask from a transfer if they had a girlfriend in another block.

And again it's hard to judge because maybe, that's the hard life in Australia.

The supporting characters were exactly that. They weren't charming or interested enough to lead the show after Bea and Franky were gone.

Now, the three big things that turn me off the show

1. Killing Bea Smith.

First of all, Bea was my absolute favorite character, and watching her became so brave after living a life of abuse was great. Then they gave her life, and I was shocked because the writers were brave for making their main character hopeless, that no matter what she did she was going to spend the rest of her days there.

She was not coming back as anything. Not as an illusion, a memory or a fucking ghost.

I was so shocked after that season finale that I had to confirm that she was dead and she wasn't coming back. I couldn't watch the next episode until I knew that. So I went to IMDB and it hit me like a brick:

That excuse of Bea's storyline ran its course and she had to be written off is bullshit, given the fact that Joan stayed alive for the whole fucking show, and Bea died for nothing.

I was expecting her to die to be honest, but I didn't expect to be halfway through the show and more importantly after establishing that she was the absolute lead of the show. You can feel her absence until the end of the show which takes me to point number two.

2. Releasing Franky

I didn't like Franky in season 1. I honestly found her annoying, but it was clear that the other lead of the show was her. Season 2 Franky was way worse than S01.

In season 3 when she started to change I started to like her, then they released her leaving Bea alone to carry the show. Because taking a character out of the main place of the show is a big mistake we don't care. We are going to get bored. I was happy that we only got a couple of episodes to see how Franky was doing outside.

Then they killed Bea so it was inevitable that Franky ended up in prison again. But we don't want to see her prison again after seeing how good she was doing outside. The audience was as miserable as her, and the others characters being happy that she was back only made me hate them.

And they created a terrible plot for her to be back. Only for it to be resolved in the most stupid and unrealistic way that the human mind could imagine.

She had to escape to solve the case? Bridget offered to hire a private investigator, couldn't he do it? Then she is forgiven for all her sins and suddenly Mercado admits it was Ferguson who killed Iman. Then Franky can live happily ever after.

And good for her but the show still needed a strong character to carry the show.

3. The mastermind that was Joan Ferguson.

I loved Ferguson when she was first introduced. I love a great villain played by a capable actress. I was in awe of her devious mind, beautiful gray hair, and tallness.

But then she stayed as governor for S03, then came back as a prisoner for S04 and they never let her go.

I don't know if it's because I watch mostly American shows and they use a different formula, but when you introduce a villain you need to be ready to let them die or give them a redemption arc because they can't always win.

But Joan did at the end of the show. Ferguson never lost. She was always three steps ahead of them even in prison. She didn't redeem herself, she had (lesbian) feelings for Vera that's it.

Take Marie for example, she was a villain who got a redemption arc and left you crying after her death.

Top 5 favorite characters:

Bea Smith. My sexy beautiful girl. She never did anything wrong in her life. The smartest character in the show and the only rival for Ferguson. Still alive and thriving.

Vera Bennett. I dislike Vera very much in the beginning. She was too gullible and dumb, but I feel she has the best character development in the show. And once she became governor I was already in love. I got giddy every time she was on my screen.

Kaz. It took me a while to like her. I think the writers tried really hard to make her the opposite of Bea, and they almost ruined her character. But I loved Kaz she was a badass.

Franky. I'mma be honest I feel like the only reason I care for Franky is because Nicole Da Silva is insanely charming. It was a rollercoaster with her but I'm glad she had a happy ending.

Ferguson. I know I said before she should have been killed early on but she truly is a fascinating character what can I say?

Plus: Lou Kelly. She was such a strong character tied up to a weak and boring storyline. I didn't care much about her at the beginning because the only thing she said was "Reb". it was so annoying.

Btw, I loved Allie but she was just a babygirl. She didn't have a storyline or a plot. She entered the show as Bea's lover, then when Bea left there was nothing else for her as a character. Top Dog Allie was awful.

Characters that made me miss having Bea on my screen:

Doreen. What fucking annoying brat. Thank god she left the show I couldn't stand her whining and disrespect any longer.

Judy. Omg, she was unbearable. Looking like a crazy bitch suing everybody.

Ann. Crazy ass bitch.

Jake. Deserved to die too. Whining ass man, threatening Vera to take away her kid.

Ruby. Always in need of protection and making the wrong decisions.

When Judy appeared and she was annoying the fuck out of me, I realized every terrible character has been portrayed by a black actress. Giving the guards reasons to treat them like shit. Judy was handcuffed and beaten up by a white woman.

Honestly, the rest of the characters that weren't in my top 5 were boring, annoying, or useless to me.

The Final.

I didn't like the ending because it didn't give me closure but who cares because I didn't care much about these characters really. I've been in mourning since season 4.

Allie is going to stay in that wheelchair and in prison. She's alone because they took away every person she had.

Boomer being pregnant was selfish. Boomer isn't getting out of prison anytime soon and the father is a creep.

Rita and Ruby are getting out of there thanks to Allie.

The rest of the characters continue with their lives nothing changes for them, I guess.

Wentworth vs OITNB

I still preferred OITNB, sorry. I think the writing, acting, and storylines were better. I get that people like Wentworth because it's a drama show while Orange is more dramedy, one of the reasons I love the show so much.

Also, ten points to OITNB for not killing Piper and actually giving her a happy ending, even tho the audience hated her.

But it's not that serious you can thirst over Alex Vause and Franky Doyle at the same time.

Anyway, it was a pleasure to watch this show. As usual, I wished I had watched it when it was on air but what the hell. I loved these girls and Danielle Cormack as Bea Smith is the sexiest thing that ever happened to Australia.

[13tinysocks]

JJJJAANE 😭 honestly the idea that she was helping joan bc she felt bad about them wearing a mask flew right under my nose. Like ooh yes beautiful lady feels bad about wet dog wearing fabric scraps so she makes a fashion project out of them whatever you say beautiful! BUT SHE WAS DOING IT TO MAKE JOAN FEEL BETTER ABOUT THEM WEARING A MASK AND BEAING (potentialy) SCARRED AS SHIT UNDER IT??? SHES SO NICE 😭😭😭 and she told them its for her own good bc she wont have to look at a fashion disaster.. but it was for joaan and she got right to it im going to eat fucking drywall 😭 good on natalie for comforting her, good on joan that they find her hot, now we wait for the crazy making up i need them elbow deep in each others ribcages.

Also nina going after joan wITH toby even tho they are i guess mad at each other rn? THATS THE BESTIES THATS MY WIFE!!

Sorry for a long one but, respectfully, liu jeff and whole zalgo cult need to be beaten with HAMMERS WHAT ARE PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT. AND THIS TIME I MEAN THIS NEGATIVELY, HATE THEIR ASSES 😭

Me when someone understands character motivations 😳🥰 Jane is one of the more empathetic people in the mansion but like in thio she has a hard time expressing herself directly!! She cares a lot to a fault and when people don't get her because she's a standoffish woman it makes me insane. Mfs want a femdom but can't take the heat get out my damn kitchen!!!

[strawberriestyles]

Prologue

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

DISCLAIMER: I have no medical expertise, nor do I have an individual at my disposal to help me check the realism of this story. I'm just writing for fun. Basically, I've tried to form a plot around my very basic knowledge of head trauma and PTSD, and sometimes I've forced things to serve the purpose of the story that I'm trying to create. If you have any information that might help change what I've already written for the better without fundamentally changing the plot ("Harry should have died" is NOT useful), please let me know! Otherwise, please keep the fact checks to yourself and if you must, try to suspend your disbelief. :)

Author’s note: I’m so excited to continue exploring the story of Harry and Melody!! I hope y’all are just as excited. Please let me know your thoughts on the beginning of the sequel! As always, like and reblog. Enjoy! Xx

It looked like an early autumn in the city. The beginning of September was usually hot but after her run, Melody had to slip into a sweatshirt. Clouds filtered out a majority of the sunlight that she’d grown so used to over the previous months. She saw the edges of leaves growing ruddy and bright out of the window of a cab as she made her way back to the hospital.

She paid her fare and slipped through the lobby to purchase a smoothie and a bagel from the cafeteria. She had learned that the hospital food wasn’t so bad as long as you weren’t an actual patient. There had been a lot of nights spent over spaghetti dinners with Sean, even a few grilled cheese nights with Bea. But Melody’s roommate thought that eating in a building where people were sick, dying, or even dead was rather morbid, so she tended to avoid the place entirely.

The stairwells were empty and Melody’s sneakers squeaked against the floor, each footstep echoing as she traveled up to the fourth floor. She was ravenous and had finished half of her breakfast by the time she pushed her way out into the hallway. Everyone at the desk was busy, hands occupied with paperwork and computers, so Melody didn’t give her usual greeting, just sipped at her green smoothie to wash down her bagel and rounded the corner to Harry’s room.

The door was propped open, cool air drifting in from one of the windows. Melody placed the second half of her bagel between her teeth, shivering as she crossed to yank the window shut, but when she turned back into the room the food fell from her mouth. Cream cheese stuck it to the tiles.

“Harry?” she whispered.

He was laying as he always was in his bed, fingers splayed out over his sheets. But this time, they were dancing atop the cotton. His eyes were hooded but open, that familiar green flickering as they roamed the room. Melody heard his pulse spike over the machine he was hooked up to. It took her a moment to recover the rest of her senses.

“Uh, just…stay there,” she mumbled, slipping her smoothie onto the windowsill and leaving her bagel on the ground as she fled the room.

When Melody reached the hall, she thought her lungs had ceased working. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might bruise her ribs, crack them even, and she practically yelled when she reached the corner, where she could see the floor desk.

“Vanessa,” she rushed, eyes wide and wild, fingers whitening around the corner of drywall, “I need Dr. Florin. Now.”

“What?” asked the nurse, looking over, a telephone still pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “She’s at—“

“Now, Vanessa,” Melody snapped. “He’s awake.”

Vanessa stared over the desk. When she hung up the phone, she nearly pulled hair out of her bun with it, the strands locked still in her grip. She hurried down the opposite hall and Melody receded around the corner, pressing the back of her head to the wall, trying to slow her staggered breaths.

Dr. Florin and Vanessa came whirling into sight not moments later. The doctor rushed right past and into the room, but Vanessa paused when she saw Melody, lips tightly pressed together, eyes directed toward the ceiling. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

Melody swallowed and shook her head. “I—I can’t.”

Vanessa’s sigh sounded exasperated. “Melody, this is a good thing. You’ve been waiting for this. I don’t understand what the problem is."

Melody touched her fingertips to her forehead. “What if he doesn’t remember me?” she whispered. She didn’t ask, What if he does? What if he still doesn’t need me? Doesn’t want me? She had been waiting for this, but now that it was happening, she didn’t know how to react. She felt like she was falling. Months hadn’t been enough time to prepare for this reality. And she felt selfish for thinking so.

“You’ll have no idea what you’re working with until you go in there,” Vanessa told her, and she pulled Melody away from the wall by her elbow. “And if he does remember you, I’m sure he’d appreciate a familiar face right now. Go.”

Melody made it to the doorway and paused again. The doctor was leaned over Harry, blocking her view, and she felt her fingers trembling at her sides. Vanessa, however, had followed closely behind her and shoved her into the room. Dr. Florin looked up at the sound of her footsteps.

“Oh, good,” she greeted.

Already Harry was rid of his breathing tube. He glanced at Melody when she came into view and the weight of his gaze felt absolute. It pressed upon every inch of her skin, closed up her lungs. In that one glance she could discern nothing, not recognition or hate or love. It did nothing to ease her dizzy mind.

“Do you remember who this is?” the doctor asked. Melody didn’t see or hear Harry respond. But he must have, because Florin smiled at her and nodded. “Good, good. I’ll let you have some time with him before we take him in for some scans and tests, Melody.”

She pressed Harry’s hand back to his side when he attempted to lift it, his muscles straining with the effort. “No big movements yet, all right? Be patient.” Then she backed away from the bed and stopped at Melody’s side, lowering her voice and smoothing down the side of her own tied-back hair.

“This is good, Melody. He’s responsive. There’s no speech, not yet, but that’s all right. It can take some time. He’ll squeeze your hand once for ‘yes' and twice for ‘no' if you ask him questions. Try to talk with him, but do it gently. Take it slow with the explanations of what’s going on, we can do that later. Okay?”

Melody gave the doctor a delayed nod and before she knew it she was left alone with Harry, the door shut, his eyes blinking up at the ceiling. She pulled in a shaky breath and took tentative steps to the chair at his bedside, where she had spent so much time. Her current read was still sitting on the table, spine cracked and cover curled from frequent handling. She pulled the chair over the tiles until her knees touched the edge of the mattress and then slipped her fingers gently into Harry’s before she could second guess herself.

His eyes lowered from the ceiling and to her face. They were wide, glassy, wet, and she reached instinctively forward to dab at the water that collected beneath his lash line as he blinked.

“Hi,” she whispered, sitting back. She licked her lips and ran her thumb along the back of his hand. She could have cried herself when his fingers fluttered in her grip.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked. It was a pitiful first question. She had dreamt about Harry waking up so many times, so vividly, laughing and crying and forgiving. Those dreams were unrealistic. She knew that. Speech would not be immediate. Understanding would probably not be immediate. There were so many possibilities that the damage to Harry’s head might affect his memory or his personality, short term or long term. Doctor Florin had told her recovery wouldn’t be easy or simple or fast if Harry woke up. And now it was happening, the thing that had been so out of reach and implausible, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

Harry’s hand contracted around her fingers so gently that at first she didn’t even register it. Then she let out an overwhelmed gasp and closed her eyes. “Good,” she murmured.

Harry was staring unblinkingly at her when she looked back at him. God, she wished she could have a real conversation with him. She didn’t know what she could tell him, what she should ask that he could respond to. But she couldn’t just sit there in silence when he was looking at her like that.

“And…do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

Harry’s eyes fluttered as he examined Melody's face. She felt a thin pressure on her fingers once, twice, and her heart dropped in her chest. She didn’t want to have to explain it to him, even if she wasn’t going to do it today. She relived that day enough in her head, in her nightmares. She didn’t want to have to verbalize it all over again.

Melody nodded after a moment. “Okay,” she whispered. “I can tell you, but…just not right now.”

Harry just watched her, waiting, patient. She stared down at her own hand, the skin around her nails cracked and red and bitten raw. Her heart leapt, but she made herself ask the questions anyway.

“What about the night of my reading? And the Tuesday after? Do you remember those?”

There was no delay between her words and Harry’s squeeze of her fingers. Just once. Yes. Yes, I remember.

Melody curled her lower lip between her teeth. She squeezed his hand back. “Well, I’d say I’m sorry again but you can’t really tell me to fuck off right now, so I guess that can wait.”

He made a sound between a grunt and a sigh, a quick outlet of air that sounded foreign in the comparable quiet of this space. The door opened again. Almost a laugh, Melody decided. And that was all it took for her to burst into tears as Dr. Florin and Vanessa entered the room. Harry had laughed.

Chapter 1

[lemondropsssss]

Jaskier spends what feels like an eternity wrapped up in Geralt’s arms. He hadn’t expected the embrace to last so long, but each time he goes to pull away Geralt makes a glorious growling sound and tightens his grip and really, how is Jaskier supposed to argue with that? He feels safe for what he realizes is the first time in a long time. Geralt’s scent hasn’t changed, is still the same leather-sword oil-horse-musk that is somehow intoxicating. So he tucks himself under his Witcher’s chin and just breathes, and to his amazement Geralt lets him- no, wants him , is holding him as if he’s important, and it warms him from the inside out.

“We should get back to the house,” Geralt says eventually, voice rumbling in his chest as he pulls back and looks the scant inch down at him. Jaskier steels himself for whatever pity might await him when he meets his gaze but there is none. Just a kind of calm fondness Jaskier hasn’t seen before. “I don’t like leaving Fiona alone for too long.”

“She’s fourteen, I think she can handle a hot mug on her own by now,” Jaskier mutters, not caring that Geralt can absolutely hear him, but he steps away all the same.

Geralt grunts back, but Jaskier can tell he’s smiling. It’s all in the eyes crinkles, after all. “C’mon, say your goodbyes so we can go.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but does go give Roach one last pat, reminding her that she is practically perfect in every way and such a good horse and better than Geralt and it’s not as if he actually walks anywhere, unlike some very good horses I could name. Geralt’s smile grows to almost-visible-to-the-naked-eye, but he soon pulls Jaskier away with a muttered, How many times do I have to tell you to stop trying to fuck my horse, and the exasperatedly fond look on his face makes Jaskier’s stomach swoop.

He’s still angry. Still sad. Still doesn’t believe him, is still waiting for the moment Geralt will turn around and leave him alone in the dust like so many times before. It will hurt when he goes, surely, but at least this time Jaskier will be prepared for it. He’s built himself a life outside Geralt, his world won’t come to a screeching halt when he leaves. And maybe if Jaskier proves he can handle himself without his scary Witcher around, said scary Witcher would be more inclined to visit. But he does like this feeling. Walking side by side again, shoulders brushing companionably, how achingly familiar it all is.

The front window is vacant when they pass, and Jaskier assumes Ciri’s gone up to bed courtesy of Bea’s sleepy tea. He’s surprised then to find the teen sat up on the countertop, potato in one hand and paring knife in the other. She has a look of fierce concentration on her face as she works carefully, the tip of her tongue clenched between her teeth. Bea is close by, up to her elbows in flour and wrestling with a shaggy bread dough while still keeping a close eye on both Ciri and the pot bubbling over the hearth; the woman is a master, and Jaskier stops to watch her with a smile on his face.

“Geralt!” While he’d been distracted by the domestic scene, Geralt had come in behind him and was now crossing the room with the softest look Jaskier has ever seen on his face.

“G’morning, cub.” Geralt presses a kiss to her temple, and Jaskier has to stop himself from staring; both at the pet name and the very public display of affection. Public being only two other people of course, but that was still rather public to Geralt of Rivia. Ciri must be used to the attention for she pays it no mind, which confounds him even more. “Julian said you didn’t sleep well. More of the dreams?” He tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear and it’s the thoughtlessness of the motion that stands out to Jaskier.

This is a kind of casual and easy affection he’d only seen- well, that he’d only seen with him. Usually in a liminal time; in a shared bed some fuzzy between awake and sleep, or after the sixth ale of  a long night, pressed together in a dark corner of a tavern. And Geralt would sweep a hand across his, or press their knees together under the table, or curl a protective arm around his waist while they slept. Seeing that affection here, in the bright light of morning is something he wasn’t prepared for, and he takes a seat at the table lest his legs fail him.

Ciri and Geralt are oblivious to his confusion; she’s showing him how her knife skills have improved, and he’s watching her with a kind of fond fascination Jaskier’s never seen before but finds he quite enjoys. He looks up suddenly, their eyes meet, and Geralt’s expression turns to something more Jaskier can’t even begin to place. This man who gives affection freely and without pause is not the Geralt familiar to him.

It isn’t long before Bea finishes setting out a proper morning meal, and Jaskier can’t help but feel a crippling domesticity as they sit down to eat. Their breakfast is porridge with honey and cream, sausages, and the good brown bread that Bea has refused to ever share the recipe for, no matter how much coin Jaskier offers her. She doesn’t sit to eat, which doesn’t surprise him, but she does continue to work on whatever lunch is going into the pot over the hearth.

It’s a good breakfast, and good company. Ciri does wonders towards greasing the conversation, and Geralt says more than a few grunts in passing, which Jaskier considers a monumental feat. But they came to him for a reason and needs must, so Jaskier steers the conversation back towards the business that brought them to his doorstep.

“When you came to me at the University, you said you needed help. What kind? Money, clothes, food?” It’s blunt, but Jaskier would rather know now what the price for this visit will be.

Geralt looks thrown for a moment before he answers. “All of the above. We’re heading North, towards Kaer Morhen. We need,” He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the actual asking part of asking for help, “Money, yes, and winter clothes. Another mount. Fiona needs a better disguise; cutting her hair, dye maybe- maybe even for both of us.” He makes a face at that and Jaskier wants to laugh; Geralt always did love his hair. “We stand out, it makes us too easy to track. Nilfguaard is-” He cuts off, worried gaze wavering over Ciri, which she huffs at and continues in his place.

“Nilgfuaard is hunting us. Me, technically. They’ve been tracking me since Cintra. And they’ve killed everyone who’s tried to help me.” She doesn’t meet either of their eyes. “They’ll hurt anyone to get to me. Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe.” Ciri is somber and serious for a girl her age, and Jaskier notices she tucks her hands into her lap out of view.

His compassion for her is quickly overtaken by the creeping feeling of something cold sliding down his spine. Poor stupid little Julian who never learns, the voice inside him taunts, He has his child, has the great mage herself, what use is a washed up old bard to a Witcher? All he needs from you is money, he said it himself. That’s what this morning was, the idea twists around inside him and it hurts, physically hurts him to think it but he can’t stop, Nothing genuine, just a way to keep poor stupid little Julian on his leash. He doesn’t- couldn’t actually care for you.

“Right well, ah-” Jaskier’s voice is hard to his own ears, so he clears his throat before trying again. “That shouldn't be any trouble. We should ah-” His mouth runs dry and he’s just trying to get through this as quickly as possible so he can flee and maybe hide from his houseguests for a good few hours in the tub. But no, he is a mature and reasonable adult who is pleasant to his houseguests and who does not cry in front of them. Geralt is watching him closely with an odd look on his face, and Jaskier feels uncomfortably seen. “We should armor you too, you’re no use to anyone at all as a Witcher with no armour and only one sword.”

“Of no use to anyone at all?” Geralt rumbles, one annoyed eyebrow raised in Jaskier’s direction.

“The last time I checked you can still bleed, O Great and Mighty Witcher, and that shirt you’re wearing wouldn’t stop a butter knife.” For a moment they sound like they used to, and it doesn’t shatter his heart at all to hear. He clears his throat, trying to force down the hard lump of familiarity threatening to choke him. “We can get you a mount easy enough. I assume you’ll want one more Fiona-sized?” He winks at Ciri and she grins. “That shouldn’t be an issue, I have friends at the horse market who owe me a favor. Or several, as the case may be. As for clothes, we can go today to the seamstress on-”

“Pardon, Master Julian?” It’s Bea, a few paces away from the table. Jaskier knows she wouldn’t interrupt without cause, and gestures for her to continue. “You may want to dress the child down in things that look more travel-worn as to blend in. Fresh made clothes might fit well, but they’ll draw attention off the beaten path. I still have some of my Piotr’s things, I could fit them to her size easy enough. They’re a bit battered, but well made. She’ll need a new cloak though, I don’t think his will be warm enough for where you’re going.”

“Bea, you are a blessing from the Gods,” Jaskier beams, mentally kicking himself for not thinking of that. Of course they shouldn’t buy new things, fresh clothes are like a beacon to bandits on the road. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. “Auntie, do you have anything we can dye Fiona’s hair with?” He sends Ciri a reassuring smile across the table. “Your hair is beautiful, little one, but your Witcher is right; it draws too many eyes to you.”

Bea considers for a moment before she nods. “I’ve got a walnut dye that should do for her, aye.”

“Grand, you see to that, and I’ll go see a man about a horse. Huh. For the first time, possibly ever, I actually mean that.” He’s out of his chair and halfway across the room before he’s stopped by an oh-so familiar growl.

“I’ll go with Julian.”

“No,” He’s saying before he even turns around,  “You’ll stay here with Fiona and get your hair colored.” Geralt looks like he’s about to argue so Jaskier beats him to it. “Or do you not remember that everyone on the continent is looking for you? If you’re not seen by a Nilfguaardian, you’re seen by a spy, or an informant, or some sad random asshole looking to score the reward purse. So you’ll be staying here, and getting your beauty treatment.”

There’s a stunned little look on his face that makes Jaskier more pleased than it should. He leaves them there, sure Bea will keep them on track and out of trouble, and starts the walk down the street towards the horse markets.

Jaskier wraps the heavy knitted scarf- a present from Bea on his last birthday- around his neck to keep out the first chills of autumn, but that does nothing to keep the ice from his heart. It began as a cool pinprick during breakfast, Geralt is taking us to Yspaden to meet Yennefer, and then to Kaer Morhen together where we’ll be safe and has shifted into a sharp spike of Yennefer, Kaer Morhen, safe that he doesn’t know what to do with.

He remembers the first time he’d asked where Geralt went in winter. He’d been twenty-two, or maybe twenty-four, and as with most stories they’d been drunk. He had wanted to invite Geralt back to Oxenfurt with him, but then Geralt had told him of the crumbling Witcher’s fortress, and the brothers he met there each year. He understood, when Geralt said it was the Witchers sanctuary and not a place for troublesome bards; when they were out in the world, Witchers could never relax, never take a deep breath for fear of killing or being killed. Of course they would need a place without humans, without others, where they could be free for a few months a year. Jaskier was never hurt that Geralt did not share that place with him- if anything, he loved that Geralt had somewhere safe and warm to rest his weary bones each year.

And Jaskier is a grown ass man, he will not begrudge a child being allowed to her father’s home but. But Yennefer. Jaskier knows about the sacking, he knows the last mages to set foot in Kaer Morhen were the ones who brought it crumbling down. If Geralt is bringing Yennefer that must mean they’re together. It will be Yennefer Geralt presents to his brothers, Yennefer who will walk the halls, explore the library, spend months curled up with her lover and their child and-

The honey-colored memory of their early morning embrace is souring in his mind; like black ink spilled over the image and corrupting it until there is nothing left but the acrid feel of Geralt’s arms around him and the burning knowledge that he was going to be left behind again. The promise of the morning means nothing now- Geralt will leave him for Yennefer like he always does, and Jaskier will let him like he always does, and the status quo will remain ever stable.

Jaskier should learn to say no when old not-friends show up at his doorstep, he really should.

He quickens his pace- if he hurries the sale, he might be able to convince Filip to take an early lunch and they can get spectacularly drunk in the hayloft like stupid teenagers instead of doing their actual jobs.

-

here are parts one two three four five. and the full story is on ao3 here 

[harryandmolly]

i could write it better than you ever felt it - three

summary: fuck growing up. this is freedom, this is life, this is youth – 2007 Warped Tour style.

warnings: Language, underage drinking, Merriment (TM)

word count: 3k

Val woke up with a boy on her mind.

She bathes in the feeling of it, the comfort it brings her. She has a crush. After the year she’s had, she wasn’t sure she’d be allowed another. It feels like a little gift.

A little gift in a big, perfect, 6’2” package.

Speaking of package…

Val sinks her orthodontist-perfected front teeth into her bottom lip to tamp down her filthy smile. She closes her eyes and imagines the way he felt underneath her last night when they were rolling around in the dirt. His whole body was hard, and not in the way she’s used to. He clearly takes excellent care of himself, which is always sexy. He was all firm muscle wrapped in strong tendons and ligaments under a curtain of surprisingly soft skin. And, when she got a hand up under his shirt, moaning into his open mouth as she traced the defined lines of his abs, she found a nice dusting of chest hair that got her even a little wetter than she already was.

So yeah, he was hard in more ways than one. And Val can’t stop thinking about it.

She fell asleep in Pomona after a romp with her bounding bunny and woke up in Ventura for another round. It didn’t even occur to her until after her third orgasm of the past 24 hours that this is the first time she’s gotten a full eight hours of sleep in… oh, no, she refuses to think about how long it’s been.

What she’d like to stop thinking about, what she shouldn’t really be so impressed by, is how willing he was to stay put under her and let her explore him, drifting his hands over her body as he liked without demanding, without pushing any limits. I mean, really, how low are her standards that she’s actually charmed by respect and consent? That thinking about it makes her blush?

Well, Val cut her teeth on the boys of Warped Tour. So. Those standards? They’re pretty fuckin’ low.

What a nice thing, though, to have a crush. A nice little summer crush. A boy that makes her heart flutter when he skates by, a face to watch in a crowd when she’s had a few and is simmering for him under the cool June moon. A gift, indeed.

She’s pondering possibilities of flirtation, of stolen kisses, of pink cheeks and bashful glances when her bunk curtain flies open and something crawls inside.

Bea burrows her face into Val’s neck as Val wordlessly scooches further into the bunk to make room. Not that they need much. Bea is the size of a peapod.

“Honey bunch,” Bea greets, nuzzling Val’s hair which still smells faintly of bonfire smoke. It’s so signature Warped, it makes Bea grin.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Bea looks up at Val in wonder. “Did you sleep through the night?”

Val wears a proud smirk and tips an eyebrow at her. “I did.”

“Shit, that’s new. The Mendes kid must’ve really worn you out,” Bea yawns, feigning casual. Val chuckles, bouncing Bea against her side.

“Mmmm, what a man what a man what a man…” Val begins.

“What a mighty good mannnnnn,” Bea finishes, laughing.

The girls giggle together until Bea stops, kicking her bare foot at something brushing against it from outside Val’s bunk curtain.

“Guys, it’s Naveen,” a voice calls, making them both smile and settle, “Val, could you… I mean, I’m sorry, I know it’s early…”

Val makes a pitiful face and drags the curtain back, squinting at her friend.

“Naveen, only you could make it sound like you’re inconveniencing me by asking me to do my job. Bless your heart. I’ll be right out.”

Naveen sheepishly stumbles away probably to start unloading Val’s boxes, which she should be doing herself. She just wanted to… bask a little longer.

“No, so really, how was it?” Bea prompts.

Val shrugs. “We made out for almost an hour. I bet my lips are still swollen. It was… in a word, delicious.”

Bea groans and rolls out of the bunk, landing on her feet like a cat somehow. She shoots Val a displeased look. “Seriously? No fucking? You had a body like that at your disposal and you didn’t let him fuck you?”

Val crawls out behind Bea in Soffe shorts and a My Chem shirt that once belonged to an ex-fling. Her joints creak slightly. Maybe she’s getting too old for this touring junk after all.

“I was craving kisses. You ever get that? Where the only thing that will satisfy you is kissing? I’m talking about good, long, hot, full body kisses. The kind that swallow you up and never seem to spit you back out again,” Val muses, leaning back against the wall rattling with the overworked AC unit.

Bea stares at her, deadpan. “I only crave dick.”

Val sighs and nods, seeing her point. She shoos her friend off the bus to change and reluctantly greet the day.

And reluctant she is because it’s 100 in the shade on the second day of Warped in Ventura, California and Jesus Christ, how do people do this for a whole summer? How did she do this living in a van? She’s gone soft. Throughout the morning, she closes her eyes and thinks of England. She imagines sprinkling rain, warm Scottish wool sweaters, mugs of builders tea by the fire in student housing.

Those thoughts don’t make her any cooler though. Neither do the periodical rushes of teenagers flooding her tent to throw their babysitting money at her in exchange for American Apparel tees and hoodies.

Val isn’t Bea, but she’s a damn good merch girl. She stays cool under pressure, she’s well organized, well prepared and knows when to call for back up. Which is why, when it’s 1pm and her line is 20 deep at least and the girl in front of her is insisting she handed Val 20 ones for that beanie hat and Val must’ve just dropped one, she’s never been happier to see her stupid brother.

Raf swings out to greet his minions like he’s Freddy fuckin’ Mercury, doling out cheek kisses and hugs and Sharpied autographs on various body parts. It gives Val a second to breathe, to regroup, to take care of a few straggling merchgoers before his work is done and he can turn back to her triumphantly like a hero or some shit.

She slumps into her chair and makes a face. He imitates it back flawlessly.

“Thanks, or something,” she sighs, tilting her nose up in the air. He falls into the chair next to her, sweaty from their set.

“How’s it been this morning?” he hums, picking at the fraying holes in his jeans. Raf likes to think of himself as old school – he doesn’t buy holey jeans. He buys jeans and lets them get holey by sheer force of rockstar will.

“Fine. It was nice this morning; I started a sing-a-long with the girls in line who knew every word to Yellow Pages.”

Raf looks impressed. Yellow Pages was an unreleased demo, one of the first solo songs Raf ever wrote. Only the Youtubiest Youtubers have hunted it down. They can both respect that hustle.

They’re quiet for a moment, enjoying the lull, when Raf perks up.

“H-hey, look who it is,” he chuckles, nodding across from them to an extraordinarily tall figure behind the Bayside merch tent looking sweaty and a little lost. Val winces.

“Raf, come on—”

“HEY! SHAWN!” Raf barks, holding up one long dark arm to wave him down. Val groans low out of her nose but shows no indication on her face.

Shawn flails for a second as he spins, not terribly graceful on those big feet of his. He spots where he’s needed and goes white as a sheet. Val smacks her lips.

“You know, he probably thinks you’re going to try to fight him for my honor.”

Raf keeps a friendly, welcoming gaze on Shawn, waving more insistently, “That ship has long since sailed. SHAWN!”

Val holds her head high as Shawn walks over, a little slower than what’s normal, looking extremely hesitant. Raf is eating it the fuck up.

“Hey, buddy, how was your first barbecue?” Raf laughs, feigning ignorance.

Val lifts an eyebrow. Shawn’s eyes snap to hers in a panic.

“Uhm, fine—good, yeah, it was good. Great, even.”

“Great!” Raf repeats, too much vigor in his voice. It’s giving Val a headache, “Great, that’s so great. I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Shawn nods solemnly, eyes wide, waiting to be scolded by one of the Moreno twins. Val sighs.

“I need to pee, come walk with me,” she insists, shooting her brother a look. Raf smirks and holds his hands up in surrender, staying at his post.

Shawn keeps up with Val’s enormous steps quite handily. He doesn’t even seem to notice how fast she walks, but it’s the first thing a lot of people notice about her.

“So… last night…” Shawn begins.

Val tilts her head, looking at him expectantly. He’s clearly waiting for her to step in and make a comment. Whenever boys start a thought like that, it’s what they want.

Maybe Val’s a little more like Raf than she realized. She likes making him squirm.

“Hm?” she prompts, nodding.

He huffs a gentle breath. “Last night was cool.”

She can’t say she’s surprised. Was she expecting song lyrics to come flooding out of his perfect, soft mouth that she knows very intimately now?

“Last night was cool,” she agrees, stepping a little closer to them as they walk back toward the port-o-potties.

“Are you… uhm, do you think you’re going to the one tonight on the beach?”

She drowns in the sweetness of it for a minute, feels like a cute boy is walking her to her locker and asking her if she’s going to the malt shop after school. She should be wearing a poodle skirt and swooning to match the look on her face right now.

“The Ventura barbecue is always one of the best of the year. What happens on the beach stays on the beach,” she teases, elbowing him playfully. He loosens up a little, chuckling.

“Cool, yeah,” Shawn says, “Maybe we can hang out again, then.”

Val tamps down a smile and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. He watches it get hooked away and watches it fall back into place against her cheek. He scrubs the back of his neck with his hand as they arrive by the maze of port-o-potties.

Not the most romantic setting, but…

Shawn suddenly tucks a hand against Val’s neck and kisses her. It’s quick, he only lingers for a split piece of a moment to suck a little at her lower lip before he pulls back. His eyes are dancing and he’s got color in his cheeks that can’t be attributed to the heat of the California morning.

���See you tonight,” he says, walking backwards for a few feet before turning and jogging off toward the Forefront van. She watches him go with an amused chuckle and a glance at the seat of his pants.

+

Val tips back and forth with her arm around Steve from New Found Glory and Bea on her other side. She’s filled to the brim with tequila, salt and lime eagerly fed to her by the NFG boys, some of her oldest scene friends.

“I don’t care what you think, I like that new Hannah Montana song,” Val yells into Steve’s ear over the boppy rhythm of “We’re At the Top Of the World” by the Juliana Theory.

Steve rolls his eyes, feigning disappointment. “You’re better than that, Moreno.”

“I most certainly am not!” she laughs, knocking her Corona against his in a lazy, drunken cheers.

It’s 9pm and it feels like the sun has only just set. It’s a little cool so close to the beach so she’s snuggled into Steve for warmth even if he’s more of a brother to her than her own brother sometimes. Her fuzzy brain reminds her to look for Shawn and the Forefront boys again because they haven’t shown up yet and she finds herself feeling a little girlishly eager.

A raucous behind them makes her turn under Steve’s arm. She feels Bea poking her arm but ignores her, smiling smoothly.

Francis has launched himself onto Shawn’s back as they stride down the hill from the vans and buses in a phalanx of men in women’s jeans. Seth is laughing with his hand on his stomach. The others are ignoring them as though it’s something that happens at this same time every day.

Shawn screams, laughs as he kneels and flips Francis over his head to slam into the ground. The barbecue goers all “oooooooh” in sympathetic pain as Francis coughs and tries to regain his breath. Shawn rolls his eyes and helps him up. As soon as Francis is on his feet, he’s leaping onto Shawn’s back again.

Val licks a drop of beer from the corner of her lips and shrugs out from under Steve’s arm, shivering a little. She stumbles past Bea’s clingy arms and “no, noooooo!”s in favor of walking straight into Shawn’s path as he resigns to his new cling-on.

“Hi,” she blurts with a grin, cocking her head at him. Shawn skids to a stop. Francis bounces against his back with a muffled groan.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tightening his grip around Francis’s knees. Francis drunkenly laughs, cheek resting against Shawn’s shoulder. Val looks over at him with a smirk.

“You boys look a little worse for wear.”

“No one came to our set,” Francis sighs.

“That’s not true,” Shawn argues.

“14 people came to our set,” Francis corrects, wrinkling his nose.

Shawn shrugs. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

“We all play to empty rooms sometimes,” she reminds them, nodding past them to the Streets boys throwing Raf into the ocean. Shawn follows her gaze and laughs.

“Can he swim?”

She shakes her head. “Not when he’s more vodka than boy.”

She looks back at Shawn and smiles. He’s a little sunburnt and doubly flushed from whatever booze they pity-drank after their meager set. He smells like a fresh shower and Val can’t help but wonder if it’s for her.

She thrusts her chin in Francis’s direction. “Ditch your sloth boy and come drink with us.”

Shawn unceremoniously drops Francis, who hangs around his neck for a second before thumping into the sand below them with a groan.

“Us?” Shawn asks.

Val nods to NFG and Bea. Shawn’s eyes go comically wide.

“Oh shit,” he breathes.

“C’mon, celebrities are just like us,” she teases, taking his big, warm hand in hers and tugging him toward her friends.

Shawn wants to protest, wants to dig his heels in and shake his head like a toddler, but he thinks after last night he’d follow this woman straight into a wildfire. He pastes on an anxious smile as she introduces him to everyone. The tiny merch girl, Bea, seems especially interested in him, elbowing Val every chance she got like a middle schooler. It makes Shawn wonder if maybe Val has been talking about him. He shivers at the idea.

Shawn and Val sit together in the sand. As the hours grow later, Shawn gets chattier, bonds with Chad and Jordan while Val watches and occasionally moves curls out of his eyes like a total girlfriend but she doesn’t care because she’s lit. A joint is passed around and everything slows down a little.

Shawn is leaning back on his hands, one of which is behind Val so they’re almost, just ever-so-casually intertwined. She leans into his ear to talk sometimes and he feels the hair on his neck stand up from her hot breath on his skin. Her fingers sneak toward his and brush against each other in the sand. Shawn’s skin prickles with need. He chews on his lower lip until Val nudges him.

“I’m ready to go,” she announces quietly. Her eyes look molten and black in the beach bonfire light. His stomach churns. He nods quickly and stands despite all the liquor in his system. He takes her hands and pulls her up with him.

She loops an arm around his waist as she makes her goodbyes. He feels awkward holding her like this, like they’re wearing a sign together that says “we’re leaving to fuck now, have a good night.” But when she slides her hand in the back pocket of his jeans, the worry is gone. He grows antsy as she waves goodbye. When he finally has her leading away from the barbecue, away from the rushing crash of the Pacific and the dull drone of Good Charlotte on the stereo, he places his lips by her ear to speak.

“Your place or mine?”

He’s a little proud of that line.

Val curls into his body and rests a hand on his stomach through his black t-shirt.

“Yours.”

+

Val blinks. It’s quiet. The bluish tint of dawn comes in through the windows.

She tries to lift her head too quickly and finds her cheek is stuck to his bare chest. She winces as her skin peels away from his. She plants her hands on either side of him to push herself up and take stock of the situation.

It’s early, but buses haven’t started leaving for the next stop in Mountain View yet. She is wearing her t-shirt and skimpy pink panties. Her jeans are pooled on the floor of the van next to her. Shawn is deeply asleep beneath her in a pair of boxer briefs. The Forefront boys have all returned to the bus and have therefore seen her in this state of being, passed out on top of their lead singer. Their tour manager Andrew is elsewhere.

Val looks down at Shawn. He looks younger, somehow, as he sleeps. She sweeps some cherubic curls off his forehead and drags a hand down his chest appreciatively. As quietly as she can, she gathers her shoes and jeans in hand and opens the sliding door to the van.

Like a thief in the night, she steals back to the dark silence of the Streets bus, crawls into her bunk and falls into a fitful sleep.

Taglist: @smallerinfinities @the-claire-bitch-project @stillinskislydia @achinglyshawn @infiniteshawn​ @alone-in-madness​ @alone-in-madness @singanddreamanyway @accioalena @randi-eve @shawnitsmutual