#Elle is so nice to him and gentle and UGH

[sungwanns]

what we could’ve had with spencer and jj blah blah blah ELLE what we could’ve had with spencer and ELLE !! THATS what we should be mourning

[tinyraptorhands]

How to Break Your Nerd

((MDNI: SMUT))

((Alt. Universe))

There was something about him.

Everyone told you you were fucking nuts.

"No fucking way, he's like…weird."

"Hes always so pissy!"

"Ugh, babe, no. Hard pass."

But here you were; in his college dorm. Making that same pissy, weird-ass nerd break into a moaning, sweaty mess.

If only they could see him now.

"Fuck, fuck-slow down!" He moaned, trying to grab your hips for control. "G'nna…make me cum-"

You slapped his hands away. "Good." You smirked, bouncing on his cock.

He had a pretty damn impressive cock-you weren't suprised, though. All thick and veiny, just for you. For looking like a stereotypical geek (can you say, thick black framed glasses??), He was suprisingly jacked.

But for all that muscle, he was a weak man underneath you. You felt your slick make a lovely little foamy ring around the base of him, collecting in his sparse blonde pubes. "Look, Kats-making me cream all over you." You panted, "such a good boy."

"Shut…up!" He grunted through his teeth, reaching for your hips again.

And again, you slapped them away-and lead them to your ass. "Here, if you wanna grab…" Immediately, his cock twitched. He let out a whine, threw his head back and suddenly-

Oops.

You felt his cock throb in your tight hole, oozing out along with your slick. You grinned.

"Y'did it again, Katsuki~." You drawled, leaning in. You nibbled at his collarbone, his salty sweat coating your tongue. He moaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. You giggled.

"I fuckin' hate you." He muttered, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

But before he could catch his breath, you began to thrust against him. He hissed. "Fuck, get off! M'sensitive!" His hands flew to your hips, and you felt his softening cock begin to slip out.

Oh, hell no.

You immediately pulled his hands off you, pinning them to his sides. "Shut up. I'm not done yet."

His eyes grew wide. "The fuck're you-"

He was cut off by a gasp, feeling your hole clench like a vice around his soft member. You gushed his spend and your own essence, you grinning ferally.

"Bet I can make it hard again." You said, licking your lips.

He shook his head violently. "Abso-fuckin'-loutely not!" He said. You pouted.

"Aw, c'mon. Promise I'll be gentle!" You whined and gave another light clench. He hissed, body trembling.

"Yer gonna fuckin'….break it-"

You sighed, letting go of his wrists.

"Katsuki." You grabbed his jaw, making him look at you, "don't I always make you feel good?"

His eyes narrowed, barely nodding. You smirked and pressed your fingers into his cheeks, holding his jaw firmly. "Now, open."

He looked at you quizically, but did so. You frowned.

"Wider."

"Ah?" He looked annoyed.

Good.

Your lips twitched, gathering spit in the front of your teeth. Your lips pursed and then-

"Phpt."

You spit in his mouth, making him jolt.

"Ah 'ell!?" He didn't close his mouth, looking at you like you just pissed in it. You then closed his jaw shut.

"Swallow." You commanded softly.

And when he saw those eyes of yours, that expression?

He did. Audibly.

And his cock suddenly wasn't so soft anymore.

You let go of his jaw, immediately raising your hips, his cock now visible and dripping. Strings of his semen and your slick connected his aching member to your hole. "Look, see? Nice and hard for me." You smiled, and before he could even protest, you slammed your hips down. He cried out as you moaned.

"Fuckin' bitch!" He groaned, finally grabbing your hips. "G-gonna….kill me!" Despite his protests, he was following the rapid rhythm you set.

The wet sounds of skin slapping against skin along with both your voices filled the air. The scent of sex was heavy, a humid blanket of his musk and your own. You leaned down, biting on his jugular lightly. You could feel his pulse thrumming through your teeth, in time to the throbbing cock inside you. He whimpered, making your pelvis buck as he rutted into your tight hole.

Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around you, digging his blunt nails into your flesh. You keened. "Oh, such a good boy!!" You practically screamed. Immediately, you felt that familiar heat building up in your tummy-that hot gooey want releasing itself into a tidal wave of pure ecstasy. Your hole pulsed around his member, milking him as you squirted violently. It dripped down to his navel, making his toned stomach shine with your fluids.

He didn't stop, moaning and whining as you laid over him. Too cock drunk to care, you felt him withdraw. You whined, but then felt him re-enter with renewed vigor.

"Shit, shit, shit yer such a fuckin' bitch-"

You gasped, moaning lowly as you arched into him, your ass bouncing against his pelvis. You could feel his balls slapping against your sensitive areas, making your oversensitive hole flutter around his cock. Your head arched back. "C'mon, you fucking nerd! Make me cum again!"

"M'not. A fuckin. Ne-" before he could finish that sentence, his cockhead burst with hot seed once again. Globs of his spend oozed out the seam of your entrance, dripping onto the bed below. He dropped his head to your shoulder, hands and his hips trembling.

You both panted, your hands fisting the All Might blanket on his bed. He collapsed on top of you, making you grunt. Your sweat slicked bodies stilled for a moment, the only movement being your breaths.

After a few moments, you slid out from underneath him. He moaned, flipping over. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, and you laid at his side. You traced small circles on his chest.

"See? Told you I'd be gentle." You said, voice hoarse. He clicked his tongue.

"Fuck off." He grunted, reaching for his glasses near the nightstand.

Only to find them not there. "Oi, the fu-"

Crunch

His eyes went wide, as did yours. He immediately got up, and saw his glasses where his back once laid.

The frames were bent, and the lenses were cracked. You frowned as he looked at the mess that was once his glasses.

"....Well shit." You murmured. "Guess you gotta get new ones, yeah?"

He blinked and then groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I fucking hate you." He muttered.

"Nah, you're just mad your nerd-ass glasses are broken."

"I'm not a NERD!"

You giggled. "Sure, Kats. Sure."

Regardless, this semester taught you something valuable.

Nerds could fuck.

And you took advantage of that, every single chance you got.

"You're paying for my glasses, by the way." He mentioned. "They're a limited edition remake of All Might's silver age disguise glasses. Be prepared to shell out a pretty penny." He smirked.

"Ah fuck." You muttered, flopping onto your stomach.

Nerds also could be vindictive.

At least his cock was worth it.

...And maybe him.

((Inspired by this lil' diddy))

[allthingsfangirl101]

AFTR: Chapter 4 - Let The Interregation Begin

Masterlist

After we got in last night, we were interrogated by my family. They asked Glen about his life and his work. They asked us about our relationship and how we got started.

My mom about had heart palpitations when she heard that we met on a plane and he worked hard to find me again. My sister made a comment about him being a stalker. I immediately corrected her and told her that I found it sweet and romantic.

After several rounds of questions being thrown at us that Glen answered without hesitation, Dad finally cut it off and said it was time for bed.

Glen grabbed my hand and led me upstairs. We closed the door and got ready for bed. It should've felt awkward sleeping next to a complete stranger, but it wasn't. It almost felt natural. We fell asleep within minutes.

I woke up to the sun shining through the window. I rolled over, my heart slightly beating against my chest when I saw Glen asleep. I carefully got out of bed and slipped into the shower. I got out and got dressed before leaving the bathroom. When I left the bathroom, Glen was awake.

"There you are, darling."

"Hey," I smiled as I walked in, running my fingers through my hair.

"What are the plans for today?"

"Nothing," I said, slightly clearing my throat. Glen laughed as he got out of bed and walked over to me.

"Not having a plan bothers you, doesn't it?" He smirked.

"Maybe," I mumbled lol. He laughed as he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer. In the back of my mind, I realized that the door was closed. He wasn't doing this for my family.

"We can always come up with our own plans," he said, genuinely trying to comfort me.

"Or," I elongated, "we could take it one random activity at a time."

"That's going to kill you," Glen laughed. "Just send me a look and I will make up some plan to escape the nothingness with your family."

"Thank you," I whispered. Glen pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek before walking past me and starting to get ready.

"I have to ask," Glen said as we finished getting ready for the day, "do you like your family calling you by your full name? It seems like every time they say your name, you kind of cringe."

"It makes me sound like a 75-year-old woman," I chuckled awkwardly as I sat on the edge of the bed. Glen laughed as he walked over and sat next to me. "My sisters know how much I hate my name so they purposefully call me by my full name to tease me."

"You know," he smirked as he scooted closer to me, "I think it bothers your older sister when I call you Ellie."

"Guess it's working," I whispered. He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. We scooted closer as our lips moved softly in sync.

"Ugh!" We broke apart and turned around to see Kelley in the doorway. "I hate to remind you," she shot at us, "but there are children in the house."

"I know, Kelley," I smiled sweetly. "We'll make sure we close and lock the door tonight."

I stood up and smirked at her as I shut the door on her. I turned around and Glen and I instantly started laughing. He pulled me onto the bed as we slowly stopped laughing.

"I'm really glad that you agreed to come with me," I said softly. "I know we've only been here one night, but you've already helped me."

"I have?" He asked, studying me.

"Yeah," I shrugged. "It's nice knowing I have at least one person on my side."

* * * * *

We walked downstairs to see Mom cooking pancakes. Kelley was drinking coffee while Ian fed their three-year-old daughter, Chloe. Their twin boys, Brandon and Bryson, were playing some video games. I wasn't sure where my dad and Aaiden were.

I smiled when Glen poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me before pouring one for himself. He leaned against the counter and smiled at me as he took a sip.

"Aunt Elle!"

Glen took a step back as Brandon and Bryson ran over to me and almost tackled me.

"When did you get here?" Brandon asked as they let me go.

"We got in last night."

"We?" Bryson asked. It was then that they noticed Glen.

"Who are you?" They asked in sync.

"Boys," I said, with a slight warning in my voice, "this is Glen, my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" They asked in sync again. They looked at each other before beginning to ask Glen questions.

"What do you do?"

"You look like a cowboy."

"Do you ride horses?"

"Do you ride bulls?"

"Are you an actual cowboy?"

"Do you play video games?"

"You look familiar."

"Are you familiar because you killed someone?"

"Are you wanted by the police?"

"Are you going to hurt our Aunt Elle?"

"How'd you meet our Aunt Elle?"

"Do you love her?"

"Boys!" I cut them off. "You know, he'd be able to answer questions if you paused between them."

"Okay," Bryson shrugged. "Let's talk about you and Aunt Elle."

"Let's not," I pleaded.

"What made you zero in on our aunt?" Brandon asked.

"Zero in? Boys. . ."

Glen reached over and gently wrapped his arm around my waist. "It was her eyes," he answered them.

"What do you mean?" Mom asked, joining the interview.

"When I first walked onto the plane, I instantly found Ellie," he said, looking over at me with a smile that made my heart skip a beat. I suddenly wondered if what he was saying was true. "I remember hoping that my seat was the empty one next to her. When I realized it was, I suddenly got really nervous. I sat next to her and she smiled at me. There was something in her eyes that made me want to stare into them all day long."

Mom let out a long "awww". The twins looked at each other before glancing back at Glen. I looked over to see Kelley rolling her eyes.

"Look, boys," Glen said, glancing at me before turning toward them. "I know how much you love your Aunt Elle. I know that you want to make sure that the guy who comes into her life is willing to take care of her and is worthy of her. I promise I will take care of her and I will work every day of my life to show you and her that I am worthy of her."

I held back my laugh when Brandon and Bryson leaned in and had a very intense hushed conversation with each other.

"We're okay with you," Bryson said.

"But," Brandon said quickly, "if you break her heart. . ."

"We will break your face."

They glared at Glen for a second before running back into the other room. We all laughed when we heard their game start back up.

"You should feel honored, babe," I laughed as I leaned my head on his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed the top of my head.

"The boys are very protective of their Aunt Elle," Ian laughed as he picked their daughter up, out of the highchair. "They mean it when they say they'll hurt you."

Ian took their daughter upstairs to wash her up. With Kelley's judgmental eyes on us, I lifted my head and pressed my lips to Glen's. He reached up, gently cupping my face, as he kissed me back. We broke the kiss and Glen quickly kissed my cheek.

"I don't think they'd actually hurt you," I said, making him laugh.

"Well, don't worry," he said, lowering his voice. "I promise that I have no intention of hurting you, darling."

"I appreciate that."

* * * * *

We finished our breakfast, quietly talking to each other with my sister and mom watching us closely. After we finished, Glen grabbed our plates and put them in the sink. He then grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room where we watched the boys play their games.

"Why don't you help me in the kitchen, Eleanor?" Mom asked in her tone, which meant I shouldn't argue. I glanced worriedly at Glen, who grabbed my hand and smiled.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek to cover up his whisper, "I'll be fine."

I sent him one more look before following my mom into the kitchen. "I'll wash. You dry."

I stood next to her and we started doing the dishes in silence. Until my mom shattered that.

"Sweetie," Mom said in her voice which usually signals a lecture, "Glen seems great."

"He is," I smiled, hesitant to fully trust this conversation.

"I hope you're spending enough time with him."

"Mom. . ."

"I just mean that you can sometimes get a little. . . too focused on your job," she tried to explain. "I'd hate to see you let something good slip through your fingers."

"You mean, you'd hate to see Glen slip through my fingers," I said slowly.

"Well," she stuttered, "it's just. . . You finally found a guy. I'd hate to see you lose him because you're more focused on your job than you are on him."

"Wow," I scoffed. "Just wow, Mom. I have a boyfriend, something you've wanted me to have for years, and all you can think about is how I'm going to definitely lose him."

"I didn't mean it like that," Mom tried to defend herself.

"But you think it," I nodded. "You think I'm going to ruin things."

"You get over-focused on work, sweetheart. If you worked less. . ."

"Glen also works," I tried to point out. "We both have jobs that ask for a lot, but we make time for each other. It's one of the things we promised. On our first date, we talked about our jobs. I told him that I'd probably end up canceling dates at the last minute because of work. He told me he'd probably end up canceling dates at the last minute because he has to travel for a new movie. We both promised that we'd make time for each other. And we do, Mom. Yes, I've canceled a few dates. But so has he. When he's in town, he steals me away for lunch. When I travel to the same place he's filming, we sneak off set early and spend the night together. We each do as much as we can. We both knew what we were getting into when we first started dating."

"I just want you to be careful," Mom said, clearly not hearing anything I just said. "Glen seems like a really sweet guy. I'd hate for you to lose him because you spend more time on your job than on your relationship."

"Mom. . ."

My heart jumped into my throat when Glen walked into the kitchen. One look at him and I knew he had overheard everything.

"Hey, darling," he said, sending a quick glance toward my mom. He walked over and wrapped his arms around my waist. "You ready for that walk on the beach you promised me?"

Taglist @djs8891

[seventfics]

Lionhearted

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Talking in your Sleep Relationships: Cirilla/Morvran Voorhis (+ background Emhyr/Geralt) Rating: T  Content Warnings: None Summary: Before her future reign can begin, Cirilla has to commit to the trust exercise that is an arranged marriage. If only her sleep would be peaceful.

Read on AO3

* * *

“...Cirilla?”

Ciri stirs fully awake at a gentle touch over her shoulder. It is a miracle she does not lash out instinctively and break something. Her limbs feel tight, aching by how tense they’d become in sleep. The faint shadows of a nightmare still dance behind her eyes. She hears the clopping of hooves, the horses of the Wild Hunt approaching—the cold blast of winter hits her as if naked in the snow.

Pure imagination. The bedroom is warm-lit by a hearth. It is summer, and she is safe. She is more than safe.

The touch that rose her pulls her back from the lingering vision of doom. She turns to light eyes, pinched in worry.

“Sorry..." She draws the sheets closer, her wild hair a fan over her face. The room is warm, but a chill runs under her skin all the same. "Did I disturb you?”

Morvran studies her. He sits a comfortable distance away from her. The monstrously-large bed makes that easy. “Not really.”

Slowly, her muscles unwind from their tense curl. A minute passes, and she’s tired again. “Don’t let me keep you awake,” she says rolling on her side, and then, almost a whisper, “you know, you can call me Ciri.”

* * *

The final battle is over. It has been for a peaceful few years. And yet, her mind stays restless, ready for the next enemy to come tearing through her life. So far it’s only been arrogant old men with predictable ambitions, which is pitiful compared to the ageless Aen Elle that had chased her through time and space, and the world-ending White Frost waiting at the end of it all. Really, they should step up their game if they want to make her sweat.

Her dreams made of frost and blood do most of the work for them. It's inescapable. Exhausting.

Every time she wakes from snow clogging her lungs, she sees Morvran had stirred awake in the night, and she apologizes with genuine-felt guilt.

Her husband is always polite about it, which is hard for her to accept at first. Experience tells her to expect a confrontation, or a fight about affecting him with her sleeplessness. But Morvran—she discovers quickly into their spousal arrangement—is quiet company, even if sometimes he seems a little on edge himself. A soldier's nervousness lies behind his gaze. The General without a war to fight. At least she’s not the only one struggling with peacetime.

They say that marriage forges a bond between two souls. That is what her father—of all people—tells her on one of their joint-breakfast mornings.

“There is a responsibility there," Emhyr says with enviable composure. "He is the only one’s opinion you must consult and rely on with matters of state.”

Ciri nearly scoffs. “Not even yours then?”

“Not even mine. Do you not trust him?”

She thinks long after that, a little angry with his nonchalance. Of course she doesn't. Of course it's not that easy. Ask any other lady or princess what their marriage gave them and see if any one of them bring up the word trust. Her father is biased. His own marriage had been sown by destiny's hand.

And yet, after the whispers of dark dreams rouse her at night, she does trust Morvran to be near, to remind her with his presence that she is no longer a child running from great and powerful enemies anymore. She is the daughter of the Black Sun. Nothing can touch her now.

Would be nice to sleep well again on her own soon, though.

Emhyr accepts her silence and sips his tea while it is still warm. He doesn't say anything about the dark circles under her eyes, and she doesn't talk about why they're there.

Geralt visits not a day after, the first time after her marriage, and he sure won't let it go unaddressed.

“I'm fine, Geralt. Haven’t slept well is all.”

That is all she's willing to say, not wanting to bother him too much when he'd arrived so happy to greet her. But it’s Geralt. He knows her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself.

"Haven't slept? You know what that does to your clarity of mind. And are you doing anything about it? Is it the mattress? I tell you, they make them too soft in the south. You need a little firmness to stop you when you're tossing..."

His fussing calms her heart. The opposite would be just as true. If he panics, all her own worries neutralize as she remembers how to think straight for him. They are each other's pillars.

So he frets, and she waves him off, feeling a little better by the second.

Tea together in the garden is a relaxing surprise activity with him, although now that he's brought up the topic of modern furniture and poor craftsmanship, Geralt is grouching about how uncomfortable the chairs are.

“They’re meant to keep your spine straight," she says, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, and it’s crap. Doesn’t fit all of me.”

“That’s because you’re carrying fifty pounds of armor and steel. You might not want to rest all your weight on it actually.”

Geralt purposely leans back on his chair, the wood giving an alarming creak. “Are you calling me fat?”

She laughs at him so hard the Impera keeping guard from the garden's entrance twitch their heads to them. They act like a sign of joy from her is a terrifying dragon come to burn the palace down.

“I miss that,” Geralt mutters with a fake pout.

“What? My laughter?”

“Your…ease with it. I know being empress is nothing to scoff at." At the mention of her future court, Ciri touches her imperial diadem—both a symbol of her patrimony and a wedding band. Geralt tracks the gesture. The sigh he gives is heavy and long. "I mean, shit, this whole marriage thing attached to it isn’t what either of us planned for."

The metal warms under her rubbing thumb. "None of what's happened in our journey ever has been."

A witcher's path is unpredictable. One lives by the day and learns to adapt to what comes. And she's doing that still. Adapting like a witcheress. Soon, she'll have to start thinking more like an empress.

"The General," Geralt starts, and she refocuses on him and the serious set of his brow. "He’s a good man at least. A little…eccentric I think, but he is one of the better ones in Emhyr’s court.”

Now it's her turn to grumble, “I know. It’s annoying. I wish I could have a reason to hate him but he’s so…ugh, mannerly!”

This time Geralt laughs, and for a moment, Ciri is a witcher’s child in the wilds again, punting her father’s shoulder for a dumb joke he's pulled at her expense.

She stops suddenly when a familiar figure, all shoulders and dark colors to contrast his light hair, comes through the garden gates. 'Speak of the devil' might be a rude thought to have, yet it perfectly encapsulates how luck draws its cards on her this morning.

“Geralt of Rivia!” comes Morvran’s happy voice. “I thought I heard the rumble of bickering servants on the way here. Now I understand what displeased them so.”

“I’m not wearing their black-and-white cotton traps and you can’t make me.”

Ciri blinks between them. It surprises her how well Geralt gets along with him, and how openly joyous Morvran is being about his company—and yes, she would call him joyous even as his face is subtle in expressing it. Breaking courtly address would normally upset her recently-made husband no matter the suspect. And yet Geralt, who does not mean to do it intentionally, receives no such berating speeches on etiquette and formality. Actually, Morvran shakes his hand the northern way of greeting. Maybe he's good at adapting too.

“Of course not, sir witcher," Morvran says with his other hand raised in acquiescence. "There is no dire interrogation to fulfill at this hour.”

"Don't threaten me with a free clean shave again." To her, he offers a parting, “Alright. I've taken up enough of your time, I’m gonna head out.”

Her heart sinks at the cursory goodbye. This is her father in all but blood leaving her secure little bubble once more, to be a witcher without her. She is not a child anymore—he doesn't ruffle her ashen hair, though she dearly wants him to for old time's sake. It would mess up her diadem and the intricate plaiting of the braids behind her head.

She is not a child anymore, and yet she is already melancholy at the quick turn of his back.

"See you later, Geralt." Her words are a promise. We will see each other again.

As he steps into the flower path that winds back to the guards, Morvran calls out, “His imperial majesty is currently in a meeting.”

Geralt stops. He looks, for some reason, abashed. “What? Why are you telling me that?”

“I thought you would be privy to that information." Morvran shrugs in dismissal. "Va faill."  

It's almost funny how fast Geralt stomps out of the garden. As Ciri observes the exchange, all her previous heartache is swept under the rug. There is something she's not picking up. Fortunately it's not all she has to talk about to her present, lingering company.

“It’s weird that you two actually get along.” At her words, Morvran turns to her with open surprise.

“Geralt of Rivia is a genial man," he says, his hands meeting behind his back as is Nilfgaardian custom in public. "I believe anyone would be glad to refresh their acquaintance with him.”

Ciri, who was not raised with said customs and is instead being tutored in them with little success, snorts. Loudly.

“You just like that you can rope him into joining a riding competition on a promise of free food.”

Under all his Nilfgaardian powder, Morvran blushes. She can see it in his ears.

She laughs at him too.

* * *

It’s another night of bad dreams. Her memories have toyed with her enough that now she is witness to futures she cannot control. Geralt alone on the Path, the Empire at war with itself from her negligence, all of her old friends, her family, broken apart and dying as she lives on.

She wakes slowly, not in a startle or a choked breath. Her body aches worse than if she had.

Morvran is already awake beside her, a frown set upon his lips.

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

Between waking and the dissipating fear of her nightmare, Ciri is caught completely off guard. “I...didn’t, no.”

He doesn't explain any more, choosing to give her space as he's done for previous interrupted nights. Part of her wants to ask more. She wants to hear what she had said—what nightmare had she been speaking into existence. Did he recognize anything? Did he want to ask, but simply refrain out of properness?

Whatever it is she uttered in fever sleep, she lets it go. Talking about it now would be worse, somehow. Like making her nightmares a real, concrete thing.

Sleep still fights her long into the night. It does not come a second time. Which is good, as she opens her eyes to a timely assassination.

The weapon under her pillow slides into her hand not a breath later. She always keeps something sharp and deadly there. Good habit, both her fathers would say, for different reasons.

Before the assassin can strike, Ciri blinks in between time. They are dead where they stand, frozen mid-step, collapsing the very next instant time moves for her.

In the commotion that follows, everyone wakes. The emperor looks as regal and rested as always and Ciri envies that as her hair resembles a rat’s nest, mussed from the fear-sweat of her haunted sleep. At least Morvran is just as unkempt as her. They make quite the competition for most messy bedhead, side by side. And though the hours stretch on, from private meetings to argued suspicions, Morvran looks in his element. Her element.

Put an enemy in front of them and they will beat it down until it’s rid of.

Her mind is driven to this new task. Securing entry points, questioning any guards that had slack. Her edges feels frayed—sticking to Morvran like a shadow as they move from room to room, servant to official, order to action, way past sunrise. Her angry expression turns any worried servant away from asking for her imperial majesty to eat.

The assassin had tried to kill him. And no one seems to be that concerned since her own head is still attached to her shoulders. Not even Morvran.

Things calm down well past noon. They both return tired and dry-eyed to their arranged room.

She touches his sleeve and holds his weary gaze. “If you die I won’t forgive you.”

Morvran nods, like she makes sense. “I would never plan on it. It would upset your father.”

For a second, Ciri doesn’t know which one he means, and that makes her smile stupidly, at its pure truth.

She wipes her grin off before Morvran has a chance to politely appreciate it.

* * *

“You’re antsy.”

Ciri hums, taking a bite of her deviled eggs. “I'm not antsy.”

“You are bending the good fork.”

She stares down at her hand and finds that Emhyr is right and the fork is just a little twisted at the neck.

"I'm sure someone's job is to fix it. Just, call them."

Nothing in her posture or her expression could possibly tell Emhyr what sits heavy in her head, short of him being a mindreader. And yet, somehow, he pieces everything together correctly to ask, “Would it be so terrible for you to like him?”

Ciri sighs, looking up at the ornate chandelier, begging it to crash down on her and get her out of this conversation. Because she already does like Morvran, quite a lot, and it is terrible. She would hate to admit to her father that he is right. He’ll never live it down.

Of course, she doesn't need to say anything at all. Her godsdamned mind-reading father already knows. When did he learn to read her so effortlessly?

...Has he been consulting Geralt?

However it may be, Emhyr clears his throat and straightens his fork on his side of the breakfast table. “Some people," he says as she sulks internally, "are fortunate and marry the one they love. Others find a way to make it work.”

At his following pause, Ciri straightens in her seat to meet his gaze. His silences are always weighty and grave.

“I hope that he is worth the work,” he ends.

Then the moment passes, and he's eating again. Leaving her to contemplate alone what it means that her father, the emperor, might actually want her to be happy with the man who would share her rule once she is officially crowned. It's...it's trusting. It's too much to think about so early in the morning.

Being who she is, however, Ciri returns to the source of her sulk and the many questions it created.

“So, have you spoken with Geralt?”

Emhyr drinks his tea very slowly. “Of course not. Had he anything important to relay to me?”

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I'm sure you know he came to visit recently, but you don’t ask me what we talked about?”

“Whatever it is you two get up to does not concern me.”

She hums, sipping her own tea. “It’s funny I guess, I thought you asked of him through Morvran.”

Emhyr sets his cup down, narrowing his eyes in thought. As he studies her, she keeps on sipping her tea until it’s finished. “Just curious,” she adds before parting for the day. Give him something to puzzle over that isn't her.

* * *

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?'

Only two nights of the next seven does she stir awake. Not from bad dreams, exactly. Not from dark memories or anxious fears either. Ciri rubs her face now, frustrated, pulled from sleep again for no apparent reason.

Morvran is awake beside her, as he always is. His face is not pressed with a frown, though. She can't stop thinking on his words so casually spoken the night an assassin tried to take him from her, and settles back onto her enormous pillows.

“...What did I say this time?”

“Oh,” he blinks at her, and it’s sleepy and lazy, not at all very general-like. “Something about a swallow. That you miss it. Did you used to own a bird?”

She closes her eyes briefly, oddly at peace with her sleep talking. He had listened to her secret fears for all these nights, her haunted screams, and made them his own secrets.

If she could trust him to know that, then, it is not so difficult to trust him with the more simple things.

“No. Swallow was the name of my sword. I carried her with me everywhere.”

“Ah. Where is she now?”

“I gave her to Geralt before I came to be here. A witcher’s sword is not something I can wield from a throne.”

He touches his hand to her cheek, the first time he’s breached courtly etiquette with her. It is warm and callused.

“I am confident that sir Geralt keeps Swallow sharp and oiled so that the blade stays strong. I am...sorry,” he says with more awkwardness.

She covers his hand with her own, a little laugh escaping her when he blinks rapidly at her returned touch, like he had not expected it at all. “It's alright. I entrusted her to him.”

Marriage forges a bond between two people.

[sry-chrlie]

☁ mama who bore me, mama who gave me no way to handle things. ☁

a scene between charlie and his mother tw: child abuse references bc you know how it be

It had been months since Charlie had spoken to either of his parents. His mother had fallen from several texts a day to one or two a week, usually something benign like:

Oct 31: Happy Halloween, sweetie. Send me pictures of your costume! 🎃

Nov 5: Any requests for Thanksgiving supper? I got the last turkey at the store. Had to fight Elle’s mom for it lol! Have you talked to Elle lately? Miss seeing her around.

Nov 7: Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?

Nov 10: Have a good Wednesday, my love. Make sure you buy a Winter coat. It’s getting so cold out there, brrrr!! Mama is an icicle lol ☃️

Charlie wasn’t sure what was worse. The gentle kindness behind these texts or the ones blatantly telling him he needed to call Dad. Luckily, Talia had gotten Charlie’s message and had stopped sending anything like the latter. Apparently she understood that the more she mentioned his father, the less likely Charlie was to give in and answer her. 

But the ones she did send, these small notes of affection, overwhelmed him with guilt.  He had no reason to punish his mother. What was the point in hurting her when his father was away in DC doing enough of that on his own? He was shutting her out in reaction to imaginary conversations he had with her in his mind, ones where she took his dad’s side and blamed Charlie for their fight.

She hadn’t said these things, though. Charlie hadn’t given her the chance. He wondered, as he sat lonely on his bed, scrolling through all her unanswered texts, how cruel of him it was to refuse his mom the benefit of the doubt. She’d done so much for him. Given him the world. Suffered endlessly for her son to get into a decent school, to provide him a good future... 

Ugh. He’d been thinking so much lately about Oliver and Alec, about Jamie Dyer, about Elle engaged to Elijah, and it was starting to put his life into perspective. Maybe he didn’t have anything to complain about. Maybe he was being so callous to his mother because he was selfish and spoiled. It would certainly fit in with recent behaviors. 

With a heavy sigh, Charlie texted her back.

hey ma, thinking about you. how’s it going? 

It was lame, but it was something. He tossed his phone to the side, half hoping his mother would have the balls to give him the silent treatment right back. But of course not. His phone vibrated with a notification not even five minutes later.

There you are, sweetpea. 😇 I am doing GREAT! Happy as a clam. It’s funny that you should message because I’m about to make your favorite!! Why don’t you come over for pani popo and tea?

His mom was more clever than most people gave her credit for. She would probably be the one ruling the House of Representatives if she hadn’t been relegated to the role of housewife so many years ago. Her text was a perfect example: it sounded simple and earnest to a stranger, but it was coded. She was making Samoan food. That meant Dad wouldn’t be home, without Mom explicitly having to say it. 

Charlie, ever allergic to affection, sent his mom a pair of eyeball emojis and the single word “bet” before rolling out of bed to make an anxious trip home.

It was funny that Charlie’s new apartment was a mere 10 minute drive away from the childhood home he’d been running from. It made his months-long tantrum feel all the more pathetic - like a nightmare that only allowed you to run in slow motion. He hadn’t gotten anywhere. He was just jogging in place, waiting for someone else to make a choice for him.

“Oh my goodness, you are so handsome! I almost forgot how much,” his mother said when she opened the door. She stood on her toes to grab his face and Charlie had to lean down to let her kiss both of his cheeks. “I missed you, I missed you, I missed you!”

“Okay, okay, mama,” Charlie said, a laugh easing some of his anxiety, “I missed you too.” 

Lunch was nice. Talia had cooked some Samoan favorites, which was a little indulgence she allowed herself when she was home alone. She paired coconut rolls and pork sliders with glasses of sweet iced tea, an amalgamation of her birthplace and the American South where she’d lived for so long now. 

Talia was getting older, but she wore her age a lot better than Charlie’s father did. Her curly black hair was braided into a bun and she wore no makeup on her face; she didn’t need it. She wore a flowy green dress - a dark, West Virginia green that suited the golden brown tone of her skin. The whole kitchen smelled like fresh bread and coconut, which is what Charlie always remembered when he thought of his mom. 

In that moment, he realized he had missed her in a visceral, agonizing way. She was right there, across the marble island, but Charlie’s heart still ached for the months he’d acted like an idiot. One day, she would be gone, and Charlie was terrified of a day, hopefully far in the future, when he sat lonely in a big house, trying to remember the smell of fresh bread and coconut, but coming up empty.

She talked to him about nothing and everything as they ate. Charlie was a chatterbox perhaps because his mother was. She went on and on about the jewelry she had started crafting, about the ladies at church, about new neighbors that had moved in. She had months of gossip for her son and Charlie listened dutifully, nodding his head and laughing at all the right moments, falling into an ease with his mother. 

“So, Charlie, there’s something I want to run by you.” 

When she said it, he immediately tensed up. It was like the trauma had given Charlie a sixth sense. He knew, from the subtle change in her tone and the way her posture had shifted, that he was going to hate what she said next.

“Oh yeah? What’s that, mama?” he asked, picking at bread crumbs on his plate. She hadn’t really said anything yet, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest. How easily it was for him to come undone. Being home was like driving top speeds down a highway made of black ice; Charlie was constantly prepared for the crash.

“Your father is on his way back from the city. He's got a couple weeks off for Thanksgiving. He should be here soon and I thought it would be nice if we all finally had a talk.”

 Like a compact car right into the tail end of an 18 wheeler.

“God, Mom!” Charlie shoved his seat away from the kitchen island, jumping off the stool to make escape that much easier.

“Do not swear at me, Charlie. I’m trying to make things better.”

“No you’re not, you’re trying to pretend like it already is better. Newsflash, Mom: Dad’s an asshole. Unless he’s been invaded by a body snatcher, none of this is going to change.” 

She wasn’t looking at him now. She hated confrontation as much as he did. She busied herself with the dishes, passive aggressively clinking them harder than she needed to.

“Do you really have to be so melodramatic?”

Charlie’s chest was on fire. Red hives of anxiety started to crawl up his neck, powered by the erratic nonstop pounding of his heart. He took deep, steadying breaths. His father wasn’t even in the room. He didn’t have to panic. He remembered what Jamie had said at The Gallows: tell your mom the truth, give her a chance to respond the right way.

“He’s sleeping with someone else, Mom. He left you here like the Kennedy sister they don’t talk about while he whips his dick out for every 20-something bimbo in DC.” 

Charlie’s mom slammed a plate so hard into the sink that it cracked, sending shards of ceramic to the floor. She hissed, pulling her hand close to herself. Charlie rushed over.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said curtly, brushing off his attempts to help. She rinsed her finger under the faucet, droplets of blood washing down the drain. “I know that your father has certain... indiscretions,” she confessed, still refusing to look Charlie’s way. “Although I prefer not to think of them in such lewd terms, but Charlie, marriage is complicated and your father has a very stressful job. At the end of the day, he’s a good man and if you would sit down and have a talk with us, you would understand. Things are going to be different now.”

The concern for his mother warped into more righteous fury and Charlie raked his hands through his hair to try and calm himself.

“Do you realize that you’ve been saying the same thing since I was like five years old? It’s always, ‘things are going to be different’ but, Mama, things are exactly the same.” 

“They’re not the same!” Talia argued. “You’re grown now, none of that old business matters anymore.” 

The wind had been knocked out of him with that one. Charlie didn’t have words for it. Years of hidden bruises that didn’t matter anymore. Broken bones with secret origins that didn’t matter anymore. Little Charlie, on his knees, sobbing, begging Mom, Let’s just leave. Let’s go back to your home and live on the beach, far away from Dad. Please, please, please. And Mom’s eternal answer: It’s okay. Things will get better. Charlie had long since given up crying to a broken record, but he felt the ghost of a knot in his throat that afternoon.

“Dad isn’t a different person,” he tried explaining again, his voice aching, begging for this time to be the time his mom finally understood what he was trying to say. “If I was magically 14 again, he would still hit me for doing nothing. When did I ever do anything wrong, Mom?”

“Oh, please, Charlie, spare me the victim act. You are hardly innocent.” Talia had started sweeping up the broken plate, ignoring the cut on her finger, like she needed something to do to avoid looking into her son’s eyes. “I heard about that Halloween party of yours. There was a fight. It wasn’t even a day later that I saw Alec at the bodega with his face all messed up. I’m sure you had nothing to do with that.” 

The mere mention of Alec and Oliver sent a flood of emotion through him. The pressure in his head was painful, his eyes watering despite himself. “I didn’t hit Alec,” he said, hating the way his voice had wavered. “Mom... do you really think I would do that? I would never hit...” 

He trailed off, no longer able to juggle the task of talking and not crying. It was just as well. If his mom had known how royally he’d fucked up with Oliver, she might have felt vindicated, and thinking about that was too much for Charlie. His silence gave her the opportunity for a final, devastating blow.

“Right, Charlie. In all those fights you’ve had with your father, how many of them started because you hit him first?”

It was ridiculous and unfair but also it was true. Maybe Charlie was making it all up. Maybe, the whole time, Charlie had been the problem. 

“Mom...” He sounded small. Weak. Pathetic. He didn’t want to be standing there, wet faced, begging, again, for his mother to choose him. For once. Please. Choose Charlie. 

“Maybe you should go. Your father will be here soon and I don’t see us having any productive conversations today with this attitude of yours.” 

Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. Running away was something he’d always been good at. He fled the scene of his own undoing, feeling ashamed that he’d ever expected it would be different this time. 

Gravewood never changed. Not really. Charlie was just the only one stupid enough to take this long to figure that out.