#I will never be julian shaped and I have learned to be fine with that!!

[spocks-kaathyra]

Pythas is shaped exactly like me actually bc I said so. 5'0 and everything

nakey under the cut

[vaguely-concerned]

I wanted to write out a more condensed version of the Garashir thoughts I accumulated through my read of a stitch in time, because it really is driving me slightly nuts. so here we go!

I think my basic takeaway is something like: if you look at what's actually on the page as dialogue and not just the story garak tells himself internally of what has happened between them (which is basically 'I've fucked up somehow and I don't know how or why but something's broken here and I messed it up; I have nothing left of interest to offer him', pretty clearly going over it in his head like he would trying to figure out what he did wrong when tain locked him in a closet as a child), you kind of get the feeling that julian doesn't know what to do with the way garak flinches away from him whenever he tries to get closer or offer help. (which like. not for nothing but that's actually the dynamic between garak and mila too, but with garak's role switched to the mostly-resigned seeker of contact rather than the flincher-away. we all know garak’s daddy issues but I think the mommy issues at work are doing some gulf stream shit under the surface as well lol.) so julian starts hesitating in seeking out contact in the first place, nevermind asking him for anything more when garak's also clearly falling apart mentally and seems unreachable in the first place. and Julian also doesn't want to mess this up and make something already fraught and painful even worse; he still wants to help! he always wants to help, that’s just who he is, he keeps trying through the whole book. and when garak mostly-gently but reflexively and firmly rebuffs him each time he tries… after a while it seems like he doesn't think he's welcome, or that he's imposing and garak doesn't really want him there — that he's just humoring him or something when he does let him in, just like garak was so afraid palandine was doing with him in the beginning. it’s only in the final scene between them that garak invites him in and asks for help on his own initiative. 

“I’m pleased you stopped by”/”No, you’re not,” he said quietly. ‘I really won’t take up any more of your time’. “You see, this is so difficult, Garak. I know what a private person you are, and how you detest people meddling in your affairs….”. “Your holosuite program. The one that allows me to visit the traumas of my childhood.”/“I hesitate to suggest this, remembering how you reacted the last time … but, yes, I feel it could make a difference,” the Doctor gamely admitted. (Julian I love you so much. Eternal optimist hours. Keep it up it’s going to get you spectacularly laid if you just get on that shuttle to Cardassia.) All these moments do not read to me as someone who has no interest in continuing or deepening this relationship (maybe the opposite, in fact), it gives me more the sense of someone who feels he keeps putting his foot in his mouth and making the damage worse no matter what he tries, and not knowing what else to do but to back off to save them both more pain. (he also needs help and support, but he’s not going to go ask it of someone who’s clearly in no position to give it (on account of visibly falling apart even more than usual). And also because the good doctor is such a hypocrite lol ‘of course you’re worth asking for and receiving help!! I’m just fine tho don’t worry about me *light is slowly dying in his eyes behind the smile as the seasons go on*’. Stiff upper lip to the point of psychological breakdown-off (cross-cultural, competitive))  

and the most painful thing to me is that after their disastrous tea party in garak’s shop, at the very least, garak clearly realizes he's hurting julian by keeping him out (But as to the question of which group suffers the most…), and he desperately wants to stop hurting him but he just doesn't know how!!! he's never learned how to close the distance! he's been locked completely into himself by the way tain shaped him and doesn't know how to get out of the closet so to speak yet! ('...am I not. *supposed* to pretend to be functional and have no needs. is that not like. my entire job interpersonally. I am confused.') it’s something Tolan already observes in him and grieves over when he comes home from Bamarren, and the years since have uh not helped with that particular problem lol. for all he longs for it, intimacy is like a hot stove to him; he can’t help but reach out, and he can’t help but flinch away when he actually comes into contact with it. almost the worst part is that I think Julian can tell some of that too and sort of understands it/doesn't hold it against him, and it just makes it even sadder, somehow. they both move so carefully around each other through this, because even in the middle of all that they really do try to be kind to each other the best they know how and it fucks me up so bad. which makes it even crazier and more touching that all of asit is basically garak processing his shit until he can get to the last line honestly — 'You're always welcome, Doctor'. he pulled a full lizardly mr darcy in the post-apocalypse here, he got around to starting to fix himself at least partly to be in a place where he could be able to meet Julian in the ways he needs if he wants that from him. And that drives me utterly insane thanks for asking!!! WILD BOOK COMPLETELY UNHINGED 300+ PAGE DECLARATION OF LOVE AND INTIMACY WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL

(this post started life as a tag ramble under @spocks-kaathyra‘s wonderful post about Julian’s side of it over here, but — as I’m sure you'll be astonished to learn at this point — I found I somehow had even more things to say, my neurons boileth over perpetually and it seems I just have to live with that)

[ds9-polycule-tales]

3 - 2375

Elim looked up as Julian came through the doorway, the faint blue flash of the antiseptic field momentarily creating a sketch of his thin shape, stooped with exhaustion, as an afterimage on the back of the Cardassian’s retina.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live. And keep the leg, even, though that was touch and go a few times before I managed to modify the chemical composition of the antibiotic a little. If his grandmother had waited a few more hours before managing to sneak him out to us…”

Some of the sag of the doctor’s shoulders was relief as well as crushing fatigue, Elim realised. He held out his arms to Julian; drew him down into his lap and folded his arms around him. The younger man’s hands were rock-steady as ever, but his shoulders shook a little as he slowly relaxed against him.

“I still can’t believe his parents didn’t bring him to us sooner. I know sepsis can come on suddenly, but the original cut itself was deep enough. If we can’t get people to trust Federation doctors, even…”

“The medical profession on Cardassia may not…quite have always lived up to your particular ideals, my dear,” Elim replied, savage irony heavy in his voice despite its softness. “And given the Founders’ fondness for biochemical control of populations under their figurative thumb, I rather doubt that has changed for the better in the last two years.”

Julian’s body sagged a little more as he considered the implications. Elim tightened his arms around him, but resisted the sudden, still-surprising urge to say something to comfort him. The kindest thing I can do here is tell him the bald truth of the situation, he thought. Letting him discover it for himself – and potentially make costly mistakes in doing so – will hurt him more in the long run.

He could almost smile at the realisation that he, Elim Garak, was genuinely weighing his options for kindness, of all things; might have laughed, quietly, to himself, at the sheer absurdity of it. Except that Julian had never had to learn the many tricks of irony and distance that he, Elim, had carefully cultivated since he was younger than the boy whose blood still speckled the doctor’s uniform; Julian’s empathy and compassion was genuinely as raw and authentic as an open wound, and, somehow, that seemed to be bleeding back to Elim too.

“We can’t even supply shoes to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Julian said tightly into his shoulder; almost as much a raw vibration of pain and frustration in his flesh as sound. “We have adult footwear in Supplies, but they’d all be much too big for him, and the whole reason he cut his foot on the rubble in the first place was that he’s already grown out of his existing shoes. I’ve already checked; all the replicators we have are flat out keeping supplies coming to keep everyone fed and housed and the time to work out a replicator pattern for shoes that will be outgrown again in another two months would mean other children going hungry. It’s awful, and I can’t stop it being awful without making it more awful.”

Elim drew him closer; held him silently, and eventually lay down with him. A cot in an infirmary cupboard had its drawbacks, but Julian was only going to sleep at all within earshot of his patients, and it was worth it, every bit of it, to share those snatched moments with him.

*****

A couple of days later, as the boy’s grandmother came to bring him home, accompanied by a somewhat stiff younger couple who had probably looked very much younger six months ago, Elim slipped through to intercept Julian as he went to bring him out.

“One moment, please, my dear. Child – Arabrus, isn’t it?”

The boy turned large dark eyes in a too-thin face up to Elim. Children all had eyes like old women, these days. “Yes, sir.”

“Try this on, Arabrus. Just your good foot will be fine for now.”

He held out a shoe to the boy. It wasn’t his finest creation by a long shot, but he was strangely gratified that his guess had been close enough that it required surprisingly little adjustment. He had the child wiggle his toes and push his heel back against his hand just to make sure, but he was satisfied.

“When your toes start feeling pushed against the front, Arabrus, just unscrew this little bit here a little and loosen them until you have room to move them again, just like this. I think your grandmother will know what to do, but if you have any trouble, you can ask back here. My name is Mr Garak.”

After Julian had seen the family off with medication and instructions, he came back to Elim with the first smile in days splitting his face.

“However did you manage that?!”

“Oh, never ask me to explain all my tricks, my dear. You must allow me to keep a little mystery, after all.”

Elim smiled his most untrustworthy smile, spreading his hands wide. But as Julian embraced him, he looked over his shoulder. It was hidden in the ever-present clouds of dust, but he knew the direction of Mila’s small marker stone like he knew his own heartbeat.

She had been an incredibly thrifty woman, always managing to keep things running smoothly even when sudden dips in Tain’s political fortunes had meant he was unable to send resources for months or even years at a time. It had been more common in those early days than the pride of the Head of the Obsidian Order had later allowed any of them to remember.

But Mila would have been proud, he thought, that her old working-class mother’s trick for making shoes that always kept her unspoken son shod no matter how little money they had or how fast his feet grew was still keeping children safer now, even after the end of the world. She would have been prouder of that, he thought, than of any monument he could build for her.

[ear-worthy]

The Art Career Podcast: Becoming Smarter About Art And Artists

 I hate it when some commentator on Fox News starts ranting about elitists. To them, an elitist is someone who finished college, reads books and actually knows real facts. 

Elitist or not, I've been an art fan for much of my life, ever since I saw Girl with A Pearl Earring by Johannes Vermeer. After all, what is that expression on the girl's face? So elusive, and so easy to interpret in so many ways.

But elitism is a true concern in the art world. You have your art snobs, your faux art critics, and your art pseudo-intellectuals, who claim to divine meaning from famous paintings that we could never comprehend.

Even people who know about art do not have a decent understanding of art careers. Art History majors and masters of Fine Arts are increasingly the target of ridicule by those who insist that learning contributes to something critical in our society, such as coal mining, gun manufacturing, or meat packing plants.

That's why I like The Art Career podcast with Emily McElwreath so much. You don't need to know anything about Wassily Kandinsky's 1911 Composition V to enjoy the podcast.

 Here is the mission statement of the podcast:  "Want to learn and be inspired by the leading art professionals who are shaping our culture? The Art Career Podcast is a space, breaking barriers by letting you sit in on candid, straightforward conversations with leaders in visual arts, writing, music, theater and film. Join New York-based advisor, curator, and overall artist advocate, Emily McElwreath as she dives deep into topics like self-development, career trajectories, mental health, social justice, and the artists that have changed our lives"

The host, Emily McElwreath, asserts, "With each episode, our mission is to empower you, expanding your journey through the arts." 

To be clear, McElwreath doesn't just have guests who are artists in the sense of painting. To her, "artist" is an expansive term, so she has writers, fashion experts, poets, educators, and even a critic.

As a host, I can compare McElwreath to the 20th-century artist Jasper Johns. His works were deceptively simple yet rife with inscrutable allusions to deeper philosophical concepts. In effect, McElwreathy makes podcast hosting looks so easy and untroubled, she evinces the idea that she's not working hard.

Nothing could be further from the truth. In one of my favorite episodes, McElwreath (Doesn't her name sound like a Lord of the Rings character?)  talks with writer Cheryl Strayed. The best-selling author of Wild and the critically acclaimed debut novel, Torch, Strayed goes deeper than a cursory promotion for Tiny Beautiful Things, which is being adapted into a Hulu TV show.

The guest and host talk in depth on imposter syndrome and Strayed's self-acknowledged "inner terrible someone," which, she claims, is an essential part of the writing process. Strayed opens up about dealing with writing flaws and learning to craft sentences lovingly. 

To be clear, McElwreath is not one of those podcast hosts who simulate cognitive behavior therapy in audio. You know the type. The host asks an open-ended question and then the guest takes off on a long, uninterrupted ramble, only to have the host then say, "Can you tell us more about it?"

McElwreath is an active participant in the intellectual heavy lifting going on in these discussions. And her verbal contributions add to the interview, often bringing greater focus to the guest's primary message or clarifying a point. 

Emily McElwreath owns a firm, McElwreath Art Advisory, which is a full-service firm that provides guidance and assistance to art collectors through a comprehensive list of services. She has over seventeen years of experience as an advisor, independent curator, and art educator.

Throughout her career, Emily McElwreath has worked on blockbuster exhibitions, including Andy Warhol, Julian Schnabel, and Nate Lowman at The Brant Foundation, as well as lecturing at top NYC museums including The Whitney and The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most recently, she has curated multiple exhibitions with leading emerging artists and is now the host and CEO of The Art Career Podcast. With an MA from Purchase College in Art History with a Concentration in Contemporary Art Criticism and an Art Business Certification from Christie's Education, Emily McElwreath possesses diverse, real-world experience and formal academic training.

That blend of the real world with the academic makes McElwreath the perfect person to create and host the podcast.  

One of my other favorite episodes occurred in the second season with Jasmine Wahl, who is the Founder and Director of the Project For Empty Space, a non-profit organization based in Newark, New Jersey. In the show, McElwreath and Wahl take listeners on a wild ride from subjects as diverse as cultural identities and the overestimation of politeness. 

At one point, Wahl asks, "What can we do in our current society to create equal structures?"

 The podcast just began its third season in early April. The most recent episode is with Rebecca Pauline Jampol, who discusses public arts programs in the city, and how a thriving arts scene can become a hub for change, activism, and social discourse.

Join The Art Career Podcast for new episodes every Thursday. Since listening, I've learned more about the intricacies of the artistic process, the art business in general, how art can be a force for positive change in our society, and how art can bring us together instead of pushing us away from each other.

If I could ask Emily McElwreath anything, it would be this. Is there really a musical melody inside Leonardo da Vinci's famous The Last Supper painting?

[secretsofblackthornhall]

Emma To Bruce

Dear Bruce,

Oh, Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. You don’t even know (because you are a diary and you never leave the house). I have spent the day among the mundanes. Not just mundanes. Tourists. All things considered, I’ll take the haunted cursed mansion, thanks.

When last I wrote we found out Ghost!Rupert thinks there’s a cursed object in this Herondale house on Curzon Street here in London. After that we have no idea, which is going to be a big problem because ley lines are, you know, lines, so objects could be anywhere along them. But one thing at a time.

It turns out the National Trust operates tours of the Curzon Street house—and I assume some Herondale in the past was smart enough to get rid of, or at least glamour the heck out of, anything too Shadowhuntery there. It’s advertised as being a recreation of a “typical Edwardian home,” which is close enough to the right time period for our purposes. So we got dressed up in mundane costumes—Jules found an excellent vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt in Arthur and Andrew Blackthorn’s Groovy Chambers of Love —and bought tickets for the 2:00 tour the next day.

What we learned from the house tour is that Edwardian décor mostly would look pretty okay in a modern house! It’s light and airy, lots of soft colors, cool patterned fabric, and so on. Oh, and we also learned the Edwardian movement missed Tatiana Blackthorn entirely, since everything about Blackthorn Hall is the very opposite of light and airy. Julian pointed out that she probably left it the way it was when her father died. Whereas I liked the feel of Curzon Street a lot, it was homey. I actually took a photo of some wallpaper and want to ask Tessa if she remembers who made it and, uh, whether they’re still in business I guess. What’s happened to us? We’re renovating a house. I feel so old.

The tour was fine, I guess, lots of detail about eras and maker’s marks and furniture. People asked ridiculous questions—one of the American couples demanded to know where the piano was and when the guide said sorry, no piano, they got angry and told her that all Edwardian homes had a piano so there must be one, and she had to kind of apologize and move on. It was awkward and I did not feel great about the people of my land.

But mostly I was tuned out of all that. The house was interesting enough. Persian carpets everywhere! An ivory chess set! A pewter-clad bathtub! Oh, there was a framed playbill from the time period that was obviously from some Downworlder nightclub, that was kind of cool. But most importantly, none of these were things enchanted by Tatiana.

I spent most of the time looking for anything that made it clear Shadowhunters lived here. The only thing I really saw was that there were a bunch of weapons used for decoration, which the tour guide noted was not appropriate to the period. Of course you and I know, Bruce, that weapons are always appropriate décor. But it’s like Julian always says, sometimes you don’t even need glamours, because mundanes don’t see what they don’t want to see. Like, the tour guide went on and on about a beautiful jadeite sculpture atop one of the mantels and said nobody knew what the shape was meant to represent. And it was obviously meant to be displaying a sword that is long gone.

Anyway we

Oh, wait.

It’s not long gone. I know where it went. It’s on the dressing table on the other side of the room. I can see it from where I’m writing this.

A real chill just went up my spine, thinking of that. At the house today I was thinking about the people who lived there, James Herondale and Cordelia Carstairs, but to be honest I didn’t really feel an emotional connection to them while I was there. Maybe it’s just that all the really personal stuff would have been taken out of the house before it became a museum. But also, just…I didn’t know them. Tessa and Jem did, of course, and Magnus, and heck, maybe some of the other warlocks, I don’t know. But I didn’t, and I never will.

But you know who else knew them? Cortana knew them. I wish I’d brought it with me to the house today. (But nooooo, Julian said only weapons that could be completely concealed. And what if the tour guide had turned out to be an Eidolon demon lying in wait for us? I would have faced it with a bootknife smaller than I’d use to peel an apple with. Though it would have been an Eidolon demon that knew a lot about turn of the century furniture. ANYWAY, we were there to find an object, so let me finish that story.)

We were in one of the spare bedrooms, looking at the scrollwork on the bed or whatever. The tour guide was showing off some of the objects on the bedside tables, and the Sensor went off like crazy.

The tour guide gave us an evil look. “Turn off that phone,” she said to me, and the whole tour group flounced off to another room while I pretended to be trying to find my phone in my extremely ugly waist pack. Jules grabbed the Sensor, and it led us to —  a music-box on the windowsill. A very ugly music box. Well, maybe not ugly. Very overdecorated, just covered in bits and bobs and, like, way too much for a music box. There was a monkey figurine involved. It was a lot. Anyway, it was an excellent example of the mid-Victorian etc etc but also it was an object Tatiana cursed and, I guess, someone liked it enough to find it and bring it back here???

After that it was just a matter of waiting till the tour moved on, glamouring up, grabbing the music box, sneaking back out of there, and hoping nobody who worked there had the Sight. Which they didn’t. So now we have a music box to show Rupert in the morning and ask Tessa about. I hope it wasn’t hers or anything like that. I think of her as having better taste.

Okay, that’s it for now, Bruce. I’m going to go get Cortana so I can reach out and touch it from the bed. Julian always teases me when I do that but tonight it feels right. Catch you later.

Emma

[dreamwritesimagines]

Burn The Witch 12 - Bad Surprise [Bucky Barnes x Reader]

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support and feedback my loves ! ❤ Here’s the next chapter, I hope you like it as well and please let me know what you think! ❤ Thank you! ❤❤❤

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, fake dating, mentions of blood, sex, violence, death, manipulation, language, guns, knives.

Summary: Sometimes plans have to change.

Series Masterlist

Every job required something from people, and your job was no different.

Being a spy was not a conventional profession, everyone knew that. You were expected to be on the move all the time, be a good liar, be a good fighter, be whatever the job told you to.

And most important of all; never show fear, which you were usually fine with. You had learned long ago how to keep your calm in times of crisis. You had even managed to keep your calm facade when your last mission required you to play Russian Roulette with a target in order to keep your cover.

But this? This was something else.

Bucky cleared his throat to stifle a laugh as he looked down at you.

“Is it just me or are you using me as a human shield against a peacock right now?”

Your eyes snapped up at his for a moment before you turned your gaze to the peacock again, taking a subtle step to Bucky’s right to keep him between you and the animal.

Coming to the zoo was his idea, and you thought it could be a fun experience. You had never been to a zoo before, and it would count as one of the old times dates, so you were almost giggly by the time you got there.

Right until now.

“I think peacocks don’t have souls.”

“Alright.” Bucky sipped his coffee while you tried to ignore the fear bubbling at the pit of your stomach, eyeing the peacock that walked around the area behind the fences.

“I’m serious,” you insisted “What if it attacks me?”

“It’s not going to attack you Y/N.”

“It could,” you said, “It looks like it wants to attack me.”

The peacock fanned out its feathers all of a sudden and let out a squawk, making you jump out of your skin.

“Fuck!” the curse left your lips and Bucky’s eyebrows rose, an amused grin pulling at his lips.

“Sorry!” you said quickly, “Sorry, I…I don’t trust peacocks.”

“You got mugged in a dark alley and got shot, and a bird is where you draw the line?”

Correction, you were once held at gunpoint by the Italian mafia and peacocks were still where you drew the line.

“That’s not a bird.”

“….Peacocks are birds.”

“No, that’s the devil looking like a bird,” you said, “In-in bird shape. Bird shaped demon.”

“Okay, how about we see some other less threatening animal?”

“Let me check—oh my God Bucky they have sharks, I love sharks!” you said, waving the brochure in his face and he pulled his brows together.

“Sharks fall under the less threatening animal category?”

“Of course they do!” you said, looking at the brochure before looking around, “I think the aquarium is over there, let’s go.”

You grabbed his hand to entwine your fingers with his as you both started walking towards the huge blue structure.

“So I feel like I shouldn’t ask because I know you can’t exactly tell me the details,” you said, “But you’re not going on another mission soon, are you? This week?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, “Why?”

“I’m kind of planning something.”

He tilted his head, “What are you planning?”

“Not a club, relax.” you said, “Although I find it quite ironic that you’re this unstoppable brave superhero with super strength who gets intimidated by dancing.”

“I’m not intimidated…” he grumbled under his breath, making you giggle.

“Whatever you say,” you sang, and reached the entrance of the huge building and you pulled your hand out of his.

“Excuse me sir, is the aquarium still open?” you asked the security guard by the door and a small smirk appeared on his lips.

“Yes but it is closing in ten minutes sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

Jesus Christ….

You smiled politely at him, batting your lashes.

“Oh—“ you took a look at the sign, “I just want to see the killer shark and we’ll be out. In five minutes. Please?”

He eyed you up and down but seemed to snap out of it when Bucky cleared his throat behind you as if warning him, making the guy gawk between you two.

Even you had to admit you seemed like a quite unusual couple. You were wearing a short white sundress with ruffled sleeves and sweetheart neckline with your hair loose while Bucky looked as if he was there to kill someone, a complete opposite of you with his dark jeans and black leather jacket as well as leather gloves.

You didn’t even have to turn your head to know that he was glaring at the guard before the guy shifted his weight, then stepped aside.

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you!” you said, grabbing Bucky’s hand as you led him inside. He followed you without any objections whatsoever, in complete silence as the sight of blue filled your vision along with many fish swimming behind the glass.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” he asked softly and you pulled your brows together.

“Hm?”

“Does anyone ever say no to you?”

You approached the label by the glass, “You do.”

“Do I?”

“All the time,” you nodded, still reading the label but your head shot up when you felt him tug you by the hand. A giggle escaped from your lips as he turned you around so that you could look up at him, then wrapped his arm around you to scoop you up, making you squeal.

“Bucky!”

“All the time?”

“Put me down!” you said, your laughter echoing in the empty aquarium halls and he tilted his head.

“Not until you explain yourself,” he teased you, “All the time?”

“Sometimes, sometimes!” you said quickly, “Very rare times I might add!”

“Mm hm, I thought so.”

“If you drop me, I swear to God—“ you started but was cut off when he pulled you into a kiss, making you wrap your arms around his neck. He took a step with you still in his embrace and you gasped as you felt your back hit the thick glass, but every single protest you could think of seemed to disappear from your mind as you lost yourself in the kiss. You raked your fingernails over the nape of his neck, making his grip around you tighter-

Then someone coughed.

Bucky pulled back instantly and you turned your head to see another rather annoyed technician leaning on her hip, watching you with her brows raised.

“Aquarium is about to close,” she said, pointing at you, “Take it elsewhere.”

Bucky put you down and you tried to fix the skirt of your dress, trying to look presentable.

“Sorry!” you said as Bucky mumbled an apology beside you as well, and the technician shook her head and walked away, talking about how she wasn’t getting paid enough for this. You covered your face and let out a whine but Bucky chuckled, causing you to lower your hands to stare up at him.

“Why is this entertaining for you?” you exclaimed and he held your wrist, gently steering you to the exit.

“Come on.”

“We can never come here again, ever.” you insisted as you followed him outside. It didn’t escape your notice that he bumped his shoulder into the security guard’s quite hard, almost knocking him over on your way out and your jaw dropped.

“That was mean!”

“Nah, he had it coming. Are you hungry?”

“But you could get in trouble. Besides, he was a nice guy—“

“Uh huh, a nice guy who was ogling you.”

You pulled your brows together, pretending to be confused, “Oh I’m sure you misunderstood.”

He tilted his head and pulled you closer to wrap his arm around your waist, then brushed his lips against yours, making you sigh.

“Bucky, it was mean and you can’t just kiss me to distract me—”

“I can try,” he murmured to your lips before kissing you again and you looked up at him when he pulled back with a grin.

“Fine,” you admitted, still pouting. “I’m hungry. Starving actually, let’s eat something.”

                                                    ***

You were finding it harder and harder to convince yourself it was time to go home after every date with Bucky.

Scratch that, you were finding it harder and harder not to invite him upstairs.

But of course, you would have to report it back to the General and discuss the further strategies with him and for some reason, it felt more of a betrayal than this whole thing.

Surprisingly enough, it was something you wanted and not something you would will yourself to do because of the mission. There was no denying it, he was an attractive guy and you really liked spending time with him and you kept having dreams about him and whenever you were with him you had this lightness in your mind, as if you were a different person.

A better person, maybe.

You shook your head at your thoughts and left your apartment to knock on Keith’s door.

“It’s me, open up.”

You heard footsteps before he opened the door and a boyish smile pulled at his lips at the sight of milkshakes in your hand.

“Jesus, finally!”

“I made it at home, can’t promise it’s good,” you said as you walked past him into his apartment and stepped into the living room, “What are you watching?”

“James Bond,” he grinned at you, “Hey, have you ever tried milkshake with gin?”

“No?”

“Me neither, let’s try it.” He said, taking the big glasses from you to pour gin into them. You sat on the couch and took a look at the screen.

“How many times have you watched this again?”

“Like a hundred,” he handed you your glass and you took a sip.

“Not bad,” you commented, putting your feet up on the coffee table. He sat beside you, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“What did you do today?”

“Had a date.”

“With Barnes?”

“Yeah. At the zoo.”

“He took you to the zoo?” he asked and you nodded.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And peacocks are fucking scary,” you muttered, “And hey, we learned that Bucky is the jealous type.”

“The guy was dating people back at 40s, I could tell you that much myself.” He snorted, “Chloe says you went on a mission with Julian?”

You slipped a little on the couch, “He’s an asshole.”

“I know. Is he really that bad in bed?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Nah as much as I hate to admit, he’s pretty good. Unfortunately.”

“So top or bottom?”

“He goes either way to be honest, that comment was more about me.”

“About you?”

“Yeah, I like to be on top.”

“Suddenly everything about you makes sense,” he murmured and you took another sip of your milkshake.  

“Don’t try that with Barnes though, the guy is from 1940s. He’s probably used to missionary only, you don’t want to give him a heart attack,” he wiggled his brows, making you scoff.

“Shut up.”

“Chloe is right, maybe you should go full on vintage on that when the time comes.”

You turned to look at him.

“Speaking of Chloe,” you said, “Anything you would like to tell me?”

Keith’s grin faded slightly and he shifted his weight, “Like what?”

“Bringing her coffee, taking her out to the field…” you trailed off, “What gives, man? I thought we had a deal.”

“We never had a deal,” he defended himself, “You slammed me back during training years ago at the academy and told me not to even think about it when you saw me looking at her.”

“No,” you shook your head, “Five years ago, in Ireland. That undercover job, the one that almost got you killed? We made a deal.”

He swallowed thickly, looking down at the milkshake before taking a sip. “Y/N…”

“Keith, you can’t,” you insisted, “She deserves a normal life, a normal family and kids and a dog and stuff.”

“I know,” he ran a hand over his face, “I know.”

“Then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a spy,” you said, “You said it yourself, spies die like flies.”

“Not all of them,” he said, “General is still alive. He has a family.”

“Yeah, one in a hundred,” you said, “Face it. That’s a very low possibility for us.”

“You don’t think you’ll get to grow old and have a family and all that?”

You pulled your brows together.

“No,” you said, “Of course not. I’m probably going to die in one of these missions.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Keith, I can’t have any of those,” you said, “I can’t. I…it’s impossible.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you muttered, “I made my choice ages ago.”

“Y/N,” he sat up straighter, “Do you want to?”

With a very bad timing, your imagination went overdrive and a strange scene flashed before your eyes. You laughing in Bucky’s arms, watching two kids playing in the garden-

You shook your head, trying to shake off the thoughts.

“I could never have that,” you stated simply, “You might love Chloe and you might also be lucky enough to have her love you but…it’s not the same with me.”

“I’d say Barnes loves you.”

A bitter smile pulled at your lips and you bit inside your cheek, taking another sip of your milkshake.

“He loves someone who doesn’t exist,” you managed to croak out, “He loves my cover. He could never love me.”

                                                           ***

Spending the night at Keith’s and drowning your sorrows in gin and milkshake meant that you would have a killer hangover the next day. Unlike Keith, you didn’t have the luxury to sleep until the noon, seeing that you had a cover job to keep so for the whole day until noon, you walked around like a zombie.

Coffee helped though. Just a little.

Thankfully it was a slow day at the shop. After serving a couple of people, you had nothing to do other than seriously considering sticking your head in the freezer to get rid of the hangover.

“Long night?” Tara asked as she walked past you to put the straws into the cup and you nodded, groaning.

“Remind me not to drink, ever.”

“I make that promise to myself every Monday, does not seem to work.”

You chuckled, “Have you ever tried to mix gin into milkshakes?”

“No?”

“Don’t,” you shook your head as you helped her to move an empty milkshake container into the kitchen. “It’s a terrible idea and I’m experiencing the consequences of that mistake right now.”

“That sounds like a fun night though.”

“Fun night, terrible morning,” you let out a laugh as you walked out of the kitchen but as soon as you did, your eyes caught the sight of the man in the shop. Your smile was wiped off your face as the familiar anger filled your system.

Jesus Christ, this day sucks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked and Julian had the audacity to shoot you a grin.

“Whoa cute outfit,” he said, eyeing you up and down, “Holy shit I didn’t even know I was into this whole thing, I’m having an epiphany.”

You looked over your shoulder to see if Tara was still in the kitchen, then turned to Julian.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was craving milkshakes,” he stated, “Hey, would you recommend Lavender Macaron?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I think I’m gonna go with Lavender Macaron, makes me think of France,” he said, “Fun times.”

“Fun for you maybe.”

He shot you a look, “Come on Y/N, we didn’t leave the honeymoon suite for two days. That was the greatest-“ he lowered his voice, “Mission I’ve ever had.”

“You’re putting this entire operation in—“ you started but stopped talking as soon as Tara walked out of the kitchen. Julian raised his brows for a moment before smiling at her and you went under the counter to grab his arm.

“Y/N, is everything okay?”

“Just peachy,” you said as you dragged him out of the shop, and he heaved a sigh, following you.

“No I’m serious…” he said with a chuckle as soon as you both stepped outside, then motioned at the uniform, “This is something else.”

“Why are you here?”

“I heard that it was good, I did not think it was this good.”

“I’m seriously two seconds away from punching you.”

“How come you never dressed up like this for me when we were dating?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you insisted and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I was around.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want,” he said, “Your shop has good rating, although I’m beginning to believe it has less to do with milkshakes and more about the waitresses.”

“Julian I swear to God—“ you started but you were cut off when someone cleared his throat, making both you and Julian turn your heads. Your stomach dropped as soon as you saw Bucky watching you two with a frown and you withdrew your hand from Julian’s arm.

“Bucky,” you breathed out, “Um-hi.”

“Hi,” he said without taking his eyes off Julian, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

He was trying to decide whether he was a threat to you.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I figured I could drop by,” he said, crossing his arms, “What’s going on?”

Fuck.

Fuck, you had no idea how to turn this around. Thankfully neither of you had said anything about the mission, so it was more than likely that Bucky just knew you knew each other, but other than that, your cover wasn’t blown.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, he’s just—“ you stammered, trying to come up with an explanation, “He’s um—“  

“Oh come on Y/N, don’t be one of those secretive people,” Julian said, “You hate secrets. You’re Bucky, right? I heard about you.”

Bucky just raised his brows, his glare on him unwavering but even if it was quite chilling, Julian was a trained assassin just like you were, so he was used to it. Instead he curled his lips, looking between you before offering him his hand.

“I’m Julian,” he introduced himself, shooting you a grin as if you two shared an inside joke “The evil ex-boyfriend who’s gonna take her from you.”

Chapter 13

[geraskierbrainrot]

This is a collection of modern AUs where Geralt, Jaskier, or both do porn

Do No Harm by @grassylampshade | E | 3k

“Why are you here?” Geralt’s voice is unbelievably deep, a growl that resonates differently in person than it does through Jaskier’s tinny laptop speakers. Jaskier clears his throat and says, “I need your help.”

Jaskier wants to improve his stamina and Geralt is willing to lend him a hand.

Socially Acceptable Ways to Meet Your Soulmate by @elpiething | E | 4k

Jaskier's parents weren't precisely keen on their oldest Omega child going to Oxenfurt to learn art. So they told him to pay off his own student debt. Which means they can't technically get mad at him for going in for a camera test at Vengeance Studios. - An AU where Alphas can't knot without medical assistance. Or their soulmate.

(we should just kiss) like real people do by @thewalrus-said | E | 6k

Jaskier is a dime-a-dozen independent porn star with a party trick. The mononymous Geralt, owner and star of Rivia Studios, is one of the greats in the industry. So Jaskier is a little surprised when Geralt contacts his agent to set up a scene together. Surprised, but very, very willing. (A porn stars AU.)

your two tongue kisses by @krytella | E | 7k

It’s not like Jaskier would want to be in the scenes with Geralt. That’s all highly choreographed, completely stripped of romanticism. No, what Jaskier fantasizes about is ridiculously sappy by anyone’s standards: kissing him, wrapping their bodies around each other in shapes that don't angle to the camera, running fingers through his hair, touching him when he’s not hard, or not to keep him hard, just for pure pleasure. Or: Jaskier is a porn cameraman and Geralt is his favorite performer. Probably not the porn AU you were looking for.

I Can't Take My Eyes Off You by JustSimpleThings | E | 7k

Jaskier is a porn star who can't stop staring at the fit new camera man. The situation spells 'trouble'.

boogie nights by spqr | E | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | 8k

“This isn’t nothing.” His eyebrows draw together. “Jaskier. What happened?” Jaskier fists his hands in his own hair and contemplates pulling it out. “I got shot.��� “Shot,” Geralt echoes, in a tone Jaskier’s never heard before. “Only a bit,” Jaskier hedges. “I took some vicodin, it’s perfectly fine. I can hardly feel it.”

Sweet by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG | E | 8k

Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo Prompt: rough

They Were Roommates by Nowaki | E | 11k

Geralt finds Jaskier’s porn. A surprising amount of the videos are about him.

Geraskier OnlyFans AU series by @ghostlyfallows | 19k

→ The Tower of the Swallow | M | 2k

The man had a very handsome face. His face wasn’t exactly a problem - Jaskier was used to keeping his cool in front of many beautiful and handsome people. The problem was this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this face. More specifically, the problem was: the last time Jaskier had seen this face, it was when he’d confirmed the $11.99 purchase for a month’s subscription to his OnlyFans.

Geralt opened his mouth - that mouth jesus holy fucking christ on a stick - and Jaskier stuck his hand out for a hand shake.

“Julian Pankratz,” he introduced himself, praying to whatever god was listening that his face hadn’t turned an embarrassing shade of red.

Judging from the look on Yennefer’s face, he wasn’t so lucky.

Geralt nodded, not betraying even a hint of a smile. He shook his hand back and answered in a gruff voice, “Geralt.”

But of course, Jaskier already knew that.

→ Baptism of Fire | E | 5k

A continuation of my previous fic, in which Geralt is an OnlyFans creator and Jaskier is his (simp) twitter manager

→ Weak and Wanting | E | 7k

Not surprisingly, Geralt didn’t budge. “Jaskier, how much have you had to drink?” he demanded after Jaskier’s palms bounced off of his chest. “It’s not the alcohol! I’m serious! It's like you have no understanding of the stages to these kinds of things. I’ve seen you naked and talked you through fucking yourself but I haven’t even kissed you yet.” Jaskier clapped a hand over his mouth. “On second thought, I didn’t say that. Stop it, Geralt, why are you laughing?” The corners of his mouth still twitched, but he did his best to hide his mirth for Jaskier’s sake. “So, you do want to kiss me?” Geralt’s head tilted to the side. Despite his confident posture, he seemed...stiff. He had the nerve to look embarrassed. Jaskier clenched his hands into fists. “Are you hesitating?” Jaskier seethed. “You’ve been playing all these games, but you have the nerve to be shy about it? Let me repeat myself, since you want to act all coy: I’ve seen your cock. You called me while you were - while you were fingering yourself to ask me to help. Why the hell are you looking at me like that? Of course I want to kiss you.”

→ Give Me One Good Movie Kiss (give me one good honest kiss and I'll be alright) | E | 4k

"It was...different from any other job he’d taken. Certainly a step up from backbreaking labor for minimum wage. At least he was making tips. He’d never worked a job with tips before. Geralt clicked his cellphone into the tripod by his bed and stripped his t-shirt over his head. He tossed it, along with his jeans and boxer briefs, into his clothing hamper in the corner. Usually, his audience liked a show. He’s learned to tease, make them wait, instead of turning the camera on fully nude with his cock hard in his hand. He got all dressed up just to slowly peel the clothes away. It was an art form, he’d learned over the past few months. Nothing like the clumsy or cheesy fumbling he believed it to be when he first signed up for an account. It was more like dancing. He’d never been good at dancing, but he was good at sex, and that counted for something in this profession." AKA The Bottoming Video from Geralt's POV

Electric Kisses and Lace by SweetestHoney | E | 21k

What Jaskier expected from parent-teacher night was some demanding parents, some stupid questions, and maybe some gossip about a few of the couples. What he got, however, was Geralt, father to one of his students, letting him know that he knew about Jaskier's second job and threatening to tell the school that Jaskier was a gay porn star. How does Jaskier handle this little revelation? Anything but gracefully, of course. Or that one where Jask is on onlyfans and Geralt calls him out on it, leading to the worlds stupidest morons being dumb at each other for 20,000 words straight.

Show love to all these authors by leaving kudos and comments, and happy reading!

[abluescarfonwaston]

Lettenhove au

Farewell wanderlust. You’ve been ever so kind.

It’s been twenty two years. Sure. He hadn’t spent it in Geralt’s pocket. He’d loved and danced and laughed and gotten wasted. Had a grand old time.

But twenty two years. More than half his life he considers as he downs another drink.

What was he supposed to do now? Go back to the life he’d had? The life he’d made for himself? Made in the shape of Geralt’s life. Wandering between towns and jobs. Not settling down. Not carving a life out of the place he’d found into almost his shape like everyone else.

You brought me to this party but you left me here behind.

“Go home Bard.” Geralt had said. So many times when he was younger.

They’d sent his father’s ring when he passed.

“If i go home Geralt. I’ll never come back.”

He had been silent at that. As he twisted the awful ring on his finger.

“This is who you’re supposed to be Julian. Not a vagrant wastrel. Put that damn thing away and come down to dinner.” He’d said. Countless times. At least the old man was consistent. 

“Good.” Geralt mumbled eventually.

He’d rolled over onto Geralt’s chest then. “You don’t mean that. Before me you only had the company of your horse. You’d be lost without me.”

“Says the man who can’t find east at sunrise.”

So long to the person you begged me to be.

He’s holding a lute. Playing for a bar.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

It should but it doesn’t.

He lets himself be angry at Geralt. Be heartbroken. Be sad and forlorn and pissed.

In the end all that settles is empty.

He’s down.

He stops in Oxenfurt. He’s not sure what he’s looking for among the sea of students and professors and his peers.

Whatever it is he doesn’t find it.

He’s dead.

At long last his feet carry him to Lettenhove. Not home. It was never a home.

Had he ever had one?

He doesn’t think of the smell of horse or the sound of a whetstone on a sword.

His Mother pulls him into her arms. Sobbing and yelling and-

It doesn’t matter.

“What do you need?” He asks her.

Maybe if he’d asked Geralt that or listened when he said it-

But that didn’t matter now.

He doubts he’s any good at this. But a second pair of hands- male hands- go a long way to easing his Mother’s burden. He thinks. She says.

It doesn’t really matter if its a lie. He’s no where else to be. He doesn’t want to be here. Or anywhere. So here is fine.

The war plays ravage with his people. They do what they can. If he’d stayed. Listened. Learned. Maybe he could do better by them. Could play the court better. Play it like a noble was supposed to.

But instead he spend twenty two years in search of wonder. Playing music instead.

Now take a good long look at what you've done to me

The door to his study opens. The doorman telling him a stranger and his daughter have arrived. Are begging to see him.

Well. Not him. Jaskier.

He sees them before they see him.

Under all the mud and filth and rain he recognizes that blue. It’s an expensive dye produced only within Cintra’s old borders. 

Golden eyes. Sunken and bruised with exhaustion meet his.

We are running. We need to be hidden. His eyes say. “Jaskier.” Is all his mouth says.

“Julian.” He corrects. “Come now. I know the roads are in need of repair but don’t forget your employer’s name.”

The princess stiffens. Geralt’s eyes grow frantic.

“Master Julian?” The butler inquires.

“My new body guard. See to it him and his daughter are cleaned up.”

“The girl?”

“Marcy has been complaining she’s short handed hasn’t she? I’m sure she’ll find something for her to do.”

“Very well.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt grabs him by the arm.

His gaze is flat as he stares at the hand gripping him. “Do not say that name in this house.” He pinches the worn gauntlet in between his fingers. Pulling it off him. “And you do not touch me unless it is to protect me.”

He drops Geralt’s hand. Turns to the butler. “Go on then.”

They are bustled off. He retires to his room to change from the muddied doublet.

He holds the sleeve that Geralt has dirtied to his face.

Twenty two years and still he is not free.

[sisi-halloway]

Asra x Reader: Do You Understand?

Angsty, emotional fight between Asra and the Reader. Just a way to express how I’m feeling right now. I’ll probably come back and edit it when I have more time.

*EDIT* I AM SO SORRY TO WHOEVER HAS READ THIS ALREADY. I didn’t consider that not everyone has played through his whole route. **SPOILERS**

“There’s too much cardamom in here.” You scrunch your nose up at the sharp taste of Asra’s cooking. It was delicious... just very strong.

“Cardamom? I only used a little,” he defends himself, taking the spoon away from your lips. 

“It’s okay, just put some more sugar... and when you put it on the dough, spread it really thin. Otherwise it’ll be too much.”

Your tone was a little harsh. You didn’t mean it, but you’ve been so stressed lately. Things between you and Asra were just weird. You didn’t know what it was... well you did. It was you.

After the Masquerade things went back to normal. He went on another journey, even after telling you he’d take you more places with him. You were disappointed, sure, but it wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. You opened and closed the shop, spent time with Portia, visited the palace.

You thought you were fine, but nightmares came- about your past. It was brutal, night after night without him. Over and over, it was waking up in cold sweats throwing up everything you’ve eaten during the day, which wasn’t even much to begin with. You barely had enough left in you to open the shop.

You missed him though, more than you ever had before. It was because you loved him. You had come to discover that you loved Asra more than you had ever loved anybody. You also learned that it wasn’t the first time you had fallen in love with him.

There was love that the two of you shared before you... you know. The point is, your past came up, but you never made the active decision to go back to how you were before. As far as he knew, the dynamic between you was still “master and apprentice who were tenderly fond of each other”. Neither of you had taken steps to make your relationship more than that. That was just another thing that was stressing you out.

One night, Portia had come to visit you, only to find you strung out on pain medicine. She held you while you cried, sobbing about how broken you felt, about the nightmares, about your broken heart. Her and Julian took turns coming to the shop and spending time with you, making sure you were okay. You were so thankful for them, but they weren’t the people you needed, You needed Asra. 

In this time, you found that your magic had begun to fade. It was harder to do simple things like make water and fire, and you realized that you couldn’t even call Asra, once you had it in your mind to do so. It was haunting. Your magic was the only thing that made sense to you and you couldn't even practice it.

So when he returned yesterday, you were bitter. He knew something was wrong, but you couldn’t tell him. It was your nightmares, your magic and now the fact that your heart belonged to him, figuratively as well as literally, and he didn’t seem to know it. You knew Portia or Julian must’ve said something to him about how you had been fairing, and he was reaching out to you to try and fix it. It was difficult to open up to him even though you were always an open book to him before. You didn’t know why it was so hard now. With everything the two of you had been through, you thought it would be easy to tell him you loved him. You needed him, but all you could do was push him away. 

This morning though, the two of you had taken a day off and decided to make pastries together. He knew it was something that relaxed you both, and even when you were mad at each other, you always loved cooking together.

“Try now,” he says, holding the spoon back up to your mouth. You took a taste, smiling for what seemed like the first time in a few weeks. “That’s all I needed to see,” he says, a pleased expression coming across his heart shaped face.

As the two of you rolled the biscuits into shapes and placed them in your oven, he stared at you. You sat across from each other at the breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen. You didn’t like it, how he stared. It wasn’t the fond kind of staring. It was the staring that normally led to him asking questions you didn’t want to answer.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter before he got the chance to ruin your mood.

Asra closed his mouth, taken aback by your intuitive hostility. 

“(Y/n). We haven’t really talked about it at all. I don’t even know what “it” is.”

A prick of guilt stuck you in the heart. You realized you couldn’t be mad at him forever. Even a day was too long. It was difficult not to give in to his soft eyes begging you for answers behind fluffy white locks. It had been less than twenty four hours since he come home, and he wouldn’t rest until he knew you were okay.

“It’s just too much to explain,” you tell him. “It’s just a lot of stupid feelings. I don’t want to bother you with it. I’m fine.”

Asra puts down the pastry dough and folds his hands on the table, leaning toward you intently. “Well that’s more than you’ve told me so far, so that’s good. You’re not fooling anybody, though.”

Royal purple opened you up, tearing down all of your walls of protections. “I know there’s something wrong. We share a heart, (y/n). You can’t fool me.”

Your mouth twists in frustration. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you were connected. 

Asra reaches across the table and grips your hands in his. The flour was grainy on your skin and the small pouches of dough still stuck on both of your fingers squished when the two of you touched. “I...” You couldn’t seem to get the words out, any constructive ones anyway. Portia had told you to use positive language communicate your feelings to him. That way you could fix the problem instead of just blaming him...

“You...” 

Blaming him was easier to do.

“You left me. Again.”

You didn’t yell, but all the emotion behind your words made your point clear. The tears were already at the backs of your eyes, threatening to spill over. You had barely started telling him what was wrong. You looked up from where you hit your fists on the table, shaking Asra’s grip away.

“After you said you wouldn’t...Why would you leave me again?”

You heard his sharp intake of breath, and as if to confirm that the two of you were of one heart, you felt the knife of your own words tear down your stomach.

“Oh, (y/n). I didn’t mean... I’m sorry. I went back on my promise.”

You shake your head and the diamond drops of water jumped form your eyes onto the table in front of you, making prints in the flour dusted on the surface.

“Are you still trying to protect me? Is that it?” 

He nodded. 

“What exactly are you still trying to protect me from?”

He was lost for words. “Nothing! E-everything... I don’t know. I just don’t want anything to hurt you.”

You get up from the table and pace, your back to Asra. You couldn’t quite look at him. “You’re too important to me. You can’t blame me for wanting to keep you safe, can you? I just don’t want you hurt.”

You turn to look at him. He held out his arms in pleading. You knew he meant well, but he was going about this the wrong way. Keeping you at home, in the dark? That was his way of protecting you? Him leaving you alone?

“It’s me! I’m just hurt. I’m so confused as to why.”

Asra’s face falls and tears immediately filly his own eyes. You felt him understand you in that moment. You felt all his guilt, remorse, sadness... and all the blame. It plagued you in the form of a heavy mass in your chest that weighed you down to the floor. The emotion ran freely down your cheeks in sheets and your speech was reduced to broken weepy stuttering. 

“I missed you so much. I woke up everyday and you weren’t here next to me, a-and I was just so- so- helpless! I was having nightmares about my old life and they scared me so much Asra. I died every time I closed my eyes to sleep.” Your body was folding in on itself and it was hard for you to stand. Between your bawling and talking, there was no time to breathe. Your nose ran almost as much as your eyes did, and instead of wiping your face you wrapped your arms around your torso, holding yourself against your own misery.

“I felt you hurting. I should’ve come back to you... but I called you so many times. Why didn’t you answer me?” His whisper was so quiet, so ashamed, so liable. 

“I wanted to! My magic isn’t- it isn’t right! I couldn’t even conjure light!  I couldn’t answer you. I tried, Asra. I...”

He rushed to you and gathered your melting form into his arms, the both of you collapsing on the floor, an entanglement of limbs. One of his hands slid around to your back and the other clutched a handful on your hair as he held your face to his shoulder. Calming your breaths wasn’t easy, but you managed to do it, taking deep drags of the smell of Asra’s scarf. “I’m here. I’ll be here.”

You struggled to speak. “I didn’t know how much I needed you until you left me. I’m sorry for pushing you away, I was just so angry and lo-”

“Don’t be sorry,” he kissed your head through your hair, adjusting his hold on you with every word. Tighter and tighter he held onto you, making you feel safe. 

“I love you, Asra!” You shout this into his warmth and immediately want to take it back. It didn’t stop you from bearing your conscience to him.

“I want things to be however they were before. I want to be yours! I want you in ways I can’t even explain. Every time you go away, I feel like a piece of me is going halfway across the big wide world! ”

You look up at him, trying desperately to make him understand. 

“Do you get what I’m trying to say?”

Asra looks at you with such intent. “I do. I understand. I feel everything you feel, (y/n). It’ll just be easier to show you.”

He cups your face in his hands, bringing your mouth to his. When your lips touch, you see a world of stars and you feel happiness in it’s purest form. You desperately take his lips between your teeth, gently moving into his embrace. His kiss was so deep, so intense, so long that his heartbeat quickens, making yours beat in the most identical way. You seem to drink of each other, so intimately feeling some certain emotions that nobody else has ever made you feel. Asra’s magic flowed into you at every place you touched him: mouth, hands, arms, legs, even the feathery way your hair touched his face. The rest of his magic found its way into you in the form of an aura. It seeped into your skin, energizing you, washing away all your doubt. You couldn’t even name the things you were feeling. You just felt them. 

“Do you understand what I feel for you?”

You nod, getting lost in the constellations on the other side of his eyes. 

He kisses you a few times more, wiping away the last of the tears from your cheeks. “Let’s finish breakfast, okay? Then we can sleep all day. How does that sound to you?”

“It sounds perfect.”

[chasneedsamoustache]

A bard’s family reunion

It was already dark when Geralt, accompanied – as he had been for almost a month now – by the troubadour poet Jaskier, reached the inn that would serve as a welcome bed for the night. The pair had been on the road for long enough to be in need of a bed that was not made of branches and rocks and also, most certainly a hot bath, for they both stank.

The red-faced and ill-mannered innkeeper scowled at Geralt – almost a moment too long for the tired witcher before shrugging his shoulders and declaring there to be no room available. If it wasn't for the raucous in the adjoining room, which Geralt presumed to be the main area of the tavern, he may have argued with the man. Instead he lingered, assaulting the the innkeeper with his narrowed eyes, long enough for Jaskier – who had gotten fed up of waiting with the horses and paid a young child a penny to do the job for him – to enter.

At the sight of the bard with, as always, a lute on his back and for reasons that for once did not seem to the witcher to be about him or his mutated existence, the innkeeper suddenly lit up, snapped his fingers and proclaimed there to be a spare room as Jaskier was 'one of those lot'. Geralt took the key offered to him, caring not that the red-faced man was entirely mistaken as whatever was meant by 'that lot' could not apply to the bard who had not even heard of this town, let alone this inn.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” Jaskier whispered to Geralt once they had handed their mounts over to the stable boy. “I'm sure we're going to get ourselves into some sort of trouble.”

“As long as that trouble happens in the morning, after a good nights sleep, I am not going to begrudge a little nuisance.”

“Says you, dear witcher, when it was only upon my own entering the establishment that we were permitted a room and thus it is I who will be in trouble for falsely taking up residence in some other poor fools room!”

“Worry not until you are at least bathed and fed, Jaskier.” Geralt said wearily. “Fed being the priority right now, my stomach is an empty cavern and I fear a monster has taken residence there as it is growling rather loudly.”

The troubadour sighed and gave in, his own stomach empty, he agreed that at least they should eat before they were chucked out onto the street for being imposters.

They entered the main section of the inn, Geralt led but paused when greeted by a room packed to the rafters of merry makers, young and old and of a variety of wealth that the witcher had certainly not expected out here in the countryside. Jaskier appeared beside him, looking equally disheartened at the lack of available seating.

The crowd, bristling with excitement, seemed to be centred on a small area with a raised wooden platform that looked to be stage, although it was currently empty of whatever or rather whomever had drawn such a large gathering. Waves of excited whispers and louder giggles passed over the crowd, ignored entirely by the two men who were still scouring the room for even a small space on a crowded bench.

“Perhaps we ought to take a meal in our room.” Jaskier said, having to practically shout to be heard over the hubbub. Geralt turned to his friend with a frown that begged him to repeat himself. Despite being able to hear the bard clearly if he whispered in a hail storm, he had not being paying attention. “I say, pehaps-”

Jaskier stopped mid-sentence, his face turned pale and twitched it's way into a grimace, the likes of which Geralt had never seen on the bard before. Nose wrinkled, Jaskier turned on his heel and made for the exit, announcing that, under no circumstances, could he stay in this place a moment longer. He cried out when the witcher grabbed him by the shoulder, eager to remind him that this was the only warm bed within a days ride.

“You don't understand.” Hissed Jaskier, squirming free of the witcher's grip.

“It matters not how you have wronged-”

“This is worse, we must leave and quickly!”

“Julian!” Too late, Jaskier blanched again and fell back against Geralt in his usual dramatics – although Geralt was not entirely sure it had not been a genuine faint this time for his friend's face was ugly with sickness and fear before the fellow who had called his name, his real name.

“Julian what on earth are you being so ridiculous for?” He approached, dressed as eccentrically, perhaps more so, than the bard who had returned to an upright position. “Oh forgive me, I forgot you don't use that name in public. Jaskier, I'm so glad you've made it! Everyone will be excited, for they were determined you had not even received the numerous invitations sent to you the even more numerous places you have been sighted in recent months. Indeed I believe I have some money to collect as it was only I who placed a wager in favour of your attendance. I thought that innkeeper had given the room we had kept for you, just in case, away to some imposter! ”

“No.” Jaskier's voice was not much more than a wheeze. He looked from Geralt to the room, desperately looking for an escape, for the fellow was blocking his exit.“No.”

“I beg your pardon?” The fellow, who, had precisely the same cornflower blue eyes and chin, and, though his nose was a different shape entirely, could only be Jaskier's brother, perhaps cousin, but brother was much more likely, such was there resemblance in face and mannerism. Geralt found himself raising an eyebrow. “What on earth do you mean by no?”

“Wh-what do you mean by invitation? I received no such thing.” The witcher thought that perhaps he had, but since he squirrelled away any word from his family, which was always the very last thing Jaskier was willing to discuss, he presumed any invitation was lost in the pile of unopened letters the bard thought Geralt did not know about.

“Then this is a happy coincidence! Destiny! Wonderous are the gods who have brought you here on the day of our great reunion!”

“Reunion?” Geralt smiled unpleasantly and Jaskier glared equally as hideously at him.

“Yes friend! Do not worry, brother-mine, it matters not that as usual your manners are lacking, for this man needs no introduction. White hair, yellow eyes, two swords! He could only be Geralt of Rivia! The white wolf! The witcher! The source of all the ballads and such that have made my dear brother famous across these lands. A good friend I believe and thus a friend to us all and certainly welcome at our table for the festivities!

“To answer your question, good witcher, this week is a grand celebration, a reunion of now all of the siblings of Lettenhove, in honour of our good father's birthday, rest his soul. We have commandeered this fine tavern and indeed the town hall and will be playing every night from now until midsummer – Papa's actual birthday if you would believe it – where we shall host a mighty feast and concert!”

“And, if it's not too rude to ask, for my dear Jaskier has failed to inform me of any of his familial relations,” Another, even more hideous glare was earned for the most subtle of Geralt's sarcastic tones, known only to Jaskier for being sarcastic and taken entirely sincerely by anyone else. “How many siblings are you?”

“Fourteen, including Ju- ah Jaskier here and myself.” When Geralt coughed, choking on his own surprise, Jaskier himself stepped in.

“We do not, of course all have the same mother.” He said sneeringly, the sneer was directed at Geralt alone.

“Of course, can you imagine such a poor lady?”

“No, Papa was, as I am, quite the ladies man and a good deal of my siblings were born outside of wedlock. Once he did marry, he remained faithful, I might add, for I do not wish you to think poorly of the man.”

“No, though I do wonder if there is more of us out there.”

“By the gods, John, I hope not!” Jaskier shuddered, finally naming the man in front of him. “I shall explain, dear witcher, but first, brother-mine, I am in incredible need of a drink and whatever passes for food in a place such as this.”

“Certainly! Of course, how rude of me! Come this way!” John waved his hand, much in the same way as Jaskier did when he led Geralt, sweeping and extravagantly. The witcher wondered who learned the technique from who.

Once seated on possibly the most packed table, filled with not only platters of roast meats, steaming fish and an assortment of bread and vegetable dishes, ale tankards and dull goblets full of wine that Geralt immediately knew had corked long ago, but also with at least seven of Jaskier's siblings. Their faces a strange mixture of the bard's familiar features and some that were not nearly as familiar nor pleasant, yet suited each face well. All had the same cornflower blue eyes and all were fixed on either the witcher or his friend, who by all accounts was sulking.

Another sibling had drawn the attention of most of the crowd that filled the rest of the tavern, sitting on stage with a lute, she sung gracefully and played just as well as Jaskier himself. A few, mostly young women of varying levels of beauty, still had their eyes on the table at which Geralt now sat. Eyes on the handsome men there, Jaskier still apparently judged as the most beautiful as most now gazed longingly at him, despite the grimace on his face.

He ignored them all until his friend elbowed him gently, knowing a pretty face or two would soon improve his mood – which it did, tremendously, the bard's grin quickly returned to his face as his winks sent women swooning and blushing. Geralt himself was simply relishing in not being the centre of attention and disgust, there were far too many pleasant young men and indeed women at the table for anyone to notice him and his yellow eyes, let alone be disgusted by them. Save one girl, when Geralt met her gaze, she smiled and nodded faintly to him.

“And now, dear friend, I shall endeavour to explain my peculiar family.” Jaskier interrupted the exchange, now feeling merrier having quickly emptying two mugs of beer, a third in a hand he swung about to draw attention. “My Papa, Joshua Austin Pankratz, seventh Viscount of Lettenhove, like myself -”

“And your all of your siblings.” A woman who looked to be in her early thirties with the same soft curl as Jaskier in her auburn hair, holding a babe in one hand and a turkey leg in the other, interrupted. Geralt had the impression that this was not the first time she had had to remind Jaskier to include more than just himself.

“Yes, like myself and all of my wonderful siblings was a bard, a troubadour, a poet, a man of music and although talented with many an instrument, favoured, like myself and my siblings, the lute. Before his own father passed away, he roamed the countryside and courts, playing to much applause and gaining fame which rivals my own. He also found his way to the bed of many a woman and some of those women provided him with gifts in the form of my older brothers and sisters.” A few of the men and women in the middle of the table nodded, one, the redhead with the babe, rolled her eyes so viciously she appeared to strain them. Jaskier ignored her.

“Papa,” Jaskier continued. “Was most unhappy when he was forced to give up his life as a bard and return to the family estate in Lettenhove to settle down as the Viscount. Soon after he wed my lovely mother, may she rest peacefully.”

“If your lord father had to settle down, then why are you still wondering the countryside like a pauper?” Geralt asked and his friend sneered again, turning his head from Geralt's raised eyebrows and questioning gaze.

“Our dear brother,” Said John, chuckling as he bit into a rather large slice of spiced pork pie, which caused him to choke, spluttering astonishingly elegantly into a handkerchief until the man beside him gave him a rather firm smack on the shoulders. “Thank you Johan – where was I? Oh yes, our brother, himself now the Viscount of Lettenhove, has a rather splendid advantage that our dear departed Papa did not. Juli- oh pox, do forgive me brother, Jaskier here, has a wealth of siblings with whom he shares the responsibilities that come with his title, leaving him Viscount in name only for most of the year, whilst we all take turns in running our little corner of the world. All of us except Jennifer, who is still too young, that is.”

“How did you trick your family into such an arrangement?” Geralt directed the question to his friend.

“Oh, before Papa passed away, we all took turns in threatening to give up the title and pass it on to the next sibling until all that was left was poor little Jennifer, at the time was still inside her mother's belly. A late surprise that one, didn't know Papa still had it in him. Anyway, it was he that suggested that, although I, being the oldest son borne of marriage, would officially be the Viscount, we split the responsibility – bastard or not. Works out to less than a month a year, which in order to keep our land and our money and so on, really isn't that much hassle, even for a group of travelling poets. ”

“Quite so.” John agreed, as did a few of the others.

“Come to think of it, who's in charge if you are all here?” Jaskier asked with a strangely concerned tone.

“Oh, Jac's husband, just for the week.” John replied.

“I suppose that is fine.” Sniffed Jaskier. “So anyway, we take it turns to, you know, be the Viscount, in order of age. Johan is the oldest, sat beside John there, then Judith at the end of the table, John, who you know, Jessica, currently performing and younger only by a few months, Jemima, born of my mother but before she wed my father, who is over there with a babe. How many have you now, dear sister?”

“Fetty here is the fith.”

“Goodness, are you also trying to create enough children for an orchestra?” Jemima scowled but was distracted by patting the babe back to sleep.

“Yes Geralt, our dear father realised at some point that a few more children and he may well have his own little troupe or orchestra. The joke is that we all turned out to love the lute and the lute alone.”

“Except for Jennifer.”

“Indeed, except for Jennifer who plays,” The bard let out a sigh which was echoed by a few of more vibrantly dressed siblings. “the triangle.”

A snotty-nosed and rather mucky girl, who could be no older than eight or nine, sat on the end of the table, grinned suddenly and it was only then that Geralt saw the resemblance to Jaskier. She snuffled her nose, which was in desperate need of wiping, and held up said instrument. A piece of thin metal bent into the shape of a triangle, hanging from a string. The girl hit it with a metal stick, rather triumphantly and Geralt smiled at her for ignoring her siblings sighs and being proud of her own talents. Johan beside her patted her on the back and pulled a rag from his pocket for her to wipe her little nose on.

“So after Jemima,” Jaskier was now determined to finish his explanations. “Came myself. Then, Jacob, Jacqueline, Jasper, who is doing a terrible job of wooing that poor lady over yonder, and Jane, beside me.

“And then, my dearest darling mother sadly left this world, the pox took her. Papa was most unhappy for a long time, until he found Sasha, whom he wed after some time, much to all of our relief. Afterwards came Joel and Jeremiah and finally, our very, very late little egg, Jennifer.” Jennifer grinned again, puffing up proudly as if she had planned her own conception.

The evening continued and amidst eating and drinking and bouts of applause, Geralt heard more and more about Jaskier's family. A hundred different tales from when they were young, including the day Jennifer was born and they all stood on the battlements with their father and played their lutes in unison until they were shouted down by the nursemaid for disturbing the new baby. It did however, become a tradition that they met once a year and played together on the battlements, now joined by little Jennifer who hit her triangle enthusiastically in time with the others.

The witcher heard other stories, from all the siblings, who came and went, sometimes in large groups, back and forth from the stage. Family squabbles and disagreements, silly spats and fights – some of which were still unresolved –  as well as many adventures they had happily shared and heart warming tales of happy times.

Stories of rule as Viscount, and of when Jaskier had vanished for almost an entire year, which turned out to be entirely Geralt's fault. He was forgiven but warned not to occupy his friend's time in late spring again. He heard too, happy stories of love and siblings supporting one another and soon Geralt understood the family to, despite Jaskier's half-hearted protests, truly care for one another.

Jaskier himself, now rather drunk on beer and corked wine, seemed to be the biggest champion of all his siblings, cheering them on and arguing – sometimes a little too aggressively – with them when he was praised above them. Truly, it seemed to Geralt that he loved them dearly, each and every one. Even if the bard ended up as the butt of many a joke, now released of any pretence, he laughed along side his siblings, heartedly and with no sign of sourness.

At one point Jaskier announced that he had in fact received the invitation and had pushed Geralt to come through here, despite pretending to have no knowledge of this place, when indeed he knew it to be the only inn around and that, by the time they reached it, Geralt would be sick of sleeping outside. The witcher himself laughed most heartedly, declaring that he had been played most cunningly, which in that moment he realised he had. He even joined in with the applause when Jaskier stood up and bowed to the cheers and laughter of his siblings for tricking a witcher.

When the dawn approached, Geralt had the pleasure of carrying Jaskier to bed. He was surprised that all the siblings, even Jennifer – though she had been asleep on Johan's lap for many hours – stayed until the innkeeper told them he must prepare for the day that had already arrived. It was only when they were on the stairs and finally alone, that Geralt asked Jaskier why he had hidden his family for so long and why even when they had arrived, he had tried to run.

“I want to be Jaskier, not Julian Alfred Pankratz, when I'm with you. And I thought that if you met my family that would change.” The bard said, his speech so slurred that Geralt could only just understand what he was saying. “They're good people, a good family, but I dislike that I'm a Viscount. I'm a bard, Geralt! A bard and only a bard! I've only used my title to get you out of trouble – like that time they caught you swindling the crown because of that red haired witch.” Geralt met Jaskier's blurred gaze and his friend began to giggle. “What I'm saying is,” He dribbled when his laughter had subsided. “The person you are friends with is Jaskier, troubadour, poet, womaniser, a man whom doesn't have a family with fourteen siblings and an increasing number of nieces and nephews. A man who can stand tall on his achievements, unique and talented and not one of many and not even the best among them.”

Jaskier's voice grew quiet and Geralt shook his head at such a notion.

“Dear friend, for you are truly my friend, perhaps the only true friend I have. Not because of your musical talent, nor your proficiency at bedding women and certainly not because you are a man without a family – though I did have you down as an only child, I must admit. No, dear, dear Jaskier, you are my friend for many reasons, your courage for one. You have been to places and taken part in things more dangerous than any normal man and from what I gather, certainly any of your siblings would readily involve themselves in. You have also saved me more times and in more ways than I can count. You are loyal, a horrible wretch, hilarious and utterly unique and with qualities I cannot even put into words, for I am no poet, but all of which make you my very dear friend and that will not change whether you are lonesome Jaskier or Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, one of fourteen or even a hundred siblings, all of whom play the lute with the exception of Jennifer who plays the triangle. You are my friend Jaskier, and always will be.”

The bard looked at Geralt with eyes shimmering with tears and, just as Geralt though he would speak, Jaskier turned his head an vomited into a plant pot.

[goldandlights]

of cherries and dandelions

aka lil virgin!Jas biting off more than he can chew when he propositions Geralt shortly after Posada :(

rating: explicit pairing: geraskier (pre-relationship? it could be read as casual sex) tags: top!Geralt, bottom!Jaskier, first time, sex toys, communication failure, angst and fluff

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It’s summer in Lyria, a mild and pleasant evening, when Jaskier leans over to Geralt and croons some saucy verse about fucking in his ear. There are no other patrons to entertain in the tavern and the young bard honestly expects nothing but the usual glaring and growling from his sourly companion. Even 2 months into their shared travels, the Witcher seems to barely tolerate his presence. Pity... but hey, Jaskier is working on it.

Geralt is as fine a specimen as he has ever seen; tall, broad and strong , with thick arms and even thicker thighs that make the bardling’s mouth water when he imagines sinking down between them. (And the hair! The eyes! -oh, his eyes… )

Between the power to crush the bones in a human’s body, reflexes so fast he can cut an arrow out of the air and senses so acute they can pick up on a mouse rustling through the underbrush half a mile away, the white-haired Witcher was undoubtedly created to be a finely-tuned killing-machine. But Jaskier can find no trace of fear within himself.

In their time together, Geralt has shown himself to be noble and quietly compassionate above all else, avoiding confrontation and violence to the point where he’d rather leave an inn, meal unfinished and bed paid-for but unused, than defend himself against those who hurl abuse (and sometimes sharp objects) at him.

It’s just not fair and so Jaskier has sworn to do anything in his power to improve the situation.

It also makes the sizzling attraction all the worse.

Not only is Geralt stupidly hot, but he’s also kind and oddly charming and it messes with the poor bard quite terribly. He can’t stop sending winks and overt, suggestive glances Geralt’s way. Can’t stop spewing flirtatious remarks and innuendo. The young man has yet to learn how to be anything other than obvious about his desire but he does already know that confidence is the name of the game.

Still, Geralt is Geralt. Tough and experienced and probably entirely straight .

So even if the mental image of all that juicy bulk pressing him down into the sheets makes Jaskier’s prick twitch and leak, he does not expect his actions to incite a response in the other man at all.

That’s his first misjudgement.

Because when faced with the 5th overt come-on in as many hours, for the 6th week in a row, Geralt huffs, rolls his eyes and- stands up?

“Come on, then,” He says gruffly, already turning towards the stairs and Jaskier’s brain grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.

Wait, what.

He stands frozen, gaping unattractively until Geralt notices his hesitation and turns around with a raised eyebrow.

“Or are you all bark and no bite after all?”

Well.

Barely 18 and still rather fresh out of Oxenfurt, Jaskier has been with a whole lot of three women and sucked cock exactly once . -under the watchful eyes of those that still knew him as Julian there hadn’t been many opportunities to experiment.

Still, the bard had his fingers, fantasies and a lovely little toy pulled from a heap of bits and bobs at a novelty shop in Vizima.

It was maybe 6 inches long with a conveniently flared base and a lovely bulge on the upper half. Add just a bit of oil and it slides in easily, the comfortable stretch setting every nerve alight. Jaskier enjoys having it in, even when he’s not hard or trying to get off, and plays with it whenever he can. It’s just so nice to be full, to clench around it, to dream of his body giving a lover pleasure this way.

Is this the opportunity he’d been waiting for? Possibly. If it is though, it’s fast slipping through his fingers. With a grunt as if to say I knew it , Geralt turns and continues his way up the stairs. Shit.

Gathering all his courage, Jaskier shakes himself out of his stupor and stumbles forwards.

When the door to their room falls shut behind him, the bard is already fully hard, blushing furiously at his own over-eagerness when Geralt takes one look at the tent in his breeches and raises a perfectly shaped brow.

Jaskier knows he mustn’t let the nervous energy twisting in his gut bubble over. The Witcher can smell emotion, at least basic ones like joy or fear, and he’ll notice any uncertainty the bard projects. How would he react? Surely Geralt has no use for an inexperienced bed-partner.

Really, Jaskier feels quite out of his depth. In their tiny room, the burly Witcher is doubly imposing and the bard has no frame of reference for how such things between men are carried out. Deciding it’s best not to lose momentum, he puts his lute down against the wall and steps up to where Geralt is standing next to the bed.

Confidence, Jaskier.

He pushes right into the man’s space and kisses him, forcefully, hands going up to grab at the broad chest he’s been staring at lustily for weeks. Immediately, Geralt is kissing back, huge hands settling on Jaskier’s waist.

Biting and sucking on soft, plush lips, he forces Jaskier back a step, then another, curbing any attempt to crowd the Witcher towards the mattress. The young man, however, is too distracted to worry about the shifting power balance. He has two handfuls of Geralt’s thick, bulging pecs to bind his attention and, oh, they’re tensing deliciously as a growl rumbles from the Witcher’s throat.

“I’m not one of your milk-maids, Jas,” he bites out and the bard finds himself picked up and damn near thrown onto the bed as though he weighs nothing at all.

After two months of yearning and awkward boners, the youthful bardling finally gets his wish of being buried alive under 200 pounds of excitable Witcher, keening and whining as he’s absolutely ravished . Either Geralt also has some sexual frustration to burn through or he’s always that intense -at least it leaves no room for nervousness.

Within minutes, Jaskier’s doublet and undershirt have been shoved off and the Witcher’s face is buried in the hair on his chest, breathing him in, sword-calloused fingers pulling and pinching at the bard’s nipples. Pain transforms into tingling pleasure and Jaskier barely contains a cry.

He had never thought to play with his chest this way; a most grievous oversight. When Geralt’s mouth latches onto one of the stiff little nubs, licking and sucking, eager little mewls start spilling from Jaskier’s mouth. Sweet Melitele . If anything, he seems to be the milk-maid in this scenario.

There’s nothing soft about the body atop of him, nothing that gives to the frenzied clutch of his hands. Geralt has divested himself of his shirt as well and Jaskier runs his hands mindlessly over the skin he can reach, drinking in the unfamiliar sensations of coarse hair and scarring under his fingertips.

The urge to spread his legs like a 3 ducat whore is a bit embarrassing but undeniable. And it’s really not fair when life rewards his shamelessness with a Witcher’s hard belly pushing down onto his prick. Jaskier nearly spills then and there from the friction. He’s so fucking hard and they haven’t even done anything yet.

If Geralt notices the wet spot at the front of his trousers, he doesn’t say anything -which is a rather small mercy overall, considering the thoughtful look the older man levels at Jaskier when he draws back, sitting up between wantonly splayed thighs to examine the young body underneath him.

“Sensitive, are you?” Geralt murmurs, drawing his calloused palms down the length of Jaskier’s quivering body.

They’re warm, so warm as they run along his vulnerable belly and sides. A gentle, soothing pressure which brings momentary respite from the urgent throbbing between Jaskier’s legs. Goosebumps prickle over his skin.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, arching his back as Geralt rubs his thumb over the soft little bump below his navel. It is answer enough.

To distract and discourage further questioning, Jaskier catches one of the Witcher’s thick wrists in one hand and makes grabby motions with the other. Even when not pitted against a Witcher’s heightened senses, Jaskier is a terrible liar. He worries if Geralt starts asking questions, the truth about his previous experience -or lack thereof- will slip out.

He’s in luck though; Geralt looks surprised but simply obliges the wordless demand.

Happily buried under a mountain of Witcher again, Jaskier seeks out his slightly chapped lips for another lovely kiss. It’s addictive. Their mouths meet languidly, and he relishes in the opportunity to card his fingers through the other man’s beautiful white hair.

Geralt, surprisingly, does not protest and does not, for the moment, make any motions towards getting on with the programme. He actually seems quite happy to stay in that position for a bit, simply enjoying the warmth and closeness of their bodies as Jaskier works to calm his racing heart.

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“I want to see you suck my cock.”

Spoken softly into the unexpectedly peaceful silence, Geralt’s murmur is carefully undemanding. His hungrily roaming hands, however, give away the desire hidden underneath. Nodding to the unspoken request, Jaskier lets go of the Witcher’s soft tresses to watch him undress.

That’s when Jaskier realises his second misjudgement of the night.

He knows himself to be quite average in length and girth. With his little glass toy being similarly sized, Jaskier had thus felt quite safe in the belief that, whatever his first proper male conquest was packing, he’d be able to handle it just fine.

Except that nothing about Geralt was ever average. Not his appearance, not his strength and not, apparently, his fucking dick.

>>>>> read the rest on ao3

[heyyyharry]

Chapter 13: The Oscars

(from the My Girl Trilogy: Stay Mine)

…in which they attend the Oscars and Y/N almost misses it.

Word count: 5k

AU: actor!Harry, older!Harry, younger!Y/N, (4-year age gap).

Song in the kitchen scene: A Million Times - Alice Kristiansen ft. Julian Lamadrid 

Wattpad link (Thea as Y/N)

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“And the Oscar goes toooooooo...HARRY STYLES!”

“Stop making fun of me!”

“I’m not!” Y/N plumped down on to the treehouse floor, sitting with her legs crossed as she shook Harry’s arm gently. “Come on. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I’m not being hard on myself. I’m being realistic,” he replied, toying with a yellow leaf he’d found on the floor just to avoid making eye contact as they spoke. Y/N didn’t get why he was embarrassed and so doubtful of himself. She had seen him on stage when he’d been Romeo last year. He was one of the best kid actors and no one could convince her otherwise.

“Your new drama teacher was a meanie,” she huffed, arms folded across her chest.

Harry finally cast her a glance as the corners of his mouth turned up. “You’re not being objective. Mrs Berry was.”

“You’re a kid! Kids are allowed to make mistakes. That’s the only way they can learn and improve. My writing sucks but you don’t see me giving up.”

“Has anyone ever told you your writing sucks?”

“Celine’s brother.”

“He’s an arsehole.”

“Harry!”

“Sorry,” Harry chuckled, lifting both hands. “He’s a bum.”

Y/N didn’t laugh when he did. If her mum and dad knew he cursed all the time, they wouldn’t let her hang out with him anymore. “Well,” she exhaled. “I feel sorry for your teacher. She probably has nothing better to do with her life than crushing kids’ dreams because her dreams had died with her talent when she became a teacher instead of an actress.”

“Are you sure you’re ten years old?” Harry smiled, giving her a look that could be interpreted as either amazed or amused or both.

She’d never told him, but he had one of the best smiles she’d ever seen, which was why she was sure he would become successful. Having a great smile was a great quality for every actor. At least that was what her best friend Celine had told her.

“Are you sure you’re older than me?” she rebutted.

He lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. “I’m gonna listen to you because you’re a know-it-all.”

She said nothing and launched herself to her feet, clearing her throat. He watched with a confused look on his face when she picked up his water bottle and held it with both hands like the way an actor would hold the Oscar statue.

“Harry is too shy to come on stage and accept this Academy Award,” she said, “so I’m gonna accept it on his behalf. He’d like to thank his family, his drama teacher Mrs Berry, and his biggest fan Y/N aka Bambi. These are the people who helped shape his career.” Harry doubled over laughing as she lifted the water bottle above her head. “Thank you so much for this award. Have a good night, Los Angeles!”

.

.

.

Y/N contemplated her reflection in the full-length mirror while Harry was watching her from the couch on the side. She cast him a sideways glance, to which he responded with a thumbs-up and a grin.

She sucked in a breath, looking back at herself. She looked different. She felt different. She had worn plenty of expensive gowns that didn’t belong to her and attended countless exclusive events with Harry before. But this. This was the Academy Awards. And she was wearing the kind of dress that was meant to turn heads on the red carpet, the kind of dress that models wore on the runway. She used to watch award shows with her best friends all the time, and could never imagine herself pulling off such elegant outfits. But now, she almost looked like she belonged at the Oscars.

She wasn’t wearing any make-up and her hair was in a simple low ponytail, so she knew the dress had done all the work to make her look desirable. Harry’s designer had taken the inspiration from the iconic silver dress in The Little Mermaid, when Ariel returned from the sea and reunited with Prince Eric. Harry had joked that Y/N resembled a fawn more than a princess, and she had smacked him hard on the arm, proving that she was neither.

“Is it too tight?” asked Meili – the designer. She was so kind that Y/N felt like they’d been friends forever. But on second thought, being a professional, it was Meili’s job to make her clients feel most comfortable in and out of her designs.

“No, this is perfect,” Y/N said.

“Are you sure?” She confirmed with a nod. “All right.” Meili patted her gently on the back. “How about we try walking?”

And so Y/N descended the steps and sauntered about the fitting area to make sure she was comfortable and able to breathe normally. Harry had risen from the sofa and come to stand beside Meili, his eyes dancing with amusement as he watched Y/N strike a silly pose.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

Instead of answering the question, he turned to Meili. “Can you show me how to take it off?”

Meili had quite a good laugh watching Harry with his hands up in defence as Y/N tried to hit him without hurting the dress. It was then that the sound of her ringtone from her bag came for his rescue.

He pecked her cheek and stayed to chat with Meili about his outfit while Y/N answered the call from her agent.

“Y/N!” Laura said before Y/N could speak. “What are you doing, babe?”

“I’m at the fitting for the Oscars.”

There was a pause followed by a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I nearly forgot that you’re attending the Oscars. Are you nervous?”

“Kind of.” Y/N giggled. “But I suppose you’re not calling me to ask what I’m doing, are you, Laura?”

“Of course not! I’d like to remind you that we’re having a party next Saturday!”

“Right, right, party–No!”

Both Harry and Meili whipped their heads back to gape at Y/N.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I thought it was a brilliant idea–”

Y/N shushed her boyfriend as she indicated the phone to let him know she wasn’t talking to him.

“Hi, Laura!” he shouted, and Laura, who obviously had heard it, squealed like a schoolgirl and demanded to be put on speaker.

Y/N tapped the speaker icon as she slumped into the couch where Harry soon joined her, sitting with an arm around her shoulders. “Hi, Laura,” he repeated.

Laura laughed excitedly. “Hi, Harry! We’ve never met before but I’ve heard so much about you!”

“And I’ve heard so much about you!”

“I’m your client, Laura. Not him,” Y/N snorted as Harry kissed her temple.

“Oh, yes, right.” Laura cleared her throat to compose herself. “So what’s the matter? I thought–”

“The Oscars is next Sunday night, Laura. I have to catch the plane on Saturday morning. I can’t go to your party.”

“Your party, Y/N.”

“What party?” Harry asked.

Y/N opened her mouth to answer but Laura was faster. “To celebrate your girl’s debut novel! It hasn’t come out yet, but everything is settled. It’s a tradition. I always throw this party for my client. Everyone at the agency will be there and there will be some guests from the publishing house and some published authors. It’ll be grand.”

Y/N sucked in a breath and pinched her temple, her eyes met Harry’s. His expression was unreadable. To Laura, she asked, “Can we push it back a few days?”

“Absolutely not! I’ve sent out the invitations. You told me any date this month would do!”

Y/N had. And she kind of regretted it now. She’d been chatting with Gemma when Laura asked her about the date. Gemma had been devastated by what had happened with Winton, so Y/N had been busy comforting her and told Laura to just pick any date she’d like. It was all her fault; she should have reminded Laura about the Oscars.

Y/N glanced back at Harry, hoping he didn’t think she’d purposely prioritized her success over his. Because why would she think her first novel was a better reason to celebrate than his first-ever Oscar nomination?

But Harry didn’t seem vexed. His dimples appeared as he traced his fingertips along the strap of her sparkling dress. “It’s okay, Laura,” he said to the phone. “You don’t have to change the date.”

Y/N’s eyes went round as Laura hissed, “Yes!”

“Baby–”

“You’ll go to your party,” he said, “and I’ll send my ride to pick you up and take you to the airport. They won’t leave without you, silly.”

Right. She’d be travelling on his private jet.

“But...I’ll be late.”

“So?” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I can manage the first few hours without you. Why should your career be any less important than mine?”

“He’s right, Y/N,” Laura said.

Y/N swivelled in her seat to face him as she took his hand. “I’ll just come to say hello to the guests–”

“And give a speech!” Laura interjected, making Y/N roll her eyes and Harry chuckle.

“Fine, I’ll come to say hello and give a speech and then I’ll come to you.”

“Deal?” His lips twitched as he gave her his pinkie.

“Deal,” she said, hooking her pinkie with his.

.

.

.

The party was insane.

Y/N had specifically asked Laura not to overdo this, but the agent had insisted on throwing her favourite client the most Gasby party she could pull off. Y/N didn’t even know half of the faces who’d shaken her hand and congratulated her on her debut novel which hadn’t been released yet. She felt like a fraud. What if these people ended up hating her book? What if this party made her seem like a show-off? She was already dating an Oscar nominee; she didn’t want to be branded as any more privileged than that.

She kept the speech she’d promised Laura as short and simple as possible, then returned polite smiles to the guests as she made her way to the back of the room. She wouldn’t be surprised if these folks thought that she had zero personality. When it came to self-branding, she needed all the help she could get. How did Harry do it? How did he charm people into liking him before they even viewed his work? As much as she loved him, she couldn’t help but envy him sometimes.

She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress before getting another glass of champagne and finishing it a second before Laura came up to check on her.

“You okay? You look a bit pale,” Laura said.

“Well, I tend to get anxious at formal events,” Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “I usually attend these kinds of parties with Harry. He’d do all the talking and help me get involved in the conversation. He’s very charismatic.”

“I’m charismatic!” Laura said with a hand on her chest. Y/N responded with a smile. Laura wascharismatic. The problem was, Y/N was more comfortable with Harry. Or maybe she couldn’t help but feel guilty that she’d miss the red carpet walk with him. She hated to be the one to break a promise.

“You need to stop checking your watch like modern Cinderella at the royal ball.”

Y/N dropped her arm back to her side. “I’m so nervous, Laura.”

“About this party? People love you!”

“About...everything.” This party. Her 2 AM flight. The Oscars. Showing up late. Missing Harry’s category. Her book release. The likelihood of having people roast her book unforgivingly on the internet.

She had the tendency of freaking out over insignificant matters whenever good things kept happening to her. Because, as usual, bad luck would come for her when she was most defenceless and took away her joy. This time, she could feel it in her stomach.

Laura gripped her shoulders and squeezed them tight. “You are my superstar, Y/N. You are the shit. You are the most brilliant–”

“Okay, I get it, I get it,” she laughed, pulling Laura into a hug. “Thank you for tonight. I owe you so much, Laura.”

“Don’t be stupid. You saved my life. Literally,” Laura smirked and gently patted Y/N’s cheek. “Now, let’s go say goodbye to the guests. It’s almost time for you to go.”

Y/N didn’t need to be told twice. She’d been waiting for this moment since she’d arrived. People might wonder why she seemed more energetic saying goodbye to them than when she’d welcomed them to the party. But she was just happy that she could finally leave. The last thing she wanted was to show up late for her flight (Harry had said the plane wouldn’t leave without her but she hated delays anyway) and missed more of the Oscar ceremony tomorrow than she’d allowed herself to.

The journey to LA happened in a rush. She’d slept for most of her twelve-hour flight because she’d been so exhausted. Harry’s bodyguard only woke her up when they were about to land. The next thing she knew, she was taken to his LA house. She had never been there before. It was much bigger than the one in London, but less homely, perhaps because she’d known every corner of the place that was supposed to be theirs. This one just seemed like a resort.

The hair and makeup team and Harry’s stylist were waiting upstairs to make her Oscars-ready. She’d eaten quite a lot on the plane before it took off, so she feared she wouldn’t fit in the dress. Magically, she did. And she felt so silly for feeling like she might burst into tears.

When the makeup artist asked how she’d like to have her makeup done, she told them to make her recognizable. They didn’t ask her to elaborate on that, so she hoped they knew what she meant. She didn’t want to be the centre of attention tonight, especially when she was going to show up late. The only attention she craved for was Harry’s and she was going to get it anyway, with or without this glamorous costume.

Fortunately, the makeup artist did a fantastic job. They gave her simple eye makeup and red lips and put her hair up into a classic high bun. It wasn’t until tonight that she couldn’t stop staring at herself in the mirror. Harry would be so impressed.

As Harry’s team did some final touches on her face, one girl showed her some clips and pictures of Harry on the red carpet. He looked dashingly handsome and comfortable, and when being interviewed, he said he loved her and couldn’t wait to see her later. The part of her that had been feeling guilty could finally let go of that breath she’d been holding. She thanked the makeup team for everything and came downstairs when her car arrived.

The chauffeur was a middle-aged man with greyish hair and a kind face. He was talking on the phone and ended the call as soon as he saw her. He looked rather tired, but before she could ask for his name and if he was feeling well, she remembered that she’d left her clutch upstairs, and so she asked him to wait while she went back to get it. He told her to take her time.

When she came downstairs for the second time, the man was on the phone again. He didn’t see her return so he didn’t hang up. Y/N couldn’t help but overhear the last part of the conversation where he told whoever he was speaking to that he would be at the hospital as soon as he finished his job.

“Is everything okay, sir?” she asked once he’d finished the call. He whipped around, seemingly startled to see her there. “You can tell me if something is wrong. I might be able to help,” she said.

The chauffeur looked hesitant at first. He worked his jaw for a moment before he could tell her, “My daughter...is sick. She’s just been taken to the hospital. I’ll go see her as soon as I take you to–”

“No! You’re going to see her now!” cried Y/N.

He squinted his eyes at her as if he thought she was testing him. “Are you...are you sure, Miss? Mr Styles told me–”

“I’ll talk to Harry for you. Don’t worry.”

Telling someone not to worry never seemed to work. The man screwed up his face as he shoved a hand in his hair. “Should I send you another car, Miss? Mr Styles said...he said that you couldn’t drive.”

“Of course I can!” Y/N blurted, then realized how defensive she’d sounded.

She could drive. However, she was afraid to sit behind the wheel.

Ever since her accident, she’d been using public transport and let Harry drive her around instead of doing it herself. He knew it wasn’t just her anxiety of getting into another accident. Her mother had died in a car crash, and Harry had seen how scared she’d been when he’d crashed his motorcycle. Those final thirty seconds after the collision and before she’d gone unconscious, Y/N had felt it all at once. Her mother’s death, her almost losing Harry, her head cracking open and the numbness when she lay on broken glass and her vision faded to black. She could only hope she would get through her fear this time.

“I’ll take one of his cars,” she reassured the man. “Don’t worry about me, sir. Your daughter needs you.”

The man thanked Y/N repeatedly and hurried back to the car parked in the drive. Y/N waited until he was gone, checked the time to make sure she’d make it, then she sucked in a deep breath and headed to the garage.

.

.

.

Harry was a bundle of nerves trying to act composed while the other nominations were being presented. There were cameras everywhere and they could zoom into his face at any moment so he could not look like he might throw up. He was here for his Best Actor nomination; it’d be so embarrassing if he couldn’t act like he was having the best time of his life.

Y/N should have been here a long time ago. Where the fuck was she? She’d texted him that she’d drive here by herself. He didn’t want to be pessimistic, but the last time she’d sat behind the wheel, she’d ended up in the hospital.

It’d been half a year since, but he couldn’t forget that feeling when he got the call. He was praying to God that the next time his phone buzzed, it would be her telling him she’d arrived safely. If something unpleasant was going to happen (as it always did), he would accept anything as long as she was safe.

The moment his phone sounded, he jolted so hard he might have startled the lady sitting beside him. Jeff’s words swivelled in his head: Do not check your phone during someone’s acceptance speech.Well, screw that. His girl wasn’t here and the last thing he would worry about was looking like an asshole on live television.

➣ I’m here.

When he saw those words, the lump in his throat dissolved and his body relaxed into the cushion. His fake smile had been replaced with a genuine one, so at least people who saw him texting during Brad Pitt’s speech would just assume he was texting his girlfriend, who was supposed to fill the vacancy next to him.

Good. I saved you a seat, he typed and sent.

➣ I’m staying backstage. I can’t go out there.

Harry’s smile dropped as he squirmed in his chair. Why? Are you okay?

She took a bit longer to reply.

➣ Yes, don’t worry. There’s a screen here. I can watch you.

Harry muttered a curse as he put his phone back into his pocket. After a moment of leg bouncing and lip biting, he decided to go check on her.

.

.

.

Y/N splashed water on her face, which was now clean of makeup and checked her pathetic reflection in the mirror one last time before she left the bathroom. She’d been sweating so hard on the way here that by the time she’d arrived, Harry’s beauty team’s two-hour of hard work had been ruined. She’d even ripped her dress by accident when she’d nearly fallen headfirst in the car park, so going out there to sit beside Harry would do so much damage to his reputation.

Besides, she was fatigued after the long flight and hadn’t rested since she got off the plane. She’d thrown up as soon as she’d texted him and found the bathroom. So it was for the best if she didn’t make an appearance tonight. It was less intimidating here backstage. She could just watch him on the screen and–

Where the fuck was he?

Her eyes frantically searched on the screen for her boyfriend.

Where had he gone?

No, he couldn’t–

“Bambi!”

She smacked him with her clutch as he rushed in for a hug. The backstage security and a few others couldn’t help the amusement as they watched them. Y/N flashed the strangers a smile before turning back to her boyfriend, who looked so stupidly happy it should be illegal. “Jeff would kill you! Go back out there!”

“But you’re here,” he said.

“I’m not nominated, you idiot!”

“I’m the idiot? You drove here!”

“I have a fucking license!”

“Then you’re an idiot with a fucking license!”

He didn’t wait for her to rebut and locked her in his arms, squeezing the air out of her like he hadn’t seen her in years. She held him back, for a second forgetting that she was sweating like a pig, her hair had fallen loose and her face weary from jetlag. She didn’t feel any less desirable, though. She knew he loved her anyway.

“Go out there with me,” he said, cupping her cheeks and kissing her nose.

“Are you crazy? Look at me!”

He pulled back to consider her appearance, his eyebrow arched. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

She glared at him as he grinned. “The world doesn’t wear rose-coloured glasses like you do.”

His face grew serious. “You’re right. Maybe I see a princess and they see a frog.”

Too familiar with his teasing, she snorted, “Your ability to go from Prince Charming to an arsehole never fails to amaze me.”

“My pleasure.” He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers just in time his phone chimed in his pocket. “Shit, that must be Jeff. I must go before he finds me here.” He let out a long heavy breath and then stroked her hair like she was a child. “Can you stay here by yourself, baby?”

“Keep talking like that and people might think you’re my dad,” she said.

“Daddy.” He smirked.

She hit him again, shaking with laughter. “Go!”

“Okay, love you, idiot.”

“Love you, too, idiot.”

He kissed her on the cheek and then he was gone.

.

.

.

Harry didn’t win.

Even though he’d said he wasn’t disappointed, and he didn’t seem disappointed at all, Y/N still suspected that he might be faking it. It wasn’t such a big loss since he’d been up against some big contenders. He was young, so there was a bigger chance for him to get an Oscar in the future. However, she knew the feeling of not expecting anything but still feeling awful when you didn’t get it. She’d known his chance was flimsy, and yet she had hoped he’d win somehow. She might have to wait until next year to hear his acceptance speech.

Exhausted (Y/N more than Harry), they skipped the after-party to have one at home by themselves. They drank champagne and danced barefoot around the kitchen in their nice clothes. The house which Y/N had compared to a resort soon became familiar with his presence.

Streetlights, stumbling home

To our very own, after party

Won't lie, when we're alone

You're my favourite poem to recite

Harry turned down the volume of the song playing on the speaker. As Y/N poured some more champagne, he climbed onto a chair, standing on one foot, the other foot resting on the kitchen island.

She watched him with lazy eyes and took another sip. “If you fall, I’ll let you fall.”

He chuckled. “I’m overwhelmed by your love, Bambi.” Then he shook his head and pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. It took her two seconds to figure out that it was his acceptance speech. She slid into a chair and gazed up at him with her chin on her knuckles.

He cleared his throat extravagantly and began by thanking the Academy, the cast and crew and the director of his movie, then his family and his team. It must be the wine that made every word he said in that posh accent extremely funny. She laughed so hard she almost fell off the chair.

Then, he took the longest pause to consider her, and the room sank to silence as he worked his jaw before he proceeded. “There’s this girl I love. She used to be my little secret but now she’s here watching me accept my first Academy Award. She’s the reason I’m here today, so I owe this one to her.”

Then he raised his glass as if it was the award and hopped off the chair. Before she could applaud, he’d pulled her to her feet and pressed his mouth against hers, kissing her as if she was the only thing he wanted. She kissed him back just as hard, hands in his hair, on his neck, his chest, his back, his face. Her whole body was on fire. It must be the wine. She needed to get out of this dress and get him out of his suit.

Went to bed without you (While you were sleeping)

Felt colder it used to (I crossed an ocean)

And I can't wait (And I can't wait)

'Till I get back to you

“It sounded better when I first wrote it. I’m kind of glad I didn’t win,” he said against her lips as he picked her up and sat her on the edge of the kitchen island.

She tipped her head back and laughed. “At least you weren’t going to propose to me on the stage.”

Suddenly, he stopped. She blinked as he pulled away, his mouth red and glossy from kissing her. She hadn’t even got a chance to feel bad for making that joke and he’d already stepped back. The next thing she knew, he was on one knee on the floor.

She slapped a hand over her open mouth. Her mind went blank, and the music in the background faded to white noise. The thundering beats in her chest made it hard for her to breathe. He wasn’t going to, was he? But if he was, was she going to say yes?

“My beautiful mermaid, frog, little deer,” he began with a straight face, and she choked out an unexpected laugh muffled by her hand. “I love you,” he said. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Then he sucked in a breath. The suspense was killing her. “But...I don’t want to marry you–”

“Excuse me?!”

“–right now.”

She could tell he was trying his best not to guffaw at her reaction. She was confused and amused at the same time. What was going on? Was he really that drunk? He didn’t seem that drunk. She would kick his arse if he thought this was funny!

“I just want to let you know,” he went on despite the look on her face, “that I will ask you to marry me. I know you hate surprises and if I asked you unexpectedly, the chances of you saying no would be much higher. So let’s consider this as a proposal for a bigger proposal.” He wetted his lips, his eyes fixed on hers. “Y/N, my darling, will you allow me to ask you to marry me someday?”

She laughed out loud though her eyes were already filled with tears. She didn’t know why she was crying but she couldn’t stop. She blamed the wine and him and his stupid speech and whatever the fuck he thought he was doing right now. “I hate you.” She laughed through her tears. “I hate you so much.”

He got up, his eyes wide. “You hate me after I told you I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you?”

“Yes.”

He closed the distance between them, standing between her legs with his hands on her hips. “Yes, I can ask you to marry me in the future, or yes, you hate me for what I said?”

“Both.” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth against his. “I love you. I hate you. I love you,” she said in between kisses. “I love you so much I hate you.”

“Tonight is the best night of my life,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “I didn’t want to win. I just wanted you to be there with me.”

“I’ll be there with you next time.” She rested her forehead against his. “And next time, and next time, and forever...”

You don't fall in love once but a million times

Waking up each morning with you by my side

When I drift away, I'll come back with the tide

I'm falling in and out again

Falling in and out again

[king-finnigan]

For the drabble game and Geraskier! Soulmates AU and 15 - “If you think I don’t feel anything for you, then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

The second Jaskier turned 16, he had sat down at his desk in his room, pen in hand, his skin barely illuminated by the candle light. He had been all giddy and excited, as he had put the tip of the pen against his left arm. ‘Hello! I’m Julian.’ he had written on his skin. And after that, he had waited for his soulmate to write back. He waited minutes, hours, days, until the ink had faded and eventually disappeared. He had tried to contact his soulmate a few times after that, but all attempts remained fruitless.

Until one day, when he was 18. He had recently set out on the road to become a world-renowned bard, and he had just finished writing another ‘Hello, how are you?’ on his arm, something that had become a strange sort of habit, something he would do on the third day of every month. His soulmate had never said anything back, and Jaskier - which was his name, now - had started to suspect he might not even have a soulmate at all.

That was, until letters appeared on his skin, under the sentence he had written mere minutes ago. It was a strange feeling - it tickled a bit - but it was overshadowed by his own giddy excitement at the fact that he did have a soulmate, and his soulmate was writing back. 

‘Hi Julian.’ it merely said, but Jaskier figured it was better than nothing. He also had the sneaking suspicion that his soulmate was a man, the handwriting scratchy and uneven. Of course, a girl can have shitty handwriting as well, but it’s less likely, he supposed.

‘What’s your name?’ 

His arm remained empty for a few minutes, until: ‘Prefer not to say.’

He smiled at that. So his soulmate was shy. That happens. Good thing he could hold a conversation on his own fairly well. 

‘Alright. Can I call you darling, then?’

‘Fine.’

After that, he had managed to get his darling to open up more and more each and every day. He learned that his darling had a horse named Roach, he learned that his darling travelled around the Continent, he learned that his darling didn’t usually speak to a lot of people, because they were scared of him. So, he figured his darling might have a visible scar of some sorts, or might be tall and muscular, which would make him intimidating. Or something like that. He also learned that his darling had no objections against Jaskier drawing flowers on his skin when he had nothing to talk about anymore. In fact, his darling sometimes joined in, and drew some flowers of his own as well. Either way, Jaskier got to know a great deal about his soulmate, and he started to yearn for the familiar tickle on his skin, started to feel fluttering in his stomach whenever he read his soulmate’s words. In short, he started to fall for his darling.

But there was one slight problem: his soulmate didn’t want to meet him. He said it would be better if Jaskier stayed far, far away from him, for reasons undisclosed. In all honesty, it did hurt his feelings a bit, and sometimes he wondered what he’d done wrong for his soulmate to never want to meet, but he also supposed that with time and patience and dedication, the day his soulmate said ‘yes’, might eventually come anyways.

Still, he can’t help but look around the room expectantly as he enters a tavern in Posada. He drew a little flower behind his right ear this morning, a little gift for his soulmate, who would only see it if he looked in the mirror long enough - which Jaskier suspects he doesn’t do, given how low on confidence his darling seems - but it would be an easy way for Jaskier to identify his soulmate, if he happened to stumble upon him.

But when he tries to sing a few songs and gets food thrown at him, he secretly hopes his soulmate isn’t here, at all - it’s a bit of an embarrassing ordeal, truth be told, and would be a terrible first impression. 

He sighs, gathering bread from the floor when he spots a man, sitting in the corner of the tavern, the light shining through the dirty window illuminating his white hair, his black armour and his two swords. Jaskier immediately knows this man is worth getting a closer look at, as his ‘this is something interesting’-alarm rings in the back of his mind.

And, admittedly, it doesn’t go great. The man - Witcher, as Jaskier finds out - walks off without saying more than ten words, emanating an air of ‘please don’t follow me, fuck off’. But of course, Jaskier’s never let himself be stopped that easily. 

So he jogs up the path, catching up to the Witcher, noting in the back of his mind that the mare walking next to Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, is chestnut, with white markings, which sounds exactly like the horse his soulmate described to him. But then again, a lot of horses do really look alike, so he brushes it off.

He’s barely aware his mouth has run off without him, until he finds himself getting an idea. ��Ooh, I could be your barker! Spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the- the Butcher of Blaviken!”

The Witcher slows to a halt, and turns around. Which is when Jaskier spots something small and black, tucked between the back of the Witcher’s right ear and his silver hair - a lone flower, adorning his skin, exactly the same shape as the one Jaskier drew behind his own ear this very morning. 

“Come here,” the Witcher grunts out, and Jaskier can’t help but step forward, the gears in his head turning, as realization slowly starts to dawn on him. The chestnut mare, the fact that his darling hasn’t told him his name, that his soulmate travels around and scares people off, and the small flower behind his ear - all things that point to one thing.

Geralt of Rivia is his soulmate.

His train of thought is cut short when Geralt punches him in his stomach, and Jaskier doubles over, gasping for breath, as the Witcher turns around, starts walking again.

He scrambles to get up. “Darling,” he wheezes out, and Geralt stops immediately, freezing in place. “It’s you, you’re my darling.”

Geralt turns back around, his expression open and vulnerable before he seems to snap closed, face once again even and guarded. “Julian?”

He grins, finally straightening again. “It’s Jaskier, now, but yes. It’s me.”

Geralt looks at him for a second, before turning around. “Go away. You’re better off without me.”

Jaskier frowns, but jogs to catch up with the Witcher, stopping him with a hand on his arm. He circles around Geralt, hand moving up, fingertips lingering on the small flower behind his darling’s right ear, until Geralt moves his head away with a jerk. “I’m not going anywhere without you, my darling. I’m not letting go now that I’ve finally found you.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, as Geralt glares at him. “Why? I’m a Witcher, I’m terrible company, and I’ll only bring you more harm than good.”

Jaskier frowns. “You’re my soulmate. And even if you weren’t, I love you. I’m not going anywhere without you,” he repeats.

“You love me.” It’s not even a question, but more of an incredulous statement, one clearly meant to label Jaskier as insane or stupid, and the bard scoffs.

“Yes, I love you. You say you’re terrible company, but I’ve gotten plenty of comfort from your company on the road.” He holds his left arm up, and, though completely covered, they both know what hidden conversations lie beneath the fabric of his doublet. “You’re funny, and kind, and you try to be tough but you’re incredibly gentle. I know you, and I love you.” He huffs out a laugh. “My darling, if you think I don’t feel anything for you, you’re more stupid than I thought.”

Geralt continues staring at him for a few more seconds, before walking past Jaskier. “Fine.”

He frowns. “Fine what?”

“You can come along.”

Jaskier grins, bounding after Geralt, looping one of his arms through the Witcher’s, earning him an annoyed sigh. “What, don’t I get a kiss from my dearest darling?”

“No.” He can hear the implied ‘not yet’ in the hesitation in Geralt’s voice, and his smile grows wider.

“Alright, later, then.” He’s surprised to find himself not minding one bit - for now, he’s content to just be here next to Geralt, to have finally found his darling. 

***

Send me a situation and a sentence, and I’ll write a drabble!

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 1 - A Broken Witcher

We have now reached the scene that actually inspired me to write this, which is also depicted in @spielzeugkaiser‘s art. Originally, I wanted to stop after this. Now you can expect at least 5 other chapters, it seems. (Btw, if any of you is interested in betaing this, just shoot me a message)

Summary: Geralt and Ciri have been on the run for half a year. Through pure luck their path leads them to Lettenhove. The meeting with the Viscount, however, goes a lot different than they had expected.

part 1 | part 3

Read on AO3

Geralt was more tired than he'd ever been his entire life. They had been on the run for the better part of six months and no matter where they went, someone followed them anyways. It wasn’t necessarily Nilfgaard that was on their heels, he had realised that rather quickly. The problem was that for some reason or another more than half the Continent was looking for the lost princess he had found. In the end, it didn’t matter. She was his and his alone. His to protect, to raise, to care for. He wouldn’t just give her up now.

He wanted nothing but to get home, to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen where she would be safe, where she could grow and learn. He had contacted Yennefer about that, in the hopes that she could just portal them there, but she hadn't even responded the first few times.

Then, she had said that she couldn’t do it. That had been the end of their correspondence, with Yennefer saying she had more important things to focus on.

Then, there had been a fight. Ciri was uninjured, thankfully, but Geralt could still feel the strain days after. He guessed he should have needed stitches. But he couldn’t find it in himself to make Ciri do the gruesome work. His armour was battered and torn in many places and of all things he had lost his silver sword. Well, not lost. But it was in a fucking bad shape with shards and all. He was pretty sure the next time someone breathed too hard in its general direction it would break. Together with the rest of his gear, to be honest.

Then, Roach had died. That was alright, mostly. She had been a good horse and an old one. The end had been coming for quite some time. And she definitely hadn't been well enough to carry two people, even if one of them was a starving child and the other one a starving witcher. Still, she had probably chosen the worst time to die.

Because now they were on foot, hunted by basically everyone without coin for a new horse - or even food for that matter - and without a silver sword to earn new coin. Geralt found himself thinking of Jaskier and suddenly wishing that he knew how to sing. They had rarely gone hungry when they had travelled together. Then again, it probably wasn't the best idea to draw more attention than strictly necessary. On the other hand, he was, quite frankly, running out of options.

And that was exactly when it happened. He didn't know what it was - destiny? luck? Melitele herself come to save them? - and he didn't care: "Geralt!" Ciri exclaimed with big eyes, "there's a signpost! Maybe it can tell us where we should be going!"

He clasped one hand on her too-thin shoulder, guilt coursing through his veins. He hadn't had it in him to tell her that there was nowhere left to go. Instead he had said he had lost his way. He suspected that she knew the truth anyways.

But there it was. A tattered signpost with old letters, yet clear as day. Lettenhove - 4 miles. A tiny sliver of hope appeared before his eyes and he held onto it as best as he could. He knew that place, though he hadn't passed through it himself. Jaskier had mentioned it in one of his endless ramblings. No, not one, many actually. 'It's his home,' he remembered. Which meant that the Viscount of Lettenhove had to be his father. And maybe such a man would be willing to let a witcher and a child surprise stay, for only a week maybe. He could- he could do anything, earn a little coin or food at least and then they would be on their way again-

"Right," he said. "Let's go, it's only four miles left. If we hurry, we will be there before sundown."

He knew that it was just as likely that their various pursuers had found out about Jaskier's origins and that they would be waiting there for them, but he quickly pushed that possibility away. And if that were the case, well, it would only hasten a process that seemed already overdue.

In the end, he had been right. They arrived just before sundown to find a heavily garrisoned estate with the gates barred to them. He sighed and banged on the door.

"Who's there?" a guard called from the parapet and peered down at them. There was no disgust or fear when he took in the two swords and the armour. Geralt took that as a good sign. Still, he answered: "We haven't called for one of your kind."

"I know!" Geralt answered quickly, frantically thinking of words to say. Fuck, Jaskier had always been good at that. Geralt wasn't.

"Then why are you here?"

He felt Ciri's small hand in his and suddenly he felt better. "I am seeking refuge," he answered truthfully. “For my child and I.”

"Then seek it someplace else!" The guard turned to walk away and something inside Geralt broke. He looked at the frightened girl next to him, who looked up at him with wide eyes, as if he were a knight come to save her, as if he were a hero and thought of the fate that awaited her if they were turned away and-

"Please," he heard himself say, "I am a friend of-" He racked his brain, searching for the right title. "I'm a friend of his lordship's son!" he finally gave up.

"Master Julian?" the guard called down. "What do you want of him?"

"He is here?" That was the first good news he’d heard in months. "Please, if he is, relay this message to him: I thank him for the invitation. And I am in desperate need for apple juice." The guard barked a laugh and he ground his teeth. He knew it sounded ridiculous. "Just, please, tell him; I only ask for five minutes of his time."

The guard looked down at him and Geralt thought to see pity in his eyes. He ducked his head and hunched his shoulders as if that could make the two sets of eyes on him go away. He had always thought himself a proud man. They had called him many things in his long life. Monster, Mutant, Butcher. He had never caved. He had never begged. But now? What other option did he have?

"Wait here," the guard said and vanished.

Ciri tugged at his hand and he leaned down. Not that he could hear her better, he could hear her just fine when he was standing. But he had discovered that it made her feel calmer when he did so. ‘It makes her calmer when I act like the humans she knows.’ "Are you sure we will be safe here?" she asked.

He nodded. "More than anywhere else. Remember the stories I told you? About Jaskier?"

She looked at him with wide eyes. "Your friend?"

"I-" There was a lump in his throat that didn't belong there. "Yes, my friend. His father is the lord here." 'Or so I hope,' he didn't say. "And it seems he is here, too."

"So, he will let us stay?"

He clenched his teeth. He shouldn't get her hopes up, he knew. There was still a chance that they wouldn't let them stay after all, there was still a chance that they wouldn't want to take a risk, there still was a chance that Jaskier's sympathies for witchers didn't extend to his family- Melitele's tits, there was a chance Jaskier was mad at him with how he treated him the last time they had seen each other. ‘Fuck.’ A rather big chance, now that he thought of it. Still he said: "I'm sure they will."

They sat outside for nearly an hour. Geralt tried to distract Ciri from the wait and the hunger by pointing out different plants and their uses nearby. Unfortunately, none of them were edible. ‘And even if they were, we couldn’t just take them,’ he thought with a sigh.

The sun drew dangerously close to the horizon and he was just about to give up, when, to his surprise, the gates opened. There was a young woman, dressed in a colourful livery and walked while dragging her feet across the ground, accompanied by two armed guards. "The viscount will receive you now," she said quietly, "if you would follow me."

Geralt stood and put a protective arm around Ciri, gently nudging her forward. The guards fell in step behind them and the gates shut with a loud bang. Overall, it could have gone better, he supposed. Though, it probably also could have gone worse.

They were led through a nice and bright courtyard with roomy stables Roach surely would have liked - the thought hurt, though he would never admit it. There were flowers all over, flowing from pots on the ground and spilling over the railing of the gallery that framed the courtyard from all sides. The timber framing was light brown, nearly no contrast against the white infill and the sepia sandstone and the shingles were crimson red. It was so bright and colourful and peaceful, so very Jaskier and such an antithesis to the grim reality of Geralt's life.

Then, the doors opened and it hurt even more. There in the foyer of the north wing was Jaskier staring at him. Well, not Jaskier. A younger version of him, etched onto the canvas of a large painting. He was surrounded by four sisters and what he supposed had to be his parents, dressed in expensive silks and standing tall, as would be expected of the heir. He couldn't quite tear his eyes from it.

"This way, please, Sir Witcher," the servant said and after a moment he followed. There were another two guards standing in front of a heavy oaken door that opened for them when they approached. The hall that laid behind it was just how he had imagined: bright with a high ceiling, decorated with murals of flowers and fighting knights and he could swear some of them carried two swords. Ciri gasped and wanted to run off to marvel at one of the tapestries, but his grip on her shoulder tightened. Hopefully, there would be time for that later.

They were led to the dais at the narrow side of the hall, where three people sat on wooden thrones framed by twice as many guards. The two women on the left and right he though he recognised from the paining in the entrance hall, though they had grown much since the time it had been drawn. And in the middle of them sat- "Jaskier!" he exclaimed in surprise. Jaskier as he had never seen him before, dressed all in black with a sword at his hip and a stony expression on his face.

"The Right Honourable Viscount Lettenhove," the servant announced - corrected? -, "Julian Alfred Pankratz. And his sisters, the Honourable Janina and Józefa Pankratz."

Geralt blinked in confusion. That was not how he had imagined this reunion to go.

"You may bow, witcher," the older of his two sisters said.

Geralt frowned. "I don't understand," he said and took a step forward. At once he was met with crossed halberds and steely glares. "What is happening, J-"

"You may address me as "my lord", witcher," Jaskier interrupted him with a voice as cold as ice. There was not even a trace of recognition in his face.

The faintest hint of panic crept up his spine as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Did Jaskier not remember? Had he been cursed, maybe? But when he looked into his eyes he understood. "I-" His heart sank. Of course, Jaskier remembered him. And even though his face did not betray a thing, his eyes spoke of unbearable pain. 'Fuck,' he thought. "Of course," he said and bowed reluctantly, "my lord."

If Jaskier noticed the slight change in his voice, he didn't let on about it. "I am told you wanted to speak to me."

"Yes," he gritted out, forcing himself to keep his eyes cast downwards. "My lord, I am asking for refuge. We- we have nowhere to turn. A fortnight, maybe, or a week, if you will. For my daughter and I."

"Is this her?" the viscount stood and walked over to them, measuring Cirilla with his glare. "You're certain?"

"I am." He looked at him pleadingly. "Jaskier, please," he said quietly enough that no one else heard, "a week is all I ask, anything-"

"Józefa," he called to his sister, "take the girl and show her to a room where she can rest. And feed her, for Melitele’s sake. She looks as if she is about to keel over from hunger."

His sister stood and hurried over to them. She even smiled, fuck, and it looked so much like Jaskier. Jaskier had never not smiled when they had seen each other again. ‘Looks like I did a lot more damage than anticipated.’ He only tore his eyes from his apparently-not-friend when Ciri tugged on his hand and looked up at him unsure.

He just nodded. "You can trust her," he told her. 'We have to trust them.'

"The rest of you, leave, too." Jaskier made his way back to his place on the dais. "Not a word about any of this. I will have no rumours. Witcher, stay."

It took a few moments after the doors shut behind the last servant and a couple more of awkward silence before Geralt started speaking: "You're wearing black."

"Your observational skills are as formidable as the tales make them out to be," Jaskier answered, sarcasm dripping like poison.

‘Hm.’ In the past he had counted himself lucky that he had been able to evade Jaskier’s words that cut like swords. ‘Seems like I’m all out of luck.’ "It doesn't suit you."

“I’m in mourning.” He wrinkled his nose. "That's an insensitive thing to say to a man whose father has passed not a month ago."

Ah. ‘Shit.’ That explained a lot. Geralt silenced his tongue. He knew he could never win a verbal duel against Jaskier. The man in question, however, did not seem in any hurry to move the conversation forward. In fact, he looked quite content, glaring and keeping quiet. It made him uneasy. After a while he broke: "So?"

That seemed to amuse Jaskier, but he wasn’t sure. "It seems you are waiting for something, witcher."

Fuck, he had been able to read the man like an open book. Everyone had been able to do so, he had never met anyone nearly as expressive as Jaskier. ‘Where have you learned to hide all of that, you bastard?’ he thought and for once in his life he wished that his opponent could read minds like Yennefer.

His “Hmm” was met with more silence.

He shot him a look. Jaskier didn’t communicate without words anymore but that didn’t mean Geralt couldn’t. ‘Is this the way we’re doing this?’ it asked. ‘Fine.’ Jaskier wanted words? He could have words. "It seems you are stewing, my lord."

There was a crack in the facade, minuscule and nigh unnoticeable but below slumbered a bard lost for words after being told an unsavoury lie about his singing. A smile tugged at the corner of Geralt's mouth and apparently, that was enough to make him break: "You're an idiot, witcher," he hissed, quiet enough that he never would have heard without his enhanced senses. "What were you thinking? Coming here, knocking on my front door in the light of day? Couldn't you have snuck through the kitchens at night like any other person?"

He blinked, taken aback by the onslaught. “I didn’t even know you were here-,“ he tried to defend himself but was quickly cut short: “How dare you? How dare you turn up here of all places? There’s a whole continent for you! Only one Lettenhove for me.”

He measured the man who had been at his side for so long with his eyes. No banter, it seemed. No excuses either. ‘What do you want, Jaskier?’ he tried to ask him with his eyes. ‘Whatever it is, I’ll give it to you for us to stay.’

But he remained silent, neither his mouth nor his face betraying a thing.

Alright. He took a deep breath. He had begged a guard already. He could beg his not-friend, too. "I'm sorry, Jaskier,” he said truthfully, “but I have nowhere left to turn-"

"I know!” He was angry. Very much so. “Which is why I haven't cast you out, yet. You are relatively safe here for a while, what with Nilfgaard’s defeat."

His head jerked around to him. "Nilfgaard has lost?"

“Have you not even wondered why their goons stopped chasing you?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say I noticed. There were enough others to continue where they started.”

No answer.

“What happened?”

"You really don't know," he realised. "There's been a battle at Sodden. A second one. My reports say over thirty thousand dead, among them fourteen mages."

"When was that?" Fear ran down his spine. "Yennefer-"

"She's alive, as far as I know. But she was gravely injured." He leaned back in his seat. "Which is why she can't come and get you. Though I wouldn't advise it anyways. It might be safer for you to continue travelling on foot. How’s Roach?”

“Dead.”

“Pity. How long will you abuse my hospitality?”

He hunched his shoulders. “Until I think of a plan. Or until you throw us out.”

Jaskier frowned. “I will think of something. You’re no good at that.”

He shrugged. Jaskier was probably right about that. "And how do you expect me to repay you for your kindness?"

"Do not call it kindness, witcher, for it is not. Had you arrived without the girl you wouldn't have entered the keep at all." He folded his hands in his lap. "A promise will be enough, for now," he conceded.

He quirked an eyebrow. "A promise?"

"I will not ask for your oath; I know how little you like to get drawn into the affairs of us petty humans. But my shelter comes not without a cost."

"I didn't think it would." He had, actually. At least until he had stepped into the hall.

"You’re a terrible liar. I protect you with my name and walls. I clothe you and I feed you and those who are yours. In return you council me and protect me with your sword and body. At least, that is how it normally goes." He sighed and leaned his chin on his palm. “You see, were the circumstances different, I would not require such a promise at all. Alas, they are not. I am sure that pains you and me alike. You see, my momentary trust in your… loyalty is a bit exiguous at best.”

He ground his teeth and looked at his feet. "Right..." A flattened oath of fealty. ‘Jaskier, you bastard, if I had another choice-‘

"Unless you prefer the road."

"I do not."

"I did not think so." He extended his hand where a heavy signet ring rested.

He shot him another look. ‘Really?’

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow.

Geralt opened his mouth to ask if that was necessary but before he could say anything, Jaskier said: “It is.”

“Fine.” Reluctantly, Geralt drew closer and took the hand delicately between his own. He cast one last look upwards, pleading, almost begging – ‘Don’t make me do this, please.’ – but Jaskier remained stone-faced. Slowly, he bowed and graced the metal with his lips. "I am... at your service," he said warily, "...my liege."

"Good." Jaskier withdrew his hand and Geralt straightened himself. "Go now. I am in no need of you, witcher."

He exhaled forcefully and turned to follow the command grudgingly. When he had come to Lettenhove he hadn’t expected the day to end like this. He didn’t know what he had even expected but not- this.

He had come with the last of his strength, yes, but proud and standing tall. Now he was humiliated, humoured and honour bound by a man he had considered his friend for a long time. ‘And never said it,’ a traitorous voice in the back of his mind hissed.

And for what? For the hope that the man he had sent away would now not sell them out and save their lives. ‘Fuck,’ he thought not for the first time, ‘what have you gotten yourself into?’

[evenmyzefronposter]

Its honestly so painful when the creator of something you love so deeply, rejects your very identity. It hurts. I don't blame anyone for wanting to leave the fandom at all. I keep hearing people say "if you hate j.Karen Rowling just leave the fandom" (okay, they probably don't call her that but i do 🙃) and if people want to, I get it completely. But I don't want to. Harry Potter is something that is a part of me now. It is a part of me as much as having been bullied as a child is, as much as reading to escape the real world is, as much as being queer is. It helped to shape me and I don't want someone else's hate and fear to take away something that I love. That happens enough in the real world and I don't want it in fandom. I reject that.

I've spent hours in thrift shops looking for merch (because I never buy new things if I can help it. This works out even better for me now.) I've devoted so much time to writing fic in this world and appreciating other fan creators and their works. I've got a huge tattoo on my arm showing my love of Harry Potter, a love I shared with the tattoo artist who created it. Without this fandom, I would never have met most of my closest friends. This is a big part of my life. It's something that's brought me a lot of joy and a lot of goodness, in spite of its problematic aspects.

If there's one thing I've learned from taking literature classes, its that you can be critical of a work and of its author and still enjoy it. Making that criticism, analyzing the text and the author's life and motives, can be part of the enjoyment. With literary analysis, you're free to take the pieces that have meaning to you and toss out the rest. You're free to connect dots within the story to create your own full picture. And if those dots include criticism of the author, that's OK. And if they don't include the author at all, that's fine, too. That's where I'm at right now.

Another thing that I think about with literature is that it doesn't hold much meaning for me personally unless I can put myself in it, unless I can move in and live there for a while.

Lord of the Rings is basically a story about people walking around the countryside until you feel like you're one of those people, wishing you could just stay with Tom Bombadil and ignore the rest of the world, wishing the ents would maybe be just a little bit hasty. The Stand is any dystopia until you're stuck in a tunnel heading out of NYC, hoping to get to Colorado. Or Vegas, depending on your inclinations. Hell, Ramona Quimby is any random kid until you're sitting in the lunch room with her as she smashes a raw egg on her head.

Harry Potter is just another story about magic and a child hero until you're stepping onto Diagon Alley with Hagrid, until you're brewing a potion in the dungeons and praying that Snape doesn't hate it too much, until you're kicking off on the Quidditch pitch and hoping your House wins. That kind of enjoyment doesn't come from the author at all. Their words have something to do with it, for sure, but it has more to do with our own imagination; it happens inside our heads.

And if there's one thing I learned from Harry Potter, it's that even if something is happening in your head, why on earth should that mean it isn't real?

I guess my point is that I enjoy Harry Potter by analyzing it, by being critical of the text and the author. (And I am critical of her. I hope that she gets some help for the irrational fear that she's propagating, but I don't think she will. She's not there yet, at the very least.) And perhaps more importantly, I enjoy Harry Potter by being a part of it, in a myriad of ways. By being there with Harry throughout the story, by writing about Snape, by looking at the incredible art that people create of the characters I love so much, by discussing it all with other fans. And that kind of enjoyment has nothing to do with she-who-must-not-be-named at all. It belongs to me and to the people I share fandom interactions with. That kind of enjoyment is ours alone.

Yes, she is toxic. And yes, she has hurt me. She's hurt people that I love and people that I don't know who have my love and support, nonetheless. But I don't need her. I reject her. That's not me being a snowflake or whatever you want to call me. That's just me holding on to something that is important to me. Her books, the wizarding world, would be nothing but paper and ink without the fans loving it and making it real, sharing it with our friends and building it in our imaginations. So this is me, this is us, taking our love and our imagination, taking our analyses, taking the pieces that have meaning to us, and tossing out the rest. This is us moving in and living there, free from hate, in the world we've become invested in.

And to the people who say "find another book to read"... I have. I've found a lot of them. But I like this one and I want to keep it. I divorced Anne Rice a long time ago for her treatment of fans, but I still love Lestat and Louis and Armand and Stella and Julian... This isn't new to me. It looks like ima do it again.

[thatnerdnextdoor24]

on love’s light wings

I'm stuck on quarantine and I hate online lessons. Also, I've had this quote stuck in my head all day. Yes, I know that it's actually "With love's light wings." But I like "on" more, okay? Shakespeare would let me take some liberties. It's fine. Now enjoy the soft gays.

ao3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The idea of waking up, in a lover’s embrace, had always seemed so romantical and impossibly far away. It sounded like something straight out of one of Tessa's favorite novels. Something that had always had an attractive appeal to Kit. But he knew that if he tried to reach it, to search for it, he would be sorely hurt and disappointed. That was, until it hadn't been. Until the day when Kit had finally dared, he took a leap of faith and found that there was, indeed, someone to catch him.

Ty. 

He had caught him. Easily, with a grace and romance, only a Shadowhunter Centurion could have. That seemed so long ago. Lifetimes ago. Yes, the Kit that did not believe in a lover's embrace, was a very different Kit. Because the Kit the now, was in such an embrace. In fact, he found himself in it often. Despite that, Kit still feared that he might one day lose it. So he would find himself studying the scene before him. 

The sun would leak through the curtains. Casting a golden glow across their apartment bedroom. Their legs had tangled together, the sheets bundled around them. Ty's dark curls spilled across the pillows. His eyebrow, usually quirked or furrowed in curiosity, would be relaxed. His arm draped around Kit’s middle. Ty's face would gleam in the morning light. He seemed so, impossibly still. So beautiful. Like youth and beauty in a single frame. Like one of the statues in the Institute's garden. Ethereal. Eternal. 

Kit would let his hand trace Ty's collar bone, his shoulder, down his bicep. He took no small amount of pride and satisfaction in his boyfriend's lack of clothing. He could have laid there forever. Ty made a small noise, (he did that in his sleep a lot) and nuzzled his face closer to Kit's. A smile drifted across his face, he closed his eyes in an attempt to fall back asleep to the sound of Ty breathing. Then the cat started. That damn cat. Clawing at the door and meowing constantly. Kit had lived with the cat long enough to know that it wouldn’t go away until fed. Ty murmured in his sleep, he was always a heavier sleepier than Kit. 

With a sigh, Kit crawled out of bed. Careful not to disturb Ty. Irene, it seemed, didn’t have such notions, because she just meowed louder. Kit rushed to throw on some underwear and a T-shirt, and hustled out the door. “I hear ya.” He hissed at Irene, using his foot to keep her from rushing into the bedroom. Their LA apartment was small. The bedroom door leading right out into the livingroom and the adjourned kitchen. The light flooded from the big window overlooking the city. Everything was quiet, as if the world hadn’t quite woken up either. Kit drifted past the couch and into the kitchen, Irene at his heels.

Irene was a smart cat, he had to give her that. She had recently been registered as a service animal, and she was good at it. She could tell when Ty was about to have an attack. She knew how to help him through them. Irene wasn’t half bad at tracking demons either. It was very difficult for Kit to stay annoyed or mad at Irene. Especially when she had helped Kit a few times as well. Both in the demon hunting aspect, and in getting through panic attacks.

Besides, Ty always felt better when Irene was around, especially when Kit or Julian weren’t with him. Living in the middle of the second most populated city in the US never helped Ty’s autism. Kit had once asked if he’d ever want to move to somewhere quiet, but Ty had simply said that LA was home. So that was the end of that. 

Irene jumped gracefully onto the kitchen counter. Waiting patiently. “Oh, so you’re going to be all nice and quiet, huh? Now that you’ve got me awake.” Kit mused. Irene tilted her head innocently. A chuckle escaped Kit, he reached out and gave the cat a gentle scratch behind the ears. She let out a soft purr. 

He made quick work of getting her food. It was something he did every Sunday morning, the movements now a natural reflex. He filled the blue food bowl and set it down. Irene descended the counter in a single bound. “Happy now?” He asked, and he could’ve sworn she scoffed as she devoured her breakfast. Kit rolled his eyes and glanced at the oven clock. It read; 9:07. Ty revolved his life around a strict schedule. But Sunday’s were different. There was still a schedule, but there was only one thing on it. At 10 am, they would go to the Institute and eat Julian’s pancakes with the rest of the Blackthorns. They would linger and leave around noon, and then, it was just them. Just Ty and Kit, to do as they pleased.

Sometimes they’d go to lunch and a movie. Sometimes they wandered the mall, or downtown. Sometimes they went to the library, or sometimes they just went home. Sundays were always Kit's favorite day of the week. Kit was about to head back to the bedroom to awaken his sleeping beauty, when a pair of arms snaked around his waist. “Good morning.” Ty hummed, his face buried in the crook of Kit’s neck. Kit leaned against Ty’s chest, “I thought you were asleep.” He whispered. Ty shrugged, “It was cold without you.” His arms tightening around Kit as if to emphasize. Kit’s chest rumbled a laugh. Ty was right. It was warmer now. He turned in his lover's embrace to wrap his own arms around his love’s neck. 

“On love's light wings.” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his boyfriend's lips. Ty smiled against him. It was something that Kit said often to Ty, and it always lit his face up in a smile. The old Kit would have never said something so soft and lovely, but this Kit did. Kit had found it when he’d read Romeo and Juliet one boring summer day at Cirenworth Hall, years ago. It had spoken to Kit. Lept off the pages and stuck in his head all day. The perfect way to describe it he’d thought, and it was a strange thought. The Kit at that time, that younger, angrier Kit, didn’t think about love often. But he had loved his new family.

He loved the way Mina would sometimes stop crying when he scooped her up. It made his heart swell when she went from tears to giggles because of him. He loved the way Tessa’s voice changed when she read a story. How invested and serious she took story time each night. He would sit on the floor while she cradled Mina and sat in the rocking chair. Softly rocking and reading the girl to sleep. He loved the way Jem taught him. He taught him everything. From languages and history, math and science, to fighting and tumbling, climbing and tracking. He taught it all with a gentle hand and firm but simple instructions. 

Kit loved all these things. They made his heart lift and soar. Made him feel ten feet tall, as if he could take on anything and come out on top. Yes, ‘loves light wings’, that was it. That was what made him feel like that, what picked him off his feet and sent him to the highest places. Love had always sounded so heavy to him. Like a burden or a weight, holding him down, a chain keeping him in place. But that wasn’t it at all. Love was light. Love was fragile. Love was blissful and sweet. Love was warm and soft. He didn’t know this, not until a night when the stars were bright. When he and Ty had sat on the roof of the Institute.

 After he had spilled his guts in a less than graceful, but much clearer, confession. Things were oddly comfortable, yet Kit didn’t know where they would go from there. Or what he should do. In the end, it had been Ty, who leaned over and asked to kiss him. The world had stopped spinning, just for a moment. Then he had kissed him, and it spun again. Faster, wilder, clearer than before. Kit had kissed people before, sure. Many times, with mostly girls. They had never felt quite right. No matter how much he had cared. But this, this had been more than right. It was meant to be. That line had come back to him. When they had pulled apart, a little breathless, Ty’s eyes shining brighter than any moon or star. Kit’s heart leaping into his throat.

“On love’s light wings...” He’d whispered, without thinking. Ty tilted his head, his headphones had slipped around his neck. “Romeo?” he asked. Kit’s face flushed. “Yeah, I-uh-I understand it now. I didn’t before. But now I do.” He had stumbled, expecting to be teased. But Ty would never, he knew that now. His face had split into a smile. A dazzling, beautiful smile. That knocked the breath out of Kit, and he could feel those wings of love. Light, and gentle. They wrapped around him and lifted him up. They held him, re-molded him. Shaped him into someone new, someone he had forgotten was there. 

In his mind, there had been the Kit before, the Kit that was angry, who hated his father and wanted his mother back. Who didn’t know who he was, who had loved, but never loved in return. Then there was the Kit who was still young, and confused. But who had loved. But was then broken. Then he was back at that angry Kit. Yet slowly, he had begun to change. Becoming a Kit who learned to let go of that anger. Who finally, laid his parents to rest in the back of his heart. And in this particular moment, he became a Kit who had finally found himself. Who loved and was loved back. This was the Kit, who had grown up. 

Now, Ty was kissing him in their kitchen. When he pulled back, he gave Kit a curious look. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his hair still messy from sleep, the dark waves falling into his face. Kit brushed them away. “That I love you.” A boyish grin on his face. Ty pressed a kiss to his cheek, “I love you too,” He said. “And we should take a shower.” He let go of Kit, giving him a smirk over his shoulder as he entered the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open. Kit leaned against the kitchen counter, still grinning softly. He stood there for a few minutes before the words and smirk registered in his head. His cheeks heated. Irene licked her paw at his feet, giving him a strangely judging look. “Don’t look at me like that.” He muttered, and followed his boyfriend. 

This Kit, he decided, had it a lot better, and liked it better, than the old one.