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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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#21 and #46 for kiss prompts, maybe? I can't get enough your writing tbf

kiss on a dare- a little jonmartin season one fluff <3 All in all, this is one of Tim’s better Friday nights.

It’s been ages since Jon’s hung out with them, and never with Martin along for the ride. The Archives had been off to a messy start after the Dog Incident and Jon’s subsequent panic over the state of the place. What used to be an ‘every couple of weeks’ tradition turned into an almost-never one as the newly-assembled team got buried under more and more boxes of dusty statements. He’s pretty astounded that Jon agreed to dinner and drinks- although it’s a Friday night, Jon’s been apt to stay weekends more often than not. He figured if he arranged for it at one of theirs instead of a pub, Jon would be more likely to come. He always preferred less crowded settings.

No, the real feat was getting him to come knowing Martin was invited.

Jon’s been getting...better around him, that’s true. He was perfectly fine at his birthday party, going off about emulsifiers for a solid fifteen minutes. Tim’s always been rather fond of Jon’s infodumping, and if he’s comfortable enough to do it around Martin that must be a good sign. Despite an initial freeze-out, he now thanks Martin for his tea and saves his most pointed comments for Martin’s more egregious screw-ups (and even those have less bite than usual). Still, a colleague does not a friend make, and Jon’s never been good at opening up to people he doesn’t know all that well. However, Jon just nodded at the Martin caveat, seemingly not giving it a second thought. And Martin didn’t seem all that worried either.

Whatever, Tim’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just happy they’re all here, having a good time. It’s late and Jon’s had enough wine to keep a smile on his face. He missed that. It’s nice how easily they slot together, even with all of the upheaval and a new addition. Martin himself isn’t so shy after a drink or two, more willing to engage in banter and keep the conversation going. This is what it should be like all the time, Tim thinks. Shitty archive job or not.

It’s when they retire to the living room, drinks in hand, that he finally notices the little grin on Sasha’s face. And Tim, knowing exactly what that means, is both a little afraid and excited. Four-drink-Sasha has always been a host unto herself.

“Why don’t,” she begins, a hiccup interrupting her as she slumps into an armchair. Tim snickers and ignores the glare this earns him. “Why don’t we play one of our old games-”

Tim raises a glass in agreement as Jon, predictably, groans. Martin looks quizzically between them. Ah yes, time for your initiation, Marto! Not that they’ve played this in about a year or so, of course, but it's always fun to revisit the good old days.

“Seriously? We’re not children-”

Tim gives Jon a playful slap on the back that sends him flying forward on the couch, spilling a bit of wine on Sasha’s rug. He hopes she doesn’t notice. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, boss! Nothing like it to break the ice, and there’s definitely some ice that needs breaking.”

Martin blinks, hand tightening on his glass. He looks nervous, like he always does when he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Which is a shame, because he’s been so nice and open all night. Even chatting with Jon. “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

Jon rolls his eyes, giving Martin a commiserating look. “Truth or dare.”

Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh, relaxing minutely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Jon’s foot reaches out to shove at Tim’s leg. “Tim loves pulling ridiculous stunts-”

“-Hey, you loved the karaoke idea-”

“You sing?”

“No.” Tim would dispute that, but the look on Jon’s face declares it a bad idea. “And Sasha likes to ask probing questions.”

Sasha preens, though the remark was certainly not meant as a compliment. “What can I say, I’m the Queen of Truth-”

Tim snorts. “Hacking and blackmail more like-”

“Anyway-” Sasha sings out as Tim dodges a pillow to the face. “Tim….truth or-”

“Dare, always dare.”

“You’re absolutely no fun,” Sasha pouts, though it doesn’t take long for her eyes to narrow in thought. There’s very little Tim won’t do, but that’s a dangerous look. “I dare you...to text…”

“Text? You can do better than that, Sash.”

“Text...Elias.” That’s more like it.

Jon immediately scowls. “Tim, no-”

“I don’t have his number-”

“I do-”

“Sasha!”

“Jon, it’ll be fine! He’ll just say ‘oops, wrong number’ afterwards, no harm, no foul-”

Tim takes this time to snatch at Sasha’s phone, sitting precariously on the arm of her chair. She doesn’t notice, too busy gesturing at Jon empathically. He scrolls through her contact list.

“And then it’ll come down on me-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How is he going to connect it to you? It’s not like he knows we’re all together-”

“Done!” Tim tosses the phone back onto the couch with a little grin. Sasha blinks, looking down in confusion.

“Wait, that’s mine-”

The screech and smack on the arm at Tim’s hastily fired off ‘u up? ;)’ to Elias Bouchard were definitely deserved. He’s sure he’ll face consequences for that in the near future, but Jon and Martin’s immediate laughter had been well worth it. Shouldn’t dish it if you can’t take it, that’s Tim’s motto.

In the next round, Tim manages to get Martin to confess to his poetry-writing habit, an admission that has him turning an attractive shade of red. Jon just giggles quietly to himself as Martin reads through one of his poorer attempts at rhyme saved to the notes of his mobile. Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time.

Martin gets Sasha to admit to her most recent perusal through confidential institute records, which turned out to be previous archival expenses (solely to find out what Elias would cover with their new jobs, of course). At first glance, there wasn’t much in the way of extravagant meals or supplies, but a bit more digging had her finding Gertrude’s extensive travel budget. For an old woman, she certainly was a globe-trotter.

“All I’m saying, Jon, is that we could definitely do with a trip to China-”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask Elias about Gertrude’s trip to China, something I certainly shouldn’t know about, and he’ll have to let us go.”

“Refill?” Martin’s on his feet, taking Jon’s wine glass in his hand and Tim watches as their fingers brush- go Martin!- and yet Jon just nods his thanks, completely oblivious to the seduction taking place before him. Tim’s given it some thought and honestly, he thinks they’d make a cute couple. An odd pair, for sure, but Jon’s so soft once you get to know him, and Martin’s one of the funniest, sweetest guys he knows. They could be good for each other.

“Well, I still think it’s worth a try.” Sasha’s eyes are starting to blink heavily - she’ll be out for the count tonight, for sure. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I dare you-”

“I didn’t even pick!” Jon says, though he doesn’t seem too put out by it. This is the Jon Martin should know, the easy-humored, smiling man sprawled out before him. He’s even taken his little sweater vest and tie off, looking more like the familiar friend from research Tim knows so well. It warms his heart.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose. Seeing as how you already have one queued up.”

“I dare you to...to...to give a little kiss to someone in this room.” She waves her glass around imperiously. “Anyone you like.”

Silence. Tim gives Sasha a warning look that she ignores. She’s well in her cups, and he supposes any sense of propriety has gone out the window along with her sobriety. He’s actually seen Jon give quite a few kisses on a particularly memorable New Years Eve, but that was a different time. He doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not when he’s just starting to open back up.

“Jon doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you remember-”

“It doesn’t matter- Jon, you can skip this one if you like, we can think of something else-”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon puts a hand on his arm to stop the argument, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that can’t be attributed to liquor. It’s mock-serious, almost playful paired with his little sly smile. He thinks for a moment that Jon’s going to lean in and kiss him but instead he gets up from the sofa in a smooth motion and walks across the room to Martin, who’s just turned around with two glasses in hand. He freezes in place as Jon gets on his very tippy toes, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him.

Jonathan Sims. Kissing Martin Blackwood. Against a kitchen counter. Martin Blackwood, who, once he’s over his surprise, puts the drinks down behind him and kisses right the hell back, arms winding around Jon’s waist like they belong there.

What. The. Fuck.

_____

“The leg bit was a nice touch.”

“Hmm?” Jon’s in Martin’s lap, sprawled out on his couch back at his own flat, eyes closed in contentment as he leans back against the other man’s chest. Martin’s got one hand in his hair, and the other entwined with Jon’s, twirling the black ring on his finger. It’s heavenly.

“Thought you were trying to climb me.”

“Well, you usually pick me up at that point, make it easier.”

“Sorry, next time.” Kissing Jon’s always fun but kissing him out in the open, in front of their friends? Was that something they could do now? “Should we tell them we’ve been dating for two months?”

Two whole months since that night in Document Storage when Jon had finally let his guard down. When Martin had held him in his arms. Jon was very particular about keeping up appearances, though that all seemed to have crumbled tonight. Sasha rather fashioned herself a matchmaker, and Jon didn’t do anything to dissuade the fact. It’d been nice, having their relationship to themselves, the secret of it, the obliviousness of their friends who still thought Jon only tolerated him. It’s not that he wanted to keep it that way, of course, but it was nice while they were still figuring it out.

“If you’d like. Maybe it’s time.” Jon tilts his head back, giving Martin a fond look. “Though I know how much you enjoy playing the lovesick fool-”

“There’s something so poetic about unrequited love, yknow?”

“All the more when it’s requited, I’d say.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. He leans down to give Jon’s forehead a peck.

“Hmm. Give it a few more weeks. Act out the honeymoon phase for a bit, it’ll be fun.”

And when Jon squeezes his hand and smiles back, Martin thinks he won’t need to do much acting at all.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31318724

#tma #the magnus archives #my writing #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fluff #kiss prompts #i have a little backstory to how they got together in this one that maybe one day i will write #but heres a lil something something #jonmartin secret dating is fun okay #v enjoyable #jaybirdsfall #reblogs appreciated <3

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years

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Spare Me A Moment? // Benedict Bridgerton

Request: I’d love to request a Benedict fic, if that’s okay ☺️ Maybe one where the reader doesnt belong to the ton and works for the Bridgertons and he falls for her but she can’t quite believe it (because why would he fall for someone of her status?) but eventually admits that she has feelings for him too? I hope this is something you’d like to write 🙈 Thank you so much 💛 - @dreaming-about-fanfictions

A/N: My first Bridgerton request and it’s from my dear, Astrid! Thank you, my lovely. I only hope I have done it justice. There are moments in this that are inspired by Downton Abbey (a different time period, I know, but I adapt) and the way the fic is written is meant to jump about POVs before finally bringing the reader or Benedict as the sole focus of the scene.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: use of she/her pronouns, female reader, class differences, societal differences, pining, mutual pining, kissing, honest conversations, bridgertons being bridgertons, healthy family relationships.

Word Count: 5.4k

Of the families that resided in Grosvenor Square, there was not one so loved by their staff than that of the Bridgertons. They treated their staff fairly with decent wages and housing well as treating them with respect. The staff that work for the Bridgertons are so admired by the family that those in their employment tend not to leave for years on end; perfectly happy to remain devoted to one family.

To be a housemaid in a home such as Bridgerton House was an honour; as was repeated by the butler, Jenkins and the Head Housemaid, Mrs. Thorpe when (Y/N) began working in the house many years ago.

There was no other way to put it, (Y/N) adored working in Bridgerton House. She never minded the early starts, or the late finishes when the season was in full swing. She could never find herself bothered by having to pick up after the youngest children; their shoes and books lying about hallways and staircases, ready to cause an injury. (Y/N) was utterly devoted to the family; she could never imagine working anywhere else.

And if she had admired the second born Bridgerton with an interest that spoke to more of an employer/servant relationship, then that was (Y/N)’s cross to bear.

-----------

For months he had watched her from the centre of attention. He had observed how she held herself; tall and proud of the work she completed daily.

It had been a passing glance that had started it all. A polite smile and nod from her as Benedict passed in her the hallway, and suddenly he was hit with one, if not all, of Cupid’s arrows. After that, Benedict started to notice (Y/N) everywhere – started to notice the extra attention she paid Hyacinth when she was missing Gregory; he noticed how she would go out of her way to ensure his mother’s comfort in her drawing room, fluffing up cushions and pillows, and offering a blanket should there be a chill.

Benedict began to notice all of this and for a moment, he wondered whether he was beginning to lose his mind. He knew of the barriers between them, but that didn’t stop him from experience the raw emotion of wanting her. Benedict didn’t like to think how many hours of the day he devoted to thinking of her; dreaming of her.

All he wanted was to talk to her. To have a few minutes with her to plead his case; to help her understand that there is the very real possibility of a relationship between then should she feel the same way. How often he had dreamed of her feeling the same way…

A lovesick fool. Benedict Bridgerton was a lovesick fool but should (Y/N) spare him a moment, he would be her lovesick fool.

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

From the very moment she woke, (Y/N) had been on her feet, rushing from room to room, tidying up after everyone. The whole Bridgerton family would be descending on the main house for the final meal of the day; they were welcoming Anthony and his new wife, Kate, home from their honeymoon.

That meant everything had to be perfect. That meant there was very little time to wander through the house; Jenkins was already close to tears; he could not be pushed any further.

The chiming of the grandfather clock in the hallway has (Y/N) hastening her steps, trying not to look too rushed as she thinks of the dinner service still needing to be taken upstairs and the wine to decant and the port to breathe. Whilst Anthony had a collection of whiskies and brandies in his study, the port was kept to the realm of the butler – Jenkins knew exactly what to buy and when to serve it. Tonight was one such occasion, and it still needed to breathe.

“(Y/N)!” Benedict calls, hurrying after her as she makes her way back to her quarters to dress for the dinner service. Jenkins, the Butler, would not be best pleased if she were to show up late.

“Mr. Bridgerton, how can I help you?” (Y/N) asks, curtseying to the second-born Bridgerton before eyeing the grandfather clock and noting the time.

“Spare me a moment of your time, please?”

“You should be getting ready for dinner. I know that Benjamin has laid out your clothes.”

“I want to talk to you… only for a moment, I know you have jobs to attend to.”

Smoothing down her apron, (Y/N) smiles softly at the brunette. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I thought it was obvious but perhaps not,” Benedict murmurs to himself, practically ignoring her question.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Bridgerton but I must be getting on.”

“No!” He all but shouts, reaching for your hand, “Spare me another moment of your time… please.”

She wavers as if caught between the berating she will no doubt receive from the Butler for being late to the dinner service or letting down her employer whom she stands in front of. After a moment’s silence, her decision is made. “How can I help you, Mr. Bridgerton?” She repeats.

“Call me Benedict, please.”

She shakes her head, “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Mr. Bridgerton. It would be improper.”

Benedict hesitates; his hand still outstretched towards her as if desperate to feel her underneath his palms. “I’ve gone about this all wrong,” He says, eyes sad.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” Benedict confesses, speaking plainly as if he hasn’t changed her world in six words.

“What?” She gasps; propriety falling away from her for a moment as the words he uttered settle into her skin.

“I’ve fallen in love with you,” Benedict repeats, voice firmer as he becomes surer of himself.

“How?” She asks, her face and voice puzzled, “I’m a housemaid, Mr. Bridgerton.”

His eyebrows furrow as if such a thing shouldn’t matter in their world. Yet it does – status is everything; titles are everything. A man who hails from a family such as the Bridgertons could not marry, let alone fall in love with one of the serving class. It simply didn’t happen. There was the occasional affair, but (Y/N) knew herself well enough not to be reserved as a mistress – it was not her destiny. She was to marry for love.

“I don’t know how it happened, but I find myself thinking of you every waking minute of the day. I find it hard not to stare at you when I see you completing your duties. At night, I long for it to be you lying next to me instead of the emptiness of the bed. I don’t know how it happened, (Y/N). All I know is that I am in love with you. This is no farce or folly.”

The words fall over her as rain would fall over grass. They soak into her skin, mould to her bones and become part of her in the span of mere seconds. Mere seconds, and her world has changed. As much as she longed to hear those words from his lips, this could not happen. Moving away from him, her chest aching with every step, she whispers her excuse to escape, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridgerton, I need to get back downstairs.”

Watching her walk away from him, Benedict feels something heavy settle in his chest, pressing his lungs down and making it difficult to breathe. The barriers between them were so entrenched into society, Benedict begins to worry that he has lost her before he every truly got to know her.

Shaking his head, determination sets his nerves to steel. He would try again, he promises himself. He would not pester, but he would do what he could to ensure a brighter future for the both of them.

----------

“We’re down a footman,” Jenkins panics, “I’ve had to send William to bed with a head cold. We’re down one footman in the dining room.”

“What do you propose we do?” Mrs. Thorpe asks of the grey-haired man. Hands on her hips and her lips, thin, Mrs. Thorpe was not a woman to be trifled with. She had not run Bridgerton House for close to thirty years for Jenkins’ panic to ruin a single evening. So far in their shared career with the Bridgerton family, his nerves had almost ruined an engagement party, a christening, an end of season masquerade ball and now, a traditional family dinner.

The colour fades from Jenkins’ face as he mutters, “I’m going to have to have a housemaid in the dining room.”

Mrs. Thorpe rolls her eyes at the antics of the overly dramatic butler. “It won’t be the end of the world to have a housemaid in the dining room. Take (Y/N) – she’s liked well enough by the family and knows how to serve.”

Jenkins sighs wearily as if the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders. “I suppose I have no choice. Will you let (Y/N) know?”

(Y/N) is walking down the stairs to the lower levels of the house when she hears Mrs. Thorpe call her name. Turning, as she lands on the bottom step, she has a fond smile on her face for the Head Housekeeper. “Mrs. Thorpe,” (Y/N) greets.

“We’re down a footman this evening, dear,” Mrs. Thorpe says in greeting, never one to beat around the bush, “Would you be able to cover the dining room with Jenkins and Benjamin?”

“The dining room?” (Y/N) questions as the rug is pulled from underneath her feet for the second time that afternoon. It would mean having to see Benedict once more, but what choice was there.

“Yes,” Mrs. Thorpe confirms, “There aren’t enough bodies to cover the whole family. Everyone is dining tonight.”

“Of course,” (Y/N) smiles, “Of course, I’ll help. I’ll also take William a tray when I get a moment’s reprieve.”

Mrs. Thorpe smiles; the corners of her eyes crinkling from the force of it. “You are a gem. Thank you, dear.”

(Y/N) nods, smiling at the Head Housekeeper though she knows it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Having to see Benedict so soon after his confession had sent her mind into overdrive; her stomach tying itself into knots – she could only hope that the gentleman wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t humiliate her in front of his whole family.

Mrs. Thorpe touches (Y/N)’s shoulder, asking her softly, “Is everything okay, dear?”

(Y/N) nods, trying her best not to let her emotions show on her face. She had been blindsided by Benedict and his confession; didn’t ever expect such words to leave his mouth… well, expected them but never thought they would be directed at her.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Thorpe,” She smiles and whilst the Head Housekeep returns the smile, she does not believe the one on (Y/N)’s face for a moment.

“Are you sure you’re okay to help out in the dining room? Jenkins can always find someone else.”

(Y/N) shakes her head, knowing the butler better than she knows herself. “He would cause such a panic. No, it’s better I do it myself.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am,” She pats Mrs. Thorpe’s hand. “I am sure.”

-----------

It takes everything she has to stop her hands from shaking as she enters the dining room with her tray of food. Following Jenkins’ lead, (Y/N) holds her head high as she serves the Bridgertons, beginning with Anthony and then making her way from his right.

Benedict all but freezes in his spot when (Y/N) finally comes to serve from his left shoulder. He turns in his chair to find her staring down at him; a serving plate in her hand, the tongs pointed in his direction. Their fingers brush as Benedict reaches for the utensil sending a zap of static electricity up (Y/N)’s arm. She sucks in a breathe, desperate to keep the connection between them yet she is the one who straightens, who schools her face into a mask of polite interest.

“Thank you,” Benedict whispers, still unable to take his eyes off her.

“You’re welcome,” She replies, swiftly moving onto Gregory who sits patiently by Benedict’s side.

Jenkins who had noticed the exchange between Benedict and (Y/N) clears his throat, gaining the attention of the family waiting to start their meal. “I am terribly sorry for the informality. William took ill at the last moment and (Y/N) graciously offered to fill his shoes.”

Anthony Bridgerton smiles at (Y/N). “Thank you, (Y/N), for stepping in so quickly,” He states before turning his attention to Jenkins, “Has a tray been organised for William? Do you need us to contact the doctor?”

Jenkins watches the young Viscount with warm eyes; having known the Viscount since he was a babe in arms, it has been his pride and joy to watch him grow to the man he is today. “(Y/N) has offered to take a tray to William as soon as she is finished here. As for the doctor, my Lord, it seems only to be a head cold.”

“Let us know if anything changes, please.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

As food is served and wine is poured, happy and warm conversation flows through the Bridgerton family. Laughter is the most often heard sound in the Bridgerton home; it punctuates the air whether the chuckle and giggle comes from a member of the family or a member of staff.

Tonight is no different, it seems, as Hyacinth snorts midway through her laughter at Gregory’s latest antics. Visiting home for the weekend from Eton, Gregory was on hand to entertain his brothers and scandalise his dear mother with stories of his school life.

“I do hope you are paying attention in your lessons,” Violet admonishes her youngest son though there is nothing but maternal love in her voice.

Gregory smiles widely, holding a hand over his heart as he promises, “I do nothing less.”

His words receive an amused snort from all three brothers and a roll of eyes from his mother. (Y/N) turns her face away from the loving scene to keep the smile on her face from growing. This; this is what she years for – family, love, laughter and warmth. No matter how Benedict phrases his feelings, and no matter how she may feel for the Bridgerton, a relationship that harbours the four things (Y/N) holds dear would be impossible due to her station. A sad fact, but a universally accepted truth.

The topic of conversation once again shifts; this time focusing on the latest branch in literature. A novel had been published that had managed to scandalise not only the religious community, but also the scientific one. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was, to (Y/N), two things. Not only was it a book that promised the reader to be horrified, but it was written by a woman. Shelley was not the first female author, and she would not be the last but this latest venture into a new genre of literature inspired pride within (Y/N). With the growing availability of books through libraries, (Y/N) felt it was only time before something big happened in the fight for rights for women.

Though she kept those thoughts readily to herself.

“What do you think, (Y/N)?” Benedict asks, blue eyes sparkling over the rim his wine glass as every member of his family turns to look at her.

Eyes wide with shock, she glances over to Jenkins. He nods but he doesn’t look pleased at her having been called on by the employer. Taking a step forward, she curtsies slightly before answering, “I couldn’t possibly say, Mr. Bridgerton, sir. I haven’t read the book.”

“Come now, (Y/N),” Benedict continues, his smile growing wider, “You must have an opinion.”

“Benedict,” Violet chastises, “Leave the poor girl alone. She’s only serving tonight as William has fallen ill. There is no need to badger her.”

Violet smiles at (Y/N) apologetically as she takes a step back to the wall, her hands held neatly in front of her. Conversation soon turns to another subject, another topic which gives (Y/N) the space to breathe; to slow her racing heart.

Benedict’s eyes continue to steal glances of her figure for the rest of the meal. It feels close to a brand; the heat of his gaze burns through whatever shield she has up to the point where she is certain Benedict has laid her bare for all to see. It’s all she can think of; his keen gaze and his words to her before the meal.

Trying her best not to fidget, (Y/N) keeps her eyes focused on the portrait of a Bridgerton ancestor hung on the wall across from her. She only rouses herself from her nerves to serve the courses of the meal. (Y/N) cannot help but thank any god or deity out there when the dessert course is brought up and the meal is soon brought to a close.

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

It is easy to avoid someone when you ask for extra duties, (Y/N) thinks to herself as she carries a pile of dresses to be mended. The muslin is smooth against her skin as she lays the dresses out on the mending table before turning to find the sewing kit. Thankfully, for the dresses, there was not much to be done but mend a few holes that had torn near the hem. The danger of heels and quick walking women, (Y/N) humours.

It had been a week since the conversation with Benedict; his words constantly playing on her mind until she wakes in the middle of the night with them on her lips, as if she were reciting the conversation in her sleep.

Benedict had tried to gain her attention; he had made clear attempts at wanting to talk to her. However, she simply curtsied and went on her way. She didn’t know what to say to him; she couldn’t understand how he – the son of a Viscount, no less – had fallen in love with her.

It felt preposterous; it felt too good to be true. Yet as the oil lamps are dampened for the night and the other servants in the house have fallen asleep, (Y/N) lets herself dream of what it could be like to be loved by Benedict Bridgerton. She wonders about the curve of his mouth; what it feel like, whether he would smile into their kiss. She thinks of his hands; his long, artistic fingers and she briefly ponders whether he had ever drawn her, whether in his many sketchbooks there lies a portrait of her.

When she’s feeling a particular glutton for punishment, (Y/N) lets herself dream of a life with Benedict where class status didn’t matter. She thinks of what it would be like to wake up to him every morning; to feel the heaviness of his arm wrapped around her waist as he rises to consciousness with the sun. She yearns to know what it would feel like to be able to reach over and take his hand in hers, tangling their fingers together as if they had always meant to be intertwined.

The longing for him is what breaks her. It’s what causes the tears to roll down her face as she lets herself accept the fact that she is sure she has known for a long time. She lets herself accept that she had met the cliché of so many housemaids before her by falling in love with Benedict Bridgerton a long time ago, before he had even come to know her existence.

-----------

The drawing room on the upper level of the house was where Violet Bridgerton spent most of her day. On occasion, her sons’ joined the family, but for the most part, it was her daughters that kept her company. Violet remains occupied by her stitching patterns; a garden of tulips for the birth of Anthony’s darling new baby, however, she keeps a weather eye on Eloise and Hyacinth – her only daughters to remain at home and unmarried.

“Eloise,” Violet murmurs, “Would you be a dear and ring for some tea. My throat is parched.”

Eloise pauses in her writing; so occupied these days, Violet thinks as her second eldest daughter rises to ring for the kitchen. “What are you working on?” Violet asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

Eloise frowns, collecting the papers out of fear anyone should read them. “I’m writing to Penelope if you must know.”

“Writing? She lives just across the way, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you calling on her.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” Eloise allows, “But there is nothing wrong with practicing my handwriting, is there mother?”

Violet smiles; a pained one that shows her exhaustion with her beloved daughter. “No, my dear. There is no harm in that.”

Eloise nods, smiling softly at her mother before returning to her letter. Violet watches her for a moment; the way her eyes read and reread the sentences written on the page – this was not a letter to Penelope; it was to a suitor. Violet knew full well, however, that Eloise would come to her when ready – she was not someone to be pushed into giving information.

Returning to her stitching, Violet finds that her attention is once more interrupted by the opening of the door. She sighs, placing the stitching down, curious as to whether she would get the piece done before the arrival of the sweet babe.

Turning to face the door, she is surprised to find her second-born, Benedict entering the room. His eyes, sad and his expression, solemn as he runs a hand again and again through his hair.

“Mother,” Benedict greets, leaning down to press a kiss to her ageing cheek. “May I speak with you about a private matter?”

Violet’s eyebrows furrow but she says nothing as she dismisses her daughters; each one complaining as they leave the room, closing the door behind them. At the click of the lock, Violet smiles warmly at her son – he was so different from Anthony and Colin, not the least interested in their games such as Pall Mall but would rather sit to the side with his sketchbook in hand. He had a boisterous streak; could play with the rest of them, but he had his moments where he fall into a tranquil state and produce artwork that could rival the greats.

Nerves tangling his stomach to pieces, Benedict begins to pace the room. His hands are hooked behind his back as he begins to pace backwards and forwards, trying to form sentences from the jumble of words in his mind. He knew, deep down, that whatever he should want to do with his life, his beloved mother would support him, but even Violet Bridgerton could not ignore the class lines so entrenched within society.

“Benedict, my dear, you’re beginning to make me dizzy. Stop pacing and tell me what’s wrong.”

Benedict pauses his pacing but does not sit down. Instead, he stands as still as a stone, hands gesturing wildly as he tries to form thoughts into sentences. Mouth opening and closing, he struggles of how to bring up the issue of love and marriage.

“You would never stand in the way of who we love, would you?” He finally asks, running a hand through his deep brown hair.

Violet frowns, “I would not considering they were within reason. Why? Have you fallen in love, Benedict?”

“I think… No. I know I have, but there’s a problem.”

“Are they a drunk?”

“No.”

“Do they gamble?”

“No.”

“Then whatever is the matter?”

“She’s a servant. A housemaid to be precise… in this house.”

Violet would be the first to admit that she is surprised by her son’s admission. Sighing, she pats the cushion next to her, urging her son to sit down. “Who?” she asks as Benedict falls into the seat beside her.

“(Y/N),” He admits, fiddling with the hem of his jacket.

She runs a hand through his hair, “Does she love you too?”

“I don’t know,” Benedict admits, “She ran off after I confessed.”

“Then I need to speak to her to find out once and for all,” Violet declares, smoothing out her skirts.

“Mother…” Benedict groans. Violet shakes her head, “Let me talk to her. I can reassure her in ways you cannot. I can tell her that I approve.”

“You approve?” He asks, shocked at the words leaving hid mother’s mouth. “I thought you would disapprove…”

“Because of her class? My dear boy, you have found your love match, that is all I wish for my children. Should (Y/N) feel the same then of course I approve. I would rather you be happy than miserable, my son.”

“Thank you, mother,” Benedict replies, kissing her cheek once again, “You’re truly the best there are.”

Violet blushes at her sons words, dismissing him with a wave of her fan. “Off with you, and ring for Jenkins before you go.”

Benedict bows before pulling the cord by the door. Leaving the room, Benedict cannot help the smile that crosses his face. He truly holds some hope that (Y/N) might feel the same as he does and if his mother should approve, then there should be no issue to their courting and their union.

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

(Y/N) wrings her hands together on entire walk to Lady Violet’s drawing room. Having been summoned by the Lady herself, this could be either of two things. One: she was about to find herself suddenly unemployed for reasons she did not yet know. Or two: Lady Violet knows about the conversation with Benedict.

Neither reason made (Y/N) feel particularly confident as she is shown into the drawing room. Her heart remains in her throat even as Lady Violet smiles at her warmly; gesturing for her to sit down across from her and take some tea.

Adding one lump of sugar to her tea, Lady Violet bluntly asks, “Do you love my son, (Y/N)?”

(Y/N) promptly drops her spoon into her tea causing it to splash on the table cover. “Oh!” She gasps, reaching for a napkin to clean up the mess as best she can, “I am so terribly sorry, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet chuckles, “It’s no problem, (Y/N). Tea tends to wash out as I am sure you are well aware. I do not want to think of how many table cloths and dresses I have stained in my time… but I love the drink so many more stains are due to come.”

“My mother says that the world can be put to rights over a good cup of tea.”

“Your mother sounds very wise.”

“She is,” (Y/N) nods, smiling wistfully as she thinks of her mother with the fondness of a child. “I write to her nearly every day. She likes to hear about the city and what is happening. She feels as if the Bridgertons are her own family.”

Violet beams at that, “I am glad to hear it, (Y/N), but you have not answered my question.”

“I apologise, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Are you in love with Benedict?”

(Y/N) remains silent for a moment before beginning to nod her head. “I am. I know I am,” (Y/N) begins, “But…”

“But what?”

“I could bring nothing to the courtship and then nothing to the marriage. My family are not rich enough for me to have a dowry; I have no title or land; I barely know proper etiquette – I would offend everyone the moment I stepped through the door. On top of that, think of the social connections Benedict would lose – there would be families who would never speak to him again all because he had the rotten luck to fall in love with me.”

Violet’s blue eyes grow determined as she begins to list off: “You do not need a dowry; we have enough money as it is. There is no need for you to have a title or land, Benedict has his own homes. In terms of etiquette, you converse with me quite well, so I see no issue there. As for social connections, if people cannot see how happy you make my son then that is their issue, not yours and not Benedict’s.”

“What about the Viscount, Lady Bridgerton? Surely he has final say.”

A glimmer of something maternal shines in Violet’s eyes as she smiles. “Let me handle my eldest son. You have no reason to worry, (Y/N). Benedict loves you. I will not stand in the way of his happiness.”

“So you approve?” (Y/N) asks, forgetting herself for a brief moment before dipping her head in apology.

Violet dismisses her apology with a wave of her hand; after all, if things go to plan, she would be calling (Y/N) daughter in no time. “Do I approve of having to find another housemaid as talented as you? No, I do not. But do I approve of the lady that my son has given his heart to? Absolutely. To be entirely truthful, I would rather it be you than someone in society.”

“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” (Y/N) says gratefully, feeling the all too familiar prick of tears in the corner of her eyes.

“Now go,” Violet smiles, the familiar sting of tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, “Go find my son and tell him how you feel.”

Standing from the chair, (Y/N) curtsies with a smile before rushing from the room. Her mind in a daze as to what has truly happened just now.

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

(Y/N) finds Benedict in the library, sat awkwardly in one of the chairs with his sketchbook propped up in his lap. He’s focused entirely on the sketch at hand; his mouth set in a determined line as a finger delicately smudges part of his work.

For a single instant, (Y/N) watches Benedict in his element, finding that the butterflies in her stomach have turned from slumbering to a full blown riot at the mere sight of the man that had captured her heart. Still riding on the high from her conversation with Lady Bridgerton, (Y/N) steps further into the room. Benedict freezes in place at the sight of her stood by the stacks of books; her eyes are bright, and her skin flushed as she fiddles with the hem of her apron.

The painting flashes in his mind suddenly and his fingers twitch with the urge to turn the page of his sketchbook whilst simultaneously asking her to remain still so he can immortalise her on page. She’s perfect; she’s the perfect model and she doesn’t even realise it; Benedict thinks to himself.

“Spare me a moment?” She asks tentatively, as if worried of his reaction.

“All my moments are for you,” Benedict whispers honestly setting her heart racing in her chest. He stands from the chair, long legs coming out from under him as he leaves his sketchbook behind.

“All mine are for you too, if you’ll still have me…”

“What?”

“I love you too,” She confesses, voice small as she fiddles with her fingers, eyes cast on them – too scared to meet his gaze.

A finger under her chin has her meeting his deep blue eyes. Eyes that are alight with the happiness that surges through his veins; that highlight just how his heart sings at hearing those magical words leave her mouth.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” (Y/N) begins to ramble, “There is so much that is standing in the way for us, and I know you do not care or at least, I think you do not care but I cannot help but worry that if we were to happen, one day you would wake up and regret every moment of it. I am not from the same class as you, Benedict, I do not want to ruin you.”

A smile breaks across his face despite the stark desperation of her words. She furrows her eyebrows, half in curiosity, half in concealed frustration. “What are you smiling at?” She demands.

His hands move to cradle her face; thumbs rubbing over her cheekbones as he chuckles, “You called me ‘Benedict’.”

Thinking over her words, she smiles despite herself. “I suppose I did.”

“As for your worries: I do not think there will be one day in my future that I will not wake up and be grateful. However, that will only happen if you are in it – if I am waking up to you every morning. Darling, I do not think you can ruin me. I think you will be the making of me.”

“Do you promise? Not to regret me?” She whispers, a note of vulnerability in her voice.

“I promise,” He vows, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then to her nose and cheeks. Then as he hovers above her lips, he whispers, “With every moment you spare me, I could never regret falling in love with you.”

******

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @janelongxox @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley

Taglist is open! If you would like to be added, drop a message to my ask box and I shall add you to the list.

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagines #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton imagines

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withcolebrock · 4 years

Text

Full of Surprises

Corpse Husband x Fem!Reader

Requested: yes!

Summary: Corpse finds out that Y/N secretly knows who he is and his music

Warnings: Swearing, lmk if anything else :)

Word Count: 1,624

Author’s Note: Hello! First corpse piece! I’m trying something new with this piece, just posting it at a different time tehe. I hope you guys like it, I think this is a pretty cute little platonic/flirty friendship corpse and reader tehehehe

~~~

It was a small temporary thing; only for a couple months. She needed a place to stay during pilot season and her friend Dave knew exactly where she could go. He knew his friend Corpse lived near the area and he was needing help on the rent. Dave had been good friends with Y/N and Corpse seperately for a long time. Of course when he heard Y/N needed a place to stay and Corpse needed help on rent, he offered the idea to the both of them. Since they were both desperate They’ve met a few times prior at Dave’s house but the whole thing felt awkward.

She walked up to the door and hesitantly raised her hand up and knocked. It took a few long uncomfortable seconds before the door was pulled open. She smiled up towards him, as she met his eye. Her heart began to beat faster. He smiled nervously as he showed her into the house. “Hey,” he mumbled.

He shut the door behind her as he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Hi,” she smiled as she looked over the small apartment. It was small and well put together.

“So-uh, this is my place,” he said nervously, he let out a laugh. She laughed along with him, the awkward tension began to dispait.

“It’s nice, I like it,” she smiled towards him as she continued to shift her gaze around the apartment.

He started to show her around the apartment. The main living area was open concept, so he just walked aimlessly in a circle through the kitchen, dining area, and the living room. He opened the fridge to show that there wasn’t much food in it, “I don’t cook, I’m really bad at it, so sorry about that,” he giggled as he pushed it slightly watching it shut on it’s own. She laughed along.

“Don’t worry, I can cook for you,” she let out, her face smiling widely. He continued the tour, showing her his room. His room was extremely clean, besides the few empty water bottles. They didn’t stay long in his room, instead he walked passed a closed door heading towards the guest room; where she would be staying.

He pushed open the door, “This is your room, and you can do whatever you want in there, like, I don’t know, throw a rug in there,” he sighed as they both walked into the room. She giggled slightly. She was glad that the apartment was simple. She rested the suitcase in front of the bed.

“Thank you for the little tour,” she smiled as she looked up to him. He smirked as he nodded slightly. His eyes widened as he quickly stepped out of the room.

“Just real fast, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t go in this room. It’s just-I-uh yeah,” he stuttered as he rested his pointed finger on the door. He forced a smile, but she can tell that he was worried. It didn’t bother her, this whole idea of the secret room. It was his apartment and of course she was going to respect that.

“No problem, I completely understand,” she smiled widely as she shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket. He slowly leaned his body away from the door as he rubbed his hands together nervously.

“Do you want me to help you unpack?” he asked, his heart beating fast. Nodding her head, she walked backwards back into the room she would be staying in. She knealed down and began to unzip the small suitcase filled with enough close for the next few months. He stood beside her, waiting for her to hand him the clothes. “Wait, I never asked you what pilot season meant,” he laughed, “I just was like ‘I don’t know what that is but sure,’” he explained. She giggled while handing him a few of her t-shirts. He walked over to the closet and began to hang them up.

“It’s basically where a bunch of networks are trying out new shows, it’s exciting especially for new actors and stuff,” she explained excitedly. Every so often he would shift his gaze towards her, noticing how much her face lit up when she spoke. “Except half the shit doesn’t get picked up by the networks,” she mumbled afterwards as she laid out a hoodie and shorts she was going to wear later. Chuckling, he reached for another piece of clothing from her.

After they unpacked all of her stuff, they ordered pizza and they sat down to watch TV together. They talked for hours, simply getting to know each other. She would go in grave detail about what she was hoping to get out of the next few months, he would sit and listen to every detail. He loved that she was easy to talk to; he was grateful because the next few months would have been extremely awkward.

She didn’t ask too many questions about his personal life, yet something was starting to click. She recognized him, she never noticed it before but as she sat down next to him she realized how she knew him. She should’ve realized it sooner, from him being friends with Dave but she didn’t. She recognized his voice through his music.

After spending hours of them sitting together and learning about each other, the fact didn’t really matter to her. He didn’t want her to know about it and she didn’t bring it up.

~~~

The past couple of weeks had been great, herself and Corpse were getting along great. Their energies and jokes were always bouncing back and forth between each other. They spend hours at night together watching TV, mostly reality TV because they find it hilarious. She really enjoyed her time with him and she believed he was feeling the same way.

Corpse was up late working, she heard him around one in the morning leaving the room he told her not to go into. After everything he’s done for her, she thought she would do something nice for him.

After waking up early she left the apartment and headed to the store. It wasn’t much, but she thought he would appreciate it. She spent a few hours filling her cart with different types of food, to stock the house. Mostly so she can spend time with Corpse to teach him how to cook. Especially after a brief instant where he burnt toast, she couldn’t comprehend how. She teased him about it for hours.

It was a short drive home as she listened to her playlist on shuffle. She shoved her phone in her back pocket as she kept her music playing. She grabbed as many grocery bags as she made her walk into the apartment. It was nine, early for Corpse, she hoped all the groceries and her other plans would be done by the time he woke up.

After a few minutes, she had put all of the groceries away and she began to start cleaning the kitchen. It wasn’t messy, it just needed a few dishes cleaned and other simple stuff. Her phone began to play one of Corpse’s songs, she almost turned it off but she realized that he was asleep and wouldn’t know.

She placed the clean plates in the cabinet as she sang along to his song, Miss You!. She shut the cabinet as she turned around to walk towards the fridge to see Corpse standing behind her. Her eyes widened as her mouth dropped. He stared at her with his eyebrows knitted together harshly with his arms crossed over his chest. She rushed to her phone to shut it off.

“You know who I am?” he asked, he sounded hurt. He didn’t know how she found out, but it was starting to make him upset. He loved when people in his real life didn’t know what he did, he felt safe and comfortable with the idea. A billion ideas started flooding his head, what if she releases what he looks like? There goes every ounce of privacy he had.

“I’ve listened to your music way before I even thought about living here, I promise. I mean I didn’t even make the connection until the night I moved in,” she explained quickly. He stayed silent as he took a small step towards her, “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Her voice started to get quieter. She avoided his gaze as she kept her gaze to the floor.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, “You haven’t told anyone how I look right? It’s just really important to me to keep all that private I guess,” he let out a dry laugh to cover his nerves.

“Of course not, I would never hurt you like that,” she said. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, she watched as his features softened. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you-”

“No I understand why you didn’t, and I respect it,” he took another step closer to her, she felt her cheeks flush slightly. After a few long seconds of silence of soft eye contact, he lets out a small giggle. He shifted his gaze to the floor, “So, which song is your favorite?” she chuckled while rolling her eyes playfully.

“Miss You!, I really like the beginning,” she explained, he smirked as he shook his head.

“You don’t seem like the type of girl to listen to my music,” he let out as he walked over to the fridge. He pulled it open seeing the variety of food in there, his mouth dropped. He pointed to her and then back to the fridge several times, she giggled.

“I’m full of surprises,”

#corpse #corpse husband #corpse husband imagines #corpse husband fanfic #corpse husband x reader #corpse imagines #corpse fanfic #corpse x reader #e girls are ruining my life #cat girls are ruining my life #miss you!

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h50europe · 3 years

Text

Why the myth about Steve's PTSD doesn't add up and other inconsistencies

In the last few episodes of H50, PL tried to sell us a mentally broken Steve suffering from PTSD. Only the whole thing came a bit too late. The clip you see is from season 4 and ended up - no, not in the series - but somewhere on the floor of PL's editing room. And why? after Kurtzman and Orci departed, along with their writers, PL took the helm and started turning Steve into a super-soldier. He stylized him into something that wasn't meant to be. Instead of developing the characters, PL began to incorporate more and more hair-raising action sequences into the series and then let Steve fight on the front lines. There was no mention of Steve's mental state, and a lot was explained by PL with: it just happened "offscreen." Yeah, sure. PL can't create a decent character. He can only produce stereotypes and one-dimensional beings. Like Adam. What potential would that character have had had he been turned into Five-0's antagonist? But no. So his role remained diffuse and monotonous. Sometimes even tragicomical.

Back to Steve. When SEAL Team started on CBS, PL also lapsed into SEAL mania. If someone who writes fanfiction were to produce as much garbage as this man did, he would be chased away from every writers' platform in disgrace. PL's Super SEAL also had to rescue his team members from a blazing inferno. Not man by man, no, he flew a helicopter right into the danger zone and lifted a whole cabin out of the burning jungle. If lunacy had a name, it would be PL. While the action became more and more exaggerated and unrealistic, the same happened to the protagonists. After the departure of Daniel Dae Kim and Grace Park, PL completely lost his mind. And please, don't blame the writers for the nonsense that was thrown at you. A series stands and falls with the showrunner. He dictates what he wants and passes it on to his staff.

And so, lovable Steve became a soulless robot who only showed feelings here and there. Danny diminished more and more into a sidekick. McDanno became a ship that drifted anchorless through a stormy sea and threatened to capsize again and again. From season 8, it became a reboot of the reboot. PL tried an ensemble show and failed more than miserably. Often the actors just stood around bored. At least that was the impression. The only highlight was episode 8.10. A feast for all McDanno fans. But even here, the outcome of "who shot Danny" was more than insubstantial.

Wait, there was something about SEALs... Oh, yes. Junior appeared on the scene and became Steve's lapdog. I really wondered when there was going to be an episode where he would fetch sticks for Steve. Luckily we had Eddie for that. And because he thought he was so clever, PL invented the episode speed dating. How many subplots can you squeeze into one episode at the same time? In some episodes, you couldn't even take a look at the bag of potato chips without losing the thread.

The case of the week became the yawn of the week. There were so many loose ends that PL then came up with something called retconning. That's what you do when you're no longer satisfied with what was once established in the series years ago, or it no longer fits. But PL went one step further and did the same with the characters. The more the series was dragged out, the more the characters deteriorated and became OOC. It means, often, they were not recognizable at all. And that's where we come to Steve. Because PL, in his desperation, didn't know what else he could do to Steve, and so he killed Joe White. He did it in such a cheesy way with a fake sunset that it made you sick.

Of course, one episode later, there had to be another gig of PL's favorite Barbie. He stuck a fake beard on poor Steve/Alex, so he couldn't even hug Danny/Scott properly. The episode also raised more questions than it answered any. And Steve? He still didn't suffer from PTSD, even though he had now lost Joe White and a fellow SEAL. Everyone is dropping like flies, except for Steve, who is standing like a rock. No matter what. He doesn't need in-depth talks with Danny, nor psychological care, nor any sleeping pills. No, he's doing great. He also opens a restaurant with Danny because apparently, the carguments are already getting on PL's nerves. Unfortunately, this plot device leads into nirvana. The idea was nice, but nobody thought it through to the end. And the merry-go-round continues. Until we get to season 10, where it gets even more absurd. Now PL is almost bombarding us with McDanno episodes, or at least it should seem that way. Oh well, he's already planning for season 11, so a new character has to come on board quickly. While in the beginning, Steve's mother, Doris, dies.

Alex was allowed to take on the subject. Of course, only under the strict eyes of PL. He then nullifies Alex's idea that Steve kills his mother. Because a good soldier and Super SEAL won't do that. Little does PL know. THAT could have been the opening of a PTSD scenario for Steve. However, apart from that, this episode would have had any potential for a multi-arc. Just imagine Steve chasing his mother across multiple episodes. Again, PL stepped in and butchered Alex's episode. You can really feel sorry for the guy. PL at his best or worse? He just can't help it. And then, on the very last meters of the series, he brings someone new, who is allowed to cruise around with Steve most of the time. Because Danny was kidnapped by Wo Fat's widow, PL also invented quite late to have some villain at his disposal. This wannabe mastermind must really have been living under a rock somewhere if she wasn't even mentioned by her husband or appeared earlier.

Because towards the end, PL obviously ran out not only of steam but also of ideas, everything culminated in a wildly illogical scenario. Steve has to live through a dramatic day with Eddie, who stands as a metaphor for Steve (as I said, PTSD was never a thing for Super SEAL), Danny bangs his brains out in a ladies' room with a complete stranger, who dies shortly after that in an accident with Danny's rental car. Apparently, there was no budget to turn the Camaro into scrap metal. Danny then also goes home alone, ignoring the incoming emergency vehicles. Everything remains open at the end of the episode. While Steve expresses his gratitude to Tani and Quinn and says, he would be just as lost as poor Eddie without the dog and all of them. The strange thing is that you never notice anything until that sentence. A few forced dialogues are supposed to make the drama visible, but they all happen way too late or are so poorly written that you miss them.

PL had decided early on to make Steve a Teflon hero. That also means he didn't need to put much substance into the character. Which you can clearly see if you compare the first three seasons to the rest of the series. But towards the end, PL wanted to turn the tide and forcefully rewrote Steve's past. There is a huge difference if you compare Steve from seasons 1 to 3 with Steve from season 10. It is only a sparse remnant of what made this character so great. This change in Steve's personality also affects his relationship with Danny. The witty, affectionate banter degenerates into a snappy, humorless bitch-fest that takes all the joy out of it.

The final two episodes could have been written for any other crime show. As mentioned, we have Cole, who even gets a book'em Cole from Steve, which can only be described as out of line. And it begs the question, was that what Lenkov originally had in mind? Danny out of the show and Cole in? Was the last episode, which mainly featured McCole, something of a test run? Did all the McDanno moments happen only to tear the two apart eventually? Was the real final scene the one where Steve and Catherine take Danny's coffin back to Jersey? Was Danny not supposed to survive? Was that the real reason Steve wanted to get out of Hawaii because he wanted to pay his respects to Danny? And would he really have returned to Hawaii later? Or would he have turned his back on Hawaii? To me, this ending is more plausible than what PL served us. Then, Steve handed over his credentials to Cole instead of Danny, his second in command. Honestly, you can't make the end of a series any more sloppy and dumber than that. And I won't even lose a word about the last 1:30 minutes because I think everything has already been said.

No PL, mission absolutely not accomplished. You created Teflon-Steve. You never wanted him to show any weakness. You turned him into a superhuman who can survive anything. Only to pull the rug out from under him on the last few meters to the finish line and spit on his legacy. How can you dismantle such a great series and its characters like you did? How much do you have to hate something to do that? In the final interviews, the showrunner didn't exactly cover himself in glory either. Everyone who grew up with the series from day one knows that its end was wrong on all the possible levels and that the showrunner is solely to blame for that. It takes a fair amount of egoism and carelessness to drive 10 years at full throttle against the wall. Not many people can do that. Whether you can be proud of that, however, I doubt.

My respect if you have made it this far. Each of you gets 10 extra brownie points for it.

#McDanno #steve mcgarrett #danny williams #scott caan #alex o'loughlin #H50 the final chapter #H50 series finale #Lenkov #Eddie #Junior #seal team

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aiiwa · 4 years

Text

FRESHMAN YEAR — IWAIZUMI HAJIME.

— iwaizumi hajime.

⤷ genre: college au - fluff / smut

⤷ warnings: cursing, mature content and themes, smut, oral (receiving and giving), unprotected sex

⤷ word count: 6.2k

— a/n: this was an anon request for a reader trying to sneak off away from iwa the morning after and he ain’t having none of that 😈

i had no intention of this being so long, but iwa just gets me going aight!!

freshman year of college had given you many things.

an unrivalled expertise in procrastination - avoiding the overwhelming influx of assignments from your professors was second-nature at this point; party now, cry later, right? carpe fucking diem, no? either way, it had also given you a liver which begged for a glass of water, a drop even, anything but the wretched burn of vodka and the copious amounts of iced lattes at three in the morning. and deities forbid your mother ever finding out her daughter lived off of spicy instant ramen that somehow was always on sale at the campus convenience store. you even considered the discounted prices stemmed from the store owners taking pity on you each time you stood before them counting loose change.

yet freshman year of college had also given you a best friend in the form of matsukawa issei. and hanamaki takahiro, since they were a package deal of course. but mattsun had been presented to you on a silver platter.

butt ass naked, just like the day he was brought into this world.

arriving on campus a week before the start of the first semester, the last thing you expected to see was a hunched over figure, bare ass mooning right in front of you, banging on the fragile door of your dorm. shaking out of your stupor, you had all but cussed him out in the corridor, earning more unnecessary attention from other nosy students, before you dragged him by his arm into your room. in the flurry of your attempted rescue, he’d dropped the hand that was holding whatever sliver of dignity he had left. you had even failed to realise how this strange boy was almost a foot taller than you, and rather being eye-to-eye, it was rather eye-to-waist - and you had made the mistake of glancing lower.

“yeah lil’ big mattsun is a looker, right?” you prayed everyday to forget his first words to you. the prayers had yet to be answered, though your initial reaction had made it somewhat alright to think back on.

you had screamed bloody murder, sending mattsun into a frenzied panic, his own screams harmonising yours. then you had cried, furiously rubbing at your eyes, and sobbing about how your eyes would never be the same again. when he had reached out to comfort you, that’s when you turned on him, jumping upwards to swat at his bony shoulders. after he tumbled over your rug, the two of you halted, eyeing each other before laughing like maniacs.

he left your dorm that day, running off in your pink fluffy robe with plans to meet up later for dinner. when he introduced you to the pink-haired makki - the reason behind mattsun’s nudity at your door, though the specifics were lost - the three of you hit it off like a bunch of crazies.

most days were spent between your dorm and their shared apartment; stress eating over forgotten assignments, binging shitty reality tv shows - the bachelor was just hitting different this season - and pre-gaming a bit too hard before nights out.

it had confused you at first on how, as much as you were over at their apartment, you had yet to meet their other roommate. makki had told you he was a close friend from back home in miyagi, the serious type who spent most of his time training, studying or working; and it was mattsun who had said he was a total mom, “he’s our mommy,” were his exact words, adding to the list of things you wish you could forget.

it was probably around two months into the semester, when you’d finally met their elusive third roommate.

that night mattsun, makki and you were in a rare state of focus, working diligently on your own respective papers, when they’d nominated you to heat up some frozen pizza to snack on. which is how you found yourself, grumbling, bent at the waist to place the pizza in the oven; ignorant to the jingling of keys, and heavyset footsteps entering the kitchen.

“well this is something new to come home to.”

you jolted at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, whacking the side of your skull on the edge of the counter in a haste to stand up to your full height. you cursed loudly, hand pressed against the throbbing pain in your head as you turned to glare at the culprit. though that was cut short, alongside your breathing, by the sexiest man alive you had ever laid your eyes on, entering your personal space.

he towered over you, not in the same way as mattsun or makki, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in brawn. your eyes greedily traced his body; the steel gray gym shirt clung to him like a second skin, eight slight dips outlining his abs and his wide chest. broad shoulders blocked your view from everything irrelevant behind him, and you watched, almost in slow motion, as his biceps flexed under the tight confines of his shirt sleeves, to reach out and place his much larger hand over yours. you felt every fibre in your being going into overdrive under his unexpected touch, and all he was doing was checking over the swelled up island on your forehead.

“are you alright, y/n?” your ovaries were quaking at the deep rasp of his voice- and wait, he knows your name? “you are y/n, right?” he asked, reading the confusion on your face. you nodded absentmindedly, raising your gaze to meet his own.

you groaned inwardly - who gave this man the right to a sexy body and to look this fucking good? taking in the handsome features of his face; wild crop of dark chocolate hair, smooth tanned skin, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, and the attractive straight of his nose. his lips were pouty, eyes slanted under shaped brows, olive hues peeking past his long dark lashes to stare at you.

he moved his hand away from the top of yours, the added warmth missed already; and took your lack of reply as a sign to introduce himself and apologise.

“i’m mattsun and makki’s roommate, iwaizumi hajime. sorry for scaring you.”

you were ready to drag mattsun and makki to hell and back for hiding this fine man- no, greek fucking god, from you all this time. in an attempt to compose yourself and avoid anymore embarrassment, you smiled, dopily, releasing an airy laugh while waving off the apology.

“i’m l/n y/n.”

amusement shifted over his features, a smirk painting over his lips as his eyes creased on the sides. you had to hold on tightly to the reigns forbidding you from openly swooning.

“i know.” he chucked lowly.

you had never wanted the ground to swallow you whole as much as then. the heat you could feel radiating off your cheeks was a clear sign of how embarrassed you were, making a complete fool of yourself in front of the man you were borderline prepared to request to be your future baby daddy. so when mattsun strolled in, casually greeting iwa and poking at the bump on your forehead, you hadn’t been more grateful for your best friend.

too bad it wasn’t enough to avoid the wrath you unleashed on him and makki later on; a series of kicks to their sides, and their own personal hell of listening to how badly you wanted to be split open on his dick.

thinking you had scared away the gorgeous iwaizumi, you were ready to be avoided at all costs. yet surprisingly, after that night, he was suddenly everywhere.

he joined in on your hangouts with the boys. group study sessions where you usually did more foolery than studying? iwa was there to knock all of you into gear. late night fast food runs to satisfy your cravings? iwa was driving, kicking mattsun and makki to the back of his jeep when they’d try to steal your designated seat next to him. and the parties he used to avoid? there he was stuck in the chaos of it all, holding your drink and glaring at anyone who dared to approach the two of you.

of course, iwa’s sudden involvement in your life hadn’t gone unnoticed by mattsun and makki - the two of you becoming their favourite victims to tease. and when his threats and your fists were no longer able to get them off your backs, iwa had taken to spending time with you, without them.

you liked to call them not-dates, even though it was just to parry the feelings rapidly developing for him.

going to the coffee shop you two often frequented so he could buy your favourite drink while you ranted about your shitty group presentation, was a not-date. taking him to the drive-in godzilla screenings every friday for five weeks, because you knew they were his favourite movies, was a not-date. him making you dinner every other night because your mom found out about your insane intake of instant ramen and blasted you during a video call while he was over, was a not-date.

as expected after months of this going on, your two best friends constantly called you out for your not-dates being actual dates. even one of your classmates took to informing you each time your ‘body builder boyfriend’ was waiting outside for you. but ignorance was bliss, and you were sure iwa didn’t feel that way towards you. at least that was until the day you had met oikawa tooru.

you noticed that iwa had been more than a bit apprehensive, as each day passed bringing his best friend’s return to japan closer and closer, though he wouldn’t explain why. yet it seemed it was over nothing, since you and oikawa got along great, even if he did comment every other second on you and iwa’s closeness. meeting the pretty setter had been like placing the missing puzzle piece in the dynamic with your favourite boys.

after a loud lunch with the four boys, oikawa had pulled you in for a tight hug as iwa was about to drop you off to your afternoon class for that day.

“iwa-chan talks about you all the time, y/n-chan, but he’s a dum-dum so forgive him for being slow, alright!” he had whispered in your ear, before pulling away with a mischievous glint in his mocha coloured eyes. “iwa-chan you sly dog! keeping y/n all to yourself, hmm? maybe i should just take her back with me to argentina- wait, iwa-chan, i’m sorry! don’t chase me! gah!”

after that, you started to accept the fact that maybe what was once simply physical attraction, had turned into a deep affection for iwaizumi. the only issue was that, like oikawa said, iwa was a dum-dum, and he didn’t mention anything from what oikawa said that day or his extreme reaction to oikawa’s teasing. hell, you didn’t even know if he even realised that the way he treated you, which was very much a stark contrast to how he treated others, was him subconsciously wooing you.

so the not-dates continued, and you inevitably fell deeper and deeper for sweet, oblivious iwa.

the semesters flew by, it was finally the end of freshman year; exams completed, life instantly renewed, and you were ready to attend the shit show of an end-of-year finisher tonight. the plans were for you to drive over to the boys’ apartment, pre-game like never before, and then head off to the party. so you were surprised when your phone pinged with a string of messages from the group chat.

stepping out of the elevator, the click clack of your laced-up stilettos echoed in the tiled corridor, as you made your way towards the boys’ apartment. the better part of you was suspicious of mattsun and makki’s sudden change of plans; though it was shot to the back of your mind as you raised a manicured hand to tap against their door.

shifting around a bit, you didn’t have to wait long before the door was yanked open.

“y/n.” iwa greeted you with a lopsided grin.

you couldn’t prevent the gasp that escaped your glossy lips at the sight of him.

an arm was held above his head, bicep flexing as his hand rested on top of the door frame, the other scratching the back of his thick neck. the rich scent of his cinnamon cologne, mixed with the musk of his aftershave wafted around you; as your eyes followed the droplet from his damp hair, sliding down the side of his jaw on to his bare shoulders. now, shirt-wearing iwa was incredible, with his collection of monotone coloured shirts that always seemed a size too small; but shirtless iwa? had you frothing at the mouth.

you dared your eyes to move lower, skirting over the delicious sight of his bare chest, and willing yourself to commit every stretch of him to memory. the taut muscles of his stomach tightened as you drank them in, the deep v indents cut around his hips, and your eyes followed over the fuzzy trail of dark hair that disappeared underneath the waistband of his jeans that sat dangerously low.

and while your mouth ran dry, you couldn’t say the same thing about the situation between your legs; pressing your thighs together to alleviate some of the pressure.

“iwa, uh...the boys...said to come over, change of plans.” was all you were able to choke out. physically you were standing before him, but mentally you were writhing under him.

“i know, they left a while ago.” he replied, the corner of his pretty mouth tugged upwards. “i’m almost ready to go, come inside.”

he already took up the entire space of the door frame, and when he only moved a bit to the side, you were forced to slip through the tiniest of gaps; shivering as your shoulder grazed against his own. standing in the middle of the hallway, you heard the soft click of the door closing, before iwa turned to face you.

you could feel the intoxicating heat radiating off his body spread across your own. the two of your were so close in each other’s space, chest to chest, and even in heels, you still only reached just under his jaw. when you glanced up to look at him, you swore you had caught his olive eyes lingering on the exposed skin of your breasts, before they moved to meet yours.

something different swirled in the depths of iwa’s eyes, something you had never witnessed before. something kin to a wolf staring at its lamb; a hunger so strong, so...fuck...

“you look beautiful, y/n.”

the compliment strikes you in surprise, feeling the flush rise up in your face, and the fluttering in your stomach. you could feel the pounding of your heart beat, drumming in your ears; watching his adam’s apple bob slowly, as he moved his hand to brush away the hair covering your neck. naturally you leaned into his touch.

“iwa…?” you whispered out to him in slight confusion.

“this dress on you...driving me crazy,” he starts, before cutting himself off with a groan. “sorry, y/n, i-i think i overstepped.” he tries to move his hand away from your neck, but you wrap your fingers around his wrist.

oikawa’s voice ran through your mind in a fleeting memory- ‘...forgive him for being slow, alright!’

“are you drunk, iwa?”

“what? no...i haven’t...i’m sober.”

“that’s good then.”

“y/n? good for what?”

“it’s good because then you can show me.” your fingers reach out to flitter over the ridges of his stomach. “won’t you show me how my dress drives you crazy, iwa?”

the surge of courage coursing through your veins, to be able to call him out like you had wanted to for months and seasons, was all it took for iwa to lose the composure he always kept up around you.

without hesitation, the big hand on your neck tugs you right into him; tits pushed together against his chest, as he dips his head to press his lips against yours.

the kiss is far from simple; there’s no room for it, months of pining won’t allow sweet and slow. your hand slides over his broad shoulder, to pull at the dark tufts at the nape of his neck; mouth slanting over his, tongues brushing against each other sensually. you explore his mouth, tasting him, while his hands squeeze over the curves of your body, eliciting a moan once he grabs at the fullness of your ass. you push up against him further, the hard tent in his pants straining against your belly.

“more, iwa, please...need more.” you pant against his lips.

“i got you baby, don’t worry.” he kisses you again, slower, with just as much passion. bending at the knees, and hiking the end of your dress up under your ass, he grabs at the silky underside of your thighs to lift you up into him - ankles locked at the bottom of his spine. he’s carrying you like nothing, and the amusing thought of his arms not only being for show flies through your head before you’re gasping.

the feeling of being pulled flush against him, the damp heat of your clothed pussy grinding against his bare stomach, has you keening for more. he groans loudly at the feeling of your slick coating his skin, and you jostle about as he begins walking through the hallway and towards his bedroom. as your sucking gently on his tongue, he carries you into his room, kicking the door closed behind him.

once his knees hit the edge of his mattress, he gently lowers you to lay down before him on your back. he hovers over you, the lewd swirling of your tongues has your head spinning before he moves from your mouth to latch onto your neck.

“ah, iwa- fuck,” you moan as his teeth grazed your sweet spot. he rolls his hips into you, spreading your legs to accommodate him more, while tugging at the ribbons of your heels. “what about...the party?”

sitting up from you, he grips your legs, sliding you right into him. through heavy lidded eyes, you watch as he takes in your disheveled appearance, a smirk taking over his features.

“fuck the party.” his large palms work the straps of your dress down, exposing your perfect tits; he groans at the sight, leaning down to take a pebbled nipple into his hot mouth. “this night is for me and you, baby.”

you weren’t necessarily a morning person, so living in the dorms, had been a relatively easy decision to make. you had a room to yourself, away from trees allowing a nice view of the campus grounds, and subsequently circumventing the annoying chirping of nested birds. you even added blackout curtains to block out the morning sun.

so when you were woken up by the itching burn of the sunrise on your stomach and your ears ringing with incessant twittering, you groaned loudly.

burying your face deeper into the fluffy pillow under your head, you were squirming under the heavy weight resting over half your body; irritation growing with your inability to get comfortable. peeking an eye open, blinking away the sleep clouding your vision, you took in the sight of a sleeping iwaizumi snuggled between the valley of your breasts. as you became more aware of your body and its surroundings, you felt the panic settling in.

as if he could sense your consciousness, the arm wrapped around your waist gave you a squeeze as he mumbled incoherently. “mmm, baby...y/n...feels good…” his hand slid down the side of your thigh, goosebumps following his fingertips, before it rested on your inner thigh; and he was drifting back to sleep.

you had to shove your fist against your mouth to stop yourself from screaming.

part of you was in denial that last night had actually happened. you, l/n y/n, had spent the night with the iwaizumi hajime - man of your literal dreams, who you had fallen so deeply for. and you had spent it having sex.

raw. nasty. passionate. earth-shattering. sex.

“fuck.” you whispered to yourself. “how could i be so stupid?” you were cursing yourself internally, certain you had fucked up everything you had built in your friendship with iwa - there was honestly no coming back from what transpired between you two.

and with your fight-or-flight response triggered, there was only one thing for you to do right now - get the fuck out of there.

maneuvering your body from underneath iwa’s big arm, without waking him up was a feat in itself. doing so with the way your muscles ached with each motion was on another level. sliding one foot after the other out from under his charcoal bed sheets, you pushed yourself up to sit.

looking behind you at iwa’s sleeping figure, you felt yourself swooning. half lying on his side, with his cotton sheets draped over his waist, you couldn’t help but admire him. his mouth was slightly open, his big arms cuddling the pillow you were laying on, and the smooth skin of his tanned back were tainted with red, angry marks. gulping audibly, your eyes dragged down to the prominent outline of his half-hard cock.

pushing himself up by his forearms, the desperation swimming in his eyes was begging for your touch. you grazed your teeth across his chest, biting at his hardened nipples teasingly, before moving further down from his lap while your tongue drew circles around the dips of his taut abdomen.

“y/n, don’t tease me.”

you smirked at his order, sucking on his skin and pressing wet kisses on his hip bones, before leaning back. he watched you eagerly as your dainty fingers tugged at his belt buckle clumsily, lifting himself up he could slip out of his jeans.

“can’t wait to have your cock in my mouth.” you cooed, eyes starstruck at the tent in his boxer briefs, wet patch dampening at its peak. hooking your finger under the waistband, you hastily yanked the briefs down to free him, his hard cock slapping against his stomach. “fuck you’re so big, haji.”

he was easily the biggest you’ve seen, ever had the chance of pleasuring - so thick, so long, and so fucking beautiful.

you didn’t bother to dwell on the taste of his name on your lips, when you were too busy tasting the essence leaking from his angry, swollen tip. you could barely wrap your hands around the base of his cock, as you pressed a sweet kiss on the head, pre cum coating your lips, before taking it in your hot mouth, suckling gently.

the groan he releases is animalistic, and his hips buck upwards to shove his cock deeper in your mouth. pressing your hand at his navel to keep him steady, you continue sucking harshly, almost painfully, before lowering your head down. his cock slides down your throat, inch by inch, as tears prick at your eyes and you can feel your drool drop on the thumb massaging his balls. he blocked your airways, but fuck breathing when the look on his face when you take all of him in your mouth like a good girl is so, so perfect.

steadily bobbing your head, you feel every inch of him down your throat; tongue swirling around his length, and he twitches every time you trace the thick vein on the underside of his cock. you suck faster and harder as iwa reaches a hand out to feel around your throat.

“fuck, baby, i can feel me in your throat. so fucking good, just like that.” he hisses out, choking up when you begin to hum. “mmm fuck- ah, shit! gonna cum baby! fuck!”

yanking away your hand you hadn’t realised was brushing around your neck as the vision of him disappeared from your thoughts, you stood up, a bit unsteady on your feet at first. you could still taste him, as you ran your tongue over the hood of your mouth.

knowing you were getting distracted, you shook your head gently, pushing your hair away from your face. you needed your clothes, so glancing around, taking note of the strips of clothing scrambled in his room - your eyes caught the baby pink of your lace panties hanging from his bedside lamp.

one second you were swallowing his cock down your throat, and the next he had torn the rest of your dress off and had you laid out in front of him.

iwa made fast work in manhandling you the way he wanted. stretching his legs straight beside you, he pulled you right into him; you gasped as he lifted you up by your waist, practically folding you with the underside of your thighs tucked under the bulk of his arms, knees by your shoulders, and your lower back pressed right against his heaving chest. he was hunched over you, wrapping you fully in his embrace, while you were spread out right in his face.

“you soaked right through your pretty panties, baby.” leaning down, he presses his nose right into your clothed heat, making you squirm, as he breathes you in. “fuck, you smell so sweet, i wanna eat you up real good.”

“i-iwa.” you whined, staring at him through heavy-lidded eyes as you pressed the side of your face into the mattress.

“no, no baby. when we’re like this…” he starts, reaching a hand to tear the thin, and expensive, material right off of you. before you have a chance to complain, his hot breath blows on your drooling pussy, tight hole clenching around nothing in anticipation. “...you’ll say my name.”

“h-hajime, please, haji.” you beg, feeling embarrassed at how exposed you were. he could see everything, do anything to you as he pleased, and you would just let him. so when he presses his heavy tongue flat against your slit, licking all the way up to your throbbing clit; you can’t help but dig your finger nails into his toned calves beside you. “ah- yes! mmm...haji, oh-!”

sucking on your clit, he digs his fingers into your thighs, deeper and deeper in response to your whiny moans for more. he hums against you, mumbling about how sweet you taste, how much he can’t get enough of your flavour, and you can feel him getting hard again - grinding against your back. he slides his tongue between your folds, slurping you up so good, that it’s no surprise you’re teetered over the edge.

“haji! oh, oh fuck! ah yes!” the waves of you cumming hits hard as your pussy gushes all over the lower half of his face. “daddy! s-so good, f-fuck!”

still up in the clouds from your high, calling him daddy flies over your head, but isn’t missed by iwa. you watch, dazed, as he moves away from your pussy, a lewd string of silver connects his mouth to you, his chin glistening with your juices. reaching around your trembling thighs, his thumbs spread your lips so he can get an ever better view of your sopping cunt.

“i knew you’d be my good baby and say my name.” he grins, before leaning back down to you and delving his tongue right in your pussy, tongue-fucking you slowly and massaging your slick walls, his nose nudging your sensitive clit. “now come again in daddy’s mouth.”

heat pooled between your legs as you stretched, ignoring the iwa-sized hand prints painted purple across your thighs, while you thought about him and the magic his mouth performed. waddling to his side table - you examined the remnants of your panties; the pretty pink lace was all but shredded, and you hopelessly threw the material in the trash.

“fucking hell, iwa.” the glare you aimed his way, softened drastically as you took in his sleeping figure. sighing, you turn and spot what may be your dress halfway under his bed.

shuffling over, you crouch, the burn in your thighs making itself even more known and forcing your eyes to shut in a grimace.

the way iwa’s cock filled your little cunt felt while you rode him was incredible. nothing could ever compare to the way he was ruining you from the inside out, and you were sure nothing would ever come close. his big hands palmed your ass while you were bouncing up and down on his length, your belly jutting out every time he was sheathed inside you, your thighs tremored each time they slapped against his.

“fuck, daddy! feels...mmm…wanna cum, please!” your tongue was lolling out of your mouth, as fucked yourself on his cock, digging crescent moon shapes into his shoulder blades. one of his hands remained firmly on your ass, while fingers of the other reached around to pinch your clit.

with a scream you came undone, creaming all over his still-hard cock, and collapsing forward onto his sweaty chest. you whimpered, while he continued to fuck up into your used pussy. despite the tears threatening to fall down your flushed cheeks; you mewled for more.

“shh, baby,” iwa hummed into your neck, you could feel his grin against your skin, peppering kisses as you leaned into him. “daddy’s gonna make you feel even better.”

his thick arms wrapped almost painfully in a death grip around your exhausted body, as he locked his legs and angled himself into your pussy; fucking deep inside you, and hitting your cervix with each stroke. you came again, harder, legs quivering as your insides spasmed; this time joined by his orgasm, as the mixture of his cum was stuffed inside you.

your eyes shot open, breathing slightly laboured. it hadn’t even been a day, only mere hours, and the way iwa had taken over your mind was slowly driving you insane. dropping to your knees, you reached out to grab at your dress, having to slide the top half of your body under the bed.

that sound of iwa’s big hand slapping your ass while he pounded into you from behind, rung in your ears, but the sting and the pleasure was all your fucked out brain could comprehend. he was absolutely relentless with his too-big cock, tearing into you.

on all fours, you arched your back more to accommodate him. each thrust had him bottoming out in your already leaking pussy.

“fuck baby, just like that, mmm- push back into me.”

everything just felt too fucking good. the harsh pace of his strokes had you blabbering, moaning about how good he felt into the mattress.

“don’t stop! oh fuck, please don’t stop haji!”

but you felt his pace begin to slow just as you were about to climax, and when you tried to move back on him his grip on your waist tightened. with ease, he flipped you on your back, almost skewering you on his cock still inside you. hooking the backs of your knees over his elbows as he leaned over you, his full weight folding your body underneath him, as he wove his fingers with yours into the mattress above your head.

“look at my fat cock sliding into that sweet cunt, baby.” iwa grunts. his arms strained, holding his weight up from crushing you, as he teased your sloppy hole. “fuck, you take me so good, baby.”

you whimpered, looking at the connection between the two of you. with a roll of his hips, you watched as his cock slid into your silky walls, the lewd sound of you squelching with every stroke had you arching up, wanting him deeper in your tummy as you gushed around him.

unlike before when his thrusts were rough, filled with raw feral passion; it was now slow, sensual and so fucking sexy. and when you met his gaze, as he continued to grind into you, gripping your fingers tightly between his; it felt as though he was trying to tell you something.

that intense emotion swirling deep in his olive gaze was searing, burning through you from the inside out. everything unsaid between the two of you. but soon enough your orgasm hit you harder than ever, pleasure electric under your heated skin.

“haji, haji, haji- oh, fuck yes!” you chanted his name like a prayer.

“y/n, baby, fuck i love you-“ he moans out, strokes becoming sloppy. “wanted this...for so long- shit, i’m cumming baby!”

snatching your dress from under the bed, you sat on your knees at the foot of his bed, thinking over everything you just wanted to ignore for the time being. you almost wish you could forget he had told you he loved you. how could you possible believe those three words while he was at the pinnacle of his pleasure?

suddenly the shrill ringtone of iwa’s phone blasted next to him. scrambling to your feet, you snatched the phone; fingers mashing the screen to cut off the sound before he woke up.

“what?” you hissed, holding the phone to your ear as you glanced at iwa. you thanked whichever gods were watching over you that he was still fast asleep.

“oho? y/n-chan? is that you~?” nevermind, the gods were out for you.

“tooru?”

“the one and only!” you winced at the smug teasing in his tone. “i was hoping to speak to iwa-chan, but i heard he was a naughty boy last night!”

“uh...what?”

“as in i literally heard him, and you, last night when i came back to the apartment!” oikawa recalls in a sing-song voice, rambling on about how he was here to surprise the two of you. “i always knew our dear iwa-chan had a daddy kink!”

placing the phone between your ear and your shoulder, you attempted to fit your dress over you, while oikawa continued on his spiel of how it took way too fucking long for the two of you to do something about the sexual tension. you had no chance to even peep a word in.

“damn baby, now this view i could definitely get used to.”

you almost shrieked, bumping into iwa’s naked body, and tripping over the dress dropped around your ankles. you had no idea he’d woken up, sneaking right up behind you in all his naked fucking glory; forcing you to try your hardest not to eye his cock standing at full attention.

“is that iwa-chan?!” oikawa all but screams into the phone. iwa raises a questioning brow, hearing his best friend on the other line. “tell him to be good and wrap it up! no glove, no love!”

you had no business feeling embarrassed at the brat king’s words, while iwa snatched his phone away from you.

“too late for that, shittykawa.” oikawa’s screeches are the last thing you hear before iwa ends the call.

you almost dare to chuckle at the thought of oikawa’s reaction; but falter under iwa’s stare. it’s the same look he gives mattsun or makki when they’re in trouble, but it’s mixed in with the same scorching look from last night, and you shift on your feet nervously, wrapping your arms across your chest.

“going somewhere?” iwa gruffs out, the raspiness of his morning voice had you tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.

“um, home…?” the uncertainty was clear in your voice, especially as he scowled when you mentioned leaving. “iwa, i-”

“oh so it’s iwa now?” he cuts you off, taking a step closer into your space. “i liked it when you called me haji, though daddy follows closely after that.”

you gasp when a thick arm snakes around your waist, pulling you up against him. his other hand caresses your cheek so sweetly, before he grabs your jaw to tilt your face up to his, taking your lips with his own. the kiss is gentle, soft lips moving against your own as his tongue brushes yours sweetly. you’ve fully melted in his hold, eyes still closed when he breaks the kiss.

“i meant what i said last night, y/n.” he whispers against your mouth. “i love you.” your eyes shoot open, and you can feel your heart trying to beat itself out of your chest.

“i-i love you too.” you murmur back, and the smile he gives you has you ready to combust right before him. after all this time, a party had been the reason you finally admitted your feelings for him.

“now come back to bed.” you squeal as he lifts you up and over his shoulder, the grip he takes on your inner thigh is ticklish making you squirm about. “i’m gonna cuddle you back to sleep, and then when we wake up i’m gonna take you out on a date, okay baby?”

you giggle as he tosses you back on his fluffy mattress, dropping himself right on top of you and nuzzling his face into the dip between your neck and shoulder. running your hands softly over the muscled panes of his back, one reaches out to thread your fingers in the tufts of dark hair at his nape.

“okay, haji.”

freshman year had given you a lot of things, but iwaizumi hajime was the best thing yet. you couldn’t wait to see what sophomore year had in store for you.

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aswiya · 3 years

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Zeynab Serekaniye, a Kurdish woman with a gap-toothed smile and a warm demeanor, never imagined she’d join a militia.

The 26-year-old grew up in Ras al-Ayn, a town in north-east Syria. The only girl in a family of five, she liked to fight and wear boys’ clothing. But when her brothers got to attend school and she did not, Serekaniye did not challenge the decision. She knew it was the reality for girls in the region. Ras al-Ayn, Arabic for “head of the spring”, was a green and placid place, so Serekaniye settled down to a life of farming vegetables with her mother.

That changed on 9 October 2019, days after former US president Donald Trump announced that US troops would pull out of north-east Syria, where they had allied with Kurdish-led forces for years. A newly empowered Turkey, which sees the stateless Kurds as an existential threat, and whose affiliated groups it has been at war with for decades, immediately launched an offensive on border towns held by Kurdish forces in north-east Syria, including Ras al-Ayn.

Just after 4pm that day, Serekaniye says, the bombs began to fall, followed by the dull plink and thud of mortar fire. By evening, Serekaniye and her family had fled to the desert, where they watched their town go up in smoke. “We didn’t take anything with us,” she says. “We had a small car, so how can we take our stuff and leave the people?” As they fled, she saw dead bodies in the street. She soon learned that an uncle and cousin were among them. Their house would become rubble.

After Serekaniye’s family was forced to resettle farther south, she surprised her mother in late 2020 by saying she wanted to join the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ). The all-female, Kurdish-led militia was established in 2013 not long after their male counterparts, the People’s Protection Units (YPG), ostensibly to defend their territory against numerous groups, which would come to include the Islamic State (Isis). The YPG have also been linked to systematic human rights abuses including the use of child soldiers.

Serekaniye’s mother argued against her decision, because two of her brothers were already risking their lives in the YPG.

But Serekaniye was unmoved. “We’ve been pushed outside of our land, so now we should go and defend our land,” she says. “Before, I was not thinking like this. But now I have a purpose – and a target.”

Serekaniye is one of approximately 1,000 women across Syria to have enlisted in the militia in the past two years. Many joined in anger over Turkey’s incursions, but ended up staying.

“In discussions [growing up], it was always, ‘if something happens, a man will solve it, not a woman’,” says Serekaniye. “Now women can fight and protect her society . This, I like.”

According to the YPG, a surge in recruitment has also been aided by growing pushback against and awareness of entrenched gender inequality and violence over recent years. In 2019 the Kurds’ Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria passed a series of laws to protect women, including banning polygamy, child marriages, forced marriages and so-called “honour” killings, although many of these practices continue. About a third of Asayish officers in the Kurdish security services in the region are now women and 40% female representation is required in the autonomous government. A village of only women, where female residents can live safe from violence, was built, evacuated after nearby bombings, and resettled again.

Yet evidence of the widespread violence that women continue to face is abundant at the local Mala Jin, or “women’s house”, which provide a refuge and also a form of local arbitration for women in need across Syria. Since 2014, 69 of these houses have opened, with staff helping any woman or man who come in with problems they’re facing including issues of domestic violence, sexual harassment and rape, and so-called “honour” crimes, often liaising with local courts and the female units of the Asayish intelligence agency to solve cases.

On a sun-scorched day in May, three distraught women arrive in quick succession at a Mala Jin centre in the north-eastern city of Qamishli. The first woman, who wears a heavy green abaya, tells staff that her husband has barely come home since she’s given birth. The second woman arrives with her husband in tow, demanding a divorce; her long ponytail and hands shake as she describes how he’d once beaten her until she had to get an abortion.

The third woman shuffles in pale-faced and in a loose dress, with rags wrapped around her hands. Her skin is raw pink and black from burns that cover much of her face and body. The woman describes to staff how her husband has beaten her for years and threatened to kill a member of her family if she left him. After he poured paraffin on her one day, she says, she fled his house; he then hired men to kill her brother. After her brother’s murder, she set herself on fire. “I got tired,” she says.

The Mala Jin staff, all women, tut in disapproval as she speaks. They carefully write down the details of her account, tell her they need to take photographs, and explain they plan to send the documents to the court to help secure his arrest. The woman nods then lies down on a couch in exhaustion.

Behia Murad, the director of the Qamishli Mala Jin, an older, kind-eyed woman in a pink hijab, says the Mala Jin centres have handled thousands of cases since they started, and, though both men and women come in with complaints, “always the woman is the victim”.

A growing number of women visit the Mala Jin centres. Staff say that this doesn’t represent increased violence against women in the region, but that more women are demanding equality and justice.

The YPJ is very aware of this shift and its potential as a recruitment tool. “Our aim is not to just have her hold her gun, but to be aware,” says Newroz Ahmed, general commander of the YPJ.

For Serekaniye it was not just that she got to fight, it was also the way of life the YPJ seemed to offer. Instead of working in the fields, or getting married and having children, women who join the YPJ talk about women’s rights while training to use a rocket-propelled grenade. They are discouraged, though not banned, from using phones or dating and instead are told that comradeship with other women is now the focus of their day to day lives.

Commander Ahmed, soft-spoken but with an imposing stare, estimates the female militia’s current size is about 5,000. This is the same size the YPJ was at the height of its battle against Isis in 2014 (though the media have previously reported an inflated number). If the YPJ’s continued strength is any indication, she adds, the Kurdish-led experiment is still blooming.

The number remains high despite the fact that the YPJ has lost hundreds, if not more, of its members in battle and no longer accepts married women (the pressure to both fight and raise a family is too intense, Ahmed says). The YPJ also claim it no longer accepts women under 18 after intense pressure from the UN and human rights groups to stop the use of child soldiers; although many of the women I met had joined below that age, though years ago.

Driving through north-east Syria, it is no wonder that so many women continue to join, given the ubiquitous images of smiling female shahids, or martyrs. Fallen female fighters are commemorated on colourful billboards or with statues standing proudly at roundabouts. Sprawling cemeteries are filled with shahids, lush plants and roses growing from their graves.

The fight against Turkey is one reason to maintain the YPJ, says Ahmed, who spoke from a military base in al-Hasakah, the north-east governorate where US troops returned after Joe Biden was elected. She claims that gender equality is the other. “We continue to see a lot of breaches [of law] and violations against women” in the region, she says. “We still have the battle against the mentality, and this is even harder than the military one.”

Tal Tamr, the YPJ base where Serekaniye is stationed, is a historically Christian and somewhat sleepy town. Bedouins herd sheep through fields, children walk arm-in-arm through village lanes, and slow, gathering dust storms are a regular afternoon occurrence. Yet Kurdish, US and Russian interests are all present here. Sosin Birhat, Serekaniye’s commander, says that before 2019 the YPJ base in Tal Tamr was tiny; now, with more women joining, she describes it as a full regiment.

The base is a one-storey, tan-coloured stucco building once occupied by the Syrian regime. The women grow flowers and vegetables in the rugged land at the back. They do not have a signal for their phones or power to use a fan, even in the sweltering heat, so they pass the time on their days off, away from the frontline, having water fights, chain smoking and drinking sugary coffee and tea.

Yet battle is always on their minds. Viyan Rojava, a more seasoned fighter than Serekaniye, talks of taking back Afrin. In March 2018, Turkey and the Free Syrian Army rebels it backed, launched Operation Olive Branch to capture the north-eastern district beloved for its fields of olive trees.

Since the Turkish occupation of Afrin, tens of thousands of people have been displaced – Rojava’s family among them – and more than 135 women remain missing, according to media reports and human rights groups. “If these people come here, they will do the same to us,” says Rojava, as other female fighters nod in agreement. “We will not accept that, so we will hold our weapons and stand against them.”

Serekaniye listens intently as Rojava speaks. In the five months since she joined the YPJ, Serekaniye has transformed. During military training in January, she broke a leg trying to scale a wall; now, she can easily handle her gun.

As Rojava speaks, the walkie-talkie sitting beside her crackles. The women at the base were being called to the frontline, not far from Ras al-Ayn. There is little active fighting these days, yet they maintain their positions in case of a surprise attack. Serekaniye dons her flak jacket, grabs her Kalashnikov and a belt of bullets. Then she gets into an SUV headed north, and speeds away.

By Elizabeth Flock. Additional reporting by Kamiran Sadoun and Solin Mohamed Amin.

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alittlebitmaybe · 4 years

Text

tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

#my fic #geraskier #the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #someone pls teach me to write drabbles i'm dying

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jerkbitchidjitassbutt · 4 years

Text

It Was You (Part Two)

A/N: Jensen and Y/n are childhood best friends. When his agent informs him that his image could use some improvement for a role, will she help him? Or will her feelings get in the way?

Read Part One Here!

A holiday (Christmas centric) Jensen x Female!Reader Best Friends to Lovers series for @spnchristmasbingo. This chapter and others will fill the square of ‘fake dating’. Un-beta’d, so all mistakes are mine. Header created by me with images from Google. Chapter word count: 3284

Series Warnings: angst-ish at times (if you squint), but mostly all the fluff.

I consider this an AU, as Jensen is single in this fic. This is completely a work of fiction, and I wouldn’t want his reality to be any different, this is purely for entertainment.

Jensen returned home right around 3:30 and went to his place to grab the beer he’d promised Y/n before heading to her apartment, his mind still reeling from the conversation he’d had with Stacy.

Letting himself in, as he always did, Jensen called as soon as he stepped into the entryway, “Sweetheart? It’s me.”

When he entered, he found you lying on the couch with your arm covering your eyes, and soft sniffles were coming from your direction. You were huddled in a mess of blankets and tissues littered the floor surrounding you.

Jensen quickly set the beer on the counter and hurried to you, kneeling on the rug in front of your sofa and reaching towards you. “Hey… Y/n, what’s wrong?”

Pulling your arm away from your face, he was met with puffy, red eyes. You’d been crying.

“Oh, nothing.” You sniffed, wiping your eyes. “I just got dumped, is all.”

You quickly sat up as Jensen climbed onto your couch and pulled you into his arms. Honestly, it wasn’t that you were broken hearted in any way. Sure, Stephen had been nice and sweet, and you were sad to lose him in a way, but the tears were more for your own sorrow of no longer being with someone, which seemed to be more often than not lately.

“I just don’t understand. What is it about me that I can’t just be with someone?” You cried.

Jensen simply swayed you back and forth as you curled into his chest and crawled into his lap. After a few minutes, you wiped your eyes once again as he said, “You know, any guy would have to be crazy for letting you go.”

It was another little jab to the heart, but he wouldn’t know why. You straightened up and took a deep breath. Your head was beginning to hurt from crying, and at this point you needed that beer he brought over. Running your hands through your hair, as you sat on the edge of the couch, Jensen seemed to read your mind as he quickly got up and returned with an opened beer for you.

“Thanks, Jay.” You said, taking a long drink.

He bent down and kissed your head before retreating to your kitchen. Peering over the island, you saw him taking down pots and pans and grabbing ingredients out of your fridge.

“What are you doing?” you called, standing and bringing your beer with you, leaning on the counter and watching him move from one end to the other as he emptied the contents of his arms onto the countertop.

“Well, it may not be your mom’s recipe, but I’m going to make you some chili. I know you were probably really looking forward to it, and I’m not gonna’ to let you go hungry.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can still cook.” You objected, even though the thought was exhausting in itself.

Jensen turned to you and began to chop an onion after setting the pot on the stove, “Nope. You sit your cute butt right there and watch me work.” He replied with a wink.

Smiling, you sat at your kitchen island and tried to avoid being a back-seat chef and allowed him to take the reins. He was a great cook, so you didn’t mind letting him do so. It wasn’t long before he had you laughing and clutching your sides. Between the way he was dancing around the kitchen and cursing when he made a mess, your mind had been cleared and you were in a much better mood. The situation with Stephen sucked, sure, but it wasn’t the worst breakup you’d endured. You’d find the one, eventually.

Jensen made the cornbread and put it in the oven while the chili simmered and came to sit on the stool next to you, bumping your shoulder with his and swiping your beer to finish it.

Clearing his throat, he dared to ask, “So, do you want to talk about it?”

You grabbed the bottle back from him, if only to hold and begin peeling the label, needing to fidget with something in your hands, “It’s not a big deal, really. It’s not like I’m super upset about it. Honestly, you were right. Stephen wasn’t the most exciting person, and I don’t think we really meshed well. He was sweet and everything, but I knew it wasn’t going to work out. It’s more of the fact that I was dumped, again. If you’re not in love, it’s easy to get over. Your hearts not broken.”

“I know, sweetheart. Trust me.” Jensen said with a small sigh.

“Have you ever been heartbroken, Jay?” you asked in a whisper.

“You remember when Allie dumped me the summer before senior year?” he laughed. “You never left my side. That was more of a high school type heartbreak though. I don’t know if that was real, you know?”

“Yeah, I do. Really. I’m sad about Stephen, but not in a heartbreak type of way.”

“What about you?” Jensen asked.

“Hmm?”

“Have you, uh… have you ever had your heart broken?”

You stiffened in his hold and took a deep breath, “Once.”

“Really?” he probed. “Who was it? Was it Tyler?”

You snorted, “Tyler was in tenth grade, dude.”

“I know, but still. I’ll kick his ass. Or whoever it was.”

A nervous bubble caught in your throat. He didn’t know, and he shouldn’t. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”

“Well, again. They’re an idiot, whoever they are. Besides, you’ll always have me.”

You gave him a small smile, hoping to hide the pain that the memories brought with them.

Jensen draped his arm across your shoulders, allowing you to rest your head on his shoulder as you shook off the emotions from so long ago.

You continued, “He, um… he asked me about you, right before we had lunch. I don’t think he liked how close we are.”

Jensen pulled back a bit, an unreadable expression on his face, but you were quick to grab his hand and tug him back towards you, lacing your fingers with his, “but, I don’t care. I don’t want to be with anyone who can’t respect this friendship. We’ve been through everything together.”

With that, he smiled and squeezed your hand, bending his elbow so that you were almost in a headlock and he could plant his lips to your forehead. He lingered for a moment as you both sat, tangled in each other’s arms. He released your hand and ran his soothingly along your side before getting up to stir the chili.

It was true. You didn’t care who came along, Jensen would always be your best friend.

The two of you ate seated on your oversized sofa and watched Elf, a favorite of yours and Jensen’s, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Jensen was right – it wasn’t your mom’s chili, but it was damn good. Grabbing the last spoonful, you couldn’t help the moan that escaped as it landed on your tongue. Jensen’s eyes snapped to you, the sound making something within him stir.

Dropping the spoon in your bowl, you set it on the coffee table and leaned back, satisfied.

“That was amazing, dude. Remind me to tell you to cook more often.”

He laughed, grabbing your bowl and his and setting to work at the sink to load the dishwasher. You got up to help, but he snapped his fingers, making you sit back down with a grin.

“So, how was your meeting with Stacy today?”

He wiped his hands on the dish towel that hung on his shoulder after cutting of the sink, “Oh, uh…” he paused, looking down and busying himself with starting the dishwasher. “She brought me a script. It’s a different character, to say the least. A single dad who meets a small-town woman when he moves to a new place with his kids.”

“That’s interesting. What’d you think of it?”

“She’s going to send in my stuff, and we’ll see how that goes. I wouldn’t mind getting it… could be pretty cool.” He shrugged casually, but something in his expression told you he really wanted it. “It’s a really competitive part, though. A lot of interest, so she wants me to keep up my image.”

He returned to join you on the couch with a fresh beer, casually draping his legs across your lap as you asked, “What does that mean? You’ve got a good image. You’re not scandalous or anything.”

“Yeah, but I’m a ‘bachelor’.” He replied, using air quotes to indicate that Stacy used that term specifically. “She thinks I’d have a better shot at the part if I were in a relationship or something. Even threw around the idea of just finding someone to help me out for a bit so I could look like a committed man.” He huffed out a laugh at the ridiculous request.

You’d heard of some of the lengths agents would go through, but you could never imagine being asked to do something like that, even from your own. “You mean, like… a fake girlfriend?”

Leaning his back against the armrest, he stretched out as you scooted closer, with his knees coming to rest over your thighs and his legs extended as you both got comfortable. “Apparently, but I told her it was a bad idea. I wouldn’t feel right finding some random girl and selling a rouse.”

You nodded, your hands casually laying over his strong thighs, “That doesn’t sound like you, so yeah… I get how that could be hard.”

He sighed heavily before sipping his beer once more. Gruffly, he seemingly put the issue to bed for the time being, “Yeah, well you know how it is. If I get it, cool. If not, oh well. I’ll just keep up my appearances. Besides, I get to go to work with you every day now. Wouldn’t want to change that, right?” he nudged you with his foot, grinning at you.

Jensen had encouraged you to apply for a position on the show in season two and you were lucky enough to be considered. He’d been so excited that he’d flown you up from your shared hometown. Prior to that, you hadn’t seen him much since he moved to L.A. shortly after you’d both turned 18. The haunting memory of him driving away crept up as you studied his face, looking very much like the boy you’d always known but also the man he’d grown into. It’s in the past, you thought to yourself as you quelled the small amount of lingering feelings of that day.

You simply smiled back, finding yourself a bit lost in thought.

“Hey.” Jensen said, grabbing your attention. “You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Just thinking.”

“About the Stephen thing?”

You realized in that moment that you hadn’t thought about Stephen since Jensen started cooking dinner. He’d done a great job of distracting you, but you also didn’t want him to know what you were thinking about. “Actually, no. I think you helped out a bit with that.”

A proud expression donned his features as he puffed his chest, obviously pleased that he completed his mission successfully. You chatted a bit more until you grabbed your tablet to do a bit of shopping and you both fell into a comfortable silence. You turned away to hide the item that you’d added to your cart, seeing as it was a little something extra for him. Pleased with the items you’d found for your family back home, and that they’d get to you before your flight in a few weeks, you placed your tablet on the coffee table before snuggling into Jensen’s side, who was enthralled with the animated Rudolph film playing on your TV. He was always a sucker for Christmas movies, though he might not confess that to anyone but you.

The stress of the day began to wear on you, and you soon found yourself drifting off. Between your comfy pajamas and Jensen’s heartbeat in your ear, you fell into a peaceful sleep.

You awoke the next morning to the sunrise shining faintly through the curtains adorning your living room windows, confused to find yourself in the room. With a sleepy mind, you slowly shifted as you began to stretch your limbs but froze slightly when you met resistance. Eyes widening, still heavy with sleep, you came to find yourself snuggled against Jensen’s chest with the blanket from the back of your couch draped over you both. Your back was towards the cushions as you lay on your side, tucked beneath his shoulder and curled into his body with legs tangled beneath you. He was on his back, his one arm securely wrapped around your shoulders and the other resting on his midsection and your forearm that was enclosed around his trim waist. As gently as you could, afraid he might wake, you tilted your head to gaze at his sleeping form. His face was peaceful as he slept, his mouth slightly open and his chest rising and falling in a soft rhythm.

Content to savor the moment, you allowed yourself to revel in the feeling of being in his arms and nestled a bit further into the blankets, finding the chill of the morning slightly eased from his body heat.

You awoke again a bit later, when the sun had settled high in the sky, roused by something feathering across your cheek.

Jensen’s velvety voice jogged your sleepy mind, “Y/n? You awake?”

His thumb was slowly caressing across the apples of your cheekbones, the touch sending a shockwave through every inch of your body and straight to your chest. When you opened your eyes, he was peering down at you still in his arms with so much emotion behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite read. He smiled warmly, his dimples, freckles, and crinkles all present in the light. He was looking at you with such adoration that it made your heart skip a beat.

“Morning, sweetheart.” Came his usual greeting, but you couldn’t help but shiver at the gruffness and tone, stealing a glance at his lips. “Did you sleep well?”

Tearing your eyes from his face, you stretched slightly, “I did. Very well, actually. You’re a nice pillow.”

He chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath your head, “Yeah, I guess I am. I was gonna move you to bed, but I didn’t want to wake you. And I’ll say, I was quite comfy myself.”

Jensen ran his hands up and down your side and back, almost as if it was second nature to do so, before he moved to sit up. You did so first, giving him the space to swing his legs over the edge of the couch and set to work at the coffee maker. Taking a moment to head to the bathroom and brush your teeth, you smiled finding him with your mug already at the windowsill.

“Thank you.” You said, picking it up and taking a seat across from him.

“Thank you for the sleepover.” He grinned, toasting towards you with his own cup.

After a few moments of chit chat about how happy you both were that the snow had lasted, you made you both breakfast and ate together at your kitchen island.

“So, what are you going to do about Stacy’s idea? Have you given it any more thought?” you asked around a mouthful of bacon.

“Actually, um… yeah. I have.”

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little disappointed that it sounded like he was considering her proposition of getting a girlfriend to help his image, but urged him continue none-the-less, “Oh, yeah?”

“I was—I was actually thinking about it this morning. What if—and you can totally say no—but what if you were my pretend girlfriend?” he proposed, looking toward you nervously.

Nearly choking on your breakfast, sure you’d heard him incorrectly, you stared at him in surprise, “Are you serious, Jay?”

“Well, it was just a thought, you know. The fans think I’m with you, anyway, considering they know how close we are and have always been. You’re all over my social media already and I get a ton of comments about you all the time. It would be a cute story, but I totally understand if that’s pushing things too far.”

Still in shock, you hardly registered the sip of coffee you’d taken before putting your mug back on the counter. Your arms and legs felt like Jell-O as he looked at you expectantly.

“Are you sure I’m the type of girl Stacy had in mind? I mean, you’re you ya know. I’m hardly a celebrity or anything and I don’t have a ton of clout. What would the story be?”

He perked up a bit, seemingly please that you were asking more questions. Maybe that meant you were considering it. “It might be good to play the childhood sweetheart angle, but this would only ever happen if you were 100% okay with it. I’d never do anything that would make you uncomfortable in any way. Then, maybe after a few months, we decide to just stay friends. We wouldn’t even need to necessarily announce it to the world or anything but getting people to talk wouldn’t hurt and we just wouldn’t correct the rumors.” He looked into your eyes and took your hand in his, “Y/n, I swear… if it’s too much you can call me crazy and it’ll be no hard feelings whatsoever. No job or role would ever be enough that I’d jeopardize anything with you. It was really just an idea that I had, and it can be shot back out into the abyss and we can forget it ever came up.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, considering his proposition. It wouldn’t be so hard to fake it for a bit, would it? It’s not like much would change. You were already always together, and yeah, people had been speculating about the two of you for years, especially when you started working on set. “What about our families, Jay? What would we tell them?”

He considered your point for a moment. Both sets of parents had been friends for more than thirty years and would no doubt be aware of the rumors once they started, but again that wasn’t anything new. They’d been answering the same questions about you as a pair since you were kids. “We can tell them we’re together, or not. It would be whatever you choose, but we can always keep things vague for a while. We can even chat with Stacy together and see what would be needed, but it’s all totally up to you.”

Running it through your mind in that moment, it didn’t seem much different than what you and Jensen already were – best friends that everyone, everyone speculated about. Giving Jensen the opportunity to appear he had settled down wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?

With a hint of a smile, you nodded, “Okay.”

“Wait, really?” he said, an obvious shock written across his face.

“Yeah… I mean it’s like you said. Not much would be different anyways, right? We can meet with Stacy, for sure, but it’s alright with me.”

He pulled you in for a tight hug, “You’re seriously the best, sweetheart. Don’t worry, I’m going to treat you like the queen you are for as long as this goes on. You’re gonna get spoiled.”

“Well, then…” you teased, patting his back as he kept you in his arms, “At least I’m getting something out of the deal.”

“Oh, trust me, Y/n. I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

Suddenly, you thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all, given the way your blood began to rush as he shot you a wink.

To be continued...

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It was you

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Jensen Only

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jaskiersvalley · 5 years

Note

HEY I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT YOUR FICLET ABOUT GERALT BEING ILLITERATE IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. I had to put down my phone and whimper when he pulled out the card 🥺 can.. can i humbly request a pt. 2 in the future please? (also,, ive gone through the entirety of your blog too and its. so. good. while ive been chillin’ quarantinin’ reading your fics have been my very favourite thing to do!!) ♥️

Nonnie, you and @ohnomybreadsticks have both given me inspiration for more. It’s gone in a slightly different direction with the whole Wolf School in on the thing now. But, hopefully, you’ll enjoy this addition just as much. Best of luck with the quarantine! I’ll be posting stories fairly regularly for the foreseeable future which will hopefully keep you entertained and out of trouble!

The illiterate Geralt story can be found here.

Jaskier’s School of Self Care for Lost Wolves

It was a known fact that Jaskier loved too much and too freely. Sometimes, he even fell in love with those he hadn’t met but felt they needed love all the same. Which was how he ended up with emotions towards witchers he hadn’t met beyond Geralt occasionally letting a name slip. It wasn’t the same kind of love he held for Geralt, it wasn’t all consuming, he didn’t want to kiss the other witchers silly but it didn’t burn fiercely and involved a lot of throws and warm cuddles. Because, as Jaskier had helped Geralt work on his reading and writing, he realised something. None of the other witchers knew how to do that either. Which was how Jaskier ended up demanding he be allowed to go to Kaer Morhen with Geralt. He had a whole winter to remedy the mistakes their teachers had made. It wouldn’t magically make up for all the neglect but Jaskier would be damned if he didn’t try his best to slowly build scaffolding around and start the process of patching in the holes.

The journey back to the old keep was more hazardous than Jaskier had even dared imagine. It didn’t help that Geralt told him most witchers died on the path, either too naive and new on their way out or too tired or injured on the way back. That was utterly appalling and Jaskier was in half a mind to demand that a new path be devised to make sure all witchers could get home and get the care they needed. Even if Geralt insisted this was for the best, an injured witcher had no prospects after all. Rather than argue, Jaskier kept his mouth shut and began scheming.

There weren’t many witchers left, the school of the wolf was a dying breed but, along with Geralt, three other witchers returned and Jaskier was delighted. It seemed that the whole family was together again. Not that they acted like a family, more like a bunch of pissy cats trying to establish territories because they couldn’t figure out how to share and snuggle. That did disappoint Jaskier, he had a lot more work cut out for him than anticipated. Still, he could put the beginnings of his plan into play.

“What are you doing?” Lambert sounded so utterly offended when he came across Jaskier settled comfortably between Geralt’s legs, both of them stretched out on a fur in front of a fire. Jaskier was holding a book and Geralt was reading aloud in a low, rumbling voice.

“We’re enjoying a good story. Care to join us?”

Snarling, Lambert stalked out of the room and Jaskier shrugged. It was a start, even if it wasn’t an auspicious one. However, it set things into motion because not two days later, Eskel had approached Geralt in the kitchen, softly quizzing him on reading.

“I could teach you,” Jaskier volunteered as soon as he heard, deciding to ignore the wide eyed, almost sheepish look from Eskel.

That was how an hour was set aside each day where Jaskier sat with Eskel, leafing through well loved books that Geralt had used, sounding out words together. After the third time, they ended up with a secretive audience in the form of Lambert lurking just outside the door, listening in. In the end, Jaskier left a book in his usual hiding spot and waited for Lambert to come to him. It took longer than he had anticipated, Jaskier had been shooing Eskel out the room and hanging around to tidy up after their lessons for a good week before the book was thrown by his feet.

“Stop mocking me.” Lambert had his arms crossed defensively over his chest and was glaring in a way that would have sent bolts of fear through most people. Just as well that Jaskier wasn’t like most. He’d seen the posturing, the anger and lashing out in Geralt before, knew all too well what lay below it. With the greatest simplicity, he picked up the book and sat down, opening it and giving Lambert an expectant look. After a beat, the witcher sat down next to him.

That was three witchers on their way to literacy but something still bugged Jaskier. Thankfully, he didn’t have to say anything because Lambert took matters into his own hand. He had a book with him one breakfast, furiously trying to catch up with the other two and master ‘See Spot Run’ at record speed.

“Why did you never teach us to read?” he asked around a mouthful of eggs, greasy fingers leaving marks on the pages.

A silence descended on the table as eyes turned to Vesemir who, for the first time since they knew him, looked uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t needed,” he began. “A witcher can’t read a monster to death.”

Understanding dawned on Jaskier then and there. He put his fork aside and stood with an “oh you poor dear”. It was barely audible over Vesemir’s mumbled “I was just a fencing instructor.”

Walking around the table, he easily settled on Vesemir’s lap, ignoring all social conventions regarding touch. Looking up at the witcher, he smiled.

“It’s never too late to learn.”

Given the possessive nature of witchers, one would have expected Geralt to get jealous. However, he seemed content for Jaskier to do as he pleased, spending time with the other witchers. All too soon, all four of them were piled together on rugs and chairs around a fire and frowning over their respective books while Jaskier flitted between them, helping and encouraging where it was needed. It was obvious Lambert struggled the most, the letters dancing before his eyes and never quite settling which made him growl in frustration and his book often went flying across the room. Only once did it land in the fire.

“I’ve made a decision,” Jaskier announced during a quiet afternoon. “You’re all coming along wonderfully with reading and I have so much more to offer.”

Four witchers looked at him a little fearfully, wondering if they weren’t enough. They didn’t say anything as Jaskier walked out of the room but the sadness was palpable. Until Jaskier returned with his beloved lute.

“If anyone wants to learn any music, I’m happy to teach them.”

While reading was a chore for Lambert, he took to music like a duck to water when shown songs, able to replicate the chord sequences Jaskier showed him quite quickly. He had a special love of raunchy singing songs. The only sad thing was that there was only one lute or any kind of musical instrument in the whole of Kaer Morhen. Though Jaskier was more than happy to sing along to whatever tune Lambert was picking out. Soon, they had a whole repertoire of witcher drinking songs they would happily belt out while the others thumped the table in time with the beat.

By contrast, Eskel seemed content with the softer side of things. In fact, he had taken a real shine to sonnets and would often be found discussing them in depth with Jaskier. Occasionally, Geralt joined in but he didn’t find as much joy in dissecting whether the “sweet smell of faded summer” was in fact a statement about the passing of seasons or whether it was the soft lament of two lovers growing old.

“What are you doing?” Vesemir’s voice pulled Jaskier from his quiet introspection. It was early, the sun was barely poking out from behind the mountains but he was out in the courtyard with Geralt sat on a barrell and frowning into a book.

“Stretching,” Jaskier replied, sunnier than the weather. “I learned a series of movements to keep the body supple and the mind engaged. It helps me keep up with Geralt.”

The wink he sent Geralt’s way was enough to have him raising the book to hide his blush. While everybody knew what was going on between them, Geralt didn’t like to shamelessly advertise it. He was a private soul by nature.

“Come.” Jaskier beckoned Vesemir. “Let me show you.”

They worked through poses, Jaskier explaining a little about each of them. While they looked simple and easy, Vesemir was surprised to find that they gave the gentlest workout he had ever had. By the end, he was pleasantly tired but not in a way a training fight would have worn him out. It was, for want of a better word, rejuvenating. It had him as close to a smile as he usually got.

Over the course of the week, it went from Jaskier stretching in the courtyard while Geralt read to Jaskier and Vesemir. Until, silently, Eskel joined them one morning, standing next to Vesemir, a little nervous but a smile from Jaskier had him easing into the flow. The next morning, soft lute strums accompanied their exercises as Lambert sat opposite Geralt and his book, playing something gentle. The grateful look Jaskier shot him was enough to get him scowling, even if the music never stopped.

Spring was just around the corner. The witchers were all sat around the cleared dining room table with parchments in front of them, quills in hand. Eskel’s tongue was sticking out the corner of his mouth as he focused on his work.

“Just remember, this means you can keep in touch with each other. Enchanted crows can deliver your letters now.” Jaskier was playing soft music as the others perfected their penmanship. Well, all except Lambert who had taken to doodling, letters getting lost in the pictures. But that was okay, he could always draw his sentiments, the others would understand.

By the time it came to leaving Kaer Morhen, Jaskier was content and happy. He had four witchers who looked so much more self confident in their abilities. Because while he had kept their attention on the arts, it was inevitable that they all bonded. It wasn’t all that unusual to find at least two, if not three of them piling on top of each other with a book, getting lost in adventures they didn’t have to live through. Someone else’s struggles were so much more satisfying when the fear of death and failure didn’t hang above their heads.

Three witchers and a bard stood in the courtyard, horses loaded up as they prepared to leave on their respective paths. Only Vesemir stood in his usual attire and a soft smile creasing his face.

“Safe travels to you all,” he said, meeting the others’ eyes in turn.

“What will you do?” Eskel asked. “You usually accompany us at least some of the way.”

The smile turned into an excited grin and Vesemi gestured vaguely towards the keep. “My path for the year is one that is a tight circle. The library here needs some attention.”

Pride made Jaskier beam. He stepped forward and gave Vesemir a hug. “I expect many a wonderful tale from the library when we’re back next year.”

That sealed it. The next winter, they were all going to return with more stories. Eskel even kept a diary to share with Jaskier in case Geralt was stingy on his details for songs. And, when they all reconvened at the start of the next winter, Vesemir had tomes from the library ready to read stories from while Lambert turned up with his own lute on his back.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #vesemir #witcher wolf pack #illiterate geralt #tldr: jaskier teaches all the witchers how to read and appreciate the arts

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maggotmouth · 3 years

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hillo sexthy legends !! i’m nora and i’ll be writing margo colby n probs sm1 else bcos lets be real, i lack self-control. u can find her pinterest here n some info abt her sexy self below the cut. plot with me on discord ( hot girl midsommar#8664 ) or in my ims !! x o x

* CAMILA MORRONE, CIS WOMAN + SHE / HER | you know MARGO COLBY, right? they’re TWENTY-THREE, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, ELEVEN YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to SCRAWNY BY WALLOWS like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole BLEACH WHITE SNEAKERS POUNDING ON A GYMNASIUM FLOOR, USING THE SAME BLUNT SCISSORS TO HACK THE SLEEVES OFF AN EXES T-SHIRT THAT YOU USE TO CUT YOUR 3AM FRINGE, A WALNUT-SHAPED ACHE IN THE PIT OF YOUR STOMACH FOR THE PERSON YOU COULD HAVE BEEN thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is AUGUST 8TH, so they’re a LEO, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( nora, 25, gmt, she/her )

CLICK ANYWHERE ON THIS SENTENCE FOR SEXII GOOGLE DOC!!

bullet point summary of margo.

— born margaret but NOBODY calls her that. its colby, coach or margo, and go to the privileged few. margo grew up in the creek commune n then dropped out of school cos of a teenage pregnancy so she was a bit of a cautionary tale back in’t’day (said tht in my yorkshire accent). she now works for summer camps coaching pee wee soccer and pee wee cheer, as well as helping out her beekeeper dad on his honey farm, which is jst north of abernathy creek, and working at scuba on the off seasons.

— its just her and her dad, and has been for as long as she can recall !! everything she knows about her mum could fit on the back of the weathered passport photo she keeps in her wallet of a stranger who shares her face - her name’s melody, or at least tht was name she used when working as a dancer, she’s from argentina and dropped mag’s dad as soon as someone w more money came along.

— margo’s father is a beekeeper with his own organic honey company. margo and her dad moved to irving in the early 00s, the summer between grade school and middle school, because her dad had heard about the communal living in abernathy creek and wanted to lend his skills there and live off the fatta the land in a very lenny from of mice and men kinda way.

— for a few years of middle school margo was bullied for living with the ‘freaks from the creek’, but when they realised how chill her dad was with underage drinking, margo ‘keg-bringer’ colby soon gained popularity among the more renegade students. every so often, the high school parties would happen at her end of town, occasionally with members of the commune even offering the high schoolers a spiritual experience they’d never forget (often in the form of mushrooms) which meant people tried to stay on her good side. to get an invite to a margo colby party handed you a free pass to make up the most ridiculous shit about the commune you liked and nobody else could say anything, because they’d never been to the creek.

— at school, margo had a lot of ‘behvioural issues’ bcos of undiagnosed adhd, she found it difficult to sit still for hours n write down huge chunks of information n her restlessness was seen as laziness. she was encouraged to do sports, as were most of the kids who weren’t that academically inclined, but she turned out to be pretty hot shit at sprinting, because she grew up surrounded by bee houses and he who runs slowest gets stung, baybeyy!! so yea, in school sports became her LIFE. she was gonna get a sports scholarship to college but ended up dropping out of school in senior year n becoming one of those kids who could have had it all but lost it.

— she had sex with sutter at a house party when she wasnt really ready because it felt like the right thing to do at the time and everybody else was doing it. she’d attended health class, she’d seen the corny videos. she knew about all the statistics, but she also knew that it had never happened to anyone she knew and the pull out method was basically safer than the morning after pill and way less expensive.

— a teenage pregnancy knocked her out of the runnings for prom queen and meant she had to leave school early. she didn’t go to college when her friends did, instead she spent the time interviewing potential foster candidates and eating her weight in lindt chocolate while marathoning love island in her room.

— she had a son, who she passed off to someone else a couple of towns away. it was a closed adoption which seemed like the best idea at the time, but she now wishes she had access to his life.

— after peaking in high school and jumping between jobs for a few years, she got a more permanent role at scuba which she loves with all of her heart and soul, but unfortunately a bar job doesn’t pay the rent.

— she works at summer camps coaching junior soccer and netball on the side. she’s extremely competitive and takes it very personally if her team lose. the kids all call her, coach colby n write her longwinded letters about how they’ll never forget this summer camp before they go back to their suburban picket fence houses n she keeps all the letters in a drawer n takes them out to read when she’s feelin depressed.

— enjoys surfing and worked for a number of years on resorts like mila kunis’ job in forgetting sarah marshall. she went on to work 18-hour days as a stewardess on luxury yachts which is a part of her backstory i added after watching season one of below deck because i guess i really am that fucking impressionable. met most of her surf friends doing tht but said she’d never in her life do it again bcos it was mostly just picking up after rich white ppl for shit pay. she came back to irving n thats when she started doing the summer camp jobs so she could move out of the creek n get her own apartment.

— she never actually finished senior year so she’s currently going to night school at the community college to get through her exams and is trying to save to go to college or open university. she wants to major in criminology. she’s super ambitious but also super adhd so she fluctuates between thinking she can achieve anything to just feeling like a failure n thinkin whats the point

— used to shoplift to feel joy and as an act of resistance to her hippy commune routes, but now sees herself as a reformed, bin-diving freegan (sims 4 eco living can i get a hell yaaaa). also she thinks it’s totally wrong to steal when you have enough money and clearly don’t need to steal to survive, ppl risk imprisonment for basic necessities, so for her to do it for a brief thrill and some new shades felt a bit derogatory

— was raised jewish. became a vegetarian as a child because it seemed, at the time, easier than having to explain which foods she was and wasn’t allowed to eat together, so she just cut out meat entirely. still a vegetarian now and dabbles in veganism, although its become less about not eating certain meats in the milk of their mother and more about her global impact / carbon footprint

— nurses little animals to health in her garden. has a hedgehog name OJ short for orange juice not the other one filthy pig. her and her dad have always been huge animal rights activists and existed on a vegetarian diet. the only one in their house who isn’t vegetarian is their cat, auggie. (short 4 augustus gloop)

— has a lot of stupid ass stick and poke tattoos. there was a phase during her years as a barmaid where she wanted to train as a tattoo artist n would mostly practice on herself or any friends who would let her

— she doesn’t form many long lasting friendships cos she tends to be super excited when she makes a new friend and just see them all the time but then it wears off and she can ghost a bit. she’ll always coming pinging back but she’s not the most predictable or loyal friend, sometimes she’ll sleep in your house every night for a week and then you won’t even get a text from her for a month. her best friends are elderly neighbours and houseless people she meets when volunteering at the foodbank. she thinks they’re more authentic than most of the ‘fake posers’ she meets down the vela pier

— calls herself a butch lesbian but still has sex with men when she wants validation. sexually attracted to some men, especially effeminate men, but only romantically attracted to women. very possessive of the gals in her life.

— stopped giving a shit about getting older or adhering to anyone elses bullshit standards, realised it was all fake p much as soon as she dropped out of school and one by one her friends just stopped texting her

— lives in one of the lofts in port apartments. it’s open plan with rugs and lava lamps everywhere. she has a palette bed. its all very ‘sustainable chic’. like, oh wow, a pallet bed that im supposed to think you made from scratch but i KNOW you got it off ebay because you thought it looked trendy

— constantly says shes poor but still buys clothes from urban outfitters. sus.

— frequently found at fannies flirting with the cute bisexual bartender with a choppy black bob.

general vibe / personality

vibrant, vulgar, self-absorbed, tenacious, veers bewteen apathetic and dogmatic, temperamental, flighty, unreliable, magnetic, charismatic, passive aggressive, likes to play devil’s advocate, takes the moral high ground. estp and a leo

likes: 70s music, john wayne movies, black mirror, philosophy, cowboy chic culture, dc comics, the smell of locker rooms,, deep red lipstick, lacrosse sticks, smoking weed from a bong, dogs, karaoke, pet rats, kate moss, late-night strolls, hawaaiian shirts worn open over a bralette, skinned knees, thai food, picking the apples at the very top of the trees, zip-lining, cigarettes, the idea of pegging but not the practical application of it, decorative lamps, LGBTQ+ pin badges, worn-out furniture, twangy electric guitars.

dislikes: girls who call other girls ‘pick me’ girls, woody allen movies, mental mathematics, wealthy children, quentin tarantino, ironing, institutionalised misogyny, the imaginary future, french literature, ‘dump him’ feminism, wes anderson films, spoken word poetry nights, college-educated bar staff who act like they’re better than you, indie softbois, the general mentality of cheerleading squads.

aesthetics

orange peel, the smell of bleach, skeleton drawings in the margins of a journal, thumb holes poked through the cuffs of your sleeves, bleach white sneakers pounding on a gymnasium floor, setting dumpsters on fire for the hell of it. a hit flask of vodka decorated with hello kitty stickers, split knuckles, alien conspiracy theories and sci-fi paperbacks, doc martens with fraying laces, a child in an oversize bee keepers suit, scabbed knees, not eating your greens, smiling with a mouthful of blood, and piercing your own ears with a safety pin when your dad wouldn’t take you, a tennis racket you punched through in a fit of temper, feet pounding the earth until your soles bleed crimson, sleeping in a cherry lip balm and scrunchies to keep the wild locks from your eyes.

hoo boy this is getting LONG AS FUCK but here are my wanted plots

wanted plots

ok margo’s been in irving since she was like 10. she’s quite a vivacious person?? she dresses completely instinctively without any sense of cohesion so she stands out. a guy once told her she was wearing the ugliest outfit he’d ever seen and he thought that was so cool and brave of her. but anyway where was i going.. she grew up in the abernathy creek so stuck out like a sore thumb,,,, maybe ppl who were super interested in the creek or maybe poked fun at her bcos of it idk.....

b4 she dropped out, margo used 2 b in with the cool kids at school bcos her dad would buy them booze and rarely ask for the money. maybe a fun plot cld b with some of the ‘it girls’ she used to hang around with b4 she got pregnant n dropped out and they all went off to college n stopped texting her.

frinds !! unlikely friends !! toxic friends !! some1 she feels like she knew before irving ???

since margo literally can’t differentiate between romantic and platonic love, she’s got off with so many of her mates, so i want awkward friendships where they nearly dated, or exes that have now just turned into weird friendships. fwbs. enemies with benefits. all the angst. all the slow burn mutual pining we hate each other narratives

locals who play sports. margo wld be all over community soccer n take it way too seriously. maybe ppl she plays hockey with. girls who she’s like, weirdly intimate with but its not a thing cos the other girls straight !!! what do u mean !! aha just fun !

she works part time at scuba. i want a mate that just goes and sits in there talking to her until her manager gets angry.

she's also a surf instructor and occasionally works as a lifeguard!! gal has like 7 jobs ik but regular swimmers hmu

ppl she coaches at the gym !! she wants to be a personal trainer

i reckon she might have recently started meditating to try and calm down her mind cos its always bustling with thoughts, n i think she’s p interested in buddhism so if anyone’s a buddhist hmu

someone she’s trying to make a zine with on female empowerment and women in film and art, etc. just a very feminist zine.

TLDR: angry sports gay, former high school track prodigy turned drop out, who likes feminist literature, wearing leather jackets over slip dresses, and smudged red lipstick.

this was so long !!! im sorry !! if you’ve read this far have a biscuit, love x

#aaaaaaa #we back boys #irvingintro #hmu for plots bayybeyyy

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writing-for-me-at-this-point · 4 years

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Pragma | Alucard

Request: Hi, I love your blog. Would you mind writing about what it would be like to for Alucard to fall in love with the reader post season 3? Thank you! Keep up the good work!

Word Count: 1826 words

Page Count: 5.2 pages

A/n: hope you enjoy this!

Tags: @catherinedm

All Alucard could do was deny that you held no ill will towards him. He had found you when you were running from a cultist like group, ready to burn you alive just for learning older sciences, he could only laugh at the bitter irony. Your legs were whipped and tired, your chest was bruised and the rest of your body was worse than you could have imagined, and so he took you in when he knew you were not a threat. Or would be conscious for a good while.

"I seem to only get more and more desperate for heartache, don't I?" He whispered to himself as he looked to you, your body was freshly cared and cleaned for, and yet he found on the other end of the room near the opened door. His fear that gripped his heart made him feel like a child, wanting to be held and cared for by those around him, yet cannot seem to overcome going up to an adult for help.

When you woke up days later, cleaned and cared for, your body aching like never before- and the man in the room staring at you like you had just killed his mother in front of him, full of shock and fear. Speaking with him in this stage of your relationship was scarce, only what needed to be said was put into the air, either met with silence or acknowledged with muted nods and small hums.

*****

Alucard was never known for his temper. He was a sweet and gentle boy according to his parents, something he wished to be after seeing his mother be... her, he was never to freak or lash out on those around him. When he realized this, it had been to late, his hands were running through his hair as tears slipped effortlessly from his eyes- curled in his bed with his knees to his scarred chest. He had been helping you walk more, working on your legs and helping them gain muscle, when you had fallen near him while he fell as well.

You both had slipped due to the old rugs folds getting caught in his foot, making him slam onto his back while you managed to land on your knees, and when you turned to see if Alucard was alright he looked at you in pure fear. He shook as he saw you on your knees, on his right side, like her. Just like she was when they both locked him onto his bed, tied with the burn of silver, looking at him with such hate and disgust.

Your eyes held worry though. Worry for his well being. Care. Your heart was opening up. But in that moment, he saw back to that night, her. His face contorted into anger, yelling at you while his lungs burned for air, profanities settled into your mind as he was cursing your existence.

"I trusted you! Gave you everything! And here you are again, having me on my back, a knife to my fucking heart!" He was leaning upright at this point, while you crawled backwards away from him, the fear evident in your eyes but he didn't see. It wasn't you at that moment. It was the flickering image of Sumi and Taka.

Once he had caught his breath, he closed his eyes, hands coming to his hair as he shook violently. You realized what was happening, your father was a soldier and suffered from delusions like this, and your mother would come running to anchor him back into the present once his past came to torment him again.

"Breathe. Alucard, breathe. Evenly. Exhale longer than when you inhale, please." You coached him gently, your hands in front of you in case he were to look up, you weren't a threat to him- he knew that. You told him when to inhale and hold, before letting out the breath that wavered less and less. You needed to anchor him back to the present, he wasn't seeing you yet, but you would make him to help with his sanity.

His breathing evened but tears still came, flowing against the flushed pale skin, and you made your way closer to him. You held out two fingers, mimicking your parents, and waited for him. He saw, and pulled out two gloved fingers to wrap around yours, his shaking would start to still after a few moments.

*****

You hadn't seen Alucard in two days, his mind was taking its toll on him, and you managed to figure out the basics of his situation. His mind was sending him back to the most stressful moments of his life, the wound on his mind hasn't been stitched and is now bleeding into his daily life.

You wanted to learn how to help people mend their minds, ranging from trauma to genetic ailments, the human mind was so vast and complicated so of course it drew you in. In doing so, you met an old vampire in Athens, she was kind and sweet- teaching philosophy and medicine to those she knew would use them appropriately.

Alucard was depressing himself further into his mind, and you needed to help him, though helping him would need to be paced. He needs time and luckily you both have plenty of it. You made your way around the castle and found a few empty notebooks (not wrapped in human skin), a few books on meditation and spiritual awareness, and some recipe books next to fictional ones that held important meanings on self worth.

Should you be looking through his things?

You didn't care. He needed help.

You then split the books into two piles, one for Alucard to journal in and write all his thoughts in and the other for you, to write tips and other important information for Alucard to read so he can understand what is going on and how he can help himself cope with his own mind. The books that helped with meditation would help him order his thoughts and understand how to calm himself in case he couldn't find an anchor, (you hoped the spiritual awareness would be a plus? Dracula had lots of books so it wouldn't hurt.), and books of things you thought he'd enjoy in general when he needed an escape.

Once all was finished, you placed everything into a small net bag, limping your way to the kitchen, you decided the man needed something to eat. After all, food made everyone happy, right? Right. A simple dish of grilled chicken and veggies, with a side of mash potatoes and some water, you slung the bag on your shoulder and made your way to his room.

You didn't hesitate to knock, but you made sure it was soft and non demanding, before calling his name in the same manner. You heard shuffling, but the door never opened and you never were welcomed in, but you knew you needed to intervene and help boost Alucard onto a support line.

"I'm coming in, in a few moments, so if you need to ready yourself please do, Alucard." You heard nothing on the other end, and waiting for about two minutes with your head against the door, you pushed it opened slowly to allow yourself into the dhampires room.

*****

When you had managed to get Alucard fed and on a routine to help himself more and more each day, he had apologized to you for the outburst, and decided that leaving you on your own when you had trouble walking was not the best idea. He was surprised you accepted his apology and brushed his actions off, deciding to help him instead, it was a reaction different than what he had expected.

Allowing himself to be near you much more often, he opened up a bit after a week of sitting by your side, setting you into the nine circle of his mind. You peeled back the shallower layers at his pace, setting him for a more favorable way of opening his heart and mind up, and seeing how he thought and felt about everything.

He was intriguing and intelligent, you found yourself tearing through your own heart just to open up and show him the exposed muscle, opening yourself up to him inevitably as he did to you. He felt warmth bloom in his chest that only rose up when he was in your presence, and while you helped him heal the wounds inside him, he continued to help you heal and gain your strength back physically.

A mutually beneficial relationship is all.

Yeah, no.

It was a puppy love shrouded in pain and betrayal that was settled into an old wound, the bleed has now stopped, and the clotting had begun, a deep scab was there before the skin would over take it in a tough light pink blanket. There was healing when there used to be a knife digging itself deeper into the soft flesh.

*****

"Do you plan on leaving?" His voice was soft and scared, his breath was shaky while pale arms wrapped tightly around your waist, the sheets covering the both of you blanketed the intimate scene of a boy begging for the girl to love him back- to not leave him, though he thought he deserved it, it started to become less of a thought on his mind.

He accepted himself for what he is and what he has done.

He knows what he wants and what he needs.

You were on the top of both lists.

He was being selfish, but you told him that was good, he was learning how to realize his worth in what he wants. He was still respectful of any decisions you made, but he begged everything in the universe for you to say no, no you wouldn't leave him. You wouldn't abandon him, you'd stay and love him as you do now, and for the rest of your time together.

"Depends." You chuckled, rubbing his arms that were secured on your waist, your eyes were closed as you felt him curl around you.

"Depends?" He mumbled into your hair.

"Do you wish for me to stay?"

What? Of course, he wanted you to never leave him, and he was sure he never gave the impression of being disinterested. Hell! The position you were in now speaks for itself! He sighed, realizing you were just teasing him, and settling his mind down.

"Of course. I never want you to leave."

"Then I never will."

His heart had burst at the affirmation of love, a tear slipped from his eye as he smiled wide, the supernova in his soul sparked his love for you to become brighter and stronger.

"Thank you."

#castlevania x reader #castlevania imagine #Castlevania reader insert #castlevania x y/n #castlevania x you #alucard x reader #alucard x you #alucard x y/n #alucard imagine #adrien tepes x reader #adrien fahrenheit tepes x reader #🐝

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daydreamingic · 3 years

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A Liminal Moment

Author notes: edited with grammarly, ritual and clan names are made up. Mistakes are mine, constructive criticism welcome. I'm cleaning out my WIPs/ideas folder and this was one I wanted to finish. Very vanilla for me but it was fun to write. No plans at the moment to continue, but the bones are there in case I want to revist. Set in the WoW universe.

A Liminal Moment

"Tenkof gets to go on an overnight hunt." Ahkune, daughter of Guragom, stood firmly in the entry to her parents' small hut with her green fists on her hips. "Why am I forbidden?" Her parents sat on a soft, colorful rug across the room from the entrance of their home. They exchanged a glance, a glint of firelight from the small fire in the middle of their hut catching amusement in her mother's eyes before her father turned toward her. Her mother continued to weave a large basket with dried reeds as he spoke. "The Wor’amon is a bonding ritual between the hunter and his companion, as his companion seeks a lifemate. Only the hunter and his companion," he emphasized and gave his daughter a smile that curled around his wide tusks. "As you age, friendships change," Yatesh, her mother, interjected sternly, and set the basket down. She crossed muscled arms over her chest, taking her own firm stance across the room from her daughter. "Much of your journey will be alone as well, Ahkune. This is the first of many separate journeys for both of you." Ahkune's dark eyes narrowed. Neither of her parent’s gazes wavered when they felt the crackle of electricity in the air. With a huff, Ahkune turned on her heel and left the tent. The tension dissipated immediately. "Elements help him," Guragom chuckled, turning toward his mate, who frowned after their daughter. "I remember another young spitfire that wouldn't take no for an answer..." "I've had a vision," Yatesh said abruptly and turned to him. "He's going to leave her. Not on purpose, but she will be forever changed. It would be in her best interest to focus on her path now." "Would that have stopped you?" Guragom asked bluntly. Yatesh scowled but the harsh look softened almost immediately. "I don’t want her path changed because of the loss of their friendship. Letting them grow as close as they have may have been a mistake.” "You couldn't have pried them apart as children, Yatesh, any more than you could pry them apart now. We can't decide her path for her," Guragom said and reached over to take her hand. He rubbed her knuckles with calloused fingers. “And we can’t change the past. Ahkune is almost of age, and her journey is her own.” Yatesh blew out a sharp breath and her lower lip trembled before she bit it. “I don’t want darkness for her,” she said, voice quiet. Guragom sighed and pulled his mate into his arms, and Yatesh went, willing, their forms coming together as one silhouette. “We can only guide her,” he said, tightening the embrace. “The choices are hers.” After a long moment, Yatesh took a deep breath and pulled back, reaching for the incomplete basket to continue her weaving. ***

Ahkune crept through the dense forest that bordered her clan’s land as dusk settled. She stayed far out of sight while Kulgah of the Wolfclaw Clan guided his son to the beginning of a barely discernible path, far into the woods. The elements responded to her urgency, her need to be near Tenkof, and guided her between the trees, her bare footsteps soft. She wore a soft fur skirt and thin leather vest with no adornments, and her hair was tightly braided down the back of her head. If she’d been walking with Tenkof and his father, she’d have bones and beads and feathers tied into her hair, but Tenkof was born of a long line of hunters, and his family members were the best trackers in the clan; any mistake would lead them both to her, so she’d chosen quiet clothing and begged the elements to ensure there were no brambles to fight, no branches that hung so low she’d have to disturb them. She watched from a cliff ledge some distance away when Tenkof and his father entered a small clearing that opened to the edge of a pond. From her vantage above the clearing, she could see a stream that dropped down a distant mountainside and snaked through the forest, to the pond where Tenkof stood with his massive, gray wolf, Kosh, at his side. Kosh knew Ahkune’s scent well but hadn’t glanced her way while she followed the group. Kulgah was a large orc, bigger than Ahkune's father, and one of the strongest in their clan. Tenkof was nearly his father’s height but not as tightly muscled, shoulders not quite as wide--yet. Kulgah said something that Ahkune couldn’t make out, then gave his son a hearty slap on the back and started the long trek back through the forest, toward their clan grounds. Kulgah had worn simple leathers, but Tenkof was clad only in a loincloth and his bow and quiver. When Kulgah departed, Tenkof scouted the small clearing and used a handful of dried brush and some downed branches to start a campfire. Ahkune watched and waited for his father to disappear beyond sight. Once Kulgah could no longer be seen or heard, she glanced back at Tenkof--who was standing in the clearing, next to the crackling fire, and staring directly at the ledge where Ahkune was perched. Tenkof nodded in her direction, then pointed toward the fire and turned his back to the cliff. He settled down on the ground while Kosh prowled the clearing. Face hot with shame from being spotted, Ahkune didn’t attempt to keep quiet as she scaled the ledge and dropped to the soft, moss-covered ground below. She sprinted through the trees toward Tenkof’s clearing. Kosh met her in the forest with a wide, happy smile, tongue lolling, and loped by her side as they ran to Tenkof. “Thought you were quiet, did you?” Tenkof chuckled, not bothering to turn as Ahkune stepped into the clearing. Ahkune snorted and glared at his back, at his long, dark hair that had been tied in a braid. “On the approach, yes. It seems I was not?” “You were.” Tenkof glanced at her then, looking over his shoulder. “I’m not sure if my father noticed you. He didn’t speak of you.” Ahkune raised her brows but said nothing. The likelihood of his father not noticing her was slim, especially since Tenkof had spotted her. It didn’t matter. Kulgah had left and her parents hadn’t bothered trying to follow her. She walked to the fire and sat opposite of Tenkof, one hand gripping a fist full of soft earth. She could feel the element’s anticipation thrumming through the ground beneath her. “You understand the implications of Wor’amon, Ahkune.” Tenkof stared into the fire now, his face and posture set in firm lines. “Why did you come?” She’d been told repeatedly that there would be ceremonies and tasks both would be expected to undertake on separate paths, but she and Tenkof had been inseparable since they could walk, both born in the same season. They still played together in the forest, still swam together in the river. Ahkune often hunted and foraged with Tenkof, his father, and her father. She didn’t understand why she would be kept away from a simple bonding ritual. “Does the passing of the

solstice change us from who we were yesterday? One day, Tenkof, and now we walk our separate paths? Yesterday we swam and fished, Kosh by our sides. Why must tonight be only you and Kosh?” Tenkof turned to her and chided, “I will not be exploring your vision quests with you, Ahkune. These rites have been long established. Tradition has a meaning to our clan.” “Look me in the eyes and say it, then.” She lifted her chin in defiance, crossed her stout arms across her muscled chest. “Come now, Tenkof of the Wolfclaw Clan, look your closest friend in the eyes and tell me that tradition outweighs our bond.” “It doesn’t outweigh it, nitwit,” he said, exasperated. “You’re being purposefully obtuse.” He paused, looking at the fire again. “You don’t know what Wor’amon entails, do you?” She knew Kosh would find a mate and Tenkof would protect them, but she didn’t know any details--not that she’d admit that to Tenkof. “Of course. Why do you think I’m here?” Something peculiar happened when she answered. Tenkof’s cheeks turned reddish in the firelight. She narrowed her eyes. Curious. Tenkof stood and held out a hand for Ahkune to take. She walked to him, and he clasped her hands between his. When he spoke, he sounded more like this father than she’d ever heard, expression solemn, tone serious. It sounded like he’d memorized the words long before they crossed his lips. “Ahkune of the Wolfclaw Clan, daughter of Guragom. You insist on accompanying us on this night of Wor’amon. Answer this. Of your own determination, you have freely chosen to partake in Wor’amon?” Ahkune swallowed. For the first time, she felt like she may have been crossing a line that was drawn for a purpose. Maybe she shouldn’t have lied about understanding the ritual, but it was too late. She wouldn’t back down. “Yes, Tenkof of the Wolfclaw Clan, son of Kulgah.” “So be it,” he said, and while the reddish color darkened and spread down his neck, he shook her hand firmly, then let go. Ahkune immediately punched him in the shoulder, hard, breaking the serious atmosphere that had descended upon the little clearing. “Ahkune,” he chastised. She was strong, but not stronger than he, and instead of punching her back like he may have when they were little, he tugged at the bit of bone that adorned the piercing in her nose. “We wait for Kosh now,” he said. Questions bubbled up in her mind, but she’d already agreed and didn’t want to risk asking them for fear Tenkof would decide that she needed to leave. She would observe and simply accompany Tenkof, she decided, and she took time to examine the clearing. Tenkof’s bow and quiver leaned against a tree near him, and he wore a small leather pouch around his waist, but she saw no other supplies. Kosh settled down next to the fire. Ahkune was never good at waiting, so she offered to find a meal, and Tenkof, after looking Kosh over, agreed to hunt with her. They found a pair of rabbits in the woods, and on the return to the clearing Ahkune spotted ripe berries in a small bramble thicket tucked between trees. When they returned, Kosh was pacing, growing restless. Tenkof gutted the rabbit and left the innards for Kosh, but Kosh paid them no mind. They ate roast rabbit off the bone and finished with berries, watching the fire as it died, while Kosh whined and scented the air at the edge of the clearing. As Kosh grew discontent, Tenkof opened the pouch and pulled out a small sachet. “It is beginning,” Tenkof said. Ahkune bit her tongue and swallowed more questions as Tenkof placed the sachet in his mouth. He didn’t chew but seemed to push it into his cheek, where it bulged slightly. The air in the clearing grew rich with anticipation, a heady scent in the air that Ahkune couldn’t quite identify. “I can feel it,” she said, and her tongue felt thick, the words difficult to force out. Something hot stirred in her veins. “I wondered...” Tenkof shook his head and licked his lips, before moving to the sachet to his other cheek. He reached behind him to untie his braid and shake his hair out. The small bones and glass beads

that were woven into his hair rattled. “Of course you can feel it. I’m sure father knew you were here.” Ahkune laughed then, the sound abrupt and hearty. “If you could track me, I have no doubts that he knew.” While Ahkune would one day be a shaman, her ability to commune with the elements already heightened, she doubted she would ever be able to outsmart the greatest hunter their clan had known. “We follow Kosh now.” Tenkof stood, watching Kosh pant. The wolf prowled toward the north of the clearing, near the creek that spilled into the small pond. Tenkof gathered his bow and slung his leather quiver over his back. Ahkune stood and trailed her fingers over the small wooden totems tucked into the band of her skirt. She’d been on many hunts, but this wasn’t a hunt, and she didn’t know what to expect. The tension grew and it was oddly specific, hungry for something that wasn’t a kill. Though she was inexperienced with others, Ahkune was familiar with burgeoning cravings of the flesh that left her seeking solace in the woods to explore her body alone, but this was different. It was a primal craving that wasn’t quite hers, though she could taste it in the air and feel it begin to affect her, sweat beading on her forehead and upper lip. She wasn’t the only one feeling affected, she thought and stared at Tenkof. The reddish color had spread down his shoulders, over his chest, and she followed the flush down to where his loincloth hung loosely, his feet planted apart-- Kosh howled, long and mournful, asking a question that Ahkune could not understand. From deep within the forest another howl sounded, longer but higher pitched, an answer to the question asked. Kosh’s eyes were bright, head cocked to the side, and when the howl ended, he was off, head low as he lunged into the forest, following a path that Ahkune could not see. Tenkof shouted, and they were off, sprinting after Kosh, diving into the dark forest without hesitation. There was little the familiar woods could offer that would best two young warriors from the Wolfclaw Clan. Tenkof was faster, but just barely; Ahkune followed him easily, leaping over downed logs, dodging underbrush, careening between trees. This felt more like their hunts, but with a growing need coursing through her body. Twigs snapped underfoot, sharp stones dug into the soles of her feet, but she ran through the pain. She brushed against Tenkof, almost gaining on him, and something sparked inside at the brush of her skin against his. Kosh howled again, close but still ahead of them, and Tenkof roared, a burst of speed sending him hurtling in front of Ahkune. They ran for what felt like hours or days, until her heart thundered in her chest and her blood roared in her ears. The trees began to thin, and Tenkof stopped abruptly in front of Ahkune, and she slammed into his back. “Hey,” she snapped, bracing both hands against his back to push him. Tenkof hissed, “Quiet,” and she dropped one hand immediately as she moved to his side, the other hand trailing across his back, unable to pull away completely. They stood at another clearing, breathing heavy, and Kosh circled a smaller, white wolf that snapped and snarled at him. The musk of heat and need was heavier here, and something between Ahkune’s legs ached as she watched, mouth open, as the wolves circled each other. Tenkof dropped his bow and yanked his quiver over his head. That was her only warning before Kosh lunged and Tenkof did the same. Ahkune hit the ground hard. She rolled immediately, just barely escaping being pinned, and she laughed. Tenkof’s eyes were dark as they followed her movement, and she bared her fangs at him as Kosh nipped at his mate across the clearing. The female wolf yelped, and again Tenkof dove toward Ahkune. This time she wasn’t fast enough, and the force of their impact sent them rolling across the ground. The spark where they’d touched before turned into a blaze, fire trailing where their skin met. They wrestled and Ahkune locked her legs around his waist, twisting out from under him, but Tenkof grabbed

her and pulled with all of his might. The wolves growled with spiky hackles raised. Ahkune wouldn’t let Tenkof win without a fight, so she pushed hard, and he growled, showing teeth and tusks. The fire inside her roared, spreading through her abdomen. When Tenkof managed to get one leg between hers, she didn’t try to move away and let him pin her wrists to the ground above her head. His grin was dark and triumphant around his tusks, ivory jutting over the dark green line of his curled lips. He leaned down to nip at her chin. Ahkune hissed and shifted. She tried to bear down on his leg and make contact with where the fire had pooled in her center. She managed to grind down once, pleasure spiking at the drag of his firm muscle against her most vulnerable place, leaving an ache that craved more. Ahkune opened her eyes to see Tenkof’s closing, and her knee caught him off guard when she jammed it between his legs. Across the clearing, the white wolf snarled and snapped at Kosh. Tenkof growled, his smile turned dark as Ahkune scrambled backward, out from beneath him. She laughed and leaned forward, into a crouch, brow raised in challenge. He licked his lips, and when he rushed her, it was different. There was no hint of laughter in his expression, no soft edges to his attack. Kosh lunged toward his mate at the same time, and they both landed. Tenkof grabbed Ahkune by the waist and yanked her up, slamming her against the nearest tree. Kosh’s jaws were wide around the white wolf’s neck, holding her in place as he shifted slowly into position. Tenkof pressed himself against Ahkune, and she could feel the hard lines of his body, and the press of his cock heavy against her abdomen. She’d seen him fully naked before, as they bathed or swam in the river, but this was different; he wasn’t soft, hanging between his legs, no. He was hard and jutted against her. Her eyes widened as arousal flared inside and left her flushed and panting as Tenkof pushed against her once, then stopped, face buried in her neck. The needy noise that escaped her throat surprised her as much as him. Tenkof pulled back enough to look at her, his eyes wide as she whimpered, the need coursing through her suddenly intensified low in her pelvis, hot and slick. All she could think about was how good it felt when he moved against her, and she said so. Tenkof leaned in and her lips parted automatically, her eyes drawn to his mouth. She forced herself to look up when he paused and found him watching her carefully. “Tenkof,” she breathed, “I’m going to kick you again if you don’t do something.” Tenkof growled and surged against her, and she opened her mouth when his lips crashed into hers, and spread her legs so he could shift between them, the press of his cock through the loincloth and her fur skirt even closer and harder than before. She keened, bit his bottom lip, then licked it before he took over and kissed her again. He tasted like bitter herbs, and he turned to spit the sachet on the ground before returning to her mouth. She ground helplessly against him when the hot press of his tongue against hers was too much, yet not enough. “Ahkune,” he said, voice husky with desire, and pulled back. “You’re sure?” She reached up and buried her hands in his hair, and tugged him back to her. “Yes,” she said and bit the tip of his nose. Tenkof laughed, and his chest rumbled against hers, then ducked his head to lick and bite her neck. She groaned, and he reached down to search her skirt. He found the leather tie on one side and pulled it loose, the fur loosening then falling away from her hips. Ahkune inhaled sharply at the sudden exposure of skin, and he pressed his hand between her legs. His other hand shifted up under her thin leather vest, finding the soft swell of one small breast. He pinched her nipple hard, then pushed the vest off her shoulders. “Yes,” she moaned. She fumbled with his chest as he tweaked her nipple with his free hand and rubbed over the sensitive flesh below with his other. He rubbed back and forth until her slick spread between the

folds of her skin, coating his fingers so he could explore more easily, tugging at the thin skin of her entrance. Ahkune hissed and flicked his nipples in return, and it was his turn to groan at the flare of sharp pain, pushing against her as his cock throbbed. Tenkof kissed Ahkune and pushed two fingers into her hot, wet channel, and they heard the white wolf howl as Kosh finally mounted her. Ahkune’s hands trailed down his chest, nails scratching over the tight muscles of his abdomen, catching on the band of his loincloth. The leather tie wasn’t hard to find, and much like hers all it took was a quick tug before the leather was sliding off his skin, and nothing was left between them. She palmed his length as he rocked his fingers in and out of her. She stroked him with unsteady hands, fingers sliding up and over the ridge at the head of his cock with each tug. Precome dripped from the slit at the tip of his cock, down his length, and her hand was sticky with it. He grunted and bit her neck harder, and she gasped as he pressed in with a third wide finger. “More,” she said and nipped at his shoulder. “Need more.” He twisted the nipple on her other breast and captured her in a kiss, tongue pressing into her mouth. It was deep and wet, and she kissed him back just as hard, only breaking the kiss to whine when he pulled his fingers out of her. “I’m here,” he reassured her, and lined himself up, pressing the blunt head of his cock against the soft, slick entrance where her legs spread. Ahkune rolled her hips and his cock slid back and forth, oozing precome that mixed with her wet arousal. He pushed in and she whimpered as something tight inside resisted; he pushed harder, and the fire in her loins exploded as the resistance gave way to a sting of pain. Tenkof filled her, thick and heavy, stretching her--Ahkune’s thoughts were broken and jumbled as she clung to Tenkof, digging her nails into his arms, his back. She pressed her face against his chest as he pushed as far as he could, and he groaned when he bottomed out. They stayed that way for a moment, Ahkune full but not satisfied, her face against his chest, both breathing heavily. The pain faded, leaving only the raging fire within that wanted. Tenkof pulled back and she bit her lip at the loss of sensation; but he pushed back in, hard, and Ahkune couldn’t hold back the sounds she made, loud and desperate as Tenkof began to move in earnest. The blazing pleasure grew with each rough thrust. They picked up speed as they moved in tandem, racing toward an end that neither had ever shared, Ahkune moaning, and Tenkof grunting. Each thrust grew harder, each grunt louder, until Ahkune's eyes watered from the intense pleasure that rolled over her in waves. Each subsequent wave swelled taller and crashed harder, until Ahkune hit the pinnacle and the final wave shattered over her, pleasure pulling her under as her orgasm pulsed from her center. She panted as her muscles contracted around Tenkof, and she felt him swell and thicken inside of her as his thrusts turned short, and jerky. He followed her over the edge, cock pulsing in time with shallow thrusts as he came buried inside of her. Ahkune could feel the sweat drip from his face, covering his chest and shoulders in a sheen. His cock twitched inside of her as he softened, and she sagged against him. Tenkof wrapped his arms around her and held her up, and the wolves howled together. After a few breaths, Tenkof softened enough to slip out, and Ahkune grumbled at the sudden loss of sensation. “You’ll have me again,” Tenkof whispered just behind her ear and nuzzled her neck before he reached down and slid two fingers into her again. “Already?” she chuckled, and he huffed a laugh. “No,” he pressed his lips against the line of her chin. “Without you, I would have spilled my seed on the ground, for the wolves. Kosh and I are bonded, but she’s his. She needs to know that I am an extension of her mate.” He kissed Ahkune again, tongue only darting out to lick her bottom lip, before he pulled away, carrying their shared fluid

over to the wolves. He crouched next to them, Kosh bound to his mate, and held his hand out for the female to lift her head and sniff his fingers, then lick them clean. Kosh’s ears perked up, alert, and he watched until his mate was finished. Ahkune ran her hand over the neat braid that went down the back of her head and ended above her neck, watching as her closest companion, turned lover, walked back to her. “What now?” she asked Tenkof quietly when he crossed the clearing. He sat and gestured for her, so she sat next to him and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. They settled on the ground together, his arm keeping her at his side. His voice was a quiet rumble. “We stay with them. If they mate again, we mate again. If anything attempts to interrupt, we protect them. Tonight is for their bond, and my bond with both of them.” The white wolf whined and stared at Ahkune with soulful yellow eyes. “Our bond,” Tenkof corrected, and his arm tightened around Ahkune as the white wolf settled down and looked away. “I have always known you would be my mate, Ahkune. I didn’t expect it to happen now, but--” he shook his head. “What’s done is done.” “We coupled,” she said, and jabbed him in the side with her elbow. “We’re not mated yet.” “Tell that to the wolves,” he said, and pressed a fist to her hair and roughened it quickly. Ahkune laughed and tried to squirm away, but he shifted his hand to the side of her face, cupped her cheek with one palm, and stared. Ahkune softened at the warm expression on Tenkof’s face as he looked her over carefully, then kissed her again. He was right, of course. They may not have been mated by ceremony, but the wolves watched them with knowing eyes, and something in Ahkune’s chest had trilled in delight when Tenkof called her his mate. When his lips met hers, it felt like coming home with full packs after a long hunt, or the cold rain on dry fields after a stifling, arid summer. She kissed him back and didn’t think about the future; she simply existed in his embrace, and it felt right. “No matter what punishment awaits my disobedience, I have no regrets,” she told him, tracing the line of his wide jaw with one finger. “I will be by your side, to shoulder my half of any punishment,” Tenkof trailed kisses down her jaw. “Mate.” Their paths had been intertwined since birth, and she knew she was meant to be at his side. The trees sighed as a gentle wind blew, as if the elements agreed. Tenkof mouthed the curve of her neck and followed it down, down, down, as Ahkune tangled her fingers in his dark hair. She let herself test the word, “mate,” as he spread the folds of soft skin between her legs with his tongue. She liked the shape of the word on her lips, and she spoke it out loud. “Mate.” Tenkof groaned against her sensitive flesh, and she shuddered. “Say it again,” he demanded, looking up at her. “Mate,” she said, showing him her teeth. “My mate.” Tenkof’s eyes grew dark with want, and he nipped her thighs before crawling up and over her body, pushing her down against the ground. “Yes,” he said and covered her body with his own. “Yours.” The earth beneath Ahkune hummed quietly, content, similar to her own emotions as they touched each other. Wor’amon momentarily sated, they explored with no urgency as the wolves rested together. Ahkune was happy to be at his side like she’d always been, and didn’t worry about the eventual return to their village; as he’d said, Tenkof would be by her side, and they would carry their burdens together. Mates. ***

#world of warcraft #world of warcrack #smut #schmoopy fluff #i am writing again and it feels amazing #not my best but it was fun #cleaning out the wips/ideas folder #orcs #male/female #crossposted

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