#a beguiling combination of I Can Fix Him and He Can Fix Me

[omghallucinations]

charts that made me go "oh boy": stray kids lee know

ok. well. i've been on a journey.

i was innocently inputting idols with known birth times into my astro software as i do and i put this guy in and said "oh... oh boy..." out loud so obviously i decided to do a write-up

i finished this write-up. realized i was bias wrecked all to hell. so. there u go. let this be a warning to you all. be careful whose chart you analyze because you could end up with a Problem!!

unrelated (related) i just love a sagittarius moon. my favorite moon there is. some people love a taurus moon, fair, valid (also lee know has his moon in the 2nd which is basically a layer of taurusy vibe) but i love a sagittarius moon most of all. those guys are crazy (affectionate). you cannot kill them in any way that matters. truly understand the inherent hilariousness of life... .. somehow can always see through the illusions of capitalism... i love them.

who is this anaretic degree ass

girl how many important degrees... do u need... ... i have two 29s and one 0 in my chart and i thought that was a lot...

lee know has both venus and neptune at 29 (and venus at 29.59 which is, wow old soul ready to get the hell off this lawn much?). the anaretic degree is the "fated degree"--it's like, your soul has just about mastered this energy and is about to take it somewhere else (bc the next degree is not 30, it's 0 of the next sign) so it's time for some TESTS. it's crises and gifts. often you're naturally good at this energy in whatever form that takes, but it's gonna fuck with you on and off throughout your life. more during the first half to be fair. especially with that 0 degree saturn, he'll probably be in way better shape after his saturn return.

venus at 29(.59?!?!) in libra -- ok i also have venus at 29 (.09!), so i can tell you that he never has to be single if he doesn't want to be, but it is not gonna go right for a long ass time and he's gonna be weird and intense about relationships and it will not feel good. he might think it is going right. he is wrong. get ready for some gifts but ALSO some crises with love and creativity and beauty and shit--especially with venus at home in libra and his scorpio rising. he's definitely captivating, and can probably bamboozle whoever he wants with his beauty and charm, but his crisis and urgency feeling in love is probably a Whole Lot both for him and for his partners. and it's in the 12th house like.. .. . oh boy honey. he's gonna hide his need for love and validation and his sensitivity so hard. also literally his relationships (and they'll probably be undefined for a long time) despite the fact that every one is gonna be so intense.

it's also opposite his 0 degree saturn????? girl!! and conjunct his sun also in the 12th... .. . . . well at least you are so beautiful and charming and generous, lee know, and everyone really likes you. i know u issues and tremendous sensitivity that you hide like crazy and probably a judgmental family member (who probably means well, unfortunately!) whose influence burdens u even now as u feel like there are somehow always Forces Working Against You for no reason! even tho u just gotta Believe In Yourself dot mp3.....

bright side! when he works through some of this stuff he's very likely gonna have a very solid and mature marriage and he already has sort of a maturity leg-up, thank u saturn in taurus and juno conjunct sun. eventually you will look back on the many unhinged texts you sent at 2am and laugh... . .. more than you already do, you sagittarius moon, you!!

neptune at 29 capricorn in the 3rd house -- hahahaha welcome to crises and gifts around dreams, illusions, secrets, delusions, etc. and make it capricorn: old soul vibes, anxiety, not gonna settle until later in life. in the 3rd house: dreams and illusions with gemini vibes, unending curiosity, brain running at 300 all day all night, so many Thoughts. hm. does he have adhd (inattentive subtype)???he's super creative and iconoclastic but he may be doing a lot of talking and not a lot of... doing. it's also a weird mood to have the fanciful dreams planet in the harsh reality sign, there's conflict inherent there. (oh lord, neptune is square venus and saturn with a 0 orb??? t-square??? bro??? lee know did ur parents or teachers or society crush ur dreams??? do you now crush your own dreams urself in advance to avoid disappointment??? do u think you can either have love or success and not both???)

(i can fix him!! wait.)

lunar nodes at 29 (NN in Leo in the 10th, SN in Aquarius in the 4th) -- lol this plus his 29.59 venus, his soul is Ready to Move On from these lessons hahaha, luckily his career really reflects his soul growth shit--moving away from his comfort zone of being a semi-reclusive iconoclastic weirdo with depressive tendencies who stays at home and moving towards self expression, celebration of himself and creativity in his career/a public space. he is gonna have a lot of crises about this though, since the south node is still really important and you shouldn't abandon it, it's ur foundation. he's gonna have questions like what does "be yourself" even mean??? how public is too public? how private is too private? what if i Fail, Publicly??? what if i don't put myself out there enough???

(he probably does not put himself out there enough, because of the relationship between his nodes, saturn, venus and his 12th house sun--but he should!! fight for your opportunities king!!)

(if u do not already have a therapist, lee know, please... get a therapist... it will help u.... i swear....)

we're still not done with degrees for some reason

saturn at 0 degrees taurus in the 6th house: another #same, my saturn is also at 0 degrees!! ateez jongho is another one with a 0 degree saturn, it's a very strong aura no matter what. any planet at 0 is fresh and new and EXCITED TO BE THERE and depending on aspects etc it will almost always express the energy of the planet in that sign real... loud... and real... vibrantly... ... .. without much nuance... for better or worse. this doesn't have to be a straightforward manifestation of the sign, sometimes it's wonky, but either way it's just a lot of Pure Sign and Planet Energy.

saturn is a more outer planet, so normally the sign its in is more of a light flavor and the much more important thing is the aspects and the house its in. if saturn is at 0, scratch that whole sentence

saturn in taurus is really. really clear in lee know's personality, tbh even to someone who only knows him from his professional activities. like. startlingly. i see her. saturn is a force for maturity, lessons, responsibility, discipline, structure, practicality, actual real physical life not the idea of life, and in taurus it's going. home. bye. the taurus jumps out. he's not too fussed about how much attention he's getting, or how much center time, he never jumps in ego-first. in the sixth house of work daily life and virgo vibes he's just gonna do what he's gotta do and get it done. solid, mature, grounded, no celebrity disease in sight, really a nice counterpoint to the kinda manic romance he's got going on in the 12th that would unhinge him from reality in many ways if it weren't for saturn

sixth house also gives some health stuff, some virgo vibes, can be critical. he might have or have had some health probs, or he may have them in future if he isn't super careful

taurus in the sixth to me gives apartment rooftop garden, beloved pets (6th house is the small animals house :)), dependable cornerstone at work but leaves at 5pm sharp because he wants to GO HOME. he's not gonna do more than he has to do because that's #stupid and he's not #stupid. he's not lazy at all he uses exactly the amount of energy he needs to and no more, again, because he's not dumb. vibes. icon. comfort. ease. chilling out.

he probably can really cut you deep if he wants to (especially with his chart ruler being his super specific and critical virgo mars in the 10th), luckily he doesn't care enough most of the time

(being mean in a funny way does not count, because of his aforementioned sagittarius moon and various gemini/virgo influences, it's the way he expresses affection!)

party (?) in his first house

idk i think a lot of idols have stuff in their first house, more proportionally than most people, which makes sense for their whole...situation. anyway. his first house has:

scorpio mercury: fun!! anything in your first house is gonna color the rest of your chart, almost like another layer to your rising. for example ateez hongjoong and (g)idle soyeon are both capricorn risings with uranus and neptune in the first house, so they're not regular capricorn risings, they're capricorn-aquarius-pisces risings. with mercury in there lee know gets a fun gemini/virgo flavor to his life path/vibe. he's gonna be chattier, funnier, externally wittier than most scorpio risings, more similar to a gemini or virgo rising in that way. it really is his cross of Sexy Intense Head Bitch You Shouldn't Cross but also Head Silly Yapper. his mercury is widely conjunct his ascendant, so the gemini/virgo/communication focus comes across strongly.

he's smart and curious and can talk anyone into anything at any time. it's another thing in his chart that chills out the sort of. self-serious Drama of scorpio placements (she said, scorpio moonly). mercury is zany!! and can really think itself into all sorts of interesting places (anxiety vortex? deluluville? why not both???)

scorpio chiron: well ya can't have it all. he has some pain and wounds around his own identity and place in the world as well as his soul-need for independence and self-assertion. it's complicated for him to Be Himself and with scorpio he probably has some past life shit here (in addition to his many heavily karmic 29 degree placements, let's all say thank you god for giving him a sagittarius moon and mercury in the 1st house)

sagittarius pluto: power. magnetism. take the usual power of a scorpio rising and crank it up to 20. also he has a temper under the calm, methodical taurus saturn and also thinks he's right 100% of the time. and he has some deep feelings and can empathize with the suffering of others! most importantly his past life stuff has been rooted in the search for identity and place in the world and he finds unconscious security in independence and his ability to assert himself, probably extra complicated for his 29 degree libra venus who craves union with another! lol!

this is honestly only just scratching the surface (just like any chart interpretation) but i gotta stop!! unfortunately i've been bias wrecked by an astrological chart. embarrassing as hell!!

[likecastle]

In which Jaskier cuts Geralt’s hair

Well, folks, I was inspired by Geralt’s slightly wavier wig in the new S2 promo photos to write a story in which Geralt finally gets some proper haircare and it brings out his natural curl pattern. This somehow turned into 7,000 words of Geralt musing about his own terrible self-image and Jaskier tenderly negotiating a haircut.

Credit for Geralt’s 3-in-1 shower products goes to @exrayspex​, with my thanks for their enthusiasm about this exceedingly soft concept!  

I’d like to put this up on AO3 at some point, but the title has me stumped, so if anyone has a suggestion, please let me know.

“When are you going to let me cut your hair?”

Geralt snorts, incredulous. “I’m not.”

Jaskier fixes Geralt with a pleading look. The streaks of peacock blue Jaskier recently added to his hair really bring out the color of his eyes—all the better to beguile him with. “Come on, Geralt, don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Geralt says, trying without much luck to keep his attention on the TV screen. Suddenly he has to fight the urge to tuck a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.

“It would look so nice if you just took proper care of it,” Jaskier wheedles.

“It doesn’t need to look nice.” Geralt can feel his shoulders creeping up towards his ears, and he wishes Jaskier would look at something else besides him. “It’s just hair.”

“But—”

Geralt jabs the remote in the direction of the TV. “Are you going to let me watch this or do you want to go home?”

“Fine, you grouch,” Jaskier says, returning his attention to the screen.

It must not hold Jaskier’s interest, though, because he can feel Jaskier’s gaze returning to him periodically throughout the rest of the film—which in itself isn’t all that unusual, since Jaskier watches even movies he really likes with one eye on his phone. Except that when Geralt meets his gaze, Jaskier’s looking at him with a wistful, almost sad expression. Geralt doesn’t let himself wonder what might be on his mind.

Later, Jaskier yawns wide and says he’d better be going if he doesn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel on the way home. It’s just a dramatic excuse not to help clean up, Geralt knows, but he can’t help smiling at the way Jaskier rubs at his eyes, smudging the faded remnants of his eyeliner. Geralt walks him to the door, and for a moment Jaskier just stands there on the porch, looking at Geralt thoughtfully.

When his hand reaches up, Geralt freezes. He thinks for a moment that Jaskier’s about to cup his cheek and drawn him down—but he just takes a strand of frizzy hair that’s come loose from Geralt’s ponytail and twists it around a finger.

“I thought so,” Jaskier says, with a private little smile.

Geralt’s sure Jaskier must be able to hear the way his breath’s gotten jammed up in his chest. “Thought—?”

“Nothing.” Jaskier digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and starts down the front steps. “G’night, Geralt.”

As Geralt tidies away their takeout containers and empty beer bottles, his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier’s offer. He knows Jaskier’s just trying to be nice—or trying to fix him, the way he tried to “liven up” Geralt’s wardrobe early in their friendship and tried to set him up on dates after he split up with Yen last year. But the options he tries to push on Geralt—the overpriced bomber jacket Jaskier bought him that’s still sitting at the back of his closet, the gorgeous chestnut-haired nurse Jaskier introduced him to—always seem to reflect more about Jaskier’s idea of Geralt than they do about Geralt himself.

Because the thing is, he’s not brash and stylish like Jaskier, who’s all eccentric colors combinations and flashing rings that accentuate his expressive hands. Jaskier knows how to construct an outfit that tells the world exactly who he is at any given moment, from his ever-evolving hairstyles to his painstakingly-sourced vintage clothes. Geralt, on the other hand, is just—nothing, an absence of style. His idea of a good outfit is one he can forget he’s wearing, one that will make everyone else forget him when he’s wearing it. His relationship to his appearance is as estranged as his relationship to his ex-wife. Being in his body, making use of it when he’s lifting weights or hammering a nail or swinging Ciri up in his arms—that makes sense to him. But thinking about his body is the opposite of that. He doesn’t like being looked at, even by himself. He avoids the mirror on his medicine cabinet as much as he can and starts feeling close and queasy if he so much as looks at himself in a dressing room mirror.

Before he goes to bed that night, he shakes his hair out from his ponytail and makes himself take a long, hard look in the mirror. All he sees is the sallow, tired-eyed face of a man who can hardly remember how to smile anymore, a face scarred from carelessness and creased from years of worry. His dull white hair, which Jaskier had twisted so carefully around his finger, is somehow greasy and dried out at the same time, limp around his face but bristly at the ends. He can’t find any sign of the potential Jaskier seems to think is there. He suspects it was never there in the first place—a mirage visible only to well-intentioned flatterers like Jaskier—and he feels foolish for looking.

No, Geralt decides, he’s not going to let Jaskier cut his hair, or do anything else to him. Better not to bother at all.

*

The next time the topic of Geralt’s hair comes up, he’s brought Ciri into Jaskier’s salon for an emergency haircut. Ordinarily, Yennefer handles things like haircuts and clothes shopping, but Saturday night, Ciri emerged from the bathroom with the front her hair lopped off somewhere around her eyebrows and a dawning expression of anxious regret on her face. Geralt had reassured her that everything would be OK, while texting Jaskier frantically for help and silently panicking about what Yen was going to say when she came to pick Ciri up on Sunday night. Thankfully, Jaskier was able to squeeze Ciri into his schedule this afternoon, and he promised to fix Ciri up.

So now Geralt is sitting awkwardly in the waiting area, hunched on a squeaky vinyl-upholstered chair. He’s been to Jaskier’s salon plenty of times—to meet him for lunch or a post-shift drink, to drop off something he left at the house or to give him a ride home—but he rarely does more than stand uneasily just inside the door. The relentless pop music and the echoing acoustics never fail to overwhelm him, as does the muddle of scents—clouds of different hair products and the pervasive smell of something sharp like ammonia. The abundance of mirrors unnerves him, too. Nobody can possibly need to see so many views of their own reflection, can they? Between the curious patrons peering at him in the mirrors and passersby staring in through the plate glass storefront, Geralt feels like he’s on display. And to make matters worse, he keeps catching glimpses of his reflection, his own hunted expression looking back at him from unexpected angles.

Ciri, at least, is having a great time, chatting happily with Jaskier as he snips away at her hair. The last time Geralt took Ciri for a haircut, it was at one of those children’s salons where the chairs looked like toy cars, and now here she is, sitting beside grown women almost like she’s one of them. It scares him, sometimes, to think of her growing up—more than sometimes. There are so many ways the world can fail her, and he can only do so much to protect her. There’s going to come a time when she’s going to get into some kind of trouble he won’t be able to bail her out of, and he’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself when that day comes. But for now, at least he can pay Jaskier to fix her disastrous home-brew haircut.

“What d’you think, Dad?” Ciri calls, and he looks up to see Jaskier removing her cape with a flourish. When he turns Ciri’s chair around to face him, Geralt’s heart catches in his throat. How grown up she looks, he thinks, but what really makes his chest ache is how much she’s coming into herself—becoming someone with her own unique taste in clothes and books and music, who won’t compromise about the bullshit dress codes at school and is brave enough to try something new even if the results are atrocious. He doesn’t know where she gets it.

“You like it?” he asks, not trusting himself to say something that won’t embarrass her.

“Yeah, I guess,” she says with a shrug, and hops down from the chair.

“We could do yours next, Geralt,” Jaskier offers, sweeping up the little blonde fragments of Ciri’s hair from the floor around his station.

“Ooh, yeah!” Ciri grins up at him. “I bet Jaskier would give you a really cool haircut.”

“I’m sure he would,” Geralt says mildly. He doesn’t want to quash Ciri’s enthusiasm or impart his own discomfort to her. It’s one of the things that keeps him up at night, the fear that he’ll pass down all his insecurities. He tries so hard to keep that shit buttoned up, to shield her from his own shortcomings—and he knows it’s inevitable that he’s just going to mess her up in other ways, but he wants to do better for her, has to do better. “Maybe some other time.”

“So you’ll consider it!” Jaskier says triumphantly, coming over to tell the receptionist the total for Ciri’s cut.

Geralt notices Ciri looking at herself in the big mirror behind the front desk, fussing self-consciously with her new fringe. Jaskier must notice, too, because he gives Ciri a big hug and says, “You look great, kiddo. Right, Geralt?”

“Definitely,” Geralt says, surrendering his credit card to the receptionist to pay a frankly staggering amount. He tips a hundred percent.

*

“You should take him up on it,” Yennefer says that evening when Geralt concludes the story of Ciri’s haircut by telling her about Jaskier’s offer to cut Geralt’s hair.

Geralt blinks in surprise. “Really?”

She glances back to where Ciri is waiting for her in the car. “Jaskier did a good job. She and I are going to have a serious conversation later about when to ask for permission and when to ask for forgiveness, but I have to admit it suits her.”

“It does,” Geralt agrees. He realizes he doesn’t know what it would be like, to feel his appearance suited him. He’s never tried, really, to make his exterior reflect his interior, wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Besides,” Yennefer says, gesturing to his haphazard ponytail, “you really do need to start taking better care of yourself, now that I’m not around to make sure you’re presentable anymore.”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, a smile twitching his lips. “Is that what you were doing? Looking after me?”

Yennefer lifts one hand to tug a lock of his hair, the gesture so similar to Jaskier’s that it makes him shiver, for some reason. “No, but somebody ought to.”

He ducks his head, hoping to hide the ache that washes through him—a longing for something they both wanted but never quite managed to find together. “If you keep Ciri waiting much longer, she’s gonna make a break for it.”

“She would, too,” Yennefer says affectionately. “Take care of yourself, Geralt.” She surprises him by brushing a kiss against his cheek, then turns to go.

Geralt waits until Yennefer’s car is out of sight before he goes inside. As he loads the dinner dishes into the dishwasher, he thinks again about Jaskier’s offer. He’s never been good at asking for things, let alone holding on them once he has them, but it’s been especially hard since he and Yennefer split—even the littlest things feel like they require an effort it’s not worth making. It’s so easy to tell himself he doesn’t need anything—a fancy haircut, a new jacket, a reassuring glance, a gentle touch. But sometimes, maybe, it’s enough to want them.

Wiping soapy water off his hands, Geralt pulls his phone from his pocket and texts Jaskier. Does your offer to cut my hair still stand? Only if you’ve got time.

OMG YES!!! comes the immediate reply. I can be there in 20. Then, a moment later, Jaskier amends, Shit wait make that 40 need to run to get some supplies

Geralt huffs out a laugh. Have to get up early tomorrow. This weekend?

All booked up this weekend but I’m off on Tues so I can come over to your place in the pm if that works for you

He’d hoped to give himself a few days to cancel, just in case he changes his mind, and in this respect Tuesday’s almost no better than forty minutes from now. But he does like the idea of doing this at home, instead of in the salon. He types out OK and hits send before he can think better of it.

Don’t chicken out before then

No promises, Geralt answers.

Jaskier responds with a string of emoji that Geralt finds completely inscrutable, but which make him smile nonetheless.

*

Jaskier arrives on Tuesday evening with a six-pack of cold beer and bag crammed full of supplies.

“I thought you were going to cut my hair, not outlast a siege,” Geralt says, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists with nerves over this impending ordeal. He should have cancelled. He should never have said yes to this ridiculous idea.

“Oh, none of this would be remotely useful in warfare,” Jaskier replies. Then, contemplatively, he says, “Well, maybe some of it. But first, I thought we could have a drink.”

“So you can cut my hair drunk?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and brushes past Geralt into the kitchen, dumping his bag into an empty chair at the table. “So you can relax a little for once. And so we can talk.”

Geralt feels the knot of anxiety in his stomach tighten even further. “What is there to talk about? It’s just a haircut.”

Jaskier lets out a long-suffering sigh as he rummages around in Geralt’s cutlery drawer in search of a bottle opener. “Geralt, have you not listened to a single word I’ve said about my job?” He pops off the caps of two bottles of beer and hands one to Geralt. “No, don’t answer that, I know you haven’t.”

Geralt takes a sullen sip of his beer, but he doesn’t dispute the accusation.

With a nod of his head, Jaskier gestures for Geralt to follow him into the living room, and flops down on what Geralt has come to think of as his side of the couch. Geralt sits at the other end, turned to face him. “You need to know what you want going into this, or you won’t get good results.” Jaskier fixes him with a gaze that makes Geralt take another swallow of his beer. “Have you ever given any thought to what you like, or don’t like, about your hair?”

“Not . . . really,” Geralt mumbles, wondering how angry Jaskier would be if he called this whole thing off now.

“Well,” Jaskier says patiently, “why do you keep your hair long? I always assumed it was because you liked how it looked, but I’m realizing now I’ve never asked about it.”

Geralt takes another sip of his beer and tries to think of answer that’s not Because I do. He’s worn it long since high school, when it was primarily something to hide behind. It felt like a kind of fuck-you, an off-putting choice to keep people from looking too closely at him—and to help him forget about other people, too. “It’s easier,” he says finally. “Don’t have to get it cut every few weeks, and I can keep it out of my face.”

“OK, that’s good to know.” The calm, encouraging tone Jaskier’s taking should feel condescending, but Geralt finds he doesn’t mind—or maybe it’s just the beer starting to relax him a little.

“You don’t always tie it back, though, do you?” Jaskier goes on.

Geralt shakes his head. “When I’m working, yeah, but the rest of the time . . .” He shrugs. It depends—on who he’s around, how comfortable he feels with them, hell, how hard the wind is blowing. Sometimes he can’t stand the feeling of it in face, and sometimes the pressure of the hair elastic at the base of his skull is enough to make him want to rip it out.

“Can I . . . ?” Jaskier gestures to Geralt’s hair, and Geralt inclines his head. It’s inevitable that Jaskier will have to touch him if they’re going to go through with this, so there’s no point in being shy about it. Jaskier scoots forward on the couch, and Geralt holds very still, letting him reach back and undo the tie holding his hair back. A sheet of frizzy white strands spills around his bowed head, almost obscuring Jaskier from view.

He can feel Jaskier, though, running his fingers through his hair. The touch makes Geralt’s scalp tingle and a shiver runs through him that he tries and fails to suppress.

“OK?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods.

“You’ve never told me when you went grey.” Jaskier’s voice is hushed, almost as if he’s afraid of startling him. He continues to card his hand through Geralt’s hair—with professional curiosity, Geralt realizes, but the touch is so gentle it also feels like a reassurance. Geralt closes his eyes, grateful to be shielded from Jaskier’s view.

“Started in high school,” he says. It’s been a long time since he thought about how, when those first thick streaks of white were coming into his dark hair, kids at school would call him skunk and Cruella de Vil, shit he knew better than to respond to but that just made him even more self-conscious. It occurs to him now that most of his memories of being looked at—really noticed—are colored by other people’s derision for things he can’t help. “It was all like this by the time I was twenty-one, twenty-two. Someone told me once it’s genetic, but . . .” He shrugs again. He’s got no one to ask about a family history of premature graying, no photos of distant relatives to compare himself to.

Gentle fingers tuck his hair back behind one ear, and Geralt looks up to see Jaskier smiling at him. “I would pay good money to see pictures of you in high school. I bet you were so surly.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me,” Geralt says “I was insufferable.” Miserable and ungrateful and roiling with self-righteous anger all the time, hardly able to string a civil sentence together.

Jaskier rewards him with a snort of disbelieving laughter. “You’re insufferable now and I like you just fine.”

This is true, Geralt thinks. His anger has banked down somewhat since those days, but he’s no less difficult to be around, and Jaskier’s never seemed to mind his rough edges. If he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate Jaskier in those day. His constant talking and absurd jokes would have grated on Geralt’s nerves, back then. They did when he first met Jaskier, in fact. He tried, for a long time, to keep his distance, sure that there was nothing he and Jaskier could possibly have to say to each other. But Jaskier kept turning up, kept surprising him, kept being kind to him for no damn reason. Geralt’s glad he did.

“So,” Jaskier says, pushing the conversation back in his desired direction, as he always does, “what I’m hearing is, you like wearing your hair long?”

Geralt considers, taking another swallow of his beer. Liking doesn’t figure into his thinking much, but it’s not just out of habit that he keeps it this way. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s nod is solemn. “Anything you don’t like about it?”

Again, Geralt has to give this serious thought. “There are, uh . . .” He gestures to the wiry flyaways that tend to form around his head by the end of the day. They tend to tickle his face unpleasantly as he works, which is irritating when he doesn’t hand a hand free to brush them away.

“Yeah, it’s a little dry,” Jaskier says. “But we can fix that up.” Geralt knows exactly how soft Jaskier’s hair is, and he can’t imagine his own ragged hair could ever come close. “Anything else?”

Geralt shrugs.

“OK,” Jaskier says, “enough with the interrogation. I think I’ve got everything I need.”

Jaskier gets up and retrieves another beer—not for himself, but for Geralt. Jaskier’s fingers brush his as he hands over the bottle, and it gives him the same little shiver that he felt when Jaskier was combing through his hair. “D’you want me to tell you what I’m thinking, or just surprise you?”

Geralt’s gut instinct is to make Jaskier tell him what he’s got in mind, so that he has the option to veto it and put this whole thing to a stop. But he thinks of Jaskier’s teasing question the first time they talked about this—Don’t you trust me?—and how he’d said no when the answer is really yes. So he takes a deep pull of his beer and says, “Surprise me.”

The look of glee on Jaskier’s face is worth the knot of dread that immediately forms in Geralt’s stomach. He takes another drinks and reminds himself that it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.

“You’re not gonna regret it, I promise,” Jaskier says, and then his warm hands are urging Geralt up and off the couch.

It takes them a while to get everything situated to Jaskier’s liking—the bathroom is too cramped to accommodate a chair, so Jaskier has Geralt drag one into the kitchen, covering the floor in newspapers to catch the stray clippings. Then Jaskier sends Geralt to wash his hair while he sets up the rest of his supplies. When Geralt comes back downstairs, his hair soaking into his t-shirt, there is a truly staggering array of equipment spread out on the counter, Jaskier’s own little traveling apothecary kit, with everything from dangerously sharp scissors to brightly-colored bottles of product to some kind of instrument that looks like a bowl full of dull spikes, which Jaskier says attaches to his hair dryer.

“Rule number one,” Jaskier says, grabbing the towel out of Geralt’s hands. “No more regular towels on your hair. Your hair deserves to be treated with care.” Geralt snorts, but the towel he hands Geralt is pleasantly soft, with finer knap that’s soft as fleece in his hands. “And don’t rub at it,” Jaskier scolds. He steps closer, wrapping his hands around Geralt’s to guide him, his hand moving in a gentle squeezing motion. “That’s good,” he says, and Geralt feels his cheeks flush.

Once Geralt’s hair is toweled dry, Jaskier maneuvers him into the chair, and combs out his hair with a wide-toothed comb. Jaskier is exceedingly careful not to yank on the knots, but even so the gentle tug sets his skin tangling. Geralt knows his scalp is sensitive—he can remember fighting back tears while Vesemir struggled to brush out his unruly hair as a kid—but it’s never felt like this before. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that ordinarily, when he finally breaks down and subjects himself to a trim, he just asks Eskel do come over and cut it with the kitchen scissors. Even with someone he trusts as profoundly as he does Eskel, it’s still an uncomfortable ordeal that makes him unaccountably tense. But this isn’t painful, or unnerving at all. It’s . . . nice, embarrassingly so. He can’t help wondering what it would feel like if Jaskier were to drag his nails along his scalp—and then he has to force himself not to think about it, because even the thought of the sensation sends a shudder through him.

Thankfully, Jaskier is busy fiddling with his phone, and a moment later he puts on a playlist he likes to call Geralt’s Sad Dad Rock mix. Geralt appreciates the background noise—familiar songs he can tune out if he wants to, quiet enough that the music’s not intrusive.

“OK,” Jaskier says, snapping a cape around Geralt’s throat. His hand comes to rest on Geralt’s shoulder and he leans in to speak almost directly into Geralt’s ear. “Ready?”

Geralt suppresses another chill and says, “As I’ll ever be.”

Jaskier gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and gets to work. Geralt’s grateful for the lack of mirrors, because it means he doesn’t have to see what Jaskier’s doing, but at the same time it leaves him without much to go on—just the touch of the comb, Jaskier’s hands carefully repositioning his head, his fingers pulling this or that lock of hair taut to snip at them with the scissors. Eventually, Geralt closes his eyes and lets Jaskier’s voice wash over him. Jaskier often accuses Geralt of not listening to him when he talks, but in truth it’s easy to get lost in the lilting cadence of his speech, like hearing a song but not its lyrics.

“. . . and the thing is,” Jaskier’s saying, though Geralt lost the thread of his rambling long ago, “the more you do it, the better your results will be. You just have to help them along . . .”

He can see why Jaskier’s clients like him so much, how nice it is to fall into the pattern of someone else’s words, especially when that someone has as nice a voice as Jaskier. He’s often grateful for Jaskier’s conversation, which fills silences Geralt didn’t even realize were empty until he came along.

When Jaskier says, “OK, you’re all done,” Geralt is surprised by how quickly the time has passed. “We can just leave it at that and just let it air dry, or . . .” Even though he can’t see Jaskier, he can picture the hopeful expression on his face.

“What?” Geralt asks, twisting around in the chair to look Jaskier in the eye.

Jaskier bites his bottom lip, looking almost nervous. “Or I could show you how to style it. If you wanted. Nothing over the top, I promise.”

Geralt thinks it over. On the one hand, there’s no way he’ll ever bother repeating anything Jaskier shows him how to do, but on the other hand, he wouldn’t mind having Jaskier’s hands on him a little longer. “All right.”

“Really?” Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Nope, never mind, I’m not gonna second-guess this. No take-backs! You’re committed now.”

Which is how Geralt finds himself being hustled back upstairs and into the bathroom. Jaskier pulls back the shower curtain and is about to start issuing instructions when he lets out a squawk and staggers backward.

Geralt looks around in alarm, expecting to see a giant spider in the tub. It’s only belatedly that he realizes he’s thrown an arm out in front of Jaskier, as if that will protect him from whatever nonexistent threat he was reacting to. “What?”

“Geralt, for shame!” Jaskier exclaims, pointing to the bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash on the edge of the tub. “Is that yours?” He says it with all the breathless horror of someone discovering a murder weapon.

“Uh . . .” Geralt has the distinct feeling he should try to deny it, but there’s no point in trying to pretend. “Yes?”

And then Jaskier is laughing, but it’s warm with delight, not mocking or cruel. In fact, he looks up at Geralt with such fondness that Geralt almost can’t bear it. “Oh, you poor man,” Jaskier says between gusts of laughter. “No wonder your hair is so dry!”

“. . . It’s efficient,” Geralt mutters in a half-hearted attempt to defend himself.

“It’s like washing your hair with dish soap. But don’t worry,” he adds, pressing a hand to Geralt’s chest, “I’ll get you sorted out and then your hair will be so soft it’ll be completely irresistible.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says dubiously, but Jaskier just grins at him.

“OK, this next part is going to be a little awkward. Ordinarily you’d do it by yourself in the shower, but I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’d rather not jump in the shower with me right now.”

Geralt very much does not acknowledge the wave of heat that rolls through him at the thought.  “Probably wouldn’t fit, anyway.”

“Eh, I’ve made it work in smaller spaces than this,” Jaskier says, with such casual confidence that Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “But luckily, you’ve got one of those detachable showerheads, so we should be just fine. Might be easier, though, if you, uh, take off your shirt off.”

Geralt’s already come this far, and, besides, it’s not like Jaskier hasn’t seen him without his shirt on before. As Geralt strips off his shirt, Jaskier puts a towel down on the floor and beckons him to kneel down at the edge the tub. He’s careful to get the water to a comfortable temperature before he puts a warm hand on Geralt’s bare back, guiding him to lean over, his head bowed.

The routine Jaskier directs him through is more complicated than Geralt could ever have anticipated. There’s a thick, dark purple shampoo that Jaskier instructs him to use only once a week—he has another shampoo he’ll give Geralt to use at other times, but really, Jaskier insists, he should only be washing his hair a couple of times a week, anyway. Jaskier shows him how to rub the shampoo into his scalp only and let the water draw it down through the rest of his hair. The pressure of the spray on his scalp makes his skin tingle, as does the press of Jaskier’s body against his side. When Geralt doesn’t apply the conditioner to Jaskier’s liking, he adjusts Geralt’s hands with his own, smoothing their joined fingers through Geralt’s slippery hair. And when it comes time to rinse the conditioner out, he shows Geralt how to cup the water in his palms and press it into the wet mass of his hair.

“You’re doing great,” Jaskier tells him, and Geralt is grateful his face is hidden behind ropes of his wet hair.

Finally, Jaskier pronounces himself satisfied and turns off the water. Now that they’re done the task of washing his hair, Geralt’s awkwardly aware of his chest dripping with water in the cool air of the bathroom—and of Jaskier standing less than an arm’s length away from him.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is nothing but professional, rubbing a series of products into his hands and then smoothing them over Geralt’s hair. After each application, he gathers Geralt’s hair in his hands and presses it up toward Geralt’s scalp, just like they did with the water. It’s a bizarre motion, like nothing Geralt’s ever seen before, but it seems to be having the desired effect, because the strands of hair hanging down in front of his face are slowly forming into thick coils, and Jaskier keeps making little satisfied humming sounds with each new application. Jaskier finishes by wrapping Geralt’s hair up in another one of those extra soft towels.

“And now we wait,” he says, hopping up onto the sink.

Geralt pulls his shirt on again, careful not to disturb the towel on his head, and he might be wrong but he thinks that he catches a little disappointed frown cross Jaskier’s face, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Thanks for indulging me,” Jaskier says. “I know you don’t really like this kind of stuff, but I’m having a great time.”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Geralt replies. But that sounds worse than it did in his head, and he hastens to add, “I mean—it’s nice—when it’s you.”

Jaskier’s smile is something Geralt can’t quite get to the bottom of—fond and wry and maybe a little sad, too. “Well, I’ve been dying to do this pretty much since the moment I met you, so, you know, thanks for that.”

It’s strange to think Jaskier has been harboring private aspirations where Geralt is concerned. But then Jaskier’s always been full of surprises when it comes to him—immune to his ill temper, amused by his rudeness, tenacious enough to bully his way past his silences. He’s never understood what Jaskier sees in him, and he often feels he offers a poor reward for the hard work Jaskier puts in to being his friend. Because it’s not easy, Geralt knows. Plenty of people have decided Geralt was too difficult to get to know, or too prickly to stick with. Even Yennefer, who’s loved him better than he could possibly deserve, struggled to make inroads against Geralt’s defenses. It never seemed to matter how much he loved Yennefer, he could never bring himself to relax around her. He was always on tenterhooks, waiting for the other shoe to drop—until, in time, it did, a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. He can’t blame Yennefer ending things. She wants things he doesn’t know how to give. He couldn’t figure out how to change himself into the sort of person she deserved.

“D’you want another beer?” Jaskier asks, nudging Geralt’s knee with his bare foot.

He wouldn’t mind another drink, but he’s loathe to puncture the peaceful little moment that’s grown up between them. “Let’s just stay here.”

Jaskier nods, and a moment later Fleetwood Mac comes on over Jaskier’s phone speakers—one of the only bands they can agree on—and Jaskier treats him to an inspired rendition of “Dreams,” his voice turned otherworldly by the chill acoustics of the bathroom tiles. Geralt watches Jaskier dance on his perch on the edge of the sink and wonders, with an ache in his chest, what it would be like to be so uninhibited, so comfortable in his own skin. He can’t imagine it, but sometimes he feels like he’s maybe just a half-step closer to knowing when he’s around Jaskier.

When the song fades out, Jaskier hops down from the counter and says, “OK, time for the last step.”

Jaskier sticks that torture device attachment onto his hair dryer and lets Geralt’s hair down from the towel. Jaskier lets him stay seated, and starts drying his hair. He doesn’t pull Geralt’s hair taut with a brush, as Geralt has seen Yennefer do when styling her own hair. Instead, he gathers it up a section of hair in that little torture device accessory and holds the dryer still, letting the air work around the strands. Geralt closes his eyes against the noise and sensation of the air against his scalp. It lasts a long time, Geralt bracing his arms on his thighs as Jaskier moves the hair dryer around his head. The noise of the dryer makes conversation difficult, and Geralt feels strangely distant from Jaskier all of a sudden, even though he’s standing so close Geralt could press his face to the soft flesh of his stomach if he wanted to. He knots his hands together between his knees to keep himself from just reaching out and pulling Jaskier close.

When Jaskier finally switches off the hair dryer, the silence it leaves feels big. It’s probably just the heat from the hair dyer, but Geralt feels flushed and a little rubbed raw.

“All right,” Jaskier says, fixing him with a considering look. “Let me just . . .” He reaches out and grips Geralt’s hair in both hands. He doesn’t so much tug as gently crush the strands, but the pressure is enough to make Geralt’s mouth fall open, and he doesn’t exactly make a noise but something happens in his chest like his lungs kickstarting. Jaskier glances down at him with an inquisitive smile. “Sorry, too hard?”

It’s all Geralt can do to shake his head.

“All done,” Jaskier says. When he lets go, Geralt immediately misses the touch. “Wanna take a look?”

Geralt stands up and turns to regard himself in the mirror. To say he doesn’t recognize himself would be an overstatement, but the sight of his reflection is a surprise. The cut doesn’t seem all that different in terms of length, but the ragged edges are gone. The dingy white of his hair has turned a gleaming silver, and it hangs around his face not in its usual lank tangle, but in softly curling waves. It’s almost . . . pretty, a word he’s never associated with himself in his entire life. The new brightness of his hair makes his face seem clearer, more open somehow, and the gentle curls offset the hard lines of his face in a way that make his features look almost delicate, or in any case less roughly hewn than usual. He reaches up to touch it, and to his amazement, it’s just as soft as Jaskier promised it would be. Maybe not as soft as Jaskier’s own hair, but much nicer than he can remember it ever feeling before.

“You like it?” Jaskier asks, and in the mirror, Geralt can see he’s looking at him with a hopeful expression. It makes something twist in his stomach—longing, and at the same time a rejection of what he wants, the certainty that he can’t possibly hang onto anything nice for long enough to enjoy it.

“You know I’ll never go to all this trouble,” he says, gruffly, and immediately regrets it when he sees Jaskier’s smile slip from his face.

���No, I know,” Jaskier says, and starts packing up his supplies. “I just wanted to try it. I’ll still leave you all the products, just in case you change your mind, or—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt swallows hard, and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I—”

Jaskier looks at him with such a searching expression that Geralt hardly knows how to look at him. He’s never known someone who’s so much all the time, expansive and loud and demanding and generous and so goddamn bright.

“What I should have said,” Geralt says, against the tension threatening to stop his throat, “is that I wouldn’t have tried this if it weren’t for you. It’s . . .” He’s not sure how to answer Jaskier’s question. Does he like it? He looks so unlike himself that he honestly doesn’t know what to make of it. He can’t tell if it suits him or not, because he still isn’t sure what that would mean. But he likes the idea that Jaskier’s uncovered this version of him, that this might be how Jaskier sees him in his mind’s eye. “I’m glad we tried it. Thank you.”

“I am, too,” Jaskier says, quietly. “Even if you never do it again, I’m glad you trusted me enough to try. And for the record?” The twist of his lips is almost pained, but it’s a smile all the same. “You look fucking gorgeous.”

Geralt ducks his head, his shoulders inching up. “Jaskier . . .”

“No, I’m serious, Geralt.” Jaskier sounds annoyed, almost angry, all of a sudden. “I know you don’t care about superficial stuff—”

“That’s not—”

“—but take it from someone who spends a lot of time looking at people and doing my best to make them look as good as I possibly can: you’re objectively really fucking good-looking.” Jaskier lets out a harsh, reckless laugh. “And if you don’t care about my professional opinion, I also happen to think you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met in my entire life, so there’s that.”

“I—”

Now that Jaskier’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. “You’re the most incredible person I know, Geralt,” he says, in a breathless rush, “and I’m not talking just about your looks—although you are genuinely so ridiculously handsome that it’s really not fair. You’re kind for no reason and incredibly devoted and, OK, sort of a dick sometimes, but also so goddamn careful with other people and so fucking hard on yourself, and I just—I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I wish I could show you, even for just a second, because—”

“You did,” Geralt says. Jaskier stares at him, stunned into silence, and Geralt takes the opportunity to continue. “You do. Not just tonight.” He’s breathing hard, and he tries not to think about how dangerous this feels, like standing up on the top of a tall ladder or walking the line of a roof that might collapse under him at any moment. “When I’m with you, I feel like I could be that person you see in me, maybe. I just . . . don’t know how.”

Jaskier laughs again—softer this time. “You dummy,” he says, “you already are. You’ve just got to believe it.”

“Oh, is that all,” Geralt says.

“Yeah, no big deal,” Jaskier says, waving one hand dismissively. “You’ve got me to convince you, after all.”

“Oh, yeah?” Geralt can’t help the smile spreading across his face, despite the shivery feeling still simmering under his skin. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“Well . . .” Jaskier takes a step towards him, and then another, settling his hands lightly on Geralt’s hips. “I’d probably start a little like this . . .”

The first touch of Jaskier’s lips on his is like a breath of clean air after a storm, and Geralt can feel something that’s been knotted tight inside him for a long time unfurling itself. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, that buzz under his skin transmuting into a golden glow. He knows it’s not as simple as it feels—he can’t expect Jaskier to change him with a single kiss—but for the first time in a long while, something feels purely, unequivocally good, and he wants more of it.

In time, Jaskier’s hands creep up Geralt’s sides to his back, even as Geralt’s own hands drift down past Jaskier’s waist. When Jaskier’s hands slip into his hair, Geralt wrenches himself free with a shiver. “You’re going to undo all your hard work,” he says, teasingly.

“D’you really care?” Jaskier asks, and scratches his nails along Geralt’s scalp, wringing a whine from deep in Geralt’s chest that should be embarrassing but isn’t.  

“Not really,” Geralt gasps, his whole body pressing closer against Jaskier’s. “You can always do it again.”

Jaskier’s smile is wide as he bends to kiss him again. “That’s what I thought.”

[sif-the-tsunami]

Ropes and Roses part six

Summary: Elizabeth Rosehill is a talented dance instructor and a force of nature that beguiles her famous student. Events in her life, however, have led her to search for more creative ways for her to keep herself afloat. What will she do to keep her dreams secure and what will it mean for her blossoming relationship. This is a very adult story about two people who are moderately terrible at adulting.

Warning: adult language, situations, arguing, less smut, more angst. If something in here needs a more descriptive warning I will gladly update it

Pairing: Henry and OFC (am I doing this right?)

Word count: 2K

A/N: If you read it and like it, it would mean a lot to me if you could say something nice! I have a lot of feelings this week that I’m trying to work through.

Henry woke up the next morning before Elizabeth. She was face down, her monstrous cat was curled up in a ball, snuggled up under her arm, gently purring. Alistair stared at him with his large green eyes for a few moments, fluffy tail flicking. The cat seemed to find him amusing at least. Looking around he saw a delicate crystal sun catcher dangling in the corner of her window. Tiny rainbows danced across the walls and ceiling as the sun rose. The woman in bed with him moaned slightly and moved herself on to her back. She opened her eyes briefly, smiled at him, then went back to sleep. Henry took a moment to watch her resting, peacefully exposed to his gaze. He rolled off from the bed from the other side. As the man left the bed, the cat seemed to relax more now that he was the only one in bed with his favorite human.

Henry did his morning ritual, and then started walking around her apartment while he waited for his lover to wake up. What was supposed to be her living room had book shelves on most of the walls that were crammed with different kinds of literature. She had one blank wall, but even on that one had a computer desk with two monitors, cat ear gaming head phones, and a keyboard that glowed different combinations of the rainbow while her computer was asleep. Taking a peek back at her room, Elizabeth was still asleep, he wiggled her mouse to see what kinds of games were on her desktop but her home screen was password protected. In a corner, there was a chaise lounge in a deep green velvet and a side table. No dining table or chairs, she probably ate at her computer, he thought.

Her kitchen was almost bare. One little table had a cat food bowl, the pantry had some basic staples but nothing that screamed out she hosted guests frequently. He found her coffee, and proceeded to brew a pot for them. He looked in the fridge for other breakfast foods, but he didn’t find much. He heard the thundering paws of Alistair come running to his feeding spot. The little predator noticed the light bouncing off of his watch.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” He watch as the cat chased the reflection. The two played together with the bright light, chuckling at the cats antics.

“You know, I could get used to finding you naked in my kitchen, Mr Cavill.” Her voice made him jump. “I’m sorry, I thought you heard me coming.”

She was standing in the door way wearing a loose fitting sweater. The sleep in her hair caused it to curl in every direction. The cat batted at her hand for some affection which she gave to him. He couldn’t stop staring at her again. This was the Liz he had been hoping to see, well rested and looking content with the world. She played with her kitty using the sleeve of her sweater. She asked him how he was doing after she caught him looking.

“Yeah, everything is fine. Just appreciating the view.” He said walking up to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, reaching down to kiss her. “It’s Sunday, right? Do you want to go have brunch, I know of a couple places we can take Kal, sit on the patio.”

“Yeah, that sounds really nice.” She said between kisses.

“Go get dressed, we’ll have something delicious.” She came back when Henry was starting his second cup of coffee wearing a delicate pink dress with a light weight navy blue sweater. Her hair pulled back with some of her little curls falling down in the back. Henry had gotten into the clothes he had wore the night before and they made their way to his place. Kal had nearly tackled him when they had gotten there. Henry hurriedly cleaned up and dressed himself while Elizabeth sat on the couch to cuddle with Kal. He listened to her baby talk his dog. He was two seconds away from telling her they should just stay in and spend the rest of their time together for the day in bed. He wanted to learn every spot that made her gasp in delight.

When they finally made their way to the restaurant he had decided to put all of his cards on the table. He told her that he didn’t want to play games or hard to get. He wanted to get to know her and spend as much time as possible with her before he would have to go somewhere else to film on location. This would be the start of a fairly regular schedule they would stick to for the next two months. Thursday night he would take her out, they would spend time until it was time for her to get ready for her classes on Friday, Saturday he might watch her at the club or meet her afterwards, then Sunday they would have breakfast and part ways for a couple days to focus on work.

Soon the real world starting calling Henry back to it. They would call every night and, when they could, sneak in a few days away with each other. On one of their reunions, they hid away from their regular lives in a romantic cabin. He loved taking her to little hide a ways when he could. They would usually spend the entire time in bed with each other, nothing between them but their desires. He had looked forward to this all week and planned on making one of their favorite dinners that night to surprise her. However, when Elizabeth got out of the car, he could tell that she hadn’t been having a great day. The only thing she wanted from him right away was to be held and he willingly supplied her with affection. What started a hug turned into him carrying the woman he adored into the bedroom they would be sharing. She melted against him, but he couldn’t help but feel like there was something she was just not saying.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked after they had laid in companionable silence for a while.

“It’s nothing, I’m just pissed off about a conversation I had this morning with management. And one of my dance teachers tore he ACL so now we have to cancel all of her classes or I have to find a substitute teacher. I’m not sure which is better yet. If I have to teach it, that’s less time with you for the next six months.”

“I’m sorry, that does sound frustrating, but I’m not going anywhere. I can wait, your students need you. What was going on with the other problem?”

“Just some stuff with the Fox Catcher. I evidently am not drawing in the audience like I used to. They want me to do something different.”

“What kind of things are they suggesting?”

“They usually suggest two girls, which I’m fine with. Those nights always sell out, we might be able to market it as the subs are competing or whatever. But one of the owners came up with a completely idiotic idea. They want me to start dominating guys at least once a week.”

“No, out of the question.” He sat strait up. “I don’t care if you have to have sex with your girls on stage to get more asses in chairs, I’m not okay with you doing any of that with another guy.”

“What?” She was quite taken back by him.

“I’m dead serious, Elizabeth.”

“Henry, this is still just being thrown around right now.”

“And I’m telling you not to.” He pulled back further.

“But I can have sex with another woman? I don’t plan on fucking anyone else outside of this conversation, my dude. What kind of person do you take me for? And I really don’t appreciate you telling me that domming a dude is worse than having sex with someone who isn’t you. There is a reason I don’t go around doing either with just anyone.”

“You clearly get off on being a Dominatrix when you work with your girls, I have noticed a distinct difference in how you fuck me on the nights after your shows.” He cut her off. Fuck, Henry, what were you thinking. Her expression dropped. He rubbed his face, trying to think of anything he could say to fix it.

“Where is this coming from?” She asked, moving away from him on the bed, pulling her shoes back on. “You know what, no. I’m going for a walk so I don’t say something I regret.”

“Just say it!” He snapped, trying to get up to follow her.

“No, you need to calm down first. I will not be yelled at over something this fucking stupid. I haven’t even...”

“Damnit, Elizabeth! I..”

She hissed at him before he could finish his sentence with a level vitriol that he didn’t know she had in her. “I said no! I’m already having a bad day and this is why I didn’t want to talk about it tonight. Now I am going for a walk and you will sit down and think about how you want this conversation to go when I come back. We will talk like adults, you will not insult me again. Do you understand?”

Henry sat down again, completely taken aback, and nodded at her.  “Yes. Of course.”

“Yes, what?” Her eyes were looking glassy. He had accidently flipped her Domme switch, and he knew she didn’t enjoy using it outside of the club, but more importantly, he had know by now that she hated crying in front of anyone, especially him.

“Yes, Elizabeth, we will talk like adults, and I will not insult you again.” He tried to say it as evenly as he could.

“Thank you, now I’m going for a walk to calm down. Because, again, I don’t think either of us wanted this. I’ll be back.”

An hour later, he heard her coming through the front door.  She didn’t have the rage in her eyes like she did when she left which was a huge relief to him.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he waved at her from the kitchen. He came up to her slowly and held her hands in his. They were so cold. “I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

“So did I, I didn’t make it any easier on you.” She squeezed his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I made dinner, if you’re hungry.” She nodded and he made her a plate of carbonara. She thanked him and they ate their dinner in silence.

“I think I know now what was making me so upset about the idea of you dominating another man. And I promise, I won’t yell this time.” He said after he had cleared their places.

“Oh?”

“I thought about it while you were out and I think I’m just worried that you will find someone who is into it, and you guys will, I don’t know, I’m going to sound like such a bastard saying this. I’m worried that you would leave me for someone who is more into that lifestyle than I am. I’m falling so hard for you, but you have this part of yourself that I’m not allowed into yet.”

“I hadn’t even considered that being part of the problem. When I go back, I will tell management that me performing with a man will not happen.” She reached her hand out to him and he held it. “I’m falling for you too. It’s not that you aren’t allowed to be apart of that side of me, I hadn’t seen any indication that you might want to. Is that something you want to try?”

“I don’t know yet.” Henry replied, running his thumb across the back of her hand. “But what I do know is that I have you for two more days before you head back to town, and I want to take you back to that very comfortable bed, and hold you against me until we fall asleep.”

[drowning-in-dennor]

Know Your Name

It’s now day two of the Prix, and Berwald has his first conversation with Timo. [Continuation of this.]

  With Henrik away for training nearly the entire day, Berwald expected to spend his time strolling around Lausanne, taking in the idyllic Swiss scenery without his loudmouth brother ruining the atmosphere. But since yesterday, when he first saw Timo, he’s decided that no lake or meadow could beat the sight in the theatre.

  The junior boys are having a contemporary class, dancing wild and free while the jury watches. From the spectators’ stand, Berwald sips on the lukewarm coffee he bought from a vending machine while scanning the small group for Timo.

  He is in the second row, round face flushed pink. Unlike his soft, easy smile that Berwald saw the day before, Timo’s lips are curled into a sharp smirk today, chocolate-brown eyes beguiling as always. The charm that shone through during the classical lesson has turned wicked, drawing him in even more. He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

  Fierce and unrestrained, Timo does every exercise with a ferociousness that his fellow dancers mysteriously lack. His movements are swift, perfectly in time with the music, and his golden hair falls into his eyes during one particularly swift turn. But he makes no move to brush it away. It makes him look even more bewitching, almost rugged in a way. Berwald can feel his cheeks pricking with heat again.

  While the instructor gives the dancers instructions, the boys huddle in a group. Timo’s smile drops as he stretches, picking at the 206 tag on his shirt. Even his pensive, idle face is enchanting for Berwald, who is quite sure that his face is red, too.

  The group begins floor work. Berwald feels almost hypnotised, his eyes fixed on Timo and only Timo. He spins, leaps around the dance floor with captivating agility, eyes beholding a viciousness that’s so starkly difference from the sweetness he showed yesterday. When the exercise ends, he is panting slightly.

 The group gathers in front of their instructor again. Timo’s eyes wander. Berwald looks around the spectators’ stand, but he can’t find the boy Timo was waving at yesterday.

  Their eyes meet.

  His blushing face must be crystal-clear, for even from far away, Timo notices it. He smiles up at him, tilting his head slightly. Berwald forgets how to breathe for a moment.

  And just like yesterday, their locking gazes are abruptly broken.

  Timo goes the rest of the lesson without looking at him, even though they’re both glaringly aware of each other’s presence. Even in the brisk February air, Berwald’s so hot he feels as though he’s about to melt.

  The contemporary class ends just as Henrik interrupts his reverie to grab his water bottle. “Gah, the coach made the petit allegro combinations so hard. I think my feet are about to fall off.” He rolls his shoulders. They pop like firecrackers. “I don’t have coaching until two this afternoon. Should we leave to go get food?”

  Having barely heard what Henrik was saying, Berwald is watching the dancers mill around the side of the dance floor, fanning themselves while drinking water. Only Timo isn’t, as he’s leaning against the wall.

  “Hey, what’re you looking at?”

  “Nothing.”

  “C’mon, I saw your eyes.” Henrik leans over his shoulder, following his eyes to Timo. “Oh.” He whacks him on the shoulder. “Waldy, you raging homosexual! Should’ve known he was your type.”

  “Shut up.” Timo is yawning. Berwald has yet to stop himself from blushing.

  “Look at him, I think he’s about to keel over.” Henrik slaps him on the back and nearly knocks him out of his seat. “Go get him some water.”

  For once in his life, his brother has a good idea. He abandons Henrik in the stands and goes downstairs to the vending machine. Berwald enters a few coins into the slot and carries the icy-cold bottle he gets towards the dance floor.

  Careful not to step on anything, he weaves around the various bags scattered around the floor to reach Timo. “Excuse me.”

  He jumps slightly. “Oh! Hello there.”

  “I got you water.”

  His eyes light up, and Berwald’s heart begins thudding louder. “Thank you so much! I do have a bottle in my bag, but it’s so nice of you to do this.” Timo takes the bottle and twists it open. “I was just thinking about the coach’s feedback.”

  Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “I think you did great.”

  “Really?” That sweet, joyful smile is back, and the knowledge that it is directed at him is just about enough to make him light-headed. “I’m glad you think so! I have trouble doing contemporary sometimes, and I’m sure the jury was tearing me apart in their markings.” Timo laughs. “I just realised I’ve been rambling away to you but I don’t even know your name.”

  He wants to know my name. Berwald tries not to lose himself in his eyes and replies stiffly, “my name is Berwald.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he says back. “Are you here with a competitor?”

  He nods. “With my brother, Henrik.”

  “I don’t know a Henrik in my group,” Timo mulls, “so he must be in the senior class. Maybe I’ll have a class with him later on.” He looks at the clock. “Oh, I have a coaching session soon. But I really liked talking to you.” He holds out his hand to Berwald. It’s warm, and the touch sends an electric shock through him.

  “I’ll see you again soon.” With a smile, he adds, “and I’ll be sure to work extra hard so you have something nice to see.”

  At this point, he’s blushing so hard he might as well be a tomato. By the time Berwald’s recovered enough to string a sentence together, Timo’s already gone.

[jungdrizzydraco]

An O.C. for Your Asses!!!

I wanna see if the characters are legit before I move forward with this short story im working on (I'm a character first kinda guy, so I work inside-out) leave any form of constructive critique you wish, they are still works in progress, thanks!!

Augustine Harriet Andersson

Age:22

Sign: Gemini (sun) Cancer (moon) Virgo (rising)

Height: 5'8

Eye Color: Formerly dark-brown, bleached to a pastel-hazel because of some dark magic fuckery

Hair Color/Cut: dark-brown,q shifting variations of a fade, whose design changes somewhat based on his thoughts and emotions (yes, this is an enchanted fade)

Build: lean, lightly muscled from years lifting cauldrons in his grandfather's potion shop

Notable Features: Dimples; left-dimple is deeper than right, multiple piercings on each ear, artificial left eye (looks organic but to magical eyes, it looks otherwise)

"Have you ever been like...fundamentally angry? I feel that way...like at my core, there's this rage that seethes and coils at the pit of my stomach, everyday, like a python that can't quite squeeze his prey all the way to death. Everytime I think I've grown up, forgiven something or someone or myself, there's this anger that tightens right back up all over again...like it's reminding me of something. Somedays...I feel like that feeling will petrify everything I've ever loved about myself, and I'll just be another slave to outrage and ego and pain...just like everyone else...haha, then I'll really be a normie."  -August Andersson, on his depression and internal anger issues.

Augustine Andersson is a witch-boy. But you could probably already tell that from looking at him: the way his eyes are almost constantly fixed towards some unseeable infinity, the way air molecules hum with fresh, manic energy around him, how he seems to absorb sunlight and the way his brown skin would filter the glow as a result of his connection to the natural...it was all very off putting to others around him for most of his young adult life. And as we all know, no one likes a freak, so such years had a hand in building his current trust issues, feelings of great anger and inadequacy, and all the tics and tricks he uses to keep such feelings at bay. He's not at a total loss; at his core he is a humanitarian, deeply compassionate and available to those who have managed to capture his heart, as well as wild and humorous. However, he keeps a tight lid on his darkest feelings and insecurities, out of fear that they may be too much for those around him (also, he might accidentally call forth a vile arch-daemon on accident, but that's neither here nor there.) After finally having had enough of his mundane time amongst the humans, he vanishes from his college campus one day and takes to the open road, hoping that like the many young, angsty teens in the movies he loves, he will find himself in his own solitude. But the best way to deal with oneself is when confronting someone else, and after a close-call with a reckless (and very cute) motorcycle rider on an interstate, August will be forced to deal with every single part of himself, the good, the bad, and the strange...

A few more things about him...

1. His father is Afro-swedish, hence his last name.

2. Loves to travel and is nomadic by nature.

3. He gets a special kind of warmth out of being moderately petty at all times.

4. He loves open spaces and bodies of water, as well as hikes through mountains (ok so he only went once in Vegas, so sue him, he really liked it!)

5. Surprisingly low maintenance, really just likes being around people that are happy, and the feeling easily rubs off on him.

6. Both positive and negative emotions easily rub off on him.

7. Can get caught up in moments of warm content, given his unstable interior life, and can get lost in wasting/spending time.

8. Gets restless easily.

9. Budding film buff, faves include Kill Bill vol. 1&2, Her, Moonrise Kingdom, Gone Girl, Blue is the Warmest Color, Moonlight, & Mean Girls.

10. August's father is very engaged with politics and civil rights, so in honor of that, he decided that his son's middle name would belong to one of the greatest figures of the civil rights movement: Harriet Tubman.

11. Favorite new movie is The Favourite.

12. Due to a lack of acceptance of his full self and the full spectrum of his sexuality, he is judgemental of others and holds them to the same near-impossible standards he holds for himself. 

13. Things he expects from others: To read his mind and conjure what he wants without saying, to have his needs and boundaries respected without actually stating so, for others to fit in whatever box he thinks they should be in, for everyone's intellect to be slightly lower than his own, but high enough not to annoy him with silly questions, ect.

14. Listens to Lorde, J. Cole, Rex Orange County, Frank Ocean, Lana Del Rey, Tyler the Creator, Young Thug and assorted film soundtracks.

15. Enjoys playing into his double-sided nature when it suits him, and has a secret glee in melding into different roles depending on who's around him.

16. Is attracted to more eccentric personalities in platonic and romantic relationships

17. Smokes weed to escape boredom. (and his problems)

18. Smokes weed because he likes the feeling.

19. Is secretly a little ratchet, but he'll kill you if you say so, it'll fuck up his reputation as the quasi-sociopathic erudite.

Magic House-Thoth

Augustine is a member of the Sacred House of Life, witches whose magic is passed down from the Egyptian Gods themselves. August himself is a descendant of an African slave-witch, once known as Ashe. She was taken to Egypt as a typical piece of cargo from zealot raiders, and was sentenced to a life of building the pyramids. Or so she would have thought: Thoth, the God of Magic and Knowledge, took pity upon her and beguiled her to follow an invisible force into the desert one night. He then revealed himself to her in his ibis-headed brilliance and bestowed upon her a set of choices: he could free her now and set her loose across the desert with all the things she would need for survival, or he could give her secrets and wisdoms unknown to man at the time, but she would have to frequently return to him for lessons. Ashe always prized knowledge and growth over any material thing, or even something such as freedom (I prefer to disagree myself). And secrets from a God must count for that much more, right? She indulged in option two. Thoth grinned and whispered to her the mysteries of life, the secrets of the stars, and the riddles of worlds lost and intangible, he spoke magick into her very soul. She would then use her newfound knowledge to fool her captors, freed any slave that would believe in her, and with her wits about them, guided them across the desert to build a library-like sanctuary, in honor of Thoth. The former slaves then learned from the god's teachings, passed through Ashe, and became witches and educators in their own right, and Ashe came to lead this new coven of magi. This is how the House of Thoth became to be. 

Magick: As a member of house of Thoth, August has the ability to manipulate various aspects of the moon, writing, hieroglyphics, knowledge and sciences, and the progression of time. His particular specialty is the creation of Moon Dust, a substance used as a medium for most of his spells. By gathering various quantities of mineral, be it: crystal, rocks, pearls, aluminum, or even silvers and golds, he can channel his magic into them and break down and rearrange their atomic components into a corrosive, abrasive substance that also tends to stick to objects due to an electric charge. This dust is also dangerous to breathe in. He tends to carry around a pouch or two on his person, as trying to create some on the fly is nearly impossible given how much time and intricacy is needed to create the substance. (I mean, working with just a pile of plain old rocks would take a couple of hours to convert, let alone harder or more distilled substances.) Spells that he has mastered so far include...

Spell of Refraction: A spell in which the moondust bonds to whomever or whatever August desires (sans the harmful effects, it's enchanted in this state) and whatever is enveloped in dust turns invisible via light refraction.

Spell of Revelations: He can spread his moondust over an area and have the pieces cling to imprints of negative emotion or dark magick. A spell used for forensic work.

Spell of Retribution: An offensive spell that uses moondust to its fullest offensive powers and creates small funnels of dust to ravage the opponent. The largest funnel made could surround a fully grown man.

Golemancy:  Can create golems out of the moon dust he has formed, usually no larger than a human toddler. They tend to take form roughly resembling lego-men (he was a big fan of the Lego Expanded Universe as a child), but one can easily be fooled by their size: each golem has the strength of three men, and can combine to further power themselves up.

There are a few spells that don't require the moon dust...

-The Veil: A surface-level illusion layered directly over the skin. This allows the caster to look like whatever he wants to look like and sound however he wants, but can be broken if struck with bad intentions (like a slap from an offended woman on the street)

 -Somnus: A very old, yet practical spell. Also one that does not require moondust, this handy spell induces sleep.  Those affected by this spell will not remember being forced to sleep, but they will have active and vivid dreams for distraction. Also necessary for Dream Diving.

-Dream Diving:  A skill Augustine has yet to master, this allows the caster to astral project into one's consciousness for complete access to the afflicted parties mind, if the brain is distracted by dreams. August has gotten stuck in several public nude dreams, and it takes long hours to remove oneself from another's mind.

-Illusion Casting 

-Temporary Madness Inducement

-Script Magick: By writing down a word or phrase on any surface that can be sufficiently marked on, whatever has been written manifests somehow, just so long as it is within his power. He can't create miracles with it though.

Top 10 Roadtrip Songs

Sobriety- Sza

No Role Moldelz-J. Cole

Sacrifices -Dreamville, assorted artists

Grown Up Fairy Tails- Chance the Rapper, Taylor Bennett 

My Boy-Billie Eilish

U.N.I.T.Y.- Frank Ocean

West Coast: Lana Del Rey

Cruise Ship-Young Thug

400 Lux-Lorde

Let Em Know- Bryson Tiller

[tellywoodtrash]

If you had to describe the characters of Ishqbaaaz as a food item, for example, Shivaay is black coffee (choose a diff one for him okay?), then what would they be? Mallika, Tia, and Svetlana are obviously included in the list.

Hello anon!

Ha! What a fun question! Okay, let’s get cracking!

Shivaay:

God but he *is* black coffee! That’s EXACTLY what he is. Bloody intolerable, but a necessary evil to get through the fucking day. A poison that I willingly consumeevery day, but I’m not happy about it. Can’t live with it, can’t live without it. I will never accept that I love him. (Even though I do, in my own way.) He’s one of those fancyass coffees too, that snobs keep praising the undernotes or whatever of (“lingering subtle hints of the fruits that were growing in the same soil as the bean...”) and I’m here like, bruh it’s really not that great? Just give me the poison and I’ll be on my way. (This was shade at Nakuul winning award after award for this character, in case you didn’t get it.)

Anika:

Thayir sadam (curd-rice), or the North Indian equivalent, Rajma chaawal/Dal chaawal. Reliable, comforting, home. Sure, there’s fancier stuff out there, but it’s something you can and always WANT to come home to, every single day of your life.

Omkara:

One of these fancyass fruit salads filled with superfruits from all around the world. I mean, eating it feels so good, they almost feel bad for you? Aesthetics, on point. Nutritionally, amazing. All-round YAAAAAAAAS!

Gauri:

Papdi chaat. A beguiling combination of textures and tastes. Every bite is like OMG WHAT IS HAPPENING IDC I JUST LOVE IT GIVE ME MOAR I COULD EAT THIS ENDLESSLY TILL THE END OF MY LIFE I LOVE IT SO MUCH.

Rudra:

Cotton candy. Absolute trash, but once in a blue moon you’re in the mood for it and will tolerate like 3 bites of it. After that, ugh no thanks, please don’t show me cotton candy for the next 8 months pls.

Sumo:

Pizza. Delicious, and a warm hug for the soul. It can be simple and have just the basics (old Sumo) or be kinda strange and have weird toppings on it (new, evil Sumo), but pizza is pizza and I will always love it unconditionally in all its forms. Mmmm, pizza.

Bhavya:

Do din pehle ka baasi pizza. Less awesome, and a poor substitute for the original, but eh, I’ll take what I can get? There’s no such thing as bad pizza, really. (In that, all female characters are awesome, and I love them all.)

Mallika:

Pasta Primavera. Simple, elegant, good for you, and yummmmmyyyyy. The complete package.

Tia:

Popcorn. People think it’s unhealthy, but it’s really not, it’s only when other crap like that synthetic butter and god-knows-what-else (*cough* her damn family *cough*)gets added that it starts wrecking havoc. On it’s own, it’s light and airy and a good whole grain food that you can reasonably have daily. You can make it fancy af with fix-ins (caramel! cheese! BOTH!!!!!!), or you can have it plain, the point is it’s my absolute favt. snack in the world that I can eat all-day, everyday.

Svetlana:

A beautiful, decadent cake (Funfetti is *my* favourite flavour, but that doesn’t go with her “image”. She’d be the darkest chocolate.) Not “good for you” but who the fuck cares? I could eat this all day till I fucking died of nutritional deficiencies/sugar coma, but I would only thank it for killing me in such a glorious way.

[ivyquinnauthor]

WIPs List

I needed to start keeping track cause they started really creeping up on me! I promised myself I wouldn’t be a multiple works-in-progress person this time for fandom, but I think I need to admit that I lied to myself, heh.

Work in Progress Series

1) Culinary Advice - 45,000 words (so far 10 complete shorts). Crossover between Lucifer and Miranda (yes, you read that right). Summary: After he got caught with his green card wife, Gary Preston moved to Los Angeles to tend bar inadvertently at Lux. Also, Lucifer can’t help buy try and play matchmaker and try and fix Gary’s love life.

2) The Devil and Trixie Espinoza - 150,000 words (7 complete parts of varying lengths). Current story and eighth story is in progress, called “Devil of a Time.” Series Summary: “Takes place about ten years after 3.24 "A Devil of My Word" in New Orleans. After Lucifer killed Pierce, he was punished for killing a human and forced into permanent, full devil-form. Chloe rejected him and, terrified, fled with Dan to Texas to raise Trixie far away.About a decade later, Lucifer and Maze have relocated to running a demon/hell-themed bar with the most "real" looking make-up in the French Quarter called Tenebrae. Trixie, a freshman pre-med student at Tulane, happens to wander into his bar with her sorority sister and learn so much more about what happened to send her family packing and about why her mother and Lucifer imploded.After he saves her one night from a vampire attack, Lucifer and Trixie work on establishing a friendship on their own terms...even if the Devil is more prickly and bitter than ever. Good thing that Trixie's even more stubborn than both her parents combined. (Focuses on Maze-Trixie friendship as well as on Lucifer-Trixie friendship.)”

3) Monstrous - 10,000 words. (Part 1 Monere is complete; sequel Monstrare posting soon). Summary:  After Lucifer returns from Hell, self-actualization, self-esteem issues, and jitters over taking things to next level with Chloe result in some...unusual intimate situations. NSFW, adult-works, and definitely monster!sex. Deckerstar

4) Satan, M.D. - 4,000 words on part one called “Don’t Tell Me Why”. Summary:  “Based a bit on a cracky what-if discussed at FH on what if Lucifer had been a doctor instead of just a club owner/singer. He's still the Devil, but a devil who's spent a long time on earth trying to keep the humans who vilify him alive, while partaking in his usual hedonistic delights until Chloe Decker comes into his life. Very alternate universe, based around plot points in season one.” Based structurally a bit on the t.v. show Rush (fusion of plot ideas, not a crossover). Deckerstar

**

Work in Progress Stories:

1) Recurrence - 79,000 words. Story Summary: “ Goes alternate universe after 4.09 (Save Lucifer). Lucifer's relegated to desk duty by a concerned Chloe after the masquerade at Lux. Meanwhile devil power flare-ups mean he needs help to get everything under control and truly forgiven before he can get back to work or his life. Cue the help of an over eager forensic scientist who's seen too much and yet is still rolling with the punches.” Ella and Lucifer friendship heavy with bonus Azrael.

2) This Ebony Bird Beguiling - 23,000 words. Story Summary: “Goes alternate universe with the episode 1.12 "#TeamLucifer." Lucifer finally confronts Chloe back at her home about why she makes him vulnerable and discovers the detective is hiding quite the secret of her own.” An AU with winged!Chloe and based on an FH prompt. Deckerstar

**

---Right now, I’m working on getting the eighth part of The Devil and Trixie Espinoza done, posting weekly on "Monstrare” starting tomorrow, and posting the first story in Satan, M.D. “Don’t Tell Me Why,” weekly till its done as well. 

---After the eighth part of Devil and Trixie finishes:

1) Finish Recurrence (I’m actually fairly close there and have the rest outlined). 

2) The next installment/11th short of Culinary Advice. 

3) Really dig more into This Ebony Bird Beguiling (it’s the least outlined and least developed currently). 

A.k.a busy summer but working around a lot of school stuff since we’re still telecommuting ‘til May. I swear I didn’t forget anything, just been a long, long spring!

[transientutopia]

apostasy - centre fragment

Read on AO3 (highly recommended)

~~

"How low you've fallen, Chihiro."

'You don't have to say it, asshole -- I already... know...'

He can't feel, or see anything anymore. The last thing he remembers is the soft, derisive chuckle that rings through his ears, the same way it did eight years ago.

~~

"...a ... tsuya... Tetsuya."

"...?"

'I know... that voice.'

"Tetsuya."

It's a voice as rich as velvet, silky, smooth, but more than anything...

...It's as sweet as poison.

He remembers this voice.

He remembers--

...

From where?

...

"Why are you--"

"Can't you tell from looking? Hey, Tetsuya...

...he's already broken, you know?"

...

...

...

It's raining.

"It's raining, huh," Kuroko Tetsuya notes aloud, gazing out through stained glass.

"Well, I guess I won't have any jobs," Kagami Taiga shrugs. "Hope you don't, either."

"That's raising a death flag, Kagami-kun."

"Shut up. There's no way--"

He cuts himself off as Tetsuya's phone goes off. Raising a brow, Taiga watches as Tetsuya reaches into his pocket.

The second he pulls his phone out and sees the display, he blinks, expression blank.

"It's Aomine-kun."

"Oh," Taiga blinks. He'd invited Daiki over to his house along with Tetsuya, of course -- but the policeman had been abruptly called in for duty, forcing him to reluctantly decline. Glancing over his shoulder, Taiga peers at the clock.

It's sixteen past three in the afternoon.

'It shouldn't be his break yet,' Taiga thinks, feeling his stomach drop. He whips back around to face Tetsuya, but evidently, the detective had caught on the moment his phone rang. Taiga swallows.

"...I see. We'll be right over," Tetsuya voices before ending the call. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he stands up, and Taiga does the same.

"What's the situation? Arson?"

"No," Tetsuya shakes his head. "Murder."

Tetsuya opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

...He isn't in Chihiro's safehouse anymore -- that much is obvious. Intriguingly, he isn't bound up: instead, he can feel silken sheets surrounding him.

It's so comfortable that he knows in an instant -- something is terribly wrong.

Shooting upright, Tetsuya's vision blurs, and he feels himself slip--

--only to be supported gently by a hand that lays him back against something hard -- the bedframe.

"You shouldn't move so suddenly," a familiar voice admonishes, laced with amusement, "you were knocked out just a few hours ago. You also injured your own forehead."

The voice sighs almost fondly, and the warm sound sends a chill right down Tetsuya's spine.

"Provoking and fighting an assassin... You really do never fail to exceed my expectations, Tetsuya."

He doesn't have to look up to know he's being watched with those same eyes--

--those icy, cold eyes that pierce; have always pierced, since so long ago; through him mercilessly, relentlessly, those eyes that know all--

Tetsuya lifts his head, and he drowns in a sea of crimson and amber.

"Murder?" Taiga repeats, eyes wide. "Shit, did someone get burned alive or something?"

"..."

Taiga's jaw drops.

"Hold on, I was joking--"

"Yes."

"...What?"

He almost doesn't want to hear the answer that comes next.

"The death god has made his move, Kagami-kun."

"Shinigami-san," the name falls from Tetsuya's lips before he can stop himself. The "death god" only laughs that same, beguiling, charming laugh that Tetsuya remembers more vividly than anything.

(He really wishes he doesn't.)

"How many times have I told you to call me by my name, Tetsuya? Or could it be... Have you forgotten it already?"

He says the words as if they're a question, but they both know he isn't asking anything. After all, his name hasn't left Tetsuya's mind for a single moment over the years.

"...Akashi Seijuurou-san."

Seijuurou's smirk combined with his hooded eyes are a dangerous, dangerous weapon.

"Death god," Taiga echoes incredulously. "His last victim was literally three days ago -- what the hell's going on with that guy?"

"That's my job to find out," Tetsuya murmurs, gaze hardening. Taiga sees his expression from the corner of his eye, and gulps.

"...Hey, Kuroko."

"What is it, Kagami-kun? We have to hurry and get moving. Aomine-kun is waiting. Or..." he tilts his head innocently, "...could it be, you're having a lover's quarrel? What a horrid person you are, not divulging such information to me, your best friend."

"W-w-wha-- no! It's not like that, idiot!"

Taiga flushes red as he pulls on his jacket.

"Why are you here?"

"Shouldn't that be my question, Tetsuya?" Seijuurou steps closer to the bed once more. He presses his knees onto the bed sheets as he leans in, lifting Tetsuya's chin with a single hand. "Tell me -- why did you choose to come here?"

He knows the answer. He always does, but he wants to hear it from Tetsuya directly.

Despite how light-headed he is, the conviction in the detective's gaze does not waver.

"I came to apprehend you. You and Mayuzumi-san both."

"Did you?" Seijuurou chuckles. "Willingly walking in here yourself... Were you waiting for that chance these past few years?"

"Were you?"

Tetsuya surprises himself with his own boldness, and Seijuurou is visibly perplexed for a moment, too. Then, his eyes narrow and his lips curl upwards.

"Yes," he says as his hand moves to caress Tetsuya's cheek, "I've been waiting for a long time."

When they arrive on the scene, there is nobody other than members of the police force.

"No witnesses nor suspects again," Tetsuya notes softly. Taiga glances at him, concerned, but he doesn't get a chance to read the boy's expression before a familiar arm slings around his shoulder.

"Yo, Kagami. Tetsu."

"Aomine!"

"Aomine-kun." Tetsuya acknowledges, eyes locked onto the crime scene, "I'm going to investigate."

"Ah-- er, yeah, thanks."

Daiki watches warily as Tetsuya walks over to another detective on the case. As usual, he goes unnoticed until he places a hand on the male's back, scaring the living life out of him. Taiga snorts, but his mirth fades when he turns to face his boyfriend.

"Aomine--"

"Yeah, I know. Tetsu's really obsessed with that guy, isn't he?"

"Obsessed, you say... I don't think it's that big of a deal yet," Taiga refutes, but the argument sounds weak, even to his own ears. Daiki doesn't look at him when he speaks, gaze fixed onto their best friend's back.

"...It'd be good if it weren't."

"Akashi-san," Tetsuya tries. Seijuurou shakes his head.

"Do you intend to nullify our agreement from last time, Tetsuya?"

"...Seijuurou."

"It would be better for you to rest right now," he says in lieu of answering, "your body has not recovered yet."

Seijuurou lets go of Tetsuya and moves off the bed, but before he can make it out the door, Tetsuya speaks.

"Please wait, Aka-- Seijuurou."

"What is it?"

"...Where is Mayuzumi-san?"

Seijuurou's mouth twists upwards to form a smile that shows nothing.

"He, too, is resting in another room. His injuries have not healed, after all."

"..."

The door shuts smoothly behind him as he leaves, and Tetsuya's fingers tighten in the silken sheets splayed around his body.

He can't do anything but watch Seijuurou go.

But worst of all--

--he can't even point out his obvious routes of escape when they both know:

that there's no way he'll take a single step towards them.

"I have to go," Tetsuya says, but Daiki does not move out of his way, and Taiga does not let his shoulder go.

"You can't, Tetsu. Wait for reinforcements -- or, take us with you."

"That won't work," he says, shaking his head. "He's always ten steps ahead of us. If I don't go after him now, we won't stand a chance in catching him."

"How do you know he's going to be there?"

"I know," Tetsuya's nails dig into his fists. His eyes flit back to the crime scene briefly, and Daiki catches on immediately.

"He left something for you, didn't he," the policeman says, and Tetsuya does not flinch. Taiga's eyes widen as the boy nods.

"That doesn't make a reason for why we can't go," Taiga argues, and Tetsuya bites his lip, brows furrowing in a rare display of frustration.

"I have to go alone--"

"Did he say that to you?"

"No," Tetsuya's eyes are downcast, "but this is my job. Aomine-kun and Kagami-kun... I can't--"

"Don't give me that 'I can't get you two involved' shit, Tetsu." Daiki growls, "I'm not letting you go to this guy by yourself."

"Are you saying that as a policeman, or as my best friend?"

The uncharacteristically harsh words spill from Tetsuya's lips before he can think, and he freezes. Daiki's features contort in anguish.

"I'm saying it as both, Tetsu."

He lowers his head, and Tetsuya inhales sharply. Taiga tenses up, mouth agape as Daiki bows.

"...Please. Don't do something so reckless."

"..."

Tetsuya takes a step forward, hands reaching out to cup Daiki's face. He lifts his head, meeting the phantom's gaze.

He's never seen the warmth and resolve in those deep, blue eyes glow so strongly.

"Aomine-kun," Tetsuya begins softly, "thank you very much. But, I have to go. I'll be fine. I know I will."

"..."

"Well, if Kuroko's that confident," Taiga traps both of them in headlocks, ignoring their muffled protests, "then we'll have to give him the good part this time, huh?"

Daiki stops struggling and heaves a sigh. Stepping back, they both ruffle Tetsuya's hair in sync, earning a small huff from the boy. Taiga laughs at his powder-blue locks that have successfully turned into an absolute mess of spikes, and Daiki snickers.

When he looks up at the pair, Tetsuya doesn't bother to hide the smile playing at his lips.

Blood. The unmistakably thick, stifling scent of blood is palpable in the air, even through the heavy rain. Tetsuya heads towards it, already tugging a vinyl glove onto his right hand. He pulls out his phone with his left.

Like an intentional trail, there is blood splattered across the asphalt, splatters that only increase the closer he gets to whoever -- whatever is waiting.

...

...When he finds it, he can barely perceive it as a former human.

There isn’t a single inch of the ground that isn’t painted red. He can’t tell whether the corpse was a female, or a male. It’s closer to “a mess of carved flesh and innards” than a tangible body at this point.

He swallows.

It's gruesome -- he can hardly bear to look at it. Closing his eyes, Tetsuya breathes in -- he can only smell blood, blood, blood, it's so strong he can practically taste it -- and dials a number on his phone.

"Tetsu?"

"He got us," Tetsuya says immediately, "I'm sending you the address right now."

"...Alright. Be careful."

Nimble fingers gliding across the keyboard, Tetsuya forwards his current location to both Daiki and Taiga, and then turns away.

He pauses.

Eyes narrowing, he walks back and kneels down, pressing his gloved fingers to the bloodied concrete.

"I swear I'll definitely find you."

"...!"

The moment Tetsuya reaches for the dying man on the floor, he hears a click. Eyes widening, he jumps back--

--and watches as he goes up in flames.

Tetsuya wants to scream, he can't breathe, he can hear the man's screeches as the fire licks up his arms, his clothes, his wounds, the rain isn’t helping--

"Another miss, huh."

He freezes up entirely as an arm wraps around his waist. A hand presses softly against his eyes, but he doesn't have to look to be able to know who's behind him. With his back pressed against his chest, Tetsuya swallows.

"You didn't make it on time, Tetsuya," Seijuurou's voice purrs beside his ear, "didn't I tell you before? If you don't make haste, it'll be over before you realise it."

"...Yes."

He can feel Seijuurou's smile without seeing it.

"Hey, Tetsuya. Shall we make a bet?"

"...?"

"If I win, you have to call me by my first name."

He lets go of Tetsuya, who turns to face him, eyes ablaze as always -- no matter how shaken he is. He can feel the corners of his lips tug upwards of their own volition.

He's always loved those eyes.

Chuckling, he holds his right hand out, palm upwards, fingers slightly curled. Tetsuya's gaze flicks down to it for a moment, and Seijuurou's smile widens.

"If you win, you can take me in."

"Fucking... bastard...!"

"Kagami Taiga," Seijuurou murmurs, leaning down. Taiga is glaring up at him, grimacing from where he lies on the floor. He can't see anything in Seijuurou's eyes: there is nothing but ice and void.

"My orders are absolute. If I tell you to fall, you will fall. Know your place."

"Shut... the fuck... up! I'll kill you..."

"Oh?" Seijuurou glances at the scissors stabbed through Taiga's hands, pinning him to the ground. "You should consider yourself lucky that Tetsuya does not wish for your death. Otherwise..."

"...You asshole, as if that's-- the reason why you're--"

"Yes," Seijuurou slams the heel of his shoe down onto Taiga's fingers callously. He gazes down with bored indifference when a scream rips from Taiga’s throat, as if he were watching vermin crawling across filth. "The reason I am not killing you is simple -- it's because you're still usable."

"...! You--"

"...Kagami-kun?"

He's lost count of how many times he's seen Seijuurou.

Always, always chasing--

Yet he hasn't caught him even once.

Tetsuya wakes up with a single arm outstretched, palm facing up as he reaches towards the ceiling. The blankets have been rearranged so that he nestles in them softly; but that isn't all.

His fingers are laced with someone else's. Squinting open his eyes, he can make out a clouded shape that is undeniably Akashi Seijuurou.

"Good morning, Tetsuya."

"...Good morning."

Seijuurou does not make a move to let go of Tetsuya's hand, so he doesn't, either. He lets their linked hands fall back by his side, though, and Seijuurou peers over at him as he attempts to blink his sleepiness away.

"What were you dreaming about?"

"You," Tetsuya answers without a beat of hesitation. He watches as Seijuurou's eyes widen imperceptibly, and he feels a small sense of satisfaction bloom at the sight. "I was dreaming of the past."

"Oh?" Seijuurou leans in, "Is that why your arm suddenly shot out, then? I was startled."

"Startled," Tetsuya echoes, because he can't imagine Seijuurou jolting in shock at anything.

"Yes, startled," he chuckles, "you grabbed onto me without warning, after all."

"...I apologise."

"No, it's fine."

Seijuurou squeezes his hand, an unusually tender gesture that throws Tetsuya off balance.

"If you hadn't done so, I wouldn't have been able to do this, after all."

"...There was nothing stopping you from doing it either way."

"Is that an invitation?"

"No," he says, staring at Seijuurou straight in the eyes, "but you always act selfishly."

A smile spreads across the redhead's lips.

"Hey, Tetsuya. Don't you think it's about time?"

"...?"

"You should remember by now."

"What are you--"

"Isn't that right?"

Seijuurou shifts ever-so-slightly, the bed dipping as he moves. It grants Tetsuya the ideal vision to what lies in the corner of the room, and--

--everything stops.

"Tetsuya, there's someone new we'd like you to meet. He's going to be-- y-- o-- er... ...pleasure to--"

"I'm-- ...! Niceto-- meet--?"

--where did you--

"I-I--"

"YOU HAVE TO GET OUT, TETSUYA-- --se..--! ...isn't-- I'll--... ... ..."

"..."

...

...

...?!

...go... Let him-- go-- ... !

It isn't-- supposed --?

When he finally looks up, he's alone.

Alone.

...

...

...?

Was there someone here with him before?

"Hey, Kuroko! Hows-- --? --hasn't-- been in a whiile--"

"...?"

Eventually, nobody speaks of it anymore.

Tetsuya has always been alone.

...Alone?

There's something different about this head. It has mahogany-hued locks that frame it almost pristinely. Its eye sockets have been cleaned, almost meticulously, where the eyes have been ripped out. The mouth is agape, the cheeks are sunken, and there are a few cuts across them that have, also, been cleaned. There is a gash beneath the bottom right cheek, along the jaw. There is no longer any blood leaking from it, as if it has all been drained. Similarly, the sever has been done in a spotless, precise manner: it's as if there wasn't a neck nor body to begin with.

It is jarring, even more so with how real it seems. How alive it looks.

"No," Tetsuya breathes, because this isn't how it was supposed to go--

With his palms pressed tightly one on top of the other, pushing back against his lips, Tetsuya's eyes are wide as he forces himself to lean in.

...

His legs won't move.

"Tetsuya, I brought some candy home! Let's eat it together!"

"Yes!"

"No," he repeats, tightening his grip around Seijuurou's fingers, whose lips curl upwards. His heterochromatic eyes widen with pure elation, and all Tetsuya can feel from him is a twisted mixture of delight, love and a bottomless pit of malice--

"Oh dear, Tetsuya, where you with -- ... --again? It's great to see you boys having fun-- ..."

"Yes"--?

where are-- you--?

wheredi d he go--

Masculine. About twenty-five or so years of age, if he were to estimate. Standard, Japanese features. He prods at the jaw.

...

There's something inside.

It's been... Sewn to the roof of the mouth, he realises as he feels the intricate stitching. Whoever did this has been downright meticulous in their handling of their victim.

...

...

...

It's a candy wrapper.

He's seen the candy a handful of times before, advertised around busy cities in Tokyo. He can't remember it that vividly.

Noting it down mentally, he places the head back down, and peers inside the compartment once more.

"No--"

Tetsuya tries to back away, but his body won't move the way he wants it to. He ends up pushing himself directly onto Seijuurou, who catches him without question, silent as the detective trembles in his arms.

"You-- why do you--"

Why do you have that?

The words won't come out of his mouth, but he doesn't want them to, either--

"How long has it been since you last saw that picture? Hmm... Eleven years, was it?"

"Why--"

"Hey," Seijuurou whispers, lips on the nape of Tetsuya's neck as he pulls his small body, so limp and so docile, closer, "you couldn't recognise it at all, could you--"

Tetsuya can't speak.

He can't feel.

He can't breathe, because--

"--the face of your own brother?"

[multistoty]

(from your wanted plots tab with it linked in the source]

@hcllhcre​

If Hope Andrea Mikealson had a dagger, she imagined she could have sliced into that night as if it were a cake and stolen a piece of it to take a bite of all the wondrous dark. Hope knew that stories often take on lives of their own. She already felt as if the horror she had went through was turning into a fairytale, but the princess is nothing special, and this is not a fairytale. Lawrence Penrose was a fellow ruler whose curse was famed around all the lands.For it was also said the King Of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it beat again: his one true love. They said his kiss had been fatal to all but her - his only weakness - and as he’d sought her, he’d let a trail of corpses. They said his kiss was fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses. There was something fantastically bewitching about the idea that a person's destiny could change in one single night. The king didn't make being alone seem lonely as the barely five foot girl had always feared. The blonde made it seem like an adventure, as if every moment were the start of a story with endless possibilities. Hope had sought him out for being one of the few marriage contenders that had a semblance of honor about him. It wasn’t like the auburn haired girl didn’t have an affinity for knives and the means to express herself, but she was attempting to create a new legacy in the absense of her father who was nicknamed the great evil and wore blood on his hands nearly as much as soap and water. She remembered her first impression of him, tall, roughly handsome, and dangerous, like poison dressed up in an attractive bottle. He was a mess of gold hair, sea-salt blue eyes, and bitten lips, beautiful in a way only broken things could be. She imagined loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness, frightening and consuming yet utterly beautiful when the stars came out. Every good story needs a villain. But the best villains are the ones you secretly like. Gold shimmered no matter what, but few people could make darkness glitter the way he did. He smelled of magic and heartbreak, and something about the combination made her think that despite what he claimed, he wanted to be her hero. She could picture him flashing those deceptive dimples as he tricked an angel into losing its wings just so he could play with the feathers. Not everyone gets a true ending. There are two types of endings because most people give up at the part of the story where things are the worst, where the situation feels hopeless. But that’s when hope is needed most. only those who persevere can find their true ending. Her heart was still a little heavy, but she'd decided carrying it around would only maker her stronger. Heroes don't get happy endings. They give them to other people. Some things are worth pursuit regardless of the cost. Dreams that come true can be beautiful, but they can also turn into nightmares when people won't wake up.  This was why love was so dangerous. Love turn the whole world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. Every story has four parts: the beginning, the middle, the almost-ending, and the true ending. Unfortunately, not everyone gets a true ending. Most people give up at the part of the story where things are the worst, when the situation feels hopeless, but that is where hope is needed most. Only those who persevere can find their true ending. She didn't know if she can fix his  broken heart, but the princess can allow him to take hers as it was always meant to be. “Let me kiss you. We have been flirting on this line for so long. You practically pinned me in your bed. I care for you enough to burn in the fires that have warmed me all these months. And the meek may inherit the earth, but right now it belongs to the concieted like us.” In the space with the girl’s heart slamming against the cage of her chest being the only option, Hope claimed the gates of her lips with his own. She’d given him time to pull away from the embrace or for her joke to land. Sarcasm and rapier wit were Hope’s default. He made her annoyingly warm as he had never given up on her either. It's the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world. Sweet while insistant. Speaking in ways words could not. When suddenly, a thrumming pulled both of their gazes. Ivory paint stained fingers pressed in shock against the swollen skin of her lips and what this all meant.

[multistoty]

@hcllhcre​

If Hope Andrea Mikealson had a dagger, she imagined she could have sliced into that night as if it were a cake and stolen a piece of it to take a bite of all the wondrous dark. Hope knew that stories often take on lives of their own. She already felt as if the horror she had went through was turning into a fairytale, but the princess is nothing special, and this is not a fairytale. Lawrence Penrose was a fellow ruler whose curse was famed around all the lands.For it was also said the King Of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it beat again: his one true love. They said his kiss had been fatal to all but her - his only weakness - and as he’d sought her, he’d let a trail of corpses. They said his kiss was fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses. There was something fantastically bewitching about the idea that a person's destiny could change in one single night. The king didn't make being alone seem lonely as the barely five foot girl had always feared. The blonde made it seem like an adventure, as if every moment were the start of a story with endless possibilities. Hope had sought him out for being one of the few marriage contenders that had a semblance of honor about him. It wasn’t like the auburn haired girl didn’t have an affinity for knives and the means to express herself, but she was attempting to create a new legacy in the absense of her father who was nicknamed the great evil and wore blood on his hands nearly as much as soap and water. She remembered her first impression of him, tall, roughly handsome, and dangerous, like poison dressed up in an attractive bottle. He was a mess of gold hair, sea-salt blue eyes, and bitten lips, beautiful in a way only broken things could be. She imagined loving him would feel like falling in love with darkness, frightening and consuming yet utterly beautiful when the stars came out. Every good story needs a villain. But the best villains are the ones you secretly like. Gold shimmered no matter what, but few people could make darkness glitter the way he did. He smelled of magic and heartbreak, and something about the combination made her think that despite what he claimed, he wanted to be her hero. She could picture him flashing those deceptive dimples as he tricked an angel into losing its wings just so he could play with the feathers. Not everyone gets a true ending. There are two types of endings because most people give up at the part of the story where things are the worst, where the situation feels hopeless. But that’s when hope is needed most. only those who persevere can find their true ending. Her heart was still a little heavy, but she'd decided carrying it around would only maker her stronger. Heroes don't get happy endings. They give them to other people. Some things are worth pursuit regardless of the cost. Dreams that come true can be beautiful, but they can also turn into nightmares when people won't wake up.  This was why love was so dangerous. Love turn the whole world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns. Every story has four parts: the beginning, the middle, the almost-ending, and the true ending. Unfortunately, not everyone gets a true ending. Most people give up at the part of the story where things are the worst, when the situation feels hopeless, but that is where hope is needed most. Only those who persevere can find their true ending. She didn't know if she can fix his  broken heart, but the princess can allow him to take hers as it was always meant to be. “Let me kiss you. We have been flirting on this line for so long. You practically pinned me in your bed. I care for you enough to burn in the fires that have warmed me all these months. And the meek may inherit the earth, but right now it belongs to the concieted like us.” In the space with the girl’s heart slamming against the cage of her chest being the only option, Hope claimed the gates of her lips with his own. She’d given him time to pull away from the embrace or for her joke to land. Sarcasm and rapier wit were Hope’s default. He made her annoyingly warm as he had never given up on her either. It's the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world. Sweet while insistant. Speaking in ways words could not. When suddenly, a thrumming pulled both of their gazes. Ivory paint stained fingers pressed in shock against the swollen skin of her lips and what this all meant.