#and he realises so many things about himself he deemed wrong before!!!!

[hellamorte]

just thinking about logan who hasn't been touched for decades and doesn't know how to do it non-violently anymore... he's basically a hissing kitty mess, and wade ends up being the only one who can deal with it thanks to his healing factor and his inability to keep his hands off handsome old men, so eventually logan just... rolls with it? and turns out he's not only surprisingly okay with that, but also into it So Much, just imagine him completely obliterated at the fact that he enjoys touching wade. holding his hand. GODDAMN CARESSING HIM.

[8em-em-em8]

Ok, some of you guys wanted more of this so, this is a little follow-up. (It happens right after the first)

 That night, they stay up late, catching up a little bit, but also because Izuku can tell Katsuki needs to exteriorise a lot of things : he never knew him to share a lot of his intimate life, but he keeps answering Izuku's questions, even when it looks like it costs him a little bit. He's angry when he talks, reminiscing Izuku of that young boy with anger issues that he knew in high school. But he doesn't seem hurt.

“I completely understand how angry you are towards your husband regarding Haru, but... maybe you should stop a second to take in the fact that you plan on ending a 5 year relationship?” Izuku knows perfectly how good Katsuki was at bottling the feelings he didn't think worthy of being shown, the ones he deemed shameful, back in the days.

But Katsuki frowns at him, looking almost hurt.

“What, you think I should stay with that ableist asshole just because we've been together a while?” He spits, his tone venomous and Izuku feels his blood go cold.

“What?! No! I meant- I meant that you mainly seem angry at everything that had happened but not sad that you're losing your lover. You're allowed to feel sad Kacchan, you know that right? That you discovered he wasn't a good man doesn't have to make it painless.”

As he talks, Izuku thanks his years as a teacher that taught him to let go of his stuttering even when he feels like he's on uneven ground. He knows that being confident right now is important if he wants Katsuki to take him seriously.

Katsuki fixes him one more second, taking his words in, before his shoulders slump, following his torso as he exhales. One of his hands comes to burrow his hair. “Sorry. I Shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I'm too riled up.”

“It's okay.” Izuku answers, but doesn't say anything else. He lets Katsuki come to him.

“... Ueda and I, we went along because our goals were the same : our jobs were first, that our objectives were to be the best possible and we'd work as many hours as necessary to achieve it. It was success and money... Ueda was the one to bring up the question of having a kid, but in the end, I'm the one she changed. I-” His gaze fleets toward Izuku, almost shy. “I think after we fell off you and I, I lost myself a little bit, forgot that the performance was useless if you lost sight of what you are fighting for. Haru, she reminded me of all of that. Ueda... lets just say it didn't change anything for him and I realised that where I was just lost, he was just... himself. I wanted to be the best because it meant that I was the best, you know? The most helpful, the one that saved the most lives, arrested the most villains... he wanted to be the best because to be famous, a pure ego trip. I realised then that I just had been blind to it.” He makes a face. “But I was in denial. I don't like admitting my mistakes, you know that. And choosing wrong on your life partner is a big one. And all of that is without talking of his relationship with Haru. He was the one to insist I'd be the donor, joked about how the baby would have a strong quirk like that. Only maybe it wasn't a joke at all. I always felt like he regretted not being her biological father, and I could understand that, but not when he was distant with her even after I fought him so many time about how important it was to make time for our fucking kid. When we left just now he told me 'it' wouldn't have happened if she had been his. Like he thought she wasn't. And it didn't even surprise me. I finally looked at my bad choice in the face and realised he just had killed what little feelings I had for him left... so no. I'm not sad, nerd. Just angry at myself.”

It is a bit later that they both realise Katsuki didn't think to call in to work to tell them he'll be out the next day. And Izuku thinks that his friend is already angry at himself enough so he doesn't hesitate to step in and offer his help.

“I don't work tomorrow, I can take care of Haru if you think letting her with someone she doesn't know won't scare her.”

“You're not working? But we're in the middle of the week.”

Oh, Bakugo really must be tired, because as a father of a school going kid, he should know why Izuku doesn't have to work. They stare at each other for a second, Izuki with an amused smile that widens when he can clearly pinpoint on his friend's face the moment he connects the dots.

“Oh. Spring break. I forgot. You sure it wouldn't bother you? I can drop her at my mom's you know? She's gonna kick my ass, but that's okay.”

“I really don't mind. I'll be home anyway.” Izuku chooses to not mention he doesn't have that much experience with smaller kids: if he can keep a whole class of wanna-be heroes alive all year long, he's pretty sure he'll be able to manage a four-year-old.

Katsui nods.

“If you don't mind getting up a bit early, I'll wake Haru up at the same time as me so I can introduce you before work. Also, it's better if she sees me before I leave, she'll worry if she doesn't.”

Izuku's pretty fast to gram his phone on the coffee table, ready to set an alarm.

“When do you leave?”

Even as they part, Katsuki going back to his daughter and Izuku to his office futon, it's hard for Izuku to fall asleep. He stares at the ceiling, dumbfounded.

Katsuki's words ring in his head “You were the only person you could think of.”

That was unexpected after all those years, but even more unexpected was the warmth that the statement has provoked against his ribs.

Katsuki had a fucking stressful day: 1) Haru cried when he left in the morning, 2) he perfectly knows how horrible she can be if she doesn't like someone (probably something he should blame himself for, she got that from him.) and he forgot to tell Izuku that his daughter is a biter. 3) Ueda hasn't stopped blowing up his phone since nine in the AM.

He is done with this day. He just wants to get his fucking shoes off and hug his kid. And maybe also Deku for being the kindest human on this face of the hearth.

Seeing the nerd's apartment's door is like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, and even if he gives a courtesy knock on the door, he doesn't wait for an answer to barge in.

He's surprised when Haru's voice rings in the apartment: “In the kitchen!”

And yeah, he could have deduced that on his own: it smells good in here, like someone threw an onion in a pan not long ago.

He's welcomed in the kitchen by two bright smiles. Deku's got an All Might apron on, looking ridiculous as always and looking weirdly comfortable. Heru looks like she's settled on his back, her hands in his green hair.

It's only when Izuku gets back to his pan for a sec that he reveals to Katsuki how the fuck he's able to carry a child without using his arms. : turns out each Haru's just standing up behind him, her feet nested each in one of his back pocket.

It's ingenious and weird. Very Izuku.

“Daddy! Izu-Nii is making curry!” Haru claims while throwing one of her arms at him.

It's only once his daughter is well settled in his arms that he notices how her hair is tied in the most intricate hair-do he's ever seen on her.

“You let Izuku do your hair?” he asks, eyes round.

Haru nods, eyes sparkling. “We looked at D.I.Y” she explains, spelling the letters like someone took the time to teach her the right way to pronounce them.

“She wanted 'princess hair'. Took us a while to perfect it, but we did it.” Izuku explains, like he doesn't understand how crazy it sounds.

Katsuki turns to his daughter. “Oh, so when I try to do your hair you scream bloody murder, but when Izuku does it it's fine?” He'd be genuinely jealous if he was a lesser man.

“It's because you always pull my hair!” the little girl protests.

“Are you implying that the great hero Dinamyght has something he's not good at?” Deku asks with theatrics, and Haru immediately laughs. “But- It's unheard of!”

“He doesn't know how to put nail polish on either!” Haru ads delighted, and at Izuku's affronted “Impossible!” seeing the huge smile on her face, Katsuki realises how right he was to follow his first instinct and come to Izuku for help.

He just hopes that the feelings he took care of burying real deep all those years ago aren't gonna resurface now that Deku is at his reach again... he doesn't have much hope.

[patrophthia]

from the glue | tom riddle

pairing: tom riddle x reader

genre: fluff, lovey dovey stuff, tom changes himself for reader, song fic, OOC tom (like super OOC), not beta read

wc: 1.1k

this is a request ! thank you for sending this in!! <3

tag: @tr4ppola

You like to believe in the good in people. You'd like to believe that no matter how bad a person seems to be, there's something in them that is truly good. You'd also like to think that there were bad even people who you might deem good. Which is probably why you think Tom and you worked together so well. 

You balance each other and made one another a better person in one way or the other. 

Tom taught you how to stand your ground and you taught him how to be (for the lack of a better word) more tolerable and less pessimistic. 

The longer you knew Tom the more you realised you'd never met someone like him. No matter how much you knew of him, he'd always find a way to surprise you whether it be good or bad. 

You never understood why he'd been so drawn to you after your first meeting. You were in class, so was he, when you'd accidentally bumped into him as you reached over to care for your plant. "Sorry."

"Don't be," he says, his tone unreadable. You glance up and meet him eye to eye and swore it flashed red for a split second before he sent a smile your way. "It happens to everyone." 

He was nice, which is what you'd notice the first time. In the second, you realised just how charming he was and how many of your classmates longed to be with him. He didn't care about them though, always turning them down when they slightly hinted that they were interested in him. 

So imagine your surprise when he'd asked you to be his partner on a project who you were sure he'd be fine doing on his own. You didn't read much into it, maybe he just wasn't as smart as you thought he was despite him being at the top of the class. 

A month later, your project turned in with an Outstanding as your final grade. Tom made excuses to keep on being by your side since then. It was as if you two were glued to the hips. 

You didn't understand why at first, but when he'd started telling you some of his secrets, you were quick to pick up on why he's been doing so. 

And to prove yourself right, you decided to ask him about it one evening after your study (not) date. You didn't like beating around the bush, neither did Tom. So you decided to jump straight in. "Do you like me?" 

He looked up and studied you for a second before he answered. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Okay. Maybe you should rephrase it. "Do you have feelings for me?" 

"Would I tell you about the basilisk if I didn't?"

You think about it for a second. It was weird that he'd tell you (who at the time had only known him for about a week) about a hidden basilisk underneath a castle that had been kept as a secret for you. You guess he just really likes you then. 

Throughout the next few months you managed to fall for his charms (and him yours). Somehow, he'd become your boyfriend along the lines of straightening out his wrongs. Your boyfriend was a bit of a fixer upper, so what? 

Of course you couldn't change everything completely about him, he still had his goals in life but most of it was diverted when you told him plain out that you'd never date someone who would willingly hurt a completely innocent person. 

So he took a different approach to it instead, he'd had one Horcrux when he'd first met you and vowed to never make any more. He finally found something that made him happy and he wasn't going to let it go to waste for something that hadn't made him half as satisfied. 

Last night you decided that it was best to destroy the Horcrux and Tom wholeheartedly agreed, mostly because he was willing to do whatever you asked him. 

Who knew destroying a Horcrux would hurt like a bitch? Certainly not Tom. He knew it'd take a toll on him, just not as much as it was as of right now. 

The only thing bringing him comfort as he recovered was you. He'd always thought he was averse to touch, but when it came to you he wanted nothing more than to glue himself onto you. 

Morning comes way too quickly for his liking, and even though he's woken up ten minutes earlier than you just so he could hold you for a bit longer. He wanted to stay here a bit longer, limbs tangled underneath his blanket, stuck onto you. 

You stir awake and he finds himself frowning, knowing that you'd have to get up and out the door in a few minutes. 

"Good morning," you say, smiling winsomely at him. 

His frowns deepen. He's going to miss you even more now. "Good morning." 

Your eyes flutter shut when he pressed a short kiss onto your forehead before opening up again, this time more alert and awake. "I have to go to work," you say first, trying to get out of his grip. "And you have to take the day off to recover." 

He listens to you, and he thinks to himself, asking. When did he start listening to a command from someone other than himself? And secondly, why is he listening to a command from someone much shorter than him? 

When he doesn't reply, you begin getting yourself ready for work. When you get back out, Tom's still in bed, wearing an uncharacteristic pout. "What?" 

"I think you're forgetting something." 

You double check your thing to find that everything's there and frown. "What do you mean?" 

"Doctor's order," he says. "You'll have to kiss me before you leave or else you'll miss me and I turn into an evil wizard while you're gone." 

You let out a loud sigh, failing to hide a smile at his childishness. You pressed a quick kiss on his lips, Tom grabbing a hold of your face in an attempt to deepen it only for you to pull back. "Work." 

"I'll be back soon okay?" You tell him. "I love you." 

He hesitates and you're not upset when he does so, you'd always been understanding so you know how he feels when it comes to love because, quite frankly. He never thought he would ever be in love. 

It was impossible for someone to love when they were conceived under the love potion, so he never bothered to seek out love. But you were special, and you were here now, with him. And so he loves you for it. So just before you leave, he tells you back what you'd heard the first time ever. "I love you too."

—from bee: fluffy tom 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 i like my tom best when he’s OOC teehee, reblog/notes/feedbacks are greatly appreciated!! :]

[anjelicawrites]

We’ve had so much fun torturing Maid!Aegon! What is his reward when he’s the best boy in the world and finally manages to clean everything without cumming???? How proud of himself is he while he’s writhing about getting praised and finally getting to cum????

-🪴

Sweet little thing that he is. He deserves a reward, doesn't he?

NSFW and 18 + only please!

He's torn between being proud and feeling so horny it almost hurts to think: his cock is so hard, his stones so heavy and full he's afraid the wrong movement will make him explode.

The gentle strokes on his burning skin double the need he has for you and the pleasure you promised him.

His body lays splayed on the bed, naked and covered in the marks you had left every single time he's been bad and needed punishment. He writhes when your lips kiss each and every proof of your love for him, he's impatient to come all over himself or, if you deem him worthy, inside of you.

He doesn't beg, tries to reign in his emotions the best he can: it has been so long since you've granted him permission to come he's ready to jump out of his skin.

He moans and arches when your tongue starts licking his bulbous head, your strokes slow around the tip. The pleasure he feels blanks his mind for a second, the whiplash tenses his muscles to the point of pain and he tries to tell you he can't control himself any longer! He's going to come soon!

He explodes all over your face when you tell him he can orgasm as many times as he likes, that you're here for his pleasure; you lick his seed and kiss him, feeling his still hard cock under your body.

"Please..." He begs, puppy dog eyes on yours. "I'm still... I can't..."

Words die on his lips: he's never felt like this before, like his body is ready to go for hours.

"Don't be scared, sweet boy. You're so good for me, always ready." You kiss his trembling lips, red and bitten raw. "I am here for your pleasure. I missed riding you until you come inside of me."

Aegon doesn't know if it's your warm body or the need in tone of your voice, he comes untouched, hot seed splashing all over his soft belly.

Before he can say he's sorry, you tell him he's your good boy and that you can't wait for his seed to fill you to the brim.

You ride him for hours, slow and deep, feeling his large head push against your G spot. You keep showering him with praises and love every single time he comes inside of you, you let him suck on your breasts as you slowly roll your hips on his still hard cock.

He's so drunk on pleasure and love that he doesn't even realise he's slipped into subspace, all he knows is that his body is for you to use for your own pleasure, as it should be.

Far away he feels the ripples of your tight cunt whenever you come around him, his body shakes under yours, too overstimulated to truly function.

"One last time, my good boy."

He croaks a rough sound of pleasure when you clamp around his raw cock and lie on him, your soft breasts cushioned against his chest.

Pliantly he lets you linked hands stretch his arms over his head as your hips roll faster and faster to catch your own orgasm, his cock thick and coated in your mixed comes is so delicious against your battered walls.

"Now! Now!"

You scream, coming so hard you barely pass out on Aegon, whose body follows your orders blindly, his stones unloading his seed until he can't give you anymore.

You hold him tight against your chest, feeling his heart beating such a mad tattoo you're scared he's going to faint, instead his big, lilac eyes find yours and you know he's coming back to himself, following the path laid by your voice in his ears.

You kiss his forehead and nose until he's capable of speech, smiling at his request.

"Yes, you can slip back into me and fall asleep like this. You've been so good for me, you deserve the world."

He's so happy you see the tears almost falling from his eyes.

"Will I be back into chastity tomorrow?"

"Only if you want to."

"If I don't want to, will you let me make love to you again?"

His cheeks are apple red. You have to stop yourself from pinching them until he squirms.

"Perhaps. It will depend on how good you're going to be for me."

You smile when you feel his spent cock twitch inside your cunt. Maybe, just maybe, you'll let him ride you until he begs to stop, that's too much. If he's exceptionally good, you might even listen to his plea and not overstimulate him until he begs to be in chastity again.

As much as you love tormenting him, you live to make him feel adored and appreciated; sometimes that means taking his pleasure from him, other times you can only achieve this goal by giving in to his pleas. Only tomorrow will show you the right way.

[tritannus]

How many times have I redrawn Flora in this outfit?

Anway... poison and toxins underwater... are drugs...

Okay, maybe not the toxins from the pollution, but just from sea creatures in general. Lionfish, stonefish, blue ringed octopus. The more severe the toxin each sea creature contains, the stronger the drugs.

Toxins from pollutants are unnatural, meaning it can warp the mind of an individual. Combine that with dark magic, it can cause a corruption within the mind of the person.

Yes, this is a headcanon.

I was trying to figure out what could've caused Tritannus to lose himself entirely to toxins and this was the best I could come up with.

Tritannus was born with magic, he practices dark magic and was actually praised for it before. But then things happened and people started frowning upon dark magic. It probably doesn't help that fairies are going around telling everyone dark magic is wrong, it's dangerous, it's diabolical. He was a child when all this happened and it contributed to him losing his senses eventually. It doesn't help that his own parents don't even realise he's losing himself.

Nereus finds out something is wrong with his brother but anything he says about it was brushed off. Their parents deemed it was just nothing. Tressa watches Tritannus lose himself, being told he was just a bad influence and shouldn't be catered to.

With all this negativity in his head, plus the toxins he absorbed, he was gone. Just an empty shell of his former self. Nereus thought he could convince his brother to stop, but unfortunately, the moment the toxins entered his body, Tritannus had disappeared. Nobody knew this.

Why was he a psycho? People call him that all the time, right?

Tritannus had always been fascinated in medication underwater. He's kept a few of those poisonous fish and plants to study. He's never actually paid any attention to wanting the throne, which was something weird in everyone's eyes. What he truly wanted was his parents' attention. He wanted to do something they would be proud of.

He turned to creating medication using toxins. What made things worse, was that he sometimes tested it on himself. Whenever he gets sick, he knew they wouldn't care, so he took this chance to find out which toxins could have a better effect against which types of illnesses or wounds. Someone found out and word got out.

He was forced to stop this nonsense. He was forced to study along his brother to inherit the throne. A throne he knows he will never be his.

The funny thing was. Tritannus's work wasn't in vain. He found a few that would actually help. He gave some to the ones that lived far away from the kingdom. They were grateful for it, but they were also the only ones that knew.

I'm so sorry, I was actually planning out to just write out part of the headcanon, instead I wrote out the entire thing.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 25 - Criminal AU

@wolfstarmicrofic April 25, word count 857

Sirius, wrapped in his brand-new wool cloak, sauntered down the street, perusing the wears of the local sellers. It was market day, and the locals were out in their droves. Normally, Sirius wouldn’t deem to mix with the riff-raff, but after the stifling morning of lessons and the lecture from his parents about upholding the family name, he’d needed to escape. To lose himself for a while. 

Out here amongst the lesser mortals, he could pretend he wasn’t the heir to the most prestigious family in the country. Even the royals couldn’t hold a beacon to the power and respect garnered by the House of Black. 

He breathed in the putrid smell of the lower classes and revelled in the freedom. He’d just spotted a shabby-looking pie shop and debated braving the questionable-looking meat when a tall man with a face lashed with scars knocked into his side. 

“Sorry, excuse me,” The man mumbled hurriedly before continuing down the street. 

Now, Sirius was many things, but a fool he was not. He checked where his coin purse had been secure in his pocket, and of course, it was gone. 

“Hey, you! Come back here!” He bellowed down the street, his anger rippling through. The man glanced over his shoulder and took off at a full run, his long legs an advantage over Sirius’s shorter ones, but only for so long. 

Sirius had lived his entire life in a saddle, pushing himself and his horses faster and faster for longer and longer. He was built for endurance. His well-muscled thighs were still pumping as the thief began to tire. 

The thief clearly knew the streets well, but so did Sirius, having come here many times over the years to escape. He followed the man down every twisting, turning alley until the lanky being took a wrong turn and trapped himself in a dead end, his back up against the wall.

Sirius slowed to a long stride and casually leant against the narrow passageway in front of the exhausted man. He extended his arm and raised his brow. The thief sighed, threw the purse to his waiting hand and slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. It was then that Sirius noticed how skinny he was and how ragged his thin clothes were. 

“You do this often, then?” Sirius asked sternly, trying to get a feel for the man. The man looked up, shocked to see Sirius still there watching him. He pulled his thin clothes around him tighter and scowled at the brown puddle against the brickwork. 

“No,” He muttered. “You looked like an easy target.” His eyes snapped up to look straight at Sirius. “Clearly not.” He spat onto the ground. “Why are you still here? Get the Bobbys if you want. I’m in no condition to move now.” 

Sirius watched his chest heave with each laboured breath and sighed. For some godforsaken reason, he couldn’t leave the half-starved vagrant.

“You got someone waiting for you?” He asked. The thief flinched. 

“Yes,” He said, and Sirius knew it for the lie it was. This man had nothing and no one. 

“You good with your hands?” He questioned further. Those warm brown eyes dropped and stared beneath Sirius’s cloak. The man began to crawl forward and was reaching towards Sirius when Sirius realised what was happening. “No, no! That’s not what I meant!” He gently pushed the man’s hand away from the buttons on his trousers. “We need a groundsman to tend to the flowerbeds and whatnot. Keep the grass cut, walls intact, that sort of thing. There’s a small hut and a salary with the job. If you want it, of course.” He’d started babbling, so he stopped himself. The brown eyes darkened. 

“What’s the catch?” He rasped from the floor in front of Sirius. 

“Nothing, no catch. Just don’t tell my parents this is where we met.” Sirius panicked for a second. His parents would have the man killed if they knew where he’d come from.

“You live with your parents?” The man snorted but stopped quickly, catching himself. 

“I’m in a different wing,” Sirius explained. He held his hand out to the crouching man. “Sirius Black, heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.” The man gawped. Sirius motioned with his hand for the other man to take it. The man hesitated before slowly accepting it. Sirius helped him haul himself to his feet. “And you are?” He prompted when the man didn’t reciprocate. 

“Remus Lupin. I don’t have a fancy title to go with it.” He said blandly. Sirius threw his head back and laughed. 

“Well, Remus,” He said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “The first thing we’re going to do is get a hot meal into you, and then we’ll pick out some new clothes, but the main thing you need, my new friend, is a bath, because and I do mean to be rude here, you smell worse than the Thames.” He softened his words with a smile and a wink before he turned on his heel, Remus following close behind him as they reentered the bustling streets of London.  

[owlsandwich]

Proud Of Tag

I'm sorry that I'm doing all of these at once without queuing anything :P I know I'll just confuse myself if I try to schedule, and I'm on a roll!

This is such a nice tag! Thanks @eccaiia! I assume it's just posting an extract you are proud of :)

I'll tag @jeahreading @pb-dot @teacupsandstarlight @mundanemoongirl

@frostedlemonwriter @avoidingcertaindoom @late-to-the-fandom @theprissythumbelina

@anyablackwood @katenewmanwrites and everyone else who has some writing they are proud of! If you tag me, I'll read them all!

I'm going to share a little flashback scene. I don't do flashbacks often, and always try to keep them short, but this consistently seems to get compliments, so much that even the editor liked it :O

~

A cold chill dripped through Matthew’s body. He didn’t want to turn to look at the spot where his instincts had pulled him. In the nightmares, he could never look away. Now, even in the glaring light of day, he was certain that the scene behind him would be just as he’d left it all those years ago.

It was evening, then. Magelights glowing in the grounds. The smell of flowers mixing with the scents that wafted tantalisingly from the palace kitchens.

Xander had snuck them a fresh loaf and so many cheeses that Matthew had been sure the servers would notice the absence. But hopefully enough wine would have flowed by the end of the meal that the Velbian diplomats wouldn’t care.

He’d skipped enough formal dinners to know his father would give him a strong scolding that evening. Apparently, it was an insult to their guests for the Crown Prince to not deem them worthy of his company, though Matthew could never see why. It wasn’t as if any of them had ever spoken more than a few platitudes to him.

No. He’d much rather be watching Xander throw bread to the fish in the pond, than pretending he cared about his royal duty.

Of course, he should have predicted that Oliver would be sent to bring them in. Despite only being a Potential, the nineteen-year-old shadow of his father’s Tactician was more of a stickler for the rules than any of the actual Royal Champions. In contrast, Xander, for all his good breeding, spent enough time in the kitchens that you could be forgiven for assuming he was a baker’s boy rather than a potential Champion himself. This was something they both enjoyed using to torment Oliver and his delicate principles.

The initial shots from the palace were a foreign enough sound that Matthew first thought of fireworks. It wasn’t until Oliver collapsed, barely missing the pond, that they thought anything could be wrong.

He’d been cradling Oliver in his arms when he watched the same thing happen to Xander. He’d never seen an Awakening before. Had no idea then what it meant. If he’d realised...

The man in the Velbian uniform who emerged around the boxed hedgerow seemed at first as though he was there to help them. Oliver’s shouted warning came too late. Unconscious, with no magic to protect him, the bullet faced no resistance. Matthew could only sit, frozen, as Xander’s blood clouded the crystal water of the pond, ears ringing from the crack of the gun.

It was thanks to Oliver that he hadn’t faced the same fate. The older boy’s shield, strengthened with the magic of a fully Awakened Champion, encircled them both and the shot meant for Matthew ricocheted uselessly into the bushes.

He’d known he had to move, could hear Oliver begging him to get up, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from his fallen friend.

When he asked later what had happened to the guard, Oliver had been evasive. For his part, Matthew only remembered the flare of magic from beside him — the blast that fired the Velbian back beyond the hedge. Oliver hadn’t wanted to speculate on the man’s survival. When he’d finally dragged Matthew to his feet, they hadn’t looked back.

[walkingstackofbooks]

This scene has been living rent-free in my head for a month and I have thoughts

"The word you're looking for is unnatural, meaning, not from nature... Freak, or monster, would also be acceptable." (Dr Bashir, DS9 5x16)

I'm sure it's been said before, but the FEELS of this line-

To me, it sounds like Julian's reeling off a list of things he's been told he is. In any other situation, I'd assume he'd been bullied about his enhancements with these words and internalised them; but his enhancements were secret, so that doesn't fit here.

Which then made me think these are words Julian's collected from hearing about historical enhanced figures and then bullied himself with. Whether he heard them in a lesson, or in a friend's conversation, or even took it upon himself to research views of enhanced individuals, he seems to have learnt that genetically enhanced humans are freaks and monsters, and therefore so is he.

But I also looped back to the idea of his being bullied - (and I haven't watched past this episode so there may be something later to discourage this theory) - and I don't think it's too wild a guess to make that at some point he was. He's presented in the show as someone who just can't stop talking, who doesn't get social cues, who's "annoying"...it's not exactly a stretch to imagine a kid being bullied on those grounds.

(Nor is it a stretch to take these traits, among others, and headcanon that Julian Bashir is autistic. Many have, and it makes a lot of sense. And it works its way well into my little fiction.)

So as a kid, Julian is too smart and too loud and too eager. He has special interests coming out of his ears and learns everything he can about all of them, that's just the way his brain works. (That's what the teachers tell him, anyway, when some other kids call him names. They tell him lots of children are like him.)

((I can't decide if he's told he's autistic or not. On one hand, it's a convenient excuse for his parents to hide his extraordinary smarts behind. On the other, I cannot imagine them meeting the suggestion with anything but disdain and a snide "there's nothing wrong with our Jules", seeing as they're ableist af. But I imagine at the very least - with a little research and a couple of decent teachers - he must have had his own suspicions by the time he was a teen.))

I'm digressing - I apologise, at some point these thoughts became too long and meandering to be completely coherent. Right-

Too smart and too loud, his seemingly boundless knowledge is deemed as unnatural and freakish by his classmates. (When you're 7, any knowledge greater than your own seems pretty boundless.) And of course this was upsetting, and not easily forgotten. But as you grow, you do learn that people can be mean for little reason, and that whatever others think, it's perfectly okay for your brain to work differently.

Until you learn that it's not.

And here's where Julian Bashir realises that his childhood bullies were right about him. His academic abilities are unnatural and freakish (and, he will later learn, make him a monster). Because the line between "being able to learn everything that interests you because that's how your autistic brain works" and "being able to learn everything that interests you because that's how your genetically engineered brain works" is impossible to see. (Especially if your oh-so-caring parents take away the first option because "we made your brain perfect Jules, there's nothing wrong with you".)

Boy, that was a really long way of saying imagine if Julian was bullied for being autistic but ended up believing it was because of his augments and therefore that the bullies were right.

[landinoandco]

Could I ask for a Max Verstappen request?

Where you get all excited to tell him you’re pregnant and it doesn’t go well. Could you make it super angsty

Of course you can :) here you go, I hope you enjoy! 

Max Verstappen x reader 

Warnings: angst but with fluff at the end

Word count: 2.2 k 

Requests are open...

Baby, the future is ours

At last the summer break had rolled around again, to the relief of the Formula one drivers and crew, they had 3 long weeks ahead of them to fill with whatever they deemed stress-free or relaxing. The subject of activity depending on person to person - most sane folk tended to stick to a holiday to Greece or if you were an adrenaline junkie like Daniel Ricciardo jumping out of planes or BMX biking. You had lost count of the times Max - your boyfriend - had rushed in to tell you about all of the exciting things his best friend had gotten up to as of late. 

You and Max had decided to take a break and travel to a cosy, quiet part of Italy - to escape the press, the stress and most importantly the eagle eye of social media. It would just be you and him for a few weeks before reality brought you back to Milton Keynes in the shape of Christian Horner and his motley crew. 

You and Max had met in 2018 at a gala event Redbull had hosted, Pierre Gasly - being a close friend of yours - had introduced you two and to say the pair of you hit it off instantly was an understatement, whether it was a mixture of the Dutch meets British humour you had no clue but you weren’t one to complain. A few months later and Max had asked you to travel around the world with him - you did so willingly and life had been nearing perfect ever since. Of course you had your ups and downs, where the universe seemed to really test not only your love for one and other but your patience. A few arguments had shown you that both being hot-headed never ended well. 

You were sat out on the balcony, a book in hand and looking out into the Italien countryside. Max had left for a run and to explore the local village, leaving you, your thoughts and your growing baby. You were pregnant - you had taken the test just before flying out, this meant that Max wasn’t aware. You hadn’t told him yet and you had no clue how you were going to. As it turns out telling your partner you were pregnant was easier said than done - ironically. 

You and Max hadn’t had the baby talk yet - you had but only along the lines of: “one day, when we’re older and married and driving isn’t the main priority anymore.” Those were Max’s words. He wanted to be there for his child, to watch him or her grow, to see every milestone but most importantly to be a good and nurturing father. 

There was part of you that was slightly worried because you just didn’t know how Max would take it - you couldn’t keep it in any longer though. You had to tell him. There was another part of you that was excited - from a very young age you knew you wanted to have a family of your own with the person you loved the most. Call it childish naivety. At this point in time, you were ready to become a mother - well as ready as anyone ever could be. 

Placing your book onto the table, you made your way into the kitchen, grabbed a glass and filled it. Sighing loudly as you leant onto the countertop. 

“That was a loud sigh.” A voice called out from behind you. You recognised it instantly. Whipping your head around, you saw Max standing there, wiping the sweat from his forehead. 

Chuckling, you hit back, “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

Rolling his eyes, he made his way over to you and wrapped his arms around your middle, placing a sweet, chaste kiss onto the side of your head. Leaning into his warm embrace, you let out another long but content sigh. 

“Seriously, what is it with you and sighing today.” Max uttered, his lips still against the side of your head. 

You went to move forward, out of his welcoming embrace. You knew what you had to do. 

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Instantly the atmosphere changed, you could feel Max stiffen behind you. Maybe the tone you chose to make that comment in was too serious but it was now or never. 

“Haha, which of your friends is pregnant this time.” He quipped jokingly, trying to break the tension. 

Instantly you knew the way the conversation was going to end, a pang of hurt felt in your stomach. You squeezed your eyes shut, catching your lip with your teeth. He stood there with an air of innocence and unknown, concern dancing in his eyes - he went to reach his arm out to you, to offer that encouragement. 

You braved the words that came out of your lips, “Me.” You almost whispered. Time seemed to slow. Max dropped his arm and instantly took a step back. 

“Pardon.” Was the only thing he could force out of his mouth, his throat seemed to close up and his hands went clammy. He definitely heard you the first time but he wanted to make sure it wasn’t a night terror. A bad dream he had failed to wake from. 

“I am, Max,” You said again, your voice wavering. 

“Oh.” He stated, his face drained of colour, his mouth set in a straight line. 

“Is that all you have to say.” You swallowed thickly, your eyes swam with tears. You had a hunch this was how it was going to end but it didn’t stop is from hurting the way it did. You had hoped he would have proved you wrong, to have wrapped his arms around you and to have spun you around. To have laughed. To have cried. To have shown a little more excitement to the fact you were now carrying his child. His first child. 

You moved past him and sat down on one of the wooden chairs, rubbing your hands over your face. He was still stood there. His eyes fixated on the view out of the window. No emotion read in his eyes. It was almost like you had hit the ‘off’ button. He tapped his foot and made a clicking noise with his mouth before turning around to face you - meeting your gaze. 

“How long have you known.” His voice was hoarse.

“A couple of days before we flew out.” You answered him, moving your face back to rest in your hands. 

There was a pause. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner.”

You took a breath, looking him dead in the eye. “Because I knew this was how you were going to react.” You didn’t trust your voice at all, you also didn’t know whether you wanted to scream at him or cry in the corner. 

“Right.” Was all he said. Still stood there like some awkward teenager after a rather large telling off from their mother. 

“Is that all you have to say to me?” You asked him, nostrils flaring. You were allowed to be angry, right? 

“What do you expect me to say.” He rounded on you, his voice raising more than was necessary. Tears had spilled down your cheeks, you didn’t have the energy to fight back. As soon as he realised the effect this was having on you, he went to move forward again, his eyes softening instantly. “I’m sorry - I - I shouldn’t have raised my-”

“Get out, Max.” You stated lowly. By this point, you had stood up, shuddering away from his desperate grasp. He knew he had made a mistake. You knew he regretted it, the moment the words had left his mouth. 

“Get out?” He repeated quietly, his voice cracking, you could see tears glazing his vision. 

“Just - please, go on a walk - come back once you have more to say to me.” You spat.

“But - But I already have more to say-” You cut his rambling off once again. 

“Please. Max.” You insisted, your voice betraying you again. “Go.” You whispered. 

Max stormed out of the door, ensuring to slam it so hard the chandelier on the ceiling swung precariously. You sank back into your chair and let out a loud sob, unable to hold it in any longer. 

Max was mad. Not at you, that would be unfair. He was mad at himself. At the world. At everything actually because at this point why the hell not. You were pregnant - don’t get him wrong, he was over the moon. He was going to be a dad. 

It was too soon. 

He still had his full F1 career ahead of him. A promising and long F1 career as a matter of fact. He wanted a baby to be his main priority and he wanted to share those one in a lifetime moments with you. He knew there was no point in being mad, it wasn’t like they were in a position where they couldn’t have a child. They had plenty of things to offer, a nurturing home with parents who were head over heels in love with each other and a large family - blood and not - who would be willing to support and love the child as if it was their own. Max really was in love with you. He knew it would be you to mother his children in the end, he just didn’t think it would be now. 

He reached for his phone, went into his contacts and pressed on the number that read the name: “D.R new phone.” Whilst it wasn’t adventurous like many thought it would be, it saved the confusion from calling a number that no longer existed. 

Daniel picked up on the second ring. “Hey dude, how’s it going?” 

“Not good at all, Dan, not good at all.” Max admitted, his voice wavering once again. He explained the events that had happened a mere 5 minutes ago, the way he reacted and the way he left you. Hurt and alone.

“I’m not going to lie to you, mate, you’ve fucked up big time.” Dan spoke after what felt like a loud silence. After all, Daniel knew you just as well as he knew Max. 

“I know. I know I have, do you think I’ve been selfish?” He asked, his tone full of raw emotion. 

“Yes.” Dan stated simply, “I think you have been, especially since she even told you this is how she thought you would react. How much stress do you think she had been putting on herself? Come one, I’ve taught you to be better than this.” Daniel paused, Max could almost hear him place his thumb and ring finger onto the bridge of his nose. “You know, just as well as I know, she knows it isn’t the best time. Her becoming pregnant is very much a two person job, I think it’s time that you go back to her and have a conversation like the adult I know you are.” 

In that moment, Max was so grateful to have someone like Dan just a call away. “Thank you, Dan. Really. I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

“Alright Mr Father-to-be, don’t be going all soppy on me now.” Daniel joked, returning back to his normal teasing. That was the best thing about Daniel, he was quite useful when you needed him to be. 

“You can count yourself on being the godfather after that.” Max added, a large beaming smile plastered onto his face. 

He heard Dan let out a loud laugh, “Go on, leave me be. Good luck, mate, let me know how it goes and when the time is right tell her I say congrats.” 

“Of course, mate. Thank you, again.” Max muttered, looking back in the direction of the villa. After he hung up, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and ambled slowly - working out exactly what he was going to say to you. 

Once he had opened the door, he called out to you. “Babe?” He heard a sniffle in response. You were still slumped on the chair in the kitchen, shooting daggers at the cupboard opposite. 

Max sat opposite you, reaching out for your hand. Grudgingly you let him take it, you blinked and he took a deep breath before a large, beaming smile crept onto his face.

“We’re going to be parents.” He rubbed the back of your hand, speaking tentatively. You nodded, your lower lip trembled. Max stood up, still keeping a hold of your hand as he gave it a slight tug, indicating that you should stand up. You made your way into his embrace, his arms wrapping securely around you, tucking your face into the crook of your neck as he rocked gently side to side, burying his face into your hair. He then moved his hands to cradle your face, wiping the stray tears away before peppering your face with feather light kisses. 

“We’re going to be parents.” He repeated, a little louder and to this you let out another sob, laughing as he picked you up and spun you around. 

“I’m sorry. I was being selfish.” He said, as he wrapped you back up into his arms. You smiled into his chest. In that moment, you couldn’t be happier. It was like all of your childhood dreams had come true. In that kitchen stood your new family, mismatched and sometimes a little bit broken but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[leggerefiore]

Yandere submas boys got my heart thumping! Can we get Mafia! Boys headcannons or even fic if you like! Any content you make amazes me, the way you write them makes them come to life (kinda scary but I'm totally into it). Thank you!

▲Subway Bosses Mafia AU HCs▽

cw: prostitution, torture, criminal activity, murder, trafficking mentions, all kinds of lovely things, sort of dark, please take caution

● They somehow manage to both juggle their criminal undertaking while also maintaining a public transport system. It truthfully is a sight to behold until you realise said transport system is being used in their underground activities. It's terribly gloomy when an uninvolved party wanders into the unused, private parts of the subway and meets with a grizzly sight.

● Ingo handles more of the negotiating involved with other syndicates. He's a smooth talker and tough compromise. There are many times a competing leader leaves his office losing more than he'll gain, yet believing the opposite. Most new recruits are also examined by him personally. He's particular, and not any wannabe gangster can join his organisation. They're blindfolded and sat in his office if they're being 'recommended' by a member. There's no forewarning to this, so all they know is a feared crime boss is chatting with them about their preferred pokemon type. It's a terrifying experience.

● They'll be sent on a basic testing mission or be released if Ingo deems them unworthy. Of course, if they saw something they shouldn't have, then they'll have their life threatened casually. Usually, that alone is enough to keep them quiet, but should it not then… Ingo is willing to provide evidence for his actions. There is little kindness provided by him. People who pass are initiated into the syndicate into smaller groups. Everyone has their place, and not all of them are necessarily under him. No one enjoys being placed under Emmet. Ingo deals with the contraband distribution and hits. These things are easily organised by him in between his paperwork for both the subway and the organisation.

● Rarely, he handles these things himself. Often it's for training a new recruit and seeing how they handle themselves, but sometimes it's because he doesn't trust his underlings to do it for him. Many enemies of the gang met their end by Ingo's hand personally. A blade shoved into their heart from behind, not a single step heard in approach. He doesn't prefer firearms, they are much too loud and obnoxious for his tastes. (Like his talking voice isn't actually a yell.) It's personal, and he tells them what they did to wrong him as he twists the blade for more damage before removing it entirely. The twin walks away as the person lies dying on the ground, desperately trying to stop the waterfall of blood.

○ Emmet handles the more uncomfortable side of things… Actions are what he does best, so trafficking of any sort falls onto him alongside torture. Ingo is polite enough to kill his prey immediately, Emmet prefers to watch the squirm under his heel. His smile haunts many nightmares of those who dared to slight the organisation. People who meet with him rarely return in one piece, be it mentally or physically. He's brutal and silent. A word is never spoken, all I preformed with a large grin splitting his face.

○ Torture is along and arduous and usually only reserved for the worst of the worst toward his group. This doesn't mean he's kind to others, he's just as bad. He engages in both physical and mental torture. The physical is gruesome and bloody. Limbs will be lost, slices are most painful with surgical precision. He loves to sight of blood, it quickly becomes an addiction. The psychological abuse they face is arguably worse, the white room torture. A form a sensory deprivation so intense, only being within it for a few hours are being placed within the room. Emmet loves to hear their cries and pleas. (Ingo acknowledges how bad his brother has gotten, but refuses to acutely stop him.)

○ Trafficking unfortunately includes human. Emmet has a specific category of underlings known as 'maids'. These are unfortunate people put through prostitution and trained to kill opponents through the moment of weakness it provides. The younger twin also engages in organ trafficking, and there is an entire sterile facility dedicated to it. They do have high-end clients, after all. If Emmet had decided to end your life by his hand, please consider taking your own instead. There is nothing worse than the way a spider may play with its prey. The more gruesome, gory side is Emmet's speciality. This is why no one wants to be in his division.

● Both are terrifyingly good at holding their normal personas as they interact with normal people as Subway Bosses. Most people don't have a clue about the absolutely horrid things the brothers are engaged it, and the few that do know to keep their mouth shut. Trainers battle them, unaware of the fact that they killed a man that very same afternoon. You would think someone would go mad from the aggressive, sudden shift in realities, but they adore it. A temporary respite from their grizzly duties to have a faux sense of normalcy.

○ Nimbasa police are under their command, so it's useless to attempt help from authorities. It's disappointing how many have gone to them only to end up worse than when they started. Tattling never ends well. (When they have been sent on a training test mission by that strange criminal, their mind immediately rushed to how they were going to alert the police to such things happening within the subway. The cops nodded at their claim when they rushed in the station and took them into an interview room. Finally, they were safe from that hell. Blood turned glacial within veins as a man wearing a mask sat down across from him. His coat so similar to the one currently haunting the depths of their thoughts.)

● Elesa is a member, too. The highest rank of admin allowed and basically a third boss sporadically. She prefers not to handle Emmet's side of things, yet will add expertise for what the maids should wear for any given event. The model helps Ingo with negotiating and connection building, usually. She can give out orders, so when she tells someone to do something, they immediately do it. No one wants to gain her displeasure, as the twins will make sure you know to respect her as you would them.

○ They never wanted to involve themselves in the organisation, yet a desperate moment found itself forcing them into it. The previous boss was a terrifying, brutal man who taught them everything they needed to know. The man knew from the very second his eyes met the nervous teenagers who dreamed of being conductors that they could do so much more after he passed. They needed funds gravely in order to afford living in the city. Working at the station didn't pay as much as they needed, and eventually the organisation found them. Emmet was who agreed first after seeing his brother's ribs peak out from lack of proper meals. Ingo soon followed, only to protect his brother. The boss was happy to view them as sons of his own.

● So, when they decided to usurp him by end his life, he couldn't be more proud. The timid, mild-mannered boys he took under his wing has finally achieved the sense of ruthlessness needed to send his gang to the highest of heights. The brothers truly did, too. Perhaps there was a lingering kinship to the man who had ruined their lives to actually grant his wish. The few who remained from the previous boss's reign certainly believed so. Moments in which they exude pure and utter cruelty remind them dearly of the departed man.

[mazuwii]

Getting Lost with the AOT characters!

Levi:

-I think it's fairly obvious he's going to stay silent and tell you to shut up everytime you try saying something because he knows you're clueless

-he's just flipping the map upside down, right side up, to the left to the right

-you will get back and it won't be because of the map, you two agree to stalk a bird out of the forest😭😭😭

Eren:

-he gets so frustrated. He has no idea how he got it wrong, he's retracing his steps and can't remember crap

-even though you're panicking yourself you have to remain calm because of how this boy sounds. He sounds like he's on the verge of getting electrocuted

-The whole time he's demanding you follow him because his memory is good and you just threaten to knock him out and carry him.

Bertholdt:

-he's somehow good at it, like he's been in the forest so many times that he knows it like the back of his hand

-since it's getting dark he smiles reassuringly and holds your hand so you don't lose him

-Okay but you two heard russling in the bushes and found two squirrels having seggs 💀that scared you more than the monster you were expecting

-sorry that headcannon was out of NOWHERE

Reiner:

-he's brave and shit until it's dark and gloomy and you two are in the middle of nowhere

-He BAWLS the moment he realises his phone has no signal so calling anyone is not possible

-is clinging onto your hand and denies it when you ask if he's still crying.

-at one point he thought he saw a ghost so he threw you over his shoulder and DARTED aimlessly while you wailed at the top of your lungs

Jean:

-he carries a compass around with him 100%, is jokingly trying to scare you with myths

-I personally think you guys would get lost for the day and since it's night time you can't see anything so at that point he starts a fire and you both continue your journey in the morning

-turns out the exit was right in front of you but you know our baby horse💀 always a dunce

Armin:

-he wouldn't cry or panic he would probably stand still and try to come up with a logical plan

-he most likely would help you climb up a tree to see how far away from the entrance of the forest you guys are

-I mean if it begins to get dark he can get very pale and paranoid, like the man kept walking into trees

-reminds you every 2 seconds that he's got you

Erwin:

-He's been keeping track of everything there's no way you could get lost

-he remembers things the old way, like a child. Something like:a red musbroom, then a tree stump, bridge, etc.

-NOTHING scares him, there could be a tiger inside that shit ass forest and he'd just 👁👁 hello

Zeke:

-he insists on climbing somewhere high to see everything beneath him, like you can't climb so you waited for him on the ground

-monkey man- He just needs his hands to climb, nothing else

-you did trip and hurt your knee so you got a piggyback ride on the monke man.

-you get back home faster than expected

Porco:

-Not good to get lost with him, he gets so frustrated. He's so mad that he crumples the map and you just deadpan because it's the last piece of info that can save you

-Get a load of shit with you if you go hiking with him because there's a 90% chance you'll get lost and he'll either blame it on himself or rage like an animal

-at some point your friends find you because it had been too long and Porco just goes "Fucking finally" with his arms raised completely💀

Hange:

-She doesn't give a fuck LMAO

-"Hey um, honey... we're lost..." you say, staring at the map as if it were an alien language. She stops her staring contest with the wood pecker and turns to you with an amused look. "Are we now?" She hums, returning her gaze back to the animal hidden within the shadow of the towering trees.

-Like I said, she can survive up to 3 months in the wild by herself

-Let's just say sometimes it's quick, other times you get Erwin and Levi to try and find you

Pieck:

-She sounds like a middle school teacher 💀 "Oh deary me... we're lost." She taps her chin and looks around in thought.

-I imagine you'd be the calmer person in the relationship but you'd lose your shit in this scenario

-She's just stroking your head while you have a full on panic attack, chuckling about how much you're overreacting and how the both of you will find your way back

Mikasa:

-She's 100% the best person to get lost with

-Like Hange, strong and intelligent enough to survive in the wild but she'd rather not live like that and find a way out

-Tells you to stay behind her incase anything creeps up

-her words are so reassuring and true. Like if she says 'we'll make it out of here' she ain't playin

-Miss gurl here wouldnt sit her ass still SHES SEARCHIN THE WHOLE DAY

Mike:

-Is rambling on how he's an expert on hikes and how he would never ever get lost.

-Chill we get it just find a way out😩

-He did make notes on what he saw on the way so that slightly helps but Mike seems like the type of person to move away from the exit by accident without even realising💀

-you could be telling him how the both of you are going to a different location and he just tells you to 'trust the process'

Sasha:

-you're terrified, she'd eat anything she deems edible tbh

-because you don't want that happening you both try to find your way back using the map yet you still fail

-However when she takes control of it, she begins to pull out knowledge that you never knew she had

-she's pretty fast at navigating her way back and protects both you and her surprisingly well

Annie:

-curses under her breath and begins to try and remember her steps, will probably tell you to shut up even if you aren't saying anything

-like she's even scaring feral animals away from you guys💀

-eventually it's almost night time and she lets it out by wailing 'DAMN IT' at the top of her lungs with birds flying out of trees💀

-her last resort is to just keep walking even if it's almost nightime and thankfully you somehow make it out together

Kenny:

-He's making weird noises as supposed to groaning, realising you're both stuck in this shit ass forest

-I can tell you, he runs so that he can find the way out before night and worst part is he grabs your hand so you're just dying from the amount of sprinting he does

-He assumes everything is there to attack you both, a cat popping out of a bush? He wrapped his arms around you and squealed.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

My Beloved Cherry Blossom ~ Yamaoka Kazan/The Oni x Fem!Reader

Note: Since Kazan lived in the feudal era, and died there, his S/O would be someone from that time, so, just like him, she'd be dead, so the shock of seeing the dead back alive would be great for him...Who also died in a painful death. Haha.

"My son, you reached the age when you have to marry and ensure the continuation of our bloodline. Since you haven't bothered looking for a potential wife, I took the liberty of finding you a pretty girl. She is the daughter of a respectable samurai who guards the Emperor, and her father ensured she is a very capable, smart and understanding woman, so she will be able to deal with your...Temper." Kazan's father sat down with his son, who scowled, offended at what he heard, but despite all this, he was well aware of this bother he had to deal with. "...Yes, father." he muttered, sharply looking down at the floor. "We will go to meet her tomorrow, at her home, an in less than a month, we will have the marriage. I know you are not the type to care about families and women...But you have to do anything in your power to ensure the honor and survivability of the Yamaoka bloodline." yes, of course, his father just had to sigh in disappointment. "I understand, father. I will make you proud." Kazan answered before leaving the room to train, as a way to let out the pent up rage.

Who needed women and a family? He certainly didn't care about that. They were a nuisance. A weakness, at best. Father is too much of a sentimental, even for a samurai. What a ridiculous charade...

And his displeasure continued even the next day, as he dressed in a rich, official kimono, to show off his heritage, but at the same time, his long hair was put in a disheveled ponytail, rebel strands flying with the wind, and the neck of his outfit was lowered down enough to show his outlaw-ish predisposition. Needless to say, his father was angered by this side of his son - Surely, he taught him better! - But it was far too late, and they had already arrived at the L/N estate.

Just outside the big, beautiful house, a petite young woman, her long dark hair shining like ebony, her skin as white as snow...She looked so frail that she'd almost resemble a snowdrop. And she was delicately playing a soft, yet sorrowful tune on her bamboo flute, while her father put a pink flower in her hair, looking at her with nostalgia and love.

Kazan look at his own father, before glancing back at the girl whom he found out was named Y/N, and realised how big of a difference it was to was a son, compared to having a daughter. The difference in the two men's behaviour was huge.

He once heard a samurai, whose wife had just given birth to his daughter, "Treat your daughter the way you wish her husband would treat her." He didn't care at first, obviously - Kazan's mind was never on marriage - But now he was beginning to understand the meaning of his words, for they were wiser than anticipated.

Her father was tender, and treating her as if she was the soft petal of a cherry blossom, and his voice was low, loving and respectful, not wanting to startle her in any way...He was talking as if he was trying to keep the zen equilibirum intact at all costs.

The love between a man and a woman is supposed to be like Yin and Yang...

But how could Kazan possibly behave in such a way, when all he knew was to be a rageful brute who would destroy everything in his path in the loudest, brashest way possible?

"Ah, Yamaoka-san, you have arrived. And you brought your son with you. It's an honour finally meeting you, Kazan. Here, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, dear, why don't you go prepare some osmanthus tea for our tired travelers, while I guide them to our table in the cherry blossom garden?" her father pat her hair, and in return, she bowed slightly at the guests, offering them a gentle smile, that would put all of Spring's flowers to shame. "Yes, right away, father. I hope you will like our flower garden. Papa had them all planted in honour of my mama. They are all her favourite kinds and colours." ah, yes, of course. Women have a special kind of bond with their mother - That was something he would never be able to fully comprehend, Kazan realised very easily, by the way the girl was close to shining as soon as she talked about her birth-giver.

The son of the Yamaoka family obvious saw women before - He wasn't an idiot - And he had enough experience with them...But there was something different about this one. She was...So...Innocent? She seemed to naive and not from this world, almost as if she had no idea of the terrors of the world outside of her residence.

It was such an endearing thing, almost exciting - But the young samurai wasn't sure if he wanted to protect this innocent ignorance at all costs...Or if he wanted to shatter it into pieces and taint it completely.

But that question was easily answered as soon as she came back and started pouring tea for him. And then later in their marriage, the way she behaved so gently with him, it was so weird, so foreign to him, and yet, it made him feel something else...Something completely different from the bubbling, infernal rage he could feel in his chest all the time.

It was soothing, mending his soul completely, for some reason that he couldn't comprehend at all.

But why should he, anyway? He was content just having her by his side whenever he was home. Only she was able of taming the storm that clouded his mind and soul.

His little cherry blossom.

And only the Gods knew how many men he had to kill to make sure she isn't harmed, or prayed upon. He never realised how many desperate, disgusting, dishonorable and lecherous men could be, but Kazan wasn't going to let her see anything other than the honour of a samurai - Like him, his father, and her own father.

However, not even her gentle soul would be able to contain his rage whenever he'd hear that dreadful, shameful nickname they would call him.

"Oni-Yamaoka"

Why was he an Ogre, all of a sudden? Because he brought justice upon the fakes who made a mockery of the code of the samurai? Because he wanted to protect the sole person he cared for in this life? Even his father was against the aggressiveness he displayed on the battlefield, and in the actions he took...It almost felt like even his father was agreeing with that stupid nickname!

"Here, Kazan, lay your head on my lap and forget about your worries, at least for tonight." Y/N pat her lap with a sweet smile, her eyes gleaming with love and benevolence as she reached out her other hand to reach out to him, and as if possessed, he followed her lead absent-mindedly. "Y/N." Kazan called out after a few minutes of having his eyes closed, feeling himself relaxing as her fingers were soothingly playing with his long, untameable hair. "Why do you always tell me to lay on your lap, whenever I'm angry?" "Do you not like it, darling?" she asked, but the passive smile on her face showed that she knew that wasn't the case at all. "I do. I was just wondering why." he grumbled in a lower voice, which made her muse, her smile shaping into an almost kitten-like one. "My mama always did that to papa. She said that the best place for a man to relax is on a girl's thighs. I don't think she was wrong." oh, what a sweet giggle she had. It sounded crystalline, like a river of diamonds going through the forest. "...I won't comment on that." the man closed his eyes, not wanting to give in to the flushed sensation he felt hearing something so embarrassing. "You do not have to be embarrassed, my dear. We are man and wife. There is nothing we could do or say that would be worth or deemed as embarrassing." she reassured him with an amused tone, as her small hand touched his bare chest, just where his heart would be. "Why are you not afraid of me, like the rest of them? You are nothing more than a frail woman. You have the eyes of a baby fawn, and the frail bones of a rabbit. You are nothing more than a flower in comparison to me. I could snap your neck like a twig if I'm not careful touching you. And yet, you allow yourself to be vulnerable around me, and while at it, you encourage me to be the same as well. I will never understand the complexity of women and their thinking." the samurai sighed, grumbling in faux annoyance. "My, my, was that what was on your mind? How lovely of you to be concerned about me. Well, I will tell you a little secret, since you are so curious, but make sure it stays between the two of us, alright?" she giggle softly, almost like a little child kissing her crush on the cheek, and it made Kazan's heart flutter. Was she truly trusting him with a secret? What did he do so worthy to her that she deemed him the perfect candidate as a secret-keeper? "I would not dare tell your secret even to the Emperor himself, or my father." came the samurai's vow with such seriousness, that made the girl grin. "You see, women aren't physically strong like men are, but what we lack physical prowess, we make up for our incredible emotional strength. So, I believe that, at least in these times of war and bloodshed, a man's role is to protect the physical body of the woman, while the woman's role is to protect her man's heart and soul. Without balance, there is no future and no happiness, wouldn't you agree? If we don't make the best out of this life, and look at the beauty of the world...Then have we even lived at all?" there was wisdom in the words that Kazan deemed rather naive, and yet...What she said wasn't wrong, per se. In fact, it was true. He was well aware that, with his body, the best he could do was protect her, but he would never be able to sooth her broken heart the same way she does to him...And likewise, he remembered the mirthful laugh he let out when she tried lifting his weapon from the ground.

However, he wasn't going to say anything out loud, and decided that, instead of voicing his opinions, he'd rather grunt and close his eyes, letting sleep take over him, his head still resting on her soft thighs.

Maybe having a wife wasn't as bad as he once thought...

But times change fast - Years pass, lives pass, the river passes...And yet, only one thing doesn't pass, and that is Yamaoka Kazan's rage, which only grew stronger and stronger with each day, and each time he heard himself getting called "The Oni".

He was desperately angry, and not even Y/N's loving touch or sweet voice could save his soul, so much, that in fear of accidentally hurting her, he decided to stay out and train or go on and kill more and more samurai impersonators, hoping to somehow release all his anger and be able to return home.

He knew Y/N would be worrying for him, but she needn't do such a thing, it would only hurt her heart, and that was the last thing he wanted. He was strong, and feared - Who would dare go against Yamaoka Kazan, anyway?

The days away from home multiplied, and he was away for a stupefying month...Y/N must be crying, worried sick. He wasn't afraid of anything physical in this world, yet the thought of her doe eyes shedding tears...It was something he was terrified of, especially if he was the cause of that.

But on the way home, he found a pink lotus flower, and he thought she would love it, so he gently took it with him back home. It was raining, and an ominous feeling crept into Kazan's heart, and he realised there seemed to be an almost dark aura around his home.

It wasn't yet sleeping time, so why were there no candles lit? There was no sign of any living being there? Where were the servants? Where was his beloved Y/N, waiting for him on the porch, playing the flute the way she always did?

Something was not right...

The man rushed inside the house, and as soon as he slammed open the sliding door, he was met with nothing that he expected - Pools of blood on the floor, while the otherwise neutral-coloured walls were splattered with the red liquid, and the corpses of the servants were brutally mangled and thrown around as if they were defect ragdolls.

It wasn't the horrifying sight that scared him, but the fate of his wife - So he made haste and ran to their shared room...And there she was.

In more pieces than she should be in.

Her hair was a mess, her kimono was a mess, her make up was a mess...And she had been tortured, from the way her wounds, slashes and cuts looked on her body.

Who...? Who could do something so...So...Disgusting...To a defenseless woman who had no means of fighting back? Where was the honour in defeating a weak civilian, such as her? What was the purpose of this massacre?! Was it to anger him? To bring out the Ogre from him? Is it what they all wanted? To see The Oni they feared and hated so much? They got revenge on a small woman, just to get to him?!

"Ah, Kazan, finally. Took you quite a while to return home...I thought her body would rot away and get swarmed with maggots by the time you'd return. And what's that in your hand? A flower? Did you want to apologise to her with a stupid flower? You have caused my daughter immense distress, and yet, she loved you to the very end. You should have seen her cry out your name, praying for you to come back home and save her...But, alas, the Ogre is never home! He is so busy killing, that he didn't realise he killed his own wife! Hahaha! Yamaoka Kazan, you are a pathetic excuse of a man, you could never come close to her strength! I tried everything to get her to tell me your secrets...But she didn't say a word. She ignored me. In the end, she came to hate me, her own father, who cared and loved her since she was born...And she loved you, some spineless monster who knows nothing but carnage!" what...? What was this man saying...? Is he truly implying that he tortured his own daughter to death, for...Information...On him...? "What...Did you do...?!" red was the only thing he could see, as he couldn't help but stare deep into her dead eyes that still held the fright and agony they last felt when she was still alive. "I KILLED HER! I KILLED MY OWN DAUGHTER, Y/N! This whole marriage was meant to bring down your stupid family of brutes and uncontrollable monsters! It was meant to kill YOU! But she was stupid! Nothing more than a sentimental woman! She LOVED you, a monster who knows only bloodlust! It's YOUR fault that she is dead, Kazan! YOU killed her! YOU!" her father yelled at him only meaningless gibberish.

In fact, Kazan couldn't comprehend words anymore. Instead, he could only hear whispers - They were soft and feminine...They sounded like Y/N...Could her ghost be talking to him? Was she trying to calm him down one more time, from beyond this world?

Yes, you were a saint, truly...It was a pity you had to meet him...If you hadn't, you'd have still been alive...And your beautiful flute song would still resound around the forest, along with the thrill of the birds.

"I am sorry, Y/N" was the last thing Kazan thought...

As The Oni took over completely, and went on the greatest blood shed known to mankind at that time...

------

What am I doing here...? What is this strange place...? It looks nothing like the beautiful flower garden Kazan made for me...So where am I?

The girl looked around like a confused meerkat, asking herself a limitless amount of questions, only to look down and realise her beautiful pink kimono was dirty with mud, and she gasped in shock. How could she let that happen! She can't let Kazan see her like this, what would he think?!

Ah, yes, that's it, just look around for Kazan, he'll surely know what's going on!

However, instead of finding her strong samurai, she saw three other people, all looking of a different race than her, and wearing such strange clothes...

Was she behind fashion, and she had no idea? She was sure she was buying only the best kimonos there were...!

"What are you just standing around for?! Run! We have to repair the generators!" a girl with unnatural coloured hair yelled at her before she sprinted the hell out of there.

Generators...? What are...Generators...? And why is this place so creepy...?

Hold up...This paper wall maze...This was from her home! Yes, that means she was close to home!

She ran through the little maze with a smile on her face, only to see one of the man working very focused on some kind of contraption, and he urged her to help him out. She sheepishly crouched opposite of him, frightened, but she carefully tried to do something, but instead, a loud noise and sparks came out, and she shrieked in fear, shielding her face as she fell on her back.

"What kind of sorcery is this?!" she cried out, her eyes watering. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you want to die that badly?! Get a grip and do something useful for once!" the man screamed in her face, before running the hell out of there.

Why were they all so rude to her...?

She was so used to her family, her servants, friends and Kazan to be nice with her, that she didn't realise people like these existed too.

A bit shaky, Y/N got up, trying to pat away the dust from her dirty kimono, and continued to look the estate...Only to find her home...But why was it in such a deplorable state...? Surely, she wouldn't allow her beloved home to end up like this...!

As Y/N made her way inside the home, she noticed the scary amount of blood splattered all over the place...Almost as if there was more red than colours of walls an the floor. It was so frightening...And confusing.

Who died here? And how in the world...I mean...She was sleeping, and then...

Oh.

Oh.

No.

She wasn't sleeping...

As soon as she stepped into her room, she didn't notice the blood on the floor, but the discarded pink lotus that laid on her pillow. As she crouched to take the flower in her room, she got a sudden flashback of her memories from the night she died...

She waited for Kazan, and the elderly servant woman was comforting her, pouring her tea and patting her back, as she played the same flute song she did when she first met beloved.

But then, her father paid her a visit...And a true hell was unleashed...

Her own father did something so atrocious...Such a betrayal was nothing she could ever phantom in her own life, and yet, her life was ended not by a stranger, but by her own kin.

As silent tears escaped her eyes and streamed down her delicate cheeks, a loud roar shook the whole estate, and the brusque blurting in the room of a huge man was enough to fright her to fall on the ground with a startled yelp.

And yet...

The raised weapon, the samurai garments he wore...And that Oni mask... There was only one person in the world who could look like this.

"Kazan...?" her voice came out weaker than a whisper, and she wasn't sure if he even heard her calling out his name. For a split second, she was terrified of the thought of that horribly enormous weapon striking her down where she stood, in her own bed, for the second time...And yet...

The monstrously big man dropped his weapon and slowly crouched in front of her, picking up the flower and putting it in her hair, pinning it away from her gorgeous face.

"Y/N...It really is you..." his voice came out as a dark grunt, in fact, in very much sounded like a demon, and yet, his moves and actions seemed more delicate than even this lotus flower.

The girl started laughing from happiness, allowing more tears to escape her eyes, being reunited with the love of her life, and she threw herself in her arms, feeling safer than she ever did in her life.

"I missed you so much, my dear Kazan...I missed you so...I can't believe such things happened to us...And yet, here we are, together again, even in death, even in hell." as she said that, she slowly took away his mask, and revealing his rugged face, obviously one of a man seasoned in war and tortured to death - She put her hand on his cheek, just as he used to do with her, and caressing him, she leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead.

It was meant not only as a lucky charm, but as a 'home sweet home' as well, for there was no home without Kazan's arms wrapped around her protectively...

And there was no home without the petite body of his beloved S/O in his strong embrace, watching her fall asleep.

"I promise you never leave you again, my beloved cherry blossom." he said so, and yet, having been in this Hell longer than her, he knew of the atrocities she, as a Survivor, would have to endure, and the hell the Entity would put on the both of them.

And yet...

If anyone even dares to look at her the wrong way, The Oni would make sure that, no matter how immortal the Killer might be, he would bring an end to them.

He already lost her once, and he's not going to let a tragedy befall her ever again.

[squidexplosions]

today i’m thinking about ed and blackbeard and the kraken. today i’m thinking about violence and self fulfilling prophecies and the tragedy of ed teach’s life.

thinking about how he believes he’s a monster for killing his father. thinking about how we initially see ed as a good man in a bad situation or at least a man who’s realising the faults of his lifestyle. thinking about olu saying “me and jim, we don’t do [piracy] because we like it, we do it because we don’t have any other choice.” thinking about izzy saying “that’s not much of an option in this line of work; the only retirement we get is death.”

thinking about how calico jack and the break-up with stede absolutely flips the onscreen image of ed, first as blackbeard, and then as the kraken. thinking about the discrepancy between ed as a boy killing his abusive father, an act that not many of us would deem unreasonable in his shoes, and blackbeard as a pirate and his ruthless killing, which feels hard to justify after having spent a whole season with gentle stede as the protagonist.

thinking about ed believing himself to be a monster for killing his father, like a little boy who’s done something wrong, something he wasn’t supposed to do, something that makes him guilty. thinking of ed saying “i’m not a good person, stede.” thinking of ed saying “the kraken didn’t kill my dad; i did.” thinking about how there was, at some point, a separation between him and the kraken.

thinking about the rest of ed’s life, as blackbeard, brutal and harsh in his actions. thinking about izzy saying “blackbeard is himself again.” thinking about that word izzy uses, specifically, again.

thinking about how ed has compartmentalised his guilt. thinking about ed mumbling that “yeah, well, technically the fire killed those guys; not me.” thinking about how he has so far removed himself from the kraken. thinking about ed saying “if i’m honest, i haven’t killed another man since; not personally.” thinking about how it’s not the idea of death of another that bothers ed, it’s the idea of his own violence.

thinking about how he breaks after izzy’s goading in the last episode. thinking about how the grief of losing the one person who ever made him feel light mixed with the grief of losing his identity again hits him impossibly hard. thinking about how the only thing we’ve seen hit him this hard before is the story of his father’s death.

thinking about how the two worst moments we’ve seen of his, losing his lover and losing his innocence, coalesce into a fate so much worse than what izzy condemned him for.

thinking about the dichotomy of blackbeard in the last episode, how he is once again a little boy feeling guilty and hurt and snatched of his innocence (the scene of him crying that cuts to the lighthouse painting) and simultaneously the ruthless killer that izzy prefers him as (throwing lucius overboard and stranding the crew).

thinking about how he becomes the kraken, in a moment of absolutely fragmented identity. thinking about how him as ed and him as the kraken have never known each other, they’re worlds apart, but blackbeard knows both of these men and he can’t handle them. they’re too much. they’re not compatible, and they’re both so emotional, ed with his love and the kraken with his rage.

thinking about him finally admitting “i am the kraken.” thinking about how what he thinks he’s saying is that he is a monster, that the first domino of patricide was only inevitable, but what he’s really showing us is how he has absorbed the guilt and turned it into something so much worse. thinking about how him killing his father does not make him a monster in any way, but the way he has soaked up this idea of being the kraken, the way he has spent his entire life trying to reconcile the kraken and ed, has only left him as blackbeard, who is unable to constrain either of those identities and bursts at the seams in his attempt to placate either of them.

[xamaxenta]

Ah that god ascension au I briefly mentioned yesterday, warlord Ace who is godless, dies on the battlefield and ends up in the halls of judgment

Convinced this is just his delirious death throes, Ace decides to go through with it, it doesn’t mean shit to him and if he’s dying it wouldn’t matter anyway

He’s wrong

Judgement deems him worthy to pass onto the domains, something Ace recalls one of his soldiers talking about, if you had been good, you would be able to enter the domains and beyond the houses of the gods themselves

Ace doesn’t think he’s been good, he’s taken, slaughtered and razed down innocents for his own goals, for revenge at its core, why would he be allowed to pass through the gates of justice toward the endless domains?

Again he’s wrong, there is a trial of fire, fire being something all living creatures both mortal and divine should fear, but to Ace, fire is all he’s ever known, it’s how he died actually (he died via flaming ballista bolts piercing him through:(( ) and so he steps into the flames and accepts them as his own

It takes a long time before he awakens again, but when he does, his blood burns and turns his veins white hot and embers crackle at his fingertips, ash and smoke cloud around him with each breath and the irony is not lost on him, the godless becomes a god

Judgement waits for him at the gates and says nothing when Ace passes through, he must meet the rest of his pantheon now, the house he was adopted into is vast with many sons and daughters both the named and the nameless, he must be powerful for he is named

His first contact with a god who would later introduce himself as the personified spirit of welcome and connection, his sacred place is in doorways, windows and passages, the beginning of things and it is through him that Ace learns he is the avenging god, the god of blood and the god of tears

to this Ace asks why though? And the god of welcome, Thatch smiles enigmatic, secretive, that’s just how Pops works (lets be real Pops just chooses random people to join them and Ace was the latest one, he just went LMAO this kid doesnt believe lets make him a god! Guarantee it would be funny as fuck, And Judgment (Izou) is like :) as you wish father)

Anyway Ace learning his godhood and gaining followers!!! He’s not exactly keen on who they are exactly, people pray to him for protection from themselves, their pain, it’s very difficult because he sees himself in a lot of his followers, he wishes he didn’t have to watch over these kinds of people because he hates himself but maybe along the way he realises this is exactly why he’s here, to give to those what no one could himself, his title later on may become the Defender and the reason why blood doesn’t have to mean familial, people can bond between fire, it’s where they gather at the end of the day

So Ace turns to make his sacred space the hearth, for warmth and for family, if those who follow him gather by the flames he will not turn them away

Fun how he goes from an angry, violent, murderous thing to something more nuturing, peaceful and protective as he realises his role it makes me happy to think about it

[myafterlifeisbetterthenyours]

Stella and Stolas with the male Imp Overlord

Stella and Stolas with male Imp Overlord

When you, an Imp achieved your overlord status, lets just say that was something of an issue in the world of nobility.

Imps have always been the Hells servant class, every great dynasty and empire have been built off their backs. They were always meant to be ruled over, Not rule themselves.

But with your ascension to Overlord-ship, the pair found they had a very difficult desicion to make.

They could publicly oppose you. They were sure many of there fellow nobles would follow their lead, doing the same and under their banner, they could form a formidable opposition.

The only problem with that, is while they and there allies may oppose you, their enemies would be more then happy to support you. Whether that be directly or in the shadows.

And give the fact you, an Imp, had already achieved Overlord status, the last thing they needed was you against them, with the backing of disgruntled nobility.

So they did only other viable option. They got closer to you.

They formed an alliance with you in hopes of discovering what made you so unique. As well as ensuring you weren't an enemy.

You would initially be very suspicious of the pair.

Royalty had kept Imps down there entire existance, exploiting and enslaving them sing lucifers rebellion.

So you'd naturally have little, to no trust in the pairs intentions.

But as much as you distrusted the two, doing business with them was jus too beneficial to pass up, something the two went to lengths to ensure.

As the couple expected, in only a short period of time, you became even more powerful, amassing further wealth and territory.

And with this development, the two were quite happy there gamble had paid off. With their family becoming your largest business partner and as such benefited greatly from your prosperity.

As your business with the two increased, you'd slowly find yourself trusting the pair more, the two eagerly wanting to build on that.

And well, stolas being stolas, we all know he just couldn't help himself.

Being around such a domineering male Imp, one that spoke his mind and took shit from nobody. The way you didn't care in the slightest about his title and would tell him as much to his face.

Well, I think it's safe to say, he'd become Very interested in you, very quickly.

You wouldn't really mind Stolas.

You could tell he really didn't care much for politics, or the divide between hellbornes and royalty. He was just in it for a good time as well as securing his families continued survival. You could respect that.

Really the problem would be Stella.

It's fairly obvious she isn't too fond of Imps, likely having been raised to despise anyone she doesn't deem worthy.

And while your power and status would put you far above most every other Imp in her eyes, it would take a fair amount of time before she'd develop any kind of real respect for you.

But, given the chance to see just how capable and scrupulous you could be. A part of her would come to respect your cold-blooded you could be.

The truth was, Stolas had lost his blood lust when they were married. But you, you were a beast. Untamed and seemingly unstoppable.

While she initially wasn't fond of the idea of forming an alliance with you, doing it more so out of practicality over any genuine want to associate with you. She couldn't have realised just how good an idea it would turn out to be.

You were exactly what they needed, someone who could do the more 'dirty jobs' royalty often required, not only doing the job in a timely manner, but you always did it exactly to there expectations, never letting them down in the slightest.

The two held a party not long after your alliance began to prosper.

It was a fairly standard gathering of the Goeatia families allies and vassels families, the party working to both appease there egos and allow them to raise any concerns they may have to the couple.

Of course they had invited you, as despite the more recent nature of your power, you had quickly become an important business partner and asset to the Goetia family and they wanted to continue fostering that.

You had arrived fashionably late, clearly unhappy to be around so many nobles, a faint scowl across your features.

Despite your clear disgust, you still paid your respects to the two, thinking them for the invitation.

Leaving the pair you did what one does at such a gathering, you drank, partook in small talk and generally hung about.

But even with your invitation, it wasn't long until some asshat, decided to test you.

He attempted to publicly humiliate you. Pretending you were a servant and telling you, you were at the wrong area, or should be in the back serving drinks.

The asshole ran his mouth. You could handle that, you'd delt with plenty of loud idiots in your time, it was nothing new. But when he put his hands on you, attempting to push you about.

Well. You couldn't allow that.

It was in this moment that both Stella and Stolas saw why they had made the right choice in befriending you.

With a single brutally efficient strike, you dropped the noble like a sack of rocks.

Watching his body fall before calmly walking away, going about the party as though you hadn't just incapacitated one of the most powerful demons in hell.

Needless to say, no one at the party messed with you after that.

When it came to their relationship, she had little affection for Stolas.

She was still very committed to her marriage and family, of course but the once strapping, ambitious and blood thirsty Prince she had once thought she could love, had given way to an unambitious, soft hearted, stay at home dad.

And she just wasn't attracted to that.

But you... you were everything she saught in a mate.

Ambitious. Relentless. Dangerous and insatiable. You had no limits and seemed near unstoppable.

So, against her better judgement, she found herself falling for you. Something that was quite frustrating for the noble woman.

Stolas, would have absolutely no qualms about falling for you. He of course still cared for his family, but you were something else, something he desperately wanted.

The only problem unfortunately, was his family.

But with his wife being so close to you as well, both demons would be at something of an impass.

They couldn't pursue you in fear of there better halves finding out.

You, of course, where not blind to all this.

You could tell the two were slowly gravitating towards you, Stolas being particularly unsubtle about his pull.

And you found it was surprisingly easy to play the two off each other, Stolas was practically drooling over you and while she may try to hide it, you could tell Stella was very much attracted to you.

Stolas would be the easier of the pair to control.

A kind word here, a suductive touch there, a frustrated complaint about something over there and you could get him to do just about anything you wanted.

Stella would be more difficult, as It would take a considerable amount of time to have her overcome her ingrained discrimination towards Imps.

You likely needing to do so gradually, showing her how you were just as good as any snob with a royal title.

You'd need to be careful at first, ensuring that she truly did fancy you. But once you knew for sure, it wouldn't be difficult to seduce her.

All you'd need to do was appeal to her ego and show her your more dominant side.

Unlike stolas, it wouldn't be a physical dominance, it would a dominance of the mind. The owl princess finding your ability to dominate a room without lifting a finger, quite... intoxicating.

So, finding yourself in a love triangle of your own creation, you had a very specific plan.

When the pair of them first approached you, you knew, deep down, it was done out of fear.

Imps were nothing in Hell, and for you, an Imp to become an Overlord, that scared the BlueBloods.

And it should.

But if you were going to enter a relationship with these royals, they were going to be the ones who proposition you.

You'd be damned if you were gonna be the one begging for a relationship. They wanted it, and you knew they wanted it, they'd have to beg for it.

And beg they would.

The two came to an agreement. They both wanted you, but also didn't want to split up their family, so they would approach you together.

It was an awkward affair, in part due to you playing dumb to there intentions.

Stolas, being something of a bird brain, would draw it out, trying put their decision into words, but failing miserably.

Stella would just step in, opening the proposition of a relationship.

You would playfully think it over, already knowing the answer but you enjoyed watching the pair squirm.

You'd accept, the pair releasing a deep sigh before you pulled each of them into a passionate kiss.

However, much to Stolas' annoyance, you wouldnt sleep with them that night, choosing instead to just share there bed.

With a relationship like this, you'd have to spend the first few weeks ensuring there was a solid foundation to it.

Youd mostly do this through spending time with them, getting to know them on both an emotional and personal level.

Youd definitely sleep with Stolas first, taking the prince in his office.

Pushing him onto his desk and taking him rough and passionately, just how you knew he wanted it.

Youd do something more romantic for Stella. Likely having a simple, yet majestic diner before taking her to your now shared bedroom for a night of passionate fornication.

Despite there royal status, you would be the one wearing the pants in the relationship. As you could easily dominate each of them with words alone, Stolas even easier then Stella.

Of course you understood the importance of there image and would take a more back seat role in the relationship when needed.

Youd have a surprisingly intimate relationship with the pair.

Stolas was always open to anything you suggested, often initiating them himself. And while not nearly as common as stolas, Stella would often initiate intimacy with you.

Despite the two being married, Sex between all three of you would not be very common.

As both Stolas and Stella had quite different wants and needs in the bedroom that didn't quite mesh well.

Stolas wanted to be utterly dominated in the bedroom, completely at your mercy. While Stella wanted someone who could keep her pace, if not take control in the heat of passion.

Romance would be a priority for you, often doing your best to sweep them off there feet.

Luxurious dinners, dates on the town, the theatre. Nothing was ever too much.

Octavia would be a rather large bump in the relationship, as on one hand, you were essentially a whole new person intruding on her family, on the other hand, you were a wanted third partner in Stella and Stolas' marriage, you weren't tearing the family apart by being with them.

It would take a long time, and an even longer term strategy, but she would eventually warm up to you.

Never really coming to see you as a parent, but still part of the family.

While life wouldn't be without its problems,

The balance of power being a major source of arguments, as while Stolas was easy to tame, falling completely under your sway, Stella was far more head strong.

As such she'd often but heads with her rather submissive husband, saying he didn't do enough to keep up there family status.

She would often compare him to yourself, something you would always dismiss, having to step in and calm her down.

While you could dominate her husband easily, you'd need to control her in a more subtle ways. Appealing to her ego or planting ideas in her subconscious. Having mentioned when you forced her submission, likely in bed.

So, While it would certainly had its ups and downs, your life with your royal love Birds would be an incredibly love filled one.

Having the royal pair wrapped around your lottle finger, your power and status would grow exponentially. All the while the two would willingly give themselves to you, smothering you in there love and affection.

Thanking you as they made you stronger.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

I will not kiss you - pt 1

Part two | AO3

After a contract hunting a mage goes awry, Geralt finds himself cursed with sickness, bubbling beneath his skin like a plague. It’s easy enough not to touch anyone - not to pass it on - until he meets Jaskier on the Path.

8.9k words. Contains: spells/curses, death & death mention, illness, angst and pining. Part one of two.

~

Geralt first realises something is wrong when he’s settling into his meagre camp for the night, piling dry sticks onto the fire to roast the rabbit he’s just caught. The creature is large, for the species, and if he’s careful it will make a good meal for tonight with some to spare for tomorrow morning. Food is sparse at the moment, especially now he’s travelling alone.

The rabbit’s fur had been soft beneath his hands as he’d snapped its fragile neck, killing it. He’d considered, for a moment, skinning it more carefully and drying out the pelt and keeping it. If he can catch another, he’ll have enough fur to line a pair of leather winter gloves.

Jaskier’s fingers are always pale and shaking when winter sets in, but he never seems to think to buy himself anything more sensible than a pair of threadbare woollen mittens. Geralt tells himself it’s the coin that he’s worried about: if Jaskier can’t play, they’ll both feel the loss, and the need to pinch coppers.

It’s a lie, he knows, but it makes him feel better about the whole thing.

He pushes all thoughts of gloves and fur aside - winter won’t set in for at least three or four months, and he has no idea when he’ll see Jaskier next anyway - and reaches for the rabbit carcass.

It’s… wrong. It looks days old, not freshly killed, and when he picks it up to examine it the fur falls away beneath his fingers in clumps. He gives it a quick, tentative sniff.

It stinks of rot, and death.

He throws the rabbit into the fire, wincing. That night, he eats the last of the hard bread at the bottom of his bag.

~

When he wakes the next morning, there are dry, yellow patches in the grass around his bedroll. They’re few and far between, but there’s enough of them to worry him. He presses his fingertips to the grass. It’s completely dead.

This, Geralt thinks, may be a problem.

He casts his mind back to the previous day’s fight. It had been the unfortunate climax of a contract that had taken him nearly a week to get to the bottom of - spending full days chasing false leads and cold trails and being waylaid by villagers and peasants who seemed intent on getting in his way before finally confronting the mage at the bottom of it all.

He’d been a powerful magic user, complete with an inbuilt ego complex and a ready distrust for witchers. Geralt had attempted to de-escalate as best he could but - as so often happened - he had quickly lost control of the already precarious situation.

Geralt hadn’t wanted to kill the mage. The man had destroyed lives in his wake, and Geralt would prefer him face justice at the hands of those he had wronged - whatever they deemed that to be - rather than on a witcher’s blade. But when the air had crackled with magic and he’d felt the mage reaching into his mind, creeping under his skin, in his blood - he hadn’t been left with much of a choice.

He’d assumed the curse that the mage had muttered at him - even while his mouth foamed with blood and Geralt’s sword stuck between his ribs - was just a final insult, the desperate last words of a dying man. He’d thought the weakness he felt when he’d finally deposited the cooling body at the feet of the Mayor was just tiredness from the fight: too much magic, too many potions, exhaustion weighing his limbs down.

Now, twelve hours later in the calm of the dewy morning, he can begin to entertain the idea that he might have been wrong.

His medallion is humming. He must not have noticed it last night, too exhausted to realise where it’s leaning against his armour instead of his bare chest.

He packs away the bedroll, kicks out the last glowing embers of the fire and heads towards Roach, his stomach rumbling.

He only just stops himself from reaching out for her.

Geralt thinks about the rabbit. About the grass. It must have been killed where his hands rested against it as he slept.

Keeping a few feet back, he carefully pulls on his gloves then unloops her reins from the tree where he’d tied her. He slings his pack and bedroll over his shoulder and leads her back towards the road.

He watches her, nervously. He’d led her from the mage’s cottage with the body slung over her back, not wanting to overburden her, and he’d walked her back to the clearing too - aware that she was prone to panic at the smell of blood. But did he pat her down, or stroke her mane? Did she nudge his face affectionately with her nose at some point between then and now? He can’t remember - and he can’t tell if he’s just imagining a slowness to her steps, a wobbling in her legs, or if it really exists.

Either way, he won’t take the chance.

He makes his way back to the town that had hired him, the worried faces of the villagers staring at him - waiting for whatever new, awful news he brings. But he ignores them all, heading for the stables. He hadn’t had the chance to examine them, before, but the horses in the field beyond seem healthy and well-cared for and - more so - it isn’t like he has a choice.

Turning Roach over to the enthusiastic stablehand is harder than he anticipates. The hand is keen - as he should be, Roach is a fine horse - but Geralt is loath to leave her, especially when he has no idea how long he’ll be away and no way of telling if this has affected her, too. He spins a tale to the stablehand about a contract too dangerous for a horse, the fact that he needs somewhere safe for her to stay for the foreseeable future, and the lad nods along, taking it all very seriously.

He chooses his words carefully as he explains that there's a chance - a small chance, he stresses - that she may be sick. The thought alone is enough to make his stomach twist with guilt, but the stable hand doesn't seem to notice his distress. There's a healer who specialises in animals not too far away, he says, as there always is in these busy livestock towns. Geralt hopes that if she is sick, it can be treated using traditional means.

He wants to stay with her - to watch her himself - but the risk is too great, and he has to find out if the mage managed to actually curse him. If Roach stays by his side, it's inevitable that he'll accidentally touch her, making this worse.

He’s not lost a horse in a long while - this Roach is nearing ten years, now - and it never gets easier. He hopes this won’t be the last time he sees her.

Before Geralt leaves, he turns.

“Is there a magic user around here?” He asks. “A mage?”

The stable hand's face falls. “Apart from the one you… the one that…”

“Apart from him.”

He nervously shakes his head. “No, master witcher. None that I know of.”

Shit. Geralt nods, just once. He had assumed there wouldn’t be - magic users are like cats, in that sense: overly territorial. It's rare to find two so close together. It means he’s going to need to deal with this himself, until he runs into a sympathetic mage. Perhaps he can find Yennefer before whatever this is takes hold too much - wherever she’s gotten to.

He knows he’s likely being over-cautious, but he calls at the market and stocks up on as much food as he can. The bread he ate last night didn’t appear to be affected by whatever this is, and he purchases things he can trust to last - dried fruits and nuts, jerky, starchy potatoes and hard bread. It's surprisingly easy to buy what he needs without even coming close to touching anyone: a perk, he supposes, of being a witcher.

There’s an inn in the town - a tavern, too - but he can’t risk it. He marches back towards the forest, back to the clearing and the shadow of dead grass where he’d slept.

~

Vesemir had always taught his students to be methodical. Geralt begins to test. It still may all be a coincidence.

He’s exhausted by the time he’s finished setting up camp, but he doesn’t take time to rest. He starts simple - pulling off his glove and placing his hand to the grass for a minute then pulling it away, seeing if he’s left a mark.

Nothing. Perhaps he was being paranoid.

He holds a piece of the fruit, and then the bread. Both remain whole and fresh and unmarred so he eats them, quickly, hunger biting at him. He isn’t full, but it's better than he was, and he warms himself by the fire for a moment as he considers what to do next, leaning with one hand on the grass.

He’s decided that he was almost certainly being paranoid - perhaps the medallion is still humming because of the lingering magical fallout of the fight - when he shifts his position, twisting his legs around, and spots the grass beneath his hand. It’s not dead - not yet - but wilted and yellowing.

Interesting.

It’s easy enough to snare a wild deer. Geralt feels unconscionably guilty about this: he doesn’t like to kill for the sake of killing, and usually only hunts what he needs. He supposes he does need this, in a way, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s doing something awful as he calms the creature with Axii and wraps a bare hand around its trembling leg.

The deer watches him with wide, startled eyes. Geralt lets go after a few minutes, wondering if it was long enough, then steps back to observe, lifting the hold of the sign.

The deer struggles to its feet, looks at him for a moment, then bounds off into the trees. Geralt follows, tracking its scent, close enough to watch but not so close that it tries to escape.

He tracks it for four hours before it collapses. He waits to make sure it isn’t about to run off again before approaching, quietly and carefully, kneeling in the leaf litter beside it. Its eyes are wide and frightened, its chest rising and falling in short, quick breaths. He places his hand on its neck - it’s hot, ferociously hot, and its heartbeat is far too fast.

It takes another hour for it to die. Geralt wants to put his blade through its heart and put it out of its misery, but he knows he can’t: he needs to see exactly what’s going to happen.

He’s reminded of a plague that he once saw sweep through a tiny mining village on the edge of nowhere. It had started with just one man - recently returned from travel - but it had spread as quick as wildfire till nearly three quarters of the village had perished.

The deer wheezes, its breath catching and choking in its throat, its eyes bloodshot. It’s burning up, heart pounding, limbs twitching, when it finally, finally dies.

It is not a quick or easy death. Geralt can’t help but wonder how this thing - this magic plague clinging to him - might affect a human.

At least he knows, now. He knows he’s cursed. He knows what it does to living things - both animals and plants. It’s like he’s diseased.

The deer, much like the rabbit, begins to decay quickly. He can’t even eat it. What a waste: what a terrible and thorough waste of life.

He stands, and there’s a clinging wheeze in his chest, which he does his best to ignore.

~

Upon returning to camp, Geralt rifles through his potions to rule out the unlikely possibility that this thing can be cured with something that balances between magic and medicine. Swallow does nothing more than ease the ache in his chest. Golden Oriole is equally ineffective, proving that the thing trapped beneath his skin isn’t a poison, at least.

It feels right, somehow, to sleep over the patches of grass that he killed the previous night. No sense destroying the rest of the ground, after all. He lays awake on his bedroll and considers what he knows. He’s cursed - that much is clear. With the mage who bespelled him dead, he’ll have to find another to lift it.

Geralt has experience with curses - werewolves and blood pacts and those dark, oily little spells brought about through anger and hurt - but this is something he hasn’t experienced before. He tries to think back to all the books he’s read and the myriad of jinxes Vesemir taught him about during training, but none immediately spring to mind.

There’s dozens of different ways to lift something like this - if it can be lifted. Sometimes it’s merely another spell, sometimes an incantation or a set of so-called magic words. It could be a hot little mix of noxious ingredients. It could be an act that’s needed: Geralt’s seen more curses than he can count that have been lifted in the fairytale fashion, all drops of blood and true love's kisses and personal sacrifices.

He doubts this is one of those, though: it feels bodily, constricting him, burrowing into his chest. He’s hoping that it’ll take a magic draught or a tincture - coupled as these things often are with a week or so of pain and suffering - and that will be that, curse lifted, free once more.

But he doesn’t know. And he has no way of finding out on his own.

Frankly, he’s fucked, until he can find another magic user to assist him. He’s not seen Yennefer in a year - probably longer - and has no idea where she is. He hopes that perhaps this will be one of the times where her uncanny ability to just appear may come into play, but he doubts it. He could seek out Triss, but last he heard of her she’d moved on from Foltest’s court. She, too, could be anywhere.

He doesn’t much like to rely on sorceresses and mages he hasn’t already met, ones he knows he can trust, but these are desperate times, after all.

Vizima is the closest city to where he is - a week and a half by horse, probably two by foot - but it’s far more likely that he’ll find a mage somewhere built up than in one of the nearby villages. He’ll head south, keep away from people, and—

And hope he can find a way to stop whatever this is.

Or hope it takes him before he can pass it on to someone else.

Sleep comes surprisingly easy. He’s tired and hungry, his limbs heavy. Witchers don’t get sick, and the feeling is unnatural and unpleasant, but all his body wants to do is rest and recoup energy.

He slips into turbulent, squeezing dreams - changing and quick and impossible to grasp, making his head throb. Then—

Jaskier.

This is not the first time he’s dreamt of Jaskier. Of his skin beneath his hands, his lips pink and pliant, his lidded eyes. They’re just dreams, he tells himself, when he wakes - just dreams. They don’t have to mean anything.

They leave him feeling guilty for a few days regardless.

This is much like the others. The details are hazy, flickering in and out as he fails to hold onto them, but Jaskier feels solidly real against him. It’s unsettling, how real these dreams feel, considering the gaping space between them and his lived experiences. They’re warm and soft and engulf him like sinking into a hot bath and they’re so, so far from the reality of the thing between Jaskier and himself.

Geralt kisses him, in the dream, soft and slow. Jaskier kisses him back, harder. Geralt can feel his hands on his body, drifting over his scars, tangling in his hair. It’s not fast and frantic and quick - like so many of Geralt’s trysts are - but slow and languid, drawing him out in waves.

They float together in the unreality of it all.

Then - a shift. Small, nearly imperceptible - but there. The dream twists and lurches, and Jaskier’s eyes snap open and his eyes are huge and pained and bloodshot. Geralt tries to talk, but his tongue can’t move, his lips are heavy, and all he can do is watch in horror as Jaskier changes beneath him.

Black, dirty marks appear on Jakier’s skin where Geralt’s hands had been just moments before. On his chest, his ribcage, his arms. His fingertips are black and cold and shiny. The stain mottles his neck, his jaw, his lips. He coughs - the noise too loud, too close - and there’s blood oozing from the corner of his lip.

There’s nothing Geralt can do. Jaskier trembles, the darkness spreading, and in the dream he can smell the decay that had clung to the rabbit. Jaskier’s skin is hot - not the pleasant warmth of before, but dangerously hot, making him sweat. His heartbeat is loud and uneven and fast - faster than any human’s heart should beat - and Geralt can’t do anything - he can’t even touch him.

He coughs again, another of those shuddering, juddering noises that makes it sound like his ribs are going to collapse. He wheezes, eyes wide, hands shaking. Geralt can’t stand it - he reaches out, wraps his arms around him—

Jaskier is cold. He’s so cold against Geralt’s skin, and suddenly silent.

He can’t bear to look down. He can’t bear to let him go, to unfold his arms and look at what he’s done. Geralt holds him, his fingers digging into Jaskier’s cold, yielding flesh.

~

Geralt wakes coughing in a cold sweat. It takes him a moment to control himself - to catch his breath, to shake off the visions of the dream. It’s dark and quiet in the clearing around him, the sun not even risen, but the urge to sleep has left him.

He doesn’t want to see that again.

He heaves himself to his feet and quickly inspects the ground beneath the bedroll, half expecting to find it scorched. There are more patches of dead grass, that much is immediately clear, but it isn’t ruined, just dead - dead where his skin has touched it. Perhaps after winter, and the spring rains, the grass will grow again.

Geralt packs up and moves on quickly, the dream prickling at him as he does. He pulls some dried meat from his pack and eats it as he walks, trying to push those images from his mind. There’s the typical sting of guilt, of course - you’re not allowed to think about him like that, he’s not for you, he isn’t yours - and now that comes twined with fear, with the heart-stuttering horror of clinging to Jaskier’s cold body.

He tests more - partly as a way to keep himself distracted, partly to regain a semblance of control over his situation.

It’s only living things. He grasps a sunflower springing alone in a field, and after half an hour the stalk begins to wither and the head droops. But a snapped branch fallen from a fir tree, still covered in sturdy green needles, remains fresh and sweet-smelling even after he’s carried it with him for an hour.

And, of course - he has the gloves. He doesn’t care much for wearing them all the time: the leather is thick and makes him clumsy, but if it’ll allow him to hunt and pick components for his potions then it’s a price he’s happy to pay.

It’s a small but potent relief, knowing that there are still things he can do, still ways he can survive. He can hunt what he can, still pick ingredients for potions. True, there’s many more things he can’t do alone - he’ll still need to pick up supplies, he’ll still need to enter towns - but it’s never been difficult to keep out of people’s way. Even the few folks he passes on the road are keen to stay away from a witcher, keeping their heads down or eyes averted.

He reaches the first village on the way to Vizima two days later. There’s no sign of a mage, and he trudges onwards.

~

On the fourth day of walking, Geralt rips off his medallion and shoves it in the pouch on his hip. The fucking thing simply won’t stop vibrating at him, an alarm call that only he can hear - you’re dying, you’re dying, you’re going to die. His medallion should act like a compass, leading him towards monsters and magic, but so overwhelmed it is with the curse beneath his skin it’s now utterly useless, a compass point spinning wildly with no direction.

He decides to stow it away until he can find the cure when it nearly causes him to walk straight into a fiend’s nest. Typically, he would have been alerted to the presence of the magical beast a quarter of a mile away. But now, with the medallion whirring and humming and tugging at him constantly, he has no idea until he puts his boot into an enormous, clawed footprint.

He backs away, slowly. The forest is miles away from civilisation, and he doesn’t have the desire - nor, he thinks, the strength - to fight a fiend right now.

The medallion stays in the little pouch, and sometimes in the dead of night he can hear it clinking against the empty vials in there.

~

He’s just outside Vizima, sitting beneath an enormous apple tree, shielding himself from the rain. There’d been a strong wind in the night, and dozens of perfectly ripe apples had been scattered beneath the boughs, cushioned in the long grass. Geralt hasn’t eaten food this fresh in two weeks, overly cautious of spending too much time lingering in stores or markets, and the juicy flesh is sweet on his tongue.

It’s been raining on and off for three days. It doesn’t bother him too much - unlike a human, being caught in the rain isn’t going to make him sick - but even a witcher doesn’t enjoy trudging around in soaked armour. Geralt quite likes the rain, really: it clears the air and leaves the ground smelling fresh and new. For someone who’s often overwhelmed by his own senses, it’s quite pleasant.

When it finally seems like the downpour is letting up, he stands, intending to gather a few of the apples to take with him, when there’s suddenly a distant shout.

“Geralt!”

Gods, that voice. Geralt knows that all the bullshit about witchers and their emotions really is just bullshit every time he hears that voice. His emotions batter him, like the rain - like hailstones. Relief. Anger. Fear. On the heels of fear - joy. And then guilt, again, always: guilt for the dream, guilt for the curse, guilt for what he’s inevitably going to have to do next.

Jaskier arrives at his side, his lute bouncing on his back, face flushed, out of breath. He is completely soaked, his hair plastered to his face, his clothes sticking to him. As ever, he’s dressed inappropriately for the weather: another brightly coloured doublet over a thin chemise and boots that, to Geralt’s well trained eye, appear to be falling apart as if they’re made of nothing more substantial than wood pulp.

Jaskier’s shivering, his teeth chattering noisily together, but that doesn’t seem to deter him.

“Geralt!” He says with an enormous grin, reaching out, “it’s been—”

Geralt swiftly steps back. “Don’t touch me.”

Jaskier blinks at him, but seems unperturbed.

“Oh,” he says, jovially, “having one of those, are we? Well,” he shifts the weight of his bag from one shoulder to the other, “no matter! How are you? Aside from…” he flutters his fingers towards Geralt, “...the classic crotchetiness?”

Geralt is about to bite back with something gruff and truthful, but stops himself. Jaskier’s smiling at him in that easy, affable way he always does - he’s genuinely happy to see him, and before he can even stop himself, Geralt’s lying - quickly and easily.

“Fine,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to buy it. “Just fine?”

Geralt huffs at him, grabs his pack, and begins to walk towards the city. Jaskier, he knows, will follow him. At least in the city he can get dry.

The apples remain scattered across the grass.

~

“Where’s Roach?”

Geralt isn’t expecting this question. He doesn’t immediately respond, and Jaskier whitters on, talking over the sound of the rain.

“It’s unlike you to be travelling without her, is all, and I—” his words taper into a shocked little gasp. “Oh, Geralt, is she…? I just, I didn’t mean to pry, if she’s…” he mumbles over his words, and Geralt can hear his heartbeat picking up. “Oh, Geralt,” he breathes, “I’m sorry—”

He reaches out to him again, his hand seeking out Geralt’s arm, but Geralt snaps it away with a scowl and a gruff grumble so deep it could nearly be a growl.

Jaskier flinches away like he’s been burnt. “Right,” he says, “no touching. Got it. But, Geralt, is she really—”

“She’s fine.” Another lie. Or perhaps not: he truly doesn't know how she is.

“Right.”

Jaskier’s hands fiddle nervously with the leather strap of his lute, twisting it between his fingers - something Geralt is used to, now, when he’s feeling anxious.

Geralt had been worried he’d need to send Jaskier away - to scare him off, somehow, shout at him until he left him alone. But perhaps it’ll be easier than that: Jaskier won’t want to stay at his side when he’s acting like this, and better for it: he’s safer on his own, for once.

They approach the walls of the city together, and Geralt is ready for Jaskier to tell him he has some kind of bardic business in Vizima and he’ll see him, well, when he sees him - an easy enough excuse to spend as little time as possible attached to Geralt.

“So,” Jaskier says instead, clapping his hands together, “Where to?”

Geralt peers at him. “Don’t you have… business, here?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Not as such.”

Perhaps it will be harder to shake him than Geralt thinks.

“I’m looking for a mage.”

A quick scowl mars Jaskier’s handsome face. “A specific mage,” he says, quickly correcting the expression, “or did you just wake up with the urge?”

“Any mage.”

“Right then.” Jaskier places his hands on his hips and looks around, as if he has any idea where to find a mage in a city like this. “Uh…” He peers at Geralt. “How about a drink, first? I’ve been on the road for days, you know.”

Geralt weighs it up in his head. As far as he can tell, he should be safe - people should be safe from him - so long as no one touches his bare skin. But it’s still a risk. It would be safest, he knows, to stick to side streets, find a herbalist or an apothecary and start there - or head into the outskirts of the city, where the brothels and seedier taverns are, where people are more likely to speak freely about magic users and avoid witchers.

Yet…

It’s been months since he last saw Jaskier. If Geralt can’t find a mage, he’ll be forced to leave the city to continue the search, no doubt leaving Jaskier behind where the excitement and money and sex is. And if Geralt still can’t find a mage - well.

He doesn’t know how these kinds of curses work. He doesn’t know how long it will take to slow him, to break him down. It could be months or weeks or maybe even days before he finds himself on his back, like that deer, desperately gasping for final breaths that’ll never come.

Or, far more likely, he’ll become so enfeebled that something else will kill him first - a ghoul or a drowner or even just a pack of wild dogs.

If he can’t find a mage in the city, he’ll leave Jaskier in Vizima, and it may very well be the last time he sees him.

And - ah - that hurts. Geralt has long since accepted his inevitable death: he’s a witcher, after all, it’s what he was created to do. But the thought of leaving Jaskier behind is more bitter. He knows, in a roundabout way, that each time he sees him could be the last - Geralt’s life is dangerous, and Jaskier’s always falling into trouble, so breakably human. But this parting will be different.

“Fine,” he says, and if Jaskier is troubled by his hesitancy to respond he keeps it to himself. “But somewhere quiet. And you need to get dry.”

It’s a poor compromise, he knows - favouring his urge to stay with Jaskier over the desire to protect those around him. But he can’t quite bring himself to leave just yet.

~

Geralt had been wrong, when he assumed that it would be easy to keep out of people’s way.

It is easy to keep out of people’s way. It’s near impossible to keep out of Jaskier’s. He’s always there, always fluttering about, and even after a pint of tepid ale, a meagre lunch, and a quick dry off and change of clothes in the tavern’s cramped back room, he dogs Geralt’s heels as he attempts to find a mage in the bustling city.

He is, at least, steadfastly keeping his hands to himself. After those first two snaps - those biting words - Jaskier has quickly reigned in his flailing arms, his grabbing hands, keeping them drumming on the table or patting his knees or constantly twiddling his fingers together.

The day passes quickly - spurred along by a sense of long sought for purpose and Jaskier’s constant, trilling laughter. It’s easy for Geralt to forget why he’s here, the thing that even now is squeezing in his lungs, as Jaskier dances along beside him, never once stopping for breath.

By the time the sun sets Geralt is no closer to finding a mage. Somehow, spending the day in the city is more tiring than spending it walking down the bank of the Ismena, and he can begin to feel that now-familiar wheeze in his chest. He’s aware of Jaskier’s worried gaze on him when they finally stop, but he’s happy to ignore it.

Jaskier cannot know. Geralt’s not sure how he came to this decision - but now he’s made it, it feels like the right choice.

He cannot know.

They find a tiny inn at the edge of the city. The innkeep asks what they’ll be needing - one bed or two - and before Jaskier can reply Geralt cuts him off.

“Two,” he says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Geralt doesn’t know if he’s imagining the hurt that briefly passes across Jaskier’s face, but he can’t let himself linger on it. It’s better this way - safer for them both. There can be no shared beds, no warm baths, none of those little intimate touches he’s grown so used to over the past decade and a half.

He’ll miss them.

The last time they travelled together, Jaskier had attentively stitched a nasty gash on Geralt’s shoulder, rubbing ointment into his skin with his careful, calloused fingers. He’d washed the blood from Geralt’s hair and the monster ichor from his skin, rinsing the sticky black ooze from the cuts that marred Geralt’s back and arms. It had been the middle of summer, then, the air oppressively warm, and Jaskier had stripped to his waist before getting to work. The bath water had been too hot, and the steam had made his skin flushed and shiny with sweat, glistening in the low orange light of the candles and the last rays of the setting sun pouring through the windows.

Geralt thought that Jaskier’s hands had lingered on his skin for longer than usual that evening. It had been a hard fight, and they were both exhausted. Geralt had returned covered in blood - some his own, some not - and there’d been a moment for both of them when they hadn’t expected him to come back at all.

There’d been a tension, there. But it hadn’t been a new tension - rather, Geralt suspected, like the first distant rumble of thunder before a storm, or the second-to-last stone atop a cairn too close to tumbling. It had been building, and he’d been trying to ignore it. He wondered if Jaskier had felt it too.

Probably not. To Jaskier, it was probably just another evening - one of hundreds, all the same.

They parted ways three days later. Geralt had business in Rinde, and Jaskier in Oxenfurt, and for once their schedules had failed to align.

The gap between then and now is immeasurable. The night Geralt had returned, blood soaked and half dead, they’d slept twined around each other in the too-small bed. For once, Geralt hadn’t complained about the clinginess: he’d soaked in it.

He should have appreciated it more. He should have been appreciating it for those fifteen fucking years. And now - now it’s too late.

Two beds, several meters apart.

Jaskier doesn’t even complain. He dumps his bags on the one closest to the window, sits for just a moment and then is suddenly on his feet again.

“I should earn us some coin,” he says, his voice too bright, too springy, “if you’re looking for a mage. And I could do with the practise, lest I forget all my songs…” he licks his lips, and Geralt forces himself to look away. “There’s a tavern, just down the street. Do you, ah—”

If he could, Geralt would join him. He wants to see him play - wants to see him dance around the stage, commanding a captive audience like a gaudy peacock. But the press of people is too great a risk, the risk of passing this thing on. He doesn’t care for crowds at the best of times, and this: this is the worst of times.

Even without the inherent risk he poses just by existing, right now, he’s exhausted: he feels bone-tired, his legs aching, his chest tight even as he begins to carefully strip away his armour.

“No,” he says, then feels quickly guilty. “I… can’t. I need to…” he falters, “...to rest,” he settles on, mumbling the last word.

Jaskier - looks at him, really looks at him. There’s a line between his eyebrows, like he’s working something out, putting together a puzzle.

“Right,” he says, and while Geralt is expecting him to pry - to prod and dig and wheedle his way beneath Geralt’s stony exterior - he doesn’t. He just… nods, slinging his lute back over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, then.”

He goes to leave, then hovers in the open doorway - halfway between the room and the corridor beyond. He pierces Geralt under that same, nervous gaze.

“Get some rest,” he says, too sincerely for Geralt’s liking. “You look like you need it.”

~

Jaskier returns late into the night. Geralt is roused from his deep, turbulent dreams by the bard’s gentle padding around the room - made somewhat less gentle when he attempts to place his lute against the wall and it slides to the floor with an echoing clunk.

Geralt is too tired to do more than shift a little under the thin sheet. Jaskier smells of ale and adrenaline and sweat. Geralt has been half-expecting him to return smelling of someone else - he’s been dreading that, in fact - but he just smells of Jaskier.

He pauses by the side of Geralt’s bed for a moment, and even with his eyes shut Geralt is aware that he’s being watched. He hopes Jaskier isn’t about to reach for him, preparing himself for an argument.

But Jaskier doesn’t try to touch him. He just hovers there, and Geralt can hear his heartbeat, smell the ale on his breath, the mustiness on his clothes. And then, finally, he moves away. Geralt listens as Jaskier undresses and slides beneath the covers of the other bed.

Geralt falls asleep before Jaskier does.

~

If there’s any single human on the continent who can wear through Geralt’s reserve - even when he’s fucking cursed - it’s Jaskier.

Jaskier does well. At first. He doesn’t try to touch Geralt at all: Not to reach out, like he often will, not to sling an arm over his shoulder or nudge their shoulders together as they walk side-by-side.

It’s not Jaskier’s fault that he forgets, Geralt thinks. He’d fallen into that easy companionship again, easing Jaskier into a false sense of security after that initial terseness. It’s almost like it always is. Almost.

It’s no surprise, then, that while they’re eating their evening meal after their first full day in the city that Jaskier makes a joke about something Geralt is barely even listening to, reaches out, and affably pats Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt freezes. Jaskier freezes, too, for a completely different reason.

“Shit,” he says, “Touching. Right. Shit. Sorry, I—”

Geralt can’t say anything. He’s waiting for the world to end. But Jaskier is fine, and it’s just his skin, he reminds himself. Just his skin. Jaskier’s hand had brushed against his armour - thick leather armour layered over straps and buckles and all of that over a cotton undershirt.

“It’s fine,” he says, thanking the gods that Jaskier isn’t blessed with his attuned hearing - that he can’t hear how loud his heart suddenly feels.

And it is fine.

And then - it’s like a dam bursting. All it takes are those two words - a quiet concession - and Jaskier is back to his usual self. His ever-busy hands are back, winding their way across Geralt’s arms, slapping him on the back, patting him on his shoulder when something catches his eye or he has something devastatingly witty to say.

Geralt is wearing his gloves all the time, now, so the only part of him exposed is his face and head, and there’s no reason for Jaskier to reach out to touch his cheek, his jaw, his hair. The fear never really goes away - but he knows it’s fruitless, knows that Jaskier is safe, so long as he never touches Geralt’s skin.

He worries he isn’t being cautious enough. But when Jaskier loops a hand around his arm as they weave through the city, it’s impossible to make him let go.

~

Vizimia is the biggest city in Temeria. It should, by all rights, be bursting with mages and magic users. But Geralt is coming up short, again and again.

It’s been three days in the city - three days with Jaskier by his side in the daytime and off earning coin after sunset - and he’s no closer to finding a cure than when he first stepped through the gates.

The closest he gets is an alchemist, her tiny shop built into the wall of the city itself. She can tell something’s wrong with him immediately, and pushes herbs and tinctures on him - at a cost, of course. When he’s restocked - including several vials of a foul smelling green liquid she swears will ease the ache in his chest - she finally answers his questions.

“There was a sorceress, here, oh…” she tilts her head, “a few weeks ago. Gone now, of course.”

“Where did she go?”

The alchemist shrugs. “South. Towards Maribor.”

Geralt sighs. It’s helpful, but he can’t shake the feeling it’s too late now. Maribor could be three week’s walk away, given how his wheezing is getting harder to ignore and his body aches even after a few hours exploring the city. But the woman is giving him that expression that he’s learnt to recognise in peddlers and merchants and the occasional blacksmith. It’s not one he’s been given by a fucking alchemist before.

He reaches into his bag and pulls a fistful of coins from his purse, letting them tumble onto the table.

She smiles.

“There is one thing…”

“What?”

“There’s a town, other side of the lake, through the forest,” says the alchemist, thoughtfully. “Hethe. Two days walk, if you’re walking slowly. It’s small, but there’s a castle nearby, some elven ruin…” she waves a dismissive hand - elven ruins are commonplace in Vizima - “There was talk a few days back of strange goings-on. Noise and smoke and the like. The sorceress may have stopped there, for a time. Strong residual magic there, where the elves tilled the ground. Useful to a mage, I’d think.”

That sounds more hopeful.

“Did you catch her name?” He asks.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “I told you where she might have gone. I won’t tell you more than that.” She clucks to herself, shaking her head as she begins to tidy the shelves. “I like my limbs attached, thank you, master Witcher.”

He thanks her anyway, pays her handsomely for the supplies, and returns to the inn. The night is drawing in, now, and it’s likely too late to move on, but he can tell Jaskier what he’s learnt and make plans to set off with the dawn.

As it turns out, Jaskier is waiting for him in their room. Geralt had been expecting him to be absent - or at least readying himself for an impromptu concert in one of Vizima’s many taverns - but he’s reclining on his bed beneath the window, reading, when Geralt enters.

“Not performing tonight?” Geralt asks, as he carefully places his new supplies on the bed.

Jaskier looks up, and Geralt suddenly realises that the room is sweet-smelling - rose petals and chamomile. Some new oil, he suspects. There’s another scent, too, milder than the perfume, but there nonetheless - a citrusy tartness, fear but not fear, either. Something softer than that.

“Actually,” says Jaskier, placing the book down, “I thought we could eat together tonight.” He swings his legs off of the bed, “I should give my throat a rest, before I lose my voice. It’s tickling, already… and what good is a mute bard?” He smiles, wiggling his shoulders. “Besides, performing just isn’t the same without your grumpy face staring at me.”

This is a sentiment Geralt finds himself sharing. He’s missed hearing Jaskier sing - not that he wants to admit that. There’s a side to Jaskier that’s only really revealed when he’s performing, and Geralt enjoys seeing it - even if it comes packaged around pomp and overly dramatic acting. But it’s simply too great a risk: while he’s happy enough to let Jaskier touch him, he can’t cope with the constant risk of the crowd, always on guard.

“I always thought I was putting you off,” he says, eyebrows raised.

“Hah,” Jaskier laughs, eyes sparkling. “Is that why you’re always so intense? Trying to trip me up?” He grins. “It doesn’t work. You’re my muse, Geralt. It only makes sense that I perform better when you’re off in the corner scowling because you hate my singing so much…”

“I don’t hate your singing.”

It slips out, unbidden, and that grabs Jaskier’s attention. He turns, eyes wide, and that citrusy smell is suddenly intense. It mingles with the floral perfume, not unpleasantly. “...Oh?”

“I like your singing,” says Geralt, aware of how much he’s suddenly exposing himself - making himself vulnerable. “It’s the subjects that I find objectionable.”

He hopes Jaskier will cling to the criticism, not the praise - that he’ll puff up like an angry chicken, offended at the perceived slight. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“How do you like my singing?”

Geralt hesitates. It’s too complicated a question, one that he can’t just answer. He likes Jaskier’s voice - it’s clear and powerful, and he has the uncanny ability to carry emotions in the lyrics that other bards lack. It’s not just that his voice is good - although it is, of course - it’s that he can do things with his voice that others can’t. Geralt isn’t well-versed in emotions after so many years of training himself to push them back, but Jaskier’s singing makes him think he can understand them a little better.

The bloviating and bravado he can do without, but there’s a few songs - very few, in fact - that are quieter and simpler and there’s something about watching Jaskier, perched on a stool or sat on a table or leant against a wall, his eyes down, his fingers moving slowly up and down the strings… it’s like he can see him, properly.

“You have a good voice.”

It’s a poor description of the way Jaskier’s singing actually makes him feel, but it’s the best he can do - certainly the best he can do without incriminating himself. But Jaskier lights up, and the smile that cracks his mouth is so bright and genuine that it makes Geralt’s chest squeeze in a way that has nothing to do with the curse.

“Well,” he says, cheerily. “I’ll have to perform for you later. I’m sure my vocal cords can cope with one more song.”

~

The tavern Jaskier leads him to is more of an eatery than a drinking spot. It’s out of the way, built between two larger buildings with creeping roses embedded into the crumbling brickwork. Geralt realises, with another one of those squeezes, that Jaskier has been listening to him - he’s watched his hesitancy over these past few days - and brought him somewhere quiet, somewhere without a lot of other people to avoid.

This also means, Geralt cannot help but notice, that this place must be expensive. He tries to mention this to Jaskier, but he waves him off with a laugh.

“People tip musicians well in Vizima,” he says.

Geralt is expecting a cold reception, but no one even looks up at him. The staff treat him cordially, the other patrons ignore him. This, he supposes, is the benefit of having cash to spare - although he can’t help but think that Jaskier’s money would be better spent on a pair of boots that actually keep the rain out.

It’s… nice. But he can’t help but feel this is the end of something. He tells Jaskier about the alchemist, about the sorceress, about the town on the other side of the lake. He doesn’t know if Jaskier will come with him or stay in the city. If he stays, maybe this is the end. Tomorrow Geralt will leave, seeking out a cure that might not exist. This could be the last night they spend together.

There’s a finality to that that sits poorly in his stomach.

Perhaps Jaskier can sense his odd mood, his sullen silences meaning more, now, than they once did. He still doesn’t pry, but moves the conversation swiftly along to more uplifting topics - to old adventures and foolish gambles and shared moments, and beneath the small table Geralt can feel their knees knocking together, Jaskier’s foot sliding between his own.

The food is good, but he barely tastes it - the ale is better, and flows easily. By the time they leave, stumbling into the dark, they’re both well into their cups. He’s not forgotten the cloud that looms over him - that looms above them both - but it’s easier to ignore it when his head feels light and Jaskier laughs at his side, deliberately bumping into him.

He wishes he could pull his gloves off and touch him. Jaskier’s face is flushed - he wants to feel how warm his cheeks are. His hair is a wild mess, as it always is when he’s drinking, and Geralt wants to run his hands through it, feel how soft he knows it is. He wants to take his hand and grip his fingers and slide their digits together and—

It’s an impossibility, even without the creeping curse that’s hibernating beneath his skin.

They make their way back to the inn, to the tiny room. He’s completely forgotten Jaskier’s promise of a personal performance until he’s pulling the lute from its case and tuning the strings. Jaskier peers up, and spots Geralt staring.

“Did you still want—”

“Yeah.”

He swallows as he loops the strap over his neck. “I’ve got a new one,” he says, quietly, “But I’m still fine tuning it.” He settles his fingers over the strings. “So be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

That elicits a laugh - short and sweet - and then Jaskier begins.

It’s another ballad, that much is immediately clear: one of the softer, slower tunes that Geralt favours over the bawdy drinking songs or the overblown retellings of his own life. It’s a love song, an unrequited love song, about wanting and needing and loving and all those things that Jaskier seems so good at. It’s sad, too - not like so many of his ballads which mourn love’s loss while celebrating the having of it - but empty and grasping and reaching for something that doesn’t exist.

He understands, for once, what Jaskier is singing about. He understands it so much it hurts.

Geralt is so entranced, so taken with the soft words and plucked strings, that he doesn’t even realise that the tart, citrus smell he’d noticed that evening has grown until Jaskier stops singing, laying the lute across his lap, and it suddenly fills the room.

“What do you think?” He asks, a little breathless. “Is it any good?”

It’s - Geralt doesn’t have the words. “It’s good,” he says. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

Jaskier smiles - but the motion doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His fingers dab on the strings, his teeth worry his bottom lip.

“What did you think of the lyrics?” Jaskier says, looking away - looking down. “I’m, ah, I’m a little concerned they’re a tad trite. They’re a bit…” he looks up, finally. “A bit obvious, I fear.”

Geralt isn’t sure what he means. He understood them, at least - but where he’s impressed, an expert may find them overly sentimental.

“I can’t say,” he says, truthfully. “But I understood them. Maybe that means they are too obvious,” he adds, with a self-deprecating laugh.

Jaskier is not laughing. “You understood?”

Geralt nods, wondering why Jaskier is suddenly so serious.

“Oh.” It’s more of a sigh than a word - a gentle breath out. And then Jaskier finally moves the lute, placing it onto the bed, and he stands, and he crosses the space between their beds, and his eyes are wide and his heart stuttering and—

He sits next to Geralt. Their knees brush. Jaskier places his hand on his shoulder, moving him, and Geralt complies - he will always comply - and then with a soft, unsure noise Jaskier is leaning in and his breath - fuck - his breath is on Geralt’s lips and he realises, suddenly, what’s happening.

Geralt springs back like a startled animal, like he’s been struck by lightning, like he’s been burnt, and Jaskier freezes.

“No—” he says, and, gods, not like this— “I can’t—”

Jaskier’s soft expression drops for just a second. Just a single second of pain, of hurt, of sudden, well-placed heartbreak. And then he’s back, back to his unreadable calmness.

“Right,” he says, “Shit, I, ah…” He swallows, shifting back across the bed, right to the edge. “Sorry. Sorry, I just… the beer, and...” he laughs, but the sound is wrong, fake and broken at the edges. “I should…” he loses his thought, his hands balling in the thin sheets of Geralt’s bed, “fuck.”

He forces another laugh. He’s smiling - a stiff, constrained expression that’s somehow worse than the pain that had flickered across his face before - but Geralt can hear his heart thundering, can smell the adrenaline and the fear and the hurt coming off of him in waves, like a wounded animal.

Like that deer in the forest. Killed with a single touch.

“It’s late,” Jaskier says, finally, speaking too quickly, voice stumbling over itself. “We should sleep. I should… I…”

Jaskier stands. The bed shifts as he does. He tucks the lute away back in its case, locking it closed with a horrible sort of finality. He kicks off his boots and then, without bothering to get undressed, he slides into his own bed, facing the wall, his back to Geralt.

Fuck.

It’s with equal silence that Geralt, too, undresses, crawls beneath his own sheets.

He curls beneath the blanket, listening to the sound of Jaskier pretending to sleep. They both lie in their respective beds, the distance between their bodies now a casm, both of them awake.

He should tell him. There’s - there’s so many things Geralt should tell him.

But he can’t. He can’t tell him about the curse, because Jaskier will be worried, because he’ll go after him. He can’t tell him that it’s going to kill him. He can’t tell Jaskier that - gods - he loves him - because what unimaginable tourture would that be?

If Jaskier doesn’t know, he’ll be better prepared to move on. It’s the most sensible thing for him to do - to accept the perceived rejection and leave. Geralt wouldn’t blame him if he did: to stay with Geralt will surely be too painful, now.

There’s a twist to that. Perhaps this will make it easier for Jaskier if Geralt can’t lift the curse after all. It will be easier to move on from the man who broke his heart than the man who still held it gently in his grip. Perhaps the mourning will sting less, now, if he mourns at all.

In the darkness, he can still feel the hot huff of Jaskier’s breath against his lips, the intoxicating warmth of his body so close to Geralt’s own.

“I can’t.” It had been all Geralt could say, with so much left unspoken. “I can’t. But gods, Jask, I want to.”