#honestly i could tack on a few others but it would give it away far too much

[adelrambles]

Idk if you’ve ever fully answered this on your blog but: DO YOU THINK Bishop fully redeemed himself in the future? By becoming president and uniting all races? Or is he still 🗑️

Oh man no, I don't think Bishop's Good Guy act is all that genuine. I think there's some change, but at his base, beneath all the subterfuge, he's still the same guy. I may have gone over this on the blog before, but like ey what am I gonna just get handed this opportunity to ramble ad nauseum and not take it? NEVER

There are a few pieces of evidence we can read into regarding the faux-ness of Bishop's new persona. First and foremost, for me, is the two instances where he presents the turtles with his "origin story," so to speak. In each instance, he keeps the details vague, and is very hesitant to admit to any direct wrong-doing on his part. The first story is so vague on the details that it feels like he's trying to brush past the turtles' concerns as quickly as possible. The SECOND, though. Bishop consistently dances around going into any detail about what he did or why it was wrong. And he goes on to push all of the blame onto Stockman! I mean honestly, he says Stockman "took things too far." Like dude!! We already know nothing is "too far" for you! It's very suspect to me that the subsequent lab collapse could have been ALL Stockman's fault. Bishop also elevates his own accomplishments and takes full credit for the success of the PGA. Idk but there's something really insidious to me about how he presents the information to make himself look as good as possible-- and the way he's able to convince at least a few of his former enemies that he's trustworthy.

There are other little inconsistencies in his behavior, like him writing off the turtles' warnings about Sh'Okanabo. The Bishop I know is a paranoid freak, he would never in a million years brush off a lead on a possible threat without checking it at all. And if we assume that, then that suggests Bishop said as much to give the turtles the impression it wasn't something worth looking into, meaning he was probably trying to direct their attention away for some reason. All of this tells me (if we just. ignore the possibility of it being a writing flaw agdhgshd) that Bishop is still a very cold and calculating personality, fully willing to throw others to the wolves for his own purposes, but he is WAY better at manipulting, now.

I've said before that I find it likely Bishop's weakest point is his social skills; we see that his superior officers (i.e. the president) dislike him-- which, frankly, is a detriment to his cause as it put his funding in jeopardy at least once that we know of-- and everyone he meets tends to come away some level of discomfitted. So what FF presents us with is a Bishop who needed to improve these skills for the sake of his ultimate goal. If the safety of earth requires friendly relations with aliens, then he needed to become an ambassador, and if he needed to become an ambassador, then he needed to be less overtly unpleasant. Thus, he changed tack. As a result, we have someone who appears trustworthy and is very good at lying and directing your attention, but is just as utilitarian as ever under the mask. That's just his job, after all.

Other details include:

- His intro. We see Bishop personally taking time out to go through monitors all over the city. He apparently has a very thorough surveillance system that he reviews himself. Again, paranoid freak.

- When addressing the turtles, we sometimes see him slip back into snarkier comments. This usually happens when he's frustrated (snapping at them for not attacking the Mouser fast enough for his tastes,) or when he's not being obeyed (making a snide comment about Cody having nightmares when they refuse to exclude him from a mission briefing.)

- As my friend Trauma pointed out to me recently, when storming the moonbase Bishop's men had their guns defaulted to lethal force, he had to give the order to switch to non-lethal. He was fully ready to wipe that place out.

- His willingness to include the turtles and later Cody on missions strikes me as, yknow, very utilitarian in its own right. Cuz those are teenagers, yeah. It could be argued that Bishop can't tell how old the turtles are but he definitely knows Cody is young, and knows well enough that he shouldn't be in a combat situation. But in the finale he praises Cody's decision to defy him and fight anyway. So what changed? In essence, Cody was effective. Bishop is fine with child soldiers as long as they do a good job (and can't be publicly traced back to him.)

Also like did you see that car chase? He ran civilians off the road and did not give a FUCK. That's the same guy.

[daybreak-academy-fanfic]

Another Side: Part 3

Summary: In which 358/2 Days gets severely derailed in order to give Roxas the domestic life he deserves before KH2.

Word count: 1,371

First | Previous

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“What is the underground concourse used for?”

Nana, who was working on a small appliance, didn’t respond. Roxas stood next to her in wait- pretty much unaware of how little personal distance he was giving her. Nana was starting to get uncomfortably aware of it, though. She started with a few side glances as a warning before putting a pause on her repair altogether. Roxas continued to simply stare at her.

“A lotta words are comin’ out of you recently.” she noted at first. “Not sure if I should be proud, or scared.”

Roxas gave her a curious tilt of his head. “Why would you be scared?”

But she didn’t answer him. Instead she let out a bemused huff before telling him, ���It’s no big deal.”

She then got to her feet with a small grunt.

“Regardless,” she said, “I think it’s mostly for tram maintenance. Getting a train from one end of Twilight Town to another. They’re not the main tracks, mind you, just the ones they use if one breaks down.”

“Do the people that work there wear black coats?”

That earned him a funny look.

“No…?” Nana said as she shifted her weight, placing her hand on her hip. “They shouldn’t. It’s just a bunch of mechanics like I am- but better trained for the big stuff. I like staying small, you see. I have a better chance of keeping my fingers that way.” She paused for a moment, then tacked on a curious, “Why?”

“It’s nothing…” Roxas mumbled as he looked down at the floor. This did not ease Nana’s own curiosity now.

“Well, if it’s ‘just nothing’, how about you do me a favor?” She asked before going to get a box on the other end of the room. She presented it to Roxas with a bit of a grunt. “Can you take this box to the jewelry shop in the square? It’s for the owner. Be careful, though, it’s really heavy and I’d like to not fix it again.”

“Okay.” the boy nodded as he carefully took the box from her. It was definitely a lot heavier than what he was expecting. What on earth would the jewelry shop do with something this heavy? It almost made him want to steal a peek.

Not that he would have been able to tell what it was, probably.

Roxas left Nana's shop and started his way to the jewelry store. It wasn't that long a walk.

“Ah!” the jewelry shop owner greeted once they saw Roxas- or, more accurately, what he was holding. “I've been waiting for that to come in all morning! Tell Nana she's really saved my bacon!”

Roxas just gave a polite smile as he handed the box over. Leaving was just as uneventful. He started his way back home with his 'mission' finished. 

And that was when he saw them again- one of those people in the black coats. The figure indicated that it was the smaller one he had seen yesterday.

“H-hey!” he shouted at them. “Hey you!”

The figure turned around. They then gave a start when they realized they recognized him. In a split second, the figure took off in a sprint.

“Hey!” Roxas shouted as he also started to work into a run. “Come back!”

The call had been ignored. The figure ran even faster.

Whoever it was, they weren’t very nimble. Not that Roxas had much to say in the department either, honestly. But that only meant he could still get rather close- while still being too far away. When the person went into the concourse, Roxas thought for sure that he was going to lose them. He didn’t know what kind of luck they had when the person backed themselves into a corner. They apparently had not been anticipating one of the gates to be down.

“Gtocha.” Roxas said once he caught up with them, huffing.

The figure spun around. They were trying to make a gesture of trying to open some sort of door, or grasping for a door handle, but nothing was happening. It only seemed to cause more panic in the person.

“You don’t have to run, you know.” Roxas prudently told them. “I just wanted to say hello.”

That made the person freeze what they were doing. It was enough of letting their guard down that Roxas decided to continue.

“My name is Roxas. What’s yours?”

The figure recoiled slightly. They even shook their head in refusal. This struck Roxas as weird, leading him to voice the first conclusion that came to his mind.

“Do you even have a name?”

The figure let out a sound that was a lot like mild offense. Hearing it put a new round of annoyance in Roxas’s attitude as well.

“If you have a name, then why won't you tell me?” Roxas then prudently asked.

The figure seemed to just stare at him for a little moment before slowly remembering something. They pulled into a pocket in their black coat and pulled out a small business card.

They handed it to Roxas, careful not to touch him. Roxas took the card with just as much care.

“Xion.” he read off of the card. As he looked up, he started to say, “That’s a-” before realizing that she was already gone. Disappointed, Roxas finished his sentence with a small, “Nice name…” before giving a shake of his head.

. . .

Roxas stared at the card as he laid in his bed. It was such a simple thing. Possibly made on cardstock with just the person's name on it. No warnings, no other markings, just 'Xion'. In a way it was rather crude. If someone wanted to warn that they were a mute, or just couldn't communicate with their mouth, wouldn't there have been something more there?

A sigh escaped Roxas's lips. Those people in the black coats were just getting weirder and weirder.

His thoughts were put on hold when Nana knocked on his door.

“Hey kiddo,” she greeted, “I've got some pizza if you want to dig in with me.” Then she noticed the business card. “Whatcha got there?”

“I met one of those people in the black coats.”

Nana raised an eyebrow.

“You mean the guys you saw near the concourse and asked if they worked there?”

“Yeah.” Roxas nodded, handing the card over to her. “They didn't talk, but they were still able to give me their name.”

Nana's odd glance did not leave as she came over to look at the card. She noticed the name being the only thing on the card, and in a breath said, “Weird.”

She handed the card back to Roxas, then folded her arms in thought.

“I can't recall anyone in black coats coming or going around here. They either new or someone that none of us should be messing with. Be careful around them until we know which is which, alright?”

Roxas looked at his caretaker. For a moment he wanted to argue. The next moment he wondered why he felt so strongly about it.

“Alright.” he finally agreed.

“Thatta boy.” Nana approved, even moving to ruffle his hair. “The pizza offer still stands if you want any, by the way.”

“I hear. Thanks.”

Nana gave him a smile. Roxas couldn't help but give one back. After this moment of solidarity between them, Nana left Roxas's room again. Left alone to his thoughts, Roxas took a look at the card once more. He sighed as he closed his eyes.

Xion.

He'd have to find her again.

. . .

“You are nothing but a failure.”

Xion flinched. She wasn't sure how Saix knew that someone had caught her while on her mission, but he had. Unless it was the fact that she couldn't summon a Corridor of Darkness on her own yet. Either one didn't look good for her.

“Cut the kid some slack, Saix.” Axel said. “It was her first mission alone. What else would you expect?”

Saix gave an annoyed grunt.

“Do not let it happen again.” he informed Xion, not even bothering to look at Axel.

Xion nodded. She wouldn't mess up again. She wouldn't get caught by... by Roxas again.

Her spot in the Organization depended on it.

[casspurrjoybell-27]

In a Heartbeat - Chapter 18 - Part 2

*Warning Adult Content*

Simon

I didn't usually drink alcohol but after this morning, I didn't want to risk another panic attack thinking about Vince.

Especially if I wanted to get the money I came for, I needed to make sure I was complacent and willing even if it was truthfully the last thing I wanted to do.

I was a light-weight, considering I didn't like the taste of alcohol, so I decided to get something cheap and strong to keep me loose enough to pull through with what I set out to do.

Plus I didn't want to face Aspen later sober, especially when he clearly told me not to go out.

He was worried I would have another panic attack but honestly, I think I needed to just get away from it all.

After all, this was just a distraction and quite frankly, I was embarrassed at how a silly vision led me to a downhill spiral yet again but when was my life not a downhill spiral?

If only I had been a normal human, things would've been so much easier.

I could've easily moved on.

Slept with random guys like I was doing and moved on.

Instead, I collected their money and had panic attacks about a guy who hated me.

"Hey, focus wouldya?" the client for the night mumbled, interrupting my thoughts.

Lee, was what he called himself but it was hard to say if it was a fake name.

He had refused to say it when we first met, didn't even seem pleasant but the amount of cash he always brought with him was enticing.

He was always peculiar, insisting he set up the time and place.

This time, the local bar was sufficient enough.

We had stepped out as he wanted to smoke a cigarette beforehand.

We were tucked back near the back emergency door, his hands roaming down my back.

I hummed as his mouth trailed up and down my neck, his teeth occasionally grazing near the collarbone.

The smell of alcohol was pungent but I bit back any sign of disgust as he turned to face me.

"Let's continue this inside," he motioned towards the entrance before giving my ass a squeeze and biting the base of my neck lightly.

I gulped, not looking forward to it but let him drag me towards the men's restroom.

Luckily, it was empty, as most of the guests seemed more preoccupied with the blasting music near the stage.

Without a care as to people walking in on us, he turned and pushed me up against the bathroom wall, groping me through my clothes as his lips clashed with mine clumsily.

When that wasn't enough, he gripped my arm, nearly shoving me to the ground towards one of the stalls.

He quickly locked the door as he stared me down like I was his prey.

I backed myself into the corner as he unbuckled his belt, letting it fall as he gripped the front of my shirt.

He must've stared me down for not even a few seconds before he leaned in, hovering above me.

"Turn around," he growled out, his other hand cupping the front of my pants.

I obliged, as his hand curled around my neck, the other reaching the small of my back.

Fear washed over me as he slid his hand down my pants, preparing me haphazardly and far too impatiently.

As he pressed up against me, the fear and anxiety was spiking and it took everything in me to stay still and compliant.

Despite the alcohol, I was still shaking, still worried about it all.

I should have been used to this by now but for some reason, it was all becoming way too much.

"Slow down," I managed to get out.

The hand around my neck squeezed tighter as he seemed to go faster. I tried reaching my hand back to push him.

"Easy, Lee," I tacked on.

As he got more aggressive and pushier, he brusquely said against my neck.

"Shut the fuck up."

Then suddenly, he pulled back, only to enter me all at once.

Pain exploded through my lower half, despite even the laziest of preparation.

I could tell my neck was going to bruise by the way he gripped it, my legs nearly giving out from his thrusts.

As I tried pushing back, he pushed back harder, the pain was impossible to hide.

I couldn't quiet the mewls of pain, as he seemed to ignore my distress.

As he loosened his grip on my neck, I only could breathe for a second before his mouth returned, assaulting it with his aggressive kisses if you call it that and his biting.

I managed to turn around enough to punch at his chest, which only made him angrier.

He pulled away before using both hands to squeeze my neck, my head hitting the bathroom wall with a thud.

I grasped at his arms, trying to pry them off as he leaned dangerously close to my face.

"Stop, Lee. Easy, wouldya?" I rasped out.

He scowled before using one hand to grip my upper arm tightly.

"You don't tell me when to stop, ya hear me. I want my money's worth or I ain't paying you shit."

I couldn't say anything as his threat rang out.

"Now, turn around," he demanded.

I gulped before complying, tears starting to form at the corner of my eyes.

Everywhere he touched seemed to burn, his grip more forceful and demeaning than early.

If only I had just complied from the beginning, it would've probably gone a lot smoother.

As he continued the assault, I must've been completely out of it, possibly even blacked out, cause I could hear him buckling his belt back up.

I couldn't even feel the pain at the moment, as if it was just waking up from a nightmare.

I turned toward him, grasping his arms as he tried to leave.

It was like a switch flipped, sobering up enough to remember the money he owed.

"Money," I managed to say.

He glared at me dismissively, then shoved me when I took a step towards him.

My knee had buckled and soon I fell to the ground, my shoulder hitting the toilet seat as the pain eventually rolled in, hitting me like a truck.

He gave my shriveled form a disdainful stare before muttering...

"Pathetic."

"Lee," I called out pathetically, trying to reach out to him as he started to walk away.

I tried blinking the tears away, wanting to chase after him, when the bathroom door slammed open, two men walking in.

One immediately reaching for Lee's throat, shoving him against the wall.

It all happened so fast, I couldn't even see Lee's attacker.

Although their scent seemed familiar and when the second person turned towards the stall, the fear seemed to hit me like a truck.

[crazywolf828]

Characters or ships you have that arnt rwby or cr?

Oh plenty I'm a big ol multi shipper but let's see I'll go through a few of my past biggest fandoms I was obsessed with. I will say, not all of these are necessarily sexual relationships (since that is what I'm known for) a lot are cute and fluffy. And I'm always open to new ships as long as it's not like, incest, pedo, ect. Otherwise I'm down.

She-ra: catradora(duh), glitra, glitradora (I'm a hoe for catra), scorfuma (is that the name?), Rogelio/kyle/Lonnie, mermista/Seahawk, probably more tbh but y'know

The 100: Clexa, clarke/Niylah, ranya, Raven/clarke, Raven/Octavia, Raven/Lexa(for the angst), Lincoln/Octavia, Octavia/Clarke, I'm also okay with bellark,

Owl house: lumity(duh), luz/Amity/willow, Amity/willow, Hunter/willow, willow/Gus, willow/hunter/Gus, hunter/Gus, eda/Camila(camilla?), eda/rayne, rayne/eda/Camila. So like... All of the ships.

Supergirl: Supercorp and only that because I've never actually seen the show but have read a lot of fics

Amphibia: literally the calamity trio and ever ship involving those three with each other. I love each one. Yuunan/Olivia, Sprivy is also cute.

Love Live: just... All of Muse. All of the pairings. My biggest is NicoMaki, NozoNico, NozoEli, the third years, BiBi, soldier game+Nico(I blame a certain fox for that one👀), tsubohono. Honestly I'm like so open to just all of them.

Arcane: Violyn, Sevika/vi, Sevika/jinx(platonically), Jayce/Viktor, Mel/Jayce, Mel's mom and that twink.

Toradora(only cause it's my fave anime): Taiga/Ryuji, Taiga/Ami(for angst reasons), Ami/Minori(also for angst)

I'm not going to totally go into my weeb phase because that's so many more anime, but those are the shows that immediately came to mind. Again, I could absolutely change my mind if someone was like "hey what about this ship"

[asweetprologue]

favorite

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Favorite Food Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets Geralt a gift, and it makes Geralt realize he doesn't know enough about what Jaskier likes. He forms a plan to figure it out. ao3

The small cheesecloth package that was dropped in front of him wasn’t necessarily a surprise, but the way that Jaskier hovered as Geralt picked it up was.

“What’s this?” he grunted, sniffing the air subtly. The little package smelled like honey and flour and cream, and the thick, sweet smell of-- “Are those dates?” He pulled the cheesecloth off to reveal a neat little tart, gently browned on the edges, about the size of his palm.

“It is!” Jaskier leaned over him slightly, his arms holding several more packages. He continued, sounding a little nervous. “I know you don’t usually enjoy sweets, but I know the dates are your favorite. Must feed that witcher metabolism, no?”

“No,” Geralt eyed the tart. “Our metabolism is more efficient, not faster.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, deflating slightly. “Well, if you don’t want it I guess I can--”

“How did you know that date was my favorite?” Geralt interrupted, looking back up at Jaskier. Oddly, he could see the bard color slightly at the question, an appealing pink spreading across his cheekbones.

“You bought a jar of jam from that merchant from Toussaint, remember? You never buy jam, unless it’s for me, so I assumed you must have a preference for it. I mean, unless you don’t, which is fine, I can… Well, not eat it, I hate dates, but I’m sure I can find some mangy child to give it to, or a dog, or something. Do you hate it? You hate it.”

Geralt picked up the tart and bit into it, giving Jaskier a raised eyebrow. It was honestly more of a miniature pie than a tart, the flaky crust filled with dates and prunes covered in a custardy filling, sweetened through with honey. The flavors burst across his tongue, the tart still warm. Jaskier must have picked it up at the market and come directly here to give it to him. Geralt swallowed the first bite, looking into Jaskier’s apprehensive face, and said, “Thanks.”

Jaskier visibly relaxed, shuffling onto the bench across from Geralt and beginning to relay the events of the morning market. Geralt hummed where he was meant to and sipped his watered down ale and ate his tart. If Jaskier noticed his absent mindedness, he said nothing.

Jaskier… knew what his favorite fruit was. The knowledge should not have come as a shock, Geralt knew. Jaskier was often getting him gifts - oil for Roach’s tack, new clothes when Geralt’s last threadbare shirt gave out, potion ingredients when he ran low. Sometimes he bought Geralt useless things, little bobbles or trinkets he saw that he thought Geralt might like or find amusing, and Geralt kept them safely at the bottom of his bag, or in his room at Kaer Morhen. He cherished those things, things that told him Jaskier thought about him when he wasn’t near. It was nice, to be thought of.

But for some reason this little gift felt different. Jaskier had known his favorite food, and Geralt had never told him. Dates weren’t particularly common in the North, and it was rare that they were far south enough to meet merchants who carried them up from Nilfgaard. Geralt could remember when he’d bought the jam, hoping it would last him a while, but he couldn’t recall a single other time in recent memory that he’d eaten dates, or even mentioned them. He didn’t tend to wallow on things that were unavailable to him.

His eyes lingered on Jaskier as he spun a tale about haggling in the square. No, Geralt didn’t make a habit of wishing for what he couldn’t have.

Still, there was a problem at hand, one he had to solve. Jaskier knew Geralt’s favorite food. He might know Geralt’s favorite everything. Did he know that Geralt’s favorite color was blue, the wide, free color of the sky on the first day of spring? Did he know that Geralt’s favorite thing to drink wasn’t wine or vodka, but warm honeyed milk like his mother made when he couldn’t sleep as a tiny child? He certainly knew that Geralt liked the scent of chamomile and sage best in his bathwater, and that he preferred cotton shirts over linen, and that he would pick a song with a sad ending over a happy one. If he’d been paying this much attention, there was probably quite a lot that Jaskier knew about him, without Geralt having said a word.

And he didn’t know a thing about Jaskier.

What was Jaskier’s favorite color? Was it blue, like the doublets he so often wore, or was that just to match his eyes? Did he really like wine the best, or did he just like it better than ale? What was his favorite season? His favorite weather? Did he go to Oxenfurt every winter because it was where he could find work, or did he prefer Novigrad, or Vizima? Geralt could tell how Jaskier was going to react every time someone recognized him on the street, anytime a young lad or lass winked at him, even what he might say if Geralt gave the right sort of hum. But he didn’t know much about him, at the end of the day.

He needed to find out. As they packed up their belongings and set out on the road once again, leaving the small town behind them, Geralt ruminated on what could be done to rectify this situation. He couldn’t very well just ask Jaskier about all these things. After all, Jaskier had figured it all out with nary a word from Geralt. He didn’t need to ask; he was paying attention. Which made Geralt’s chest feel oddly warm and heavy, knowing that Jaskier was watching him, paying heed to his reactions and filing them away. Maybe it should have felt invasive, to know that he was being read so easily without his knowing, but instead it just felt… nice. To be known.

He wanted Jaskier to feel known too. He wanted to know Jaskier.

He would start small. Jaskier had given him food, something he knew Geralt would like. It couldn’t be that difficult to figure out what Jaskier liked. Geralt could start bringing him small things, pass it off as returning the favor, and guage Jaskier’s reaction. It would be simple, he mused, eying Jaskier from atop Roach as they walked side by side. His hair was mussed slightly from sleep, still, and he hadn’t bothered to fix it before heading out for the day. No one to impress, Geralt guessed, just the two of them and the road. He liked Jaskier this way, less pinned up and proper, more open. Letting Geralt see him without all of his armor, because that’s what it was, as surely as the leather on Geralt’s back was his. Right now, Jaskier was an open book. All Geralt had to do was pay enough attention to read him.

*

It was not easy to figure out what Jaskier liked.

The problem, Geralt quickly found, was that Jaskier was enthusiastic about almost everything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he disliked something, he made his distaste abundantly clear. He was dramatic, which should have made it even easier to determine what delighted him the most. Geralt expected that, when he found it, poetic stanzas would be flowing like wine from Jaskier’s tongue, praising whatever it was. He had no reason to expect Jaskier to be subtle about his preferences.

And he wasn’t. The issue was that he seemed to react with the exact same level of excitement about everything Geralt brought him. On the first day they arrived in a new town, Geralt went to the market and brought Jaskier a small basket of strawberries, which Jaskier enthused over for half the morning. Geralt was pleased. Maybe it had been that easy, and he’d intuitively known what Jaskier liked. Maybe he had unconsciously been paying attention all along. He congratulated himself on figuring out at least one piece of the puzzle, and began thinking about how he might approach the next step.

But then he unthinkingly bought Jaskier a few sweetbreads when he was out the next day getting lunch. He’d been getting himself some, he thought of Jaskier sitting in their shared room, composing a ballad about the hunt Geralt had been on the night previously. He’d brought him the extra meats, and Jaskier had nearly the same reaction. Gushing over the gift, thanking Geralt for thinking of him. Lamenting his own forgetfulness, for getting so caught up in his work that he would forget to eat, as Geralt expected he might have. And Geralt was confused, because he didn’t think a few offal from a market stall in a half pint city in Velen was what Jaskier would like. Certainly not something he could call a favorite.

But he’d reacted the same to the sweetbreads as the berries. So Geralt was back to square one.

He reevaluated his metrics. So Jaskier reacted that way to anything he liked, apparently. It was odd; Geralt had seen Jaskier enthusiastically dig into a wide variety of foods over the years, but he didn’t praise them and rave about them the way he had done the berries and the meats. So he must have legitimately enjoyed both of them more than he would any old dish. But neither of them had seemed to outweigh the other. He still didn’t know what Jaskier liked best.

Over the next several weeks of their travel, Geralt bought Jaskier enough tortas and crepes and stews that he knew it was boarding on suspicious behavior. If it was any other situation, any other two people, he knew it might come off like courtship. Every time he offered Jaskier some new morsel, he could feel the back of his neck grow hot at the implications. But Jaskier only ever grinned in delight at whatever Geralt offered him, flushed and pleased no more or less than he had been at all the others. If he suspected any sort of foul play, he never said anything.

It was infuriating. After three weeks of spending more coin that he cared to count at markets and roadside stalls and taverns, he was no closer to figuring out Jaskier’s favorite food than he had been at the outset. It all seemed to go over well, which was gratifying, but he couldn’t tell what Jaskier liked the most of it all. Maybe he just wasn’t as good at reading Jaskier as he thought. He’d thought he was a master of it, at this point - he could tell when Jaskier was tired during a performance, even though his smile never flagged; he could tell when Jaskier was being dramatic about an injury and when he was actually in pain; he could tell the difference between righteous anger versus petty versus hurt. In most respects he felt like Jaskier was an open book, but there was nothing in his reactions to Geralt’s gifts that said he was anything less than entirely pleased to receive them.

He was running out of ideas. Giving Jaskier gifts one at a time was clearly not working; either none of them were right, or Geralt was misremembering Jaskier’s enthusiasm for the ones in the past. He needed to give Jaskier a selection and see for himself what was best, side by side.

It took another week to plan, mostly due to location. They needed to stay in one place for a few days, so that Geralt could collect the things he would need, and it was rare that the two of them were in one town for more than a day. Large contracts were few and far between, and it never took Geralt more than a single night to clear out some ghouls or drowners from an area.

As luck would have it, however, they were only a few days out from Carreras. Geralt pointed them in that direction, claiming that they would likely be able to find multiple contracts in one place there, and that Jaskier could take a few days to play for their small selection of inns and taverns. It wasn’t entirely a lie; there probably would be more contracts posted in a larger settlement, which would mean a solid few jobs to refill Geralt’s pockets. He would need the extra coin to execute his plan.

The first two days of their stay were filled mostly with real work. The city had been having issues with contaminated water, which sent Geralt out to investigate all the wells, and by the time he found the drowner that had fallen into the water supply a full day had passed. He was able to fill another two contracts on their second day, but the triple confrontations over less than 48 hours left him feeling bruised and exhausted.

It was Jaskier who suggested it, in the end. Pulling a comb through Geralt’s hair as the witcher let himself soak in the bath, Jaskier said, “What if we stayed for an extra day or two? The crowds have been good, and Barclay - the innkeeper, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to him - he offered us a discount if I play tonight and tomorrow.” His hand fell to Geralt’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “You could… take a few days.”

It had been his plan to stay, but Geralt felt an ache behind his breastbone at Jaskier’s careful suggestion. Always trying to take care of him, as if Geralt were someone who needed protecting, someone who deserved something like a vacation. He didn’t think he did, but it was nice, as always, to think that Jaskier cared. “Hmm,” was all he said, a soft sound of agreement. His eyes slipped shut as he basked in the quiet content of Jaskier’s company, and they said nothing else on the matter.

The next day he felt rejuvenated, the burn of overexertion in his muscles faded after a hard night’s sleep. Jaskier had played after getting him out of the bath and settled into bed, but he’d returned later, smelling of sweat and rosemary and catgut. Geralt had slept well with his solid weight by his side, pressed into the too-slim bed.

He spent most of the day preparing. The market was busy and bursting when he found it in the afternoon, though not as packed as he was used to seeing in larger settlements like Novigrad. There was a bakery on the corner from which the rich scent of fresh bread spilled out into the square, and the people at the stalls were standing around amiably, chatting about local affairs and peddling their individual wares to one and other. It was a homey little trade network, and despite his strangeness, Geralt didn’t feel unwelcome.

He made several minor purchases before he found his way to the bakery. It wasn’t as crowded as he’d feared, and he waited until the one or two customers before him had made their way out. The woman working the counter was twig thin despite her occupation, thin blonde hair tied up away from her face and covered by a light cloth, probably to keep flour out of it. Her eyes were blue, pale as diamonds. Geralt couldn’t help but think that Jaskier’s were nicer.

He made her nervous, it was easy to see, but she quickly warmed to him when he told her what he was looking for. Whether it was his gold that excited her or his plan, he couldn’t say, but regardless she helped him pick out his desired items with enthusiasm.

“If you’re planning to use them later tonight, I can make up a basket and have it ready for you. So nothing goes cold,” she explained, her forearms resting on the counter. “The pies are really best that way.”

Geralt nodded, and handed over her coin.

Jaskier would be back soon from where he was playing the lunch crowd at one of the taverns. Geralt rushed back to their room and put the purchases he had with him at the bottom of his pack, a blanket spread over them. Jaskier returned not fifteen minutes later, flushed and grinning. A successful performance, then. Good. When Jaskier was in a good mood he was more amenable to doing what Geralt said. “When do you play this evening?” Geralt asked, not looking up from where he was cleaning his sword at the small table they’d been provided.

Jaskier set his lute case down gently against the wall and then flung off his doublet with much less care, flopping down on to the bed. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes on his work, though the image that awaited him - Jaskier, spread out, his shirt falling open to reveal the smooth line of his throat and his sharp collar bones - burned against the back of his eyes anyways. “Not until nightfall,” Jaskier answered with a content sigh. “After the dinner crowd. Why? Do you have plans?”

“Do you remember where we stopped on the first day, the hill just before town? By the brook.” He set his steel sword aside and reached for the silver, which was the one that truly needed attention. So many contracts in a row had left her chipped in a few places, and dull all around. Geralt set his whetstone down, but didn’t draw it across the blade yet. Waiting for Jaskier’s answer. He felt his stomach twist with something like nerves, which was ridiculous. This wasn’t anything risky, anything that Jaskier would read into - probably. Probably.

“Sure,” Jaskier answered easily.

“Can you meet me there?” Geralt asked. “An hour or so before you have to play?”

He heard Jaskier sit up, could feel the bard looking at him curiously. His gaze warmed the side of Geralt’s face, and he refused to look up and meet those bright blue eyes. “Did something happen? Do we need to get out of town?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, amusement bubbling up within him. “No. Nothing bad. Just… meet me?”

Jaskier was silent for a long moment, long enough that Geralt gave up and turned to look at him. He was regarding Geralt with a curious expression, almost guarded. But all he said was, “Alright. I can do that.”

Geralt nodded, satisfied, and returned to his task.

*

He left before Jaskier, stating the need to drop by the herbalist's shop and that if he wasn’t back - as he didn’t intend to be - that Jaskier should go to the meeting place on his own. Geralt made his own way back to the bakery, where his basket of goods was waiting as promised. He tipped the girl well, and set out with his pack containing the blanket and other purchases on his shoulder, and the basket on his arm.

It was a nice evening, warm and thick with the last hints of summer. It would be fall soon; he could taste it in the faint hint of decay that lingered on his tongue whenever he took a deep breath of the air beyond the city. But for now it was still hot enough during the day that the evenings were comfortable. Geralt found his way back along the road to where they’d stopped to water Roach at the nearby stream, just before the landscape dropped down into the shallow valley that held the large town. He made his way off the path, far enough away that they wouldn’t be obvious from the road, to a raised patch of earth that looked down over the fields as they spread out below. It was a lovely sight, the landscape rich in the evening light, the dying sun casting the rooftops of the city in rich gold. Jaskier would appreciate the scenery, at least.

Geralt quickly set up, laying out the blanket and pulling out the supplies from the basket. He’d maybe gone slightly overboard. There was a meat pie, several stuffed rolls, a hearty cabbage stew in two small bowls kept covered by plates tied to them; a loaf of fresh rye bread, with cheese and jam and honey to go with it; berries and apples with cream; a plethora of desserts, including an entire apple pie, along with little marzipan candies and several little cakes. Two bottles of wine, one white, one red. As he laid out item after item, Geralt felt unease stir within him. It was too much, he realized, seeing it all together. That had been his goal, after all, to see Jaskier eat as many things as possible, to get a sense, at least, of where his preferences lay. But this was overwhelming. Jaskier would realize something was amiss. A picnic, laid out in perfect detail, in the warm light of the evening, fields spread out beyond them and the forest to their back. It was obviously, sickeningly romantic, he realized. So very obviously beyond what one might do to spend an hour eating dinner with a friend. Panic rose in his throat, choking him, and he grabbed one of the wine bottles, thinking to put it away. If he could put some of it back, maybe it wouldn’t look so much like--

“Geralt?”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting the desire to curse, and turned around. He hoped none of his apprehension showed on his face.

Jaskier was a few feet away, carrying nothing but his lute on his back. He was looking down at the spread with a shocked expression, eyebrows pulled up nearly into his hairline and eyes open wide. “What’s… all this?” he asked, his gaze flickering back up to meet Geralt’s.

“Dinner,” Geralt grunted, putting the wine bottle down. In for a penny, he thought grimly.

He watched several different expressions flicker across Jaskier’s face, too quick to parse. For a moment Geralt thought he looked almost… sad, or maybe anxious, but then he broke into a wide grin. The honest delight pouring off of him made Geralt let out a slight sigh, relief blooming in his chest. “Oh, well isn’t this just wondrous,” Jaskier laughed. He pulled his lute from his shoulder and set it in the grass beside the blanket, and folded himself down amongst Geralt’s offerings. A hand reached up towards him. “Are you going to join me?” Jaskier asked, raising a playful eyebrow. Geralt grumbled, but carefully sat down next to the bard and began dishing out the food.

It was good, all of it, but Geralt hardly paid it any mind, focused entirely on Jaskier’s reactions. The constant flow of conversation was interrupted every time Jaskier took a bite of something new - “This is delicious, have you tried this yet?” and “We must find out what spices they used for this stew, it’s absolutely the best I’ve had in months” and “Geralt, where did you find marzipan? Look at these little things, the details are impressive.” Throughout it all, Geralt watched his face, listened to his words, paid attention to what he returned to and what he didn’t.

And by the end, he was ready to tear his hair out.

Jaskier seemed to enjoy everything. He finished every helping he took, praised every dish, thanked Geralt for each and every selection he’d made. Even with so many choices, it didn’t seem to matter. Jaskier liked them all, but Geralt couldn’t tell what he liked the best. Not the way Jaskier apparently could do for him.

Finally Jaskier flopped back into the grass, one hand on his stomach. “I don’t think I’ve been so full in years,” he groaned, staring up at the sky with heavy eyelids. “Probably since the last banquet I played at. You really outdid yourself, my dear.”

Fuck it. He had to ask. “Anything you liked in particular?”

Jaskier hummed, closing his eyes. “Mm, how could I choose? Everything was so lovely.”

Frustration clawed at him. Before he could stop himself, Geralt heard himself ask, “Do you even have a favorite food?”

Immediately he clamped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard. He hadn’t meant to ask that. He wasn’t supposed to, he was supposed to--

“Oh, I don’t know if I have a favorite favorite,” Jaskier droned, blinking his eyes open to peer up at the sky again, this time with a thoughtful expression on his face. “There’s just such a range, you know. I suppose when it comes to desserts, there’s these custards that they make in Toussaint, have you had them? Tiny things, very sweet, with saffron and cinnamon. Delicious. We’ll have to get some next we go so far south.”

Geralt was hardly listening, even though he knew that had been the entire point. He’d failed. Jaskier had told him the answer to his question, which meant he was never going to have the chance to prove that he could learn Jaskier as Jaskier had learned him. He couldn’t prove his friendship, his affection, through his actions. Jaskier would never be interested in Geralt the way that Geralt was in him, but he’d hoped he could at least let some of his true feelings bleed into his actions, into the careful way he paid attention. Jaskier had already done so as nothing more than Geralt’s friend. Now he would never be able to pay him back in kind, not truly.

Jaskier turned his head to look at him, brow furrowed curiously. He must have been silent for too long. Geralt quickly schooled his features into neutrality, but some of his distress must have peaked through, because Jaskier frowned at him. Geralt could feel the incoming conversation before Jaskier even opened his mouth. He tried to get ahead of it, talking over the beginning of Jaskier’s soft inquiry. “We should head back,” he grunted, rising abruptly to his feet. “You have to play.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, in a tone that made Geralt’s stomach fill with dread. That was Jaskier’s no nonsense, absolutely-you-will-not-be-getting-out-of-this tone. He turned back towards Jaskier, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The bard had clamoured to his feet when Geralt stood up, and was now stepping around the blanket towards him. Geralt wanted to retreat further, to shove the remains of the picnic back in his bag and hide the evidence, but he knew it wouldn’t save him. He was being too obvious, and Jaskier knew him too well.

The bard eyed him suspiciously, but there was a note of concern in the way his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, this time a bit softer. “I thought we were having a lovely time.”

“We… It was. It was nice. I just think it’s time to go.” Jaskier gave him a shrewd look. Not buying it then. Geralt sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s not you.”

“I certainly hope not,” Jaskier chuckled. The sound was thin, like that was exactly what he had been worried about. “You’ve been acting strange for weeks. I wondered if-- Well. But if it’s not about me, it’s something else? Are you trying to butter me up for something? Is there a big scary adventure you’re about to tell me I’m not allowed to come on?” His gaze turned sharp again, but this time there was something like fear underneath it. “Are you leaving me behind?”

“No,” Geralt said quickly, his hands rising in a placating manner. “I’m not leaving you, Jaskier, I swear it. It’s just…” He petered off, unsure how to continue. How to explain.

“It’s just what?” Jaskier demanded. “Why have you been so damnably nice to me lately? Are you dying?” His eyes widened. “Am I dying?”

“No, Jaskier, of course not, just--”

“Then why the gifts?” Jaskier spread his hands around their little picnic, an easy example of exactly what he was talking about.

Geralt’s resistance shattered. “I was trying to figure you out,” he snapped. “I don’t know you, not like you know me. You know everything about me. You pay attention, even when I don’t say anything. You knew I liked dates because I bought jam months ago. You know me better than anyone, but I don’t know you. I don’t know what your favorite food is, or your favorite color, or what you like to wear, or what your favorite kinds of songs are, or your favorite season. I’ve been looking. I tried to figure it out, I tried to bring things I thought you would like and see what you liked best, but it seems like you like everything. You don’t always… say what you mean. I can’t tell when you’re faking and when you’re not.” Geralt was tense, fists clenched at his sides, jaw hard. He knew he looked angry. Jaskier probably thought he was mad at him, for some reason, but all Geralt felt was fear. He wasn’t good enough. Jaskier had to see that now. Geralt had known him for years, and he couldn’t even say whether Jaskier preferred blueberry jam to strawberry. What kind of friend was he?

A hand took his, gently pulling his fingers apart. He jerked his head over to stare as Jaskier stepped forward to slip their fingers together, squeezing softly. When he looked up, Jaskier was regarding him fondly.

“My favorite color is yellow,” he said. “I wear the silk doublets a lot, because they’re in fashion, but I prefer a linen shirt because it’s not as sweaty. I like songs about adventure, but books about romance.” His other hand lifted to brush a bit of hair away from where it was stuck to Geralt’s warm cheek. His expression was difficult to look at, earnest and painfully affectionate. Geralt was trapped by those blue eyes, like falling into a clear sky. “And my favorite season is spring. You could have just asked.”

Geralt swallowed. “You never had to. I just didn’t want you to… I don’t want you to think that I don’t pay attention.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, laughing a little, “I know you’re not always paying attention. I’m talking constantly. There’s a lot to keep up with. I know you tune me out most of the time, it’s fine.”

“I’m still paying attention to you,” Geralt insisted, because it was important, critical that Jaskier know that even when he wasn’t listening, he was still attuned to Jaskier. His presence, his voice, the sound of his heartbeat always in the back of Geralt’s mind. Whenever the bard was around he could scarcely focus on anything else.

“Knowing my favorite color or food or what have you isn’t what proves that you’re my friend,” Jaskier said, still smiling. “You know me. It’s alright.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me if you didn’t like the things I brought you?” Geralt asked, feeling unmoored. “You acted like you loved everything.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, but his chuckle was nervous. The hand he held in Geralt’s was sweaty, and his heartbeat, always in Geralt’s ears, was a bit fast. “Well, they were from you,” he said with a half shrug. “Of course I loved them.”

“But they weren’t--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier interrupted, soft but firm. There was a slight, bitter twist in his lips that Geralt wanted to wipe away. “I just… like to know that you’re thinking of me.”

They were standing so close together. Jaskier’s hand was in his, palm to sweaty palm. They were nearly of a height, but Jaskier was just the tiniest bit shorter, so he had to tilt his chin up ever so slightly to meet Geralt’s eyes. Now it was Jaskier who was tense, his shoulders squared as if to absorb a blow. He nervously dragged his teeth over his lower lip, leaving the hint of an impression in the soft flesh. Geralt watched raptly, swallowing against the urge to soothe the spot with his tongue. “I’m always thinking of you,” he finally said.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and Geralt watched as his eyes dropped down to flicker over Geralt’s mouth before they dragged back up to meet his gaze again. “When I saw all of it spread out like that, I thought maybe it meant something,” he said, nearly a whisper.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, helplessly. He lifted the hand not clutched in Jaskier’s toward his neck, tracing his fingers along the delicate line of Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier’s other hand came up to fist in Geralt’s shirt, inhaling sharply at his touch. It was an intoxicating sound, making his head spin more than the bottle of wine they’d consumed between them.

“Did it mean something more?” Jaskier pleaded, his eyes bright. His hand clutched at the fabric over Geralt’s heart, the fingers between his own tightening in a deathgrip. “Did it?”

“Yes,” Geralt said, and leaned forward to kiss him.

Jaskier gasped at the first press of their lips, opening for Geralt easily and without hesitation. He tasted like sweet white wine and meat pie and marzipan, and Geralt greedily mined the flavors from Jaskier’s tongue. He tried to pour all of the things he found himself unable to say into the press of his teeth against Jaskier’s lip, into the flick of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and the way his fingers tangled delicately in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier gave as good as he got, humming encouragingly into Geralt’s mouth and hauling him closer by the hand in his shirt. He didn’t release Geralt’s hand from where he held it in his own, and Geralt made no move to extract himself.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, panting against Geralt’s lips as he set their foreheads together. His eyes were closed, and Geralt watched them flicker open, savoring the dazed expression on his face. “I think I’m going to be late to play that show,” Jaskier rasped, and a thrill went through Geralt at the sound. And indeed, the sun had begun to set, dipping over the edge of the mountains in the far, far distance, coloring the air around them in rich purples and reds. Jaskier’s face was soft and ethereal in the glow, and Geralt never wanted to let him go, never wanted to leave this moment.

“Why spring?” Geralt found himself asking.

Jaskier smiled, and his face softened even further. “Because it’s when I get to see you again, of course. You should have known all along; you’re my favorite.”

It was a corny sentiment, and by Jaskier’s grin he knew it, but Geralt couldn’t help the way it warmed him up from the inside out, radiating out from within him and making his lips pull into an answering grin. He leaned in and kissed Jaskier again, and again, and a third time, in quick succession, each more soft and lingering than the last. When he was finished Jaskier had that dazed looking expression back on his face, and Geralt decided it was a good look on him. “Want to know something?” he asked, teasing. Jaskier nodded, the hand on Geralt’s chest snaking up to wrap around his neck, holding the both of them close. Geralt leaned in to press his lips just behind Jaskier’s ear, to press his secret against the soft skin there.

“You’re my favorite too,” he rumbled, and Jaskier laughed, bright and joyful, and both of them knew that it was true.

~

This is my last s&s fic!! So excited to be done with the challenge, and happy that I was able to finish! Thank you to all those who encouraged me over the last two months, your kind words and support mean more than I could say <3

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

[eskelstits]

Okay okay so hear me out:

Jaskier has been acting odd lately, though the bard was either too shy or too stubborn to acknowledge it. At the very least, he was stubborn fool for thinking Geralt, of all people, wouldn’t take notice. Jaskier had suddenly become adamant about more generous rations for his Witcher, started to insist on larger dinners at taverns, and was always quick to suggest another round of food and drink— only to insist that Geralt finish it. The witcher pretended not to notice the way Jaskier watched intently while he ate and hid his wry amusement when the bard hurriedly looked away upon being caught. Geralt had so far played along with these antics in feigned ignorance, admittedly feeling a small thrill as his body started to bulk and strain against his armor. And now that he was paying closer attention, he found himself fond of just how delicate his bard looked by comparison. Armed with his suspicions of what Jaskier is up to, Geralt decides to satisfy his curiosity by embracing the bard’s antics and seeing just how much he can him squirm.

I was thinking some stuffing and size kink ~ with increasingly daring taunts thrown from both sides of the table bc let’s be real neither of the boys would give in easily.

THANK YOU i definitely had fun with this prompt

[ masterpost - ao3 ]

"Are you ill?" Geralt asked the question hunched over the plate of eggs and bacon he was enjoying for his breakfast.

More accurately, Jaskier's breakfast. Geralt had already finished his own serving, but then Jaskier had deftly stacked his own half-full plate on top of Geralt's empty one. To be fair, as it turned out, that particular tavern did tend to dish out surprisingly hearty portions, and Geralt had to remind himself that Jaskier was not a witcher, and therefore did not have the appetite of one. It was not the only occasion on which Jaskier had passed off a good fraction of his food to Geralt, however.

In fact, it seemed to be happening more and more frequently lately. He would demand seconds, larger portions, extra bread or more ale, only to immediately claim that he was full and offer it up to Geralt. After a tough life of fighting for survival, Geralt was a rather opportunistic eater, and so he always took advantage of Jaskier's leftovers. It was … strange, but Geralt could not say he exactly minded it. He did like going to bed warm and satiated rather than starving, tossing and turning and kept awake by his growling stomach. The only thing that really puzzled Geralt was the staring. Jaskier would look at him like Geralt was the most fascinating thing on the Continent whenever they sat down together to eat, but as Geralt had recently discovered, Jaskier would always quickly look away the moment Geralt met his eye.

Jaskier gaped and sputtered for a moment, eyes wide and hand settled over his chest as though Geralt had just viciously insulted him.

"Ill? Geralt, you wound me. I will have you know that I'm positively glowing with good health," Jaskier huffed.

Geralt grunted. Eyes narrowed, he examined Jaskier for just a brief moment longer, then bowed his head again to continue eating. Out of the edge of his vision, he could see Jaskier watching him.

Geralt had been willing to ignore the odd behavior up until his trousers started feeling tight. He still was not quite upset. It was not an overly drastic change, just a slight layer of padding over top of his muscles, making him look more like he did after he had been settled for a while over the winters he spent at Kaer Morhen, but there was a definite difference. Jaskier seemed to be noticing, too. Though he had not said anything about it, he still stared, and whenever he and Geralt fell into bed together, the bard's hands smoothed all over him, wordlessly worshiping Geralt's fuller frame.

Geralt enjoyed it, too. He had always been broader than Jaskier, but putting on a bit of weight had only highlighted that contrast. The day before, Geralt had caught a glimpse of his reflection looming behind Jaskier's in the mirror as the bard stood there checking over his own outfit for the evening's performance, and he had looked almost … delicate in comparison to Geralt. The sight had ignited something deep and primal and exciting in his core, and he wanted to chase that thrill.

No, he was far from upset. He was curious, though. While he had pieced together what was happening, there was still one more question: Was Jaskier doing it on purpose? Geralt supposed he could simply ask, but the thought of setting himself up for vulnerability like that was horrific. He had to find some other way to weasel out the truth. He had to beat Jaskier at his own game.

"Do I look different to you?" Geralt dared to ask that evening while they waited for the barmaid to come back with their dinner order. Jaskier looked anxious for just a brief second, but then he relaxed again and hummed inquisitively as he scanned Geralt's face.

"Is that a new doublet? Oh! Have you trimmed your beard?" Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed. By trade, Jaskier was a performer, but Geralt knew him well enough to be able to tell when he was lying -- or 'acting,' as Jaskier often corrected him. Two could play that game. Feigning ignorance, Geralt nodded and falsely agreed that he had gone to a barber, and he watched Jaskier decompress with relief. When the barmaid returned and set a full plate down in front of each of them, Geralt cleared his throat to get her attention.

"I want another," he said, pointing to his own plate.

"Ah … Another leg of chicken?" The barmaid looked a bit confused, like she was hesitant to believe that Geralt had been referring to the entire meal.

"No. Another plate," Geralt insisted. A brief pause, and he tacked on, "Please."

The barmaid blinked, but she chose not to argue. Rather, she nodded and scurried back to the kitchen. When Geralt looked back towards Jaskier, the bard was staring. Again.

"... Hungry, are you?" Jaskier questioned.

"Very."

Geralt held Jaskier's gaze for a moment longer and watched as just a hint of color began creeping over the bard's cheeks. Without another word, Geralt began to eat. He tore into the half chicken and the hearty portion of roast vegetables he had in front of him, and each time he glanced up, he found Jaskier trying and ultimately failing to be subtle about the fact that he was watching Geralt like a hawk. Geralt thought that he would have wanted to shy away before he managed to get his questions answered, but that was not the case. In reality, he actually liked the attention, those enraptured eyes fixed on him making him feel alight with a strange mixture of pleasure and shame. The barmaid came back with the rest of the food Geralt had requested, and she set it down quickly almost as though afraid of getting bitten if she ventured too close. Geralt grunted his thanks around a full mouth. Jaskier had been uncharacteristically silent the entire time, all the way up until Geralt finally broke for air and a drink of ale.

“Are you … sure you’re going to be able to finish all of that?” Jaskier sounded both tentative and almost laughably eager.

“Yes,” Geralt answered.

He met Jaskier’s eye again, his gaze dark and smoldering. The bard’s throat bobbed enticingly when he swallowed, and Geralt only barely held back a smirk. Whether or not Jaskier had been feeding Geralt up on purpose, it was obvious that he enjoyed the show, and it was always fun for Geralt to try and get him flustered.

“Ah, yes, well … I suppose you have had quite a healthy appetite lately,” Jaskier said. He spoke hesitantly, testing his luck. Geralt pushed right back.

“Someone has to eat all your leftovers.”

“Mm, yes. You are rather good for that.”

Geralt made it about halfway through his second plate before Jaskier was getting restless again. The bard still had some food remaining on his own plate, and judging from the way he kept glancing between it and Geralt and tapping his fingers anxiously against the table, he was hoping to see the witcher finish it off for him.

“Going to eat that?” Geralt spoke around a mouthful of chicken.

He had inched past satisfied a few bites ago, but he could keep going comfortably enough, and he so desperately wanted to see how Jaskier was going to react to his more deliberate goading. Geralt watched while Jaskier blushed and tried his best to act as though he had not been hoping to hear that exact question. It had been painfully obvious. Their many years together had given Geralt the ability to be able to read Jaskier like an open book. Sometimes, it was useful, likely saving Jaskier from some fights when Geralt was able to pick up on the body language that meant foolish determination or rising anger, but other times, like in that moment, it was simply amusing.

“Come now, love, you can’t possibly still be hungry,” Jaskier teased. Somewhat unexpectedly, it sent a jolt down Geralt’s spine. The witcher made a noise somewhat like a little growl, and his pupils widened. Jaskier did a much poorer job of veiling his own smirk. Perfect. Geralt was baiting him, and he was falling for it so easily. “I know you’ve been eating a great deal lately, but honestly … you’re getting greedy.”

Geralt’s heart fluttered nearly as quickly as a human’s as Jaskier scraped the rest of his food onto Geralt’s plate. By then, Jaskier seemed to have accepted that it was useless to hide his interest. He sat with his elbows braced against the table and his jaw cradled in his palms, alluring blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on Geralt. Near the end of his meal, Geralt was at last starting to struggle, the fact that his armor clung to him a bit more than he would have preferred only keeping it pinned in the forefront of his mind just how full he was. Jaskier’s reddened cheeks had only grown more vivid, the color even dusting the tips of his ears. Geralt rarely saw the bard so silent, so unwaveringly focused, usually only when he was in the middle of a fit of intense writing inspiration, and while Geralt felt scrutinized, he was actually enjoying it. Feeling bold, he grunted around his last mouthful and then reclined back in his chair, hoping to give Jaskier a glimpse of his distended belly where it strained against his clothes. Judging from the look on the bard’s face, it had worked.

“Are you finally satisfied, then?” Jaskier asked, and something about his tone of voice had something hot and exciting churning in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. He sounded almost condescending, but in the most deliciously arousing way possible.

“Mhm.” It was little more than a grunt.

Jaskier evidently had very little regard for how sluggish Geralt was looking. Lithe fingers curled around Geralt’s wrist and tugged insistently, and although Geralt easily could have kept himself planted in place if he had truly wanted to, he allowed Jaskier to haul him up onto his feet and lead him upstairs. Such a short trip normally would never have affected him, but with a full stomach weighing him down, Geralt found himself panting softly by the time he and Jaskier had reached their room. Distracted by the unfamiliar feeling of his trousers digging into his skin so tightly that it was almost painful, Geralt had little time to react before he was suddenly backed up against the closed door and drawn into a heated kiss.

“Jask --” Geralt breathed, cut off abruptly by yet another kiss.

Clearly, he had guessed right. Jaskier did enjoy that display, even more than Geralt had been anticipating. Soon, Geralt gave up on speaking, and he yielded to the kiss, lips parting for a teasing swipe of Jaskier’s tongue through his mouth. There was a pleasant warmth against Geralt’s middle that he soon recognized as Jaskier’s hands, kneading gently through stiff leather.

“Look at you,” Jaskier murmured. Geralt bit back a dry remark about how it was difficult to do that with the bard plastered up against him. “You’re getting so big.”

A thrill ran through Geralt at that. He curled his hands around Jaskier’s slender hips and squeezed, drawing him in closer, and Jaskier gasped against his lips. In truth, Geralt did not look too terribly different than he usually did, but there had been a little tone of hopefulness in Jaskier’s voice, a subtle but unmistakable hint that he wanted more. The next few seconds seemed to blur together, but somehow, Geralt had ended up spread out on the bed, staring up into Jaskier’s darkened eyes where he had perched himself on Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s usually agile fingers trembled with anticipation as he worked Geralt out of his armor, putting him on blatant display. Where he had once been all sharp angles and overly defined muscles, he had accumulated a small layer of padding, and most noticeable of all at the moment was the rounded curve of his belly, warm and full and demanding Jaskier’s complete attention. His hands smoothed over it, rubbing and exploring, interspersed with little appreciative pats and scratches.

“Knew you were doing it on purpose,” Geralt said. Much to his amusement, Jaskier actually looked shocked. “Weren’t very subtle about it.”

“Yes, well --” Jaskier paused, seeming to be struggling to decide on what to say. Eventually, he just huffed, then decided to deflect and taunted, “Are you sure you aren’t just a glutton?”

Geralt smirked. Without any warning, he rolled over, pinning Jaskier beneath him. He heard Jaskier’s pulse flutter. A heated fantasy sped through Geralt’s mind, thoughts of how easily he could subdue Jaskier, how much stronger and bigger Geralt was, how much deep trust it took for Jaskier to lay himself out so vulnerable for a witcher, a predator. Jaskier’s arms snaked around him, and his hands splayed out over Geralt’s shoulder blades. Geralt laid heavier against him and growled in his ear just to feel Jaskier squirm. Jaskier would be unable to get away even if he wanted to with Geralt’s full weight holding him down. Oddly, that was a deeply pleasurable thought, and Geralt had very quickly decided that he would take no issue with it if Jaskier wanted to keep feeding him, making him broader and heavier still, only further exaggerating that contrast between the two of them. If the way Geralt could feel Jaskier’s hardening cock digging into his thigh was any indication, they were in agreement on that.

“Going to get me something good for breakfast tomorrow?” Geralt purred into Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier groaned, hooked his legs around Geralt’s waist to grind their hips together, and moved one hand to tangle into the witcher’s hair. His opposite hand snuck downwards, and he pinched at the slight, growing plushness at Geralt’s hip.

“Certainly. You’re just wasting away.”

Geralt’s mouth was far too busy then for any proper response.

[bokettochild]

Tired Feet and Nimble Fingers

Sooo.....

I wrote more Ravio fics. This is one of two, the second one still needs to be reread and checked for errors, but rest assured to whomever requested a fic for Ravio getting some fussing, I nearly killed the kid for you :)

Mr. Hero had nice hands.

Oh sure, they were rather thin, and a bit knobby at the knuckles, aged in a way most people their age would not understand for decades yet, but they were nimble, quick, and forever flitting from one thing to another with the easy grace of a person who’s done everything with their life except sit still and rest.

Mr. Hero’s hands were worn and aged but feather light in their touch and still impossibly firm when he’d grab Ravio by the scarf and pull him down the one inch that was between the two of them so he could glare at him for one thing or another. Honestly, he rarely really did anything questionable, but the ever irritated “Why?” that Mr. Hero always shot at him when he raised the price of an item or tacked on another fee, be it emotional repercussions charges for tending his wounds, or a petty increase when he’d been made to actually worry for someone else, or even in the rare instance when Mr. Hero managed to actually make him angry. Either way, soft or firm, Mr. Hero had nice hands, and on the rare instance Ravio had actually seen him remove his rings (Mr. Hero had complained of swelling, and had nearly had to pry them off) he always smiled at the sight of them.

Was that weird? Probably. But there was a lot you could tell about a person by their hands, and Mr. Hero’s told the story of someone who gave and fought for others since he’d been able, and even if the caring person hid behind the shadows of his bangs or the icy pain in his eyes, Ravio knew that person was still in there.

And at times like this, he got to actually see it.

“What are you doing?” The merchant shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at the other end of the couch where Mr. Hero had been sitting since he’d stumbled through the door with a tired groan. He’d collapsed onto the couch not long after, drenched and covered in mud, and it had been all Ravio could do to convince him to shed his extra layers and change into something clean, at least. Sure, he’d had to actually dig through the scant wardrobe in the bedroom to find something, but once the over-sized tunic had been shoved in the veteran hero’s face, he’d agreed to strip off his wet things, and Ravio had given him the space to do so while he’d made some warm cocoa for the two of them.

He would have preferred cider, but Mr. Hero still refused to share the recipe with him.

Now, however, he’d flopped onto the couch himself, uncaring for the fact that he’d had to settle his legs in the lap of his friend. After all, if Mr. Hero minded, he would have pushed him off. As was though, the pink-haired teen was staring at his feet with no small amount of displeasure, and Ravio was half considering pulling them back to himself and resigning himself to just curling up on the couch into one corner so he could give the other boy his space.

Firm hands latched around his boot, tugging with a small grunt and surprising the merchant greatly. “Mr. Hero, I just-”

“No shoes.” The pink-haired hero huffed. “Not on the couch.”

“Says the one who trudges dirt all over my freshly cleaned floors!” Ravio huffed, trying not to wiggle too much as Mr. Hero not only pulled off his shoes but, after making a disgusted face at the smell of his feet, had also yanked his socks off, throwing them over to the pile of sopping laundry on the floor. Ravio made a note to pick that up and help wash it later.

“My floors.” Mr. Hero corrected him, tugging the towel Ravio had given him earlier off of his shoulders and wiping its wet ends over the merchant’s feet, making him stiffen. “It’s my house I’ll have you know.”

“Mr. Hero, are you- are you cleaning my feet?”

“It’s not like you ever do it, when’s the last time you bathed, you filthy bunny?”

“Two days ago.” Ravio huffed into his cocoa, savoring the taste and the thrum of warmth that bloomed in his chest both at the drink and the sensation of Mr. Hero’s nimble fingers helping to clean the grime from his, admittedly, filthy feet. “More recently than you, I daresay, Mr. Hero.”

“I just showered.” Violet eyes flitted up to meet his as Mr. Hero motioned to the door ad likely the stormy weather outside.

“That doesn’t count!”

“It does for me.”

“When did you last bathe? With soap?”

Mr. Hero didn’t answer, instead continuing to rub the dirt and dust off the bottoms of his house-mate's feet with the wet towel. Ravio hmphed. A fight for another day then, it isn’t as if he had the energy to draw a bath and push his friend into it anyways.

A delightful, rough sensation rubbed over the base of his foot, firm and still somehow incredibly relaxing, and the bunny merchant found himself torn between sinking into the cushions with a sigh as some of the pain in his limbs faded and staring down at Mr. Hero to see what had been done. In the end, he’d sunk into the cushions of the couch, lids fluttering as a heavy sigh pulled itself from his lungs. “What-”

“You’re as tight-string as my gran’s horses.” Mr. Hero drawled, and the sensation repeated itself, warm pressure sliding across the ridge of his foot. “This used to work on my uncle, relax.”

It took longer than necessary to actually realize that his friend was rubbing his feet, but Ravio was too warm and comfortable to really care, especially with how sore the appendages in question had been with scurrying here and there over the last few days tending to the shop.

Mr. Hero’s hands were miracle workers, and Ravio was hardly even awake when the veteran hero had finally stopped with his self-assigned task, pushing himself up and leaving Ravio to stretch out over the length of the couch. All the merchant could register was the increase of weight on top of him, the clinking of two empty mugs being placed in the kitchen sink, and the door creaking open.

He never felt the draft when Mr. Hero left back into the outside world to continue his quest, but when he woke the next morning, it was to find the hero’s favorite blanket spread out over the top of him and a fresh pair of fuzzy socks slipped over his clean and no longer painfully tense feet.

“Ravio, sit.” Mr. Hero groaned, leaning back on the couch and pinned in place by the sailor using his legs as a back rest. “If you don’t, I swear I’m going to have Twilight throw you at the couch!”

The merchant in question pouted, he’d been trying his best to tidy the living room, after all, Mr. Hero and his family had been quite unexpected that evening and the place was, unfortunately, a mess. One had to take inventory now and again, and the sad fact of it was that that required pulling everything off the shelves and out of storage and from around the house to count it up and figure out if he should risk attempting to return to Lorule or attempting to work Mr. Hero’s small smithy out back in order to restock his items.

He’d only counted up everything and had been working on cleaning and polishing his various items when the heroes had come knocking at the front door, and then he’d been so busy helping them warm up from the chill (they were all wearing the scarves he’d given them and it pleased him to no end) and making a meal with Mr. Hero that he’d been left unable to finish gathering the things that had been scattered across the floor. Of course, after dinner was finished, he’d set right to it, but now that everyone was settled around the fire with warm mugs in hand and fluffy scarves around their necks, Mr. Hero seemed to only be agitated by his puttering about and moving everything again.

To be fair, he hadn’t stopped moving for the last thirty minutes since the others had helped gather his things back up so they could sit, but there was so much to put away!

“Mr. Hero, I still-”

“Sit.” Mr. Hero squeaked grouchily, earning a few giggles as Mr. Rancher and Mr. Chosen Hero exchanged glances, smiles wide. “My feet hurt just from looking at you.”

Like it or not, Ravio’s ears were already pricking up at those words.

Since that first time, Mr. Hero had done him the favor of massaging his feet after a hard day many times, and as much as Ravio didn’t want to expect it of him, it was incredibly nice to have someone fuss over him, if only for a little bit, and if there was even a chance that it would happen again, well...

It was entirely intentional that he flopped onto the couch, feet resting easily in Mr. Hero’s lap as he stretched out. He could have sat down, he really could, but the fact of it was that he simply didn’t want to. Fortunately, Mr. Hero didn’t seem to mind, and too the merchants delight his friend immediately started pulling off his shoes with the same old familiar huff and wrinkling of his button nose, tossing the shoes as far away as possible to avoid having to remain in contact with them for long.

It was a practiced and much appreciated ritual that was Mr. Hero helping him relax after a long day. Just as cocoa or cider was prepared when either was having a particularly long or difficult day, or how Ravio always made sure Mr. Hero ate three meals a day and slept for at least four hours, taking care that his friend wasn’t positioned too uncomfortably wherever it was that he finally passed out. Mr. Hero touching his feet was normal, just like him playing with Mr. Hero’s hair once the other boy had settled down at last.

Perhaps though, it wasn’t all that common for the others.

“Vet?”

Mr. Hero blinked up from his work, violet eyes meeting the midnight blue of Mr. Rancher impassively.

“What in Ordonia are ya doin’?”

The veteran hero cocked a brow. “Foot massage, he won’t relax otherwise, and foot pains a-” Captain Hero Sir Jr. shot a look their way and Mr. Hero quickly amended what he’d been about to say. “Foot pain sucks.”

“You are touching feet.” Mr. Rancher wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t that a bit... gross?”

“Says the man who eats bee larva.” Came the quipped reply. “I wash them first, pities sakes.”

“By my head!?!?!?” Tune started jumping up and away and shooting Mr. Hero a hurt look. “Like, yeah, sure, I help Granny on bad days too, but warn a fellow if you’re gonna be having feet by his head.”

“Don’t sit on my legs.”

Ravio chuckled, letting the noise and chatter wash over him.

Mr. Hero’s hands never failed to sooth the pains of the day.

The heroes had stumbled in time and again over the months, and Ravio had grown quite used to their presence. Time passed differently on both ends of things, but he’d since learned when abouts to expect that they'd appear, and the house was, thankfully, stocked fully for each visit.

Autumn had brought about harvest, and the heroes had darted in and out, occasionally offering help and other times only crashing wearily in the living room and Mr. Hero’s bedroom for the night before they had to return to chasing the monsters. Today was one of the longer stays, especially if how Mr. Captain Hero Sir was moving so stiffly was any indication.

“Do you need me to step on you again?” Mr. Smithy asked worriedly as Mr. Captain Hero Sir eased his way down onto the couch, earning a few looks both from the merchant and the other heroes while Sheerow flitted about the man's head, chirruping worriedly and earning a gentle word or so from the captain.

Mr. Captain Hero Sir was in quite the state, stiff as a board and moving as poorly as the old pump in the village. It made him worried, and try as he might, he couldn’t think of any of his items that would help.

Mr. Hero appeared to already have an answer though. “Tunic off, Cap, and on the couch.”

Sharp blue blinked over in confusion to where Mr. Hero was already shedding his boots and rolling up his sleeves with a purpose. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Massage. Works wonders for back pain. Hop to it or I’m rescinding my offer.”

It was one thing to be on the receiving end of matters, but another entirely to be one of those who watched. Mr. Hero put his full weight into his hands as he worked, kneading out the knots in his friend's muscles while Mr. Captain Hero Sir melted into the couch with little relieved noises.

Maybe it took the others realizing that the vet didn’t just help him, but after that it wasn’t at all uncommon for him to carry in his attempts at cider or his wonderful cocoa and see Mr. Hero standing over one of the others and putting his clever hands to work in soothing tensed muscles back into place, the heroes under his hands melting under his touch.

The first time he heard Mr. Hero humming under his breath while he worked, the other heroes had all looked incredibly surprised, but not upset in the slightest. It was a lovely tune after all, and Tune himself started playing with his baton in time the gentle music, swaying in his seat and waving the instrument while the others continued working on repairing and tending their various items and clothing articles.

There was a pattern. For Mr. Captain Hero Sir it was his back, although rather rarely, and the same went for Mr. Chosen Hero.

For Captain Hero Sir Jr. It was his neck and shoulders.

Mr. Smithy got stress headaches that seemed to ease when someone helped message his temples.

Mr. Rancher had problems with his left wrist specifically.

Ravio of course had poor feet, and while Tune and Wild seemed to be mostly left unscathed from the repetitive pains that the others did, they took every opportunity to cling to Mr. Hero with their whole bodies when they felt that they wanted pets or attention when their mentor’s/brothers were too busy.

He’d attempted to return the favor all of one time. The black eye and bloody nose he got out of it weren’t even made better with the nearly tearful apologies of his best friend as Mr. Hero had jumped to his feet and dashed outside to get some ice for the injury.

Once the blood was cleaned up, the vet had sat in shame as Ravio had joined the others in teasing him for his “killer reflexes”.

“I can’t help it! People touching my feet- It-” Mr. Hero tugged at his hair frustratedly, eyes turning to the sky hopelessly. “I’m sorry, Ravio. It was an accident, I swear.”

“I know, Mr. Hero, I know.” He’d giggled out the reassurance, but from that day on he avoided touching Mr. Hero’s feet in any way possible.

(Oddly enough though, that didn’t stop a few of the others from trying, and Mr. Hero’s sleep was interrupted many times by heroes that had been kicked in the nose or even the mouth because they’d dared each other to touch the teen’s feet while he slept. Mr. Captain Hero Sir had complained for days until his own black eye healed, and Mr. Hero hadn’t even bother apologizing, stating that the others shouldn’t have tempted fat so foolishly.)

He felt a bit guilty for not returning the favor, but he knew better than to try again where so many others had failed.

And then winter had sprung up. Winter with its harsh gales that blew in half frozen heroes that tracked ice and snow across the floor as they bundled in front of the fire, wrapped head to toe for the weather. Winter when he’d brew hot cocoa to warm them all up, letting Mr. Hero tug down blankets to wrap around their on-and-off house-mates (guests no longer applied at this point). The mugs offered were warm, and Ravio smiled as each hero offered him a word of thanks as his tray grew lighter and lighter until he only had the two mugs left.

Mr. Hero had pulled together his usual nest before the fire. His huge blanket and a few spare pillows all bundled together into a comfortable place to sit for the younger heroes in order to make up for the lack of a second couch, and the vet sat in its center, still working to arrange the cushions with stiff fingers and chattering teeth until Ravio had pulled on his friend’s tunic and urged him to sit down.

When he offered the mug though, Mr. Hero had fumbled it and nearly dropped it, a hiss of irritation whishing from between his teeth and he glared down at his stiff digits. “Blast! Din’s sake, why does the freaking cold always freaking-”

Warm hands, worn from housekeeping and smithy work, wrapped around the vet’s as Ravio gently rubbed some warmth back into the stiff fingers. Mr. Hero started slightly at the touch, but didn’t complain as the merchant continued to press his into the rises and against the bones of his friend’s gnarled hands, offering warmth and relief against the pain and the cold both for a few short minutes, and Mr. Hero melted into the touch, as he always inevitably did, letting Ravio have his way for the moment and leaning to sit back-to-back with Wild while the merchant worked.

When he’d released his housemate, it’d only been to press a mug into the vet’s hands, but then he’d been settling across from him on the blanket nest, stockinged feet coming to rest in his friend’s lap as he’d pulled his own mug close for a sip. Violet eyes offered a begrudging smile that was returned in rupee green, but no words were spoken between the two as they enjoyed their cocoa.

Mr. Captain Hero Sir however wasn’t about to let it pass. “So, hand holding now, uh? Should I be talking to Fable about a wedding day?”

Ravio was certain that the only thing keeping some very rude signs from being exchanged as the fact that Mr. Hero wasn’t willing to stress his hands further or release the warmth that he held in them. The pink-haired hero did shoot a very disappointed look towards the captain though.

[writing-in-april]

The Case of the Missing Coffee

Spencer Reid x Female Reader 

Summary: Spencer gets on Reader’s nerves just a little too much one day and decides to get back at him.

A/N: This is my piece for the NSFW fic swap- I got @wave0fg00dvibes​ I had this idea on my long list of random ideas for Spencer and when I decided to go in the “hate fuck” direction I landed on this idea. Reminder that requests are open!

Warnings: Petty Reader, Spencer is a bit of a dick, Hate fucking, Dom!spencer, Public sex (sorta),Biting, Choking, Muffling (hand over mouth), a dash of humiliation kink

Masterlist  Word count: 1.8k

Spencer Reid was getting on my very last nerve. That wasn’t a new thing though. For some reason Spencer and I had never gotten along. It seemed as soon as we met we were destined to annoy and bicker until we retired.

Our latest argument centered around a preliminary profile that we were supposed to send off to the Boston PD and as always we both disagreed on what the profile consisted of. This time Spencer had gotten deep under my skin for some reason. His constant bickering had me seething, plus his not so subtle dig at my abilities as a profiler didn’t do anything to help my mood. The whole situation was giving me a headache.

I need coffee

I opened the cabinet where the grounds and sugar were stored in the break room so I could start a cup for myself. I stopped my movements when I caught sight of a large bag of grounds and another bag full of sugar marked in big sharpie letters with Spencer’s name.

Spencer had started to bring his own bags of coffee grounds and sugar after Emily complained about him going through the bullpen’s supplies too fast.

A smirk was dancing evilly on my face at the thought of riling Spencer up by stealing the items for a short while. Every time he decided to push my buttons too far while we were working I usually found some way to get back at him for it. Even though I knew it was petty I still decided to hide his personal coffee grounds and sugar in the bottom drawer of my desk. Maybe he’d think twice next time he disrespected his coworkers.

I’ll give it back to him eventually after he apologized and after having him beg a little.

——-

Later in the day I was sitting in the small file room going through some old case files. Though, mostly I was waiting for Spencer to come down here and confront me about his stolen coffee as I had already finished my most important tasks for the day. He was a genius after all and it was an easy deduction to figure out who had stolen it, only I would dare touch his precious coffee and sugar. Not even Morgan would dare mess with it.

“Where is it.”

Ah, he’s right on time

His dark tone matched the darkness that surrounded the file room that was only illuminated by one light. However, the smirk on my face did not shake, his tone did little to intimidate me. I decided to further annoy him not wanting to give away what I had done with his precious coffee just yet.

“It’s just coffee and sugar Spencer, I’m sure Emily will let you dip into the rest of the BAU’s supplies for today. Though, maybe you should cut down, considering how aggressive you get when you miss your hourly cup.” I was still standing hunched over the files, not even sparing a glance at the genius as I gave him a snippy remark.

“That’s not the point Y/N. I’m more mad about the fact that I know you took it.” Each little quip I decided to give him was making his tone darken almost to the tone he used when interrogating suspects.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have implied that I was an incapable agent.” I turned to face him with a feisty glare and crossed my arms before continuing, “Maybe, then I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“Maybe, you could’ve come to me like an adult and told me you were offended. Maybe- then I would’ve apologized.” My gaze was harsh in response to his remark choosing not to respond to his words. Honestly, the nerve of him sometimes. Though, what really caught me off guard was what happened next.

Instead of further verbally berating me for stealing his brew he surged forward and captured my lips in a harsh kiss. I almost pulled away angrily to slap him but, I found my anger morphing into something new. I kissed him back with fervor not giving him the full satisfaction of completely dominating the kiss. Though all sense of control I held was lost when he roughly slammed me into the filing cabinets making a surprised squeak fall from my lips, allowing him to slip his tongue into my mouth.

I yanked aggressively on his hair as a warning in response to when he dipped his head down attempting to suck hickies and bite marks into my neck. He grunted in agitation, pulling his head up to glare at me in retaliation to the harsh tug on his curls.

The glare on his face held as he yanked my skirt up harshly and pulled my panties down roughly until they fell down my ankles.

He wound his hand around my neck, not very tight at all only having it rest there as a simple warning to obey and take whatever he gave me. I almost found myself fighting his dominance once more before all thoughts of disobedience were wiped from my mind as soon as he moved one finger experimentally to my core. I was already obscenely wet just from a few minutes of a heated make out. Arousal further coated Spencer’s fingers as he started to circle my hole teasingly, my legs started to shake a little from the teasing almost unable to take it.

I bit into my lip hard to stifle any noise my body wanted to make when he finally curled his fingers inside me and obliged me. A small moan escaped despite my best attempts when he brought his thumb up to my clit working in tandem with his other fingers. I had to bite my lip even harder to quiet myself when the hand on my neck tightened, silently warning me to shut up. The only reason I obliged his order was because I’d rather not have gotten caught by my other coworkers being fingered by the person I claimed to hate.

I could feel myself teetering on the edge of release before it was cruelly swiped away from me when he removed his fingers from my core. I whined in objection though the noise was covered by a harsh command by Spencer.

“Jump.” His tone left no room for argument to his order, making any protests I had die in my throat. Normally, I’d argue with any order that Spencer thought he could give me but, the slick arousal that pooled between my legs fought with the resentment that I held for him. So, for once I obeyed willingly, jumping to wrap my legs around his wiry frame. I was half expecting him to drop me, I had never considered Spencer to be very strong at all. But, he proved my thoughts wrong by holding tightly onto me with bruising force, pulling out his cock from his slacks with speed and precision before swiftly entering me with no warning.

A whimper at the sudden stretch started to come from me though, it was quickly stifled by his large palm coming down over my mouth stifling any noise that tried to make its way from me. Once he was sure I was going to be able to handle my noise level he removed his hand from my mouth placing it back onto my ass. He then started to rock into me, though his thrusts weren’t fast at first as I had assumed. His thrusts were deep but devastatingly slow.

“I hate you.” I tried to growl out with conviction to goad Spencer to start to pick up his pace. He took the bait, starting to thrust rapidly pushing me closer towards release. However, the growl I had adopted dissolved into a mere pathetic whimper making my whole body burn in embarrassment at his ability to work me up so quickly. My hands pulled at his button up to try and ground myself to stave off my release- I was going to try my hardest to not cum first.

“Sure you do Sugar.” He said breathlessly while letting go of one of my thighs to make his way back to my clit. The little circles he started to rub along with his now brutal pace made angry all over again, I was trying so hard to not release first. And, it didn’t help that he tacked on the stupid nickname at the end, no doubt trying to stoke the fire in my belly that was a infuriating mix of arousal and anger.

Though I tried with all the strength I could muster to hold off a devastating orgasm as soon as Spencer pitched his hips to hit my sweet spot my release crashed over me. I screwed my eyes shut and bit into my fist hard in an attempt to stifle any moans that tried to escape me as my release came through my body in crashing waves. My cheeks were burning hot in humiliation from my disastrous defeat.

“W-where?” Spencer almost incoherently stuttered out to me as a warning that he was getting close to his own release.

“Inside. Safe.”  I was honestly surprised I even formed a literate thought to convey to him as I came down from my devastating high. He pumped into me a few more times before falling into his own release, biting into the sliver of skin he could find beneath my disheveled blouse to quiet his own noises.

Once we had both come down completely and caught our breaths awkward silence and tension simmered in the file room. We both made no moves to break the tension as we tried to make ourselves look somewhat presentable. After I pulled my panties up and my skirt back down to its original position I decided to give Spencer back the thing he had been looking for. Leaning forward I took his tie in my hand and pulled him back towards me so we were chest to chest once more.

“Go look in the bottom drawer of my desk.” I whispered into his ear before sauntering out of the room to find a bathroom to clean up some more though, not before sparing a glance back to see a smirk etched on Spencer’s face. Even though I still hated him (Maybe hate is a strong word) I figured why not give him his coffee and sugar back as a reward for giving me one of the best orgasms of my life. Though, I was definitely still mad at myself for orgasming first. Maybe if there was a next time the roles would be reversed.

[leon-scott-kennedy]

Frostbitten

Chreon, Rated-T

Read on Ao3

Leon had barely kicked off his unbroken-in boots and flopped face-first on his bed when his phone rang. He groaned. Getting called back to the training field might kill him. Every inch of his body ached and throbbed after taking a literal beating for the last ten hours; he couldn’t be bothered to change out of his sweaty clothes, let alone shower. USSTRATCOM training was tough and the instructors tougher, but this was precisely what he had signed up for, a chance to help people, to make sure that Raccoon City never happened again.

The handset slid out of the cradle when Leon smacked it in his blind search. It hit the floor with a clunk, half suspended by the cord.

“Shit.”Leon grabbed the phone and rolled onto his back. “This better be important.”

“Rough day?”

Leon sat up, a lump forming in the back of his throat. “Chris?”

Weeks ago, Leon tracked down Chris long enough to send an email warning him that Claire had gotten herself into some deep shit and needed a hand, and then handily tacked on his new number in a hastily added PS. But, unfortunately, Leon himself was a bit busy with his so-called new job, which so far consisted of him having his ass handed to him on a regular basis, and he hadn’t been in contact with Chris or Claire since Raccoon City two months ago.

Honestly, Leon had hoped the Redfield siblings had found each other and were off chasing Umbrella and saving the world together, but apparently not. Coupled with Leon and Sherry having seemingly disappeared off the face of the planet for weeks, Chris had been a little desperate when Leon finally managed to send an encrypted email.

“How’s it going, rookie?”

Leon snorted and flopped back on the mattress, tucking his free arm behind his head, his fatigue melting away. “Oh, you know.”

“That good, huh. I know you can’t tell me what’s going on, but are you okay?”

Always with the tough questions. Leon sighed, but his stomach gave a funny little flip. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“I definitely owe you one.”

“I think we’re about even.” Leon wasted nights alone in bed thinking about the night he spent buried against Chris Redfield’s chest, arms wrapped protectively around him as he fell apart when Raccoon City was still a smouldering ruin on the horizon. Leon yearned for that level of comfort and warmth. “Did you find her?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I found her. But, we lost someone.”

Leon’s chest ached. How many people was that now? How many people had they lost in this war that they hadn’t even been aware they were fighting. Umbrella destroyed so many lives; hurt so many people. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Condolences - apology, solace, commiseration - hung thick in the air between them, so many words left unsaid. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry I left, that I abandoned you when you needed me; I wish you were here.

“How’s Sherry?”

“She’s good,” Leon lied. His stomach clenched painfully at the thought of the little girl he and Claire had managed to save from the city. The one thing Leon had done right.

Except, the first thing the government had done was take Sherry from Leon, separated them, interrogated him for days until they finally held her life above his head like a guillotine. His visitation remained few and far between, but she was alive and well taken care of, and that’s what mattered. Even if she’d traded one lab for another.

“Good. That’s good. Listen, Claire and I are back home getting things in order, but we both want to see you. Without you, I wouldn’t have found her.”

“Chris, seriously. It was nothing. I just passed on the information I had.” Leon twirled his finger absentmindedly in the phone cord. “I couldn’t get to her, but knew you could. I’m glad you found her.”

“You’re in DC, right?”

“What? Yeah. Listen, Chris-” Leon tried.

“We’re going to drive down for the weekend before we fly back to England next week. We’re putting together a team, but Claire really wants to see you. I want to see you. I need to thank you.”

Leon scrubbed his hand across his mouth and stared helplessly up at the stucco ceiling. Chris wasn’t going to take no for an answer, not that Leon wanted him to. On the contrary, he wanted to see them as badly as they wanted to see him.

“The weekend should be fine,” Leon said. “I usually have them off unless they decide to airdrop me into the center of a national park with nothing but a combat knife and a flask. I mean, no guarantees, but, you know.”

“Jesus Christ, Leon. What have you gotten yourself into?”

Leon grimaced. “Unfortunately, that’s classified.”

“I sure as hell hope you know what you’re doing.” That made two of them, but Sherry’s life hung in the balance.

Chris and Leon hashed out tentative plans for the weekend. Claire and Chris would drive the nine hours down from Franklin County on Friday, which Leon found insane. Nine hours trapped in a vehicle with their sibling for a dude they barely knew, only to be met with disappointment because Leon wouldn’t be whatever they expected. All the same, he’d let them crash at his place for the weekend, and then they’d fly out of the Dulles International Sunday evening.

Warmth blossomed in Leon’s chest; hope. Things weren’t ideal. Yes, he’d been coerced into the service of his country, but he wanted to do what he couldn’t in Raccoon City; save people, make Umbrella pay for their crimes. Maybe he could have done that alongside friends, allies, or Chris. Instead, the acute loneliness tingled in the back of his mind, a constant reminder that he had been abandoned. Not on purpose, no, but his naivety showed weakness.

The call ended with a promise, like their last separation, a reluctance to part, but a promise of companionship, of warmth, of friendship that was almost destined to end in grief. Leon couldn’t help the anticipation that bloomed.

Leon noisily clattered the headset back into the cradle and took stock of his tiny bedroom cluttered with dirty clothes, plates, a half-empty glass of water, and first aid supplies. “Fuck.”

Cleaning the apartment wouldn’t be so bad considering his severe lack of possessions, and he had three days before visitors arrived. Not that either of the Redfield’s would care about the clutter and shortage of furniture. If anything, they would understand. So much had been lost the day Racoon City disappeared in a mushroom cloud. Still, he tidied every moment he had between beatings, lectures, and exams.

Friday morning, the apartment was shockingly spotless except for the freshly used coffee mug in the sink. Loading it into the half-empty dishwasher wouldn’t have been all that difficult if Leon wasn’t already running behind schedule. The commute to the training center took twenty minutes on a good day if he obeyed all traffic laws.

Today likely wouldn’t be one of those days since he was due for roll-call in seven minutes, which seemed pointlessly ridiculous as he was the only agent in training. But the government liked to make him jump through hoops, literally.

Each course they had him run became increasingly complex and ludicrous to the point that Leon failed more than ninety percent of the time. With each fall, one instructor that he didn’t know the name of, only called Sir, yelled “dead” as if it wasn’t already abundantly clear that one mistake would be a death sentence in the field. Something he probably knew that better than the assholes pulling the strings. None of the big wigs had lived the hell he lived, seen what he had seen, and relived what he relived every night alone twisted in the sheets of his bed.

By the time Leon trudged through the front door of his tiny apartment, two hours later than planned, his entire side was mottled blue and purple from the fresh thrashing at the hands of his close combat instructor. His hand to hand had improved the most over the last month with the help of his natural flexibility and agility that earned him a few jokes about how he should have joined the circus. But they were impressed.

Nothing about his training was normal, even he knew that. Nothing like the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team had been formed before, people had never been reanimated from the dead by a virus before, and they were trying to prepare him for the worst. A nightmare they had never experienced themselves, but he had.

The phone rang. Leon groaned, staggering as he pivoted where he had been about to face-plant on the couch, and headed for the phone in the bedroom.

“Hello?” Leon said, almost certain it was Agent Benford with a new brutal assignment. He sagged onto the bed in relief, curling onto his side when the increasingly familiar greeting of ‘hey, rookie” rumbled in his ear. “Chris.”

“Thank god. Where have you been? This is the fourth time we tried calling.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Leon groaned as his side twinged. “Got, uh, caught up at the... office.”

“You sound like you’re in rough shape.”

Leon hummed. “Been worse.” A sad truth.

“We were calling to say we’re an hour out, but now that’s more like ten minutes,” Chris said, and Claire shouted something unintelligible in the background. “Oh, right. Remind me to give you this number. Claire made me get one of those Nokias so she can keep track of me.”

Claire screeched indignantly, and Leon snickered. “I’ve got a pager,” he offered as consolation. All that much easier to be at the government’s beck and call, but if Chris ever needed him, or Claire, or Sherry.

Leon rattled off a few quick directions to get the Redfield’s to his place, then hung up the phone and rolled out of bed to shower. The hot water stung the fresh bruising, his muscles ached, but he felt human the more he scrubbed away the sweat and grime.

The buzzer for the front door rang as Leon eased a fresh t-shirt on over his head; his shoulder twinged, but he limped over to buzz them up.

A few minutes later, since the building’s elevator took years because of the ‘historic’ value as the real estate agent had put it, someone knocked at the door in a frantic staccato. Leon swung the door open, hair still damp, and was immediately tackled in a hug.

Fight or flight kicked in, Leon’s brain came back online in fits and started in time to hug the small woman hugging him tightly rather than throw her over his shoulder. Claire’s mouth ran a mile a minute. Apparently, he had been missed, and Claire didn’t appear to want to release him anytime soon if the creaking of his ribs were anything to go by.

Leon stared helplessly over her head at Chris, who laughed, but pried his sister off Leon so he could drag him in a hug too. Chris enveloped Leon in a bear hug. That level of high alert that itched in the back of his mind for months ebbed, not disappeared, but faded enough that Leon enjoyed the moment, squeezing Chris back just as tight.

“Come in,” Leon said as he stepped back and waved them into his tiny apartment. “It’s not much, but, you know.”

Claire and Chris shucked their shoes and jackets and wandered into the apartment. Claire scrutinized every little detail or lack thereof. Decoration wasn’t exactly at the top of Leon’s priorities. Nevertheless, he had what he needed: a couch, a TV, a coffee table that doubled as his kitchen table, and a mattress in the bedroom. No bedframe, but he wasn’t picky. Clean sheets and a blanket, and he was good to go.

“It’s, ahh...” Chris trailed off as he glanced around the sparse room.

“What are you, a squatter?” Claire cut in. She stood in front of the mostly empty closet she’d opened.

“Okay, I was going to say it’s a bit Spartan,” Chris said. He slapped a comforting hand on Leon’s shoulder. “Can’t be easy to start all over from nothing, again.”

Leon rubbed the back of his neck, shoulders slumped. “I did warn you guys. Not much to do.”

Chris hummed, his hand dropping from Leon’s shoulder as he wandered off to the kitchen. “You got beer?” The fridge was stocked with two six-packs of cheap beer, a bottle of ketchup, a carton of 2%, and eggs.

“I’ll order food,” Claire said, glancing around, but the phone wasn’t in sight. Leon directed her to the bedroom, where his mattress sat on the floor against the wall. “Jesus Christ, Leon, is that a milk crate?” Clearly, she’d found the bedside table with the phone and takeout menus.

Groaning, Leon sank down onto his couch and buried his face in his hands. The cushions sank beside him as a much larger body sat down. Leon peeked out from between his fingers at Chris, who smiled sadly at him.

“If you need anything-” Chris started.

“I’m fine.” Leon ran his fingers through his damp hair and slouched so his elbows rested on his knees. “Not a lot of time to do much these days, you know, between the daily ass kickings and memorizing a million and one protocols.”

Chris mirrored Leon’s posture. “You could always come with us.”

Leon shook his head.

“Leon-”

“I can’t,” Leon snapped in time for Claire to walk out of the bedroom.

For a second, Claire paused, eyes bouncing between the heavy tension that hung between them. “I ordered Chinese. Did I miss something?”

“No,” Chris and Leon said at the same time.

The food didn’t take long to arrive. The delivery guy, already familiar with Leon’s apartment, joked that he had company for once. The restaurant had even thrown in some free spring rolls for one of their best customers. Sad, considering he’d only been in DC for a little over a month.

The three of them settled on the couch together; Leon squashed in the middle of the sofa, pressed against Chris because Claire had claimed one end with her feet up and tucked her toes under Leon’s thigh. They’d settled for a cheesy action movie they found flipping through channels, something with a bus that couldn’t stop, but ignored it in favour of light conversion, mostly Claire. Neither Chris nor Leon were much in the way of conversationalists. Still, Chris offered a tidbit here and there, and Leon hummed along, nodding when need be, and occasionally offered the occasional dry joke that had Chris and Claire in stitches. Chris nearly snorted beer out his nose when he made an off-the-cuff remark about the first day always being the easiest.

Pleasantly buzzed from a few beers and noodles heavy in his belly, Leon began to nod off, his head helplessly bobbing with the weight of fatigue.

Distantly, Leon heard a chuckle. His head plopped down on the closest shoulder, broad and warm, and the last thing he remembered was Claire wiggling her toes under his thigh and giggling.

When Leon woke up to his bladder screaming, the apartment was dark. For a brief second, he panicked when he discovered his mobility restricted, but his foggy mind pieced together the clues to form a complete picture. He was still on the couch, curled into Chris’ side, nose pressed into Chris’ neck. The arm slung around Leon’s shoulder held in him what couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a secure embrace. They were barely covered by what Leon quickly realized was the thin comforter from his bed because Claire, curled up on the other end of the couch, had stolen most of the blanket, leaving Chris and Leon with a tiny corner.

Leon eased himself out of Chris’ protective hold and slipped off the couch, tucking Chris back under the blanket so he could escape to the safety of the bathroom in what was becoming a pattern. Wake up cuddled with a man he barely knew, panic, then flee.

The moonlight through the clouded window lit the bathroom enough for Leon to piss and wash his hands without hitting the light. He stood, hands braced on the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were lighter, and his hair was a wild tangle after falling asleep with it still damp. Even if he looked less tired, he was exhausted. He shivered. DC winters were colder than he was used to.

Shuffling back into the living room, Leon found Claire stretched further out on the couch, having used Leon’s absence to steal the very little room Leon had occupied beside Chris. “That seems about right,” he said, then jumped when Chris’ head popped up from where it had been stretched out against the back of the couch. “Oh! Sorry, I can just...” Leon waved vaguely back down the hall towards his bedroom.

Chris lifted his corner of the blanket in invitation.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Leon argued, rubbing his arm. “I can just sleep in my bed.”

“Isn’t this your blanket?” Chris asked.

Leon shivered in the cool December chill. “It’s not that cold.”

“Leon.”

Leon slunk back to the couch under Chris’ watchful gaze and tried to find space, but Claire’s sprawl left no room for Leon to squeeze back into. He hovered for a moment, uncertain of how to proceed, but the choice was taken from him when Chris grabbed him around the middle and hauled him down over his lap. Leon squawked, slapping a hand over his mouth. His butt nestled between the arm of the couch and Chris’ thigh, his legs thrown over Chris’ lap.

For almost a full minute, Leon stared at Chris open-mouthed, unable to do anything but blink like a startled owl while his attacker shook with silent laughter.

“Cat got your tongue, rookie?” Chris snickered.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Leon snapped his jaw closed, pursed his lips and purposefully flung an arm around Chris’ shoulders before wiggling until he was burrowed tightly into the warmth of Chris’ side like a kitten. Still, it took a few minutes for Leon to relax enough to sink into the heat of the body beneath him, Chris grinning a challenge to him. Leon rolled his eyes and stuck the cold tip of his nose into Chris’ neck.

“Christ, Kennedy,” Chris said as a stilted shudder ran through him, but wrapped Leon in an inflexible hug like the first night they met, the night Leon’s anxiety and doubt demanded the comfort of another person, the night he still dreamt about. “What are you? Part snowman?”

“Popsicle, but thanks for asking,” Leon mumbled.

Tucked under a small corner of the worn comforter he found in a thrift shop his first night in the city, Leon tilted headfirst into the satisfaction and comfort of Chris Redfield. Most men would have balked at even the idea of cuddling with another man, but Leon had never been like other men. He’d learned early in life to take comfort where he could because kindness was often isolated incidents of empathy.

The smell of coffee tickled Leon’s nose. He was hot, a little too hot, and a little sweaty, but he was comfortable, safe. He pressed into the warmth, groaning quiet contentment when the heat squeezed back until a sharp snort and a giggle shocked him into alertness like a splash of ice water.

Leon’s eyes snapped open. Claire grinned at him from the far end of the couch, legs pulled up to sit cross-legged, hand curled around a steaming mug of coffee. “Morning.”

Ao3

[bloody-bee-tea]

Goo

Jiang Cheng rapidly blinks to clear his vision, but the haze over his eyes stays where it is. It almost feels like he’s seeing double at this point, and seeing Sect Leader Yao twice does very little to improve his already poor mood, if Jiang Cheng is being honest.

While this is not Jiang Cheng’s first conference as a Sect Leader, it’s still new enough that he desperately has to try to make a good impression, and nodding off in the middle of Sect Leader Yao complaining about something or other is certainly not the way to do it.

Even though Jiang Cheng would love to do nothing more.

He’s not sure when the last time he got a full night’s sleep was, but it must be months at this point. Between caring for his infant nephew, taking over the role as Sect Leader and rebuilding Lotus Pier there is simply not enough time for him to sleep.

Not that he could even if he had the time for it, with how his nights are haunted by nightmares, but Jiang Cheng tries his best not to think of that.

Just like he’s trying very hard not to think about his shaking hands or his weak knees or how his vision keeps tilting as if he’s already falling to the side.

He cannot allow himself to show some weakness here, especially not with Jin Guangshan watching him like a hawk.

The old leech is just waiting for Jiang Cheng to make a mistake—has been since that very first meeting Jiang Cheng attended as a Sect Leader—and Jiang Cheng would rather die than play into his hands like that.

So Jiang Cheng keeps himself awake by sheer force of will for the rest of the day, and by the time Nie Mingjue puts an end to this endless farce—at least for this day—Jiang Cheng feels sluggish and slow as if he’s wading through goo instead of normal air.

He just hopes that no one else noticed it yet.

“Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang says as he sits down next to him and Jiang Cheng feels like crying.

He just wants to leave and rest his eyes for a few moments, drop the Sect Leader charade and give in to how weak he feels, but it doesn’t seem like he gets to do that yet, if Nie Huaisang wants to talk.

“What do you want?” Jiang Cheng snaps out and then winces as he realizes how unbearably rude that was.

Nie Huaisang is the beloved brother of a Sect Leader and Jiang Cheng likes to think that they are somewhat friends, and Nie Huaisang definitely deserves better than that.

“I apologize,” Jiang Cheng presses out, still way too formally, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t seem to be that offended.

At least for now.

“I guess that answers the question of how you’re doing,” Nie Huaisang muses and sends Jiang Cheng a knowing look from behind his fan.

“I’m doing just fine,” Jiang Cheng tells him, desperately trying not to burst into tears when he thinks about another day of endless talks tomorrow.

“You look like death warmed over,” Nie Huaisang shoots back and Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually have anything to say to that.

“How’s Jin Ling doing?” Nie Huaisang wants to know when Jiang Cheng stays quiet and Jiang Cheng can’t help the small smile on his face.

“He’s doing well. He’s growing so quickly,” he whispers, because Jiang Cheng still can’t believe that Jin Ling is going to turn two in a few months.

“That’s good to hear,” Nie Huaisang gives back. “It would be even better, though, if you were doing well too,” he then tacks on and Jiang Cheng flinches, before he straightens up.

“Who says I’m not?” he bites out, even though his vision is still tilting all the damn time because he’s so tired.

“You don’t look fine at all,” Nie Huaisang lowly says, and the only thing that prevents Jiang Cheng from snapping at him is the clearly worried look on Nie Huaisang’s face.

“I’m not—it’s not so bad,” Jiang Cheng whispers as he scrubs a hand over his face. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I think I do,” Nie Huaisang says, with a thoughtful look that he fails to hide behind his fan. “You need rest so you’re going to sleep.”

“Yeah, right,” Jiang Cheng scoffs, because while there is nothing he’d want to do more than go to sleep, he doubts that he can.

He can barely sleep at Lotus Pier; there is no way that he can fall asleep in a strange place, where he doesn’t feel safe.

Nie Huaisang narrows his eyes at him, and Jiang Cheng sighs.

“You can’t make me, so drop it now, Huaisang,” he tells him, but that only seems to spur Nie Huaisang on harder.

“Oh, but I know someone who can,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes and a shudder runs down Jiang Cheng’s back.

It used to be a badly hidden secret that Jiang Cheng had the worst crush on Nie Mingjue, but honestly, it’s been so long, and with everything that’s been going on recently, Jiang Cheng doesn’t think that even Nie Mingjue’s disapproval will be enough to send him to bed, no matter how much Jiang Cheng still wants to impress him.

“And would you look at that, what a coincidence, he’s just walking over here,” Nie Huaisang suddenly says, his fan hiding most of his face again and Jiang Cheng can feel a faint flush on his face.

“When the hell did you become such an insufferable schemer,” he hisses out, because this anger is always something he can fall back on even when he’s dead tired and embarrassed beyond belief, and while Nie Huaisang seems more than amused by this, Nie Mingjue’s face darkens as Jiang Cheng’s words reach him.

“He always was,” Nie Mingjue tells him with a hard glare. “Which you would know if you made any kind of effort of maintaining a friendship between the two of you.”

Jiang Cheng tenses at his tone, more than at his words. Nie Mingjue sounds honestly displeased with how Jiang Cheng has been treating Nie Huaisang, and he can’t even say anything in his defence because he has been neglecting Nie Huaisang.

There is just almost so much to do; he barely has time to eat or sleep, how the hell would he ever find time to write to Nie Huaisang when it’s not an important Sect matter? Jiang Cheng doesn’t even have time for idle chit-chat with his own people; there is no way he would find the time to sit down and put it onto paper.

“I apologize, Nie-zhongzhu. Nie-xiong,“ he then says to Nie Huaisang with a low bow. “I will take my leave.”

Jiang Cheng is already half turned away, because leaving this situation—and Nie Mingjue’s disapproving look—is the only thing on his mind right now, but then Nie Huaisang speaks up again.

“Da-ge,“Nie Huaisang whines before Jiang Cheng can run away from them. “Cut him some slack, would you?” he asks as he smacks Nie Mingjue with his fan, and Jiang Cheng thinks this is definitely the wrong way to endear Nie Mingjue towards him.

“You wouldn’t expect me to maintain non-essential friendships if I just lost you, and our entire Sect and I had to raise your baby,” Nie Huaisang says decisively and Jiang Cheng watches as the tensions drains out of Nie Mingjue at that.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he admits as he scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Jiang Wanyin.”

“There’s no need,” Jiang Cheng quickly gives back, wondering if this could be a hallucination, because Nie Mingjue is not known to apologize.

“He was just being overprotective,” Nie Huaisang says as he leans close. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, right,” Jiang Cheng scoffs out, before he can think about it. “No one’s ever been overprotective when it comes to me,” he tacks on, voice still barely above a whisper, but Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang freeze.

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang then says, his eyes wide and pleading and Nie Mingjue nods as if he just made a decision.

Jiang Cheng can only continue to stare at them, because none of their reactions makes any sense, but then Nie Mingjue places his hand on his shoulder and it’s heavy and warm and Jiang Cheng sways under it.

“You need to sleep, Jiang Wanyin,” Nie Mingjue tells him and now Jiang Cheng feels like crying, because Nie Mingjue’s voice is soft and there is nothing in this world Jiang Cheng would like to do more, but he can’t.

“I can’t,” he whispers, finally admitting to that one weakness, and Nie Mingjue squeezes his shoulder.

“Why not?” he gently asks and Jiang Cheng hangs his head in shame.

“I mean no offence,” he starts with, because he needs to get that out of the way first, “but I don’t feel safe here. At least not enough to sleep.”

“Jiang Cheng,” Nie Huaisang starts, but Nie Mingjue cuts him off with a gesture.

“It’s not Lotus Pier,” Nie Mingjue says, and there’s understanding in his voice. “And you didn’t put up the defences of this place yourself.”

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng breathes out, his eyes burning again and he’s unsure if it’s because he’s so goddamn tired or if it is because someone finally understands.

“Would it help if you warded your own room?” Nie Mingjue asks, but Jiang Cheng shakes his head.

It would probably make him feel safe enough that he could fall asleep for a few minutes at a time, but by now Jiang Cheng knows that a few minutes are worse than no sleep at all.

“What if I sit with you?” Nie Mingjue asks next and Jiang Cheng can’t help the scoff that comes out at that suggestion.

As if Nie Mingjue really has the time to sit with him, just because Jiang Cheng cannot manage to fall asleep on his own.

“My da-ge doesn’t joke,” Nie Huaisang says, and when Jiang Cheng looks at him, he doesn’t like the look on his face at all.

It seems far too calculating for someone like Nie Huaisang.

“Come on, we should continue this talk in your own room,” Nie Huaisang says, and now even Nie Mingjue looks like he knows that Nie Huaisang is up to something, but he doesn’t say anything and instead uses the hand that is still on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder to steer him towards his assigned quarters.

The trip there is short and blessedly silent, but Jiang Cheng can’t help but to notice the hand that Nie Mingjue still keeps on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. It’s heavy with his concern and Jiang Cheng doesn’t know how to handle that at all.

He sees Nie Huaisang throw him some looks from the corner of his eyes, but Jiang Cheng is too tired to figure out what the hell Nie Huaisang could be thinking and so he simply allows the Nie brothers to lead the way.

When Nie Huaisang closes the door behind them, Jiang Cheng immediately gets nervous again.

“You really don’t have to,” he says before anyone else can say something but Nie Mingjue shakes his head.

“I don’t have to, but I’m offering because I want to. I don’t know if anyone told you yet, but you look like shit.”

“I did!” Nie Huaisang says immediately and Jiang Cheng sinks down on the bed.

He really doesn’t know what he got himself into when he came to this conference.

“I would be more than happy to sit with you if that helps you sleep,” Nie Mingjue tells him and Jiang Cheng can tell that he means it, too, but he can’t accept this.

He can’t steal that much time from Nie Mingjue.

“You need to sleep, too,” he argues because he doubts that anything else will get him somewhere.

“No offense, but I can deal with a sleepless night. You on the other hand look like you’re going to drop dead if you don’t get at least seven hours.”

“Besides, there’s still Baxia,” Nie Huaisang says, and there’s something to his voice that makes Jiang Cheng tense up.

“Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue says in warning, but Nie Huaisang isn’t paying attention to him.

“You know, da-ge’s saber? You know that she’s semi-sentient, right? Even in the off-chance that he does fall asleep, Baxia would wake him up if someone with malicious intent were to intrude on these quarters.”

“Huaisang!” Nie Mingjue snaps out, clearly not liking what Nie Huaisang just revealed, but it’s done now.

“Semi-sentient?” Jiang Cheng asks, and he can’t help but to fiddle with Zidian around his finger.

It’s a spiritual weapon, too, like Sandu is as well, but he wouldn’t describe either of them as semi-sentient.

“That’s none of your concern,” Nie Mingjue gruffly says and normally Jiang Cheng would shrink back from his tone, but he’s actually too tired for even that kind of reaction though he does make a mental note to never ask about this again.

“If you don’t believe me, you can touch her to check for yourself,” Nie Huaisang says and now Nie Mingjue turns towards him, using his full height to tower over him.

“Nie Huaisang, you will stop right this instant!”

“But da-ge, look at him! He’s going to drop dead if he doesn’t sleep and how else is he going to feel safe enough?”

“Those are Sect secrets!”

“And Jiang-xiong is not going to tell anyone else, right?” Nie Huaisang asks as he leans around his brother to look at Jiang Cheng.

“Right,” Jiang Cheng says on reflex, but then he shakes his head. “Of course I wouldn’t tell anyone about that.”

He barely believes it himself. How would he ever tell someone else about this?

There must have been something in his voice, or maybe he just makes that pitiful of a picture, because Nie Mingjue takes a deep breath and the tension visibly leaves his whole posture.

“People have been killed for talking about this,” he states matter-of-factly and Jiang Cheng immediately nods.

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of a pause, before Nie Mingjue says “You may touch her if it helps.”

Jiang Cheng’s head flies up at his words, because with how this talk was going, this is really not what he expected.

“I wouldn’t dare to,” he gets out, completely panicked at the thought that this is just another test; one he’s going to fail because there probably is no right answer to this.

“I’m offering,” Nie Mingjue says and true to his word offers Baxia to him. “Huaisang is right. Even if I fall asleep, Baxia wouldn’t allow anyone to break into here. She would wake me at the first sign that something is wrong.”

Jiang Cheng’s fingers go back to Zidian again and he wishes the same were true for his own spiritual tool. He definitely would sleep better if he knew that Zidian could wake him up or even act without his conscious thought.

“If you’re sure,” Jiang Cheng says after a long moment, and he only reaches out for Baxia when Nie Mingjue nods again.

Jiang Cheng’s fingertips have barely grazed the saber when another consciousness washes over him.

“Oh,” he breathes out in surprise, because he really didn’t expect Baxia to be like that but then the feeling of something other overwhelms him completely and Jiang Cheng doubles over.

He can feel rage and the ever-vigilant aura of something that doesn’t have to sleep, but beneath that there is unimaginable joy and something like recognition.

Jiang Cheng’s head is spinning with all these impressions but before he can drown in these emotions that are not his, Baxia retreats. She doesn’t vanish completely, though; Jiang Cheng can still feel her as a steady presence, and he knows she’s looking out for him now as well, but when Jiang Cheng blinks his eyes he notices that he stopped touching the saber.

He shouldn’t still be aware of Baxia like that.

“What the hell,” he whispers and he jerks when Baxia reflects amusement back at him, before she goes almost dormant.

It takes Jiang Cheng way too long to realize that she seems to be going dormant in Zidian and he jerks his head up when he finally does.

“What the hell,” he asks again, louder this time, and he holds his hand out. “Why is your semi-sentient saber in my spiritual tool?” he demands to know, a tinge of hysteria to his voice, but Nie Mingjue looks like Jiang Cheng is feeling which is completely overwhelmed and thoroughly confused.

“Thank the gods,” Nie Huaisang whispers and it takes Jiang Cheng way too long to turn his head and look at him, because Nie Mingjue is keeping his gaze and Jiang Cheng doesn’t actually want to look away.

“What is going on?” he asks Nie Huaisang when he finally manages to break eye contact with Nie Mingjue, even though it feels like one of the most difficult things Jiang Cheng has ever done.

“Congratulations, you’re soulmates,” Nie Huaisang says and he claps his hands together as if his words actually make any kind of sense.

“Huaisang, explain,” Nie Mingjue mildly says and Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s more fondly amused than really concerned and Jiang Cheng wonders how he can be this calm right now.

“Jiang-xiong, can you still feel Baxia?” Nie Huaisang asks instead of getting into an explanation and Jiang Cheng barely has to reach out for Zidian—for Baxia—before she responds to him.

“She’s like a cat that got the cream,” he says, because she radiates contented smugness and Jiang Cheng isn’t sure if he likes it or not.

He decides to go with not for as long as he doesn’t know what’s actually happening here.

“Da-ge, can you still feel Baxia?” Nie Huaisang asks next and Nie Mingjue nods as well.

“She’s—content. Happy.” There’s a bit of a pause. “Whole.”

“That’s good, that’s so good,” Nie Huaisang mutters and then he darts forward to hug Jiang Cheng. “Thank you so much for being my brother’s soulmate,” he whispers into his chest and Jiang Cheng brings his arms up around him on reflex, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate his confusion.

“Can you explain?” he asks, too tired to come up with more words for his request and Nie Huaisang pulls back.

“There’s this really old legend,” he starts and Jiang Cheng sits down, because this might take a while and despite what just happened, he is still ready to keel over out of tiredness.

“The legend says that the saber spirits used to be whole; made up of a soul to know right and wrong and a heart to know compassion. But over the course of time, those two got split up. The soul was pushed into the sabers to cut down those that are wrong, but without their heart to know compassion and love, they went wild; crazy. They started to lash out against their wielders, causing them to go mad and to qi-deviate.”

“Like Baxia has been doing,” Nie Mingjue says, but the hand he puts on Baxia speaks of fondness, rather than anger.

“Yes,” Nie Huaisang nods. “But if the soul is reunited with the heart, they can heal. They can be whole again.”

“Say it clearly,” Jiang Cheng snaps out, because he’s too tired to understand the implications of all of it, though he does note down Nie Mingjue’s little remark.

It hurts his heart to think that Nie Mingjue was suffering because of Baxia. And going by the wave of sadness he gets from Zidian—from Baxia—she is hurting because of that, too.

“Zidian is Baxia’s heart,” Nie Huaisang says and then winces. “Well, Zidian wielded by you is Baxia’s heart. The tale turned into a legend, because not many people know of it; because it barely happens. Finding your soulmate like this is extremely rare, because not only do the soul and the heart have to be a match, the humans who wield them, must be too. Zidian has been around for ages; but now it’s drenched in your spiritual energy and that’s what makes it a fit.”

“Kind of reassuring to know that Madam Yu wouldn’t have made the cut,” Nie Mingjue mutters and Jiang Cheng can’t help himself, he bursts out with laughter.

“Can you even imagine that?” he wheezes out, and a very distant part of himself knows that he’s completely overreacting because of his sleep-deprivation, but he can’t stop.

“I don’t want to, actually,” Nie Mingjue drily says and then pushes Jiang Cheng gently down on the bed. “Sleep, Jiang Wanyin,” he whispers when Jiang Cheng goes easily.

Jiang Cheng tries to struggle, tries to gives this a bit more thought besides the warm feeling that fills him when he thinks that he might be made for Nie Mingjue, but his thoughts are sluggish and sleep is creeping up on him.

He reaches out for Baxia again, and he relaxes when he finds her awake and alert, ready to protect him should anything happen, and Nie Mingjue’s heavy, warm hand has moved to cup Jiang Cheng’s cheek, telling him that he’s still here, that he too would protect Jiang Cheng.

It’s enough for Jiang Cheng to finally close his eyes and give in to the darkness.

The last thing he hears before sleep takes him is a muttered “Sleep, my heart.”

It’s the best sleep he has gotten in ages.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

[gabekidd]

Know You Better Now (BTOOT sequel), Part 2

Probably not the best idea to drop this right after Extreme Rules, but I can’t wait because 😭 And that’s all I’m gonna say. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy!

Know You Better Now

Part: 2/?

Pairing: Kenny Omega x OFC x TBD 👀

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Language, ANGST

Find more of my fics here.

Tag squad: @galacticstat @hotyeehawman @hdbngsprnva @kingswitchblade @bec0m @betsy-bradock @heelchampbucks @linziland13 @librathepheonix13 @gabbynorth98 @exe-babymox-exe @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @brokenglassslippers @rocca09 @meteora-fc @kawaiikels @adriii-omega @thatgirlforever5 @sugar-melts-mo-fo

“Did you see the look on PAC’s face when he realized Alex broke up the pin? He was so-ho-ho piiiissed.”

Nick could barely finish speaking before he emitted a laugh that sounded more like an asthmatic wheeze, and everyone else joined in, the boisterous boom bouncing off the walls of The Elite locker room and making Alex’s ears ring. She’d never felt so out of place.

“He looked like an angry gremlin,” Karl piled on. He contorted his face and hands and made everyone guffaw and bark even louder. Alex rolled her eyes. Out of all of them, Karl annoyed her the most.

“Yeah, that was quick thinking, Alex,” Matt said. “I knew you wouldn’t let us down.”

He sent her a crooked, shit-eating grin. Had he not tacked on that last part, it might have been half a compliment. But he knew exactly what he was doing—and Alex did not have the patience for it.

“Us? Last time I checked, Kenny is the AEW Champion, not The Elite.”

The room went dead silent. Matt’s smirk vanished.

“Don’t act like you know anything about The Elite,” he bit. “You’ve been here all of two seconds. We were selling out the Tokyo Dome when you were still working bingo halls.”

“Whoa!” Kenny interjected. “Watch who the hell you’re talking to like that, Matt.”

The atmosphere went from shocked to tense; palpable. Matt’s jaw flexed, obviously embarrassed to have been put in his place in front of the boys. Alex smirked. He deserved it.

Kenny sighed into the quiet. “Alright, you know what? Everyone out.”

“What?” Gallows balked. “We gotta celebrate your big win, man—”

Don cut him off. “You heard what he said, everyone out!”

He herded them all toward the exit, and other than a few side-eyes and under-breath comments, they went without argument. It was the first time Alex had ever been thankful for Don to step in.

The door fell closed, and Alex and Kenny were left alone. His eyes were much softer than they’d been just a few seconds before.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’ll take a lot more than that for Matt to get to me.”

“I know, but he shouldn’t have said it at all. It was out of line.”

“It’s Matt. What do you expect?” she returned. It made Kenny purse his lips in disappointment.

“He’s not out to get you, Alex. He’s just protective of his friends.”

Her eyes darkened. “Is there a reason he thinks he needs to protect you from me?”

He breathed out in frustration. “Come on, that’s not what I said.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I wish you two would get along.”

Alex stubbornly crossed her arms and looked across the room. This wasn’t the first time he’d said that to her. She knew it wouldn’t be the last.

“Hey.” Kenny gently gripped her shoulders, and she looked back up at him. “I want you to feel like you’re a part of the group, Alex. And I know right now you don’t,” he quickly added before she could interject. “But give it time. You’ve been at home working on getting healthy, and the boys just want to be sure that you’re a team player. Which… I’m pretty sure you proved you are tonight.”

She lightly sucked her teeth. “I did that for you, not—”

“I know,” softly interrupted. “But any of them would have done the same thing.”

Alex rocked back on her heels and turned her eyes down to her shoes. She understood where Kenny was coming from, one thousand percent. But she didn’t think she should have to prove herself to “the boys.” And truthfully… she didn’t want to be a part of The Elite, either.

But she also didn’t want to get into an argument with Kenny, so she just let it go. “Well, thank you for putting Matt in his place,” she said. She wrapped her arms around his waist and drew herself close to him. “I’ll do my best to get along with him so long as he’s not an ass to me.”

“That’s all I want,” Kenny returned, and he placed a kiss on her lips that was perhaps meant to be short and sweet, but neither of them pulled away. He brought his hands to either side of her face, and she pressed her fingers into his back as she lightly sucked on his bottom lip. He smirked against her mouth. “You want to get in the shower with me?”

She pecked his lips again. “No.”

He pulled back in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because. I look way too good right now to ruin it.”

He flashed a crooked grin. She already knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Fine. I’ll just ruin it when we get home.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Alex had honestly hoped Kenny would ruin it when they got home. But unfortunately, they didn’t go home alone; Matt, Nick, and Don went with them. At least the Good Brothers had decided they’d rather go drink at the hotel bar.

“So, have you officially moved in yet, Alex?”

Nick smirked at her from across the kitchen island, his mouth full of pizza. They’d ordered some “late night celebratory pies,” as Kenny had put it, but Alex didn’t have much of an appetite. She didn’t dignify Nick with a response either, instead just pursing her lips and taking a sip of the red wine she’d poured herself. As if he wouldn’t have already known if she’d officially moved in; he was one of Kenny’s best friends.

“Shit, I forget that she doesn’t ‘officially’ live here,” Kenny commented, making air quotes around the word. “It already feels like you do. Isn’t most of your stuff here?”

“Most of my clothes are,” she answered. “But I still have an entire house full of stuff in Virginia.”

“Wasn’t your cousin interested in potentially buying from you?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose. She asked me if I was thinking about selling, but we haven’t discussed it.”

“Well… maybe you should.”

He sent her a grin. She chewed the inside of her lip. “Maybe,” she returned, and took another sip of wine.

“Speaking of official,” Don segued. “Is Alex officially with us now?”

Alex stiffened. She didn’t at all appreciate that Don had spoken as if she wasn’t standing right there. But she couldn’t really answer him, either.

“Come on, why wouldn’t she be?” Kenny returned.

“Because tonight was the first time she’s been on AEW programming in what—nine months?” He fixed Alex with his beady eyes and finally addressed her directly. “People still think of you as part of Best Friends. And even though you broke up that pin in Kenny’s interest, the fact of the matter is that you technically helped Orange, too.”

“What?” Kenny let out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Don! She would have done the exact same thing if it had been Orange going for the pin instead of PAC.”

“Would she?” Matt challenged. He glanced at Alex. “Would you?”

Kenny’s eyes widened at him. “Really, Matt?” he charged—but Alex spoke up.

“No, if they’re so concerned about it, then I’ll tell them.” She leaned forward on the island and looked Matt dead in the eye. “Of course I would have done the exact same thing if it had been Orange going for the pin instead of PAC. And you know why? Because I was out there in Kenny’s corner tonight, and tonight was the first time in months that I’ve seen or even spoken to Orange or any of the others. So no, I’m not a part of Best Friends anymore.”

It hurt to finally say that out loud; but it wasn’t anything Alex hadn’t already known deep down. She’d known it as soon as Kris had popped out of that claw machine a month ago… maybe even sooner. And their behavior toward her that night—Trent’s behavior—had only proven it.

Kenny wrapped an arm around her waist and placed a kiss on the side of her head. Matt, meanwhile, said nothing. It seemed she’d finally shut him up—for now.

Don nodded. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Alex shifted. Somehow, she doubted that.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Nick interjected. “Do you guys have any ice cream?”

“Jesus, Nick,” Matt breathed; but Kenny perked up.

“We do, actually. Alex has turned me onto Blue Bell.” He started for the freezer. “Do you want some, baby? We still have mint chocolate chip.”

Alex shook her head. “No. I’m actually gonna head upstairs; I’m exhausted.”

Part of her knew that, by going to bed, she was only inviting them to talk about her more. But she didn’t care. Matt could spew whatever bullshit he wanted; Kenny knew where she stood, and that was all that mattered.

He nodded. “Okay. I’m honestly not far behind you.”

She put her wine glass in the sink and gave him a kiss on the way out of the kitchen. Her legs were tired as she climbed the stairs to their bedroom. Our bedroom, she realized she thought of it as, not Kenny’s bedroom. She wasn’t sure when she’d made that switch, but she was hyper-aware of it now after Kenny’s comment just a few minutes before. But just the thought of selling her house stressed her out; she had enough on her plate as it was, and she didn’t want to give any of it any more of her energy for the rest of the night—

Beep-beep!

But she got a text just as she crossed into the bedroom. She sighed and pulled her phone from the back pocket of her jeans—and stopped when she saw the screen.

It was from Trent.

I’m sorry about what I said tonight. I just didn’t know how to react.

Alex’s brow lowered as she read the message. She knew Trent, and something in her gut told her that he hadn’t sent that on his own. No; Kris had probably beat him over the head until he’d relented. He would have been better off not sending anything at all.

She purposefully opened the text so that he would get the “read” notification, and then she locked her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and went into the bathroom to do her nighttime routine. If there was one thing she definitely would not give any more of her energy to, it was that.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Dynamite following Double Or Nothing wasn’t until Friday, so Alex had nearly an entire week to mentally prepare herself. She needed the extra time. Because, in the interest of “publicly clearing up any confusion” about where her loyalties lied, Don had booked her a sit-down interview with Excalibur.

She’d been furious when he’d told her. So had Kenny—he’d set it up behind both their backs. But of course, Don had talked him down and convinced him that it was “the right move.” Afterward, Kenny had profusely apologized to her; but she’d just told him to forget it. She’d do the damn interview. She wanted to speak her mind.

But now that she was sitting across from Excalibur in one of the backstage areas at Daily’s Place, she felt like she might vomit.

He spoke to the camera as he opened up the interview. “I’m sitting here with Alex Hawthorne, who made a surprise return after a nine-month absence at Double Or Nothing this past Sunday… and before we get into the interview, Alex, I just want to say welcome back. You were gone rehabbing a shoulder injury, and you’ve clearly come back in fighting shape. I think we all did a double-take when you walked out with Kenny Omega on Sunday.”

Alex felt herself relax a bit. It felt good to be acknowledged. She hadn’t felt that in a while. “Thank you, Excalibur, I appreciate that. It feels good to be back, and I have come back in fighting shape—not just physically, but mentally, as well. When I found out that my shoulder needed surgery, it was a bitter pill to swallow. And I’m not gonna lie; I struggled with it at first. But I distinctly remember waking up in that post-op room after surgery, and I realized right then and there that I could either let this injury drag me down, or I could use it as an opportunity to come back even better than before. And I promise you—and the entire AEW women’s division—that this isn’t the same Alex Hawthorne who competed in that ring nine months ago.”

Excalibur nodded. “Which begs the question: when can we expect you back in the ring?”

She breathed out. “Soon,” she nodded, her tone determined. “I still have some work to do, but it’ll be soon.”

“And we all look forward to it,” he said. “But you mentioned that you’re not the same Alex Hawthorne you were nine months ago. We’re used to seeing you at ringside in support of Best Friends… however, you returned in Kenny Omega’s corner for the AEW World Championship match at Double or Nothing, a match that also included Orange Cassidy. Is it safe to say that this new and improved Alex Hawthorne has moved on from Best Friends?”

Alex’s heart jumped into her throat. There it was, the million-dollar question, the reason for this entire interview, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think Don had fed that line directly to Excalibur. But he didn’t like Don any more than she did—and she needed to give an answer. So, she did.

“It’s safe to say that, yeah.”

Her stomach churned and she looked down at her hands in her lap. It was out there now. She couldn’t take it back.

“Well, I have to ask,” Excalibur started, and she flicked her eyes back up at him. “You interfered in the match on Sunday and most likely prevented PAC from winning the AEW World Championship. But you also prevented Orange from taking the pin. Is there no part of you that did that for him?”

Alex’s brow lowered. First Don, and now this? Why was everyone so confused about her motive? “No. I did that for Ken—”

“Who cares who ya did it for!”

She was abruptly cut off by an angry, distinctly accented voice, and then PAC unexpectedly stalked into the interview area. He fixed Alex with a wild-eyed glare. “It’s like Excalibur said… you cost me the AEW World Championship.”

Alex leaned away from him in her chair as he moved closer. The entire sight of him was jarring, that ubiquitous scowl of his contorting his face, his dark, wet hair dripping water down his bare chest. She looked him over in confusion. Why was he already in his gear, ready to go? He and Penta had a match that night against the Young Bucks, but the show didn’t start for another two hours.

Excalibur tried to intervene. “PAC, we’re doing an interview here—”

But PAC just talked over him. “I know you’ve been gone a long time, Alex. And I have to admit, you do look good. So, here’s a bit of advice: instead of interfering in his matches, why don’t ya stick to being Kenny Omega’s arm candy.”

Alex’s eyes darkened. Suddenly, all her surprise turned to anger. “Arm candy?”

“You heard me,” he spat.

“Do you even own regular clothes? Or do you just live in your gear dripping wet like you emerged from the Atlantic Ocean?”

“Hey, PAC!”

Another person interrupted then, and Alex and PAC both looked over to find the Young Bucks, Brandon Cutler, and the Good Brothers stalking toward them. But it wasn’t just them. They had Rey Fenix—and it looked like he’d already been jumped.

Matt smirked. “Did you lose something?”

PAC growled in his throat. He charged toward them—but they dumped Fenix to the floor and retreated, laughing as they did. Nick held up his hands. “We’re saving our energy for the match tonight!”

PAC let them go, choosing instead to help his friend. Meanwhile, Alex jumped up and ran after them—the interview was over.

“Hey!” They all turned to look back at her, but her focus was zeroed in on Matt. This was his doing, she knew it. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

He scoffed. “To send a message, obviously. Come on, Alex… I thought you were with us now?”

He flashed another crooked smirk, and then they all started off again, patting each other on the back and hyping the Bucks up for the match that night. And Alex just stood and watched them go, all the while realizing that she was with them now—and she’d all but said it for the entire world to hear.

* * * * * * * * * *

“You ready to head home?”

Alex looked up at Kenny, re-emerging from her thoughts. She nodded. “Please.”

He gave her a sympathetic smile and held out his hand, and she took it and let him pull her up and lead her out of the locker room. It was the end of the night, and she’d been ready to head home before a single match had even been contested.

To her great surprise, Dynamite had started off by airing the footage of her interview. Alex had barely been able to watch, knowing what was coming, what she’d said. But when it was all said and done, it didn’t even feel like it was about her anymore. The interview had led right into the tag match between the Young Bucks and PAC and Penta—the story became the Super Elite’s attack on Fenix, not her return. And Alex wasn’t sure if she was more relieved that they’d distracted from the fact that she’d basically disowned Best Friends, or more angered that they’d taken away from everything else she’d said.

“I am ready to just relax and spend the weekend alone with you,” Kenny said as they walked down the hall. He grinned at her. “I told everyone to lose my number.”

Alex returned his smile, and Kenny lifted the back of her hand to his lips; but she barely noticed as he kissed her. She was too distracted by the group of people who had appeared in the corridor.

Best Friends. All of them. And it didn’t take long for Trent to say something.

“Where’re you going, Alex? Kris has a Dark match. Oh, wait—that’s right. You’ve moved on from us.”

“Dude,” Kris chastised and lightly smacked his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Kenny scoffed. “I’d listen to your alien friend, Trent.”

“No one was talking to you,” Orange returned.

Kenny narrowed his eyes at him. Alex squeezed his hand in protest; the last thing she needed was for him to go on one of his power trips. Thankfully, he let it go.

“I’ve already taken care of you, so I won’t embarrass you in front of your friends,” he dismissed. “Come on,” he said, and he started to pull Alex past them; but Trent just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Was that you giving that interview? Or were Kenny and Don pulling the strings on your mouth?”

“Fuck, Greg,” Chuck breathed—but Alex spoke over him.

“Was that you who sent that text Sunday night, or did one of them make you send it?”

She glared a hole through Trent, unwavering and angry, waiting for him to say something for himself. Anything. But he just bit down on his jaw, silent. Alex scoffed. It was just as she’d suspected.

“What text?” Kenny asked in confusion. Alex didn’t take her eyes off Trent as she answered.

“Trent sent me a text after Double Or Nothing apologizing for being a dick to me before your match. He said he ‘just didn’t know how to react’ to seeing me.”

“I didn’t know how to react,” Trent fired back.

“Oh, so it was just the apology that was bullshit, then.”

He breathed out and looked stubbornly away, nothing to say again. And as she continued to stare at him, Alex realized that she wasn’t surprised or even hurt by his reaction. Instead, she was vindicated in everything she’d been feeling.

Her gaze sharpened. “But since you asked so nicely; yeah, that was me giving that interview, one hundred percent. And you have no room to be angry about it, Trent, because whether you want to admit it or not, you all moved on from me months ago.”

Chuck’s brow furrowed in confusion. In hurt. “What? Alex—”

“Save it,” Kenny cut him off. “Good luck in your match, Kris,” he added, and then he tugged on Alex’s hand, and she turned and went with him, ignoring the way her sinuses burned.

[babygirldennis]

This shit is fake bby!!!

Here she is.. My masterpost of all the dumb, illogical bits of info contained within these s15 “leaks” that make me fairly confident they are complete bullshit. It also includes my little tinhat theories that have absolutely no evidence.

I will be putting it all under a Readmore in case you don't want to risk it or if you simply Do Not Care

First up, I'd like to point out that these call sheets repeatedly give very detailed backstories to characters that have few lines which conveniently paints a picture of each episode's plot. And I'm not an expert so correct me if I'm wrong, but after looking at other similar casting calls, they only ever include the demographic and necessary skills.

Basically who in their right mind would write up casting calls that give away so many spoilers? Seems like that could cause and issue if they were leaked lol. But anyway that's my 1st point. But onto the actual content

So the conceit of this episode as a whole is that during the pandemic, the gang "gamed the system" and received three (3!) Loans to start businesses that went bankrupt. One of these businesses is implied to be the one started by dee and charlie who end up selling to Qanon shaman. Already this is so impossible baby.

1. We've already seen the gang try to get a loan and it didn't work. They don't have good ideas. Ur telling me, they managed to finagle 3 separate loans for 3 separate business ideas from an actual bank?

2. Maybe I just have bad reading comprehension but how does one have a business that is both fictitious and bankrupt?

3. If the customer is supposed to be Qanon shaman, an actual real life guy, why are the only descriptors white and male? They say he's shirtless so are they going to paint on all of the tattoos he has? And if so, doesn't that kind of ruin the dramatic reveal when charlie "throws in" the viking helmet? Why would he do that anyways? Sus.

Moving on

Alright this episode would fucking blow for obvious reasons but im going to refrain from looking at this through my gay dennis thruther lens because im biased.

Purely from a narrative standpoint, a woman hasn't been shown to be interested in dennis in nearly 5 years during the wade boggs episode. Ever since, every single woman he approaches has been actively creeped out by him. And now I'm supposed to believe that 3 "smart, passionate woman" (In Their Twenties!!!!!!) agreed to go on a date with him? And Anna even slept with him! Just because he what? Agreed with her? I'm not buyin it.

Plus the concept of this scenario lacks any potential for comedy. When iasip gets political, they always discuss a very specific topic using hyperbolic situations and flawed metaphors. If this is supposed to be a political episode, what ultimately lukewarm point would rob be trying to make here? So far we know they're ranting about

The patriarchy

Privilege

Socialism

No more personal responsibility(?)

The... nature of power in society(??)

How on earth would an episode like get approved? This shit sounds like a Ted talk. It sounds like it was written specifically to sound like a political episode so boring and pointless it would generate outrage and mile long essay posts from Tumblr users and reddit users alike. Almost like this one lol.

On a completely unrelated note, do not try and convince me that Frank "casual cock ring wearer" Reynolds is unable to perform.

Jeez this is getting out of hand fast. Let's move on

Ok now we're starting to getting into the Ireland of it all. Let me go on a bit of a tangent here about all this.. Now I thinq there are just 3 possibilities. Either this is all a publicity stunt and there is some truth to the Ireland rumors, the entire thing could be bogus from some weirdo fan (ps, if a fan did write this I want you to know I fucking hate you. You did this to me), or it is a publicity stunt but Ireland is just more bullshit.

I am going to assume it was a publicity stunt, otherwise I just wasted my entire evening and I can't have that kind of mentality rn. Additionally, I'm Going to tinhat here for a second and say that the Ireland rumors are true, but the details are different.

I say this because if they were going to do filming in Ireland, they probably figured that that information would be impossible to hide. In essence, my completely unfounded hypothesis is that this leak was their fucked up little way of controlling the situation while simultaneously messing with us.

Ok tangent is over, returning to the casting calls. From the looks of it, dee starts a "scam" acting class and has some very devoted students (Note that Tony was also the name of the porn shop owner. Seems weird!) Presumably after the gang replaces her with a monkey as the title suggests.

Honestly, there isn't too much here that's a red flag to me... seems like a nice little dee-centric episode that is the link to the Dublin angle. Assuming I am At All right, this could be a genuine plotline for Dee. However, the monkey could be a red herring and there could be a whole different side plot with the guys. who's to say. Next one!

Ah yes this is the dennis we all know and despise.. no red flags for me here really, I'm also running out of steam because idk if it shows, but I am majorly sleep deprived atm. Anyway I'm going to the next one

Okay this is where things start getting weird again ough a migraine just hit, anyway back to my earlier point about how casting calls would never contains major spoilers bc the people who see these wont be under any kind of NDA..

These ones reveal that bonnie dies. Again, that info wouldn't be in a casting call.

But also they suggest charlie has a irish penpal named Shelley who is his biological father. First off charlie is illiterate, although as pointed out by @undeadbreeze shelley could also be communicating in symbols. However, this scenario is still unbelievable to me for a couple reasons:

1. Bonnie's last name is Kelly obviously, and we know it's her maiden name because Jack's last name is also Kelly. But Shelley's last name is... also Kelly? In the context of this big ol hoax, it feels like it was written to show that look! his last name is the same as charlie's! That's how you know that's his dad! But It would be way too big of a coincidence if charlie's dad happened to have the same last name bonnie.

And 2. There's the whole mystery of charlie's long-lost sister from 'charlie got molested' but never any mention of a brother which according to this, shelley has been pretending to be his brother for years. And we all know how much rcg loves their continuity, it seems uncharacteristically lazy to just tack this on without any prior buildup.

And finally let me talk about mac for a second and specifically the line in gus's summary "both are gay men who are attracted to the priesthood for all the wrong reasons"

Iasip has commented on pedophilia in the priesthood many times in the past which leads me to believe that they are implying that mac is a pedophile? Please let me know if I completely misread the implications of that statement, but if not, then that is completely insane and one of the biggest indictators that this is fake. Mac is awful, just like everyone in the gang but he is definitely not a pedophile.

However even if i did completely misread that, it's still proof this is fake.. For all his faults, Rob put a surprising amount of care and effort into mac's coming-out. It hasn't been perfect, but Mfhp in particular firmly established that mac's faith is integral to his identity so Its unlikely that rob would throw all of that away for a cheap shot at priests.

Ok my brain is irradiated sludge at this point, but in conclusion. I hope that 1. I'm right, at least about it being fake (Otherwise damb that'll be so humiliating for me) And 2. This eases ur fears a bit. I don't want to lose all faith in future seasons bc I love iasip and miss the gang. If you read this far youre insane but I literally love you so goddamn much because I spent so so long tapping this out on my silly little phone

Please feel free to add on or message me your thoughts and opinions I need to know I'm not the only one who uhhh went a bit insane. And finally: whoever made these is a cunt. Mwah.

[osferth]

the haunting of cookham house: chapter 1

summary: In the midst of an exhausting flat search, newlyweds Sophia and Anjali Abbot suddenly inherit a large country house miles away in the serene village of Cookham. It proves to be much more than the couple bargained for, however, when they arrive to find it already occupied... by nine ancient ghosts.

tagging: @lauwrite1225​ @maggiescarborough @morosemagick @solinarimoon @lannisterdaddyissues @firexfate @93xdiagonxalley @aadmelioraa @emilyhufflepufftlk

“Won’t be long now,” murmured Finan.

The laboured breaths of the elderly woman began to slow as the ghosts grouped around her bed watched over almost reverently.

“She had a good life,” Uhtred said quietly.

“At least she’s comfortable,” Sihtric added.

“Yeah, there are worse ways to go,” Osferth pointed out, gesturing to the arrow lodged in his chest. There was a mumbled chorus of assent amongst the ghosts before Hild shushed them all.

“Quiet,” she hissed.

“I think it’s happening,” said Father Beocca. “Look.”

Silence finally fell as a bright light began to emanate from the woman’s body, Beocca making a sign of the cross as her spirit rose up to face them all. “Who are you?” she asked.

Everyone immediately looked toward Uhtred, who for some reason was still considered their unofficial leader despite being… well, dead.

“I was once the lord of the village you call Cookham,” he began ostentatiously, “true Lord of Bebbanburg and a warrior with great reputation, now forced to wander the lands where I was slain as a ghost for all eterni-”

“And she’s gone,” finished Father Pyrlig unceremoniously.

“This always happens,” muttered Uhtred, staring at the patterned wallpaper before him. “I do not understand.”

Pyrlig shrugged. “Yeah, well, the rest of us do.”

“I have always thought not everyone seems to enjoy your speeches as much as you think,” commented Skade, appearing suddenly behind Osferth and making him jump.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that all the time,” he grumbled.

“Oh, honestly!” snapped Hild suddenly, glaring at all of them. “The woman has barely passed on! At the very least, we should show some respect.”

Father Beocca nodded. “The abbess is right. I shall say a prayer for her soul.” He cleared his throat slightly before beginning. “Our Lord in Heaven…”

Finan leaned across to Sihtric. “Bagsie her room,” he whispered over the prayer, to which the Dane only rolled his eyes.

“Amen,” said Beocca finally.

“Amen,” chorused the ghosts, Finan a little louder and later than the rest. With nothing more to add, silence returned for a brief moment until it was broken by Osferth.

“I wonder what’ll happen to this place once she’s taken away.”

Pyrlig looked sideways at him. “Well, I imagine someone else will move in,” he said dryly.

“All of you!” said Hild exasperatedly. “Please! Her body is still warm, for goodnessʼ sake.”

Looking appropriately chastised, Osferth looked down at the floor. “Perhaps one of us should say a few words,” he suggested. 

“I shall do it,” said Uhtred immediately, straightening up. “As the lord of Cookham, I…” 

“And he's off again,” muttered Pyrlig, shaking his head as he left the room. The other ghosts quickly followed suit amid murmurs and eye rolls, although Uhtred did not notice as his speech grew more passionate and heartfelt. 

“Who will be the one to reclaim this as their home?” he sighed finally, looking through the window at the overgrown front garden. 

~~

“Um… let’s take a look at the view, shall we?”

The estate agent led Sophia over to the window with an apologetic look on his face, Anjali trailing slightly behind with about as much enthusiasm as you would expect when buying a cramped, one-bedroom flat in the middle of nowhere. 

Peering over Sophia’s shoulder, she was greeted with the scenic image of a local chip shop sandwiched between a defunct barber shop and a Londis. Just on time, an old poster tacked onto the front door swung off one corner and was quickly carried down the street by a gust of wind.

“Well,” began Sophia uncertainly, “at least we won’t have to go far for groceries. Or fish and chips.”

“I don’t like fish or chips,” Anjali muttered.

Sophia squinted at the shop sign. “They also do kebabs,” she suggested, although she did not sound too keen.

“I’ll leave you two to have a chat in here,” said the estate agent tactfully. “Just give me a shout when you’re ready, alright?”

Anjali watched him disappear into the kitchen before turning to her wife. “I do like kebabs, I s’pose,” she conceded. Sophia smiled slightly, but before she could reply, her phone started buzzing.

“Hang on, I’ll just… hello?”

“Hello, is this Sophia Abbot?” asked a slightly-garbled male voice.

“Speaking,” she replied.

“I’m calling about a house.”

“We’re only looking at flats, we can’t afford to buy a house.”

“This one’s not for sale.”

Sophia frowned. “Well then, why are you calling?” she snapped, ending the call. God. Some estate agents really were the worst-

Her phone buzzed again before she could have a chance to think. Still irritated, she picked it up but did not answer.

“Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” said the same man quickly. “I’m a solicitor at Willard and Phillips and I’m calling to inform you that you have, in fact, inherited a house.”

~~

The moments after that were a blur for Sophia and, after being informed of the news, for Anjali, too. Their estate agent simply seemed relieved to not have to accompany the couple on visits to flats that had, quite frankly, seen better days.

An appointment was scheduled for the very next morning. It all felt wildly surreal to Anjali and particularly Sophia, who was baffled upon being informed that the previous owner of the beautiful Cookham property was actually a distant great-aunt… or something along those lines, anyway. Even the solicitor seemed to be having trouble connecting the two, but as there was no other living relative, the house was legally Sophia’s. 

Unable to contain their excitement, they promptly called off the flat search and decided to move in that same afternoon. Neither of them were familiar with Cookham, but the further they drove through the more they grew to love the village. With its gorgeous landscapes and old-fashioned architecture, Sophia and Anjali felt only enthusiastic to be able to call this place home.

“Feels like we’ve gone back in time, doesn’t it?” Anjali sighed, gazing out of the window.

“Yeah,” smiled Sophia, “it’s nothing like Croydon.”

Anjali consulted her phone, reading through the Wikipedia entry on Cookham. “It’s got a lot of history to it,” she said. “Listen to this: ‘By the 8th century there was an Anglo-Saxon abbey in Cookham and one of the later abbesses was-” sorry, no idea how to pronounce that- ‘widow of King Offa of Mercia.’ It’s still there, I think. We could visit at some point!”

“8th century,” repeated Sophia. “Bloody hell, it’s ancient, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, look: ‘It became the centre of a power struggle between Mercia and Wessex. Later King Alfred made Sashes Island one of his-’ er, berrs? Boors? Dunno- ‘to help defend against Viking invaders.’ This is so cool!”

“Is there anything a bit more recent?” Sophia asked. 

Anjali rolled her eyes, skimming over the rest of the article.

“Nothing interesting… ooh, except,” she snickered, “a ‘Miss Isabella Fleming in 1869, who wanted to stop nude bathing at Odney.’”

Sophia snorted. “What?”

“Yeah, there is zero elaboration on that one.”

“Shame.”

~~

“That yellow wagon’s given me an awful headache,” Finan complained, rubbing his head. 

Brida looked disdainfully at him. “That’s not possible,” she said flatly. “You’re dead. And I believe they called it an ambulance last week.”

“Well, I would’ve had a headache if I was still alive,” muttered Finan. 

Beocca sighed. “I am beginning to miss her already.”

Uhtred nodded, although the other ghosts suspected that had more to do with her being an indirect relative of his rather than him having any actual interest in her as a person. It was taken for granted that he continued to behave as though he still had ownership over the cottage - and indeed the village itself - even if he was because he was physically unable to leave it.

A creak sounded from the far corner of the room suddenly, startling most of the ghosts. Skade looked up from her seat by the table, a vase slightly out of place, as she met them all with narrowed eyes. 

Thoroughly unsettled, Uhtred and all three of his men turned around without a word. Brida shook her head at all of them and marched off to sit beside Skade. Their relationship had been rocky at first, certainly characterised by animosity while they were still alive, but spending over a millennium together had softened it somewhat. It was more to do with the fact that nobody else, other than Hild and sometimes Osferth, tended to visit the lake she haunted. While Brida spent the most time at the lake, Hild had started venturing out to visit every so often, her hatred of the seer lessening as her curiosity grew. Osferth’s visits were still rare, however, given that he remained wracked with guilt. 

“I wonder-”

“Who will come to reclaim this place as their home,” Pyrlig said, interrupting the former Lord of Bebbanburg, “yes, we wonder that too.”

Despite their respect for him, Finan and Osferth snickered.

“Well,” said Hild, “I don’t think we’ll have to wonder for much longer.” She waved all of them over to where she was standing by the window, Brida being the last to get there - the last they looked, Skade remained in her seat.

Standing near the back, Osferth suddenly felt a presence on his left. He jolted upon seeing the seer standing only inches away, smirking. 

“Y’know, I’m beginning to think you enjoy this,” he grumbled.

“Looks a bit like that medical wagon, doesn’t it?” Finan commented, watching the car pull into the driveway.

“Ambulance,” Brida supplied flatly.

“I don’t think that’s an ambulance, Brida,” said Uhtred wisely, blind to the dirty look she gave him.

Hild shushed them as two women climbed out. One was considerably shorter and clad in an oversized jumper and jogging bottoms. Her skin was brown and her hair dark and wavy, curling over her shoulders. The other was slightly taller, dressed in jeans and a lilac knitted jumper. She was dark-skinned and her curly hair was pulled back, away from her face. Her arm was around the other woman’s shoulders as both gazed in awe up at the house.

~~

“I think - this is it!” Sophia announced, slowing down as the car bumped over the gravelled drive. “Oh, wow.”

Parking the car, she turned the ignition off and opened the door to let herself out, taking in the sight of the grand house before them.

“It’s even prettier than in the photos,” Anjali sighed dreamily. “And it’s all ours.”

“I still can’t believe it,” said Sophia, breaking her gaze from the house to look at her wife. 

Anjali beamed, pressing a little kiss to her lips. “Well, shall we?” she said, offering Sophia her arm. Sophia smiled and hooked her arm in Anjali’s, the two of them making their way over to the door. 

As she turned the key in the lock, she felt a strange sensation from above, almost as though she was being watched. 

Anjali shook her arm a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said quickly, “it’s nothing.” Shaking her head, she pushed the door open. 

~~

“Did you see that!” Finan exclaimed, watching the young couple before them briefly kiss before disappearing under the doorframe.

“I think we all did,” said Osferth dryly. 

“Times have changed,” Uhtred said thoughtfully. 

Sihtric rolled his eyes. “Have they?” 

He was the only one who noticed the way Brida had begun looking longingly towards Skade, the seer seemingly having tired of tormenting Osferth for once. 

“Well, it’s been a thousand years,” Father Pyrlig pointed out snidely, missing what was going on. “Obviously they have. Jesus.”

Clearly in a rush to get a closer look at the people who had ‘reclaimed his home’, Uhtred quickly left the room - prompting the other ghosts to follow.

“He was never one for patience, was he?” huffed Father Beocca as they descended the stairs. 

Hild raised her eyebrows momentarily. “I’m afraid not.”

~~

“How old did they say the actual house was?” Sophia inquired, peering over Anjali’s shoulder at her phone. 

“Er… oh, yeah, here! It was built in 1808 and renovated in 1953.”

Sophia grinned. “Reckon it’s haunted, then?” 

“Probably,” Anjali said, all-too serious. Out of the two, she was the believer - Sophia was the staunch sceptic. Anything even slightly out of the ordinary terrified Anjali, from flickering lights to objects moving without cause, while Sophia always had a rational explanation handy. Perhaps it was a good thing, then, that this fear did not extend to spiders - those were Sophia’s weakness. 

The chess board was what caught Sophia’s eye first. “This is so cool,” she murmured, leaning over to pick up a pawn. Upon seeing that it was coated in a thin layer of dust, however, she pulled away. As she did so, she felt a strange sensation course across her forearm, almost as though a cold breeze had blown its way over. Ever the sceptic, she assumed there was a window open nearby and thought nothing of it. 

~~

Finan shuddered, backing away from the chess board. “God, I’d forgotten how awful that feels.” 

Pyrlig rolled his eyes from where he was standing a safe distance away.

~~

Just as Anjali was about to collapse onto the couch with the golden-gilded legs she had been eyeing for several minutes, Sophia pulled her away.

“It’s all dusty down here,” she explained, her voice muffled by the hand she was using to cover her nose. “Let’s dump our stuff upstairs and take a look around.”

“Won’t it be dusty upstairs, too?” Anjali dubiously pointed out.

“Nah, they'll have cleaned the bedrooms out at least,” said Sophia, “‘cos the last owner died up there.”

Anjali stared at her. “What?” she exploded. “Which one? I don’t want to sleep in the same room where someone died, what if-”

“It won’t be haunted,” Sophia quickly reassured her, “‘cos we’re not gonna stay in that room, not if it scares you that much. Ghosts aren’t real either way, so... you’ll be alright.”

“Agree to disagree,” mumbled Anjali, letting Sophia lead her upstairs anyway. As she left, she felt the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. It could have been simple paranoia, as Sophia would explain it away as, or it could have been something Anjali did not even want to consider - but either way, she was beginning to understand exactly why old houses gave some people the creeps.

[tickly-trashcan]

Picture Perfect {MitsuKou}

A/N: i am,,, so excited to write for these two omfg. They’re such a big comfort for me, i hope i was able to capture them well in this fic! I also hope I managed to get enough tsundere mitsuba in it for ya hehe. Enjoy!

Summary: Kou and Mitsuba are out in the garden taking pictures when Mitsuba discovers something new about Kou.

Word Count: 1.7k (under the cut)

Mitsuba and Kou were walking together outside of the school near the gardens, Mitsuba with his camera in hand as he took pictures of everything around him, feeling rather inspired.

Insects, flowers, the fruits and veggies, nothing could escape Mitsuba’s lens. Finally he turned to Kou, who was leaning down in the flower patch and picking a few carnations. Mitsuba snapped his camera, a quick flash glaring in the corner of Kou’s eye as he turned, looking at Mitsuba who only smiled at him.

“How handsome did I look in that one?” Kou teased with a toothy grin, making Mitsuba blush.

“N-Not handsome at all!” Mitsuba quickly answered, huffing. Kou rolled his eyes. Typical Mitsuba…

Mitsuba clicked through the pictures on his camera, stopping at the one he had just taken of Kou. He smiled softly, zooming in a little bit. 

“I think I look pretty handsome, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kou quipped, now standing behind Mitsuba. Mitsuba screeched in surprise and jumped, not expecting Kou to suddenly be behind him and seeing him staring - no, checking Kou’s picture!

“D-Don’t sneak up on people like that, creep!” Mitsuba quickly snapped, pulling his camera closer to himself. Kou frowned at the insult and rubbed the back of his neck. Mitsuba huffed and Kou only chuckled softly, muttering out an apology.

“Hey, do you mind if I take a picture?” Kou asked, leaning to the side so that he was in Mitsuba’s peripheral vision again. Mitsuba’s cheeks warmed at the sight of the blonde boy, and he quickly shook his head to try and rid himself of the blush.

“Is that… a no?”

“No! I mean… yeah, you can take a picture. Just be careful with my camera!” Mitsuba quickly tacked on the last sentence, making Kou chuckle. He handed the camera to Kou, who was a bit shocked at its weight. He held the camera up to his face, looking through the lens as he followed a butterfly, quickly snapping a picture. 

He pulled it back and looked at it, groaning in annoyance. 

“It’s blurry.”

Mitsuba glanced over at the indeed blurry picture and chuckled. Kou looked at Mitsuba with a disappointed puppy look and Mitsuba felt his heart throb. 

“Can you help me?”

Mitsuba huffed, crossing his arms. Kou looked down dejectedly and kicked a rock. Mitsuba looked at Kou again and sighed, reaching his hand out.

“Give me the camera really quick.”

Kou immediately perked up and handed the camera to Mitsuba, who smiled at Kou. He held up the camera to his eye and followed the butterfly, snapping a quick picture. He showed it to Kou, who whistled.

“It’s not blurry,” He said, and Mitsuba scoffed.

“Of course it’s not. Congratulations, you have working eyes,” Mitsuba jeered, and Kou frowned, putting his hands on his hips.

“Can you just show me how to take a better picture?”

Mitsuba nodded, smiling sweetly as he handed the camera back to Kou. He stood behind him and moved his hands so he was holding the camera up to his face. Both of their faces warmed as they stood in close proximity with each other, Kou shaking slightly from being nervous.

“Stop shaking! You’ll get a blurry picture again!” Mitsuba reprimanded, and Kou quickly straightened up, stopping his shaking.

Mitsuba pulled his hands back along Kou’s arms, making him shiver and huff as Mitsuba warned him again to hold still. Kou tried to hold still, but Mitsuba’s hands gently holding his upper bicep, so close to his underarm was making him nervous. He giggled softly out of anticipation and Mitsuba groaned.

“You’re so fidgety, what’s wrong?!”

“N-Nothing!”

Mitsuba huffed and gave his arms a light squeeze as a means of warning Kou to keep himself still. What he wasn’t expecting, however, was for Kou to squeak suddenly and pull his arms back, nearly dropping the camera. 

Mitsuba looked at Kou with a questioning look, and Kou froze, his face bright red. Mitsuba squeezed his hands again, and Kou jolted, though he had better control over his voice at this point.

“Kou, are you-”

“I’m not!” Kou immediately hissed, cutting Mitsuba off. The pink-haired boy chuckled, wiggling his fingers on Kou’s arms as he shrieked, jumping forward and away from Mitsuba, turning around to glare at him, face bright red.

“Are you sure you’re not? You seem pretty tick-”

“Don’t say it!” Kou whined. Mitsuba only grinned, raising his hands and wiggling his fingers in the air, making Kou giggle nervously in anticipation. He shoved the camera into Mitsuba’s chest, Mitsuba quickly scrambling to grab it before it could fall as Kou bolted in the other direction.

“Hey, that’s cheating!” Mitsuba yelled, setting the camera down gently and chasing after Kou. 

Kou ran and ran, he was about to run off the school grounds when he tripped over the Confession Tree’s roots. He cursed as he fell flat on his face, scrambling to try and get up before Mitsuba could catch him, but he was too late.

MItsuba finally caught up to him, panting heavily as he quickly pinned Kou down by straddling his back, Kou wailing beneath him.

“Don’t you dare! Let me gooooo!” He yelled, throwing his hands around as he squirmed madly underneath Mitsuba. Mitsuba only chuckled, lowering his hands and pinching Kou’s ribs experimentally. He squeaked, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth.

Mitsuba grinned and dug in, tweaking Kou’s ribs with pinches and prods, his giggles filling the air despite him trying to keep them restrained. They were slightly muffled by his hand, though it didn’t remain covering his lips for very long when Mitsuba’s hands travelled up to Kou’s underarms, poking and scribbling in the hollows.

Kou hollered suddenly, clamping his arms down as he squirmed beneath Mitsuba, who laughed.

“Not thehehehehere! Mit-Mitsubahahaha!”

“Your laugh is so cute!” He said mindlessly. He quickly realized what exactly he had just said and blushed madly, correcting himself. “I-I mean, not cute! You sound like a shrieking monkey!”

Mitsuba… wasn’t necessarily wrong. Kou had quite the cackle, it was loud and bright and squeaky, with a few brief snorts mixed in between. He wanted to cover his mouth again, he thought his laugh was so embarrassing. But with Mitsuba tickling his underarms with such ease, he was finding that covering up his laugh was going to be difficult.

“Mitsubahahahaha! Dammit, stahahahahap!”

“No way, this is pure gold,” Mitsuba said eagerly, hungry to test out every spot of Kou’s and to hear every bit of laughter that would emerge from the blonde’s lips. 

He started to rub circles in his underarms with his thumb, making Kou screech as he tried to clamp his arms harder against his sides, squirming madly as he tried to shake Mitsuba off, but he wasn’t budging. 

“GYAHahaha, plehehease! Sohohomewhere else, not thehehehere!”

“Hmm, somewhere else? Alright, how about here?”

Mitsuba pinched Kou’s waist, making him screech as he shook more violently than before, pounding his fist into the ground.

“Nohohoho wait! Not thehehehere!”

“You said to switch spots, I choose here!”

Before Kou could protest further Mitsuba’s hands were around his waist, giving it a firm squeeze as he squawked, laughter flowing from his lips loudly as he cackled. He shook his head around, snorting and squealing as Mitsuba continued to tickle his waist, going up and down his sides as Kou could do nothing except pound his fists into the dirt and laugh.

“Mitsubahahaha! It’s bahahahad, plehehease no more!”

“How bad? Tell meeee~” Mitsuba teased, rubbing circles on Kou’s back, just below his kidneys as he cackled madly, shaking his head.

“BAHAhahahad!!” Was all Kou could formulate before dissolving into unintelligible hysterics. He could feel tears beginning to prick the corners of his eyes as he continued to howl. Mitsuba continued to explore Kou’s torso, digging into his ribs before going back to his sides and giving those a few more good squeezes and even pinching at his hips. 

“Boop, boop, boop,” Mitsuba chanted as he poked randomly at Kou’s torso, from his ribs down to his hips, making Kou jump and squeak with every touch as his giggles dispersed and he shook with quiet laughter. Mitsuba finally got off the poor boy, deciding that he had had enough.

Kou laid there for a minute, just trying to regain control of his breathing as Mitsuba frowned, worrying that he might’ve gone too far. It was never his intention to really tire Kou out, he was just excited to hear his laugh…

Kou sat up, a big, bright smile on his face as he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Wow, you really got me good!” He said, his voice full of glee as he turned to Mitsuba, who stared at him in shock.

“Wh-Why are you acting so happy right now? I just tickled you half to death,” Mitsuba said, slight concern in his voice as Kou blinked. He laughed suddenly and blushed a little bit, scooting a bit closer to Mitsuba.

“I’ve never really minded being tickled, and it was nice when you were the one doing it,” He said honestly, making Mitsuba’s face burn hotter than a volcano. He hit at Kou’s chest, pouding his hands against him as he whined.

“You - You can’t just say things like that! It’s embarrassing!” He wailed, and Kou only laughed, grabbing Mitsuba’s hands.

“I mean it though! You made it really fun…” Kou said, the last part closer to a whisper as the two blushed bright red. Mitsuba finally broke the silence, his voice squeaky as he barely managed to speak.

“I had fun too,” He said quietly, and Kou smiled. Mitsuba averted his gaze and turned his head, huffing. Kou chuckled, pressing a quick peck to Mitsuba’s cheek as he had his head turned, and he immediately snapped back around, Kou’s face still right next to Mitsuba’s as their noses touched. Mitsuba squeaked and fell backwards, yelling.

“D-Don’t do that! Stupid pervert!”

Kou laughed and fell down next to Mitsuba, looking over at him as Mitsuba rubbed his cheek with his hand, Mitsuba trying to muster a look of disgust despite the grin on his face.

“I have exorcist germs now, yuck!”

“You love me and you know it,” Kou teased, and Mitsuba narrowed his eyes at him, wiggling his fingers at him. Kou squeaked and tried to jump up, but Mitsuba already had his hands on him, scribbling over his tummy as Kou laughed even more, the two of them having plenty of fun in each other's company.

[officialleehadan]

About Bout

“My lord! Care for a bout, my lord?”

The call surprised Edion, who hadn’t been addressed by any title since his arrival in Reinette’s world. He turned, and discovered that the call had come from a man in armor. Or, well, what would pass for armor in this world. It was formed of thick plastic, and probably would turn a blade reasonably well. The man, however, was not holding live steel.

“It’s a game,” Reinette explained when Edion stopped to see what the armored man was about. “You remember those foam tubes we use for bumpers in some of the tack sheds? “

He did. The foam was more plastic, the odd, mutable material that Reinette’s world used for nearly everything. They served nicely to prevent bumps and scuffs here and there, and worked nicely to keep the doors from slamming. Now that he looked more closely, he could see that the ‘swords’ the armored man held were made of the same foam tubes, likely with a rod of one sort or another to give them some shape.

“Practice swords,” he concluded with interest. “He is offering a match?”

It likely wasn’t fair, that he should take up a blade when he had been trained since he could walk by the finest swordsmasters his royal father could command.

“If you want one,” Reinette said, and rested her head on his shoulder, which pleased him more than he cared to admit, all things considered. “They do historical reenactments so people can see how things looked in our history. I imagine it’s a little like your world in some ways.”

It… wasn’t. Not honestly. The plastic armor bore resemblance to the armor he knew in general form, but real armor moved differently, and wore differently. It had to, to protect against real blades.

But for practice blades, the plastic armor likely did very well indeed.

“I’ve some training,” he told the armored man, mostly to gauge his reaction. Most of the combatants seemed to be children and teenagers, There were a few adults too, who mostly seemed to be trying their luck more at flirtation than swordswork. “My father… believed in a rounded education.”

No one in this world would believe the truth of his life, and he had thought a great deal about how to excuse the skills he had learned in a world apart from this one.

Fortunately, his statement, and likely Reinette’s place by his side as a known performer in he Faire likely clued the man in. He came over and let some of his flamboyant air fade away.

“We do these matches for the kids,” he explained with a wry grin that spoke of years of experience. “It’s all good fun, you know? But we also play with another group that takes this kind of fighting a lot more seriously. I wouldn’t mind putting on a real show, if you’re in the mood.”

“I haven’t my armor.” It was in he truck, according to Reinette, who had admitted to packing it with an eye to finding one of the smiths who might be able to repair his breastplate. The rest was in reasonably good condition, Edion had gone over it with a soft cloth and oil to make sure it suffered no ill effects from his dip in the river. All the same, the breastplate was halfway caved-in, and was nothing near to wearable until it was fixed. Not a cheap proposition, but he and Reinette had been discussing money in her world. “I’m afraid it’s badly in need of a skilled smith, and I haven’t the skill.”

That caught the man’s attention. “You have armor? What sort?”

“Plate and chain,” Edion said, baffled by the sudden interest. “But the breastplate took… rather a bad blow. It isn’t wearable.”

“Metal?”

“Yes.”

The man offered a hand to shake. “I’m Albert, but everyone calls me Bertie. You got that armor with you?”

“I do,” Edion said, completely baffled now, but he shook Bertie’s hand. “My name is Edion. Do you know a smith who might be able to help?”

“I am a smith who might be able to help,” Bertie said cheerfully and waved at one of the other men in armor. “Troll, I’m taking a break. Be back in an hour or so.”

The man he called to, short, red-headed, and carrying a huge foam hammer, waved back but didn’t reply. Then again, he was surrounded by a whole pack of giggling children, so his attention was rather occupied. Break secured, Bertie ducked under the rope barrier and passed his foam weapon off to a woman who waited nearby.

“”Love working with the kids, but that heat is brutal in full armor,” Bertie said once he had stripped off his armor and left it on a stand out of the way. Beneath it, he wore a simple cotton gambeson that was comfortingly familiar in design. He waited until they were out of sight behind the row of tents before he stripped that off too and dumped a bucket of water over himself with a sigh. “So, what’s wrong with your armor? I assume it’s not a matter of a few broken straps, or you’d have fixed it yourself.”

“I took a blow to the chest,” Edion said cautiously after a glance down at Reinette, who nodded him onward. “The breastplate is caved in about the ribs. I believe it could be repaired, but I’ve neither the skill, nor the equipment.”

It wasn’t far to Reinette’s truck, and Edion lifted the plastic crate of armor down out of the back so Bertie could take a look t it. As soon as he opened the crate, Bertie let out a low, impressed whistle and leaned in.

“You know,” he said after some thought, and a careful examination of Edion’s ruined breastplate. “I thought I was seeing things. Lots of people in this world have fine steel, and some of them know how to use it. Not so uncommon in the Faire circuit, anyway. But see, every now and then, something turns up. So I’ve got a question for you. It’s a strange one, and if I’m wrong, we’ll say I was in the sun too long.”

“Alright,” Edion agreed cautiously. It almost seemed like Bertie was coming at a point. A tingle down his spine felt almost like magic. “I’ll hear your question.”

Bertie got a strange smile on his face, and looked down at the breastplate in his hands. The one that bore the symbol of Edion’s royal family, visible even through the deep dent.

“How long,” Bertie asked slowly in a language Edion thought he might never hear again, “Have you been in this world?”

+++

Sent Beyond:

Her farm is at stake. His country is at war. Their worlds couldn’t be more different, until a mysterious portal drops him into her bedroom, and changes their lives for good.

Unspoken Words

The Sign of a Healer

Two Words Shared (Subscriber Only!)

Of Horses (Free on Patreon!)

Wish to Stay (Subscriber Only!)

Wish to Ride  (Subscriber Only!)

Faire Dance

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More Stories!

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[yurimother]

LGBTQ Game Review - A Summer’s End – Hong Kong 1986

Before diving into the meat of Oracle and Bone’s A Summer’s End, I want to talk about the women behind this game Tida Kietsungden, and Charissa So. So and Kietsungden have done nothing but impress me since the announcement of A Summer’s End. They have repeatedly demonstrated their immense effort and dedication to creating a beautiful and thoughtful experience. Through conversations with the studio and reading their blog entries, I gained a remarkable understanding of how this game is both a tribute to classic cinema and a love letter to the Yuri and LGBT community. Through careful research and thoughtful expression, the two women navigate and acknowledge complicated issues, including Asian LGBTQ history and Hong Kong’s delicate political situation with grace and maturity. I am in complete awe of both women and their work. However, regardless of my profound respect for these creators, I still endeavor to offer my unfiltered thoughts on the visual novel, giving praise and criticism where appropriate.

A Summer’s End – Hong Kong 1986 is a Yuri visual novel set, as you may have figured out, in Hong Kong in the year 1986. The game follows a young office worker, Michelle (Fong Ha) Cheung, who has a chance encounter with a free-spirited woman named Sam (Ka Yan) Wong. Both women feel drawn to each other, and the game explores this mutual attraction and the budding relationship which emerges from it.

This plot follows the standard girl meets girl story that has permeated the Yuri genre for the past several decades. Like most Yuri stories, the older and more experienced woman, Sam, is rebellious and beautiful, with long dark hair and a dominating persona. Michelle, although far more naive in the ways of love, breaks the trend of this trope by being the more sullen of the two. I would have liked to see the game diverge a bit more from the standard story of the genre. Fortunately, A Summer’s End is a romance story between adults who do not work together, setting it apart from the norms. It even includes a coming out section that creates a more robust LGBT identity than any tale of temporary schoolgirl love.

The story is well put together and well presented. The story is told primarily from Michelle’s perspective. It mostly takes place over a few days, during which Michelle engages in a whirlwind romance with Sam. This story features the struggle between her feelings and passion and her devotion to tradition and her mother. The progression of her affection is unrealistically fast. The story feels a bit rushed, and many of the societal and personal quagmires the game stumbles upon are not sufficiently developed or confronted. Had the game indulged in a more prolonged and tumultuous struggle for Michelle, conclusions would have felt much sweeter, and the story would have gone from good to great.

Even with this massive missed opportunity, there are plenty of exemplary moments and aspects of the narrative. The game pulls no punches addressing Michelle’s slightly overbearing mother and the conflict between the two. It would have been incredibly simple to take the easy route on this one. Still, the developers stuck to their guns and manage to explore a challenging situation satisfyingly, all while keeping the characters realistic and sympathetic. In fact, every scene relating to LGBT rights and history is flawlessly executed.

There are also some fantastic chapters, including a thrilling but refreshing bike ride and a flashback scene that recontextualizes certain events from another perspective. The many references and allusions to classic cinema including some older lesbian films and plenty of Asian works, are particularly noteworthy. However, the best part of A Summer’s End by far is the setting.

The location and time period is intrinsic to Sam and Michelle’s tale, as it is shaped by and reflects contemporary culture and LGBTQ rights. Oracle and Bone create a vibrant and lively world, a jaw-dropping depiction of Hong Kong in the 1980s. Everything helps feed into the creation of this world, including a fantastic and retro UI, small touches such as a Cantonese subway announcement, and objects encountered like a disposable camera help convey a strong sense of the period. However, the soundtrack sells it more than any other element, save perhaps the artwork, transporting the player to the era. While a few tracks are the standard easy listening affairs one expects from visual novels, there are tons of excellent city pop and disco beats, complete with plenty of synths and confidence! Finally, a visual novel soundtrack that contributes more than just background noise!

Sadly, the game’s dialogue choice system and branching paths are far more of a hindrance than a help. I can honestly say that the game would play better and be way more enjoyable as a kinetic novel. Most choices feel inconsequential, changing nothing of the story and resulting in almost the exact same response from other characters yet, they have a hidden points system. If you do not earn enough points, parts of the optional adult content will be unplayable until one goes back to find the right choice. I spent several hours replaying, and eventually skipping through, the game to unlock all the scenes, and finally gave up with one CG left unseen. The only choice with any actual effect is painfully evident in its consequences. One option leads to the bad ending, which is well written, but no reasonable player would go down that path unless they just wanted to see the whole game. The second unveils the true good ending, which no player in their right mind would not pursue, as again, the choice is obvious and adds nothing to the game. There is no reason to put in an alternative ending or tedious dialogue choice.

The characters in A Summer’s End are well constructed. Sam is adventurous without being obnoxious and has a mature though appropriately unrefined demeanor. Michelle is extremely curt and somewhat distant, although she displays a sharp wit and more timid nature on occasion. Both women participate in engaging, deep, and thoughtful discussions, often with each other, although sometimes internally, and thus feel well developed and complex. Unfortunately, their chemistry, while not absent, is not enough to sell the whirlwind romance. There is insufficient expression of their feelings and attractions, both internally or through dialogue and actions, so their inevitable closeness feels unearned.

However, even in the short game, both characters change with each other, especially Michelle, as she becomes more affectionate, confident, and caring. She begins to embody some of Sam’s warmness while never losing herself. Some of my favorite dialogue and interaction came from her towards the end of the game, although I will not spoil it. Additionally, side characters have a strong presence thanks to their firmly established characteristics and a profound effect on the narrative. Each has their own sprite and mannerisms, helping cement them as fixtures in A Summer’s End rather than tacked on assets.

The visual novel contains optional adult content, which is installed in an extra patch and can be toggled on and off. I played through the game with and without it and can happily report that the story is just as fulfilling and complete without it. Although the unlockable nature of these scenes is aggravating, they are very well written and sensual without being exploitative. There were moments I did not care for as much, such as Sam getting carried away at one point, but it felt very realistic and incredibly sensual. The artwork in these sexual encounters is some of the best in the game, embracing darker colors and showcasing intense desire.

Speaking of the artwork, it is stupendous. The game is bright and striking, with amazing backgrounds complete with luminous neon signs, glaring televisions, and life and activity oozing from every corner. The backgrounds are so beautiful and detailed they could effectively serve in place of CG art, although there is plenty of that asides. The character models and designs are similarly excellent, with expressive poses and faces. The various outfits, of which the game has many, embody iconic 80’s fashion. Artist Tida Kietsungden draws both the characters and CGs with a distinctive hand-drawn style, which allows them to play well off each other and add to the beautiful presentation. The detail and care that went into the aesthetics are enormous and elevate the game at every moment. 

A Summer’s End – Hong Kong 1986 is a vibrant and intimate experience. The fantastic setting and flawless artwork surround a compelling and thoughtful story about lesbian love and desire, societal expectations, and the bonds between family and lovers. It is rough around the edges, with a slightly rushed story that leaves little time to wallow in complexity and an awful dialogue system. However, it will win players over with its striking presentation and sophisticated subject matter. I look forward to more from this studio and highly recommend you check this game out!

Ratings: Story – 7 Characters – 6 Art – 10 Music – 8 LGBTQ – 8 Sexual Content – 3 (8 with patch) Final – 7

Purchase A Summer’s End on Steam and itch.io, available April 23

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