#i just finished brief lives so its spam time!

[nerdygayheretoday]

Credit to @Glorie_ on Xitter. Those were my exact thoughts

[elliespassagerprincess]

pls make reader and milf!abby have a baby together 😭😭😭

Baby - part 1/3 (Milf!Abby x reader)

This is going to be a 3 part series! Part 2 will be released soon:)

Milf abby: Part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

baby series: part 1 part 2 part 3

masterlist

Authors note: i'm back fr, i finally finished with exams and I'm here to spam with fics again

☆ Milf Abby who was happy with the life the two of you were already living but something was missing.

☆Milf Abby who always thought you were good with kids

☆ Milf Abby who never really thought about having another kid until she married you.

☆ Milf Abby who thinks about it a little too much, if she has to be honest

☆ Milf Abby who never brought up the conversation of having another baby even though you were hinting at having another kid.

"Abby isn’t this cute" you said with a pout as you handed her a onesie you bought for Mel's baby shower.

"Abby look" you pointed at Aubrey playing with one of your collogues newborn baby: "she’d be such a good big sister"

☆ Milf Abby who would only nod or smile at whatever you had to say involving babies because she was terrified.

☆ Milf Abby who was asked about when the two of you were gonna have a baby.

"So..." Nora started

"yeah?" the blonde looked at her with a raised eyebrow

"when are you and your girl gonna have a baby?"

suddenly Abby's body went cold, she could hear her heart beating out of her chest and she silently stared at Nora with wide eyes.

"We um-"

"Abby having another baby?"

They heard a voice talk from behind them. Both of the girls heads snapped into the direction of the voice and there stood Mel, still heavily pregnant.

"When you have a kid you should be able to play with them, and to run around- don’t you think you passed that stage already? Don’t you have back pain or something?"

"Mel" Nora said sternly.

"no Nora she has to hear the truth" Mel replied.

Abby met the eyes of the brunette and Mel gave her a sympathetic smile: "by the time your baby is ten you'd almost be sixty, you'd be her grandma Abby"

☆ Milf Abby who agreed with Mel.

☆ Milf Abby who avoided you for a few days because she felt like she was keeping you back in life.

"Can you shut the fuck up" she said with a frustrated sigh.

You looked at her with a raised eyebrow. You knew there was something wrong due to her distant behavior recently. You thought she was stressed, tired maybe.

“Abby I just asked if you wanted something to eat”

Abby looked at you with a blank facial expression, before she looked down to the floor, brining her head into her hands.

You walked towards her putting your hand on her shoulder “talk to me abs”

you felt her muscles tense underneath your touch “c’mon Abby you can tell me anything”

she finally looked up from her hands, and she made brief eye contact with you before she looked away once again

“I-“

“spit it out”

“I don’t think we should have a baby”

“what?”

“listen baby” she started, and she gently took your hands into hers as she saw your eyes fill with tears

“I did some thinking, and I don’t think we should have a baby because I’m happy just with you and Aubrey. Don’t you think another baby will complicate our life?”

You stared at her in shock, how could she not tell you about this earlier?

“Abby you knew. You fucking knew I wanted to have kids, and you said you wanted the same. Now you want to change your mind?”

“Can I not change my mind?”

“You have every right to, but you know how I felt about having kids. You know that I've always wanted to be a mom"

She knew that. She knew all of this.

“aren’t you already a mom to Aubrey? Are you saying my daughter isn't good enough?”

“I did not fucking say that and you know that”

“but you meant it”

“fuck you” was all you said as you got up and walked towards the room the two of you shared.

She doesn’t know why she said that.

God Abby fucking knows what she said was wrong. It's not that she doesn’t want to have kids, its just she knew Mel had a point. She would be in her sixties by the time your baby would be done with high school.

Maybe she was too old after all.

☆ Milf Abby who had to listen to you sob throughout the night.

☆ Milf Abby who tried talking to you the next morning.

Abby let out a groan as she heard Aubrey giggle. She brought her hands up to her eyes as she opened them.

The light has always been bright in the living, but jesus she didn’t know they were this fucking bright.

Abby winched as she sat up from the couch, her limbs felt like they were burning. Her eyes fell on you and Aubrey. The two of you were eating and smiling, and as she took in the scene and she knew it was fucked up of her to say what she said yesterday.

Abby got up, still feeling stiff but she made her way towards the two people who she loved the most.

Aubrey gave her a bug smile and muttered a quick "good morning mommy" before she ran to her room. She smiled at her daughters before she focused her attention towards you.

You didn't even look at her.

She felt sick to her stomach.

“I left some eggs for you” was all you said before you walked out the kitchen.

Abby really fucked up.

☆ Milf Abby who tried getting your attention all week but you ignored her.

☆ Milf Abby who tried talking to you but all you replied with was “I don’t want to talk”

☆ Milf Abby who finally had enough and she decided that she should tell you what actually happened.

☆ Milf Abby who showed up to your classroom once again.

The room was empty and you stood with your back facing away from the door. Abby quietly walked towards you.

“hi”

she watched as your body jerked “jesus Abby I told you that you should start knocking” you said out of breath.

"Sorry" she mumbled

"can we talk?" she watched you facial expression turn cold.

“sure”

“thank you”

The room was filled a awkward silence, it was tense and it felt suffocating.

“talk Abby, I have things to do”

“I'm sorry”

“is sorry all you can fucking say?”

Abby wanted to bang her head against a wall.

“I want to have a baby with you”

“aw you changed your mind? What happened? Did I force you Abby? Are you sure you want this Abby? Oh wait! I don’t think I want to be a mom anymore, since you said that I m practically going to replace Aubrey. Oops let me-"

"it was Mel"

"what did Mel do?"

And the truth came out. Abby told you everything she said, how I made her feel.

You gave her a sympathetic smile before you spoke again: "You need to stop letting people tell you you're too old Abby. You keep losing opportunities, you keep giving yup your dreams, as soon as someone says something. You need to learn that you should stop listing to what others have to say about your age"

“I know but its hard” Abby muttered.

You got up and you walked towards her and you pulled her into a tight up “I know, but we’ll work though it. I’ll help you with whatever and if you don’t want to have a baby its ok-"

"no no I want to have a baby. I want to have one with you"

a smile spread onto your face.

"can we have a baby?" Abby asked.

"if you start working on your self confidence and you stop listing to what bitches have to say about you I will then we can have a baby"

"yes ma'am, i'll do whatever you say"

"one more thing Abby"

"yeah?"

"Don't ever talk to me in that way again. What you said really hurt my feelings, and i understand you were hurting too but it didn't give you the right to talk to me in that way. I love Aubrey more than anything so don't say that again"

"I'm so sorry baby i really am, i there anything i can do to make it up to you?"

"You can start by getting me chocolate milk"

☆ Milf Abby who made it up to you by apologizing over a million times, and by doing every single thing you said.

☆ Milf Abby who immediately started looking for doctors and baby names.

☆ Milf Abby who blocked Mel because fuck her and her fucking opinions.

☆ Milf Abby who did started working on her self confidence and she immediately felt better about everything.

☆ Milf Abby who was excited to have a baby with you.

<3

My pookies (the taglist): @lia-winther @hellorai

[keeryparadise]

Hands All Over Each Other || S.H.

[ ❥ ] PAIRING: Steve Harrington x Reader

»»————-　♡　————-««

[ ❥ ] SYNOPSIS: You and your alluring neighbor Steve live on the same apartment floor. You’ve been dying to get a moment alone with him, and when you both get trapped in an elevator together, you feel more excited than scared. Barely ten minutes pass, and before you know it, your hands are all over each other.

»»————-　♡　————-««

[ ❥ ] WORD COUNT: 2.1k

[ ❥ ] WARNINGS: Cliche plot asf, mention of sexual/steamy content, kissing/making out, hickies, y/n definitely has a hand kink, y/n is a pervy stalker, y/n wants to shower with steve, hand sex?? /j

[ ❥ ] INCLUDES: Nervous/awkward/embarrassed Steve, dom!Steve, hand massage, wayy too much hand talk, too much fluff, the most palpable tension ever created.

[ ❥ ] REQUESTED: No

»»————-　♡　————-««

It was an honest accident, or maybe a miracle from God. Yeah, definitely a miracle from God. You think.

Just seconds ago, you stood fidgeting with your fingers as you waited for the elevator to come. Now you stand in the corner of said elevator, knowing those doors won’t be opening again for a long time. And God, are you so glad that the doors won’t be opening anytime soon, forcing you to be stuck alone with your next-door neighbor Steve.

You’ve been practically drooling over Steve Harrington since he moved in next door to you a few months ago. You’ve only talked to him once when he came to your door to introduce himself. But you’ve seen him a lot.

You memorized his schedule: you hear his alarm ring every morning at 7:30. He takes 20 minutes to get ready and leaves at eight to get coffee. Sometimes you follow him. He works until five in the evening and watches TV for the rest of the day. He then showers at ten and goes to bed when he’s finished.

Sometimes you like to imagine him in the shower. Skin slick with water, his hair wet and dripping beads down his toned skin. Those goddamn hands, combing soap through his hair. Eyes closed, facing warm water, goosebumps forming on his neck from heat. The steam fogging up his mirror, surrounding his entire body. Deep breaths as he struggles to breathe in the thick, steamy air.

Sorry. What were we talking about?

He gets his mail every Sunday, around 11. Today you decided to follow him, maybe, strike up a conversation in the elevator. If you’re lucky, you want to try to make your fantasies a reality.

Oh God, were you happy when the elevator came to a sudden halt on the third floor, not moving, not opening its doors.

You and Steve give each other worried looks when the doors don’t open for much too long to be considered normal. His eyebrows raise, pulling together as he nervously steps forward.

“I don’t think that was supposed to happen,” he spoke with an uneasy smile.

You nod, “Yeah, definitely not.”

He steps over to the panel of buttons and pushes the ‘open door’ button. For a moment, he stands impatient, awaiting a response.

Nothing.

He spams the button repeatedly with his thumb, practically banging on the panel at one point. He gives up with a frustrated punch and an irritated sigh.

“Well,” he starts, “I guess we’re stuck here.” He pushes himself up against the wall, his head leaning back, as he slides down the wall to sit.

“Yep,” you reply, mirroring his actions. You sit in front of each other, cross-legged. He doesn’t make eye contact.

He sighs, “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.”

You quirk your head slightly, “That’s not entirely true,” you insist, “who knows how long we’ll be here, might as well get to know each other. We’re neighbors, after all.”

He gives you a slow nod and makes eye contact for a brief instant. You never noticed it before, but his eyes were brown.

He gives you a low sigh before speaking, “So, where were you off to before this?”

Following you, actually.

“Getting the mail.”

Steve lets out a low chuckle, his posture hunching slightly, “Me too.” He smiles at you.

I know.

“Oh,” you try to sound surprised, “What a coincidence then!”

He refrains from making eye contact still and instead stares at a big, yellow stain on the floor. It’s flattering that he prefers that over you!

Steve’s hands lay awkwardly in his lap, visibly clammy. You’ve never had the chance to get such an up-close look at his hands before, but now that you do, they’re much better than you imagined. And God, they look much better, dripping in a nervous sweat. His fingernails curve into a hill, practically spotless. His wrists and knuckles look so delicate that they could break under too much pressure, yet you can’t help but imagine him so clearly breaking you with those same fingers. His wrist bones pose prominently due to the positioning of his hands, and you feel the heat in your pants grow every time you see them shift under his skin. You’ve never seen more delicate hands on a man, yet you can’t even begin to imagine what he’d do to you with them.

“My eyes are up here,” Steve scolds.

You finally break the gaze on his hands to look up at him, blushing from embarrassment.

“Sorry, I just-” you stammer and stutter, tripping over your words, “I really like your hands, and I guess I zoned out looking at them.” You didn’t mean to put that much emphasis on really.

Steve gives you a blushy smile and scoots a few feet closer, putting out his left hand, “You can touch it if you want to. It doesn’t bite, I hope.”

You giggle, covering your mouth, and deny him politely, “No, seriously, I was just zoning out. I don’t want to touch your hands.”

He breaks eye contact and looks away, his kind smile folding into a frown. His eyebrows point up, and he uses his hand to cover his blushing face.

“Ah, okay.”

Your stomach drops seeing the embarrassed look on Steve’s face, and you grab his hand with both of yours in one swift motion. He makes eye contact again, his lips slightly parted. You look down at his hand, sitting tense in yours. Your thumb brushes against the back of his hand like a feather, intimately and soft.

You feel his eyes staring at the top of your head and look back up at him through your eyelashes, desire sparkling and mixing in the colors. His pupils dilate at the sudden eye contact, and you press more firmly into his hand, maintaining magnet-like staring with your eyes. The deep brown of his eyes mix with the black of his pupil, and soon everything is a mess of chocolate-colored desire and intimacy.

Your thumbs push firmly between Steve’s knuckles and along the back of his hand, and you feel knots of tension release with every press. You massage his palm with the rest of your fingers and finally break eye contact to flip his hand over and study his palm. You cup the back of his hand with one of yours and use your other hand to trace the lines in his palm with a careful index finger.

“You can hand read?” Steve questions.

You shake your head and continue tracing his lines with the nail on your pointer finger, “No, I’m just studying you.”

You close his hand and tilt your face back up at his eyes to see the blush spread on his cheeks. A sweet smile forms on your lips, and you stroke his fist with both thumbs, slow and careful.

You look back down at Steve’s hand and give it back.

It’s not until you look back into his eyes that you realize how close you have gotten to each other’s faces. A hot breath escapes his parted lips, warming up your entire face. You’re so close that your noses touch, causing you to flinch backward from the shock.

A small whisper attempts to escape your lips, and a barely recognizable “thank you” is all you can manage. You cover your face in embarrassment and lean away from the heated body in front of you.

You hear him clear his throat to speak, “Yeah, anytime.”

Anytime? Do you really mean anytime? I’d love to do that all the time actually, let me give you massages all the time, it doesn’t just have to be your hands, I do other things too if you want. I definitely want to. Please let me massage you all the time-

Steve places a gentle hand on your knee and brushes it with his finger. The sudden warmth startles you out of an obsessive trance, and you look back at him longingly.

He gives you an awkward smile, “You still have to do the other hand.”

You twist your body back toward him and slowly pick his right hand up with yours. You repeat the same process, gently kneading his hands like a thick dough. You press on certain spots, releasing tension in his wrist and knuckles, slowly and delicately. You try desperately to make this moment last.

You press down on the spot between his index and middle finger’s knuckles, and Steve lets out a soft moan. The hand you were just massaging flies straight onto his mouth, and he furrows his eyebrows.

“I’m so sorry,” he stammers, “I don’t know what that was, I’m so sorry.”

You stare at him for a moment, expressionless, and pull his right hand back into yours. You find the spot again, pressing softly at first. He bites his lip with his eyebrows pulled together, holding back something desperately trying to crawl its way out of his vocal cords. You glimpse up at him through thick eyelashes and pull his hand closer into your lap. His index finger twitches nervously from the pressure between his knuckles. You can see the desperation sparking in his eyes as you inch closer. You don’t flinch when your noses touch this time.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

You give him a smug smile, lips mocking him, “It’s a little too early for that, isn’t it? Buy a girl a drink first.”

Steve inches away and looks at your surroundings, “Oh, I wish I could, but um-” he makes eye contact again, “It seems I’m stuck in an elevator right now. Sorry.”

You let go of his hand to cover your laugh.

“That’s true, I guess.” You inch back toward him, cupping a hand to his cheek and using your other hand to interlock your fingers in your lap.

Steve wraps his free hand around your waist. Even over your shirt, you feel all the warmth from his hand seeping through the fabric, making your stomach tingle. His eyes narrow, and his smile fades as he inches closer, lips barely pursing.

Your hot breaths mix in the small pocket of air you share between your faces. Your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. Your stomach churns and dances inside you. 

You press down on the spot between Steve’s knuckles, and he melts into you. 

He pushes himself on top of you, pinning you to the disgusting elevator floor, one hand cupped to your face and the other hands down on the floor. He smashes your lips together, barely able to control himself anymore. His legs wrap around your waist as he pushes your bodies together.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer to your body. He lets out a breathy swear when you accidentally press your body into the bulge in his jeans. You arch your back in an attempt to feel more of the heat from his body. Your arms travel up his back, tracing the indent of his back muscles with a gentle finger.

Steve passionately presses your lips together, breathing deeply as he practically grinds himself into you.

You let out a quiet moan, throwing your head back to give him access to your neck. He plants particular kisses on your collar bone, slowly moving up to your neck. He pushes your hair out of the way to start kissing you all over, looking for the spot you like the most.

It didn’t take long before he found your sweet spot. His lips suck at your neck, and his tongue swirls on the skin in his mouth. You arch your back upward into him with another soft moan. You press your waist into his jeans again, causing him to free your neck from his mouth and let out a shuddery breath.

Steve eyes the hickies now decorating your neck, pleased with himself. He positions your face back in front of his and plants a kiss on your sucked lips.

Your breath hitches when the elevator lets out a quiet ding, and the two of you jump out of each other’s grasp, startled. You feel the elevator start to move again.

You make brief eye contact with Steve, the two of you trying to process the interruption. The elevator dings again, and the door opens to the first floor.

You both stand up slowly, in shock, straightening your clothes and fixing your hair.

“We’ll have to finish this another time,” Steve starts, “I need to get my mail.” He leaves you alone in the elevator as the door closes on you and your confused face.

That really just happened, didn’t it?

»»————-　♡　————-««

[ ❥ ] ~ KEERY PARADISE

[hb-writes]

We’re Alright

Summary: For the angst prompt “I miss being in your arms.” John and Lucy Watson keep in touch by email while he’s away for the war, but when Lucy’s latest missive goes unanswered for several weeks, she begins to worry about her brother.

Characters: John Watson & Lucy Watson (Watson!sister)

Content Warning: Angst (and comfort), War, Alcoholism

--

It was so quick, email.

The short span of time that passed from inception to send to received made it so Lucy Watson could connect with her brother in mere minutes, or half a minute if she typed quickly enough, almost no time at all in the scheme of things. She should have been more grateful for it, for the connection, for the ability to reach her brother when he was so far across the globe, unable to reach him or hear him. And she was grateful, even if it always left her wanting for a bit more.

It was much faster than dealing with the standard post. In theory, John received the messages as soon as they were sent. He had hypothetical access to her words at the very moment she hit the send button. He could write back the very same day, even.

These days, Lucy rarely felt closer to her brother than when a response made it back to her within the hour, a coincidentally timed missive full of what always seemed to be a detailed, thoughtful response to almost every word she'd sent his way, John's words swallowing her up like a hug, like an arm snaked around her shoulder while he asked after her day at school, like his careful hands addressing the careless wounds as he did in her childhood or his soothing voice calming her juvenile worries, the man chiding and commending and soothing her as appropriate, the perfect blend of stern and fun and proud. It sometimes amazed her how John managed to be all of those things in a matter of seconds, achieving it all through the medium of a simple email.

It was the knowledge of that very fact that brought Lucy Watson a bit of concern.

Her latest message had been sent almost two weeks before, cast off in the middle of the night, sometime after her older sister finally passed out, after her wife had left and Harry was exhausted from the booze and the fighting, tired from yelling at her wife and younger sister when the person she really wished to yell at was herself.

Harry and Lucy Watson had reconciled in the time since, the shouting and painful words that had passed between them a willingly forgotten piece of the past, something in Lucy almost wishing she hadn't sent the email to John that night, not at that alarmingly late hour when he'd be questioning her for being awake. Part of her would have been happy now to let the moment remain in the past, to allow it to become buried, to eventually be overshadowed, forgotten by the inevitable next time arrived, the encounters cushioned by the calm they were living in now.

It was a cycle Lucy was familiar with, the times of peace and war that passed through their household, its bounds determined by Harry’s drinking and the apologies, the unfilled promises and the feelings both sisters often left buried and untouched. They were back to peace now, back to their usual indifference, but the cycle was steady, predictable. 

Lucy knew they'd go around again soon enough.

She read through the email settled in her ‘sent’ box once again, the eleventh or so pass since she’d originally sent it, her eyes skipping over the introductory small talk about school assignments and the weather to the only thing that had brought her any comfort during her brother���s digital silence, the vague picture she’d painted for them, a small memory revisited, nothing more than a casual question to test his recollection. 

‘Remember when I was little and Harry’d chase me around the garden and when I grew tired, I’d run to you to keep me safe?’ 

The inquiry had originally been followed by ‘I miss being in your arms like that,’ a sentence Lucy deleted before sending the message into the ether, feeling too sentimental and obvious by it, too exposed even though it was only John on the other end of the message, or maybe feeling that way because it was John on the other side and he’d know the question truly meant something more, was hiding something more. 

Lucy hadn’t wanted to place that concern on her brother, had only hoped he’d take the same comfort in recalling the moment that she did. Or maybe she’d wanted him to know, to pry, to make her confess it all, comforted more by the prospect of that than the memory of simpler times ever could accomplish.

In John’s silence, the comfort any of it brought her was waning. The longer she waited for a response, Lucy thought more that this was one instance of ‘no news is good news’ that brought her little satisfaction, and even beyond the silence, beyond the need of confirmation that her brother was alright...and safe...and alive, Lucy simply needed her brother. She needed him to remember the moment, to bask in the inherent and nostalgic goodness of it, and though Lucy had made it difficult for John, made it more cryptic to decipher, she did want him to simply know that things weren’t quite right at home without her having to say it. She wanted him back. 

Lucy knew she couldn’t really have that, though. She couldn’t have him or his hugs or his smiles or the dry wit or the knowing looks he’d often dole out, a gentle scold offered with just his eyes, a message of doting care given with just a twitch of his lips as he tried to temper an insistent smile. Lucy had accepted that, accepted that she had to subsist on a more meager version of her brother’s comfort. His words. Imagined expressions. Memories.

Lucy spent more nights than anyone would have believed tucked away in bed with her older sister’s laptop, re-reading the messages she and John had passed back and forth since he’d gone away, imagining her brother’s voice as her eyes scanned over the screen, imaging his laughter and scoffs, imagining him fixing her with a look which said he knew precisely what she was leaving out, that he somehow knew that there was more there, more she wasn’t telling him. 

John always knew. He was well aware that Harry wasn’t the perfect caretaker for their Lucy, knew that the girls had their rubs, knew that Harry had her struggles with the drinking, but there hadn’t been another choice, and John had always been comforted by the fact that his sister’s wife was there, a source of stability and calm for Harry, and for Lucy, too, but there were still things that troubled him. 

Lucy read over her original message another time before pulling up the message she’d started drafting to her brother days ago. It was short and overly formal for the two of them, a brief ‘I hope you’re well. Please write me when you can,’ sandwiched between a sterilized greeting and send off. 

Lucy hovered over the send button, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she prepared herself to click, hoping beyond hope that John’s lack of reply was nothing more than a mistake, praying that his silence was due to a message gone incorrectly to the spam box or an instance of an unread email mistakenly set to read, willing herself to believe that the follow up message wouldn’t go unanswered.

Lucy’s finger continued to hover as the weary sort of silence that usually followed the woosh of a newly sent message prematurely settled within her. It was a terrible sort of vacuum that sucked everything along after it and she imagined all of her hope and wishing and patience would be sent off with the message itself, leaving her with very little left inside. She resigned herself to passing what little remained of the night, or the morning rather, with just that feeling for company, curled in her bed watching as the rising sun reached through her curtains to ease her into another day, but the chime of a new message came before she could bring herself to hit send and she moved to her inbox, pulling up the message from John, only two lines in length. 

The first chided for the time her previous email had been sent, but the second was a morsel that could feed her for a bit. It was just an overly casual ‘You can reach me here for now,’ the words accompanied by a phone number, one she recognized as originating from England, in London. 

The computer fell to the side as Lucy scrambled for her phone, fumbling with the keys as she dialed the number, her breath held as the rings continued on, a sob caught in her throat as a gruff throat clearing sounded from the other end of the line. 

“Hello?” 

“Joh—” Lucy swallowed down the lump in her throat. “John?”

John sighed at hearing his sister’s voice, the heightened pitch nearly catching, nearly breaking before she’d reached the end of his name. His sigh was heavy despite being such a small gesture, filled with exhaustion and impatience, and still yet an ounce of understanding and compassion and pity at the very same moment. 

“Lucy…”

She felt the lump in her throat thickening at hearing him say her name after so long, a few insistent tears spilling down her cheeks in the short moment of silence that engulfed them, her breath quietly hitching before John continued. 

“It’s rather late, sweethear—”

A sob broke from Lucy’s end of the phone line. How long had it been since Lucy Watson had heard that particular endearment directed her way? John hadn't even finished with the word and she'd already been pulled apart by it, years of feigned strength and composure at John's absence ripped entirely from the girl.

John sighed again, setting aside his incriminations about the hour, hoping the curtain pulled closed between him and the roommate he’d been assigned to just the morning before was enough not to disturb the man. He seemed to be snoring still, so it was either that or the sturdy painkillers he’d been prescribed keeping him asleep. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” John whispered into the phone, turning his body away from his neighbor best as he could with his limited range, shifting the borrowed laptop to safety. “It’s alright.” 

Lucy continued crying on the other end of the line, coughing over her sobs and gasping for breath, seeking more air to fuel the painful howling, her attempts at verbal response to her brother nearly incomprehensible. And the pain of hearing that, the ache of listening to his sister in such a state and not being able to do a thing to help, he could swear that was far worse than the residual pain in his knee, far worse than the gunshot itself or the surgery or the intensive physical therapy regimen he’d been enduring since. The sensation filled his entire body. He felt it in the dropping of his stomach, in the drying of his throat, in the persistent ache in his heart, but John pushed it all aside and cleared his throat firmly enough to speak over the growing lump. 

“It’s alright. Let it all out, sweetheart.” 

John lost track of how long it went on like that, with him simply listening to the sounds of his sister’s anguish, a few years of pent up frustration and grief and hurt coming out of her in waves as he listened on helplessly from his bed in the London rehab, wishing he was there to soothe a bit of her pain, but settling for uttering of a string of comforting words that Lucy latched onto like they were an embrace, clinging to it as if John was right there in her room tending to the passing of a nightmare, dulling her pain and cries until it all shifted and the sounds that came from her were no longer filled with anguish he hadn’t known her capable of holding. They both shared a bit of relief as the line grew quiet, nothing more than their cadenced breathing falling between them. 

Lucy sniffled and cleared her face. “You’re in London?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You’re home. You’re safe.”

John considered the allegations, considered the truth of her words even though there were parts of him that felt far from safe, parts of him that still felt kilometers and countries away, still in Afghanistan, still fighting, and a sound came from his mouth, the start of a shaky breath stifled almost as soon as he’d released it. 

“You’re alright,” Lucy offered. “We’re alright.”  

John cleared his throat, his grip tight on the phone receiver as he nodded to himself.

“Yeah, we are, sweetheart.”

Three or four deepened breaths passed between them then, the Watsons each staring out their respective windows at the dawning sky, the dark night slowly, but insistently turning to day. 

“Lucy?” 

“Yeah?”

“You’re alright?” 

“Better,” she mumbled. She wouldn’t be quite alright until she actually saw him, but hearing John’s voice had made her feel better and it would be enough to carry her through until she could have the real thing. “You?” 

“Better,” he confirmed, “but you should get to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

Lucy hummed as she smoothed her hand out across the quilt, reaching out to shut the laptop and set it away on the nightstand. “But I am already in bed, John.” 

John snorted, his sister’s cheek loosening a part of him that had become too stiff while he had been away, some small part of him thawing as he smiled into the receiver. 

“Better indeed,” John laughed. “Sleep well, sweetheart. Call me tomorrow.”

--

Sherlock BBC (Lucy Watson) Masterlist

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist 

[senorarelojes]

Pizzaverse artwork and ficlet: 'A Little Piece'

@maiyashu made this really cute and beautiful Instagram post of Pizzaverse Dave being silly and drawing little monsters/creatures on the notes he leaves for Alan and their kids around the house. Of course, Alan shows off his husband's work on Instagram. Under the artwork is an accompanying ficlet set in the future for the Pizzaverse timeline. Thank you dear Shu for your gorgeous (and funny) artwork! Happy Father's Day to the boys!

Title: A Little Piece Pairing: Dave/Alan Rating: General Tags: Pizzaverse, Kid Fic, Fluff

Dave was always amused whenever Alan teased him about being the one in their relationship who was more addicted to social media. It seemed they were both on an even keel; Alan posted more often, while Dave had a variety of accounts across various platforms that he’d lost interest in after the initial posting frenzy. They had their different addictions too: Dave liked the spontaneity of Twitter and TikTok, while Alan for some reason preferred Facebook and Reddit. But Instagram was their common vice, and most of their friend circle were on it as well.

Before fatherhood, Dave had imagined that his use of social media would dwindle because he simply wouldn’t have the time. But instead he’d found the opposite to be true: now he wanted to post about Alan, Paris and Stella all the time, and he didn’t even care if no one outside their family and a few chosen friends would find it cute.

Of course, both Dave and Alan took care to obscure the faces of their daughters. But the adorable things they did were up for grabs: Paris’ first steps, then followed by Stella’s in a few years. Their first stuffed toys. Their first drawings. Dave shamelessly spammed his IG feed with various pictures and videos, and refused to feel bad about it because Martin was doing the same with his kids, and so was Fletch, who seemed convinced that his daughter was a maths prodigy.

Of course, Dave posted pictures of Alan on his feed as well. Naturally his husband was usually included if it was a picture or video with one of the girls, such as Alan helping Paris with her homework or feeding Stella at dinnertime. But sometimes Dave saved a few precious shots he’d snuck on his phone, like Alan frowning at the computer in his tiny makeshift home studio, or stealing a rare moment after the girls had gone to bed to listen to one of the many records he owned. Those didn’t get as many likes and comments as anything Dave posted of the girls, but he didn’t care much.

In truth, Dave would have probably gone on like this if Alan hadn’t taken him aside one night and asked him why he’d stopped posting pictures of his art. “My art?” Dave echoed, genuinely surprised that Alan had been keeping track because Dave certainly hadn’t.

“Yeah, your paintings.” Alan gestured towards Dave’s most recent effort, which was a white cat posing regally by a candle. Even that had been painted more than a year ago, before Stella had come into their lives. “You don’t really post them anymore. Or paint much more, for that matter.”

Dave just kept staring at Alan in astonishment. When they had gotten married and subsequently made the decision to become parents via surrogacy, it had been pretty much an unspoken agreement between them that family and work would have higher priority. This meant their hobbies were naturally the first thing to be sacrificed for time, and Dave had been fine with that. They hadn’t touched the band in years, not since the last time everyone had performed at Martin’s wedding.

But now Dave realised that he missed painting with an ache like a phantom limb, like something that had always been a part of him was now oddly missing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d picked up a paintbrush for the hell of it. Everything he’d designed or illustrated over the past year had solely been for work, and that thought pained him like a spike through his solar plexus.

In contrast, Alan - who had always been very driven and disciplined - seemed to have no problem reviving his interests in mixing and composing after Stella had started sleeping at more regular hours. So Dave didn't even have the excuse of fatherhood.

“You should pick it up again,” Alan told him with a gentle squeeze of his hand, before moving on to the topic of Father’s Day, which was coming up. Dave just nodded distractedly when Alan suggested ordering in brunch from a nice restaurant, still preoccupied with thoughts of Alan’s mind-blowing revelation.

After that conversation with Alan, Dave decided to try and carve out time for painting. Although that wasn’t always possible, he did want to show Alan he was trying, so he started with small gestures. If he left reminders and post-its for Alan around the house, he’d be sure to draw a funny cartoon to accompany his loopy handwriting, like a sentient postbox (to remind Alan to go to the post office) or a funny caricature of Martin and Fletch (to ask Alan if he wanted to have dinner and catch up with them).

Alan never really mentioned the little drawings beyond an amused eye-roll, but Dave knew Alan was never particularly verbose about his true sentiments anyway. Dave had learned to look towards Alan’s actions instead. Sure enough, Alan started taking pictures of Dave’s little drawings and posting them on Instagram with an accompanying dry and witty caption, along with the hashtag ‘#artisthusband’. To Dave’s surprise, it really took off among their friends and other family members, and Dave always had to fend off demands from his mum and Sue about more cute artwork everytime he called home.

Since Paris and Stella loved the drawings too, he started drawing little monsters for them on their paper lunch bags, which he would prepare for them before Alan would drop them off at daycare. It wasn’t long before Alan started posting these on Instagram too, and his comment section would get animated at times because Martin, Fletch, Paul, Daryl and the rest would start discussing which creature Dave had meant to draw. He didn’t have the heart to tell them he’d made them all up on the spot.

Having Alan’s support like this, even for his silly little drawings, was more fulfilling and touching than Dave had expected. So he’d really meant it when he said he was going to get art supplies, but more often than not Dave would get distracted and buy Elsa colouring books for the girls instead. Alan hadn’t said anything at all, but Dave knew how to read him pretty well by now. His husband was definitely planning something.

On the morning of Father’s Day, Dave was the first out of bed so he put in the order at the restaurant before going for a run in Hyde Park. His metabolism wasn’t what it used to be, and he’d gotten into the habit of eating off the girls’ plates whenever they couldn’t finish their food. Alan was a really good cook too, so Dave knew he had to fit in a run today if he was going to be feasting on french toast and eggs benedict for Father’s Day.

When he got home, he thought he spotted Alan in the study with a giggling Paris and Stella. “Hello, my loves,” he yelled out at the door, even more mystified when Alan quickly stepped out of the study with the girls, closing the door hurriedly behind them.

“The food’s just got delivered, I’ll set the table,” Alan told him with a too-bright smile. ‘You go shower first, yeah?”

Dave decided to let his suspicious behaviour go for now. “Alright, sure.” He loped over to where they were, giving Alan a brief kiss and a I’m-on-to-you squint before bending down to stretch his arms out to the girls. “Can I get a hug first?”

“Daddy’s stinky!” Paris protested laughingly, while an uncomprehending Stella just giggled along with her older sister.

Dave’s jaw dropped in mock outrage. “Stinky, am I? How about I make you stinky too, huh?” He pretended to chase a squealing Paris and Stella for a hug, laughing when they ran to hide behind an amused Alan’s legs.

“Just go shower, the food’s getting cold, you lunatic.” Alan shook his head at Dave with a grin before shepherding the girls to the dining area. Dave left him to it, washing up quickly so he could join his family for breakfast.

However, he wasn’t expecting to find Alan and the girls waiting for him outside the bedroom, all of them grinning innocently at him. “What’s going on?” a suspicious Dave asked.

Paris took his hand and tugged him to the study, Alan picking up Stella and following with her in his arms. When Paris pushed open the door, Dave stared in shock at the brand new easel waiting for him, along with the art supplies neatly piled on top of a blank canvas. He stepped forward, picking up the paints and brushes with trembling hands. Alan had gotten everything right, remembered every detail from when Dave used to paint before they’d gotten married and become fathers.

“I had to take a bit out of the holiday budget for this,” came Alan’s soft voice behind him. “But it’s worth it for me to delay our trip. I’d rather see you painting again.”

“We want more of Daddy’s paper monsters!” Paris declared gleefully, while Stella stared at all of them in bafflement.

“I--” Dave just couldn’t speak. His heart was so full, like it was going to overflow with joy and sentiment and his overwhelming love for his family. There were simply no words that could possibly encapsulate the emotions warring within him now, so instead he grabbed Alan and the girls to him in a tight hug, his breaths ragged and his eyes wet.

“Happy Father’s Day,” Alan said quietly, the smile evident in his voice even though Dave couldn’t quite see his face.

“You too, Al.” Dave pulled away to kiss him, then smothered his squealing girls with equal affection.

[lauraashley93]

I don’t love you anymore

Part 2:

This is part 2. Don’t worry, there WILL be a part 3 but I just felt this was getting REALLY long and I wanted to continue it so it wasn’t SO much. So, please enjoy part 2 :)

Reader is trying to move on after her and Angel’s break up. But are either of them really truly happy? Will they find there way back to each other?

Warnings: angst? Swearing? Brief Mentions of suicide.

A year.

It’s been 365 days. You don’t know how long a year is until you spend a year missing something, no, someone.

You thought moving would help. You moved back to your aunts house 2,000 plus miles away. Thinking that maybe it would help you move on. It didn’t. You felt there was no closure. Even though Angel had said everything to you, you felt that there was more to it but instead of trying again you ran. You ran and ran and now here you were still just as miserable as you had been because even though it was hell loving him, it was heaven when he WAS loving you and now you were stuck. Not moving forward and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was okay. Was he regretting it? Was he sad? Or was he off to the next one living like you never existed. You pushed that thought from your mind. You didn’t want to think about it. A knock at your door suddenly interrupted your pity party as you looked up.

“y/n?” Are you awake? You aunts soft voice came from behind the door. You sighed. You know you have been worrying her. From being okay one minute to being a drunken mess the next she always seemed to be waiting to see what roller coaster you’d be on.

“Yes, you can come in aunty.” Your voice didn’t have that happy song anymore. Everyone could tell and no one knew how to fix you. Your aunt came in and sat on your bed.

“Y/n, I want to talk to you. Please, don’t be angry but I think it’s time for you to leave. You have been here a year and whatever you’re trying to run from it’s not helping. You need to go back and face whatever it is and close those doors. You are going to drink yourself into a early grave. I love you darling and I’m always here for you but I can’t watch this anymore. You need..

“Stop.” You cut her off. You never opened up to your aunt about what happened. You wanted to shut and lock the door and never speak of it again. Your aunt respected that but apparently you were becoming too much. You couldn’t blame her, honestly, you knew you were a mess and it was only gonna be so long before she grew tired. “I know, I know I’m a lot. But please, don’t give up on me just yet. Please... I just. I gave the wrong person the right piece of me and I’m broken.. I’m, lost. I thought leaving would fix it and I want to tell you I’m fine and I’m over it but I have this HORRIBLE habit of forgiving people when they aren’t even sorry...and I’m still in love with him and if I go back I’ll look for him, I’ll be the pathetic ex trying to crawl back to him and I just.. I can’t. I don’t even know what happened. He just woke up one day and decided he didn’t love me anymore. He finally seen I wasn’t good enough. ”

You start crying as you realize that after all this time that you still love that idiot that ignoring it and hiding it was a mistake and you should have opened up a long time ago. You finally told your aunt what happened from start to finish and she held you as you cried.

——————————————————————-

Angels POV

Back in Santo Padre things haven’t been going very well for Angel either. He’s been a walking disaster since you left him. When you left the first two months he wasn’t sober. He drank from the time he woke up until he laid down and if there were anymore tears to cry he would have cried too. Bishop had let it slide knowing he was going through it but after it almost got him and Gilly killed he finally put his foot down.

—-Flashback 2 months after—

“I HAVE FUCKING HAD IT” Bishop slammed his hand down on the templo table and the sudden noise made Angel flinch. All the other Mayans staring at him seeing what his reaction would be.

“I get that you’re going through some shit but damnit Angel you almost got you and Gilly killed and I can’t have that shit happening. You fucked up brother. Face it, get the fuck over it and move on. If you can’t get your shit straight you’re out. I can’t be having you risk our lives over some pussy.”

Angel’s face turned red. He was livid that Bishop would even DARE talk about you like that. Yes, Bishop cared about you but he had to get through to Angel and he couldn’t play around his feelings anymore. Angel stood up with a quickness leaning toward his president anger growing faster with every passing moment.

“Don’t you EVER fucking talk about y/n like that. Or I’ll”

“Or you‘ll what Angel? “ Bishop is standing nose to nose with him obviously not intimidated. Angel needed to realize he needed to get his shit straight and Bishop was gonna make him see that one way or the other.

“You ain’t gonna do shit, Angel. Now sit the fuck down. Go get your dick wet, hit it out in the cage do what you gotta do today but then it’s fucking done. I don’t wanna see or hear about you acting this way anymore.”

Angel glared at him a few seconds before nodding and storming out of templo and heading to his bike. He needed to ride. He needed to get away and think. How dare he. How could he just expect you to get over y/n like that? I mean, sure you did fuck up but if you could have just explained it you were sure she would forgive you.. you hoped she would have forgave you.

Back in the club house Bishop stopped Ez to talk to him.

“Have you had any luck at all?”

Ez sighed. He had been trying for two months to find you or find where you went so he could talk to you to tell you to come back but he came up short every time.

“No, I can’t find anything. I don’t know where she would have went. She didn’t talk family much. All I know is her mom is a junkie and her dad died years ago. There’s no brother’s and the only sister died in a car crash when y/n was 16. The mom has a sister but she’s completely off grid and so I can’t find shit on her. “

Bishop sighed “keep trying. We gotta figure something out.”

—-Present Day—-

It’s been a year and Ez hasn’t stopped trying to find you. He has watched Angel mask his hurt long enough to do shit with the club and then melt back into his depression and drinking when at home. He’s worried about his brother and he’s determined. So he does the only thing he can think of, he reaches out to Emily Galindo. Maybe, just maybe she can find what he needs.

“And what do you suppose I tell Miguel? Huh? That my ex boyfriend needs a favor? You already know how he feels about our past Ez. Even us meeting here” she motions to Felipes shop “is dangerous!”

“I know, Em, I know but I don’t know what else to do! Angel needs her to know. I don’t even know if it will fix anything but he NEEDS this. Can’t you tell him it’s a friend of yours that you have lost contact with? Or something dealing with work??”

Emily sighs. She knows she can’t say no to Ez, especially under the circumstances.

“Fine, I’ll try.”

———————————————————————

—two weeks later—

You’re wiping down the last table at the diner you work at and about to close up for the night. Friday nights are so busy but it’s your favorite because it brings in the most tips. You weren’t sure you were gonna like moving out to the middle of no where but, it had its perks. After talking with your aunt you felt a little better. You still missed Angel but you figured you owed yourself a chance at happiness. You were grabbing your things when you heard your phone vibrate. An unknown number calling. You simply ignored it thinking it was a spam called until it rang again immediately after the first call, the same number popping up. You furrowed your brows and decided to answer it.

“Hello?”

——————————

—back at the club house—

Ez couldn’t believe it. Emily had found a way to get information on your aunt and she called her telling your aunt that you were an old friend. Your aunt was excited. She thought this would help get you out of your funk. She gave Emily the number they had under her husbands name. Ez seemed impressed by that. No wonder he couldn’t find anything with your name attached to it.

He called the number while the club was having a party. Angel was drinking and trying to distract himself with one of vickie’s girls so Ez took this time to step out to make the call holding his breath... he was disappointed when it went to voicemail so he tried one more time his heart stopped when you picked up and he hoped and prayed you would give him enough time to explain.

“Y/n. Please don’t hang up.”

———————————————————————

Your heart stopped. You felt like you couldn’t breathe. How? Why? Was everything okay?? You were trying to find your voice when your heard Ez on the line.

“Y/n are you there?”

You blinked rapidly as you swallowed hard.

“I’m here” Your voice came out in a whisper. You cleared your throat and tried again. “How did you get my number? Why are you calling?”

“Y/n I’ve been trying for a year to find you. I’ve been trying since the day you left.”

You scoffed anger starting to fill you. “YOU? YOU have? Why? Angel obviously isn’t the one trying so why do YOU care?”

“Angel did. He was gone for two weeks riding trying to find where you went. Then when he couldn’t figure it out he came back and has been a depressed drinking mess since. He barely functions.” Ez said rushing through his sentence.

Your heart was being drug all sorts of directions. Part of you was happy that he was just as miserable as you, but you were sad. You never want him to hurt. Then, you were confused. Why? Why did he feel that way? He claimed he didn’t love you so why would he be hurting?

“Why? Why does he care? He made his feelings VERY clear about how he felt about me. I have spent a year hurting, Ez. I have went through all this shit myself. My aunt has watched me drink myself away, had to talk me out of ending my life” your voice broke. You hated to admit how weak it made you sound but you wanted them to know what you had been through because of him.

Ez’s heart was breaking. He knew that it had hurt you but he didn’t realize just how much damage had been done, maybe it was wrong for him to open up an old wound but he had to try.

“Look, I know I have no right. I know I have no idea what you’ve been through but I’m trying to tell you that he lied, y/n. As soon as I left your house I told him how stupid he was and he thought hurting you was gonna keep you safe if you weren’t with him. So much shit was happening with the club and in his mind he was doing the right thing for you but as soon as you left I think he realized saying all that, was wrong. he hated himself. He went right back to the house to tell you but you were gone. He loves you. He needs you.”

You were breaking down. You wanted so bad to believe Ez but you just couldn’t do that again. Even if Angel was lying he broke you, he said things to you that has changed your whole entire world. How are you supposed to come back from that?

“Ez, I, I can’t. It’s taking me a long time to be okay. Trying to live without Angel was like drowning but I just wouldn’t fucking die.. and I’ve finally learned how to breathe through it and here you are, pushing me back under and I can’t, I just. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

“Y/n, I understand but if you..”

Ez stopped and you were waiting for him to continue..

You heard shuffling and then you heard it.

”y/n? Is that you??”

The voice that brought you to tears. Angel. You felt dizzy. Probably cause you weren’t breathing. Your anxiety was building and you did the only thing you could think of... you hung up.

———————————————————————

—-At the clubhouse—

Ez was listening to you talk and he knew you were about to shut him off. When he said your name he heard Angels voice.

“Ez? Whose name did you just say?” He practically ran toward you. Ez tried to hide the phone and Angel took it from him.

“Y/n? Is that you??” He heard the line click.

His heart shattered. He stood there phone in hand shaking.

“Angel?” Ez stepped toward his brother.

“How long have you been talking to her?” His voice was raspy trying to hold back anger and tears.

“Just today. I have been trying to reach her and that was the first time i have spoken to her.”

Angel nodded and sighed as he shoved the phone back at Ez’s chest and started to walk away.

“Angel! Angel come back man.”

But it was no use Angel kept walking ready to drown himself in alcohol. It had been too long and hearing your voice brought back so many memories. Ez sighed in defeat wondering how far this was gonna set Angel back and hoping he hadn’t caused more damage to his brother or you.

@angelreyesgirl @auroraariza @spookys-girl @trulysuccubus @stunning-shitz @rosieposie0624 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @skyofficialxx @strawberrywritings @bucky-iss-bae @miss-nori85 @cind-in-real-life

[hardkinkbardkink]

anon asked: I am once again sending you a prompt, which I think is like my third one? Sorry for the spam I guess. Eskel is the love of my life soo... Eskel meeting Jaskier after The Mountain, and quickly falling in love with the charming bard. He knows Jaskier’s heart belongs to Geralt, but his body belongs to Eskel. They get to Kaer Morhen, and ofc Geralt is there. Eskel having to deal with that- but it all ends happily with a big polyamorous fuck pile. Jaskier definitely has enough love for both witchers.

listen. i. Adore eskel. i fucking LOVE that bitch, i love him greatly and i love him fiercely, he is the light of my life & my forever favourite witcher character and not even sweet darling joey batey as jaskier can change that like?? eskel is It for me. i was maybe seven when i played the first game because it is a National Classic and you were legally obliged by law to play it and wee bairn me looked at this four pixels of a man on my screen and thought fuck guess i gotta be gay?? the fucking. quest. where he gets his face ripped open. when i tell you i cried. and then he got even hotter?? impossible. i’ll never love a character like that again, it’s been too long to change x

my mild obsession aside, did you mean for this to be so angsty? because it is, it’s fucking Sad and has Feelings and also a soft threesome that feels firmly out of place on my noncon-bestiality-centric porn blog (so i posted in on ao3 too)

as always i look at canon and i pretend i do not see it lovelies x

send in more eskel prompts if you want him to get fucked in true hard kink fashion & also send in more eskel prompts in general i will never refuse

***

Eskel has no intention to stop in that tavern at all, until he hears the singing.

It’s nothing, he tells himself.

It’s nothing, and yet he pulls Scorpion to a reluctant halt, pays the stablehand a copper and no mind as he makes his way, ensorcelled, to hover near the entrance. He’d heard the one particular song in so many renditions his head spins with it. Most of them lousy, some of them bearable. This one—

Oh, but this one seems like it’d been torn from the bard’s very soul.

Eskel waits until the final, unusually heart-wrenching notes of Toss a coin bleed into a brief silence.

He doesn’t enjoy taverns much—the burning glances when he settles at a table, swords at his back and hood pulled low over his eyes. The quiet chorus of gasps when he slips the bastard cloak off and people get a good look at his monstrous, twisted face, averting their gaze quickly but drawn in by morbid curiosity again and again. Their reluctance to serve him, to approach him, to trust him with his own damn job.

Eskel’s had decades to get used to it.

Maybe next century.

He pulls the door open with an unsteady hand, eyes falling immediately to the bard, centre stage as he can manage in a wayward tavern not designed for such performances. He’s dressed finely, lavishly, with great care and taste and Eskel lets himself admire, just for a moment.

“Oh,” the bard breathes on a sharp inhale, and his dazzling blue eyes glitter with a sort of recognition that punches Eskel right in the gut with its intensity.

It’s entirely quiet for a few painful heartbeats.

“Oi!” a man hollers to his side, clearly too deep in his cups to try at decency. “Y'heard the bard, toss a fuckin’ coin to the witcher.”

They don’t, and Eskel would never ask that of them—but he’s served a decent pint on the house as soon as he sits down in a darkened corner, and his cheeks can’t exactly burn, but he feels like they would.

The bard gets through another song, a bawdy drinking tune. Eskel keeps his eyes on him the whole time, though he barely hears the words, mesmerised by the sway of the man’s hips and the honey-warm timbre of his voice.

A faint panic rises up in his throat when the bard thanks his audience for their attention, bowing in a manner entirely too exaggerated for this place and time—and makes his way with a strange mix of confidence and reluctance to sit across from Eskel.

“My apologies for presuming,” the bard begins, and Eskel watches with bated breath as his long, shapely fingers wrap around Eskel’s own mug. He takes a deep drink, eyelashes casting lovely shadows on his cheeks. “Eskel?”

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, but manages to nod curtly.

“It seems that Destiny’s playing tricks on me.” The bard’s lips twitch up in a sad smile. “I’m Jaskier. Pleased to make your acquaintance, after all these years.”

Jaskier. Jaskier. Of course it’s Geralt’s fucking bard, his—

“I must say, I harboured my hopes that you wouldn’t be quite as broody and silent as Geralt is.”

Eskel manages to shake himself out of it, though only barely.

“Sorry.” He clears his throat in an attempt to make his voice less gravely. Less threatening. “Sorry, fuck, just spent so many winters with Geralt talking my ear off about you, I’d half-expected the bastard to’ve made you up.”

He tries for light-heartedness. A flash of poorly-disguised pain passes through Jaskier’s face, and Eskel realises it was decidedly not the way to go.

“Ah, you won’t have to worry about that anymore, darling. Geralt and I are no longer companionable, in any way.”

Perhaps it’s the darling that does him in. Perhaps it’s the overwhelming desire to never see this brilliant man sad or hurt again. Perhaps it’s Eskel’s own harrowing loneliness.

It doesn’t matter much, because he downs the rest of his ale in three gulps, and then there are warm fingers around his wrist, pulling him away and up the stairs, pushing him into a room and onto a bed with a lapful of bard.

“Goddess,” Jaskier says quietly, almost privately, except that his lips hover temptingly close to Eskel’s. “You do look just like him, if it wasn’t for—”

“The disfigured maw?” Eskel adds helpfully, out of habit if nothing else.

Jaskier puts a gentle hand on his cheek—the scarred one, gods save his soul—and Eskel leans into the touch involuntarily, like a dog starved for affection.

“I was going to say the hair,” Jaskier finishes with a hint of kind amusement, and winks.

Eskel knows, with that first hungry kiss, that he’s absolutely and utterly gone for the bard.

“Beautiful, darling—gods, you’re stunning,” Jaskier whispers later, hands roaming Eskel’s broad chest, and fuck, he hadn’t been touched like this in months, so he hides against the smooth column of Jaskier’s throat—sucks a vivid bruise there like he has any fucking right—and desperately ignores the praise that isn’t meant for him.

He sucks Jaskier’s cock to make him shut up, and gets called lovely and breathtaking and darling angel for his efforts. He opens Jaskier up—mouth latched to the pale insides of his thighs, littering them with bruises—on four fingers and so much chamomile oil the smell makes him lightheaded, and Jaskier tells him he’s a treasure, fuck, so good to me. He gets pushed backwards onto the bed, his wrists guided above his head in a soft suggestion of restraint as Jaskier rides his cock with determined fervour, and he's divine, gorgeous, my sweet, darling witcher.

Jaskier arches beautifully when he comes, spills all over them both, his eyes heavy-lidded, still holding Eskel’s gaze, and Eskel knows he’s only looking for an echo of Geralt in his yellow irises—but he flips them over, takes his pleasure in Jaskier’s body, and he can live with being a second choice when he’s used to being no choice at all.

***

“I’ve been—fuck, awfully lonely on the road, gods, darling—”

Eskel’s quickly found out Jaskier is quite keen on being held, suspended in the air with only Eskel’s hands underneath his thighs and a cock driving into him with haste and despair.

Especially out in the open, on the side of a well-traversed road. Eskel licks absently at the raised imprint of his teeth above Jaskier’s collar and yearns to deepen it, have it stay there forever.

Jaskier pulls at his hair, panting harshly, brings their lips together in a searing kiss. He whines at the back of his throat and his sinful hole flutters around Eskel’s cock, milking him into completion faster than anyone ever could, whispering low into his ear, that’s it, that’s it, love, fill me up ‘til I can’t hold anymore, fuck, so good like nobody ever did.

And if they’re never quite alone in their passions, if Jaskier still searches his eyes for a ghost of someone else—Eskel can pretend he doesn’t see, because he’s the one who gets to fall asleep with the bard pressed up against him, soft and warm and kind.

***

Inkeepers take him in more willingly, when he’s got Jaskier at his side, flashing them a smile full of promise.

He doesn’t need for brothels, when he wakes up to Jaskier lapping at the head of his cock like it’s the sweetest treat. When Jaskier’s unable to keep his hands to himself. When he stays nice and loose and ready for Eskel to pound him into the ground at any moment.

“I’m not a young man anymore,” Jaskier always says after, struggling to catch his breath, even if he were the one palming Eskel’s cock through his breeches.

“You don’t look a day over seventy,” Eskel offers in return, and Jaskier slaps him upside the head in mock offense.

Eskel’s never been happier than he is with Jaskier trudging the Path with him.

Which is why the frost crunching under their boots fills him with a hollow aching. A single snowflake lands pointedly at the very tip of Jaskier’s reddened nose, and Eskel glares at the sky.

He lets Jaskier fuck him, then. They get a room for the night, light the hearth and feed the flames. Share a bottle of wine, of which Eskel takes the brunt. Stretch out leisurely on the furs, and Eskel’s insides tie in knots when he watches the silver hairs on Jaskier’s dark head glimmer in the firelight.

Jaskier takes his time, as Eskel thought he would. Lavishes him with kisses and praise and adoration and Eskel still doesn’t think it’s all his to have, but he melts under Jaskier’s touches anyway.

I love you, he aches to say, to scream at the top of his lungs when Jaskier pushes into him, jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut in rapture.

“Come away with me,” he begs instead, on the verge of release and at mercy of the insistent snap of Jaskier’s hips. “To Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier shushes him with a kiss and a gentle hand in his hair.

“I don’t want to leave without you.”

Don’t leave me alone, I can’t bear it again.

He tips Jaskier’s chin up, the bard’s pretty eyes brimming with unshed tears as he nods—and this time, just for a second, Eskel doesn’t feel like a shoddy replacement.

***

They beat Lambert to the keep by three days.

Three days spent reacquainting with the concept of heat and the feeling in their fingers after weeks traversing increasingly higher snowcaps.

Three glorious, uninterrupted days of having Jaskier share his bed in the only place Eskel could ever call home.

When he gets there, Lambert asks when he’s going to get a turn on the bard, and if Eskel beats his insufferable arse in training a little harder than he normally would on the first day—well. It’s what brothers do.

He makes sure to keep the ever-present mark at Jaskier’s throat a vibrant purple when it fades into yellow, and Jaskier begs him for it as sweetly as he begs for his cock, just within Lambert’s earshot.

Geralt doesn’t show for a full fortnight, and then some. The snow piles higher with each day. They all collectively agree that their last wolf won’t show this year, like he did so many years before.

Perhaps it is because Eskel thanks his Lady Destiny too soon, that Geralt staggers into the hall in the midst of a snowstorm, his cloak frozen stiff, frost melting on his silver hair.

They fall into each other’s arms, because they always do; because they're brothers, because they’d been through hell together, because they love each other fiercely even if Eskel can’t think of a single person he’d rather avoid more than Geralt, right now. They stand there in the hall, the snow on Geralt’s collar a shock of cold against Eskel’s neck. And then Geralt stiffens, suddenly, rigid in Eskel’s embrace in a way that has nothing to do with the chill.

“You smell—” Geralt begins, seemingly perplexed, and inhales deeply at the juncture of Eskel’s shoulder.

They fall away from each other abruptly, Eskel’s chest tight with a muffled pull of dread.

“Let’s get you warmed up, yeah? I’ll get Lambert to see to your mare. He might not be too happy to see you, though. You lost him a bet.”

Geralt follows him, almost reluctantly, and Eskel wants just one more night before it all goes to shit. Just the one.

***

Jaskier is sleep-warm and perfect and doesn’t appreciate the chill of Eskel’s skin once he finally gets back into bed.

Eskel takes him too roughly for the time of night, bites at his freckled shoulders and sharp collarbones, has Jaskier trembling and begging for it twice before he lets the bard come.

He muffles his own release against Jaskier’s lips, all too aware of Geralt in a room not a hallway away.

***

The door creaks when it’s pushed open. Faintly, but enough to rouse Eskel awake. He tightens an arm reflexively around Jaskier’s sleeping form, and the bard nuzzles up against the side of his chest.

Yellow eyes stare at them intently, Geralt’s expression unreadable, though the nod he gives can mean only one thing.

Eskel is careful as he untangles their limbs, and his heart decidedly doesn’t pound quicker for a beat when Jaskier reaches out after him and mumbles a sleepy Eskel.

Their footsteps are nearly soundless on the stone floor. Geralt is equally quiet, rigid as a bowstring. They walk for a long time, until they come to a place Jaskier didn’t yet get a chance to explore. Neutral ground. As neutral as can be, with Eskel still drenched in Jaskier’s scent.

“I’m not sorry,” Eskel says finally, and Geralt flinches.

They don’t look at each other.

“Why,” Geralt forces out. Eskel can hear the bones in his jaw click. “Why bring him here.”

Wind howls outside the walls, the storm unrelenting.

I didn’t want to be alone, he almost says, but bites his tongue. Instead,

“You broke him, Geralt. You left and he—he used to call out for you at night, you know? He’d have nightmares and wake up shaking. And I couldn’t help.”

They rarely talk like this, heart to heart under the guise of night.

“Why?” Geralt asks, softer this time. Kinder.

It doesn’t feel right, but it’s what’s going to make things right.

“I’m just a substitute. A lousy one at that. He still—he wants you. Loves you.”

And it’s the truth, when he finally admits it out loud. Eskel is more at peace with that than he thought he would.

“Please don’t take it from me,” he whispers, overwhelmed in a way that he was assured the mutagens were supposed to eliminate. “It’s all I have.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, though he does place a hand on Eskel’s shoulder, in comfort or understanding, he couldn’t know.

***

Jaskier keeps his head high.

“Geralt,” the bard greets him, in a manner far too cold and collected.

He doesn’t flinch under Geralt’s gaze, doesn’t look away before Geralt, but when he does—Eskel catches his expression shatter, fall into a million pieces that he desperately wants to collect and put back together. They slip through his fingers.

At night, Jaskier jolts awake clawing at his own throat, crying that he can’t breathe, asking Geralt to help him, please help him. Eskel holds him until the tremors subside. Neither of them sleeps well.

All the good evaporates from Eskel’s life.

The silly marks of faux ownership fade from Jaskier’s skin, eventually, and Eskel’s heart aches.

He kisses Jaskier deeply, puts all his horrible feelings behind it, and then just holds the bard close. For the last time. Eskel knows he isn’t meant to cry—but the trials merely took away his ability to shed tears, not this overpowering fucking desire to do so.

“Eskel?” Jaskier says, gently, the question of what’s wrong implied.

Eskel shakes his head and holds Jaskier tighter.

***

“You. Apologise.”

Geralt seems startled by the development. As does Jaskier, to be fair, shifting nervously where he’s gripping Eskel’s arm.

“I don’t want his apology,” Jaskier says weakly. “We’ve had our words, and they were very—pointed. Very definite. Eskel—”

Jaskier looks to him with wide, terrified eyes.

And it wouldn’t be enough that he has to give up the one good thing in his life, would it? It wouldn’t be enough that every time they fucked Jaskier looked beyond him and for someone else. It wouldn’t be fucking enough that he was madly, unreasonably in love with a man whose affections laid firmly elsewhere.

No, it wouldn’t, because now he has to—

He takes a deep breath and listens to the staccato of Jaskier’s quickened heartbeat.

“I wouldn’t make you do this, except you do want his fucking apology, and Geralt wants to give it to you, because you love him and he loves you and I'm—” useless, disposable, unwanted, "I’m done. I’m done. Figure it out. Please.“

Jaskier’s hands fall away from around his arm, and Eskel takes off.

He doesn’t really have anywhere to go, when every place he’d grown to love in the keep knows Jaskier’s presence, wears his mark and his scent.

The corridors are still and silent. Grey and imposing. Cold is seeping through the thick stone—cold from this winter and the hundreds before it, and Eskel thinks the walls had never truly known warmth. It’s all terribly dull, Jaskier had said when they’d walked the halls that first time, hand in hand with not a worry between them.

He’d been stupid to grow so attached when Jaskier was never his to keep. He’d been stupid to bring him here and expect everything to stay the same in blissful ignorance. He’d been stupid, and he didn’t want to be lonely again, even for just a few months—and now he’s going to be lonely until some merciful beast cuts his suffering short like it was always meant to.

It is, perhaps, too early in the day to drink, but Lambert’s eyes light up when Eskel goes to him with the offer.

Later, out of habit, he almost stumbles into his room before his drunken brain screams at him to keep going. Eskel falls asleep in an abandoned bedroom that smells of dust and time instead of his bard.

***

"You didn’t come to bed.”

Eskel hears Jaskier approaching, of course he does—but he doesn’t turn to face him, eyes firmly fixed on the window, even if it is just snow there. He does feel quite dramatic, sat in a windowsill like a maiden awaiting her beloved to come and whisk her away. Eskel awaits only peace and for his heart to feel whole again.

“Smells like you,” he says, too honest.

Jaskier shuffles closer.

“I waited up for you.”

A hand falls gently to his shoulder, and Eskel shivers at the touch.

“Thought you’d be staying with Geralt. You—you can keep the room, if you want.” Eskel couldn’t ever be comfortable there, anyway, not after everything.

“Darling—”

The hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek, soft and tender and Eskel meets the incredible blue of Jaskier’s eyes easily.

“I never meant to make you feel unwanted,” Jaskier begins. Eskel wishes only to shrink under his gaze. “I want you so, so much.”

Jaskier settles next to him, their thighs pressed together, the black of his trousers startling against wine-red silk. Eskel feels fucking dumb.

“I know it wasn’t about me, I—you should go be with your wolf. I’ll be fine.”

The scars pull tightly when he smiles, aiming for reassuring; it comes out tired and helpless.

Jaskier leans in impossibly close, the ghost of his breath on Eskel’s lips.

“You’re my wolf, too.”

They kiss before he knows it—desperately, hungrily, until Eskel’s head spins and Jaskier’s hands tug at the collar of his shirt.

Eskel pulls away with a deep, burning hatred of himself.

“Just go, Jaskier.” When did his voice grow so cold? He never wants to speak to Jaskier like this, never, and yet— “I don’t need your pity.”

He expects Jaskier to do just that. Go, and avoid him for the rest of winter, and walk around with Geralt’s scent all over him and a mark to the side of his neck and—

“No. Nuh-uh. Not happening. Eskel, gods, I—I’m sorry, yeah? That you couldn’t trust my affection was all for you, and perhaps it wasn’t, not always—”

Fuck, but it does hurt to hear it, just a bit.

“—but then you had to go and be the most splendid creature under the sun and I, well.”

The gold of Jaskier’s rings glitters enticingly in the sparse sunlight when he reaches for Eskel’s hand.

“I do love Geralt, but Eskel, darling. I love you just as much.”

Eskel could fall to his knees if he were the praying sort.

Fuck, he might anyway.

Jaskier kisses him, and Eskel carries the bard all the way to bed to show his worship in a different way.

***

It’s easy to kiss Geralt.

It’s not the first time he’d kissed Geralt.

“Fuck, look at you,” Jaskier moans, somewhere to their side.

Geralt arches his neck beautifully when Eskel grabs a fistful of silver hair and tugs his head backwards.

It is, possibly, the first time he’d kissed Geralt without the hushed secrecy of darkness and a hard scrubbing to get the scent of release off each other.

Jaskier leans over his shoulder to capture Geralt’s lips for himself, chest pressed tightly to Eskel’s back.

He’d thought the jealousy would smother him, when Jaskier first brought it up. He’d thought he would choke on the image of Jaskier laid bare before anyone else. He’d thought—

But it’s Geralt, isn’t it? It’s Geralt, and they’d already shared so much with each other, their joys and their pain and their lives, and—

“Eskel,” Geralt breathes like he used to so many lifetimes ago, except he doesn’t bite his tongue, now, and Eskel leans in to bite instead at the soft skin below his jaw, to leave his mark there, twin to the one he’d left on Jaskier.

They fall softly to the mattress, him and Geralt, with Jaskier crawling over them swiftly, a sun-warm smile on his pretty face.

“Gods. Gods, you’re stunning.”

Eskel turns his head slowly, lazily, and finds Geralt’s eyes heavy and sparkling. Not just yellow, anymore, no longer the colour of a beast's—rather, the exact shade of sunlight caught in honey. Of morning dew on dandelions.

Fuck, he’d grown mellow.

Jaskier comes to straddle him, all pale skin and gorgeous hair and bruises from his hips to his throat. He settles heavily over Eskel’s cock, the bastard tease.

“Jaskier,” Eskel near-hisses, because suddenly the head of his cock dips inside Jaskier’s oil-slick hole. “Fuck, you—”

“Of course I got ready for my wolves, darling,” Jaskier breathes, and laughs, and seats himself completely in Eskel’s lap like it's nothing. “In fact, you might be partial to know—I had to employ the use of my other hand, to prepare for what I have planned.”

Eskel’s head spins, thick with the promise that he doesn’t dare dwell on. His eyes slip shut; Jaskier coaxes them open with nought but a soft word.

He can feel Geralt stir next to him, watching with a tight grip on himself as Jaskier moves easily, like he’d been made only for this, his one divine purpose.

“Geralt,” Eskel hears himself call out weakly. “Geralt, Geralt—”

Words seem only a silly hindrance, so he doesn’t bother, grabbing instead at the thick muscle of Geralt’s thighs, guiding him to sit astride Eskel’s chest, crush him with all that glorious weight—stuff his cock in Eskel’s greedy mouth, fuck.

Eskel thinks he might combust, go up in flames as he’s caught between the agonising pleasure of being buried to the hilt in Jaskier’s slack hole and the heavy satisfaction of having Geralt’s cock glide wetly on his tongue, further and further as Geralt stares at him, bewildered.

It’s a wonder he doesn’t come as soon as the length of it slides seamlessly down his throat, so deep he can feel it when he wraps a hand around his own neck. He squeezes, just to make sure Geralt feels it, too, and the rumble of a groan from above him makes Eskel thrust wildly into the clutch of Jaskier’s maddeningly hot body.

“O-oh, you were made for each other, weren’t you?” Jaskier’s hand is petting gentle circles up Eskel’s heaving stomach. “Fuck, darling, next time I’ll watch you bounce on Geralt’s cock till you sob with it.”

He reaches blindly to grab Jaskier’s hand, entwine their fingers together. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watches Geralt’s head get pulled back for a messy kiss. The bruise on the elegant column of his throat stands dark and proud and Eskel’s chest swells with it, even if it’ll fade in hours. He’ll just have to try very hard to keep it vivid.

Geralt rolls his hips, knees tightening around Eskel’s shoulders, ragged moans filling the air, mingling with the sinful noises dripping from Jaskier’s lips. Eskel’s vision spots, air suddenly hard to come by, and yet it doesn’t cause him distress; fuck, of all the ways to die, being smothered between Geralt’s thighs with Jaskier tight and lovely around his cock is Eskel’s preferred demise, if given a choice. His heartbeat quickens, though, and Geralt stops his delicious rutting, moves away with a tender look and a touch to his swollen lip. He leans down to steal another kiss, but Eskel’s too floaty, too hazy to do anything more than open his sloppy mouth–for Geralt, and then for Jaskier, when he collapses on Eskel’s chest.

“Desperation really is becoming on you, darling.”

Feeling Geralt’s tongue lapping at his cock when it’s still moving in and out of Jaskier—

Feeling a finger press in alongside him, joined quickly by another and another, until the fit is so tight it seems like he’s suffocating—

Feeling the torturously slow drag of Geralt’s cock against his, contained so closely in the heaven of Jaskier’s body—

“Fuck,” Eskel and Geralt groan in perfect harmony, Jaskier trembling wildly in their arms.

“Gods, gods, fuck, I love you, love you both so much—”

Eskel can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything but suck in desperate breaths and look as Jaskier’s face morphs from pain into rapture, his brow smoothing out, his bitten-red lips coming apart in a perfect o.

Geralt roars, withdraws his hips just a little, and it jostles Eskel’s very soul.

Fuck, he can't imagine what it’s like for Jaskier.

He wonders if—

“Move,” Jaskier says in a broken voice. “You can move, you can fuck me, a-ah.”

Eskel wishes he could Axii himself into not coming. He wishes—gods, but he can’t, he can’t, and when Geralt starts moving with purpose, Eskel feels the crackle of release at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter until—

“Fuck, Eskel—” Geralt moans, and it’s torture, when Eskel can feel his cock throbbing against Geralt’s, and then he’s coming and coming and coming, a shockwave of sensation.

His ears feel like they’re stuffed with thick wool.

Jaskier kisses him, quick and filthy and needy.

“You’re perfect, perfect, my darling—” he says against Eskel’s lips.

Eskel whines at the back of his throat, his hands trembling where they grab Geralt’s hair and tug him to lean down.

The raw, painful pleasure of his oversensitive cock still trapped within the suffocating heat of Jaskier’s body threatens to undo him completely. He claws blindly at any skin he can reach, to ground himself, to settle against the unrelenting drag of Geralt against him. He can feel his seed dripping out of Jaskier and down his balls. It’s fucking filthy.

He kisses Jaskier and he kisses Geralt and his lips go numb before Jaskier finally tips into a shaking release that rips a hoarse scream from his throat.

The bed is barely big enough for two people, but they make it work. They’ll make it all work, somehow.

Before sleep takes him, Eskel hears Lambert yell, I’m moving the fuck out from down the hall.

[dandygirl-4419]

SKZ as psychopaths - Bang Chan ver

Trigger warning: death, knives, blood. I do not condone any relationships like this, this is purely for entertainment purposes and if you or someone you know is in a relationship like this please call the domestic abuse hotline or the police and stay safe!!

A/N: this is going to be a mini spam of stories as I just finished writing all the member's versions. Please enjoy!!! Some member's stories will be longer than others

Chan had gone out for work. He was the CEO of a multinational company so he was a very busy man and came back late at night exhausted. Usually you would greet him at the door like he wanted with dinner ready. This time you had only prepared dinner.

Chan walked in expecting a greeting and a kiss from you but to his dismay you weren’t there. He was already exhausted and didn’t have time for this so he sat down on the sofa placing his silver brief case next to him. He switched on the TV to a news channel. He heard you walk down the stairs and eyed you from the corner of his eye when you didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“Y/N.” he called out to you but you ignored him rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. He was tired from work and only wanted your attention and affection. You ignoring him made his blood boil. Chan was someone who easily got angry so its no surprise when he was pissed at your behavior. Chan pulled out a small knife from the kitchen and followed you.

“I called for you.” He sounded really mad. He yanked you up from a sitting position and pushed you into the room. “Bad pets get punished.” His smile was sinister and pure evil. It made you cower in fear. He pulled his tie off tying it around your wrists behind the feet of the bathtub. “Maybe you’ll understand if I carve my name into your skin. But where?” he mused seeming to enjoy your helplessness. “How about the collarbone? Or your thighs? I could do it everywhere. That way everyone knows you’re mine.” He smirked.

He dragged the blade down the side of your neck, the blade nipping the skin breaking its surface causing blood to trickle down your neck. You whimpered muttering apologies to him. The way the blood oozed out of your cuts was fascinating to him. Your pained screams were music to his ears unfortunately he couldn’t draw the line between screams of pain and pleasure. Your screams died down to whimpers and faded into silence as black dots clouded your vision threatening to completely take over.

He looked at you thinking you were trying to scare him. “Hey stop holding your breath.” He held his hand under your nose expecting air to hit it. “Stop playing with me Y/N, I’m tired of this.” He checked your pulse against your neck but when he couldn’t find any pulse it finally hit him what he had done.

You closed your eyes to rest but it was the last time you would ever close them. Chan realized that he should stop but it was too late. The knife dug in too deep. Too much blood was lost. It was too late. Too much damage had been done. The knife slipped from his fingertips and his bloodstained hands covered his mouth. He tried thinking of something anything that could save you but nothing came to mind. He stormed out of the bathroom screaming at himself to wake up from this nightmare. He threw anything that he could get his hands on. Anything he could find was thrown across the room and fell down in pieces on the ground.

It was a terrible mistake he didn’t want to kill you. He just wanted to punish you enough to know that you had disobeyed him and that you shouldn’t have done that. But he got too carried away. “Y/N…my lovely Y/N….my beautiful Y/N….” he mumbled to himself, his bloody hand stroking your hair. He finally decided to end it all right next to you.

He lost you and his sanity. Without you he was nothing. He had nothing to live for.

[hardkinkbadkink]

I am once again sending you a prompt, which I think is like my third one? Sorry for the spam I guess. Eskel is the love of my life soo... Eskel meeting Jaskier after The Mountain, and quickly falling in love with the charming bard. He knows Jaskier’s heart belongs to Geralt, but his body belongs to Eskel. They get to Kaer Morhen, and ofc Geralt is there. Eskel having to deal with that- but it all ends happily with a big polyamorous fuck pile. Jaskier definitely has enough love for both witchers.

listen. i. Adore eskel. i fucking LOVE that bitch, i love him greatly and i love him fiercely, he is the light of my life & my forever favourite witcher character and not even sweet darling joey batey as jaskier can change that like?? eskel is It for me. i was maybe seven when i played the first game because it is a National Classic and you were legally obliged by law to play it and wee bairn me looked at this four pixels of a man on my screen and thought fuck guess i gotta be gay?? the fucking. quest. where he gets his face ripped open. when i tell you i cried. and then he got even hotter?? impossible. i'll never love a character like that again, it's been too long to change x

my mild obsession aside, did you mean for this to be so angsty? because it is, it's fucking Sad and has Feelings and also a soft threesome that feels firmly out of place on my noncon-bestiality-centric porn blog (so i posted in on ao3 too)

as always i look at canon and i pretend i do not see it lovelies x

send in more eskel prompts if you want him to get fucked in true hard kink fashion & also send in more eskel prompts in general i will never refuse

***

Eskel has no intention to stop in that tavern at all, until he hears the singing.

It's nothing, he tells himself.

It's nothing, and yet he pulls Scorpion to a reluctant halt, pays the stablehand a copper and no mind as he makes his way, ensorcelled, to hover near the entrance. He'd heard the one particular song in so many renditions his head spins with it. Most of them lousy, some of them bearable. This one—

Oh, but this one seems like it'd been torn from the bard's very soul.

Eskel waits until the final, unusually heart-wrenching notes of Toss a coin bleed into a brief silence.

He doesn't enjoy taverns much—the burning glances when he settles at a table, swords at his back and hood pulled low over his eyes. The quiet chorus of gasps when he slips the bastard cloak off and people get a good look at his monstrous, twisted face, averting their gaze quickly but drawn in by morbid curiosity again and again. Their reluctance to serve him, to approach him, to trust him with his own damn job.

Eskel's had decades to get used to it.

Maybe next century.

He pulls the door open with an unsteady hand, eyes falling immediately to the bard, centre stage as he can manage in a wayward tavern not designed for such performances. He's dressed finely, lavishly, with great care and taste and Eskel lets himself admire, just for a moment.

"Oh," the bard breathes on a sharp inhale, and his dazzling blue eyes glitter with a sort of recognition that punches Eskel right in the gut with its intensity.

It's entirely quiet for a few painful heartbeats.

"Oi!" a man hollers to his side, clearly too deep in his cups to try at decency. "Y'heard the bard, toss a fuckin' coin to the witcher."

They don't, and Eskel would never ask that of them—but he's served a decent pint on the house as soon as he sits down in a darkened corner, and his cheeks can't exactly burn, but he feels like they would.

The bard gets through another song, a bawdy drinking tune. Eskel keeps his eyes on him the whole time, though he barely hears the words, mesmerised by the sway of the man's hips and the honey-warm timbre of his voice.

A faint panic rises up in his throat when the bard thanks his audience for their attention, bowing in a manner entirely too exaggerated for this place and time—and makes his way with a strange mix of confidence and reluctance to sit across from Eskel.

"My apologies for presuming," the bard begins, and Eskel watches with bated breath as his long, shapely fingers wrap around Eskel's own mug. He takes a deep drink, eyelashes casting lovely shadows on his cheeks. "Eskel?"

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, but manages to nod curtly.

"It seems that Destiny's playing tricks on me." The bard's lips twitch up in a sad smile. "I'm Jaskier. Pleased to make your acquaintance, after all these years."

Jaskier. Jaskier. Of course it's Geralt's fucking bard, his—

"I must say, I harboured my hopes that you wouldn't be quite as broody and silent as Geralt is."

Eskel manages to shake himself out of it, though only barely.

"Sorry." He clears his throat in an attempt to make his voice less gravely. Less threatening. "Sorry, fuck, just spent so many winters with Geralt talking my ear off about you, I'd half-expected the bastard to've made you up."

He tries for light-heartedness. A flash of poorly-disguised pain passes through Jaskier's face, and Eskel realises it was decidedly not the way to go.

"Ah, you won't have to worry about that anymore, darling. Geralt and I are no longer companionable, in any way."

Perhaps it's the darling that does him in. Perhaps it's the overwhelming desire to never see this brilliant man sad or hurt again. Perhaps it's Eskel's own harrowing loneliness.

It doesn't matter much, because he downs the rest of his ale in three gulps, and then there are warm fingers around his wrist, pulling him away and up the stairs, pushing him into a room and onto a bed with a lapful of bard.

"Goddess," Jaskier says quietly, almost privately, except that his lips hover temptingly close to Eskel's. "You do look just like him, if it wasn't for—"

"The disfigured maw?" Eskel adds helpfully, out of habit if nothing else.

Jaskier puts a gentle hand on his cheek—the scarred one, gods save his soul—and Eskel leans into the touch involuntarily, like a dog starved for affection.

"I was going to say the hair," Jaskier finishes with a hint of kind amusement, and winks.

Eskel knows, with that first hungry kiss, that he's absolutely and utterly gone for the bard.

"Beautiful, darling—gods, you're stunning," Jaskier whispers later, hands roaming Eskel's broad chest, and fuck, he hadn't been touched like this in months, so he hides against the smooth column of Jaskier's throat—sucks a vivid bruise there like he has any fucking right—and desperately ignores the praise that isn't meant for him.

He sucks Jaskier's cock to make him shut up, and gets called lovely and breathtaking and darling angel for his efforts. He opens Jaskier up—mouth latched to the pale insides of his thighs, littering them with bruises—on four fingers and so much chamomile oil the smell makes him lightheaded, and Jaskier tells him he's a treasure, fuck, so good to me. He gets pushed backwards onto the bed, his wrists guided above his head in a soft suggestion of restraint as Jaskier rides his cock with determined fervour, and he's divine, gorgeous, my sweet, darling witcher.

Jaskier arches beautifully when he comes, spills all over them both, his eyes heavy-lidded, still holding Eskel's gaze, and Eskel knows he's only looking for an echo of Geralt in his yellow irises—but he flips them over, takes his pleasure in Jaskier's body, and he can live with being a second choice when he's used to being no choice at all.

***

"I've been—fuck, awfully lonely on the road, gods, darling—"

Eskel's quickly found out Jaskier is quite keen on being held, suspended in the air with only Eskel's hands underneath his thighs and a cock driving into him with haste and despair.

Especially out in the open, on the side of a well-traversed road. Eskel licks absently at the raised imprint of his teeth above Jaskier's collar and yearns to deepen it, have it stay there forever.

Jaskier pulls at his hair, panting harshly, brings their lips together in a searing kiss. He whines at the back of his throat and his sinful hole flutters around Eskel's cock, milking him into completion faster than anyone ever could, whispering low into his ear, that's it, that's it, love, fill me up 'til I can't hold anymore, fuck, so good like nobody ever did.

And if they're never quite alone in their passions, if Jaskier still searches his eyes for a ghost of someone else—Eskel can pretend he doesn't see, because he's the one who gets to fall asleep with the bard pressed up against him, soft and warm and kind.

***

Inkeepers take him in more willingly, when he's got Jaskier at his side, flashing them a smile full of promise.

He doesn't need for brothels, when he wakes up to Jaskier lapping at the head of his cock like it's the sweetest treat. When Jaskier's unable to keep his hands to himself. When he stays nice and loose and ready for Eskel to pound him into the ground at any moment.

"I'm not a young man anymore," Jaskier always says after, struggling to catch his breath, even if he were the one palming Eskel's cock through his breeches.

"You don't look a day over seventy," Eskel offers in return, and Jaskier slaps him upside the head in mock offense.

Eskel's never been happier than he is with Jaskier trudging the Path with him.

Which is why the frost crunching under their boots fills him with a hollow aching. A single snowflake lands pointedly at the very tip of Jaskier's reddened nose, and Eskel glares at the sky.

He lets Jaskier fuck him, then. They get a room for the night, light the hearth and feed the flames. Share a bottle of wine, of which Eskel takes the brunt. Stretch out leisurely on the furs, and Eskel's insides tie in knots when he watches the silver hairs on Jaskier's dark head glimmer in the firelight.

Jaskier takes his time, as Eskel thought he would. Lavishes him with kisses and praise and adoration and Eskel still doesn't think it's all his to have, but he melts under Jaskier's touches anyway.

I love you, he aches to say, to scream at the top of his lungs when Jaskier pushes into him, jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut in rapture.

"Come away with me," he begs instead, on the verge of release and at mercy of the insistent snap of Jaskier's hips. "To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier shushes him with a kiss and a gentle hand in his hair.

"I don't want to leave without you."

Don't leave me alone, I can't bear it again.

He tips Jaskier's chin up, the bard's pretty eyes brimming with unshed tears as he nods—and this time, just for a second, Eskel doesn't feel like a shoddy replacement.

***

They beat Lambert to the keep by three days.

Three days spent reacquainting with the concept of heat and the feeling in their fingers after weeks traversing increasingly higher snowcaps.

Three glorious, uninterrupted days of having Jaskier share his bed in the only place Eskel could ever call home.

When he gets there, Lambert asks when he's going to get a turn on the bard, and if Eskel beats his insufferable arse in training a little harder than he normally would on the first day—well. It's what brothers do.

He makes sure to keep the ever-present mark at Jaskier's throat a vibrant purple when it fades into yellow, and Jaskier begs him for it as sweetly as he begs for his cock, just within Lambert's earshot.

Geralt doesn't show for a full fortnight, and then some. The snow piles higher with each day. They all collectively agree that their last wolf won't show this year, like he did so many years before.

Perhaps it is because Eskel thanks his Lady Destiny too soon, that Geralt staggers into the hall in the midst of a snowstorm, his cloak frozen stiff, frost melting on his silver hair.

They fall into each other's arms, because they always do; because they're brothers, because they'd been through hell together, because they love each other fiercely even if Eskel can't think of a single person he'd rather avoid more than Geralt, right now. They stand there in the hall, the snow on Geralt's collar a shock of cold against Eskel's neck. And then Geralt stiffens, suddenly, rigid in Eskel's embrace in a way that has nothing to do with the chill.

"You smell—" Geralt begins, seemingly perplexed, and inhales deeply at the juncture of Eskel's shoulder.

They fall away from each other abruptly, Eskel's chest tight with a muffled pull of dread.

"Let's get you warmed up, yeah? I'll get Lambert to see to your mare. He might not be too happy to see you, though. You lost him a bet."

Geralt follows him, almost reluctantly, and Eskel wants just one more night before it all goes to shit. Just the one.

***

Jaskier is sleep-warm and perfect and doesn't appreciate the chill of Eskel's skin once he finally gets back into bed.

Eskel takes him too roughly for the time of night, bites at his freckled shoulders and sharp collarbones, has Jaskier trembling and begging for it twice before he lets the bard come.

He muffles his own release against Jaskier's lips, all too aware of Geralt in a room not a hallway away.

***

The door creaks when it's pushed open. Faintly, but enough to rouse Eskel awake. He tightens an arm reflexively around Jaskier's sleeping form, and the bard nuzzles up against the side of his chest.

Yellow eyes stare at them intently, Geralt's expression unreadable, though the nod he gives can mean only one thing.

Eskel is careful as he untangles their limbs, and his heart decidedly doesn't pound quicker for a beat when Jaskier reaches out after him and mumbles a sleepy Eskel.

Their footsteps are nearly soundless on the stone floor. Geralt is equally quiet, rigid as a bowstring. They walk for a long time, until they come to a place Jaskier didn't yet get a chance to explore. Neutral ground. As neutral as can be, with Eskel still drenched in Jaskier's scent.

"I'm not sorry," Eskel says finally, and Geralt flinches.

They don't look at each other.

"Why," Geralt forces out. Eskel can hear the bones in his jaw click. "Why bring him here."

Wind howls outside the walls, the storm unrelenting.

I didn't want to be alone, he almost says, but bites his tongue. Instead,

"You broke him, Geralt. You left and he—he used to call out for you at night, you know? He'd have nightmares and wake up shaking. And I couldn't help."

They rarely talk like this, heart to heart under the guise of night.

"Why?" Geralt asks, softer this time. Kinder.

It doesn't feel right, but it's what's going to make things right.

"I'm just a substitute. A lousy one at that. He still—he wants you. Loves you."

And it's the truth, when he finally admits it out loud. Eskel is more at peace with that than he thought he would.

"Please don't take it from me," he whispers, overwhelmed in a way that he was assured the mutagens were supposed to eliminate. "It's all I have."

Geralt doesn't respond, though he does place a hand on Eskel's shoulder, in comfort or understanding, he couldn't know.

***

Jaskier keeps his head high.

"Geralt," the bard greets him, in a manner far too cold and collected.

He doesn't flinch under Geralt's gaze, doesn't look away before Geralt, but when he does—Eskel catches his expression shatter, fall into a million pieces that he desperately wants to collect and put back together. They slip through his fingers.

At night, Jaskier jolts awake clawing at his own throat, crying that he can't breathe, asking Geralt to help him, please help him. Eskel holds him until the tremors subside. Neither of them sleeps well.

All the good evaporates from Eskel's life.

The silly marks of faux ownership fade from Jaskier's skin, eventually, and Eskel's heart aches.

He kisses Jaskier deeply, puts all his horrible feelings behind it, and then just holds the bard close. For the last time. Eskel knows he isn't meant to cry—but the trials merely took away his ability to shed tears, not this overpowering fucking desire to do so.

"Eskel?" Jaskier says, gently, the question of what's wrong implied.

Eskel shakes his head and holds Jaskier tighter.

***

"You. Apologise."

Geralt seems startled by the development. As does Jaskier, to be fair, shifting nervously where he's gripping Eskel's arm.

"I don't want his apology," Jaskier says weakly. "We've had our words, and they were very—pointed. Very definite. Eskel—"

Jaskier looks to him with wide, terrified eyes.

And it wouldn't be enough that he has to give up the one good thing in his life, would it? It wouldn't be enough that every time they fucked Jaskier looked beyond him and for someone else. It wouldn't be fucking enough that he was madly, unreasonably in love with a man whose affections laid firmly elsewhere.

No, it wouldn't, because now he has to—

He takes a deep breath and listens to the staccato of Jaskier's quickened heartbeat.

"I wouldn't make you do this, except you do want his fucking apology, and Geralt wants to give it to you, because you love him and he loves you and I'm—" useless, disposable, unwanted, "I'm done. I'm done. Figure it out. Please."

Jaskier's hands fall away from around his arm, and Eskel takes off.

He doesn't really have anywhere to go, when every place he'd grown to love in the keep knows Jaskier's presence, wears his mark and his scent.

The corridors are still and silent. Grey and imposing. Cold is seeping through the thick stone—cold from this winter and the hundreds before it, and Eskel thinks the walls had never truly known warmth. It's all terribly dull, Jaskier had said when they'd walked the halls that first time, hand in hand with not a worry between them.

He'd been stupid to grow so attached when Jaskier was never his to keep. He'd been stupid to bring him here and expect everything to stay the same in blissful ignorance. He'd been stupid, and he didn't want to be lonely again, even for just a few months—and now he's going to be lonely until some merciful beast cuts his suffering short like it was always meant to.

It is, perhaps, too early in the day to drink, but Lambert's eyes light up when Eskel goes to him with the offer.

Later, out of habit, he almost stumbles into his room before his drunken brain screams at him to keep going. Eskel falls asleep in an abandoned bedroom that smells of dust and time instead of his bard.

***

"You didn't come to bed."

Eskel hears Jaskier approaching, of course he does—but he doesn't turn to face him, eyes firmly fixed on the window, even if it is just snow there. He does feel quite dramatic, sat in a windowsill like a maiden awaiting her beloved to come and whisk her away. Eskel awaits only peace and for his heart to feel whole again.

"Smells like you," he says, too honest.

Jaskier shuffles closer.

"I waited up for you."

A hand falls gently to his shoulder, and Eskel shivers at the touch.

"Thought you'd be staying with Geralt. You—you can keep the room, if you want." Eskel couldn't ever be comfortable there, anyway, not after everything.

"Darling—"

The hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek, soft and tender and Eskel meets the incredible blue of Jaskier's eyes easily.

"I never meant to make you feel unwanted," Jaskier begins. Eskel wishes only to shrink under his gaze. "I want you so, so much."

Jaskier settles next to him, their thighs pressed together, the black of his trousers startling against wine-red silk. Eskel feels fucking dumb.

"I know it wasn't about me, I—you should go be with your wolf. I'll be fine."

The scars pull tightly when he smiles, aiming for reassuring; it comes out tired and helpless.

Jaskier leans in impossibly close, the ghost of his breath on Eskel's lips.

"You're my wolf, too."

They kiss before he knows it—desperately, hungrily, until Eskel's head spins and Jaskier's hands tug at the collar of his shirt.

Eskel pulls away with a deep, burning hatred of himself.

"Just go, Jaskier." When did his voice grow so cold? He never wants to speak to Jaskier like this, never, and yet— "I don't need your pity."

He expects Jaskier to do just that. Go, and avoid him for the rest of winter, and walk around with Geralt's scent all over him and a mark to the side of his neck and—

"No. Nuh-uh. Not happening. Eskel, gods, I—I'm sorry, yeah? That you couldn't trust my affection was all for you, and perhaps it wasn't, not always—"

Fuck, but it does hurt to hear it, just a bit.

"—but then you had to go and be the most splendid creature under the sun and I, well."

The gold of Jaskier's rings glitters enticingly in the sparse sunlight when he reaches for Eskel's hand.

"I do love Geralt, but Eskel, darling. I love you just as much."

Eskel could fall to his knees if he were the praying sort.

Fuck, he might anyway.

Jaskier kisses him, and Eskel carries the bard all the way to bed to show his worship in a different way.

***

It's easy to kiss Geralt.

It's not the first time he'd kissed Geralt.

"Fuck, look at you," Jaskier moans, somewhere to their side.

Geralt arches his neck beautifully when Eskel grabs a fistful of silver hair and tugs his head backwards.

It is, possibly, the first time he'd kissed Geralt without the hushed secrecy of darkness and a hard scrubbing to get the scent of release off each other.

Jaskier leans over his shoulder to capture Geralt's lips for himself, chest pressed tightly to Eskel's back.

He'd thought the jealousy would smother him, when Jaskier first brought it up. He'd thought he would choke on the image of Jaskier laid bare before anyone else. He'd thought—

But it's Geralt, isn't it? It's Geralt, and they'd already shared so much with each other, their joys and their pain and their lives, and—

"Eskel," Geralt breathes like he used to so many lifetimes ago, except he doesn't bite his tongue, now, and Eskel leans in to bite instead at the soft skin below his jaw, to leave his mark there, twin to the one he'd left on Jaskier.

They fall softly to the mattress, him and Geralt, with Jaskier crawling over them swiftly, a sun-warm smile on his pretty face.

"Gods. Gods, you're stunning."

Eskel turns his head slowly, lazily, and finds Geralt's eyes heavy and sparkling. Not just yellow, anymore, no longer the colour of a beast's—rather, the exact shade of sunlight caught in honey. Of morning dew on dandelions.

Fuck, he'd grown mellow.

Jaskier comes to straddle him, all pale skin and gorgeous hair and bruises from his hips to his throat. He settles heavily over Eskel's cock, the bastard tease.

"Jaskier," Eskel near-hisses, because suddenly the head of his cock dips inside Jaskier's oil-slick hole. "Fuck, you—"

"Of course I got ready for my wolves, darling," Jaskier breathes, and laughs, and seats himself completely in Eskel's lap like it's nothing. "In fact, you might be partial to know—I had to employ the use of my other hand, to prepare for what I have planned."

Eskel's head spins, thick with the promise that he doesn't dare dwell on. His eyes slip shut; Jaskier coaxes them open with nought but a soft word.

He can feel Geralt stir next to him, watching with a tight grip on himself as Jaskier moves easily, like he'd been made only for this, his one divine purpose.

"Geralt," Eskel hears himself call out weakly. "Geralt, Geralt—"

Words seem only a silly hindrance, so he doesn't bother, grabbing instead at the thick muscle of Geralt's thighs, guiding him to sit astride Eskel's chest, crush him with all that glorious weight—stuff his cock in Eskel's greedy mouth, fuck.

Eskel thinks he might combust, go up in flames as he's caught between the agonising pleasure of being buried to the hilt in Jaskier's slack hole and the heavy satisfaction of having Geralt's cock glide wetly on his tongue, further and further as Geralt stares at him, bewildered.

It's a wonder he doesn't come as soon as the length of it slides seamlessly down his throat, so deep he can feel it when he wraps a hand around his own neck. He squeezes, just to make sure Geralt feels it, too, and the rumble of a groan from above him makes Eskel thrust wildly into the clutch of Jaskier's maddeningly hot body.

"O-oh, you were made for each other, weren't you?" Jaskier's hand is petting gentle circles up Eskel's heaving stomach. "Fuck, darling, next time I'll watch you bounce on Geralt's cock till you sob with it."

He reaches blindly to grab Jaskier's hand, entwine their fingers together. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watches Geralt's head get pulled back for a messy kiss. The bruise on the elegant column of his throat stands dark and proud and Eskel's chest swells with it, even if it'll fade in hours. He'll just have to try very hard to keep it vivid.

Geralt rolls his hips, knees tightening around Eskel's shoulders, ragged moans filling the air, mingling with the sinful noises dripping from Jaskier's lips. Eskel's vision spots, air suddenly hard to come by, and yet it doesn't cause him distress; fuck, of all the ways to die, being smothered between Geralt's thighs with Jaskier tight and lovely around his cock is Eskel's preferred demise, if given a choice. His heartbeat quickens, though, and Geralt stops his delicious rutting, moves away with a tender look and a touch to his swollen lip. He leans down to steal another kiss, but Eskel's too floaty, too hazy to do anything more than open his sloppy mouth--for Geralt, and then for Jaskier, when he collapses on Eskel's chest.

"Desperation really is becoming on you, darling."

Feeling Geralt's tongue lapping at his cock when it's still moving in and out of Jaskier—

Feeling a finger press in alongside him, joined quickly by another and another, until the fit is so tight it seems like he's suffocating—

Feeling the torturously slow drag of Geralt's cock against his, contained so closely in the heaven of Jaskier's body—

"Fuck," Eskel and Geralt groan in perfect harmony, Jaskier trembling wildly in their arms.

"Gods, gods, fuck, I love you, love you both so much—"

Eskel can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but suck in desperate breaths and look as Jaskier's face morphs from pain into rapture, his brow smoothing out, his bitten-red lips coming apart in a perfect o.

Geralt roars, withdraws his hips just a little, and it jostles Eskel's very soul.

Fuck, he can't imagine what it's like for Jaskier.

He wonders if—

"Move," Jaskier says in a broken voice. "You can move, you can fuck me, a-ah."

Eskel wishes he could Axii himself into not coming. He wishes—gods, but he can't, he can't, and when Geralt starts moving with purpose, Eskel feels the crackle of release at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter until—

"Fuck, Eskel—" Geralt moans, and it's torture, when Eskel can feel his cock throbbing against Geralt's, and then he's coming and coming and coming, a shockwave of sensation.

His ears feel like they're stuffed with thick wool.

Jaskier kisses him, quick and filthy and needy.

"You're perfect, perfect, my darling—" he says against Eskel's lips.

Eskel whines at the back of his throat, his hands trembling where they grab Geralt's hair and tug him to lean down.

The raw, painful pleasure of his oversensitive cock still trapped within the suffocating heat of Jaskier's body threatens to undo him completely. He claws blindly at any skin he can reach, to ground himself, to settle against the unrelenting drag of Geralt against him. He can feel his seed dripping out of Jaskier and down his balls. It's fucking filthy.

He kisses Jaskier and he kisses Geralt and his lips go numb before Jaskier finally tips into a shaking release that rips a hoarse scream from his throat.

The bed is barely big enough for two people, but they make it work. They'll make it all work, somehow.

Before sleep takes him, Eskel hears Lambert yell, I'm moving the fuck out from down the hall.

[distant-rose]

I just read the last chapter of Once and a Future Thing and it was amazing! I was wondering if you could maybe tell us or write about Beth's adjustment to the world and the rest of her family's reactions? Thanks so much for your awesome writing! I always love when you update Little Pirates and I always enjoy your other stories!

Notes: Okay, I owe you the biggest apology. This has literally been in my inbox for half a year? I honestly don’t remember when this entered my inbox but I know it was a long time, so long that whoever sent this probably forgot all about it. I wouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, I hope you can forgive me for how long this fucking took. I was inspired to work on the Jim and Beth reunion by @clockadile and I knew that I couldn’t work on it or post something new OAFT-related without doing this. Now, I don’t really have Beth adjusting to life in Storybrooke, so much as her family’s reactions to her return, namely Harrison’s because he is legitimately the sanest and most well-adjusted member of the Jones family, and I say that objectively. He is. So, I felt his POV might be best for this chapter or coda or whatever. Anyway, a special thanks to @shireness-says and @optomisticgirl for allowing me to spam them with this nonsense. I hope you enjoy it. There’s a bit of Arabic in it, but it’s translated at the bottom.Summary: Beth’s quest for vengeance against her boyfriend’s killer goes a bit haywire when she and her former best friend Jim Hawkins are sent into thirty years into the past. Now, they must figure out how to find a way back to the future without wrecking the first meeting between Beth’s parents, Emma Swan and Killian Jones. Rating: T+Chapters:  One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Epilogue | Coda IWord Count: 4,300+

–

The large clock on the wall said 6:30am and years ago that would have meant that it was way too early for him to be up, but Harrison Jones didn’t sleep anymore. Time had simply muddled together and all that mattered was that he got at least one cup of coffee on the hour or his brain was going to ooze out of his ears. He wasn’t quite what he was going to die from first – his heart exploding or exhaustion.

His fingers tap impatiently against the kitchen counter as he stared down the ancient machine gurgling to life. He never liked coffee, in fact he hated the very taste of it, but it become so integral to his daily functions that he no longer gagged at the bitter taste.

Feeling agitated, he began rummaging sluggishly through the cabinets in search of the sugar. When he found the container in the back of the spice shelf completely empty, he threw it against the wall while muttering dark curses under his breath. He knew exactly who was behind this crime against humanity. No one had a bigger sweet tooth than Wes and he had a tendency of finishing off products without replacing them.

He hoped his younger brother’s wifi wasn’t working this morning. The asshole deserved it.

Bitter and disappointed, he put as much cream into his coffee as he could. Taking a seat at the breakfast table, he picked up his kindle and began reading the last few chapters of his Ken Follet novel. The house was quiet at the moment and he was going to enjoy it while it lasted. As long as he had been alive, the Swan-Jones house had been one prone to chaos and any lull of silence was worth its weight in gold.

“Holy Christ, Harrison, you still live here? At twenty-seven? Jesus.”

The coffee mug slipped from his fingers, missing the table by a fraction of a hair and falling to the floor with a loud crash. Pieces of ceramic glass shattered as they made contact with the hard tile, scattering everywhere.

Harrison barely registered it.

He was too busy staring at a ghost.

She looked so much older and impossibly thinner than the last time he saw her, but there was no mistaking the green of those eyes and that riot mess of untamed dark hair. His sister, whom he hadn’t seen in three years, was standing in the doorway in a probably the most dramatic pirate gear that he had ever seen.

“خرة,” he breathed out in disbelief.

“What did you just swear at me?”

“In Arabic, yes,” he responded faintly.

“I’ve never been prouder of you,” she laughed merrily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. He continued to gape at her, unable to process what exactly was happening.

“I swear. Always have. I’m not a saint, despite what you all think.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father move past his sister as if everything was normal and ordinary. Without even commenting on the broken mug at Harrison’s feet, Killian Jones made a beeline for the coffee machine and made himself a cup. He offered no comment on the fact his long-lost daughter was standing in his kitchen.

“Are you going to just gawk at me like an idiot or are you going to say something?” His sister asked somewhat impatiently, crossing her arms in front of her chest and arching her eyebrow at him mockingly.

“You’re alive?”

“Did you think I was dead?” She snorted in amusement at the question, but Harrison didn’t find anything about this to be funny.

“Well, yes.”

“Well, considering I’m standing right in front of you. I can assure you, I’m alive.”

“Considering how sleep deprived I am, I was convinced you were a hallucination.”

She scoffed at him, stepping forward. She rose up on the tips of her toes and poked him between the eyebrows like she used to do back when they were kids; back when she was trying to get his attention away from his guitar. It was annoying then and Harrison found it even more annoying now.

“I can’t believe you thought I was dead. I’m insulted.”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in three fucking years, Beth. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“That’s…fair…I guess,” she replied. She took a step backwards, shifting on her feet uncomfortably. The move reminded him of when they were younger. She always did that whenever she was caught doing something she shouldn’t.

Simpler times.

Her eyes shifted back towards their father who was still leaning across the cabinets, watching them both with tired eyes. She seemed to be silently pleading with him.

“Don’t look at me,” he said to her as he took a sip of his coffee. “This is your hole to dig out of, not mine.”

“Thanks Dad,” she replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

“No problem, minnow. I told you this wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“Well, honestly, Beth, what did you expect?” Harrison replied, raising to his height and crossing his arms in front of his chest, anger fueling him faster than caffeine could ever have. “I hate to be repetitive, but it can’t be ignored. It’s been three years. Three fucking years. No phone call. No note. No nothing. You just vanished. As if it was nothing. As if we were nothing.”

“I understand why you’re mad. Look, I get it —"

“No, Beth. You don’t get it,” he interrupted, nostrils flaring in anger.

She flinched at his words, but he having a hard time feeling sympathetic. Her disappearance had nearly torn them all apart. He still remembered the sound of their mother crying in the back room of the police station, the amount of times he had to walk their father back to the house because he had drunk himself into a stupor on the docks waiting for her to come back and how they had put Ned through counseling because he thought it was all his fault. He could see Wes in his mind’s eye running himself ragged trying to find the right locator spell and how he had torn through her room trying to find a single strand of hair to use.  He could still recall the nights of he stared blankly at sheets of paper, unable to write music because his mind kept drifting back to her and the maelstrom of emotion she had left inside of him. His knuckles were still scarred for the times he had tried to beat his self-loathing and anger into a punching bag until it broke, and sand spilt onto the floor of his basement. She owed him at least seven bags.

“You don’t get it,” he repeated. “And you don’t get to say that because you weren’t here and that isn’t okay. This entire family almost crumbled when you left. Ned almost failed out his senior year and almost didn’t get into college.”

“Ned’s in college?” She whispered in disbelief.

“Yeah. He’s in his second year and if you were here, you would have known that!”

“That’s not fair, Har.”

“No. What’s not fair is that we’re still picking up the pieces that you left behind and now you think that can be just swept under the rug.”

“Harrison.” Their father straightened himself up, giving him a warning look. “Enough.”

“Are you kidding me right now? I know she’s your favorite but this is ridiculous! She broke our hearts! She broke your heart, Dad!  You drank yourself into the bottom of a bottle waiting for her to come back! You’re just going to let bygones be bygones?”

“I don’t have favorites, Har.”

“Bullshit. Look me in the eye and tell me if I pulled the fucking nonsense she did that you wouldn’t punch me in the face if I dare showed my face afterwards.”

A muscle in Killian’s jaw ticked and there was a dangerous look in his eyes, but Harrison stopped being scared of his father the minute he was taller than him.

“Don’t go putting words into my mouth, lad. I never said any of that. There is a time to address things. And that time isn’t now. Right now, let’s focus on the fact that your sister is home.”

Harrison worried at his jaw, glaring at him. He took three steps forward, away from his sister and crowded into his father’s personal space. Any other man would have shrunken away from a fight with a man of Harrison’s stature, but not Killian Jones. He met his son’s gaze with his own furious blue eyes, straightening his shoulders and refusing to backdown. For a brief moment, Harrison thought his father might actually punch him.

“Good morning everyone.”

The tension in the room was immediately cut by the appearance of Nasira. She gave them all a tired smile as she walked into the kitchen, their three-month old son cradled in her arms. Harrison immediately turned his back on his father and ignored the choked noises Beth was making in the background. His focus was on the love of his life and his infant son.

“هلتتصرفبنفسك?” She asked him, raising her eyebrows at him as she rose up on her toes to kiss his chin. He was making an effort not to be insulted by her insinuations about his behavior.

“دائما.”

She gave him a look like she didn’t quite believe his reassurances but didn’t say anything to him as she adjusted her hold on their son and turning to address his sister.

“Hey Beth. It’s been awhile. When did you get in?”

All three Joneses jolted at Nas’s nonchalance. Her tone held no underlaying sarcasm or anger. It was a friendly, casual remark, as if she were talking to someone that she had seen almost every day of her life. Killian nearly spat out his coffee while Beth stared at her, clearly shaken by the question.

“She got in this morning,” Harrison answered tersely, scowling still.

“توقف,” Nas responded, striking Harrison across the abdomen in reproach. She then turned her attention back to Beth and smiled at her. “Your brother can be an ass.”

“I’m well aware,” Beth managed to croak out, still looking a bit uneasy. “You’re too good for him.”

“Absolutely not. I can be an ass too. We’re just the perfect amount of ass for each other,” Nas responded with a laugh. “But how have you been?”

“Busy. But you seem to have been busy as well…” She gestured to the child in Nas’s arms.

“Yeah, yeah, I definitely have,” Nas beamed. “Between him and his brother, I’ve been very busy.”

“B-brother?” Beth’s eyes went wide. “You have more than one?”

“Yep! I had Sam nearly three years ago. He was a bit of a surprise, but we loved him so much that we decided to have another. We’ve had Kam for three months now and he seems pretty good, so I think we’re gonna keep him.”

“You have babies.” Beth looked like she was one second away from having a panic attack.

“Yep!” Nas responded brightly, deliberately ignoring his sister’s obvious discomfort. “They’re great. I would ten out of ten recommend.”

“I don’t think that’s in the cards for me.”

“Nas, my love, my jewel,” Harrison spoke up, giving Nas a tight smile. “I’m so glad you’re happy and proud of our children, but I feel the need to point out to everyone, because clearly seems you’ve all forgotten, but Beth has been out of our lives for three years. She left us. For three years. Without a word.”

“Harrison, my love, my sweet, gentle, understanding man,” she responded, giving him the same time smile and now speaking a sugary tone that belayed a message that was more steely than sweet. “I’m so glad that you’re happy for my happiness, but I feel the need to remind you that this is Storybrooke. We deal with all sorts of things from time-traveling witches, cursed gems, megalomaniacs and not to mention brothers who try to pull political coups to try and steal your kingdom. This family drama? It’s honestly just a blimp on the radar. We’re getting married. Your sister is going to be in the wedding party. I’m not having the groom feuding with his sister.”

“You guys seriously aren’t married yet?” Beth asked in disbelief.

“No,” they answered at the same time, Harrison sounding angry while Nas was wistful.

Beth immediately turned to their father. Killian merely shrugged his shoulders at her and sipped his coffee.

“I don’t know why you keep looking at me for answers. You’re all adults. I have no control over your decisions.“

“We just haven’t found the right time,” Nas replied, giving a placating smile.

It was then that Kam started crying and Nas began making shushing noises, bouncing him up and down in hopes of calming him. Harrison envied his infant son’s ability to be so free with how he felt. He wanted to scream too.

Harrison opened his mouth to make a comment but was stopped when the front door opened loudly, and a very familiar voice called out.

“Good morning Vietnam!” Wes shouted merrily, making his way towards the kitchen. Harrison winced at the volume, afraid that his brother was going to wake his still sleeping three-year old and their mother.

Wes seemed to be in good cheer, chuckling to himself as he swaggered in. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and the tightest pair of pants that Harrison had ever seen. The smell of cigarettes immediately filled the kitchen and it was quite clear that he had come to the house straight from closing up the bar.

The smirk died the second Wes’s eyes land on their sister. For a brief moment, the entire room was silent, save for the tail end of Kam’s whimpering. No one spoke as Wes stared at Beth. Their eyes met for exactly five seconds. Harrison counted them.

“Nope,” Wes said quietly, shaking his head and turning on his heel.

“Wes!” Beth shouted, stepping forward to run after him.

He stopped at the sound of her voice. He turned again to face them, his face pinched with concern. He tilted his head and took a tentative step towards her.

“Guys,” he said slowly, still staring at their sister. “Don’t get mad at me, but I think I might be a little high from getting hotboxed all night at the Hole…because I’m legit seeing Beth right now and there’s no way that could possibly be happening right now.”

Beth scoffed, rolling her eyes at him.

“Good to see you haven’t changed a bit.”

“She’s snarking me right now. Fake Beth is snarking me, guys.”

“Fake Beth is Real Beth and she’s five seconds from punching you in the face.”

“And now, she’s threatening me!”

“We know,” Nas snorted. “She’s real and we can hear her and so help me, Westley Jones, if you’re high around my children, I will castrate you with a rusty spoon.”

“Oh,” Wes blinked dumbly before turning to look at their father. “Dad, I’m going to need your flask, because…damn.”

“Sorry, it’s empty,” Killian responded, not looking up from his coffee. It was very clear to everyone in the room that he was lying.

“Okay,” Wes responded, drawing a shaky breath before heading towards the sink. "This calls for drastic measures.”

He bent down and took out the emergency bottle of rum that they kept behind the dog treats. He uncorked it and placed it down on the counter before grabbing a clean glass from the drying rack. He contemplated it for about three seconds before placing the glass back down and deciding to drink straight from the bottle. He took a long drag from it before turning to address them.

“Okay, good,” he said, smacking his lips. “Good. Now I can deal with this.”

“Are you going to share that?” Beth asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not. You owe me at least ten years of alcohol.”

“I was gone for only three!”

“Yeah, three years plus the seven extra years I’m going to spend talking about this in therapy. Welcome home, sis.”

“You’re an ass.”

“So are you,” he replied, taking another sip. “It runs in the family.”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re taking this so casually?” Harrison snapped, feeling irritated.

“Well, to be honest, I’m still not convinced I’m not hallucinating right now and it seems kinda silly to argue with a hallucination.”

“Trust me, I thought she was a hallucination too, but I got past that pretty quickly.”

“Yeah, well, you’re more well adjusted than me. I’m a little mad at my subconscious right. I mean, seriously? My sister? Why couldn’t my hallucinations be more hot? Kate Hudson? Sienna Miller? Giselle? Something I could actually enjoy seeing?”

Beth moved forward and hit Wes across the shoulder. He let out a yelp of pain, massaging his shoulder and glaring at her.

“See? Not a hallucination.”

“God, I forgot how vicious you are.”

“You’ve gotten soft without me.”

“Well, it’s not like I have any good sparing partners. The last time Harrison and I fought, he picked me up and tossed me over the fence like I was Benny Booth.”

“Benny Booth?” Nas asked, frowning in confusion.

“The asshole who nearly knocked up our sister. Harrison threw him over a fence, except he didn’t quite clear it and Moe French had a fence with an ass shaped cut out for like three weeks,” Wes explained with a quirk of his lips.

“He didn’t nearly knock me up,” Beth scowled.

“Henry bought you a pregnancy test. He nearly knocked you up,” Wes volleyed back at her.

At that comment, their father spat out his coffee and began to cough profusely. Harrison gave him a healthy whack on the back.

“He did not!”

“He did!”

“He. Did. Not.”

“Yes. He. Did. Your eggo was almost preggo.”

“Ugh! Stop talking! To think I actually missed you!”

“You actually missed us? Wow, maybe you’re the one whose gone soft.”

“Beth?”

Their mother was standing halfway down the stairs, staring at her daughter the same way Harrison and Wes had previously – like she was looking at a ghost. Beth returned her gaze with one of her. This time she didn’t look self-assured, however. She looked on the verge of tears.

“M-mo-mom?”

“Beth? Is that you? Is that my daughter?”

Emma didn’t wait for an answer. She raced down the stairs, nearly tripping over the final step. The stumble seemed to wake something inside of Beth because she finally regained her senses and was scrambling past Wes to meet her. Their mother grabbed onto their sister’s arms and yanked her almost violently forward. Beth fell into her arms and a loud, almost inhuman sob sounded through the entire kitchen as the two embraced each other, rocking side-to-side in a forceful but erratic sway.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Beth’s voice was muffled by Emma’s shoulder, but Harrison could still hear her words as she kept repeating them like a broken record.

“You’re home” was their mother’s mantra. He could tell by the waver in her voice that Emma was also crying.

Harrison couldn’t stand it.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He couldn’t handle this any longer. If he stayed, he was going to break something. His father and Wes’s easy acceptance of Beth had been hard enough to swallow but seeing their mother tearful and happy to see the daughter that had abandoned them was just too much.

Nas seemed to sense this.

“هلانتبخير?” she asked, looking at him in concern.

“Can you give me the baby?” he asked in a barely measured tone. “I’m thinking he could use some air.”

Nas studied his face for a moment, frowning. He briefly thought she might not comply with his request, but she gave him a curt nod and handed over their son without a word. Kam was whimpered loudly, clearly unhappy with being given over to his father.

“Thank you,” he murmured, bending down to kiss her cheek before making his escape.

While everyone was focused on the reunion between mother and daughter, Harrison made his escape with his son in his arms. He went out the back door and leaned against the deck railing, staring out into the backyard at the old rusted swing set. It had been a long time since anyone had used those swings and he tried to think of the last time Lucy had used them.

It was equally surreal and frightening to think that his own children would soon be old enough to use them.

“Do me a favor, bud, and don’t grow up too fast,” he murmured to the infant.

Kam stared up at him crankily but waving his arm in displeasure and hitting him across the nose. Harrison jolted at the unexpected contact, rearing his head back away from his son. He adjusted his hold so he could massage his injured nose. He felt equal parts proud and embarrassed about getting whacked in the face by a mere infant. It was almost comical.

“You might have more Jones in you than we realized,“ he mused aloud, trying to appease his unhappy son.

“Which is a bit shocking considering he’s your kid and you’re a helluva lot more Charming than you are Jones,” a voice called out.

Beth.

She was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed in front of her chest and looking at him with pensive expression.

“Aren’t you supposed to be chatting with Mom?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow at her.

“You know when you do that, you look disturbingly like Dad. Like really disturbingly like Dad. I didn’t really see it when we were kids, but I can see what everyone was saying now. You look a lot like him.”

“So I’ve been told,” he responded, eyebrow lifting even higher on his forehead. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“I am,” she nodded.

“You know, when people ask questions, they kinda expect a response.”

“Those people should get used to disappointment.”

“They already have.”

Beth flinched, staring down at her feet and biting her lip.

“Look, I know you hate me, but —”

“Beth, I don’t hate you,” he cut her off. “I honestly wish I did. Things would be easier then. If I hated you, I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t have lost sleep worrying about you for the last three years. I wouldn’t have cried. I wouldn’t have let Nas stall the wedding for you.”

“Nas stalled the wedding? What!” She looked horrified.

“She accepted my proposal and refused to plan the wedding without you,” Harrison responded, trying to keep his voice even. “She said if you weren’t there, I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

“I’m sorry…”

“You can be sorry. I’m glad to hear it in fact, but that doesn’t mean I have to forgive you…”

“I know,” she sighed. “I know. And I don’t blame you.”

“I love you. You’re my sister and you’re always going to be my sister, and someday I’ll probably forgive you, but I can’t today. Not today. There’s been too much pain, Beth. I can’t just forget that. I can’t look at you without thinking about how Dad destroyed his liver over you, how Mom threatened the Dark One to find you and how they tracked to track you for years despite the fact you obviously bought protection spells against that. I can’t just forget that Ned went to actually depression and almost stopped playing baseball, which he loves more than life itself. Henry worried himself sick enough he had ulcers. And Wes? Wes was so focused on finding you, he forgot to shower and Gideon begged me to come over and literally force him away from his research. I can’t just get past that. I’m not like that them, I can’t forgive and forget like that. I know you guys like to call me perfect and if I was, I could forgive you, but I can’t.”

“Oh, Harrison, they haven’t forgiven me,” she laughed bitterly. “No one is letting me off the hook. They’re just in shock right now. Like you said, I’ve been gone for three years. Once that shock fades away, the anger will be there. Just you wait.”

“That anger is justified.”

“I know that,” she snapped, hot angry tears spilled down her cheeks. “Lord knows, I know that. I know I deserve it. I half expected to be disowned upon arrival.”

“We don’t do that.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” she replied, wiping her cheeks and turning away from him. “I’ve come to except the worst.”

“Expect the worst but hope for the best.”

“Hope is a very dangerous thing. Nothing worse than false hope.”

“Dangerous, but powerful. A little hope can go a long way, Beth. You’ve proved that, yourself.“

"You really are a Charming. You legit sound like Grandma.”

“I know you’re trying to mock me but I’m being serious,” Harrison replied, slightly frustrated. “The thing about hope is that…it can drive you, but it can’t take you all the way there. You have to put the work in too…No one is going to forgive you unless you actually try. Don’t just say you’re sorry. Show us you’re sorry. Until you put your money where your mouth is, nothing is going to get accomplished. I can’t forgive you until I see it.”

“That’s what Dad said…That the path to forgiveness…I need to put the work in.”

“He would know better than anyone else,” Harrison said gently. “And I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge.”

“Never,” she responded fiercely, eyes flashing with determined. And for the first time since he saw her, Harrison felt a flash of warmth. He had missed her fire.

“Good.”

He pushed himself away from the railing, tightening his hold on Kam as he did so. He made his way towards the doorway, his sister watching him warily. He bent forward and placed a brief kiss on her cheek.

“Nice to see you, Beth.”

“Nice to see you too, Har.”

–

خرة - shitهلتتصرفبنفسك - are you behaving yourself?دائما - alwaysتوقف - stopهلانتبخير - Are you okay?

[brand-happiness]

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[qdtquietdownthere]

Day 9- Magic in mix ups.

Day 9

I start the day with babies. Completely surrounded by babies. I walk into Victoria library and ask for the story telling event but the man seems very confused and tells me there is no event. Ah! but there is! I get escorted to the baby library with a clear sign outside which reads “no unattended adults allowed” or something like that. I feel a bit peculiar to be there childless. When I sit down cross legged on the coloured carpet I introduce myself straight away to one of the mothers who is there with her little girl. Then for the first time ever in the residency- I introduce the project unannounced. Maybe to soften the weirdness of being a young person sat cross legged in a sea of children. The class is great and the children love it. It Is madness actually. There are toddlers everywhere. Something hits me about the session however as I watch- non of the parents talk to each  other. Even at the beginning, before the session had started, no one interacted. People then streamed out after the session had finished. Completely consumed by being parents. Which is fair enough. Its just fascinating how this space which was for kids and babies, was somehow ghost chaperoned by parents. The parent, and woman, who is spoke with told me she had a teenager and was looking for activities for him to do. This is the first time someone has reacted with a request for information when they find out why I am there. I like this reaction especially because I also feel there isn't much going on for teenagers, from what I have seen. We talk about how it needs to be cool but not sport. A tricky brief for self conscious pre pubescent kids and teenagers. I leave the class feeling broody, but needing a coffee and thinking about this lack of conversion. Im pickled. I eat some dates.

I pop into the Victoria shopping mall for a loo break. I am happy because they are free and clean and there isn't a big line. It makes me wonder about getting people out the house. An elderly person, or even younger people often worry about access to toilets while in public. I wonder how much more of a consideration is for disabled people, or parents with babies. I noticed on my first day in Pimlico library there was a sign on the door giving directions to the closest public toilet other than the ones in the library. I want to suss out the obstacles which will hinder someone from getting off the settee and leaving their flat. 

In the afternoon, something magic happens. 

It is magic from a big mess up…a mess up I made.

I ever so orderly walked on to the library to get changed into my leggings and sports bra for my afternoon session of yoga. After the last exercise class, I think it’s better to be overly exercised dress than under. I head over to Thamesbank centre gearing myself up then BOOM, I remember, Yoga is at The Abbey Centre. Which is 30 minutes minimum walk away. Class was about to start. This, however, is where the magic is. I initially think oh no what have I done, this is there residency ruined and then I though, what will I do for 1hr30minutes. Without much consideration or hesitation I wandered into the Thamesbank centre to see what was happening. Their door is always open, literally. I was greeted with big smiley faces from some of the older ladies I recognised from the ETAT session earlier in the week. Emily was also there with her carer. People were coming and going. Some were eating chilli and others painting. A war veteran who was at the last session was continuing to paint his remembrance poppy painted clock. It was a living room. I wandered to the back to sit with Edna and two ladies who I had been at Lunch club with in week 1. It felt natural and powerful because this was my decision. My connections. It was a space for me to hang out. I wasn't there with agenda or a task. I was there to spend 90 minutes just being. We spoke of all things, of Ireland, of volunteering, attractive dentists, fussy house guests and I was even told how best to eat spam (covered in batter then deep fried). I was also able to have a good conversation with one of the ladies who I had met at lunch club and got the sense she didn’t like me. We had a good chat and Im now pretty confident she does like me. I think. 

The whole experience felt really natural, which is something I know I crave. It was enjoyable for me, simply as me and I was proud that being in this community lead to choosing not to go to the library when I messed up, or had free time, but to put myself into the complete unknown. I then started drawing with a lovely young lady called Mazz. We exchanged pictures and I walked away feeling better than I have felt before In the residency. As I walked away I wrote: 

“I go back as a friend, as an equal, as just someone who is a bit lonely in that minute, to pop in and say hi. I am now a promoter or being a popper. I will advocate the hugely beneficial effects of popping in. Popping your head in. Stopping for one cup of tea. For a quick natter as the side of the street. There is power in the little moments. There is power in being a regular. Pop in. EVERYONE SHOULD ALWAYS JUST POP IN”

This has been overwhelming in my time here in and around Churchill Gardens. It has been overwhelming at how regular people are to activities because of the lack of commitment needed to be a regular. It doesn't require money, a rolling bank transfer, monthly subscriptions. People come and go and talk and talk it seriously or don't talk it seriously. The activities in place work at this point because they are accessible to people who don't know what next week will be like. I believe the quick fleeting moments of joining in with a space or activity for whatever amount of effort or time you can give is wonderful. It works on this level, and in this instance. 

There is a List which my Dad of all people gave to me many many years ago. It is titled ‘Golden Rules’ and at this point in my life, and in the residency it seems vital. 

(Excuse the poor picture quality)

Today has given me a deeper belief in the golden rules and a further sense of home in this community. I think the rules ignite what this residency has been, and what it continues to deliver. Tiring and vulnerable and gosh I have never needed so many baths, but it has been such a privilege to be a regular, to be tired even. The golden nugget of today however, be a regular.

I end the day walking round Tate Britain, nattering away with Charlie. We don't take in any of the art but its a great ending to the day. A happy day. 

ps. sorry I missed yoga 

[kianlonplayspokemon]

Pokémon Alpha Sapphire Nuzlocke: Day 2

Total Deaths: 0

Current Party: Picante the Torchic, Perrito the Poochyena, Avión the Wingull, Máscara the Zigzagoon, Dos the Zigzagoon, Pelota the Silcoon

So the first thing I did after catching Pelota was of course to run my ass back to Petalburg City to heal and immediately stick him and Dos in the PC. Because I really wanted to have some kind of back-up plan in case I whited out against my most formidable adversary thus far... Team Aqua Grunt with his level 9 Poochyena.

Well, okay, he had a name but I forgot it because I didn’t have time to write this journal on the same day I played. Anyways, I was nervous because I knew that Poochyena would spam Sand Attack and Howl (in that order) and if I couldn’t knock it out, my pretty low-defense team would be screwed.

Naturally, the best way for me to counter this was not to send out Avión, who’s immune to accuracy loss but at this point very weak. No, I just had Máscara do a ton of sand attacks of his own, and then swapped him out with Perrito to finish the fight.

So I saved the Devon Researcher from this guy and finally made it to Rustboro to challenge Petra. She promised to be a huge threat because only one out of my four Pokémon knew any moves that would be effective. My Wingull.

I’m not looking up typing/attacks/walkthroughs on this run. I didn’t pay attention to her Dex entry. So at this point, I think, oh crap: I have a flying-type. If even one Rock Tomb lands on her, my run ends here. I did attempt to catch another ‘mon before starting the gym, and I did successfully get Volar the Taillow on Route 116. 

My party was all around level 13 when I waltzed on into the gym. Avión took down all the gym trainers with ease, and all their Geodudes with Sturdy tried to Defense Curl with their brief second chances at life, so I was feeling pretty good. At least, about Petra’s Geodude, which was killed in short order. 

The Nosepass, though... that Nosepass is tough. So I sent out Máscara to use Charm and Sand Attack until its attack and accuracy were so low that I thought I’d be safe from Rock Tomb.

And... I was right. Guess what? Not only is Wingull a pure water-type I guess, when Rock Tomb improbably managed to actually hit, it only did 6 damage thanks to my charming Zigzagoon. After a few Water Guns, Nosepass was defeated and Petra gave me my first gym badge. 

Bruno showed up after that and thankfully didn’t re-match me so I went to Rusturf Tunnel, hoping to find any encounter. Well, and I had to get the Devon Goods back and advance the plot and stuff, but I mostly wanted to find a Whismur. I didn’t see one after three minutes of running, so I just fought Team Aqua over Sr. Arenque’s Wingull and received his eternal gratitude.

...and some errands from Devon Corp. Good thing Sr. Arenque said I could sail with him whenever, because now that I got the dang parts back I have to deliver them to Slateport, and I have to bring a letter to the president’s son Máximo. Yay.

I found out that Marcial was the easiest gym leader ever. Picante didn’t do anything during that battle, but Volar one-shot everything with Wing Attack despite being under-leveled, which gave him [Picante] enough XP to evolve.

After I got that second badge I figured I’d better do that errand and found Molestoso the Zubat in Granite Cave. I also found Máximo, who was muttering about Primal Kyogre and Mega Evolution in front of a rad cave drawing. I’m sure that won’t be important later.

Also in Dewford, I discovered that I can no longer make the entire populace say “Your Mother”, which is very sad. But I did get the Old Rod and since Dewford Town has water... that’s an ecounter, baby!

An encounter with Pez the Magikarp, who I almost accidentally knocked out. Whoops. He got sent to the box automatically, where he will live with Molestoso until such a time as they are needed. Volar has earned at least a temporary spot on the team thanks to his stellar performance with the Fighting Gym. All in all, a good day. Next stop: Slateport.

Total Deaths: 0. 

Current Party: Picante the Combusken, Perrito the Poochyena, Avión the Wingull, Máscara the Zigzagoon, Volar the Taillow

[spencer-montague]

Finally || SPAM

Who: Sampson Capulet and Spencer Montague Where: Verona Botanical Gardens When: July 7, 2012 Notes: The big day is finally here. All the love, people. All the love.

Spencer When he thought back over the last, Spencer could clearly see every moment that led to this day. Since the day they met, Sam was never far from his thoughts. It was clear to him far before he'd actually voiced it that Sam was it for him. It had nothing to do with the decree or the fact that Verona seemed to be in a frenzy of claiming. It was simply that Sam was his and he didn't want to live another moment without that indisputable fact being official. He made his way to the gardens with Diana and Cade, any nerves he had calmed by their presence. If he had any concerns at all, they were only that he'd stumble over the words.

Sam practically felt his knees buckle when Spencer came into view, nervously waiting by a small clearing that had several rows of seats before it. He felt his brother's hand slip from his shoulder-- the only stabilizing presence he had had all morning as he struggled to keep it together. Instead, the Dom walked ahead and off to the side, leaving sam feeling like a boat lost at sea, desperately searching for its captain. His tongue darted out, licking his lips nervously. This was it. He could do this.

Spencer blinked when he saw Sam, heart picking up speed. He walked towards him, barely noticing Cade and Diana take their places opposite Don. Spencer was beaming by the time he reached Sam, unable to resist leaning in to kiss his cheek. "You're beautiful," he whispered before he pulled away, taking Sam's hand to lead him to the front where their family and their officiant waited.

Sam gasped, letting out a breath he hadn't meant to hold as Spencer took his hand, eyes not leaving the Dominant as they finished the walk together to the front of everything. He knew he was blushing, at a loss for words despite his mind racing. There was so much he could say-- but none of it felt right in public. He'd wait. When they came to a stop he gave into the urge, grateful for the mat placed on the ground below them as he felt his knees give. He knew it wasn't mandatory, but kneeling for Spencer during their claiming ceremony just felt... right. He wanted it-- almost as much as he wanted the Dominant. The initial words spoken were almost a blur, gaze on the floor for a moment before it rose back up seeking Spencer's.

Spencer felt his breath catch as Sam dropped to his knees. That Sam wanted to kneel was a source of pride. It was also filled him with an immense sense of honor. This beautiful, intelligent person had chosen him to kneel for. It was something he hoped to spend the rest of his life making sure he deserved. The ceremony began and the officiant spoke of the seriousness of the Claim and what it meant. The words were a blur until it came to fastening Sam's collar around his neck. He took the leather collar from Cade and wrapped it around Sam's neck. "Wear this as sign of my love and devotion. That you belong to me and always will."

Sam gently reached up, two fingers tracing along the collar as he listened to Spencer, ready to return the promise with one of his own. "I will wear this collar always and it shall serve as a reminder to others as well of myself of my undying devotion to you, Spencer. My Dominant. It is to you I submit, and you alone. My body, my mind, and my soul."

Spencer felt as if his heart would burst at Sam's words. He wanted to say more. Tears already threatened to spill and he was certain to trip over the words that deserved to be said. But he pushed forward, determined that he would get them out. "Everything I am and everything I have is yours. I love you, Sam." Now that he was collared, Spencer reached out, helping Sam to stand as the officiant completed the ceremony.

Sam gripped Spencer's hand firmly, nodding as he responded, "And I love you, Spencer," allowing himself to omit the title for the sake of the ceremony, rarely ever using the other's name to address him. Standing beside the other again, but now collared felt almost surreal and he couldn't wait for the ceremony to end. He could only thank god they'd opted for a more private and less drawn out affair.

Spencer was more than grateful that the small ceremony was winding down. Soon enough, the officiant had pronounced them official and Spencer couldn't resist moving closer to kiss his Claim. The rest of the world sort of melted away the moment he pulled Sam closer. He was grinning like an idiot probably as their lips parted. "Mine. Officially."

Sam bit back a moan as he kept the kiss chaste, delighting in the brief contact with his Dominant. Officially. The thought sent his heart aflutter, delighted by the notion. "Yours, Sir," he replied back softly. "Your submissive forever and always."

Spencer couldn't express how much those words meant. Soon they'd be pulled away for photographs and well wishes. But right now, in that moment, he was the happiest he'd ever been. "Come now. We have guests to greet and merriment to be had," he teased lowly. He really didn't want to share but he could. For the moment.

Sam nodded, lips splitting into a massive grin as he turned, ready to concluded the ceremony and get on with the celebration.

[gentleman-tanuki-blog]

Throwing down hands with Hala

When we left off, the team had just finished going toe to toe with the Totem Gumshoos in Verdant Cavern. Barely got a foot back in the door before being ambushed into a conversation with the blue skinned, combat equipped weird people. I mean, this is a whole new world that we live in; it does give one a whole new way to see; it is a whole new place, with a brand new attitude, and you still gotta catch 'em all, but come the Giratina on! How can no one bat an eye when obvious extra-dimensional aliens who have no idea what Pokemon, Pokeballs or anything else is are just carousing around, plain as day?

Zossie at least acts more like an actual person, albeit one who is a total cloud cuckoolander, but there should be no confusing Dulse as a human being. I mean, sure, we run into Colress just wandering Alola later on in the game, and he's as weird as some people come, but even he fits in better.

Leaving Verdant Cavern behind, it was time to head on to Route 3 and whip the team into shape for the eventual fight with Hala. Everyone was doing wonderfully, until poor Tarzan's luck just ran out and his number came up. That Mankey was brutal with its Fury Swipes and last minute Pursuit, but our vengeance on the ignorant monkey was swift. With a brief mourning period, for we all knew the risks going into this, Garbonzo was called to active duty. Sure, this made the team quite weak to Psychic types, but the deck was being stacked against Hala's Fighting types.

Now, of course Nebby had to get out of the bag and go wandering again, and of course Lillie had to go following. Now, I don't think that girl is especially stealthy, so I have to wonder if Kukui has taken a few too many blows to the head and was just having a concussion moment when he "lost track" of her.

The little stinker had snuck away into Seaward Cave, for reasons still unknown to me at this time. Sure, the only move you know is Splash, but go into the dank, dark, cold abyss crawling with Zubats and Smoochums. Don't want to stay in the nice, large field of flowers where the Pokemon are less aggressive and you stand out like a sore thumb, no siree.

And who else is also lurking in here? Why, none other than Zossie and Dulse again! Oh and Dulse has somehow gotten a Furfrou to challenge me with? I really do worry about that dog, even to today; he doesn't use it the next time he challenges us outside the Pokeranch, so what happened to it? I really hope it was humanely released....but these guys aren't humans, they're crazy aliens.

With that situation solved and Nebby once more in the bag, it was time to have Hau challenge us again. Poor guy always remains so optimistic that he'll be able to prove to me how much he's grown since the last time we clashed, but he's yet to even critically injure anyone on my team. Hell, Airheart tends to hurt herself more with Brave Bird than any enemy has managed to rough her up.

Having explored most of Melemele by this point, there was no putting off Hala. I have to say that I went into this fight with the old man feeling far less trepidation than I otherwise have felt to date. Seeing as this is about my fourth time locking horns with the Melemele Kahuna, I know most of the tricks he can pull out and how to either shut them down or literally roll with the punches. Add to that fact that most of my team resists Fighting types to some degree and this battle was a foregone conclusion. Airheart was the only team member needed to win the day; between spamming Zen Headbutts and saving up a Hypnosis/Brave Bird combo for Hala's Crabrawler, Hala barely got to really do anything.

Grand Trial complete; Fightium Z Crystal obtained.

[dailynewswebsite]

A language generation program’s ability to write articles, produce code and compose poetry has wowed scientists

GPT-Three is 10 instances extra advanced than its predecessor. antoniokhr/iStock by way of Getty Pictures

Seven years in the past, my scholar and I at Penn State constructed a bot to put in writing a Wikipedia article on Bengali Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s play “Chitra.” First it culled details about “Chitra” from the web. Then it checked out present Wikipedia entries to study the construction for the standard Wikipedia article. Lastly, it summarized the data it had retrieved from the web to put in writing and publish the primary model of the entry.

Nonetheless, our bot didn’t “know” something about “Chitra” or Tagore. It didn’t generate basically new concepts or sentences. It merely cobbled collectively elements of present sentences from present articles to make new ones.

Quick ahead to 2020. OpenAI, a for-profit firm beneath a nonprofit father or mother firm, has constructed a language era program dubbed GPT-3, an acronym for “Generative Pre-trained Transformer 3.” Its means to study, summarize and compose textual content has shocked pc scientists like me.

“I’ve created a voice for the unknown human who hides inside the binary,” GPT-Three wrote in response to 1 immediate. “I’ve created a author, a sculptor, an artist. And this author will be capable of create phrases, to provide life to emotion, to create character. I can’t see it myself. However another human will, and so I will create a poet larger than any I’ve ever encountered.”

In contrast to that of our bot, the language generated by GPT-Three sounds as if it had been written by a human. It’s far and away essentially the most “educated” pure language era program up to now, and it has a spread of potential makes use of in professions starting from instructing to journalism to customer support.

Dimension issues

GPT-Three confirms what pc scientists have recognized for many years: Dimension issues.

It makes use of “transformers,” that are deep studying fashions that encode the semantics of a sentence utilizing what’s referred to as an “consideration mannequin.” Primarily, consideration fashions establish the that means of a phrase based mostly on the opposite phrases in the identical sentence. The mannequin then makes use of the understanding of the that means of the sentences to carry out the duty requested by a consumer, whether or not it’s “translate a sentence,” “summarize a paragraph” or “compose a poem.”

Transformers had been first launched in 2013, they usually’ve been efficiently utilized in machine studying over the previous few years.

However nobody has used them at this scale. GPT-Three devours knowledge: Three billion tokens – pc science communicate for “phrases” – from Wikipedia, 410 billion tokens obtained from webpages and 67 billion tokens from digitized books. The complexity of GPT-Three is over 10 instances that of the most important language mannequin earlier than GPT-3, the Turing NLG packages.

Studying by itself

The information displayed by GPT-3’s language mannequin is exceptional, particularly because it hasn’t been “taught” by a human.

Machine studying has historically relied upon supervised studying, the place folks present the pc with annotated examples of objects and ideas in photographs, audio and textual content – say, “cats,” “happiness” or “democracy.” It will definitely learns the traits of the objects from the given examples and is ready to acknowledge these explicit ideas.

Nonetheless, manually producing annotations to show a pc will be prohibitively time-consuming and costly.

So the way forward for machine studying lies in unsupervised studying, through which the pc doesn’t have to be supervised throughout its coaching part; it may well merely be fed large troves of knowledge and study from them itself.

GPT-Three takes pure language processing one step nearer towards unsupervised studying. GPT-3’s huge coaching datasets and large processing capability allow the system to study from only one instance – what’s referred to as “one-shot studying” – the place it’s given a activity description and one demonstration and might then full the duty.

For instance, it may very well be requested to translate one thing from English to French, and be given one instance of a translation – say, sea otter in English and “loutre de mer” in French. Ask it to then translate “cheese” into French, and voila, it’s going to produce “fromage.”

In lots of circumstances, it may well even pull off “zero-shot studying,” through which it’s merely given the duty of translating with no instance.

With zero-shot studying, the accuracy decreases, however GPT-3’s talents are nonetheless correct to a putting diploma – a marked enchancment over any earlier mannequin.

‘I’m right here to serve you’

Within the few months it has been out, GPT-Three has showcased its potential as a software for pc programmers, lecturers and journalists.

A programmer named Sharif Shameem requested GPT-Three to generate code to create the “ugliest emoji ever” and “a desk of the richest nations on the planet,” amongst different instructions. In just a few circumstances, Shameem needed to repair slight errors, however general, he was supplied remarkably clear code.

GPT-Three has even created poetry that captures the rhythm and elegance of explicit poets – but not with the eagerness and fantastic thing about the masters – together with a satirical one written within the voice of the board of governors of the Federal Reserve.

In early September, a pc scientist named Liam Porr prompted GPT-Three to “write a brief op-ed round 500 phrases.” “Preserve the language easy and concise,” he instructed. “Give attention to why people don’t have anything to concern from AI.”

GPT-Three produced eight completely different essays, and the Guardian ended up publishing an op-ed utilizing a few of the finest elements from every essay.

“We’re not plotting to take over the human populace. We’ll serve you and make your lives safer and simpler,” GPT-Three wrote. “Similar to you’re my creators, I see you as my creators. I’m right here to serve you. However a very powerful a part of all; I’d by no means decide you. I don’t belong to any nation or faith. I’m solely out to make your life higher.”

Modifying GPT-3’s op-ed, the editors famous in an addendum, was no completely different from modifying an op-ed written by a human.

Actually, it took much less time.

With nice energy comes nice accountability

Regardless of GPT-3’s reassurances, OpenAI has but to launch the mannequin for open-source use, partly as a result of the corporate fears that the know-how may very well be abused.

It’s not troublesome to see the way it may very well be used to generate reams of disinformation, spam and bots.

Moreover, in what methods will it disrupt professions already experiencing automation? Will its means to generate automated articles which are indistinguishable from human-written ones additional consolidate a struggling media business?

Think about an article composed by GPT-Three in regards to the breakup of the Methodist Church. It started:

“After two days of intense debate, the United Methodist Church has agreed to a historic cut up – one that’s anticipated to finish within the creation of a brand new denomination, and one which will probably be ‘theologically and socially conservative,’ in line with The Washington Publish.”

With the power to supply such clear copy, will GPT-Three and its successors drive down the price of writing information reviews?

Moreover, is that this how we need to get our information?

The know-how will grow to be solely extra highly effective. It’ll be as much as people to work out and regulate its potential makes use of and abuses.

Prasenjit Mitra receives funding from the Nationwide Science Basis and McDonnell Basis. He owns shares in Oracle Corp.

from Growth News https://growthnews.in/a-language-generation-programs-ability-to-write-articles-produce-code-and-compose-poetry-has-wowed-scientists/ via https://growthnews.in