#i want to be able to volley it over to you and say YOUR TURN and then not have it be my problem for like.

[weltonreject]

...

[kaiijo]

DATES WITH HIM — [WIND BREAKER]

characters: suo hayato, kiryu mitsuki, umemiya hajime, hiragi toma, kaji ren, togame jo content: gn! reader notes: i did not come up with the date idea in suo's! also i recommend reading the mentioned works in suo’s part and listening to the song in kaji’s! obvious togame bias i’m sorry (but i’m also not)

suo hayato ✶ bookstore date

you saw the idea of a bookstore scavenger hunt date and it was too cute to resist. with your list in hand, you and suo make your way to your favorite neighborhood bookstore. the old lady who runs it greets the two of you before attending to other customers. suo leans over your shoulder to look at the first item. “find a joke to make your partner laugh.”

you make your way to the joke book shelf, where suo picks up a paperback titled 100 dad jokes to make anyone bust a side! he flips through it and lands on a page. “which days are the strongest?”

“i don’t know, which ones?”

he stares at you dead in the eye as he answers, “saturday and sunday. the rest are weekdays.”

you can’t help but snort and roll your eyes, and suo says, “we’re counting that!” and you check it off the list because you don’t know if you can take another cheesy dad joke. 

you read out the next bullet point: “find a puzzle to conquer together.”

you find and complete a crossword puzzle in a magazine (you kept the magazine with you to buy later). your scavenger hunt list leads you through the travel section to talk about your dream vacation spots; the children’s section where you find your favorite childhood books; and the cookbook aisle where you find a recipe you both want to cook together. finally, the last task challenges you to find a poem that describes your partner.

you and suo split up in the poetry section for that. you thumb through pages and pages but nothing is able to capture just how you feel for suo. you find one finally just as he walks over to you, a poetry anthology in hand. you read to him kevin varrone’s “poem i wrote sitting across the table from you” and he recites joy harjo’s poem “for keeps.” 

your heart feels like its about to burst as he finishes and you take his hand in yours, bring it to your lips for a kiss. his gaze is soft as he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead.

kiryu mitsuki ✶ arcade date

you pout as you watch the final pac-man score flash on the screen in big, pixelated numbers: 150 to 170. kiryu ruffles your hair affectionately. “we’re all tied up again,” he says. “two to two. what do you want for the tie-breaker?”

you peer around the arcade, glancing at the flashing screens of various games. there’s street fighter, space invaders, and other classics but it’s the air hockey table that catches your eye. you nod at it. “settle the score over good old-fashioned air hockey?”

“sounds good,” he says and you two make your way over to it.

just as you arrive, another couple shows up. “oh, shit,” the other guy says when he and his girlfriend approach at the same time. 

“sorry,” you say. “you guys can have it if you want.”

“no, no, you two came first,” the girlfriend says.

“it’s seriously fine!”

“no, really, it’s cool!”

you’re all at a standstill, neither party willing to takeover the table. instead, kiryu pipes up, “there are four pushers, why don’t we play on teams? a friendly competition.”

“i’m down!” the girl smiles and turns to her boyfriend. “what do you think?”

“i say we crush ‘em!”

“ooh, those are fighting words!” you call, looping you arm through kiryu’s. “ready to kick some ass, mitsuki?”

“always.”

the competition is fierce — the other couple is a lot better than you thought and you’re playing best of seven rounds. it’s the tie breaker and you narrowly manage to block a shot from the other guy. the puck bounces off the sides, hurtling across the board towards kiryu, who easily deflects it back. the volley goes back and forth and there are far too many times it almost sinks into their goal.

the other couple just blocks a shot again and the puck is heading for you. you hit it at the right angle and it just ekes past the defense, sliding into the goal to end the game 4 to 3. you congratulate each other on a good game and kiryu sighs, “i guess that settled the score between us too, huh?”

“what do you mean?”

“you made the winning goal.” he holds out the tickets he’s won. “let’s go get you a prize.”

umemiya hajime ✶ farmer’s market date

“whoa! these squash look so good! how did you grow them? did you plant them in may or june?” umemiya’s eyes are wide and bright as he listens intently to the farmer’s answer. you don’t think you’ve seen him this excited before, which is saying a lot given his enthusiasm for almost anything. 

she smiles warmly at the two of you, asking, “how many would you like?”

“three,” you reply, reaching for your wallet, but umemiya is holding out the money for her before you can even open your bag. 

the farmer shakes her head, gently pushing his hand back. “it’s on the house,” she says, plucking a packet of seeds from a small wooden crate at the edge of the stall. “and i’ll throw these in too, all free of charge!”

“oh, please, we insist,” you begin to protest but she just shakes her head again. 

“it’s been a long time since someone has been this curious about my produce,” she chuckles, “and i’m not about to make a lovely young couple pay for this! all i ask is that you two raise the squash lovingly.”

“we will, i promise,” umemiya says, taking the bag of squash from her. as you two continue through the farmer’s market, umemiya interlocks your fingers, using his other hand to motion to the other stalls you pass. 

he says, “we have tomatoes and cucumbers already but we need mushrooms! oh, those look good!” he already leading you to another vendor, surveying the cartons of wood-ear mushrooms. you raise a brow in amusement as he buys five cartons, humming a cheery song. 

“what’s all this for, again?”

he beams at you. “the summer barbeque!”

“ahh, right!” you smile. “the infamous summer barbeque.” you glance around the market, pointing out a stall selling sausages and other meats. “i think we’ll want to get some protein, then, since your boys eat enough for a hundred men.”

“babe, you’re a genius!”

hiragi toma ✶ cooking date

make dinner at home for date night, they said. it’ll be fun, they said. you think anyone who said this is a fun, stress-free date is a total liar.

“alright,” you sigh as you clean the frying pan of egg residue for the third time. “well, fourth time’s a charm!”

hiragi pops a stomach tablet out of its packaging and chomps down on it. “you said that the last two times.”

“this one’s going to be the one!” you chirp, reaching for the egg carton. “it has to be, since these are our last four eggs.”

hiragi lets out a long, heavy breath before slipping his apron back on. “okay, one more time.” 

hiragi throws a large tablespoon of butter down the pan, tilting the pan from side to side as the melting butter coats the surface. you crack the four eggs into the measuring cup and beat them with a whisk, tipping a little drop of it onto the butter. it sizzles promisingly and you and hiragi share a glance and nod, then you pour the eggs in.

you stir the eggs quickly with a pair of chopsticks, stopping as you see the omelet beginning to smooth. hiragi tilts the pan to let the uncooked egg mixture start to cook, doing his best to keep the curds even and level. 

the new portion of eggs scramble and you spoon your chicken rice mix into the center of the omlet, roughly shaping it into an football-shape as hiragi kills the heat. “good?” you ask him, motioning with your chopsticks at the pile of rice.

“good.” he lifts the pan. “hot pan, coming through!” he places it on the damp rag on your counter. you slide the omlet to the edge of the pan, carefully wrapping the rice with egg on both sides. hiragi’s already moved to get a plate and you hold your breath as he slides it carefully onto the plate.

success.

you let out collective sighs of relief. 

kaji ren ✶ concert date

you had spent hours in an online queue to get kaji tickets to see his favorite band for his birthday. luckily, the venue isn’t too long a train ride from makochi but when you severely undersold how many people can cram themselves into the venue.

kaji’s grip is firm as you weave your way through the crowd, pushing closer to the stage. some guy jostles you, grumbling under his breath, only to apologize when he faced kaji’s cold glare. your boyfriend manages to get the two of you to a decent spot near the front, just off right of the center. 

“what song are you most excited for?” you ask him, speaking as close to his ear as possible. the din around you is getting louder and the crowd more electrified, so you know it’s starting soon.

“wasted nights,” he replies easily. 

you hum, “that sounds familiar. it’s on the playlist you made for me, right?”

his mouth lifts into a small smile. “yeah, i think it’s number eleven or twelve.” just as he is about to add something, the lights around you begin to flash and pulse as the ambient music dies down. the band comes out to thunderous cheers as they take up their instruments. 

even though you don’t know the band well, you can’t help but jump and dance with the crowd, and you sing along to parts you can remember. kaji’s not one for rowdiness himself but he thrives off the energy from it — you can see it in the way he bobs his head in rhythm, the way he seems completely in his element. as the fourth songs in the set transitions into the fifth one, a slower ballad this time, he wraps an arm around your shoulder and pecks your cheek. “thank you again,” he says. “i’m glad i’m here with you.”

you burrow further into his side, swaying to the music. “happy birthday, ren.” 

togame jo ✶ pottery class date

you tilt your head as the pottery wheel slows to a stop, examining the mug you were instructed to make. the rim is uneven and it’s leaning towards the left. togame’s isn’t any better given that his mug looks shorter and stouter than the rest of the class and the handle is fully too long. when the pottery teacher walks over, she offers a sweet smile. “beautiful work,” she says. “they both have a unique charm to them.”

“thanks, we totally meant to make them this way,” you say and she carefully brings them to the shelf where the other attendees’ mugs sit waiting for the kiln. 

oddly enough, seeing your mugs together makes them look somewhat normal, almost like an eclectic set, and when you glance at togame, he meets your eyes and you two try to suppress your laughter, togame’s broad shoulders shaking with effort. as you stand side by side, washing your hands in the classroom’s sink, togame smirks. he reaches over and claps a hand on your shoulder, leaving a large, damp terracotta-colored handprint on your shirt. 

you narrow your eyes and do the same, this time on the side of his own t-shirt. his hand touches your back and yours grazes his chest. you could probably do this forever but someone clears their throat behind you and you apologize as you actually finish cleaning up, stepping aside for another couple to wash themselves off. 

togame drapes an arm around your shoulder as you leave the building, saying, “i think i won, babe.” 

you know he’s talking about the stains all over both of your clothes but all you do is smirk at him. “i think i won, actually, since this is your shirt.”

he shrugs. “i wish i could be mad, but you look too good in my clothes to complain.”

bonus!

you return two weeks later when your “unique” mugs are primed for glazing. you two agreed to keep the final designs on your pottery a surprise so you sit as far away from each other with your backs turned. in the end, you two had similar ideas — he chose your favorite color as a background and painted on a pattern of your favorite flowers while you glazed your mug in orange and black with an attempt at a the lion face on the shishitoren jackets, albeit yours is way less threatening and much cuter. 

your mugs sit in each of your cabinets at your homes in all their uniquely beautiful glory, your new favorites — well-used and well-loved. one day, they’ll be together again, side-by-side in a cabinet that you two shared together.

[modelbus]

Price, Soulmate (shared pain), “sorry, my love…”

Thank you so much! Love your writing! ❤️🫶

A PRICE REQUEST!! I decided to keep this happy because god knows this fandom needs it

Pairing: John Price x Fem!Reader (I had to make him say missus… ignore it and it’s Gn!Reader)

Soulmate AU - Sorry My Love

You truly loved your husband. A military man, through and through, but you didn’t mind. His missions were difficult, but he always came back to you. Just like he always promised.

Although sometimes, you wondered what you got yourself into by marrying him. Because although absolutely adoring him, his team was a little interesting.

When you met John Price, he had warned you in low tones that he was a package deal. You get him, then you have to put up with his team. Soap, who’s roped you into plenty of pranks. Gaz, who makes the best damn burgers you’ve ever had. And Ghost, who had quietly pulled you aside when you first met John and threatened to ruin your life if you hurt John.

They were loyal men. Close-knit. And just by being with John, you found yourself stuffed in with them.

“I think you get him something flashy for his gun.” Soap tells you. You’re relaxed in an outdoor chair next to him, watching John and Gaz cook burgers for the 141 cookout.

“Like what?” You ask. You’re civilian — sure you’ve seen your husband mess with his gun, but that doesn’t mean you know the first thing about them.

“Dunno.” He shrugs, and you silently sigh. You blame the Scottish for creating him.

“No cheese, right love?” John calls over to you, glancing back. You can’t help but smile at him, the sight of your husband. Even though he’s wearing the hat that’s practically glued to his head, you still adore him.

“Yeah!” Soap shouts back at him.

“Is your name love?” John turns, crossing his arms.

“It can be.” You watch as Soap wiggles his shoulders suggestive, and John just groans and turns back to the burgers.

He already knows you don’t want any cheese, anyway. You never do. Meanwhile, he loves it.

“One day your soulmate is going to be jealous of your flirting ass.” You inform Soap.

To your knowledge, he hasn’t found his soulmate yet. Nobody in the 141 except John has. Sharing pain is something difficult to figure out; you only figured it out because you had accidentally splashed hot coffee all over him. When you felt the burning sensation on your chest that he was also feeling, it was fairly obvious.

Most people went their whole lives without meeting their soulmate. Sometimes, people who did meet their soulmate were better off as friends, or maybe they were siblings. You’re damn lucky that your soulmate is also the love of your fucking life.

“Maybe my soulmate’s a flirt too.” Soap volleys back.

“Or maybe they’re like Ghost, and are a rock.”

“I’m a rock?” Ghost asks, and you jolt up. When the fuck did he even get behind you? Damn military men. People that large should never be able to move that quietly.

“I— no!” You exclaim, trying to dig your way out of the hole you’re in. “You just don’t flirt as much as Soap, I mean.”

He blinks at you from behind his mask. John told you once that he always keeps it on, gives him a sense of safety. You didn’t question it. Ghost liked John, looked out for him, so he was perfectly alright in your books.

“Don’t think anyone flirts as much as Soap.” He says gruffly, taking your vacant chair.

Well, that’s true. You nod in agreement, and then hightail it over to your husband.

“Hey.” You greet him, looping your arm with his as he flips a burger. “Food’s looking good.”

John glances over his shoulder at Ghost in your seat, then down at you. “Ghost take your seat? I’ll make him move, lovie, he shouldn’t—“

“He didn’t take my seat.” You cut him off, laughing. “Wanted to come see my husband anyway.”

He lights up, grinning. “Right choice.”

John leans down, pressing his lips to yours. No matter how many times you kiss, you always want more. Need more, really.

A burning pain shoots through the tip of your pointer finger, and both you and John jerk back with pained noises. Looking down at your finger, there’s no mark. Your idiot husband, on the other hand…

“Shit.” He hisses, looking down at the red mark on his finger. “Accidentally hit the grill. Sorry, my love.”

Your finger is still aching, which means his is too. And yet, he still made it a priority to apologize for causing you pain.

“I’ll grab the mustard.” You say, giving him another quick kiss. “Don’t touch it again!”

Turning away, you move for the bottle on the nearest table. You uncap it, squeezing a little bit onto his finger. It’s meant to help with burns; maybe a myth, but worth a shot.

“You’re the best.” John murmurs, squinting at his finger. “I can already feel it healing.”

You snort. “I can feel it hurting too, you dumbass. Let Gaz do the rest of the cooking.”

He steps back, making eye contact with Gaz and nodding to the grill before looking back at you. “Anything for the missus.”

[vampykween]

Crazy idea for toxic husband simon? Lets send them to couples counselling >:]

hehe i love this idea! sorry this took so long i pondered over how to write it, but i like how it turned out! these two deserve a brief reprieve from all the angst so enjoy this little glimmer of hope <3

“i still don’t think we need to do this, love” 

“so, you’ve said. can you please just go get the kids ready to leave, im not finished getting ready.” you mentally count down from ten while leaning over the bathroom sink attempting to finish up your makeup. you know by the time you hit ten, simon will have volleyed back some comment you’re in no mood to hear. 

“’s therapy, not a fashion show. dont even get why you’re getting dolled up anyway.” he’s unbelievably predictable. 

you roll your eyes and stare pointedly in his direction. “you know if you’re trying to convince me you still love me, you should try just saying ‘wow babe you look beautiful, of course i’ll get the kids ready’.” simon squints his eyes at you as if he’s actually considering what you’re saying, huffs, and stalks off in the direction of your daughters’ room. 

~ 

maybe your husband(?) was right, this does feel stupid. you two are sitting in a far too stuffy room with plain decorations, on a too-plush couch that makes you sink further with every movement. you don't even realize the therapist is asking you something until simon places a hand on your bouncing knee, stilling it to catch your attention. your heart shouldn’t stutter at the small display of affection, but simon hadn’t touched you in so long the touch melted the icy feelings you had towards him.

the session goes far better than you had expected. you didn’t think simon would open up much, but he was a lot more willing to admit his faults than you figured he’d be. you couldn’t help but stare at him incredulously, where was this man when you two were at home? when you were begging and pleading for help with literally any and everything? a part of you starts to feel bad when simon’s revealing his feelings of depression and worthlessness, not that you’re giving him a pass for the years of transgression, but once upon a time he was your soulmate and your heartbreaks knowing he was in so much pain.

maybe you didn’t see it because you were blinded by rage, or because you were so exhausted day in and day out, you didn’t have time to think of anything other than being a mom. you both come to the realization, with the therapist’s help of course, that you were both so eager to rush into life that you never stopped to consider what that would actually look like. you wanted a baby so badly that even when things started to snowball into madness you two convinced yourselves that this was just the way it was and that it had to be worth it somehow.

as you’re both walking back to the car, you leave feeling a whole lot lighter than when you went in. sure no major hurdles were cleared. you weren’t sure when you’d be able to kiss and love on your husband again without being confronted with everything he wasn’t doing, but you two are going to take it slow and learn to listen to each other. give and take. push and pull. as you slide into the passenger seat, simon tugs gently at one of your hands and interlocks his fingers with yours.

“i know i can’t take back the past, but i’m serious about changing. i want to be better for you, for us, and for our girls.”

you’re not sure what you had expected him to say, but his words have your breath caught in your throat. you distinctly remember a time when he promised he would be good to you, and he failed. you wanted to badly to believe him now, hearing the sincerity in his voice. warring between what the angry part of you wants to say and what the hopeful part of you wants to say, you land on a simple response of “okay”

“okay?”

“yes, okay. i’m not ready to forgive you yet and i don’t know when i ever will be. but i am saying that i will try.” his eyes lock with yours and you can see the emotion brewing in them, he doesn’t offer any words back. he simply squeezes your hand three times in quick succession. i love you. maybe just maybe things will work out this time.

[geraltofriviacollection]

Chapter Seven

Paring: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Reader is thrown into the Witcher’s world. Will she survive? 

A/N: I have not edited or proofread. Please do not repost, translate or copy my work without permission. Please leave comments! ❤️ “Absolutely not!” I almost shouted at Vesemir. I can see the slight glow on my skin at his suggestion. 

“We have a chance to do something extraordinary. Do you know how long it has been since we had a new witcher? This could change everything with Ciri’s help.”

“How long exactly have you two been hatching up this plan? Hmm? There is something wrong with this and both of you know it. On a moral level to mutate children and not even have most survive the process is wrong. You are fucked in the head if you think I will let Ciri be a part of this.” I snarl at  Vesemir. The room is getting warmer the longer this conversation goes.

“It's Ciri's choice if she wants to be a part of this.” Vesemir  volleys back. I try to breathe as my vision goes red at his words. It takes a full minute before I am able to respond. 

“I will be damned before I let you sacrifice more children to the cause.Tell me did you think how Geralt was going to feel at this news? I may not like it but you can bet all the rats in the keep that he’ll fucking hate it.” The tension in the room is thick as it settles in Geralt's opinion about all of this. 

“Geralt will see the reason of this.” Vesemir says, but lacks a good amount of certainty. 

“Fine!” I shout. “You will not do a single thing until Geralt has returned.” I tell him. 

“Lass, I don’t think-”

“That was not a question, suggestion or comment. Vesemir, nothing will be done about this until he’s come home.” I grit out.

“I can make my own decisions.” I turn around to see Ciri standing in the doorway looking at us. “I don’t need your approval or Geralts to help them.” She says coming further into the room. 

“Ciri, this is bigger than you-” I start but she cuts me off and turns to Vesemir.

“How can I help?” She asks, cutting me out of this completely. 

“Have you ever heard of feainnewedd?” He asked her. “It’s an ancient flower that only glows in one place. Where elder blood is spilled.” He explains showing her the flower. She moves and goes to inspect the flower. 

“These have been sprouting all over the training course, where I’ve bled” Shw whispers mostly to herself. “My grandmother..she hated the elves.” She says looking at all of us. I look over to Triss who is annoyingly quiet right now standing there simply reading Ciri’s reaction to this. Fucking interesting time for her mouth to be shut all of a sudden.

“Sometimes our deepest hate is for the things we can not change about ourselves.” Vesemir says. If I wasn’t so mad I might have enjoyed his imparting words of wisdom. Ciri sighs and moves to sit on the steps processing all of this. “Something bad is brewing out there. With a vial of your blood we could protect generations to come.”

“How are you so sure it will work?” She looks up at him.

“I’m not.” He plainly says. 

“I’ll do it. On one condition. You have to test it on me first.” She says. 

“Alright! That’s enough.I have entertained this for just about as much as my temper will allow. No one is testing anything. If we did you can be damn sure you would not be first in line for the weird juju kool aid.” I exclaim looking at Ciri. 

“You aren’t my mother. I can décide my own fate.” She says not looking at me. A sharp painful flash runs through my body at her words. True her words may be but less painful they are not. 

“You’re right. I’m not your mother but that does not mean that I don’t love you any less than if I was. “ I told her. “Have you thought about Geralt? Hmm? Why do you feel the need to push yourself to the edge?” I nearly shout. 

“Because I am sick of being lost! Everything that I was told my whole life was a lie! And the people I love most in the world were taken from me before I could find out the truth. This might help me find a new truth.”

“Then let us help you find your way. I can’t change the past but I can help you or at the very least we can be lost together.” 

“Maybe there is another way to find out where your powers came from.” I turn to see Triss standing in the doorway. Ciri’s eyes move from me to her. 

“What do you mean? Like what you did with the myriapod?” Ciri asks her.

“Less scientific than what we did there. It’s called a dol dusza. The best translation of it is Valley of the Soul. It allows me to enter the deepest layer of your consciousness and allows me to uncover things that may be hidden there. Genetic memories that tell the story of who you really are. Where you come from.” Tris finishes explaining. 

“Is this dangerous?” I ask Triss. 

“No. It just requires that ciri and I trust each other.” I look over to Ciri and she looks at me. I nod my head in encouragement.

“All right then. I’ll do it.” Ciri tells her. 

Vesemir and I cleared the table for Ciri to lay down on. Triss hops up to sit and Ciri places her head in Triss’s lap. I walk and place my hand on Ciri’s arm and she offers a small smile at me in acknowledgment. They begin with Ciri taking deep breaths and I watch as her body relaxes with every breath. Triss begins to chant in Elder the next thing I know we are all in a tavern of sorts with different people talking. 

“Ciri” I called out to her. She looks around as if she hears my voice. She turns around but looks right through me. I reach out a hand but it goes right through her like a mist. “Triss!” I called out. Tris never turns. 

“Can you hear that?” Ciri asks Tris looking around trying to find the source calling for her.. 

Neither Tris or Ciri can see me, it seems. 

Ciri sees the black knight and starts to hyperventilate. Triss manages to calm her by pulling Ciri to her. Children laugh while playing a game of knuckle bones. Ciri sees her mother sitting beautifully in a green dress. 

“Would you like a story?” Pavetta Ciri’s mother asks, looking over at Ciri and Triss before looking at me with a smile. 

“You can see us?” Says Triss. 

“What’s wrong?” Ciri asks, looking at Triss.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.” Tris says with a frightened look on her face. Memories start to speak to Ciri. Looking around a dark hall opens up in front of us. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work at all.” Tris says as I follow behind them. Low murmuring of voices ensues. 

Doors open and Ciri’s parents are speaking about Ciri. Little baby Ciri

“They would kill her if they knew.” Dad

“It’s a prophecy. Maybe it’s not true.’ Pavetta says stroking a small baby Ciri as she plays on the bed

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true, it only matters if the people believe it. And they will.” Man says, looking at his wife and daughter. He comes around the bed and strokes Pavetta’ s hand. “The boat’s ready. We can leave under the cover of darkness.” Pavetta nods once and looks back down at a small Ciri. 

“This is it. This is the night that my parents died.” Ciri says softly. Pavetta turns and looks straight at Ciri. Triss gasps and tries to pull Ciri away. We all leave and an ominous voice calls out asking “What are you child? ……Cirilla.” It calls to her.  The voices around us continue to whisper Ciri’s name. 

A bright little suddenly appears before us. I see Ciri walk towards it as if in a trance. The space begins to change as feainnewedd blooms litter the ground as we enter into a forest.  The sounds of a baby's cry can be heard in the distance at the lighting strings brightening the fog around us. We walk in the direction of the cry’s and the sound of humming begins to get louder. 

A woman with pair hair like Ciri’s sits at the bottom of a tree humming to her crying child. The woman begins to tell the story of an elven warrior who was made to kill the human invader. As she tells the story she winces in pain, only then do we see the blood on her hands. Triss goes to the woman to help with her wound when the woman sets her child down and grabs triss by the throat. Triss calls out for Ciri as her feet dangle off the ground. I try to pull tris from her grip but my hands slide through Triss like I’m a ghost. 

“You can not help us.” The woman calls out with many voices. “Child of elder blood, Child of wrath. The time of contempt is nigh. The world will die amidst frost and reborn of the new sun.Reborn of elder blood, of the seed that has been sown. A seed that will not sprout, but will burst into flame.” Her head turns back to Triss and begins to squeeze her again. I move to Ciri and try to shake her but all that I manage is a light push before my hands go through Ciri too. 

Seven figures on horses come through the sky on horses and earth worldly voices cry out around us. I look back around trying to find something to stop this. I turn back to Ciri, determined to try one more time to snap her out of it. She looks at Tris being held by the elven woman and Screams Geralt's name. 

I gasp as I sit up finding myself on the floor. I see Triss fall to her knees off the bed with her hand covering her throat. Ciri reaches for her and Tris flinches and screams backing herself against the wall. 

“Something is ending. It’s because of you.” She gasp. “A seed that burst into flame. It’s you. You will destroy us all. I saw it.” She cries.

“Enough!” I shout trying to stand. I look at Ciri first. She looks terrified as she runs from the room. “Ciri!” I call out, but she just keeps running. I look back at Triss and see her still there weeping. 

“Triss.” I say and she flinches. “Triss, everything is okay now. You’re safe.” I try to say in a soothing tone. I managed to wrap and arm around her, helping her from the floor. She starts to mumble somewhat incoherently. Once I got her from the floor. I am able to walk her down the hallway back to her room. I get her tucked into her bed and she just lays on her side eyes staring blankly at the wall. I gently tell her I will come back to check on her but she simply looks straight through me as if I am not even there. 

I take off down searching the keep to find Ciri. I hear a shout that sounds as if it came from Geralt.  I jog in the direction of his voice. When I enter the room Geralt is sitting at the foot of a bed Ciri is in and I see the vial in Vesemir’s hand. I look up at Vesemir and he looks to me and the room goes still. I feel the glow almost instantly looking at that vial in his hands. Ciri stands and leaves the room. I barely feel Geralt’s hand on my arm pulling me and I resist for a moment before I let him. He turns to look at Vesemir once more as he practically shoves me out of the room and we catch up with Ciri in the hall. 

“Ciri, I need you to go pack your things.” Geralt tells her. She opens her mouth to say something but one look at my face and she nods and walks back down the hall. “What happened?” Geralt asks as he gently tugs for me to follow him to the great hall.

“You mean besides my almost committing murder?” He winces slightly at my barked question. I launch into a full accounting of everything he has managed to miss in the whole 6 hours he’s been gone. By the time I’ve finished, I’ve managed to calm significantly. “The reason we all think I’m here is to protect her but I’m scared for her, Geralt. It feels like with every step I’m pulling her away from the edge in the end I’m pushing her closer to it.” I express dejectedly placing my head in my hands.  Geralt pulls my hands away from my face and pulls me into his arms. 

“You are helping her, even when it may not seem like it. I am more grateful for it than you know.” He tells me. 

“Thank you, Geralt.” I smiled at him. I pull away from him but even after his arms leave me his touch still lingers. 

“You should get some rest and pack your things.” Geralt says turning to leave. 

“Where are we going?” I ask him.

“The Temple of Melitele in Ellander.” He says striding from the room. I freeze knowing that name. Knowing that this is where shit actually hits the fan. 

Well fuck.

@freegardenbanananeck​

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #5

A/N: These are my OCs. Ira is a bounty hunter. Leo is a cowboy, and also a mage.

xxx healing salve

"Get down!" Leo puts his arm over Ira, shoving him to the ground and then diving to the dirt himself, just as the first shot rings out.

"Damn!" Ira hisses, reaching for his gun.

Leo would be doing the same, except that his body feels cold and strange, arms leaden, fingers shaking and unsure. His stomach sinks.

"See that big boulder just up the ridge?" Ira says, voice low. "That'll give us better cover. Be ready to move."

Leo doesn't respond. Something is wrong. He's starting to feel it.

"You listening to me, kid?" There's an edge to Ira's voice now, frustration lacing his words. "Dammit, I said--" He turns, and his eyes widen, face going pale as another shot cracks through the air. "Shit."

"I..." It's hard to speak, or think even. "I think...Think 've been..."

"Yeah," Ira says. "You hush now, save your energy. Just stay put, I'm gonna find this bastard and take 'im down. Won't take more'n a second. Hang in there. And stay down."

Leo doesn't want him to leave. Doesn't want to be left here all alone, bleeding all over the long, dried pine needles that cover the forest floor. But the pain is building in intensity, and it steals the breath from his lungs, and with it his voice. There's nothing he can do but watch as the bounty hunter disappears and leaves him.

The initial shock begins to wear off, and Leo knows he can't just lie here. He has to work up the courage to try and sit up. For someone who regularly draws his own blood for ritual spells, he's rather pain averse, and this pain is like nothing he's ever felt—deep and gnawing and relentless. It's everything he has not to cry out when he finally levers himself into a sitting position. He moves slowly, but the hole in his sides protests anyway, loudly. The bullet entered the meat above his left hip. He can't tell if it's still in there or not. He hopes not, but bullets—the kind that aren't enchanted, anyway—are unpredictable.

He'd just as soon not be hit by another one.

Which means it's not in his best interest to try and stand. His satchel is still with the horses, and he knows he's not going to be able to crawl all the way back to them. He'll have to make due with what he has. The small bag he keeps with him has clean strips of linen, and he's sure he saw yarrow growing somewhere nearby. He looks around, scanning the foliage for the familiar yellow-orange flowers.

There. A few yards away, near the treeline. He just has to get there...It's not far. He can do this. He claps a hand to his side, tight as he can stand to, and starts to crawl. A volley of shots breaks out, and he stops moving. After a moment, he realizes he can hear two distinct weapons – the rifle that had shot him, and Ira's pistols. Which means the shooter's attention is elsewhere. His vision goes dark at the edges when he starts moving again, the world tilting beneath him, but he forces himself to keep going. His breath comes in short bursts as inches his way forward.

Nearly there.

Just a little further...

His heart is hammering by the time he gets there, pounding as if he's run a mile, not crawled fifteen feet. He grabs a handful of leaves from the yarrow plants, shoving them in his mouth and chewing before he's even caught his breath. He's going to have to turn onto his back in order to get at the wound. It's gonna hurt, and he knows it.

"To hell with it," he finally murmurs around the mouthful of leaves, and he pushes himself up and to the right, landing on his back with a groan. He just lays there a second, waiting for the agony to pass and his vision to return.

There hasn't been any gunfire in a long time. The fight seems to be over which means someone has won. And someone has lost.

He hopes Ira is okay.

His fingers tremble as he tugs his shirt out of his pants and lifts it away from the bleeding, ragged hole. He's in a lot of pain already, but this next part...But it will help. He has to do it. He reaches up and takes the glob of crushed plant matter out of his mouth. And, before he can talk himself out of it, he presses it into the wound.

He barely has time to scream before he loses consciousness.

xxx

[moorishflower]

Hi! I absolutely loved 'Those who have yet to decide'. I've read it three times and want to read it again. My friend sent the fic to me and I was floored at the beautiful descriptions, but also establishing a new, profound love for Hob in makeup and a corset. This line will forever make me crack up because it's so accurate. Woof to Hob in a corset! I wish I could see it in live action haha. I can hear it in Boyd's voice actually. I love how you wrote this Corinthian.

“Check out these tits, my lord,” the Corinthian says; Dream did not refashion him to have any sense of propriety or good timing, and he regrets this now, immeasurably. “Woof. Bark bark, am I right?”

It was sensual and made me all tingly. I loved how Hob was waving his bi flag proudly and as a bi man myself I salute him. It was just such a brilliant fic and I'm so happy you shared it with us.

I have a read almost everything you have written and I was hoping I could make a small request. Something short and sweet. Could I ask for you to write Hob taking Dream out on a date, strolling through the city at night? Honestly I have no plot idea for you because anything you write will be amazing.

I hope you are well and happy new year to you! I wish you all the happiness and success this year ahead :) (I just saw now that my fave fic is getting a sequel. I'm jumping up and down from happiness!! I'm sat and ready for this!)

Bi Hob means a LOT to me. Bi characters in general mean a lot to me! It's so fuckin important that they're included in any discussion of queer history and queer acceptance, because they, along with like, hetersexual aromantic/heteroromantic asexual people and also hetero trans men/trans women, are very frequently excluded from under that umbrella and it's not fucking right because who you are doesn't change based on who you're dating or fucking and bisexuality isn't just a "cry for attention" or "playing it safe" and I just get very irked by the whole disk horse about it. Which is to say I am SO glad that you liked the fic. <3<3<3

The "sequel" to Those who have yet to decide is now up! It's called "Ab instrumento ad corpus" and it's uh 27k l o l.

Short and sweet short and sweet hmmmm

"Dream!" Thunk. "I know you're up! I can see your light on! Please, Dream, I just want to talk, let me explain..."

It is 11:30 in the evening, and Dream has, for the last fifteen minutes, been listening to the steady tap of stones pelting against his bedroom window. The sound is not unlike hard rain, and if it weren't for the increasingly frantic voice accompanying each volley, he might be able to turn over and accept it as yet another piece of white noise in the background of his room, slotting neatly into place beside the fan whirring by the closet and the gentle hum of his desktop, the water rushing through the pipes in the walls, the clink of ice from the kitchen as Del fetches herself her customary glass of midnight orange juice.

But the voice cannot be ignored. Easier, he thinks, to ignore the sun, to ignore gravity. To ignore the pounding of his own heart, the lurid thud against his ribcage. He manages to hold out for a further, and remarkable, thirty seconds, before there is a sound from below his window that is not a whispered call, and is not a rock pattering against the glass. It is, to his horror, something more like a sob.

He is out of bed and to the window before he has even fully processed his own intention, fingers fumbling numbly for the latch. A bevy of tiny stones litter the ledge of the roof outside, and yet more have trundled down into the gutter, which he can see if he leans outwards, which he does now.

"Hob Gadling," he says severely. Tries for 'severely.' Fears that he has fallen far short, somewhere in the territory of 'desperate.' "Cease your hysterics at once and tell me what do you want?"

The figure that is sat upon the lawn below his window, miserably hunched with his face pressed into his gangling knees, has hair like petrified wood, smooth and glossy and dark redwood brown. When the sunlight hits it perfectly it highlights coronas of sublime amber, all streaked and brilliant and falling in lose waves to cover apple-blushed cheeks and the decent beginnings of scruff along his chin. His chin has a darling cleft in it, which he had once told Dream was a source of some embarrassment for him, and which Dream had told him ought not to worry him, as people would not be looking at his chin, but at his eyes. Hob had assumed he was being quite literal -- had laughed, in the way he has when he isn't certain if laughter will be welcome, but is unable to help himself -- but what Dream had meant was that Hob's eyes were like molten gold, like the beating core of the universe, like sundogs flaring in summer, warm and liquid and arresting to heart and mind.

Hob does not look warm, nor arresting, at this moment. He looks like a seventeen year-old boy sitting in a quarter-inch of snow, slowly soaking through his denims, lifting his head to reveal red-rimmed eyes and damp cheeks. Dream refuses to let the sight stir his heart to pity. He refuses.

"What do you want?" he repeats, and Hob scrambles to his feet, slipping and sliding in frost. He is holding some sort of bundle in one hand, Dream realizes -- in the dark, where it had lain beside him, it had not been obvious. Is still not obvious, but is now undeniably there.

"To apologize," Hob says, and Dream narrows his eyes.

"I am not interested. In your apologies. I do not need you, Hob. I do not need friends. I certainly do not need friends like you, and furthermore --"

"Dream will you just shut up for five seconds? For five bloody seconds while I try to explain?"

Dream shuts his mouth. Inhales, deeply, as his therapist has taught him, and counts to ten. Exhales slowly.

"I am listening," he says. Fury and desire trembling in his breast, vying for control of his heart.

Hob, also, is breathing deeply. There are high spots of color upon his cheeks, and his eyes shine with intensity, and not only wavering tears.

"I'm lonely, too," he says, and Dream holds on to the windowsill. As though by doing so he might prevent himself from flying apart. His knuckles, already pale, turn tea rose pink, and then bloodless white beneath the pressure. "If you'd have let me finish before storming off like a prick, I could've told you that I'm lonely, too. And, and the only time I'm not lonely is when I'm with you. Every room that you aren't in feels empty. The house feels empty. All I want, every minute of every sodding day, is to be right next to you, whatever you're doing, whether you're studying or reading or writing, or, or watching birds. I'd watch birds with you for hours, Dream. I'd pick that over footie, or porn, or..."

"Charming," Dream says. Feels the frost that wafts along the winter night against his neck, and feels the heat blooming under his skin all the same, warding it away. Hob pushes his hand back through his hair, messing it thoroughly, giving him a rakish and dangerous silhouette that makes Dream's heart beat uncomfortably loudly in his ears.

"I'm serious, Dream. I don't. I'm not good with words, the way you are. But I know what I feel, all right? And what I'm trying to say is that I love you. I love you, you dense prick, I'm in love with you, I'm fucking mad with it and if you want me to climb Nelson's Column and shout it from the top I'll fucking do it!"

"Please do not risk legal action for my sake," Dream says. His heart, already rabbit-fast, has elevated itself to speeds normally reserved for jets. It soars in wild loops through the spaces between his ribs. He feels as though he is flying. He feels as though he is going to start hyperventilating. Hob gazes up at him from the lawn, the snow a blanket of cream-white tulle that he scuffs with the tips of his Docs, rucking it up like a sleeper's blanket until Dream can see the still faintly-green grass beneath. The seat of his denims is soaked through, and his hair is a wild bird's nest, and his nose is red, and blotchy, and in the winter silence Dream can hear his stuffy breathing. He sounds as though he is trying to inhale jello through a straw.

"Give me. Five minutes," he says, and Hob nods, and rubs his nose against his sleeve. Disgusting. Foolish. Stupid.

Dream fetches his jacket from the back of his desk chair, slips on his Uggs without bothering with socks, and stuffs a scarf and some gloves into his pockets before he creeps downstairs. The night is blessed: Del has returned to her room, and neither his mother nor father are up. Not even Desire, who seems to sense gossip in the way that homing pigeons can orient themselves towards their nests, is awake. Dream deactivates the alarm on the door to the kitchen and steals outside, into the frigid night.

Hob is there, waiting for him. He has left a shuffling trail of disturbed snow in his wake, and is not dressed at all for the weather, with only his customary jean jacket as any protection. His breath puffs into the darkness in clouds of frost-ringed fairy floss, and the tears on his cheeks glisten like they, too, might turn to ice. When Dream nears, he thrusts out the bundle that he has been cradling. Up close, it resolves into a carefully-wrapped conical shape, swaddled in layers of silver and blue tissue paper.

"Didn't want it to get wet," Hob mutters. The red at his cheeks has spread downward, inching along his neck. Dream takes the bundle, and carefully peels its thin exoskeleton back.

"Oh," he says. Hob scuffs his boots into the snow.

"The lady at the shop thought I was mental," he mutters. "Said nobody pays attention to flower meanings anymore and it was going to be the ugliest bouquet, and I said he cares, and if I get him something as prosaic as roses he'll spit in my face."

"I would never," Dream says, momentarily distracted from the beauty of the bouquet in his hands.

"Yeah, but you'd want to."

Dream huffs, and his own breath joins Hob's, mingling clouds of crystalline vapor. He strokes his fingers through the flowers, all bundled and tight within their wrapping. "Heliotrope," he says softly, "for undying love. Forget-me-not, for faithfulness. Aster?"

"Yeah, she said it stood for patience. 'Cause I will be. I'll wait for you, as long as you need me to. If you need me to wait 'til you come back from uni, or until we're both eighteen or twenty or thirty, or..."

"Hob," he says, and Hob stops, his teeth chattering gently. At some point within the last minute their eyes have caught, and Dream cannot look away. Hob's eyes are honey, thick and sweet and gleaming with inner light, and Dream digs haphazardly into his pocket. Retrieves his scarf, and holds it out.

"You are freezing," he says, and Hob starts.

"I'm fine."

"Do not be dense. Put on the scarf."

There's a quick flash of a smile, just enough to show a hint of teeth, white and gently crooked, and Hob takes the scarf without further protest. He winds it around his neck, and buries his nose into the dense cashmere, inhaling. Dream's heart kicks like a startled mule, and the heat in his skin travels downwards. He keeps his hand extended, and Hob, his fingers buried in the scarf, looks at him quizzically.

"I have heard it is impolite to keep one's boyfriend waiting," he says, and the smile, which before had been only a hint, blooms spectacular and free across his face. "Walk with me."

"Anywhere you want," Hob says, and, fingers warmed from the huff of his own breath, tucks his hand into Dream's.

[crawlspacefics]

Tangled Web (chapter 4) - Throwback Thursday edition

Ghosts, a Sailor Venus volleyball, a round of golf, Sunday breakfast, and lots of family everywhere you turn. As a side note, I cleaned up so many typos in this chapter. It was awful, and I apologize to anyone who read it previously. 🫣

It had started out innocently enough, with a child’s simple question of who wanted to play ball.  Things never stayed that simple, though, and when Minako caught the yellow and orange volleyball with the image of her superhero persona emblazoned on its side, the first spark of competitive glee had lit.  If Haruka hadn’t been the one standing next to her at just that moment, they might have been able to contain the resulting blaze.  As it was, the two blondes now stood on opposite sides of a makeshift volleyball net, staring each other down.

“You’re not on a racetrack this time, Tenoh,” threw out Minako in full challenge.  “This is my game and my turf.”

“Feeling brave, are we?” replied Haruka, a self-confident smirk on her lips.

Minako returned the smirk with one of her own.  “I’m only trying to save your reputation.  After all, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your girlfriend.”

“Funny, I was just going to say the same thing to you,” answered Haruka.  Her smile widened in anticipation, and she called over her shoulder without breaking their eye contact, “You guys ready?”

Michiru and Setsuna, who had been dragged into the middle of it along with Rei and Usagi, answered back in the affirmative.

Minako called back to the two members of her team, and when she only got back an enthusiastic “Ready!” from Usagi, she turned her gaze to Rei.

The miko stood with one hand on her hip and an amused grin on her face.  She held the ball in her other hand, having won the coin toss for the serve.

Minako raised a questioning eyebrow at her.

Rei nodded, then shifted her attitude and stance to serve.  ‘Who was the weaker link?’ she contemplated.  ‘One in the back, but which one?’

From the sidelines, Miki burbled happily as he bounced on Shouko’s lap.  Beside them, Kara waved the shredded paper pompoms her mother had helped the girls quickly pull together.  “Go, Rei!” shouted the little girl.  “You can do it!”

On the other side of the net, Chibi-usa and Hotaru answered in kind, calling out their support for the Outers and waving their pompoms enthusiastically.

Her own competitive spirit building amid the cheers from their “fans,” Rei made her decision and served the ball.

For the first few minutes, the ball volleyed back and forth at a deceptively easy pace.  Rei watched from her corner as Minako and Haruka kept dominance over the ball, neither putting their full ability into it.  They were toying with each other, she thought, issuing a silent challenge and almost daring each other to lose patience and strike first.

Slowly, the tempo began to pick up.  Minako’s moves became more focused, her agility and experience being put to good use.  One corner of Rei’s mouth turned up as she observed the perfect form and tone of Minako’s body as she deflected a hard return from Haruka.  The ball bounced back to Usagi, who in a less than graceful manner gave Minako the setup she wanted.  Minako stretched like a lithe cat as she completed the maneuver, and Rei’s smile grew.  One did not need a beach, she mused, to fully appreciate the sight of Minako playing volleyball in a bikini.

Then it touched her, skirting along the edge of her consciousness, and her smile abruptly fell.  The cheers and laughter faded away until all she heard was the whisper of the air.  A sharp chill passed through her being, the game and people around her disappearing into shadow until only one thing was left in her focus.  The trees.  The branches rustled, and she could almost see…

[plethomacademia]

No one asked but I want to do these two.

9. What was your overall feeling about your writing in 2023? What were you proud of? What were the highlights?

I wrote for the first time in five years and the first time outside of roleplay in over a decade. I am happy to be doing this at all.

8. What was your favourite piece of dialogue you wrote? Why do you like it?

THE ARGUMENT IN FRONT OF THE MODISTE SHOP IN DUET CHAPTER ONE IS MY FAVORITE DIALOGUE PROBABLY EVER

I love to make Maeve and Enver fight because they can just volley back and forth. Pasting with some of the longer description cut so we can just focus on the THEMNESS of it.

“I have a dress, Lord Gortash.” “Do you really need me to list the reasons why that dress is not adequate for this mission?” he says. She crosses her arms and raises her chin at him. She looks like a petulant child.  “Very well.” He counts off the reasons on his fingers. “First, you’ve been seen in it several times in my opera box. Anyone who reads the gossip columns will guess in an instant.” “It’s not that unique —” “Second,” he says, ignoring her glare, “It is far too revealing. As much as I will admit enjoying the sight of your thighs, Maeve, it will stick out in these crowds. You need something that blends in.” He catches how the tips of her ears turn a bit pink at his mention of her thighs. He has seen her with her hands in a chest cavity, but she is so easily disarmed by a half-hearted flirtation. It is always a treat. “And the third?” she bites out. “I know you have one.” “The third reason is simple. It is at least fifteen years out of fashion.” “And you are so versed in women’s fashion?” “More than you. One day, I will explain to you the value in being able to read a person’s clothing, but for now, you are making us late for an appointment that I spent some effort in getting for you. So, are you going to stomp your feet about it and continue catching the attention of everyone in the square or shall we go inside?” They stand like that for a long moment, long enough that he worries that the modiste will come out and make things worse. “Fine,” she finally spits out. She walks to the shop, nearly rips the doors off its hinges, then goes inside.

[antisocialxconstruct]

some GC writing I'd been on the fence about posting because [vague static sounds] but I think it provides some important context for the other thing I want to post... tomorrow, maybe. So:

5.3k, Maksim reacts poorly to Ilya saying extremely normal things (aka Maksim Experiences The Horrors). Nothing really to warn for here... some brief extremely oblique references to why Maksim has issues with physical intimacy.

This takes place after Ilya's "conversation", and before the interrogation.

---

The first time he told Ilya where his apartment was they laughed. "So do you ever eat," they had asked, "or do all your payouts go into the rent?"

And he had simply explained, "I got lucky. They were running a deal," and left out the skull-splitting migraine he nursed for two days after manufacturing that deal in the mind of the property manager.

Ilya still wrinkled their nose at the thought of whatever upper-crust snobs he must be surrounded by, and assured him (unprompted) that he would never have to worry about unannounced visits because they wouldn't be caught dead in a neighborhood like that. So it's a relief to see them standing very much alive in the hallway, albeit bristling and out of place, but it is equally a curiosity. At least they kept their promise that it wouldn't be unannounced. [Where are you] had been an unexpected enough text to receive at two in the afternoon that he’d followed up immediately.

>[Home]

[Boring. Door #?]

And he’d told them, and half an hour later they were on his doorstep.

He wants to question them, or at least rib them a little for debasing themself enough to set foot in Oceanview, but this is an uncomfortable intersection of two very different sides of his life and he also wants them out of view of any prying neighbors. Before he says anything he steps back and beckons them in with a tilt of his head.

Ilya doesn’t immediately volunteer an explanation either, hovering only a few paces past the door as Maksim retreats back to the couch, where his manhunter lays field stripped and half cleaned on the coffee table. He spares them another glance as he sets about wiping down the frame, saying, “there’s no one you need to impress here.”

“This is so weird,” Ilya muses, turning in place to take in his living room before finally meandering closer to his place on the couch. “It doesn’t even look like anyone lives here.”

Maksim blinks, looking up at them again with a puzzled scowl. He sits back to gesture at himself, at the gun and the kit in front of him, a wordless statement of little more than I’m literally sitting here.

Ilya snorts. “You know what I mean. It’s… I don’t know, sterile?”

“It’s clean,” Maksim volleys back. “I don’t believe you came all the way here just to judge my decor.”

“No…” Ilya’s gaze begins to wander again, and now that Maksim is watching them more closely he suspects it’s not just the unfamiliar surroundings making them tense. There’s something in the way they’re holding themself, the way their eyes dart back to him and then flick away again… a question hanging in the air between them. Eventually, somewhere in their nervous inspection of his space, they find it. “Did anything… happen last night? I had the weirdest conversation at the bar, after the run, I haven’t been able to shake it.”

Maksim cants his head, giving them an analytical once-over. By now he knows what a noteworthy ‘conversation’ at the bar entails, but he also knows the extent of Ilya’s resilience. Still there’s an impressive bruise sprawled across one side of their jaw, fresh enough to stand out dark against their tan skin and telling the story of at least one blow that would have been heavy enough to lay out someone with even marginally less chrome. He drops his attention back down to his original task, turning his attention to the barrel and spring assembly as he says, “weird enough to send you home with quite a headache, I assume.”

Ilya manages a laugh and a nonchalant roll of their shoulders in spite of their obvious discomfort. “I mean it was nothing I couldn’t handle. One suit and some muscle, way too far from their own turf.”

“How far?” Maksim prompts, a smile flitting across his own features as he fits the manhunter’s slide back together. Ilya’s tension was starting to leak into the room, he’d rather keep them on a subject they’re comfortable with.

“Man, I don’t know,” they say, exhaling a sharp puff of air. “Sounded like UCAS somewhere… east coast, maybe?”

And the smile gets wicked away as a chill pours itself down Maksim’s spine. He doesn’t look up.

It could be a coincidence.

If it was, why would Ilya come to him with it? What are they angling at?

The manhunter comes back together with the soft scrape of metal on polymer. He steals another glance at them without moving his head, and both the initial unease and the subsequent brashness are gone, replaced by a look he can’t interpret in the brief moment he has to examine it.

It can’t be a coincidence. They know what they’re doing.

“I can’t imagine what they would be looking for in California,” he remarks.

“Actually the suit was asking about you.”

Maksim grits his teeth, hoping it doesn’t show on his face the way those six words just turned his stomach. The silence settles too fast and too heavy between them, punctuated only by a hollow click as Maksim points the newly reassembled pistol at the floor and pulls the trigger. Racks the slide, does it again.

Calm, controlled. Everything operating as it should.

It was only a matter of time until they tracked him down again, he knows that. It’s a bad sign that they’re close enough on his trail to know they could get to him through Ilya… They’ve never tried anything like that before, but then he never stayed in one place long enough to have contacts before. It’s a worse sign that Ilya is here now, holding this over him, waiting for… for what? For him to negotiate? To beg? There’s no reason to panic yet, though. He can salvage this. And if he can’t… He slots the magazine back into place, sets the manhunter down deliberately on the table in front of him, and finally looks up to meet Ilya's gaze.

“What did he offer you?”

Ilya's poker face is at least as good as his, but he catches the subtle hint, the furrowing of their brow as their gaze darts to the gun and then back to him. Not quite unease… confusion? This is a gambit they’ve seen before, they should understand what he’s signaling. I’m not escalating, but I’m prepared to. Their voice sounds uncharacteristically hesitant as they ask, "does that matter?"

Maksim takes in a slow breath through his nose, exhales as he rolls his eyes. "Of course it matters," he says, with all the patience he can muster. "You don't have to be coy about this, if I can beat whatever they're offering you I'd rather-"

“Maksim.” There’s something in Ilya’s voice that stops him short, some tone he doesn’t think he’s heard before. Not from them. They’re wearing the bemusement more openly now, but underneath it, he thinks there’s something else. “Did you think I was shopping for a better offer? I’m not just gonna sell you out like that.”

That’s not what he was expecting, and for what feels even to him like an uncomfortably long moment Maksim just stares. He figured there were only two ways this conversation could go, but they’re already off-script. Something… shifts, a thin fissure opening up between the calm and control he'd weighed himself down with. Some sort of unnamed discomfort bubbles up out of it and he tries to swallow it back. “Why…?” he asks, and he hates the way he can hear his own voice waver.

Ilya frowns, furrowing their brow and cocking their head at him like he’s speaking gibberish. “Because we’re a team…? I don’t… is this a problem?”

The discomfort continues to well up into Maksim’s chest despite his efforts to bury it, congealing into a sort of dread, a certainty that something is wrong. A problem. This is a problem. “Yes,” he blurts and winces, instantly regretting the honesty as his eyes fall searchingly to the floor as he presses the back of his hand to his mouth. He feels sick, like the dread is going to spill over, viscous and far too real. Ilya’s chuckle in response is brief and uncertain, and when Maksim holds their gaze again, whatever they see in his expression evaporates that momentary attempt at mirth.

“Why? I’m… I don’t get it.” 

No more than a second’s hesitation. He drops his hand back into his lap. “Because I-” but this time the answer breaks apart on Maksim’s lips in a burst of self doubt. Because I thought we both agreed that was the arrangement. Because it’s what I would do in your place. It’s this thought that ricochets back out of his subconscious, twisted into a question he doesn’t want to answer, and his next breath comes short and quick, accompanied by a sudden stab of fear.

Wouldn’t I?

It only takes that momentary uncertainty for the dam to break on the terrible reality of the situation, for all the other inevitable questions to come flooding in after it. Did the dynamic change? When? What signs did he miss? Where do they stand now? What is Ilya expecting of him? How has he failed them already? How does he get out of this?

A wave of lightheaded nausea crests over him and he leans forward, trying to ignore the sensation that he’s about to pitch himself off the couch onto the floor. The horror pooling in his chest is hardening, crystalizing, jagged against his ribs as it presses the air out of his lungs. Elbows braced on his knees and thumbs pressed to his temples, he stares hard down at the pistol in front of him. Not with any sort of intent, simply because it’s the easiest thing to focus on that isn’t Ilya. It’s the only thing in his immediate perception that seems stable. The next words he speaks come out small and strangled. “You need to…  can you leave?”

He doesn't look up but he can hear Ilya take a step closer. "Look, if you just tell me what-"

"Ilya, can you just leave?" he says again, a little sharper, a little louder this time. He's well past the point of being able to construct a better counter-argument. He has to fight back the temptation to dig a telepathic hand into their brain and make them leave, whether they want to or not. If he didn’t already feel like he was going to be sick… Instead he appends the request with a single word. "Please?"

Maybe it's the fact that he’s begging that settles things. Maybe it's the way he keeps involuntarily flexing his claws, fingers laced together over his brow so he can feel the carbon fiber tips pricking against the backs of his hands. The silence stretches out into several long, uncomfortable seconds before he finally hears Ilya turn, retreat to the front door without a single word more, and step out. The door latches softly behind them and the only company Maksim has left is the sound of his own ragged breathing.

What is this…?

What this is, is bad. He’s been on the run for over two years, dodging repercussions for something he still firmly maintains he didn’t do but never managed to shake off anyway. Something that broke some part of him, permanently warped his relationship to his own body. He doesn’t even know for sure who’s coming after him, what kind of retribution they’re looking for, he only knows that they’re persistent. He can’t run any further west than San Francisco, and if they kept up with him through three different territories it won’t matter if he starts going north or south next. They’re close, practically breathing down his neck, and they’re playing by different rules now. Rules he doesn’t know and can’t defend against.

And right now he can’t worry about any of that.

Because right now the problem is Ilya.

This… this has happened before–the confidence, the certainty that he understood the parameters of a relationship and was working within them, and the gut-churning elevator drop of realizing all at once that he was wrong. When a girl in his teen social circle had declared to the rest of their friends that they were dating he’d gone along with it, did all the things he understood fell under the label of “boyfriend,” and six months later when she justified cheating on him on the basis that he didn’t take her out enough for it to be a “real” relationship, he conceded and assured her they didn’t need to be in a fake relationship either. When an artist in Rostov had become enamored with him, he’d agreed to steal away to the studio whenever he could to play the role of muse, and after a year and a half when the artist confessed he had never once felt that Maksim was truly “present�� with him despite their time together, he apologized for wasting the man’s time and then stopped showing up. After the army he’d spent the better part of his travels across Europe in lockstep with a fellow hitchhiker, only for them to become irate at being rebuffed when they tried to act on the “signals'' Maksim hadn’t been aware he was sending. By then he had concluded that the only safe way to navigate any encounter was to project outward what he had always felt but internalized as an inappropriate response to new people–flat, passive disinterest. The last time a fellow runner had remarked on how much ze valued their friendship, and wondered if Maksim might ever want more out of it, he had been quick to clarify that he had never thought of them as friends.

It’s difficult to say how long he sits there, bent forward on the couch and floundering in the mire of his own thoughts, but by the time his heartbeat and breathing have leveled out and he feels like he can move without fainting, the afternoon light has fully given way to the soft rusty hues of a California evening.

He stands, unsteady at first, and shuffles away from the couch to stretch the tension out of his limbs. He needs to move, he needs to do anything else. After a bit of aimless pacing he finds himself in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for the unopened bottle of whiskey that a neighbor had presented as a housewarming gift, which then got shuffled away into a back corner because Maksim didn’t bother explaining to her that he doesn’t drink.

Anymore. He doesn’t drink anymore. But under the circumstances…

He uncovers it eventually, pours a couple fingers into the first glass he finds, downs it, coughs as it hits the back of his throat with a vengeance. It’s a blessing that he’s in the apartment alone, grimacing through the mid-tier burn of his first drink in two years. But it blankets his nerves enough to tamp down the burst of nervous energy, and the second shot softens the focus around the brittle edges of his thoughts just enough for him to be willing to face them again. He does the third pour the courtesy of actually sipping it as he sinks back into the pits of unwelcome self-reflection.

He always had a simple solution for this, for every fool who thought they were close when he thought he was being cold, every asshole who thought they were enemies when he thought he was being civil–disengage. Whatever the dynamic was, abandon it, let it dissolve, never think about it again. He’d never invested himself in any relationship–romantic, platonic, or work-related–so much that he wasn’t willing to end it at a moment’s notice, so if the other party didn’t like it, what did he care? He’d tried that once with Ilya already, pulled back and insisted that he had no interest in being friends, and it had rolled off their back and left them entirely unfazed. But they didn’t leave. So he had assumed they had an understanding. We’re not friends. This partnership ends as soon as one of us has better prospects. He doesn’t know when Ilya started thinking of them as a “team,” if that’s all they think, if it’s his fault again, but it should be grounds for a more final liquidation of the dynamic to avoid any further misunderstandings. And yet none of that aligns with his reaction tonight. It doesn’t explain the lingering dread, dripped down out of his ribcage to sit heavy in the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t explain why the idea of letting Ilya down, the possibility that they might want something he can’t give them, makes him feel ill.

It would be easy to remove them from his life if he really wanted to. It’s a big city, they never moved in the same circles anyway, if they stopped meeting on purpose he’d probably never see them again. He has enough credibility now that he could find another team, even if that meant finding another fixer. He’s not so loyal to Violet that he would miss em. It would be quick, it would be practically effortless… and when he tries to envision it, tries to formulate the final conversation with Ilya before they part ways for good, his chest constricts like someone’s got a vice grip around his heart.

Someone…

It doesn’t quite hit him like a lightning strike, like a tidal wave, like anything especially poetic.

Moreso it comes crashing down on him like the contents of a precariously packed closet, finally succumbing to the structural instability of removing a single item from the bottom, leaving him stunned and dismayed and with a clear, perfect view of the absolute mess laid out around him.

And it is a mess.

With a groan he leans forward to rest his elbows on the counter, runs a hand over his face, hangs his head and laces his fingers over the back of his neck. Then he quietly and very somberly tells the empty glass in front of him, “жизнь ебет меня.”

Because he doesn’t want to disengage. Whatever he and Ilya actually have, he doesn’t want it to dissolve. He just wants a name for it.

It still takes two days after the revelation before Maksim finds the nerve to contact Ilya again, and even then only through text.

>[Can we meet?]

The hour between when he sends it and when they respond feels like one of the greatest agonies of his life, no matter how many times he tells himself they could simply be busy.

[Are you sure?]

>[Yes]

He hesitates, types I owe you an explanation, deletes it. Too open ended, he doesn't know if they'll show up with questions he can't answer. He tries I'll tell you as much as I can, then It's important, scraps them both. Pointlessly ominous. What is he trying to say? What does he want them to think he's trying to say? Finally he settles.

>[Caporal, lunch?]

This time the answer comes quickly.

[I can be there at 1]

El Caporal Restaurant & Bar is one of the precious few middle grounds they were able to settle on in the time they’ve been working together. Its atmosphere is pragmatic and unassuming, far less trendy or quirky than most of the establishments in the Mission, and it’s close enough to the Haight-Ashbury slums that the staff aren’t likely to bat an eye at metahumans or anyone who comes off rougher than an ordinary wageslave, convenient for both of them especially when they’re together. As an added bonus the food is even half-decent, not that Maksim can find much of an appetite beneath his tangled nerves.

He gets to the restaurant just after 12. Enough time to linger at the front and strike up a conversation with the hostess, who’s just the right mixture of “bored on a slow day” and “afraid of looking like she’s slacking” to indulge him. Once he gets her laughing along with a joke at the expense of the management–”you can’t say that,” she giggles conspiratorially–he knows they’re on the same side, and moves on to his real intent.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says, winking playfully. “Listen I probably shouldn’t keep you, and I hate to be more trouble, but could I ask one last favor?”

“Sure, what do you need hun?” her posture shifts slightly, more attentive, ready to engage the customer service protocols.

“I need your patio, actually.” He looks past her, lifting his chin to indicate the double doors at the back. “I’m waiting for a f-. A friend,” he clears his throat, pressing on before she can notice the hesitation and before he can properly wonder why the label didn’t roll off his tongue like any other lie, “it would mean the world if we could just have some privacy to catch up, if you think that’s doable.” He keeps his tone and smile bland, taking care not to weave any sort of implication into his words. Let her decide if this is some sort of back-room deal or just two friends looking for a quiet reunion. El Caporal manages to be a passable location for either one.

“Oh!” The hostess steals a glance over her shoulder, then turns back to him. “Yeah… I think we can manage that,” she says with a wink of her own. “I doubt we’re going to see much of a crowd this afternoon anyway.”

He still ends up sitting alone outside for another twenty minutes, a cigarette in one hand and the steady drum of fingertips on the glass tabletop becoming a quiet metronome behind his thoughts as he stares blankly down at the menu. Most of that time has been spent half heartedly sipping sangria and fighting his own instinct to start writing an internal script for this conversation. With his luck, it’ll veer left a few minutes in and he’ll be completely out of his depth all over again, made all the worse for the inability to let go of what he had planned. Best to speak as freely as he can handle.

Best to speak from the heart.

He grimaces, immediately disliking the mawkishness of his own thoughts, but shakes it off just as quickly when he hears the double doors open. He straightens, meeting the hostess and Ilya with the same pleasant demeanor he’d entered with. “Ah there you are,” he laughs, fixing Ilya with a pointed look when he sees the uncertainty suddenly flit across their features. “I was starting to think you were lost.”

“Well… you know how it is,” Ilya offers, doing a quick inventory of the scene and catching on fast even if the code-switching isn’t as instantaneous for them. They’re on time, but it’s obvious he’s been waiting anyway. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

“Can I get either of you anything to start out?” the hostess chirps, all professional courtesy now.

Ilya takes another second to eye Maksim’s drink, then turns to her with a light smile of their own, not quite as plastic as Maksim’s feels but a level of politeness he knows they reserve for people they don’t actually want anything to do with. “Anything you’ve got on tap with a bite would be great,” they say, then break away to take their seat as she heads back inside.

There’s a graciously short span of uncomfortable silence before she returns, sets the glass down in front of them, and then picking up on the fact that neither of them has shown much interest in the lunch menu, bustles away again with some noncommittal pleasantries.

Finally, once he's reasonably confident they won't be bothered again for a while, Maksim exhales sharply and lets the facade slip away, rubbing his eyes with his palms until it brings little bursts of color to the surface of his vision.

"Well this is... more intimate than I was expecting," Ilya comments, and when Maksim opens his eyes again he can't tell from their expression whether it was a joke, an observation, or a complaint. Either way they look at least a bit like they're suddenly doubting they were allowed to say it at all.

"I just wanted privacy," he explains, maybe a little too quickly. Too eager to justify. Then, "you... I thought you deserve to know why you were attacked."

A sharp little smile does tug at the corner of Ilya’s mouth as they raise their drink to their lips. “‘Attacked’ is giving those goons a lot more credit than they deserve.”

Maksim takes a second to study their face again. The bruise their confrontation left behind has begun to fade, purple giving way to an uneven brown of healing tissue. Several conflicting thoughts pile to the front of his mind, it’s my fault that happened to you and why didn’t you just take the deal and they’re not going to get away with that. He pushes them all away and stubs out his cigarette, then leans back to fish the pack and lighter out his pocket. He so rarely chain smokes, but it’s apparently been a week of giving in to his worst impulses.

Finally he dives in, speaking through the first mouthful of smoke. “I know people talk… there was a botched run on a CAT warehouse in New York City a couple years ago, did you hear about it?”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, their expression becoming slightly pinched, and when they do speak there’s a note of what Maksim would hazard to call guilt underpinning the single word. “Yeah.”

He sighs again, but regards them with newfound curiosity. “You never brought it up.”

“I didn’t see a point,” Ilya shrugs. “All I ever heard were rumors from a lot of people who weren’t there and seemed to think they knew exactly what happened.”

Maksim nods slowly, trying to fit this neatly into his impressions of Ilya, of the terms of their relationship. “Well…” he pauses to take another drag. “Ironically, I was there and I’m not entirely sure what happened,” he says this with a light, apologetic smile, hoping to convey that it’s at least partly a joke and not just a tragic confession. “But I can tell you what I remember.”

“Hey, you really… you don’t have to-” Ilya starts, but Maksim holds a hand up to stop them.

“I just think you deserve some context,” he says. Then, with a last deep breath to steel himself, he presses on. “It really should have been a milk run. There were guards at the entrance but a warehouse is a warehouse… It was a tax shelter, full of worthless art, but apparently whoever it belonged to accidentally got their hands on something real… some catholic…” he rubs his eyes, makes a vague gesture with his hand. When the word doesn’t come to him he simply presses on. “Five runners seemed like overkill to get it but Alabast was paying well enough for a five-way split to be worth it, I guess they wanted it that badly.” He pauses again and frowns down at the table, taking a moment to reorganize his thoughts, weigh out which details Ilya actually needs and which ones would be wasting their time. “Of course I didn’t know we were working for Alabast until I was in Denver,” he muses, “I don’t know why I got into such a bad habit of never asking for details.”

Realizing he’s gotten ahead of himself, he closes his eyes and gives his head a quick shake before meeting Ilya’s eyes again. “There was something else in that warehouse with us… or someone, I don’t… I never found out. But while the five of us were still trying to figure out their cataloging system, it got in-” the end of that sentence gets swallowed by a sudden shudder that runs up the length of Maksim’s spine, as if the temperature had suddenly plunged around them. He hunches forward onto the table, shoulders pulled in tight and defensive, screwing his eyes shut again as he pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He thought if he just said it, simple, matter of fact, that would strip away some of the power the memory still had over him. Instead it just feels like a hit-and-run.

“Maksim…” Ilya cuts in softly, but he waves their attempted reassurance away only to backtrack a moment later.

“No, you know, you’re right, this isn’t really important,” he concedes breathlessly, his gaze wandering aimlessly across the table as he wills himself to uncoil. “The point is, it went wrong, two people died, the three of us still alive had to scrub the run with nothing to show for it, and everyone blamed me. For a couple months after that I was traveling a lot for…” he glances at his hands, idly extends and retracts his claws. “Research. Visiting showrooms. Talking to surgeons. Talking to loan sharks.” He flashes Ilya another thin smile. Another joke. Sort of. “So I didn’t know how the rest of the team was dealing with the fallout, but I know when I got back into the city one of them wasn’t happy to see me and the other was telling me I needed to get back out. I thought I’d lay low in Chicago for a while until I could sort out what happened, but when I realized even that far out I was being followed, I…” he lets his head fall back slightly, rolling his eyes up toward the sky as he shakes his head again. “I panicked. And then ran a little further every time I got a sense someone was keeping track of me. I had some time in Denver after another surgery and had the sense to do some research, until that put a spotlight on me and I had to start moving again.” He sighs deeply, running a hand over his hair until it comes to rest at the back of his neck, one finger tapping idly against the tip of the reflex trigger where it peeks out from his shirt collar. “I really thought they’d give up before I hit the west coast…”

“But no such luck,” Ilya provides, maybe just to assure him that they’ve been keeping up.

“No,” Maksim confirms with a grimace.

“So Alabast…” Ilya says the name with a thoughtful intentionality, testing the sound of it, or possibly testing it against their own knowledge. “What do they even want? Why bother with you instead of just finding another team?”

Despite himself Maksim responds with a weak chuckle. “I wish I knew,” he says. “I haven’t exactly stopped to ask. I was hoping they gave you some idea.”

Ilya shakes their head, frowning. “The suit was pretty light on specifics. Conspicuously.”

“Of course.”

The conversation hangs there for a beat as Maksim grasps for a way to tie it off. A script really would have been helpful. He wasn’t going to ask for anything, he didn’t have any plans to put forward… he just needed an excuse to talk to Ilya again, pull them back in without having to address the real question simmering between them. The fact that they’ve let him talk this much is unexpected, he had been anticipating more questions, a demand to explain his behavior…

It’s Ilya who breaks the silence. “I know this wasn’t the point but, for the record I believe you.”

He blinks a couple times. The comment draws him back up out of his thoughts but leaves him wondering if he missed something. “What?”

“About the run…” Ilya continues, only to hesitate as another flash of uncertainty passes over their expression. Then with a quick inhale they add, “you don’t have to tell me exactly what happened. I believe it wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh…” Maksim breathes, and internally he’s thinking you can’t keep saying things like that to me. You can’t keep acting like you get it, like none of this is a problem for you. What am I supposed to think? What he says is, “thanks.”

[quinnverse]

“That’s Your Royal Highness to you, thank you very much.” She smirked, reaching over to gather the cards in her hand. If was intent on giving her a mocking nickname, she would at least make sure it was something inconvenient. And it sounded far better than princess anyhow.

“You want me to kiss you?” Her cheeks flared and Emma knew there was no hiding the shock on her face. She nearly dropped her cards at his suggestion, wondering if he was saying it merely to catch her off guard or if he was serious. Her eyes searched his face for any sign that it might be a malicious joke, but she couldn't manage to spot any hint of jest.

She hadn’t intended to lose--she hadn't even considered it an option--but the punishment of kissing him was only more reason to make sure she won.

“I think we both know I will never want to, but," Using a free hand to pull all her curls to one shoulder, she shrugged, combing through her hair idly. "We might as well make it high stakes. Avoiding your lips will be good motivation for winning. Nothing like fear to whip a woman into submission, right?”

I think it only right that you acclimate yourself to showing affection for your husband. If she hadn't been having a pleasant enough evening, Emma might've let the comment affect her more than it did now. She bristled at his audacity, but focused her attention on her cards, splaying them out evening in her hand.

“Firstly,” She began, appraising the cards in her hands. “You are not my husband. Secondly, even if you were, my conditions still stand. No doting nor affection, remember?"

"Unless you'd already like to back out?" He dared and she shook her head.

“You wish.” Emma volleyed as she stared at the trump card, his words echoing in her head. I'll be romancing you in no time. She would not let that happen. Not now, not ever. She couldn’t lose, not the game and certainly not the bet. But she would guard her heart as best she could, even if it meant drawing a lame hand. Even if it meant losing the game.

“Are we counting per trick, or per round?” She smirked at him from her seat, leaning forward slightly to taunt him. “How eager are you to strip for me, Mister Bolton?”

Either way she would win, but winning with a proper strategy would be harder if he was undressed quickly. As proud as she was for her stubbornness, there was only so much focus she would be able to maintain in front of an undressed man. Letting out a soft sigh, she ruminated on the cards for a moment before deciding to go for a middle of the road play: a six of diamonds.

"Your turn, swine."

"Your humility is satisfactory. For now."

Benjamin looked up from the deck, briefly halting. A smile touched his mouth as he replied, "As usual, your generosity knows no bounds, princess. I'll have to be certain to repay you."

He doubted Emma would appreciate his new moniker for her, but her family's loyalty to the Crown, coupled with her own spoiled upbringing made it inevitable.

She paused a long moment, seeming to weigh her options. "Well, it seems relatively straightforward. I assume the terms are reciprocal, yes? If you win, I am expected to undress, too. Correct?"

"No." Benjamin's response was quick and immediate. Setting the deck in between them, he replied, "You're already underdressed, so I have no interest -- I would wager your pending humility over losing will be satisfying enough, so there's no need to put you through that, as well."

While Emma drew a card, he leaned forward onto his elbows, seeking her gaze. "I want you to kiss me," he declared. "Not on the mouth, of course -- unless that's what you want -- but for every hand you lose, I think it only right that you acclimate yourself to showing affection for your husband."

Emma scoffed, then revealed to him the trump card: hearts.

"Well, look at that," Benjamin replied, unable to fight off a grin. "It seems even fate is on my side. I'll be romancing you in no time."

Finally, with the cards properly shuffled, he divided them in between one another, drawing his own cards forward to look at his hand. They weren't...terrible, but they weren't fantastic either. It would seem he'd have to fall upon his usual feint. Despite the giddy buzz from his earlier imbibing, he felt relatively sound and capable of proper strategy.

"Go ahead and start us off, princess." Slowly, Benjamin lifted his eyes to hers, arching a challenging brow. "Unless you'd already like to back out?"

[the-firebird69]

Trump was given orders by the court to stay in Florida until the arraignment until they decide what to do of the conditions of the trial. So far is violated twice and the court is aware of it and they sent notice do not do it again or you'll be apprehended and held in federal pen until the trial this coming week and he said I have to leave here so people don't kidnap me and they said we don't care about that you're told what to do and what not to do and he wrote a letter back and said we cannot behave in accordance with what you're saying due to the fact that my life is being threatened by the very enemy that has forced us to happen which enemy is that and he said the clones then they said we might have a problem with that and he said why he said where the clothes and Trump is making it up and it's true he is making it up and Mac had a vested interest in the Cuban missile crisis as well as Tommy f and they both both are going after him now and they're going after the warlock for treason against their kind and they're going after our son and daughter's clans and they want them out of how many F possession Tommy have possession and he's going to get in trouble that's our son by association and we can't afford it and we need to start moving in and this invasion plan will assist us in doing so it's bad all around these rebels turn sour towards our sun they shouldn't have their idiots and Tommy Fern very sour and homicidal and it's a jerk to them we are going to find them in every way possible and this guy's alluded my son's very young he keeps saying is relatives are dead and he is having your people slaughtered

So we're going onwards with what we're doing but you should be told Tommy f that you were in violation of every treaty that man has. They're going to hit you in unison and we are going to hit you as well alongside them at this time. You're going to be fed your own head I'm tired of hearing our stuff out there I'm tired of you ratting I'm tired of you talking about it I'm going to flush you you're going to die the hands of one of your low level peoples. And you deserve it cuz they deserve to be able to hit you not really but that's what we're going to do you must match up so good it might even cover it. I'm sick of you we see your ships approaching and we are issuing orange to you for you to halt. You are not listening Max are issuing the warning in a more Stern way they are firing across your bow if you continue to approach your ships will be destroyed. And they give a distance you have to stay away and you're almost there we are now beginning firing and mass tons of weaponry tons of different types of weaponry. Warlock chips can be seen off in the distance they don't have the range but they're firing missiles that you get there, and the fairly large and our son says thank you and they say you're welcome. And there's arming up with more missiles and they get the idea they don't have to go close and they're firing like madness and it's going on right now. There's a huge barrage coming from the fleet it's massive the ships in front are moving to the side large very large star laser tips up to 100 miles the powered up there with motion guns and I let it loose a massive volley the ships in front are firing once again the closer together and they're spreading out the ships repositioned in their firing they helped a lot Tommy f is firing like madness and it's not hitting that much his range is not that great for some reason he's powering up his large black ships and his large Stone chips we are concentrating fire on them at this very moment it is a very very heavy War massive numbers of ships are in space off Earth. Huge numbers of Black ships are emerging from all over the solar system from both sides and are engaging each other it is a war and saucers empire ships and more than we thought and stone chips from all sides Donald Trump is preparing to launch from New Zealand bja is preparing to launch from Australia and they probably will engage The empire but they wanted to hit Tommy f or at least help and they're moving out and they're going up there now they are firing heavy stuff out of their ships they're starting to watch now and they're firing at Tommy F who's quite a ways off but they are hitting and his ships are disabled and the starships are coming up probably 90% thus far and they're moving fast their position off the left leg other more lock on the right flank and they're firing tons of weaponry huge numbers of weapons are firing the planetoids are being watched thus far they are not heating up the fleet is trying to advance and trying to cover them so they can heat up and activate their weapons and it is not working their fleet is getting knocked down thus far it is 25% knocked down and it is 75% able they just lost five more percent and are down to 70% able. More shortly

Thor Freya

Olympus

Hera Zues

All

Nuada Arrianna

[rose-edith]

(6) Your Father Robert confronting you and Tommy in Birmingham would include:

(Crawley!Reader x Tommy Shelby. Peaky Blinders x Downton Abbey: Crossover.)

• the minute you got back to Birmingham after Mary’s wedding you jumped straight back into your life. You were relieved to get back to work, relieved to finally be able to kiss and sleep with Tommy without fear of being caught.

•you’d missed your chats with Esme, Pol and Ada! As much as catching up with your sisters had been lovely, two of the three of them didn’t live in the same world as you. So with Mary and Edith it was a bit awkward. Pol was waiting in your house for you, the kettle having not long been boiled and a stew warming on the stove.

•Tommy could see the relief wash over you, and he experienced the full force of it that first night back in your shared bed…you took charge and made the Shelby man beg for your mercy and for release, and you made sure he had it time and time and time again.

•anyway, you settled back into the routine- teaching during the day, drinks at the Garrison some nights, patching Tommy up when he got all bloodied up. You didn’t necessarily approve of Tommy’s choices sometimes, but you’d never ever want him to change. You loved him just as he was. Sure, you were worried that you might lose him young, but you’d been taken in by the Shelby’s, they’d help you through it. That’s what it was to love a man of fire like Tommy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

•what you don’t realise though is that Robert, your Father, had hired a Private Investigator to spy on you and Tommy, even as his lawyer Murray managed to get hold of Tommy’s war records.

•so when the PI reported back to Robert that you and Tommy were living together in sin, and that Tommy appeared to be some sort of gangster he saw red!

•Robert stormed down to Birmingham and into your house without knocking. He was almost shell shocked from the things he’d seen as he took a cab from the station to your little house- hardly even a hovel in his opinion- he didn’t understand how you could want to live like this. He hadn’t listened to a single word you’d ever told him, he jumped to the assumption that Tommy was holding something over you and he was holding you captive in this situation.

•and that’s why Robert stormed into the house without knocking and found you sat on Tommy’s lap wiping blood off his face after another ‘successful’ dispatch of a rival. And that’s also why he found himself at the messy end of Pol’s gun!

•you were out of Tommy’s lap in a flash, pulling Pol back as Tommy shouted that it was your Dad! Tommy shrugged into his jacket, holding it closed to hide the blood soaked shirt beneath. Pol lowered the gun and glared at Robert.

• “I thought you lot were supposed to be civilised. Is it not polite to knock before barging in?” She hissed at Robert, entirely unimpressed. If looks could kill she’d have been struck down by the look blazing on Robert’s face.

•you didn’t get the chance to ask why he was here in your house in Birmingham, because in the next instant your Father had leapt at Tommy and was hitting him! Tommy wasn’t fighting back, not really, just trying to duck and dodge.

•no matter how much you tugged or tore at Robert’s clothes he didn’t stop. Pol ran to get Arthur, John and Finn. But you’d taken her gun from her pocket, you opened the window and shot down into the ground. Your adrenaline spiked as the loud sound echoed down the street and through the house. The men both jumped apart, checking to see that you were alright.

• “SIT DOWN NOW!” You screamed. Once they’d sat down you put the gun down on the dresser and made your way to Tommy to check he was alright. He was bleeding again and you sighed, turning angrily to your Father. You leant heavily on the table. You were breathing heavy and felt utterly, infuriatingly, blindingly angry.

•so you swore. You unleashed a verbal volley on Robert, the likes of which he’d never experience from anyone ever before! His face went ashen as you finally shot off every little bad thing you had to say. And the language…Robert never knew you could swear like that! And actually, it helped him to realise that he hadn’t been fair, he hadn’t ever gotten to know you, he’d never seriously considered what life you wanted. He’d just wanted to stamp the patterns of his life onto yours.

•but as he looked you, commanding and in control, in your own house with the man you’d chosen for yourself at his side…he could see he’d misjudged you. He could see that if he didn’t accept your life, your choices, he’d lose you. And that’s something he definitely didn’t want.

•a gentleman he may be, upper class and privileged certainly, but Robert loves all of his daughters. And he’d do anything for you all. Including accepting this bewildering life you’d chosen.

•he backed down and just watched. He watched how Tommy gazed so lovingly, so adorably at you, he saw how you ruled and owned your own home. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but it didn’t matter anymore. You’d grown up.

•feeing much better for having screamed your throat hoarse, releasing every licked you thought and feeling you’d ever had, you put the kettle on. Some things would never change- as your Granny said many times, sweet tea was just the thing for shock. So that’s what you set about making.

•it was comical when Pol and the boys tumbled through the door ready to break up a fight! So they were amazed to find you glaring at both men with your arms folded across your chest! You were certainly scary when you were angry. But you were a good hostess too- tea was soon served to everyone.

•now that things had calmed down you introduced your Father to your soon to be family…you can imagine the surprise on Arthur, John and Finn’s faces when they discover that you’re actually Lady Y/N Crawley, daughter of an Earl. Pol just grins at them, having known pretty much all along.

•it’s late by now, so Robert stays in the spare bedroom of your little home. He has to bite his tongue when he hears Tommy climb into bed with you in the other room. But you’re considerate enough to simply sleep, you know your Father would be unhappy enough with the fact you’re sharing a bed. Baby steps, you reminded yourself.

•when Robert left the following day things were awkward and raw, but he had apologised to you and Tommy, he’d also left some money with you to get Pol some flowers. Your Father was a gentleman first and foremost, and he’d behaved badly in front of a woman to whom you’d soon be related(ish), so he asked you to make amends by buying her some flowers, so you did. And surprisingly she found the gesture very sweet.

[kvhasproblems]

Part 1 Bad Nights

Daisy Johnson x reader

Rated: G

Word Count: 679

Reader’s pronouns aren’t mentioned in this lol,

(Takes place in season 3 but it doesn’t matter much)

(Spoiler-free)

Warnings: regular aos violence.

AN: So basically this fic was supposed to be longer but I couldn’t for the life of me write the second half to it so, for now, I’m posting the first half and just making this into 2 parts.

I jolted awake. For the 3rd time that night. I haven’t been able to sleep properly since the mission. It just went so wrong so fast. The young boy, the building. It sent a nasty shiver down my spine just thinking about it. I run my hands down my face in frustration. I know how to deal with stress and traumatic situations, it was part of my training at Ops Academy at Shield. I just couldn’t understand why I can’t get this stupid mission out of my head. I glanced at the clock beside me.

2:04 am

I roll my eyes and slowly make my way out of bed. I’m not going to be getting any sleep tonight I might as well grab some tea and look at that paperwork Coulson needs me to do.

I throw on my dark grey shield hoodie and make my way down the base's dimly lit halls to the common area. My feet feel heavy and my body slumped as I walk. I am beyond exhausted. I trudge my way over to the kettle and start to make my tea. My thoughts keep flashing back to the boy, and the building. I try to push them away but they just keep coming back.

I hear the slight irregularity in my soundings, there’s someone behind me. Just before the person could put their hand on my shoulder I turn grabbing their hand, I spin them and pin their hand behind their back. My mind came to a second after I reacted. I quickly let go.

“Y/N!? What the hell?” Daisy whisper shouted.

“Oh god Daisy I'm so sorry, but in all fairness, you shouldn’t have snuck up on me,” I say with a small smile.

She smirks back before her eyes seem to search mine, a small flash of concern washes over her before she quickly covers it up.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” she asks leading me over to the couch in the common room.

“I could ask the same about you?” I volley back.

“Touché.” She said raising her eyebrow. We had both found a spot on the couch, our knees touching in a comforting way. I felt her gaze shift over me.

“Are going to keep deflecting or are you going to tell me what’s really going on?” She said while putting her hand on my shoulder making me look at her.

“Hey, I was not deflecting,” I say in a teasingly defensive voice.

Daisy raised her eyebrow at my statement. I let out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know… I just haven’t been sleeping well lately, it’s just another bad night I guess.”

“Does it have to do with what happened during the mission a few days ago? You know that wasn’t your fault.”

“I know it’s not but… I can’t stop seeing his face. I close my eyes and he’s right there. If I had just acted faster maybe I could have saved him, and maybe there’s nothing I could have done but… I just can’t help but think there must’ve been. It’s stupid.”

“That’s not stupid and there’s nothing I can say that you don’t already know, but what I can do is be here for you and what you can do is try to get some sleep.”

I pulled Daisy into a warm hug.

“Thank you.” I gave her a warm smile before curling into her side as her arm wrapped around me comfortingly. I looked back up at her.

“Could we just sit here for a bit, I’m not ready to try and sleep yet.”

“whatever you want.”

We sit in comfortable silence, just content with each other's company and warmth. I slowly feel myself start to drift off. My eyes flutter closed as my breath falls in rhythm with Daisy’s. Just as I’m on the brink of sleep I feel a pair of warm lips touch my forehead.

“Goodnight love,” Daisy whispered so quietly I could barely hear it.

I drifted off before I could murmur a response.

[honorhearted]

Rebekah was quick to remind him that despite their distance over the years, they were hardly strangers -- strangers, after all, didn't know about one's misadventures with acne amidst a botched prom -- and with a smirk, she said, "If anything, these last couple of days have proven to me that you’re the same person in many ways. And you’re much more interesting than drying paint… Though maybe not more than a plastic bag being blown around in the street.” 

Ben laughed. "Okay, well who can beat a plastic bag blowing down the street? That's true art."

His earlier smugness, though perhaps a little merited, finally seemed to catch up with him as Rebekah denied his guess. “I’m more of a Bronte devotee," she said. "Looks like it's your turn to throw one back, Tallmadge.” 

"Okay, but which Brontë?" Ben volleyed. "Charlotte, Emily, or Anne? Or will you make me take another drink if I guess and fail miserably?" Chuckling, he lifted his glass in a salute of sorts, then took a generous swallow (mostly for his potential second incorrect guess) before lowering his glass again with a hum. "For the record, I enjoy all of them, though Charlotte was the first one I ever had the pleasure of reading. I have to give my devotion towards my initial experience, because 'you never forget your first.'"

Rebekah held up a finger. “Don’t expect me to follow up with that same question. With as much as you read, I don’t think I’d ever be able to figure out who you’re currently obsessing over unless you told me.” 

He canted his head. "All right, so I guess that would be a cruel position to put you into. I've been building my personal library since I was only a couple months old."

Rebekah hummed, mulling over her options. Finally, she declared, “Your kid crush was Alyssa Milano.”

Ben grinned, lifting his shoulders. "I'll go ahead and give you a half-point for that...because yes, Alyssa was certainly on my list," he agreed. "However, I've always been more into blondes...think Jessica Simpson, or even Hilary Duff." He drew a hand over his chest in a mock swoon. "That Lizzie McGuire always looked like a possible intellectual. Speaking of lists..." He arched a brow. "Did you know you were on ours?"

Holding up his hands, Ben was quick to amend, "Caleb, Abe and I had a celebrity list and a 'normal' girls list, and I don't want this going to your head or anything, but you were at the very top." Chuckling, he nudged her with his shoe. "Then again, there were only like three girls in Setauket, so I guess that isn't much of a crowning achievement."

Swirling the liquor in his glass, Ben squinted at her a moment, then decided, "I might as well continue this line of questioning with more childhood crushes. I really hope I'm wrong about this -- please say I'm wrong -- but you had a thing for Justin Timberlake."

“Unless you mean Caleb Brewster, I can’t imagine there’ll be any strange men walking into my home,” she laughed, “We might have some more catching up to do, but you’re hardly a complete stranger, Ben. If anything, these last couple of days have proven to me that you’re the same person in many ways. And you’re much more interesting than drying paint…”

Here, she smirked, gesturing toward him with her fork, ”Though maybe not more than a plastic bag being blown around in the street.” 

While she’d at least been close (blue would have been her second guess), having given an incorrect fact about him made it clear that there were probably several little things that had been forgotten about Ben. Yet he’d been able to recall something as simple as her favorite color. What else might he remember about her? 

"Drink up. And for the record: you don't have to follow-up with the same question. Not unless you were just dying to know my favorite color, of course." 

“I assumed you were right about it being an easy starting point, but I guess I’m rustier than I thought.” 

Fortunately, Ben’s next guess wasn’t as on par as his first. In response, she imitated a buzzer and feigned a wince. 

“I’m more of a Bronte devotee. Looks like it's your turn to throw one back, Tallmadge.” 

Rebekah held up her pointer finger, “Don’t expect me to follow up with that same question. With as much as you read, I don’t think I’d ever be able to figure out who you’re currently obsessing over unless you told me.” 

So what would she ask him then?

Eyeing him once over, she smiled, “Your kid crush was Alyssa Milano.”

[funeral-grayy]

part one

thursday night practice ended a bit earlier than usual and atsumu was sitting on a bench in the change room, staring at his phone. the sound was muted but he was still transfixed on the way your perfectly pouty lips wrapped around the pink dildo you were sucking. it had been 4 weeks since he’d gotten off to you and now he was addicted. he could feel his cock twitch in his shorts as your tongue licked up the shaft, spit dribbling down your chin. god, how did he not notice how fucking hot you are? he never even considered looking at you in this light but now that’s all he could think of. every thursday he turned your stream on right after practice, eyes glazed over with lust, watching all the different ways you played with your body. that was the main reason he had been avoiding you in person, he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to face you now. it had been just his luck that you were so busy with school and work, that you hadn’t even noticed how long it had been since you last saw him. atsumu was so distracted by the way your mouth worked over the dildo, he failed to hear suna walking up behind him.

“shut up! do not say a word to anyone else about this” atsumu snapped, shoving his phone into his pocket. he couldn’t believe he just got fucking caught, and by suna of all people. this isn’t something he’d just let go either. oh he was so fucked now. “please, just keep this to yourself”

the smirk on suna’s face told him this wasn’t something he’d forget about easily. suna was known to hold things over peoples heads, if only just to tease them. it was fairly innocent but in this case, atsumu dreaded it. ignoring his presence, atsumu stood up and started gathering his things to head home for the night. now that he had the image of you sucking dick in his head, he needed to get off to it immediately and he very well couldn’t do that here.

by the time he was home and comfortable in his room, your stream had long since ended but thankfully he had paused it on you with your lips wrapped around the tip. the way your mouth wrapped around the head of the dildo made his cock instantly hard. groaning, atsumu rubbed the palm of his hand over his clothed cock, teasing himself a bit. he wanted to make this last, because the only way he could have you was in his fantasies. there was no way you’d ever go for a guy like him, he wasn’t your type in any sense of the word. finally freeing his hardened cock out of his shorts, he let out a relieved sigh. he spit in his hand and slowly dragged it up his shaft. pre cum was gushing from the tip, he’d been so turned on from the stream earlier that it just kept coming. just as he was about to set a faster pace, his phone went off. opting to ignore it he tried to continue, until it went off several more times. frustrated, he picked up his phone glancing to see who it was.

you: tsumuuuuuuu i miss u what the heck

you: i’m on my way over with take out, be ready or else

you: tsumuuuuu reply to me

you: whatever idc im getting ur fave and u better answer the door in 15 minutes or else

“fuck!” he jumped out of bed quickly, cock still rock hard. he quickly rid the shorts around his ankles and volley ball jersey, tossing them into his hamper. he quickly rummaged around his room until he found a pair of black sweat pants and just basic white tshirt. tossing those on, he ran into the living room to cleaned up a bit, wanting the place to look half way decent for you.

what the fuck

he’d never cared about cleaning up for you, never cared about looking presentable. god, what was he thinking? he needed to make sure he was careful tonight, he had to be normal with you. he had no idea how you’d react if you ever found out that he’d seen your stream multiple times. this was going to be so fucking hard. he didn’t even know how his body woud react seeing you in person now. when he was content with the way the living room looked, he slumped down on the couch, waiting for you to barge through the door like you always did. his leg bounced while he fidgeted with his fingers, realizing how antsy he was being he leaned back and turned his head towards the door. and as if he’d summoned you, there you were, barging through his door with an arm full of take out. jumping up he rushed over to you and took the bags out of your hands and setting them down on the coffee table.

“tsumu!!” you shouted as you jumped onto his back, circling your arms around his neck. you hadn’t seen him in almost a month, which was probably the longest you’ve ever gone without him. truth be told, you had started to catch feelings for him so it was sort of a blessing in disguise. you didn't want to acknowledge your feelings, so you buried yourself in work and school. but now that you were in his presence, those feelings came back tenfold. you had to ignore them though, you weren’t his type at all, he’d only ever saw you as his dumb best friend.

“ugh! get off me you lil’ freak!!” he all but tossed you onto the couch, showing off his strength which always made you swoon. this was going to be a lot harder than you think. atsumu gazed down at you, his expression unreadable to you. his eyes did a quick sweep of your body, which you had definitely noticed. quickly fixing your ruffled clothes, you sat forward.

“here, catch” he said as he tossed his phone into your lap. “you can pick what we’re watchin’ and toss it on the chrome cast”

plopping down next to you, with a respectable distance between the two of you, he leaned his head back on the couch and turn to watch you. god, could he not stare at you like this? you could feel his eyes drilling holes into the side of your head. opting to just ignore his stares dow now, you picked up the phone from your lap and unlocked it. you could feel you’re entire body start to shake as you saw what was on his screen.

“what….i mean…no.. what the fuck…”