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anywherebuthere · 4 years ago

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I had a dream about you last night || j.p.

James Potter x fem!reader

“Even when you’re gone, you are all that haunts my dreams.”

Wordcount: 1969

A/N: Happy (belated) birthday to the only man ever <33 I am illiterate, so I had a mental breakdown writing this <3 please enjoy!! special thanks to @anchoeritic and @gxtitobxby for supporting me via discord and for making fun of the time I got hit by a car :)) @skullsontess07 I finally posted it pls don’t hurt me <33

Warnings: alcohol, allusions to sex, death, bad writing, especially towards the end. barely proofread because I don’t believe in mistakes <3 /j

Please do not repost this!! I do not consent to this piece of fiction being published on any other site besides tumblr unless it by my doing.

The ticking of the grandfather clock thrummed in James’ ears as he tipped back the empty bottle, the smell of whiskey heavy in the air. He leaned his head against the cold surface of the white plaster wall, scanning the textured ceiling with misty eyes. His home, still half furnished, was riddled with traces of something better forgotten. Even with the weight of alcohol on his breath, his mind is running with memories and daydreams of her.

He closed his eyes, forcing the imagery away. In the distance, a train chugged on, its lone whistle echoing in the night, and James can’t help but be pulled into an uneasy slumber, memories still flashing through his mind like a broken film.

“Prongs, you git! We’re going to miss the train if you don’t hurry your fat arse.” Remus shouted, frustration seeping into his humoured voice.

“Relax Moony, we’ll be fine,” he replied, breath heaving slightly from sprinting across Platform 9¾, just narrowly having avoided knocking over an elderly witch.

As the four boys approached the entrance of the cart, the train’s departing whistle blared. They boarded quickly, though not without receiving a glare from a crew member.

Hurrying down the corridor, the boys glanced through every compartment window, though each appeared to be full of giggling sixth years. That is, with the exception of one.

Near the back end of the Hogwarts Express, was, at last, an empty compartment save for a singular figure slumped against the window. With no other choice of seating, the gaggle of boys slipped in silently, Sirius and Remus snagging the seats opposite to the slumbering girl, their pinkies linked as they whispered conspiratorially amongst themselves.

Peter, as adverse to the female race as ever, took the seat closest to the door, leaving James to be wedged between the mousy blonde and the stranger, careful not to bump her with his broad shoulders.

The train ride was filled with hushed whispers as the marauders discussed this year's prank for the welcoming feast, a customary tradition they held sacred, as to “start the year right.”

As they began going over the mechanisms of their plan, they felt the train begin to swerve as it approached a sharp turn. The compartment shook slightly and James suddenly felt a weight on his right side.

He stiffened, glancing over to see that the girl’s head had lulled over from the compartment wall and onto his shoulder. James recognized her as a student in their year. Y/N, who had tutored Regulus the same day that James had helped Sirius prank him as petty revenge for a now long-forgotten argument.

And well, perhaps James had wanted her to notice him for once. If so, it had been a successful endeavour as he remembered the way her face had contorted in anger, though her attention had remained just as elusive for the remainder of their fifth year. So… perhaps not so successful.

He flushed at the memory. She was now even prettier than the year prior.

“Oh? Is that a blush we see, Moony?” Sirius taunted, nudging Remus with his elbow as he snickered at James’ scowl.

“Bloody hell, piss off, will you? You’ll wake her–”

He felt her suddenly stir beside him, brows creasing as though on the cusp of consciousness.

James held his breath.

The moment passed as Y/N nudged her face further into the crook of his neck before settling back into a peaceful slumber.

Perhaps he wouldn’t need the prank to start the year right this time around.

It seemed that sixth year would be a good one for James.

In the early morning of a mid-March day, an unlikely scene unfolded between the shelves of Hogwarts’ library. There he sat beside a bleary Y/N, voice still drowsy with sleep as she read aloud a passage from the Herbology textbook perched between them.

Initially, James had detested the thought of having to wake up at such an ungodly hour for the sake of a project. No other time had fit, not with his Quidditch practices and her absurd number of tutoring sessions.

Though now, as the early rays of sunrise filtered through the library’s mullioned windows onto her skin, James thinks that there is nowhere else he would rather be.

He thinks this moment will be ingrained in his mind forever.

“–once a century, the Flutterby bush produces flowers able to attract the unwary.” she paused to yawn, eyebags evident as she turned to meet James’ gaze. She scrunched her nose and he swore he swooned at the very sight. “Are you even listening to me, Potter?”

“I’m always listening to you,” he replied, tilting his head. She grins in response and he notices just how beautiful it is.

She shifted her gaze back to the textbook lying in their laps, picking up where she had left off.

“Its scent adapts–”

James leaned forward suddenly, capturing her lips in his. The book fell closed between them.

Immediately, almost though by instinct, Y/N reciprocates, moving her lips gently against his as her hand cups his cheek. James finds himself gripping that hand as his other wraps around her waist, finding the small of her back and pulling her impossibly close against him.

She tasted of cherry chapstick and peppermint bubblegum, and though there was nothing particularly special about those flavours, on her, James swears that he could drown in his intoxication alone. Her perfume wafts through the air, the scent causing him to groan against her mouth.

When they separated at last, his head was swimming in euphoria, his expression dazed. Y/N blinked up at him, sleep wiped entirely from her expression.

“Its scent adapts itself during these times to attract said unwary.” she finishes, sounding breathless still, voice trailing off as James began to laugh hysterically.

She rolled her eyes, smiling sheepishly.

When James still couldn’t stop laughing, Y/N gripped his haphazardly tied red and gold tie, using it to pull his soft lips against hers once more and he was sure in his mind that there would no one else for him.

Beneath a great oak tree in the courtyard lay two figures. Under the tree’s twisting branches, they hid in its cool shade from the sweltering afternoon sun. Few places aside from the castle offered shelter from June’s blistering heat and as the semester approached its end, they finally allowed themselves to rest in the gentle breeze.

James was leaning against the thick trunk while Y/N’s head lay in his lap. His elbow was resting on her abdomen as she drew on his hand, doodling intricate flower designs alongside some… less desirable things.

He felt his heart swell with joy as her laughter filled the summer air and before he could catch himself, he blurted out the thought that had been weighing in the back of his mind since they had started dating.

“Do you ever think about your future?"

He felt the scratch of her muggle pen slow, as though pausing in thought.

"I want to grow old and die surrounded with people I love, knowing I lived a long and fulfilling life. You know, typical boring stuff," she replied after a moment's consideration. Her eyes twinkled with more, though Y/N never indulged in half-thought-out plans.

"What about you?" she questioned with the tip of her head. James didn’t need time to think about it. He had known his answer since that fateful September morning when she had slept on his shoulder throughout the entirety of the train ride.

"I don't care what my future is as long as you're there" he answers truthfully.

Y/N flushed, her ears heated. She looked away, the corners of her lips turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

James freed his hand from her loose grasp, hooking her chin to look back towards him before leaning in to kiss her.

Even after all these months, he relished in the taste of her lips. He doubts he’ll ever be able to get enough of the feeling.

He doubts he’ll ever be able to get enough of her.

The sun was setting in the west on a quiet evening, its golden rays shining on the slick skin of two lovers as they untangled themselves from the sheets, unable to hold in their laughter when one got his foot stuck in the knot of their crochet blanket.

The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and endorphins as Y/N laid back, her body still bare, not bothering to cover it.

James propped his elbow beside her head, careful not to press on her spread-out hair, his face filled with ecstasy and pure bliss.

He will never get used to the sight of her in his bed, giggling as the sun reflected off her silky skin. The image of her underneath him is cemented in his mind, permanently lodged there as solid as concrete. He knows now with absolute certainty that there would be no one else for him.

James’ smile widened further as he nudged his nose into the crook of her neck, leaning in to place a kiss there when his vision blurred.

It was no longer sunset. Rather, the two of them were now enveloped in the dark of night and James is certain he hears the echo of a familiar spell ring off in the distance.

He pulls away from Y/N’s neck.

She was no longer shaking with laughter, but rather, writhing in pain. There were lacerations all across her torso and James felt something sticky underneath his hands.

They were laying in a pool of her blood.

Panic clawed at his throat and though he had never been averse to the sight of blood, yours was an exception. The taste of bile clung to his tongue.

“No... No no no no no,” he whispered in disbelief. Swivelling his head, outside the window, he spots a cloaked figure wearing a mask of silver disapparate.

“No!”

Grasping for the wand strapped to his side, he murmurs a healing spell, gasping for breath when the wounds remain open. His head was spiralling as Y/N shook her head almost imperceptibly, grabbing at his wrist with a shaking hand.

Carved into her arm was the word “MUDBLOOD” and James felt his vision turn red, suddenly hyper-aware of the blood pumping through his veins.

“James…” she rasped. He gripped her shaking hand.

“Why isn’t it working? Why?” he cried, tears streaming down his face, struggling to breathe.

“Whatever our souls are made of,” she gasped, blood spurting out of her mouth. Her beautiful mouth, the one that tasted of cherries and peppermint, was covered in thick, crimson blood. “you and I are connected.”

“No! Stop with this rubbish, you’re not going to die!” he sobbed, gripping her bloodied hand like a vice. She continued as though he hadn’t even spoken.

Perhaps she was too far gone to hear him.

“Wh-whatever is beyond this life,” violent ruby coated her mouth as she coughed, blood splattering onto her smooth skin. “Promise me, y-you’ll find me again.”

“I promise,” he cried, sobs racking through his body.

But she was already gone.

James woke with a start, gasping for breath with the taste of blood and “promise” still coating his tongue. He was alone in a house built for two.

In his fitful sleep, he had knocked over the empty bottle of whiskey beside him.

She had hated whiskey.

Had.

A fresh wave of misery washed over James, adding to the dull pain that never seemed to go away, throbbing through him as naturally as the blood in his veins. It wasn’t enough that she existed still within every corner of their shared home.

Even in his dreams, he is haunted by her memory.

ㄧ

@catching-the-train-to-hogwarts

#james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter angst #james potter fluff #harry potter imagine #james potter fic #james potter x reader angst #james potter x reader fluff #james potter x muggleborn #james potter x muggleborn reader #caz's top notch fic recs

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mean-scarlet-deceiver · 3 years ago

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Down the Mine

honestly not as funny as “Off the Rails”

okay no maybe it is

The story is classic, of course, but as far as the TV adaptation goes… ahh, I think they did the blocking on this one too early. It would have been lit if they had re-re-done the whole thing in Season 4, to be honest; I think they had more tricks to draw on by then.

The massive improvement they made in “The Flying Kipper” by portraying the accident with a little more gravity and drama? It could have been done here.

Because honestly the way they blocked it, it looks a bit dinky? Like, Thomas fucked up in a humiliating way, and he’s in an awkward predicament, and oh my God those tears… but, the thing I missed about this story for years, until seeing fanart and also learning about the Lindal Incident, is that Thomas’s situation here was really fucking serious.

Realistically, he and the Fat Controller were probably shouting to each other with Thomas stuck below, not at face level. Also, the rescue operation was not just logistically difficult, it was dangerous. The Fat Controller put himself at unnecessary risk sticking around (this season having already established that he’s useless at pulling). Gordon was also at risk. Once you have some subsidence, you risk even more of the ground giving way. (That happened at the Lindal mines—they recovered the tender and had good hope of recovering the rest of the engine… until the sinkhole abruptly got bigger.) The adaptation does make an effort to show what a feat of strength this is for Gordon but I argue it should be played up more. It’s funny—if Gordon hadn’t been on his punishment work messing around with trucks at Tidmouth, he probably wouldn’t have been on hand midday for the rescue, and it seems plausible to me that none of the other engines would have been strong enough to pull Thomas out. And, unlike the deal at Henry’s tunnel, there was a time limit here; with the whole subsidence risk, they were working against the clock and likely didn’t have time to wait for more engines. These days, I see this story as: If Gordon hadn’t been an arse about that damn special goods train, Thomas would have died (or, rather, a fate worse than death).

Anyway, the illustrator only had so much space to work with and was more reliant on the text. But I feel like, with more time and a bigger budget, David Mitton could have put a lot more interesting visuals “between the lines” of the narration.

And yeah, I don’t like people dismissing Season 1 because of how bare the set is or the lighting or whatever… but I must own, in this episode in particular, the lighting is dull and the sets are quite bare. It’s a bit jarring, especially when the episodes before and after it (“Off the Rails” and “Thomas’ Christmas Party”) are visually so interesting.

‘Course, for all my nitpicky what-could-have-beens, it’s still an enjoyable watch.

Also, amazing detail that I have never seen talked about:

Just as in “Thomas and the Trucks,” when the Fat Controller materializes, his shadow falls dramatically across Thomas’s sidetank.

That’s just one of those many little touches that make my heart burst with admiration for the passion of Season 1. A shoestring budget, still working out a lot of the kinks of this genre they were all but inventing—but damn did they just cram every minute with creativity, style, whimsy, and taste.

#chatter #ttte #thomas the tank engine #ttte thomas #the fat controller #ttte gordon #ttte episode talk #ttte season 1

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fat-cat-cathy · 3 years ago

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O Gargantua, hear my plea. Please make me your voluptuous votary— a buxom goddess in my own right, the idol of daughters and sisters who strive to my ideal— not the miserly hateful spite of the starvation diet propaganda that is ruining our society, our loveliness. Make me as I should be. As I was meant to be. As I will be as your avatar. The symbol of all love and beauty. Plump, overweight, heavy, chubby; rotund, pot-bellied, dumpy, broad in the beam. Large and wide. Of ample generous overblown overdrawn proportions. Overripe. Overdone. Too much ? But it’s never enough. Never so you would stop.

Make me your daughter as I am called. Let me bring your joy and heft to the world. With big breasts and a big ass and a bigger appetite for all the world and life. Obese. Corpulent. Bloated and overflowing. Gross and terrible. Great and wonderful. Full of power and light and laughter. Afraid of nothing. Ashamed of nothing. In love with all. Elephantine, fleshly, tubby, roly-poly, porcine. Porky, blubbery, podgy, chunky, thick and sloppy. Well-padded. Upholstered. Poddy, fubsy, sonsy, pursy. Lard-arsed. Abdominous. Jumbo. Magnificent. Extra. Magnanimous. A fat-bottomed girl who makes the globe turn.

Singing the litany of the buffet you put on my altar table, or the tray when you bring me every meal in bed. I want to be completely fat and in no way thin. I want to be what you want, what you want me to be, what I want to be. I want to be loved and used. Cherished and destroyed. Giving from deep inside myself so much I let you change my whole body around. Worship me. Wreck me. Devoutly that I might inspire nations and generations into my image. That I might launch a thousand million billion raptures just from a glimpse at my crack, my cleavage, my coitus; my thundering thighs and my full moon buttocks and the dazzling sun-drenched massive melons that are clustered to my chest.

Make me, o immense mother, what you ask of me, what is my fate. Take hold of this frame and spin to your purpose, our joint design. Shape me in that sculpting clay. Render me in your hands. Curvy and nubile. A personal tactile goddess for these times. Forever. I want to be fed and I want to nourish minds and to feed hungry imaginations. I want apotheosis and I want to be handled. I want to be treated like a shapely female obesity deity and a huge fat lusty slut. Oversexed and borne by angels. As I recline and regally stuff my face until I orgasm.

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jackiearbs · 4 years ago

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things that rwrb characters have said that i will never forget, a thread:

alex claremont-diaz, giving off dumbass™ energy (he has the most on this thread, for obvious reasons)

- "put them in my room, put them in my room, put them in my room-"

- “Jesus Christ, it’s like they can see into your soul. cornbread knows my sins, Henry. cornbread knows what I have done, and he is here to make me atone.”

- "do it for the 'gram"

- "leading member of korean pop band bts kim nam-june"

- "whatever, fine. henry is annoyingly attractive. that’s always been a thing, objectively. it’s fine.”

- "see attached bibliography"

- "i said, you look great, baby!”

- "yo there’s a bond marathon on and did you know your dad was a total babe"

- "awesome, fuckin' love doing things out of spite.”

-”Huge Raging Headache Prince Henry of Who Cares”

-”it is amazing you can sit down to write emails with that gigantic royal stick up your ass.”

- “who names a dog David? He sounds like a tax attorney.”

-” “Do I go on your side of the cubicle and turn off your Dropkick Murphys Spotify station, no matter how much I want to?” Alex demands. “No, Hunter, I don’t.”

- “for fuck's sake, man, you just had my dick in your mouth, you can kiss me good-night.”

- “Bake Off makes Chopped look like the fucking Manson tapes.”

- “THEY KNOW. THEY KNOW I HAVE ROBBED THEM OF FIVE-STAR ACCOMMODATIONS TO SIT IN A CAGE IN MY ROOM, AND THE MINUTE I TURN MY BACK THEY ARE GOING TO FEAST ON MY FLESH.”

- “You’re from Boston, Hunter. You really want to talk about all the places bigotry comes from?” (he really hates hunter goddamn)

-”so, what? you want me to quit politics and go become a princess? that’s not very feminist of you.”

hrh prince dickhead😎 - "the moment you first called me a prick, my fate was sealed. O, fathers of my bloodline! O, ye kings of olde! Take this crown from me, bury me in my ancestral soil. If only you had known the mighty work of thine loins would be undone by a gay heir who likes it when American boys with chin dimples are mean to him.”

-"“I’ve been gay as a maypole since the day I came out of Mum, Philip.”

-”i will turn this car around.”

- “yes, the cocaine, alex.”

-”i am a delight!”

-”have i mentioned lately that you’re a demon?”

- “are you psychoanalyzing me? i don't think royal guests are allowed to do that.”

- "i can't believe even mortal peril will not prevent you from being the way you are.”

-“the phrase ‘see attached bibliography’ is the single sexiest thing you have ever written to me.”

-"i just mean to say, you know, Philip is the heir and I'm the spare, and if that nervy bastard has a heart attack at thirty five and I've got malaria, whither the spare?”

- “they wanted something less fruity than the truth, but truly, what is gayer than a woman who languishes away in a crumbling mansion wearing her wedding gown every day of her life, for the drama?”

- “You are a delinquent and a plague. Please come?”

- “fat and sexually conquered, snuffed out in the spring of my youth. Here lies Prince Henry of Wales. He died as he lived: avoiding plans and sucking cock.”

june: “- that is a clear quartz crystal for good vibes do not @ me.”

- “He’s just so frail, it’d only take one good push-”

- “ugh! men! no emotional vocabulary. i can’t believe our ancestors survived centuries of wars and plagues and genocide just to wind up with your sorry ass.”

nora:

-”sorry, are we not? did i skip ahead again? my bad. hello, would you like to come out to me? im listening. hi.”

“prince henry is a biscuit. let him sop you up.”

- “you’ve been, like, Draco Malfoy–level obsessed with Henry for years.”

- “i don’t know, man. I was in my junior year of high school, and I touched a boob. It wasn’t very profound. Nobody’s gonna write an Off-Broadway play about it.”

dahra:

- “You need to get back to fucking England now, and if anyone sees you leave, I will personally end you. Ask me if I’m afraid of the crown.”

- “both sides need to come out of this looking like your little slap-fight at the wedding was some homoerotic frat bro mishap, okay? So, you can hate the heir to the throne all you want, write mean poems about him in your diary, but the minute you see a camera, you act like the sun shines out of his dick, and you make it convincing.”

-”come on, you backyard-shooting-range motherfuckers,”

ellen (should i say PRESIDENT claremont)

- “Diaz, you insane, hopeless romantic little shit"

- “I had Planned Parenthood send over all these pamphlets, take one! They sent a bike messenger and everything!”

- ”where? Are you hiding a turkey habitat up your ass, son? Where, in our historically protected house, am I going to put a couple of turkeys until I pardon them tomorrow?”

-“As your mother, I can appreciate that maybe this isn’t your fault, but as the president, all I want is to have the CIA fake your death and ride the dead-kid sympathy into a second term.”

PEZ !!!

- “frolic naked in the hills, frighten the sheep, return to the house for the usual: tea, biscuits, casting ourselves onto the Thighmaster of love to moan about the Claremont-Diaz siblings, which has become tragically one-sided since Henry took it up with you. It used to be all bottles of cognac and shared malaise and ‘When will they notice us’-”

-”-and now i just ask henry, ‘what is your secret?’ and he says, ‘i insult alex all the time, and that seems to work.’”

**extra: nicer quotes from alex and henry

alex heartthrob diaz - "never tell me the odds"

-"we were not afforded that liberty."

-“I hate this so much. I know. But we’re gonna do it together. And we’re gonna make it work. You and me and history, remember? We’re just gonna fucking fight. Because you’re it, okay? I’m never gonna love anybody in the world like I love you. So, I promise you, one day we’ll be able to just be, and fuck everyone else.”

- “On purpose. I love him on purpose.”

- “history, huh? Bet we could make some.”

- “But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable.”

-“Take anything you want and know you deserve to have it.”

- “Someone else’s choice doesn’t change who you are.”

- “I am the First Son of the United States, and I'm bisexual. History will remember us.”

- “America: He is my choice.”

- “Give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart, There's so much of you.”

- the entire list of the things he loves about henry. i would die

henry:

-”i’ll be damned but i miss you.”

- “when you rang me at truly shocking hours of the night, I loved you. When you kissed me in disgusting public toilets and pouted in hotel bars and made me happy in ways in which it had never even occurred to me that a mangled-up, locked-up person like me could be happy, I loved you. and then, inexplicably, you had the absolute audacity to love me back. Can you believe it?”

- “it sounds like you did your best.”

- “I’ve bloody well had it. I’ve sat about long enough letting you and Gran and the weight of the damned world keep me pinned, and I’m finished. I don’t care. You can take your legacy and your decorum and you can shove it up your fucking arse, Philip. I’m done.”

- “Should I tell you that when we’re apart, your body comes back to me in dreams? That when I sleep, I see you, the dip of your waist, the freckle above your hip, and when I wake up in the morning, it feels like I’ve just been with you, the phantom touch of your hand on the back of my neck fresh and not imagined? That I can feel your skin against mine, and it makes every bone in my body ache? That, for a few moments, I can hold my breath and be back there with you, in a dream, in a thousand rooms, nowhere at all?”

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #casey mcquiston #rw&rb #alex claremont diaz #prince henry of wales #june claremont diaz #nora holleran #ellen claremont #rwrb shitpost

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tf2-headcanons-and-scenarios · 4 years ago

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How would the mercs react if their s/o were to faint in front of them (from something relatively non dangerous)? How much would the reaction differ if it was a friend? p.s love your blog, always brightens my day

A/N: I’m glad I can bring a smile around, hope you enjoy these!!

Scout:

- The first time Scout ever saw someone faint was from blood loss on the Battlefield, so whenever someone faints he usually starts acting childish

- Think of his reaction like poking a dead rat with a stick

- The first time he saw YOU faint, however, was from the sight of a big fat Spider during Halloween

- Now because of how he always reacted to fainting spells, everyone kind of assumed to hear him laughing and poking at you

- They were surprised to see Scout freaking out and asking if you were alright

- You bet your arse that he was asking Medic all the dumbest questions, from if you were dead to if you were losing blood somehow etc.

- He feels a bit foolish overreacting when you eventually tell him you had a fear of spiders and seeing that monster of a spider just didn’t sit well for you

- If you guys were friends, however, he would laugh at you and poke at you until you wake up

- Tell him you’re fearful of spiders and he’ll always put spiders in your room or on your gun

- Yeah he’s a massive dickhead about it if you’re just friends

Soldier:

- Fainting was not something that Soldier understood. AT ALL.

- An enemy faints on the battlefield, he just blows them up and moves on

- If someone on his team faints, he scolds them for sleeping on the job or being a big fat coward

- The first time Soldier sees you faint in front of him is when he comes towards you with a smile on his face and shows you his box full of heads

- Now in-battle, you were fine with gore. Outside of conflict? NOPE.

- Soldier was just sitting beside you the entire time, poking your cheek with a finger and asking if you got enough sleep last night etc.

- Medic found himself walking into this sight and Soldier has grown worried after you didn’t wake up for a while

- Medic then talked some reason into Soldier that fainting wasn’t as he originally thought

- Soldier panicked but he calmed down when you woke up. From then on he doesn’t show his his head collection

- If you guys were just friends, he’d lecture you about it once you woke up and he would keep insisting on showing you his head collection

- You avoid that specific interaction like the plague and he calls you a coward. You can live with that so long as it means not seeing the heads again

Pyro:

- You and your team’s Pyro were just hanging around an abandoned building one fateful day

- You were both exploring and playing in the area with them, and you were having the time of your life

- At some point in time, both of you began to mess around with the roofing of the building, occasionally jumping to grab onto the beams above

- Eventually you managed to lose them somewhere in the building, so you went to look for them

- You found them doing something to something else, and you went to have a look

- You immediately regretted it as you saw them butchering an unfortunate enemy Spy who somehow crossed paths with them

- You fainted from seeing what remains of the Spy, and you wake up seeing Pyro PANIC about you and your health

- When you tell them you’re fine, they pick you up and give you a piggyback home, apologising and reassuring you they won’t do something like that again when you’re around

- They do keep to their word, they don’t do it outside of battle but in-battle? Hell has literally been manifested into one creature

- If you both were friends, Pyro would just shrug and continue doing what they were already doing to the poor Spy

Demoman:

- Your team won a round and were going out to celebrate

- Medic, Pyro and Heavy opted to stay at the base, while Spy went to go to a theatre

- Everyone else went out to the local pub to drink their hearts out

- Demo invites you as his romantic plus one, and you both went together to the same pub

- You guys started drinking and having fun, laughing as it was revealed that Scout was a light-weight very quickly

- Your last memory of the evening was feeling tipsy and sitting in Demo’s lap as he was starting to get drunk

- You wake up feeling terrible, your head pounding, your throat dry and feeling sweaty all over

- You eventually realise you were still in your evening attire in another person’s bed, and you were worried until you saw Demoman walking into the room with a tray in his hands

- He was very relieved to see you awake, and explained how you passed out drunk, and how he was worried for you and everything

- You tell him you’ll be fine and thank him for bringing you a glass of water, some painkillers and a hot plate of breakfast for two people

- You spend the morning eating breakfast together with Demoman nursing you better

- If you guys were friends? He’d laugh at how much of a light-weight you are and then wake you up forcefully with a nice bucket of ice-cold water

Heavy:

- It was right about Flu season in the Badlands and you were the unfortunate one who managed to get sick with the Flu

- You were relatively fine dealing with it on your own, but Heavy stepped in wherever he could to help you out

- Eventually you managed to infect Spy and Soldier with the Flu, and Medic has to send you three into isolation to prevent further contamination

- Scout thought it was wise to mess around with Spy’s medication and decided to switch out his medication with sleeping pills

- Unfortunately for Scout, he didn’t put the sleeping pills in the right container. Unfortunately for you, you ended up with the bottle of sleeping pills

- When Heavy went to check up on you, he had the biggest panic attack known to mankind when you were unresponsive

- He begged Medic to save your life, and was immensely relieved when it was discovered that you just took some Sleeping Pills that knocked you out like a light

- When you woke up, Heavy was right there with your proper medication, a bowl of warm Chicken Soup (his mother’s recipe) and a glass of water

- He gave you kisses on your forehead to check your temperature every now and then

- He would not care if he got contaminated, he isn’t letting shit like that happen to you again

- Yes He did discover Scout was responsible for the sleeping pills. Yes Scout’s week was absolutely miserable

- If you and Heavy were just friends, he’d make sure you were alright, but would leave you and the others in isolation until you guys were better

- He would still make Scout pay for such a potentially dangerous prank though

Engineer:

- Engineer has just finished working on a nifty little invention one day and he asked you and a few other mercs to test it out for him

- You were the only one willing to do it, everyone else was promised a full crate of booze to share if they participated

- There was an even number among the group of volunteers, and you were left to test the invention out with Soldier

- It was going well at first until Soldier got the brightest idea to start fiddling around with his end of the machine

- Despite the warnings Engi gave him, Soldier kept on doing his thing until he managed to loosen something up that made the machine malfunction

- Both you and Soldier fell unconscious from the electric shock you both received just as Engineer turned it off

- He was worried sick about you, and gently carried you over to Medic’s lab to get you checked

- He was a lot less scared for you when Medic told him the shock was nothing too serious, and you didn’t have any serious injuries anywhere internally and externally

- When you woke up, you swore you’ve never seen him more relieved in his life, and he apologises immensely to you

- As another way to apologise to you, he took you into town for a quiet evening out, spoiling you with dinner and romantic tunes from his guitar

- If you guys were just friends, he’d make sure you were alright and apologise for the accident with your own crate of booze

- In both scenarios Soldier would not get his share of alcohol and he would be banned from using any of Engi’s buildings on and off the battlefield for at least a week

Medic:

- Medic doesn’t usually invite someone in to help him with medical experiments as an assistant. Usually he invites someone to BE the medical experiment

- However, it was one of those days where Medic wasn’t opening up the torso of a team member, but it was the day he got a new fresh shipment of human transplants

- Said human transplants were harvested, cleaned and revived into working condition from the corpses of respawned mercenaries

- Thanks Saxton Hale

- Medic invites you to help him unload his new medical supplies along with Heavy and Sniper, and you happily agree

- You guys did your thing unloading the crates and putting them into Medic’s lab, but you guys were called to look at something Medic found

- Apparently his request for a large pile of blood bags went through (said blood was hijacked from a blood donation van that had conveniently crashed)

- Catching an eyeful of blood in bags did NOT sit well for you, and you fainted from the sight of it

- You woke up to Medic apologising and Heavy returning with a cold glass of water Medic asked him to fetch for you

- Medic still brings you into the lab to help you out, but he will warn you if there’ll be blood involved in his work

- The blood bags in question are carefully stored in a place where you won’t be able to find them

- If you guys were just friends he’d literally not care and ask Heavy and Sniper to finish unloading the supplies

- He would take advantage of your unconscious state to probably experiment on you though. Hey, saves him the trouble of sedating you!

Sniper:

- You had been visiting Australia with Sniper and the rest of the team for an assignment Miss Pauling sent you on.

- At some point in time you and Sniper were tracking someone down in the Outback and it had been a hot day and you were dying from the heat

- You both wanted to conserve as much water as possible but hot damn you were feeling lathargic

- You both stopped to sit and rest for a moment to have a sip of water, but you fainted at the sight of a very large snake sitting right next to you before you could even open your flask

- You woke up with a cloth over your forehead and Sniper sitting beside you looking relieved

- You began apologising for fainting at the sight of the snake but Sniper cut you off saying that it wasn’t your fault and you shouldn’t apologise for it

- He will give you his flask to drink as much water as you’d like, and he will cuddle you better

- If you guys were just friends he’d set you in the back of the team truck and take the driver’s seat. He knows you’ll be fine

Spy:

- It was a quiet and tense night out, you and Spy had been assigned to assasinate a growing enemy of Mann. Co and so far it wasn’t going well

- One good thing was that you both managed to eliminate the target at a high-class restaurant but now you both are utilising utensils and metallic pans to escape from the security guards and body guards

- You had been doing fine up until you were unsuspectingly caught with a frying pan to the back of your head, rendering you unconscious

- When you woke up, you were in Spy’s arms travelling in the back of the pick-up truck Miss Pauling was driving. You had not seen him this uneasy in a while and you had a feeling as to why

- Pauling caught you up on what happened after you got knocked out. In short, Spy got thrown off his game and almost captured trying to rescue you. Needless to say Miss Pauling got her hands dirty cleaning up Spy’s sloppiness but thankfully promised to keep this between you three

- The rest of the trip has Spy cuddle you in his arms as he carefully nursed your injured head

- One could say he was overreacting over your concussion but you allowed him to fret over you

- If you guys were friends he would have finished the job yourself and scold you for being so careless

- It would also be a very long time before you were even considered to accompany him on another mission

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ctsince97 · 4 years ago

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FF7 OST Plus Dork Post

So Square Enix....you release the OST in two parts, make us buy the first one at full price (bc you removed all the vids off YT), but withhold amazing tracks so you can release a second “Plus” OST, so that you can sucker us into buying it again at astronomical prices? You think we would fall for that trick? Do you?

Sadly, I duly paid up and bought the Plus too (fuck my life).

So here are my top 10 fav tracks of the (extortion) Plus OST (and a treatise of sorts on why):

1. Sector 7 in Ruins (Track 14 Disk 1, M. Hamauzu)

This is still my fav track of PLUS from my fav chapter 15 of the game. It’s actually an atmospheric, sombre version of the Avalanche theme. For best results, please run a playlist in the following order - this song, The Day Midgar Stood Still (OST pt1), Fires of Resistance (OST pt1), Fallen Plate (PLUS), Run Dammit Run (PLUS), The Valkyrie (on both). Your welcome.....

2. Hole in the Sky (Home is where the Heart is) (Track 6 Disk 2 - N. Uematsu)

This in many ways should be no. 1, but for the fact that it’s not really a full track. It’s Tifa’s leitmotif played in the minor key. Haunting, tragic and beautiful (like Tifa’s story).

3. Tifa’s Tears (Track 3 Disk 2, N. Uematsu)

Now most Tifa fans would have me hung, drawn and quartered for not placing this one on the top. Maybe its bc I’m too busy admiring the #cloti hug when this plays in game dunno...For me nothing beats Tifa’s theme (original piano arrangement - Shiro Hamaguchi - 1997).

4. Bitter Memory (Track 32 Disk 1, N. Uetmatsu)

The song that plays when Cloud dreams of Claudia. She is so proud of her son...and tells him to find a more mature girl. Many believe that this meant Aerith; but Cloud wakes up from the dream with only “starry water tower sky” eyes. Apropo, the illusion of choice in FF7 for those in the know...

6. The Turks: Plate Separation (Track 49 Disk 1, N. Uematsu)

I was so happy the PLUS had this track. Totally captures the urgency and gravity of their hopeless situation. Especially Tifa’s emotions (poor girl would have been dying inside). When the track gets to 1:58 climatic... amazing....the fast strings and the choir singing in the background. Despite their efforts the team is destined to fail. Fate is fate!

7. A Weighty Decision (Track 10 Disk 2, M. Hamauzu)

Barrett: “They were suppose to return to us” and “So... we carry that weight” (and Wedges fat arse)

8. Avalanche’s Theme (Wedge’s Struggle) (Track 36 Disk 2, M. Hamauzu)

I love Avalanche’s Theme as it totally captures the spirit of rebellion and revolution. This is a Wedge version where he appears at Shinra HQ and speaks with the gang on the TV.

9. Anxiety - Sector 5 Undercity (Track 25 Disk 1, N. Uematsu)

A lighter, more serene version of the classic Anxiety track of the original. LOL... its fitting that Cloud feels “anxious” in Sector 5 (or bored out of his fucking brains - see my twitter vids on Sector 5 tours).

10. Under the Rotting Pizza - Battle Edit Version (Track 23 Disk 1, N. Uetmatsu)

I love the OST team in Remake and how they took the time to compose separate “Battle Edit” versions of the songs for when the fighting begins. So deserved of Best Gaming Soundtrack of the year 2020. All battle edit versions in this game are great!!!!!

Honourable mention - Track 33 - The First Guy I Ever Loved - its basically Aerith’s Theme but arranged beautifully to embody the essence of the park scene. And don’t you dare come to me with anything other than it being a reference to #zerith, read the song title.....duh! (Some have said that there is a sound of a gun shot which I thought was too at first, but upon further circumspection it is not. It is the sound that plays when Cloud has his headache flashback attack!)

Thank you for taking the time to read this if you have. OSTs are my passion. If you share the same passion don’t be shy to reach out!

#ff7r #ost #ff7 #tifa #cloti #cloud strife #ff7rostplus

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agoodgoddamnshot · 5 years ago

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Soldier, Poet, Queen [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif isn’t mine]

Originally posted on my AO3 account

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Ciri looks across the table. “Jaskier, help me.”

The bard looks up, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m not getting involved,” he says airily, continuing with his dinner.

Geralt snorts. “That’s a first.” The Witcher grunts as a swift kick lands to his shin underneath the table.

Ciri huffs, folding her arms tightly over her chest. It’s in moments like these that they’re both reminded how young the girl is. She’s a child. A bowl of stew sits in front of her, somewhat forgotten about. Geralt nudges it towards her. She takes a moment to glare at the Witcher before begrudgingly picking her spoon back up.

A troop of soldiers have taken up most of the rooms in the town. They’ve been called on by a neighbouring lord, intending on heading south to stop Nilfgaardian movements. It’s been almost a week and a half since they’ve heard anything about the southern kingdoms and how they’re fairing. It’s been even longer since they heard whispers about what the Nilfgaardian armies are up to. Still, they’ll keep moving north with the other refugees – all keen on putting as much distance as they can between them and the chasing fires.

Kaer Morhen is still a few leagues away. Winter seems keen on settling over the continent within the next couple of weeks. Snow has already started capping the mountains and hills. It won’t be long until it’s blown downwards; animals will be housed in barns and crops will long be hauled in. The roads will be frostbitten and hard, but empty. No one will try and travel in the cold.

The tavern isn’t that busy. Most of the soldiers are out back, sharpening their swords and fletching arrows. Geralt can hear the squeal of metal against whetstones, even through wooden walls and the soft chatter of those inside the tavern.

“You said it yourself,” Ciri mumbles, swirling her spoon around the stew. “I’m going to have to know how to protect myself.”

Geralt grunts. “And you can learn that in Kaer Morhen.”

“Which is still leagues away!”

“We’ll be there by the end of the week,” Geralt says shortly.

Ciri sighs, defeated. Jaskier can’t help but chuckle. “You’ll make a fine warrior, princess,” he offers.

Geralt frowns at him. Speaking any part of Ciri’s identity into the world seems like an invitation for bad things. He doesn’t know exactly what happened inside the walls of Cintra, or what happened in the week after the city fell, but he does know that not a lot of people mourned the Queen’s death. He’s heard her be called all sorts of insults on the roads. So Ciri is Fiona, and the fact that she is what she is, is only known to them both.

A small smile ghosts Ciri’s lips at the compliment. Geralt nudges her shoulder. “Eat,” he orders. “We’ll move out in the morning, so get as much food and sleep as you can.”

Kaer Morhen is both everything he expected it to be and nothing like it at all. A heavy wooden gate groans open as they approach. It’s a large keep, made up of slate-coloured buildings backed into the face of a mountain, shrouded and shielded by the hills around it and a thick, cloaking fog. Roach knickers softly, throwing her head back. Geralt gives her a soft pat on her neck. Jaskier catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. She recognises home.

A faint figure of a man slips out between the gates. He had a hand on the pommel of his sword, but it drops as soon as he sees them walking towards the gate. Even with the wind howling, Jaskier hears a deep laugh echo. “Well, I don’t fucking believe it,” the man spreads his arms out. “The White Wolf has returned for the winter!”

Roach halts. Jaskier helps Ciri down first, adjusting the girl’s cape around her shoulders and neck as a particularly harsh wind blows through. Geralt drops down from Roach. His feet have barely touched the ground before the man has him gathered in a tight embrace. Without the fog clouding his vision, Jaskier takes the man in. He’s the same height and build as Geralt, but his hair is cropped and auburn.

When they pull away from each other, the man claps his hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about you!” he laughs.

Geralt pats the man’s arms “Is Vesemir here?” he asks, his expression stoning slightly.

The man nods. “Aye. He came back from market a few hours ago.”

Geralt hums. “I have something to discuss with him.”

The keep sprawls for what seems like miles in all directions. He can imagine what it must have been like, with countless boys in varying stages of life living within these walls. The stones around him contain memories, he’s sure. Now though, only a handful of hallways are lit by faint candlelight. Banners and tapestries have frayed edges, but still cling desperately to metal railings keeping them up.

As soon as they stepped foot inside the main keep, they stood in front of an elderly man with a scowling face. Geralt stiffened slightly. “Vesemir,” he inclined his head. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye. Vesemir’s eyes – amber, though not as bright as Geralt’s – flickered over to where Jaskier and Ciri stood. His jaw tightened.

He inclined his head – a silent order for them to follow.

Jaskier will be sure to wander and explore later, but he learned that Kaer Morhen is bigger than it appears. A courtyard, kitchen, dining hall, library, and armoury – to name but a few rooms that he can see. Geralt told him countless stories about the keep and what there is in it. But after seeing it from the outside, how it scales up a mountainside, he’s sure that there are more things to find. And he isn’t really sure what other thing will occupy his time while they spend the winter here.

Ciri stays by his side. Jaskier glances down, watching them fall into step with each other. The Witchers walk together, a couple of strides ahead. Vesemir is silent: but Jaskier has lived too many years with Geralt to know when a person is brewing something like anger in them.

Jaskier squeezes her hand. A silent question. Are you alright?

She glances up at him. She nods after a moment, but tightens her grip on his hand.

They’re brought into a meeting space. A large hearth is at one side of the room, being stoked by who Jaskier presumes is Eskel. Geralt mentioned the names of his brothers before. The Witcher doesn’t look up from prodding the fire, hoping for the newest block of wood to catch. The man from the gate – Lambert, Jaskier learned – takes a seat near the fire. He kicks out with a leg, hitting Eskel’s calf. “Move, you oaf,” he says. “The heat can’t get out with your fat arse in the way.”

Eskel scowls at the other Witcher, but sets the poker back against the hearth. Vesemir watches all of them flood into the room. Jaskier takes Ciri to one of the many armchairs near the fire. She’s been trembling with the cold for the past couple of days, no matter how many layers of clothes she gets on. Jaskier gestures to the ties of her cloak. “Let’s get this off,” he says quietly, dropping down on one knee when she settles back into the armchair, “or you’ll overheat.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

Vesemir’s voice is a harsh thing. Like a sword against metal. Jaskier glances over just in time to see Geralt wincing, looking down at his boots. He picks at some flaking skin around his fingernail.

“Forces like that of the Law is as ancient as time,” Vesemir growls. “We don’t interfere with it!”

“I didn’t think that-”

“-Too right! You didn’t think.” The man’s head snaps over to the other side of the room, looking at the other two Witchers.

Something shadows Eskel’s face.

Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to tell the eldest Witcher that, technically, Geralt invoked the Law twice. Both times, the end result was Ciri ending up being entrusted into his care. Whoever it was that ruled over the universe, a pantheon of gods or something else entirely, it was very keen on getting Ciri and Geralt together. Those two threads of fate are so entangled together now it’s hard to see where one ends and another begins. But looking at how small Geralt looks now, practically curled in on himself as Vesemir launches into another “lesson” about how destiny can be a treacherous, unyielding bitch, Jaskier bites his tongue.

It’s not to say he’ll store that piece of information away for later, for if Geralt happens to step out of line or be a particular pain in the arse.

Ciri stares down at her boots. Jaskier takes one of her hands in his. Even bundled in a heavy, woollen cloak, a scarf, and gloves, she still shakes like a leaf. He rubs their hands together, warming them up.

Behind them, Geralt tells Vesemir and the others about everything that had happened: from invoking the Law all those years ago in Cintra, to finding Ciri in a forest clearing over a decade later. Vesemir glances over to them when Geralt mentions Cintra. Something shadows over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears. An entire kingdom is without a monarch. He’s pretty sure that Cintra has fallen entirely. It’s not something that’s ever brought up. They can only imagine what Ciri went through when being taken out of the city.

There are brief moments, mainly during the night, when she’ll wake up because of a night terror. One of them is always nearby, gentling and assuring her that she is safe, and nothing would come to harm her.

And they were always so mindful. Neither of them used Ciri’s name while out in the wilds. She had told them both that she had called herself Fiona to a handful of Cintran refugees in the days after the fall of the city. It was a name that stuck. Gods only knew where Nilfgaardian soldiers were at any one moment, and if they had riders or spies heading up through the north, rooting out where the princess may have gone.

Something cold settled into Geralt’s bones one day: when he knew that Cahir or whoever it was leading the southern front wanted to get their hands on Ciri. Geralt always seemed quieter after that, more protective of the girl from just about anyone who wandered a bit too close. Ciri couldn’t walk anywhere without the Witcher being an ever-present shadow, always just an arm’s reach away. Jaskier gentled him as best as he could; but he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel the same way.

Apart from wandering the halls of the keep, taking stock of how many rooms there are and what they’re for, Jaskier finds himself with nothing to do. The Witchers make idle conversation with him: mainly asking about the ballads he has written throughout the years. Eskel laughed into his cup during dinner. “I couldn’t go to any town in the south that didn’t have a bard singing one of your creations,” he said after gulping down a mouthful of ale.

“Imagine what it was like living with their creator,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier sends him an affronted look, but ultimately goes back to his own food. Something small and mumbled may slip past his lips about ungrateful Witchers and how he made them all famous, so they can keep their coin to themselves.

He strums a couple of chords, staring up at the wooden rafters above him. Inspiration has avoided him throughout the past couple of weeks. But then again, the Continent has enough of his songs circulating around. And Geralt was never short on contracts offered by most villages and towns they passed through. He only stopped taking them once they came into possession of Ciri. They had enough coin between them to take time off, making sure that the girl was safe.

In the time they took travelling to Kaer Morhen, they made sure that the coin they did have stretched as far as it would go. They stayed outside of cities and towns when they needed to – the road, although rough and cold, is safe when winter starts to roll in. They only bought food that they couldn’t hunt for themselves. Sometimes people would offer them a loaf of bread, or half a wheel of cheese; people that Geralt did jobs for once, still thinking that they needed to repay the Witcher as he passed by their homesteads.

The balcony looks out on to a large dirt courtyard. Some stables are nearby, with Roach and the others’ horses happily feasting on hay and oats. Training dummies stuffed with down-feathers, and with makeshift armour on their heads and chests stand at attention around the outside of a large dirt circle. In the middle of it, Ciri, armed with a wooden sword, watches Lambert teach her how to hold a blade properly.

Jaskier casually plucks at a few more strings, idly humming a tune to himself. Beside him, Geralt sits forward in his own chair, looking down at the courtyard.

Lambert nudges her foot with his. “Keep your feet anchored, lass,” he says, bending his own knees slightly. “If your centre is low, enemies have a hard time knocking you over.”

Ciri nods, mirroring the Witcher. It takes a couple of tries for her to navigate how to stand, how to step back, and fall into the stance again. It’s made even more difficult when Lambert reminds her that she has a sword in her hand – although wooden – and should be held in a certain way, and positioned correctly in front of her.

Jaskier makes a face. He can’t count the number of times he called Geralt’s sword fighting dancing. And it does look like it, even now. Ciri stumbles over herself occasionally, huffing when Lambert corrects her. It seems more complicated than what most people seem to do: grab a blade’s pommel as tightly as you can and just start swinging.

Geralt arches his neck, watching the girl and his brother closely. He doesn’t blink. Or at least, Jaskier doesn’t think he does. He looks at him out of the corner of his eye. A slow smile spreads over his lips. “If you’re that concerned about her getting hurt, then you really have to rethink about what you’re letting her do.”

Geralt makes a sound in the back of his throat. Jaskier sets his lute aside, reaching out for one of Geralt’s hands. The Witcher doesn’t pull away; he could if he wanted to, Jaskier always gives him the option to. But he smiles faintly at the way Geralt’s fingers lace with his, squeezing slightly. He still stares out on to the courtyard, watching both people down there like a hawk.

Jaskier traces idle, unrecognisable patterns over the back of Geralt’s hand.

Ciri manages to hold her own. She’s only been training with Lambert for a couple of days, but she takes to each lesson like a duck to water. Even when Lambert leaves, announcing that they’re done for the day, she stays behind; practising all that she’s learned by herself, or on the dummies around the arena.

At one particularly good strike to Lambert’s side, Jaskier hums. “She can hold her own,” he says firmly. Because, gods, she can.

Geralt angles his head. He doesn’t reply, but with how firmly he’s holding Jaskier’s hand, the bard can only imagine what’s going on in his head. Jaskier shuffles his chair closer to Geralt’s. “I imagine this is how parents feel,” he says softly. His fingers ghost over the back of Geralt’s hand, running over scarred knuckles.

“I’m not, though,” Geralt says after a time. “Her parent.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “She’s yours,” he says gently. His words won’t carry over to the arena; they’re too far away. But even still, he knows how sharp a Witcher’s hearing can be. And even if Lambert is currently occupied with teaching Ciri about where to strike on a body, Jaskier keeps his voice low just in case he listens in. “In a biological sense, no. You’re of no relation to her whatsoever. But family is more than blood.”

A soft hum leaves the Witcher.

Jaskier squeezes Geralt’s hand. “You’re my family,” he says, “as is she. And I would gladly take this family over the family that shares blood with me.”

And he’s explained it all before; his life before meeting Geralt in that inn all those years ago. Geralt listened, offered soft words of sympathy and comfort at the rehashing of a particularly harsh memory being dredged up. But the people that share his blood and last name, they aren’t his family. His family is a Witcher and his child surprise.

Geralt jolts slightly at the sound of a thump echoing through the courtyard. Jaskier blinks, looking down at the dirt arena. He watches as Ciri scrambles back on to her feet, dusting gravel and dirt off of her breeches, and running at Lambert at full speed with her sword retracted over her head.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, she can look after herself just fine.

The hand around his has tightened. Looking at Geralt out of the corner of his eye, he snorts at the scowl firmly etched on to his face. When Ciri is, predictably, knocked down again, the corner of Geralt’s lip lifts into a snarl. “Don’t kill him,” Jaskier mutters, leaning forward to press a kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s jawline. “I like Lambert. He actually laughs at my jokes.”

Winter rolls in silently. The winds gradually get colder, nipping at Jaskier’s skin whenever he steps outside, or if the balcony doors to their room are left open. Hearths in the main rooms of Kaer Morhen are kept lit. Each Witcher takes turns wandering out to a nearby forest to bring in wood for the fires. Another saving grace is the fact that the keep was built on some hot springs deep in the body of the mountain. The lower levels, where the baths are, are always humid. With how warm the keep is kept during the days and nights, he’d be forgiven for forgetting that winter had even settled in the first place.

When the first heavy snow slides down from the peaks of the mountains, it covers everything. The arena outside, where Ciri had spent most of her time, is unusable. That doesn’t mean her training stops, though. The library of the keep holds too many books for Jaskier to count. Most of them are anthologies: studies into different types of monsters, and how best to kill them. Others concern the history of different kingdoms on the Continent.

Geralt sits with her, explaining the differences between each monster she reads about. She pipes up with a question every so often, asking what actually the difference between a ghoul and an alghoul is. Jaskier tries to hide a small smile into his journal when Geralt shrugs, saying he doesn’t actually know, or think that a difference actually exists. The others agree with him.

They’re all gathered in one of the main living spaces. Eskel and Lambert are by the fire, warming themselves after seeing to the horses comfortably stabled outside. Jaskier sits nearby, writing down aimless scribbles into a journal. Inspiration has been fleeting in the past couple of weeks; which strikes him as strange. He’s in the home of Witchers. Surely something would inspire a story.

Vesemir walks into the room, securing his cloak around him. “I’m going to the market. I’ll be a few hours.” He glances over to Lambert. “Don’t try and kill each other while I’m gone, you hear?”

Lambert splays his hands, an affronted look flashing over his face. Before he can even open his mouth, Eskel jumps in. “We’ll manage.”

Vesemir hums, not entirely convinced.

Ciri’s head pops up from her book. “Can I come with you?” she asks earnestly, pushing the tome out of her way.

Vesemir gives her a small smile. “Not this time, lassie,” he replies. “When the snow thaws and the roads a bit safer, I’ll bring you then.”

Ciri sits back with a small huff. Geralt nudges the book back in front of her. It earns him a glowering look off of the girl.

He gives them a gruff goodbye before heading out into the snow. Jaskier watches the door close behind him. “Will he be okay on his own?” he says, looking over to the gathering of Witchers dotted around the room.

Eskel snorts. “That old dog will outlive us all, lad,” he says, throwing another block of wood on to the fire. It spits and hisses, but eventually calms. Another blanket of quietness lies over the room.

It’s a comfortable one; one that doesn’t ask to be filled by pointless conversation or questions about the weather. Not the kind of silences Jaskier used to know in courts and taverns throughout the kingdoms. The Witchers by the fire seem happy enough to just watch the fire lick at the blocks. There’s a soft hum of conversation from Ciri and Geralt from across the room. Jaskier looks over to them every so often; watching with a faint smile how Geralt helps with her with the pronunciation of monster names and the ingredients for potions.

His heart swells.

Most mornings, he wakes alone. He’s grown used to the feel of a cooling or cold bed when he reaches out, knowing that Ciri has training in the morning with Geralt. What he learned, though, is that morning means as soon as the sun peeks over the mountain, when the goddamn birds haven’t even woken up yet.

But with snow still sitting over the keep, forcing everyone to stay inside for fear of freezing, now he wakes up to a warm figure behind him. Or on him. Or curled around him.

The first beams of morning light start to crawl over to the foot of the bed. Jaskier watches them, listening to the soft intake of breath behind him. Lying on his front, he’s effectively pinned to the bed, unable to move. Not that he would, of course. He likes Geralt claiming one side of his body as his personal pillow. He likes that the Witcher’s head is resting beside his, that his arm is flung over his back, curled around his waist.

He wouldn’t move even if the gods commanded it.

Pillowing his head on his arms, it’s the most amount of movement he can get away with. Geralt’s breathing changes slightly, but with a small snuffle against Jaskier’s shoulder blade, his hold on the bard tightens, and he settles again.

The hearth’s fire died at some point during the night. Embers and ashes are all that remains of it. Still, though, the room is warm. Most of that heat is because of the Witcher by his side. Even with a slowed heartbeat and a cold personality, at the best of times, Jaskier came to realise that the man is a walking inferno. And if Jaskier sits beside him, or can hold on to him during the night, he can keep just as warm as if he were sitting by a hearth.

And that’s...Jaskier blinks. That’s a good idea, actually. He lifts his head slightly, looking over to the nightstand. He always keeps a journal just out of arm’s reach. He’s had too many odd dreams in his past to not document them.

Lips suddenly press against his shoulder blade. “What are you doing?” Geralt rumbles.

“Preparing for my great return to the kingdoms’ musical scene,” Jaskier replies simply, jotting down a couple of lines for what he can only presume will be his next hit. An entire season has passed by without a new song; and lesser bards around the Continent will want to have more material to sing, and their patrons will want something new to hear.

The Witcher huffs what Jaskier can only assume is a laugh. Jaskier barely gets a sentence down on the page before he bristles at Geralt’s hand starting to wander. It skims over his side, fingers as light as anything, causing gooseflesh to break out in their wake.

When Geralt’s hand slips underneath him, edging very close to his cock, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. He manages to swat Geralt in the shoulder with his journal. “I’m not one to deny your advances, but just for a few minutes, could you please keep it to yourself. I’m busy.”

Geralt laughs against Jaskier’s skin. His hand doesn’t move too far away, settling on the bone of Jaskier’s hip instead. His thumb rubs gently over it, making unrecognisable patterns into the skin. Jaskier huffs, scribbling down a few more lines.

Throwing the journal on to the nightstand, Jaskier looks over his shoulder. “Now, what did you want?”

“You always say such romantic things to me.”

Jaskier turns, or at least, as much as he’s able with Geralt’s hold still on him. The Witcher eventually relents, letting Jaskier flop down on to his back and settle down against the pillows. “I’m busy,” he repeats. “I don’t go bothering you when you’re lecturing Ciri. I have to keep myself occupied somehow.”

Something flashes across Geralt’s face just then. It’s gone as soon as it appeared, but Jaskier blinks. He reaches up, dusting his fingertips along the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. The Witcher lifts his head with the movement. “Are you unhappy here?” he asks, with his voice nothing more than a hum.

“What? No. Gods, no.” The words leave him as quickly as a breath does. “No. I’m happy wherever you are. And Ciri. I just need to keep myself occupied while you’re both doing Witcher-y stuff, is all.”

“I could keep you occupied,” Geralt says. The faintest hint of a smirk starts pulling at the corner of his lip.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier blinks, “I think that was very close to something of a joke. A lewd joke. I can’t wait to tell everyone that you have finally found a sense of humour.” A smile threatens to break out over his own face. One that’s firmly kissed away by Geralt.

A moan escapes him at the first trace of Geralt’s tongue against the seam of his lips. Gods only know how long they’re like that for, lips against each others, hands mapping out leagues of skin and muscle.

Jaskier threads his fingers into Geralt’s hair, tugging on it slightly. The Witcher grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s lips. He rests their foreheads together for a moment, before leaning down and kissing Jaskier’s jaw.

“It’s late. Ciri will be wondering where you are,” Jaskier tries, but ultimately tilts his neck, letting Geralt scatter kisses down the length of it. He gasps when teeth start to scrape and nip. If he wants to keep bruises at bay, he’ll have to get it to stop now. Too many keen-eyed Witchers have already sussed out what it is he is to Geralt. He certainly doesn’t need to parade around with a necklace of hickeys – it’ll only stoke the fire.

Geralt’s hand drifts down to his leg, lifting and hooking it over his hip. “Eskel said that he’d take her this morning,” mumbles into Jaskier’s neck.

It’s a testament to how well their bodies know each other. When Geralt’s fingers slip inside him, drenched in oil gotten out of gods know where, it doesn’t take long for his body to part and give way. Jaskier’s head rolls back, heavy sighs and moans leaving him with every graze of fingers against that spot inside of him.

And gods if Geralt would let him, he would sing about this until every kingdom on the Continent collapsed. He would never, of course. The Witcher already threatened him many moon-turns ago that if he ever so much as breathed about their sex lives to anyone, there wouldn’t be a scrap of Jaskier left to find.

And it’s always in jest. He would never tell anyone. These moments are for them. So much of their lives changed the instant Ciri collided into it. But they’ll always have this.

When Geralt slips inside of him, every trace of breath escapes. “Fuck,” he swears, curling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him for a moment. It’s always on the right side of too much, the first time they join. No matter how many times they lie together.

Geralt rests their foreheads together. “You alright?” he breathes. It’s some sort of solace, knowing that he can affect Geralt just as much as he can affect him.

Jaskier nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you can move.”

Geralt doesn’t leave him. His hips rock against his, wrenching cut-off groans from the bard. His hold on Jaskier’s leg tightens. With a quick movement, he angles it to the side, letting him get deeper. Nails scrape along his back. Jaskier angles his hips slightly, making sure that the Witcher can get as deep as possible, and every second or third thrust grazes his prostate. They know each other too well: especially what to do to make the other person breathless.

Geralt’s teeth graze his neck. His arms slip underneath Jaskier, holding him close to his chest. Geralt flips them both, settling Jaskier over him as he lies back against the pillows.

Jaskier groans. The movement only gets Geralt’s cock deeper. He slumps forward slightly. Planting one hand beside Geralt’s head, his hips start to move of their own accord. Geralt’s hands find purchase there, not guiding him in any way, but just holding on.

A warm coil starts tightening in his core. He can feel it starting, and just wills it to hold off for a moment. He looks down at the Witcher stretched out underneath him; hooded eyes, a lazy smile ghosting his lips.

He doesn’t know how long they spend moving against and with each other. Jaskier’s heart leaps to his throat at the sound of movement in the hallway outside. Heavy footfalls of other Witchers leaving their bedrooms next door. Something must flash across his face, because Geralt huffs a light laugh. “They’ll hear you if you’re not careful, lark,” he grins.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something, but it’s cut off into a sharp groan when Geralt fucks into him that bit harder. “Oh, you bastard,” he grits. It takes a couple of minutes for the hallway outside to get quiet again. And the second it does, a chorus of moans and grunts leave the both of them as Jaskier’s vision starts to blur around the edges. His core tightens and coils in on itself. He’s close, and looking down at the Witcher, he can tell that he’s near his end too.

“How do you want to come?” Geralt breathes, planting his feet to help thrust up into Jaskier that bit harder.

“Oh gods, like this,” he sighs, leaning back and staring up at the canopy of the bed. Shivers tremble up throughout his body with every thrust down on to Geralt’s cock. It’s not enough and too much at once. “Fuck, like this. Make me come, please Geralt.”

The hands on his hip tighten, leaving what he hopes will be marks. Buried underneath his clothes, he won’t be able to move much without knowing what the damn Witcher did. And it sends shivers up through his spine.

He tightens around Geralt at a particularly well-aimed thrust to his prostate. His breath catches in his throat. Geralt sits up, gathering an arm around him and holding him close. His own cock is between them, red and leaking. Every brush of it against Geralt’s abdomen only sends him closer to the edge.

Jaskier loops his arms around Geralt’s shoulder, burying his face into Geralt’s neck. Every groan punched out of him with every thrust soaks into the skin there. When he comes, his vision whitens. His arms tighten around Geralt, holding him close as wetness spreads between the both of them.

Geralt follows not long after, with his hands at Jaskier’s hips holding him down as he fills the bard.

Geralt brings them both down to lie on to the bed. He slips out of the bard quickly, reaching out and fumbling for a shirt of his that he discarded at some point during the night. He cleans the both of them as best as he’s able, before tossing it aimlessly aside to some corner of the room. Jaskier’s breath slowly returns to him. When Geralt lies back against the pillows, lifting his arm, he crawls into the free space. He sighs at the slight thrum of soreness that goes through his lower spine.

“You’re a big softie, you know that?” Jaskier smiles as he settles against Geralt’s side. “Were you truly concerned about me wasting away in this keep?”

Fingertips run up and down each knob of his spine. A slight scrape of nail joins it. “It isn’t lost on me that you’re a bard in a keep of Witchers,” Geralt says slowly. “I worried that you might have felt alone.”

“A sheep among wolves,” Jaskier hums, resting his chin against Geralt’s chest. “I don’t feel alone. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

A small smile ghosts over Geralt’s face.

Jaskier knows the second the last of the snow has melted. He’s vaguely aware of a loud chorus of knocking against their bedroom door. He frowns, cover his eyes against the morning light coming in through the windows, and burrows back into his pillow. Geralt fairs slightly better, grunting awake and lifting his head, glaring daggers into the door. When the knocking continues, Geralt huffs and buries back underneath the blankets.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” Jaskier mumbles.

What he gets as an answer is a non-committal hum.

But Jaskier wakes fully to the door of their room suddenly flying open. “Geralt! Geralt! Geralt!” Ciri scrambles into the room, rushing over to the foot of their bed. Jaskier manages to move out of the way just in time for Ciri to all but launch herself on to the mattress.

Geralt grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. “What are you doing so awake at this hour?” he rasps.

“It’s midday,” Ciri protests, pointing to the tall lancet windows. Jaskier opens his eyes as best as he’s able and, yeah, he’s met with bright skies and a sun sitting high up over the mountain’s peak. Ciri shoves at Geralt. “And the snow is gone! You promised that as soon as the snow is gone, you would take me out hunting with you.”

“I didn’t mean the very second it’s gone, Ciri,” Geralt sighs. He frees an arm from the blanket cocoon they have around each other. Reaching out, snagging Ciri’s waist with his arm, he brings the girl down to lie down in the sliver of free space between them. She tries to struggle out of his hold, using everything she’s learned from the others to try and get Geralt’s arm away from her. But ultimately, she collapses against the mountain of pillows by the headboard of the bed, huffing harshly.

“You promised,” she says, glancing up at him. Her eyes are wide, with the faintest hint of a pout to her lips.

Jaskier brushes some hair out of the girl’s face. It’s freshly washed; he can smell the orange blossom oils she always steals from him. Ever since she started her training, she’s worn her hair back in a simple braid. One that never survives from how intensely the girl insists on training. He smiles down at her. “Geralt is still keen on hibernating like a bear, I’m afraid, little swallow. If you want him out of bed, you should have brought food.”

Jaskier barely gets out of the way of a swatting hand from the other side of the bed.

Geralt loosens his grip on the girl. It gives her enough leeway to manage to sit up, resting her back against the headboard of the bed. “I’ve gotten better at pirouetting,” she says simply, fumbling with the fraying edge of her tunic. “I was hoping that I could show you today.”

Geralt blinks up at her. “If the arena hasn’t flooded with melted snow, you can show me everything the others have taught you.”

“But you’ll bring me hunting with you first, right?”

A small laugh escapes him. “Right.”

“Because Lambert says that we need more meat for the stores.”

“I know-”

“-And Eskel mentioned something about Lambert being bitchy when he’s hungry-”

“-Don’t swear-”

“-You swear all the time!”

Jaskier hides his laughter into his pillow, as best as he’s able. He rolls over to look over the edge of the bed. For the first time in a long time, sleep-clothes stayed on during the night. Sleep washed over them before anything managed to start. He spots one of his doublets nearby. Even with just an arm out, he can feel how cold the air is. And leaving the small fort of blankets both he and Geralt managed to construct for themselves during the night is not sitting well with him at all.

Ciri and Geralt continue to argue behind him as he grabs his doublet, quickly slipping it on before the cold can chill his bones. Even with the snow gone, the air still nips and bites. The keep juts out of a mountain. Thick forests and hills surround them in every direction. Being up so high means that the air is always cold and unforgiving, no matter how much the sun shines down.

Jaskier slips out of bed. He pads over to the other side of the room, grabbing his breeches and boots. Over his shoulder, he sees Geralt start the slow process of getting out of bed himself. Ciri hops down, adjusting her tunic and belt, synching it to her waist. Her wooden sword lies scattered at the foot of the bed. Geralt eyes it as he passes. “You better not treat your actual blades like that.”

Both he and Geralt dress quickly. The Witcher grabs his blades, strapping the sheathes to their normal position against his back. Ciri gathers her own sword, pinning it to her waist by her belt.

They pass Eskel and Lambert in the main gathering room, hauling in some wood for the fire. They stack it beside the stone hearth, content to leave it for a few hours. The hearth isn’t lit. The springs beneath the keep warm the walls with their steam.

The hunting party for the day is Vesemir, Lambert, Geralt, and Ciri. Vesemir is already outside, filling a quiver with arrows and hooking it to his waist. Three bows lie on a table near him. “Grab a bow and some arrows,” he glances up at the sky. “Who knows how long the weather stays like this.” Something akin to a smile flickers over Vesemir’s face as soon as Ciri rushes past, making a grab for a bow and quiver. Lambert gets there before her, holding the two objects up above her head, just out of reach.

A laugh bellows out of his chest. “If you want it, princess, get it off of me. You know how.”

Geralt is the last to join the party. He stays by Jaskier’s side, leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to the arch of Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request for another kiss. It’s given to him as quickly as he asked for it. “Be careful,” he mumbles when they pull away.

Geralt shrugs a shoulder. “I have Ciri with me. I’m in safe hands.”

A sharp whistle cuts through the air. “None of that, now,” Lambert hollers at them, making a face at how close they’re standing. He’s still towering above Ciri, not budging no matter how hard she shoves at him. “We need to go while we still have the sun. Keep your canoodling to yourselves in your own time.”

Geralt flips him off.

The first time Ciri manages to land a hit on Geralt, Jaskier has to physically restrain himself from running out on to the arena dirt and hugging her with pride.

There’s a slow trudge into spring. The days are steadily getting warmer, although cold winds still blow through the keep every so often. Geralt came back from the market one day with a cloak in his hand, saying that although the other Witchers could handle the cold, he couldn’t stand by and let his lark shiver for one more second.

Jaskier tugs it tighter around himself, warding off the cold. His fingers are fine though, strumming a few chords on his lute. The occasional screech of a blade on whetstone joins him. Eskel is nearby, sharpening the last of his blades. But he stops whenever Jaskier’s couple of chords become lines of music. Whenever the bard mumbles a few lines, testing how they taste and sit in his mouth, Eskel keeps quiet.

Geralt and Ciri keep practising, though. She was telling the truth when she barged into their room yesterday. She’s gotten much better at pirouetting. It’s like the water dancers he used to watch as a child, whenever his father had them commissioned to perform at a party or feast. He spends half of his time playing his lute, while the other half glancing up and watching the lesson take place in front of him. Ciri dodges every strike Geralt lunges at her. She deflects every swing of a sparring sword. She doesn’t fall over or stumble, but roots her feet into the ground, like Lambert taught her to do before the snow came.

She twirls on one foot, bringing her sword around and deflecting another swing from Geralt. She grunts with the force of it. She ducks and weaves, a fierce look etching into her face with every step she has to take back to avoid getting hit with Geralt’s sparring sword.

Whether intentionally or not, Geralt makes a mistake. He draws back a bit too much for a swing, leaving his front open for attack. Ciri is quick. Before Geralt’s arm can go all the way back, drawing for an attack, Ciri lunges: jutting the edge of her sword into his chest. The point of it stops just shy of his body.

Geralt stands stock still. Arms splayed out on either side. A yield.

If it were a real fight, with real steel, she could just lunge forward and pierce Geralt’s chest. From where the tip of her sword is pointing, it’s aimed right at his heart. She could ever knick a lung on the way in.

And he’s not sure if the thought sits well with him or not. He’s proud of her. She’s learned so much over such a short space of time.

But every so often, something hits him in the stomach. The mortality of everything: Ciri is learning how to fight, but also how to protect herself. She needs to protect herself against people who would do her harm.

“Well done lassie,” Eskel calls out, shaking him from his thoughts.

Jaskier offers her a small smile when she glances over to them. “Very well done.”

He’s not going to sit here and say that it doesn’t make him feel some sort of pride to see her landing a strike – a deadly strike – to Geralt. Watching at how quickly excitement bubbles to the surface makes his heart swell: even when she tries to tame it, brushing some hair back behind her ear, and taking up her stance again. Geralt lifts his chin. “Best of three,” he says, lunging for her again.

Eskel nudges him with his foot. “I know that look,” he says softly, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Jaskier looks down at the lute in his hands, at the strings his fingers gently pluck at. “It’s nothing.”

Eskel snorts. “Aye. And I’m king of a southern holdfast.” A quiet moment settles over them for a moment. Jaskier’s dimly aware of Eskel still staring at the side of his head. He ignores the Witcher, going back to strumming a few notes and jotting down words that come to mind. It’s all nonsense. The page will be ripped out and burned the second Eskel is gone.

The Witcher sets one of his swords to the side, tossing the whetstone on to a nearby table. “I had one too, you know,” he says after a time. He nods over to Ciri. “A child surprise.”

Jaskier flattens his hand over the lute’s strings, stopping their sound. “What?”

Eskel’s brow lifts. “Geralt never told you?”

He shakes his head.

Eskel sits back in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. The forge is nearby, spitting embers and warming their backs. “I got one just like Geralt did: by asking prompting magic I didn’t understand. I saved a knight once. He was in a spot of bother, and I helped him. He was so grateful, he said I could have whatever I wanted.” Eskel huffs a light laugh. “I didn’t want anything. Well, coin would have been useful. Or food, or a place to sleep for the night. But this knight was a noble of some hold west of the Kestrel Mountains. He was pretty fucking insistent that I ask for more. And I heard Vesemir asking for things before. The wording always struck me as odd.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Give me that which you find at home, yet do not expect. I want to find whatever god strung that sentence together and give them a clip ‘round the ear. What horseshit that line is. You could get anything from it: a bottle of milk, straight from the cow outside, to a fucking child.”

Jaskier lifts his chin. “Geralt was just as shocked as you,” he says slowly. “When he realised what he did. What he asked for.”

Eskel snorts. “I can only imagine.”

Ciri continues to dance around the other Witcher. Geralt lands a hit on her, brushing her shoulder with his sparring sword.

Eskel hums. “Though I think Geralt got off lucky with getting that girl,” he says lowly, leaning forward to settle his arms over his knees. “He could have done much worse.”

Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

After a quiet moment, Eskel gestures to his face. A trident of scars runs down one side, from the crown of his head to the jut of his chin. They look old, long-since healed over, but stand out against the Witcher’s otherwise pale skin. “My surprise child. Deirdre. She had blood like wildfire, that one.”

Eskel looks out on to the courtyard, though his gaze doesn’t settle on anything specific. “She had a temper like nothing I’ve ever seen. She could be perfectly fine one moment, and brandishing a blade at you the next. I never blamed her for it. The second that girl was born underneath a black sun, everything had been against her.”

Jaskier looks down at the ground. Geralt told him a story many moons ago – how he got the name of the Butcher of Blaviken. A sorcerer Jaskier wishes he could kill himself, trying to hire Geralt to kill a girl on whispers of a prophecy.

“She lived here for a time,” Eskel continues, looking down at his hands. They’ve blackened from the coals of the forge. “I didn’t know where else to take her. But she lashed out one day, cut my face into what it is now, and disappeared. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Jaskier swallows. “How long ago was it?”

Eskel lifts a shoulder. “Couple of decades, I think. When your lifespan increases like ours, you tend to lose track of time.”

Jaskier hums. Another thud sounds from the arena. Glancing over, he offers a small smile to Ciri when she announces that she was able to hit Geralt again – in the abdomen this time.

“When I heard Geralt had managed to get saddled with a child surprise,” Eskel sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “Gods, I would have given anything to have seen the look on his face. But now I see her, and how he is with her, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what it’s meant to be like.”

“If it’s of any consolation,” Jaskier says quietly, “you’re part of her family too. All of you.”

Their training is called for the day. Ciri rushes over to the sheltered forge, slightly out of breath with small beads of sweat dotted over her forehead. “I finally beat Geralt,” she says, taking up a seat next to Jaskier when he frees up some space for her.

Jaskier presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “Good. Maybe you’ll be the one to finally beat some sense into him."

100 notes · View notes

draw-you-coward · 5 years ago

Note

"You're cold. Come here" Ikael and, uuh, whoever strikes your fancy :3

;w;; thank you so much for sending something in! i really liked how this turned out , even if the exact line of dialogue is AheUEH a liddle less … sofTM

ao3

Ryne shifts closer to the fire,rocking on her ankles. She tightens her arms around her knees and ducks herhead further into them to cover her nose.

Ikael frowns in concern. “Are youcold, kitten?”

Ryne’s eyes darts to his. Shenods. Poor thing, Ikael thinks as she wedges her hands under her arms.

“We’ve never been here. I’m notused to this weather.” She sounds troubled. “We used to spend the winters atUrianger’s place, because it was always warm.”

Ikael coos at hersympathetically, nosing at his enormous, heavy fur cloak. Ikael, too, gets coldin the winter, since he still has not accustomed himself to cooler climes. Buthe is always prepared! Even if people—perhaps or perhaps not including Y'shtolaand Lyse—say he looks like a dodo with a shaved neck in this cloak.

“You take this then, yeah?” he coaxes,unwrapping it. “No, no, no protests! There will be no shivering on my watch. Thereyou go…” He settles the cloak around her shoulders, tucking it in when itstarts to slide off. It absolutely dwarfs her. Ikael kisses the air and coos loudlyas he smoothes it down.

“Is that Ryne, or have we gottena new pet?” Thancred strides over, offering a piece of the meat he had beencleaning to Ikael with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t smother her with that thing,Ikael. She needs to breathe.”

“Abububu,” goes Ikael, smooching Ryne’shair. She giggles and snorts, pushing him away. “Stop, stop!” she squeaks. “Hedidn’t mean the cloak.”

Ikael mock pouts, but withdrawswith a chuckle and one last, more gentle kiss. He inspects the rabbit thighThancred has handed him as he shuffles over to his frying pan.

“What does your new little nutkinthink of you murdering her friends?” he throws over the fire.

“Now, now, ‘murder’ is a verystrong word,” Thancred replies. “Don’t say it in front of Frederika. And Idon’t know where she is right now—it seems she comes and goes.”

Ikael skewers the thigh, thenpauses. “‘Frederika?’” he repeats. Did he hear that correctly?

He can feel Thancred’s regretin the beat of silence that follows. Delighted, Ikael is just about to crow onthe revelation that he has finally won the years-long battle overFrederick’s name when—

A wet glob of fat sails just pastthe flames and smacks him in the face. Ikael bleats in shock. It begins to slowlyslide down his cheek.

“Ew ew ew ew,” Ikael whimpers,trying desperately to get it off. The rabbit thigh cocks at an awkward angle onits skewer, forgotten.

Thancred regards him inamusement. After a second, he barks out a laugh. At Ikael’s puzzled glare, he explains,“You had the same reaction when I kissed you those few years ago. Hah.”

“What?” says Ryne. Ikaelwhines loudly, smearing the back of his hand over his face. Why is it so gooey?

Dinner ends up being somewhatdelayed.

~*~

Ikael is beginning to get just alittle bit chilly.

Well alright, he had felt the coldnot a minute after he had given Ryne (who is now asleep) his cloak. But itisn’t as if he is going to take it back from her! For all he is concerned, itis hers now. Poor thing. And he definitely does not want Thancred to notice,because Thancred will offer his coat and bully Ikael into wearing it, and then hewill be cold. And Ikael cannot have that.

But he is wearing a sleevelesstop, and he very much regrets it. He cannot pull his sleeves over his hands,because he does not have any, but at the very least, he supposes, hewill not give himself away. The gooseflesh pimpling his arms, unfortunately, isharder to hide, and does not go away even when he blows at his skin vigorouslyas soon as Thancred turns his head. But he finds that he can mostly repress hisshivers, and he can make up for what he cannot with hopefully random-seemingtwitching. Thancred has never pointed out his behaviours that others deem odd,anyhow. For all he knows, Ikael twitches all the time. Ikael is a twitchmaster. Ikael—

Sneezes. Thancred glances over athim instinctively. “Crystal keep you,” he says.

“Thank y-you.” Ikael sniffs. Thancred’sfleeting gaze pauses, turning curious, and Ikael mentally kicks himself as herealizes why. That is not how Ikael’s stutter usually manifests. Damn. And damnagain; now he has to think of a reason to be nervous.

“O-oh no, my… hand cream,” hesays, loud and over-enunciated. “It is almost ov—ov—ov—over! Whatever shall I.Shall I do?”

Thancred shoots him an odd look.“Do you want me to buy you new hand cream?” he asks slowly. “Have you run outof money again? Let me guess: That cloak cost you a fortune.”

Well. It did, but that is neitherhere nor there. “Now my. My. My. Hands will be dry forever!” Ikael exclaimsdramatically. Thancred shushes him, looking over at Ryne. “Oops,” Ikaelwhispers. “Sorry.”

Thancred clambers over on hisknees, somehow managing to be graceful about it. “There is no need to be sotheatrical,” he says in an undertone. “It has never been your strong suit. Howmuch is this exotic cream you want? I’m assuming it was made with half a dozen‘extracts’ and promises to relocate your chakras to your arse or somethingequally preposterous. If you truly need it, I can help you save up.”

Ikael’s mouth parts. “A-ah, it,um—no. It’s fine. Th-the, ah…” He represses a shiver, sending it out throughthe tips of his ears. “The price isn’t that high. I-I can get it myself.”

He purposefully avoids making eyecontact. He has never been a very good liar, let alone to Thancred, who has aunique ability to sniff out as innocent a thing as a half-truth from malmsaway. If their eyes meet, he will be found out in seconds. Thancred will… seethe chilliness of his eyeballs.

“… Alright then,” Thancred saysas Ikael makes an effort to not lock his jaw. The fire is dying, taking with itthe last of its warmth. It is all Ikael can do not to huddle up and rub at hiscold, cold arms. He hopes Thancred will decide to go to sleep soon, because hecannot pretend to not be cold for very much longer. And when he notices,Thancred will be very cross with him and try to do something ridiculouslychivalrous like force Ikael to wear his—nice, warm, large—coat. And Ikael doesnot want that because… then Thancred will be cold. Right. It is getting harderto straighten out the reasons for his martyrdom, frankly, but Ikael is certainit is for a good cause. It is better that he is the one suffering thanThancred, he thinks. Poor Thancred has been through enough.

“I’ll take first watch,” Ikaelspeaks up. He finds that if he evens his breathing, it is easier to keep hisvoice steady. “You go and sleep now. Be nice and cuddly, yeah?”

Thancred shoots him an odd look.“It is early yet,” he replies. “I daren’t turn in for some time. Is theresomething that’s bothering you, Ikael? You are acting strangely.”

“N-no.” Oops. Ikael clears histhroat. “No,” he repeats firmly. “Nothing at—all. Sometimes people just act—actstrangely, you know. No need to jump to conclusions.”

“Right,” Thancred says slowly. “Well,if you want to talk, I’m right here. No better time than the present.”

He settles next to Ikael,comfortably close. That will not do, Ikael thinks in despair as he staresat Thancred’s face, lax with ease. It is getting more and more difficult not toshiver. Quickly—Ikael has to—think.

“I-I think it’s best if y-y—” Achill skitters up his spine. “If you go sit… over there.” Ikael points with onewavering finger, stretching his arm out as far as it will go. “I-I think.Yeah.”

Thancred looks at him. Slowly, keepinghis eyes on Ikael—who quickly diverts his own—he gets up, and sits some waysaway.

“Furth—further back,” Ikael says,because Thancred is still facing him. “Or turn arou—around, please.”

“Have I done something tooffend?” Thancred’s voice is more even, which means his good humour is leaving.Oh no. “If I have, I must say, I would rather you tell me than,” He makes anambiguous gesture, “Whatever this is.”

Ikael’s ears flatten to his head.“N-no, Thancred, you’re fine,” he mumbles, guilt slanting his shoulders. “I justneed. U-um.” He flounders for another, more believable, lie. “Um. I just needto… stretch my legs,” he says weakly. “Nothing to do with—with you.”

This time, when a shiver wrackshim, he is unprepared, and it shakes through his bones. Ikael ducks his headinto his chest, trying not to let his teeth chatter. Lie of stretching his legsjust as quickly forgotten as it was fabricated, he pulls them up so he can hugthem close.

Having Thancred at odds with him,especially for no reason, feels—nasty—but at least it means he will keep hisdistance. Oh, but Ikael feels so horrid about it. He will—hemust—apologize, and then—

“Are you cold?” Thancred’s voicedips with a frown. Oh, shite. Ikael hears him come back over, and resignshimself to his fate just before he feels a semi-gloved hand close over hisshoulder.

“N-no,” he mumbles unconvincingly.He stares determinedly at an ember twinkling in the bowels of firepit.

“Really? Because you look like aplucked dodo, and you’ve been tense as a bowstring since you gave Ryne yourcloak.”

Ikael’s mouth opens in offense.“Y-you’re a… plucked dodo,” he says.

Thancred tilts his head. “Are youill, is that it? Don’t tell me you’re pulling an Urianger.”

Ikael has never lied tohis friends about life-threatening information, so he cannot imagine whatThancred is talking about. “I-I’m not ill.” He frowns. “Fine, I may bejust a teeny bit cold. I-it’s not a bother, Thancred. Hurrah, you f-f-foundethout my secret. Forsooth.”

Thancred claps him on the shoulder.“’Tis a problem that is easily solved, then.” He begins to remove his coat.“Really, Ikael, I don’t know why—”

“No! No.” Ikael hastily tugs thecoat back over Thancred’s arms. He tries to pull it closed over his chest, butit does not have any buttons, so he ends up awkwardly smoothing it out and perhapsfeeling beneath it a little. Thancred is very well-built. “N-no, it is yourcoat! You will be—c-c-cold.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thancred staresat him. “You’re shaking like a korpokkur in a windstorm. Or a k-k-korpokkur, Ishould say.”

“If one of us has to be cold itwill not be you!” Ikael insists. Thancred catches his wrists with one hand anddeterminedly begins to take off his coat with the other. The bullying hasalready started! Ikael knew it would happen. “No! Let me go. Thancred.”

“Fine, fine.” Thancredrolls his eyes when Ikael begins to hiss at him. “Gods. It’s like living with aferal cat sometimes, I swear. We can share the bleeding coat, Ikael. Comehere.”

Ikael eyes him suspiciously. “Itonly has two arm-holes,” he says.

Thancred rolls his eyes onceagain, longer and more rudely. “Gods, you’re dense,” he says in a tone that isheavy with affection. He tugs his coat off and, before Ikael can indignantly protest,wraps it back around himself.

Then he knee-walks up to Ikael,still infuriatingly graceful, and throws one half of the garment around him. “There,”he mutters, tugging at it so Ikael is cocooned like a very furry, goosefleshy caterpillar.

Ikael gawks at him. Thancred looksback calmly. They sit for a bit.

“I-I’m not dense!” Ikael squeaksafter an inappropriately long bout of silence.

He feels Thancred’s arm encirclehis shoulder underneath the coat, and he shivers, pressing into the warmth ofhis body. “No, you’re usually very clever,” Thancred replies with a smile inhis voice. “I suppose tonight you must have simply been distracted by longing thoughtsof your fake hand cream.”

“Exactly,” Ikael insists pathetically.Thancred chuckles, quiet and warm. Ikael’s ears dip back, and he noses into Thancred’sneck.

“You’re freezing,” Thancred observes.“Alright, I’ll buy you a new coat, since I am going to assume you will be givingthat hideous thing to Ryne to keep. I’m not getting anything that has more thanthree ‘vitamins,’ however. Or that costs over three digits. It is abouttime you learn, I think, how to thrift. Did I tell you that I used to sell ja—”

“It’s not hideous,” Ikael mumblesinto the junction of his neck.

Thancred snorts. “Please. Itmakes you look like a roosting dodo bird with a bald head and cat ears. I halffeared one had eaten you whole when I first saw you in it.”

Ikael whines quietly, tugging Thancred’sarm tighter around him. Thancred chuckles again. He squeezes, then presses alight kiss to Ikael’s head. Their conversation fades with the last embers of thefire.

Ikael opens his mouth. “How aboutfour vit—”

“No.”

~*~

#ikael #thancred #ryne #drabble #writing #shadowbringers spoilers #this was fun! hh #thank u!! <333 #blancaleona #ask

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hazbinextgeneration · 5 years ago

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Cats Hate Water But Love Fish

What had made him come to this? What lunatic controlling fate made the grand decision of making him fall for such a small weak little thing like her? He would probably never know, but the way she was giggling and holding his very red face right now in her soft little hands. He could always turn around, swim away, and never look back-....but she mustve put some kind of spell on him as she continued to gush at him. "I could eat you right know." He gave a small growl, showing on his fangs to give his point. "Know one would know and you always risk yourself by coming you know.'' She smiled. "You won't do that." His brow raised. "How can you be so sure?" She smiled wider. "Because your face tells a lot more than you think." D*M IT ALL TO NEXT HELL!! He cursed himself for being like this, for being so weak and vulnerable around someone who wasn't even a threat to him. What would happen if some danger did come along?! NO! He didn't like the way she looked at him with those big beautiful eyes, or the way she was so patient with his stupid arse, or the way she was always squishing his cheeks in her soft paws and calling him cute- NOPE! NOT AT ALL!! And he definitely didn't spend last night laying awake thinking about how cute and soft she was! Nope! And he definitely didn't hit his head trying to catch her a fish she loved just to see her smile at him- ABSOLUTELY NOT!! …...Ok. Maybe- But that's a very small maybe. Gosh he was starting to regret meeting her as strange as it was- …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. Well this certainly was a pickle wasn't it. Imagine just going for a swim with your best friend and enjoying a nice day at the beach to just relax, simple right? Yeah- Nope. A storm had blown in unexpectedly and swept through the lake just a few hours after they arrived. All she wanted was to just relax around on her floaty, not be swept out to the middle of the gigantic lake with no way back..Well, she could swim but those waves didn't look so promising against her mediocre swimming skills, at least if she stayed on the floaty she could stay afloat and not worry about sinking. But now she had another problem...The sky(or what counted as the sky down here) was starting to get darker by the minute and she wasn't too sure which direction was the way back to shore anymore. It was kinda hard to tell with the waves being so tall and her getting tossed back and forth like a ragdoll on a beach ball wasn't the best feeling in the world, and she was starting to feel like puking. Man....She was starting to get tired of this- "CELINE?!" Don't ask why she thought it was a good idea to start shouting for a friend who couldn't help her, might've been just a reflex or a hope but it would soon lead to more bad than good...Or would it? "HELP?! HEL-" A wave chose that exact moment to rear it's ugly head and crash down over the poor cat's body, the wind was knocked outta her like a rock slammed into her. Immediately air bubbles surrounded her form as she unceremoniously screamed from the hurtful impact, darkness surrounded her form as the stormy waves above continued to rattle about like some sort of punisher. It was surprisingly....calm in the dark black surrounding her. Almost like the night. Completely silent. A peaceful way to go if she wasn't already dead, or didn't want to die again. It was when she turned and found two yellow eyes and a mouth full of teeth staring at her did she scream again. ***************************************************** You know....It's really troubling trying to find something to eat somewhere where there's not a lot of available food just swimming around, so imagine his luck when he stumbled across a seemingly dumb person just floating about in the middle of his territory. Kinda dumb being all the way out here in the middle of the dam storm, but who was he to judge. Food is food. A quick wave was able to knock whoever the person was over and into the water where he waited. His stomach grumbled just thinking about it... But that thought soon vanished after seeing her face. UGH- He hated tiny meals. This one wasn't worth the trouble...Not enough fat on her. He also didn't appreciate the bubbles shoved in his face when she screamed again and started kicking up towards the surface. His face scrunched up in annoyance. Did everyone always have to be so rude when they see a gigantic 20 ft demon looking at them? Oh well. At least he got to do the scaring part he always liked. Ounce she made it back up through the swaying surface, coughing and spitting out out her lungs, a dark shadow loomed out from under her. In a split second the shadow had bust through the waves with ease. Water splashed over her, almost sending her down under the water again. "AHAHAHAHAHAHA! YOU FOOOOOL!!!" His raspy voice boomed over the noise of the waves and wind. "Those who enter my territory are doomed to DIE! Wha- H-HEY!" He flinched back when she yelped and instinctively grabbed onto him to keep from being drowned down by a wave. "HEY! Do you have a death wish! Those who ever as much as touch me are bound to- HEY! STOP DROWNING WHEN IM TRYING TO THREATEN YOU!!" With a blub sound another wave sent her under. He groaned. Did his prey ALWAYS have to make things more difficult like this? He stuck his hand back under the waves and a moment later he pulled the shivering, sputtering cat back out of the bobbing water. She coughed and spat out some of the salt water, heaving and looking up at him. ".....*sigh* You know what? Screw this. My voice isn't worth some drowned cat." He began turning in the opposite direction and making swimming through the waves look like a breeze. She gave him a confused. "Where-....W-Where are we g-g-going?" "Im dumping you on the shore. You're not worth the trouble of straining my voice." …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… "S-Stop it." "Why? You're acting like a child." "Because I don't like physical contact. And I'd like to see you prove me wrong.'' He made a move to pry her hands from his face from his face but that idea was scraped when he felt something small on his face. OH SWEET MOTHER OF HECK-!! WAS THIS GIRL SERIOUSLY-?! She gave a small kiss on his cheek which he froze at, immediately his face broke out into a watermelon red. His hands were shoved in front of his face as to hide his embarrassment. "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH- STOP THAT!!" She just giggled and gave him another small kiss. More muffled screams followed.

*AHEM* @briannartoonz I did a thing.

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reheadyfreheady · 6 years ago

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Downward dog- Maylor fic

This was also posted on my ao3: yourdadjustcallsmeKatyUNHhhh

It was all Freddie’s fault

That’s what Roger kept telling himself after it all began on that fateful Thursday evening.

It wasn’t Roger’s idea. He was sat in his joint flat when his housemate, and best friend Freddie strolled into his room, bearing both a yoga mat and a shit eating grin. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Roger’s various essays were sprawled accords his bed, the blond well aware of the looming deadlines that came with his biology degree.

“What?” Roger snapped, shuttling his book when he realised that he definitely couldn’t concentrate when Freddie stood in nothing but leggings and a tank top, looking more like a twat than Roger had ever seen him look before. Freddie rolled his eyes in response.

“Get off your fat ass. You’re coming to yoga with me.”

“No way.” Roger confirmed, looking away from Freddie and back to his books. He had done absolutely zero revision this semester, and he definitely couldn’t fail this module, especially for something like a yoga class. “Why isn’t Deaky going with you?”

Deaky was dragged along weekly to Freddie’s yoga classes. Freddie assured them that it made them spiritually closer in their relationship but Roger thought it was a pile of shit. Roger was not the calm and subdued type. Roger could never calm his racing mind.

“Deaky’s got an exam. I’m not taking no for an answer Roger, you’re coming with me.”

And that was how Roger ended up in the university’s yoga studio at 4pm on a Thursday, sitting gingerly in easy pose on his mat, with Freddie bouncing excitedly next to him. He wanted to die.

That was, until, the yoga instructor walked in.

Being a university class, it was an older student that led the session; one that Roger had never seen before much to his utter dismay. His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets as he traced the tall boy, long curly hair scraped back in a bun as he stepped over the people to the mat at the front over the room, flashing everyone a grin. Roger’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Hi guys. Lovely to see so many new faces!” He smiled, sending a small wink Roger’s way. Roger nearly died.

“I knew you’d like him,” Freddie whispered, smirking just as the lights dimmed and the class was ordered to lie on their backs in the darkness. The sound of Brian’s voice hushing sweet calmness into the silent room not helping Roger’s wide open eyes and beating heart.

He assessed his situation, like Deaky would so often tell him to do in a situation like this. Roger thought. He was in a yoga studio, with a very beautiful instructor (which Freddie failed to mention). This instructor was dressed in nothing but a tank top and leggings that hugged his arse so deliciously that Roger was unable to concentrate so much that he didn’t realise that the others had their legs in the air. He snapped his head to Freddie, ready to start on him, out of eyeline from the beautiful teacher.

“I can’t fucking believe you didn’t tell me that he was an abolsute sort!” Roger hissed, glaring at Freddie whilst they both circled their legs in the air, Freddie giggling slightly at the sight.

“Thought it would be more fun to see you suffer during this hour class.” Freddie shrugged, smirking as Roger eyes widened.

An hour.

A whole hour of Roger trying not to nut as he caught sight of the man’s incredibly defined torso peeking out from where his top raised up. He looked strong enough to pin Roger against the wall. That thought occupied his brain for a few moments as he gulped back his lustful feelings and stood, following the more experienced yogis in front of him as they twisted and contorted their bodies in ways Roger didn’t even think was physically possible. He felt even more clumsy and embarrassed as he tried his hardest to not be mentally scrutinised for his bad technique by the man who kept offering encouraging smiles Roger’s way.

Roger was in deep.

///

A week later and Roger found himself back in the studio. He had brought it upon himself to invite his way into couples yoga with Freddie and John out of sheer excitement at the prospect of meeting tall beautiful poodle head again, maybe even exchanging a few words rather than brief breathless smiles as Roger was stuck in awkward angles (which he assumed was definitely not attractive from Brian’s point of view.)

And so, he dragged the couple along 15 minutes before the class was scheduled to start, and sent a smirk to a knowing Freddie, as he grabbed a yoga mat and seated himself smack bang in the middle of the front row, directly in front of Poodle Heads view when he started the class. Unfortunately, Poodle Head was yet to arrive.

“So that’s why you made a fucking effort today.” John commented, unrolling his own mat out and positioning it next to Roger’s, giving him the side eye as he noted the way Roger was purposely wearing one of Freddie’s daring tank tops, and leggings that Roger thought, made his ass look great.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Deaky.” Roger shrugged innocently, but with a flash of excitement in his eyes as he heard more people enter through the back door.

“You just want to impress Brian.” Freddie rolled his eyes. Roger felt a pang in his chest at Freddie’s words. The stranger’s name was Brian. For some odd reason, Roger’s slight crush didn’t seem so strange now he had a name to the (frankly gorgeous) face.

“So what if I do?” Roger shot back, eyes gleaming as he whipped his head around just in time to spot ‘Brian’ walking through the door, lugging a suitcase of yoga mats behind him. Roger faced back to Freddie and John. “You can’t deny that man is gorgeous.”

“He plays guitar too.” John so helpfully added, watching the way Roger gulped back his desire with a smug grin.

“Jesus wept.” Roger muttered, a little breathless, imagining the talented fingers that brushed his guitar and yoga block, but instead, picturing them clasped tightly around Roger’s-

No. Yoga was supposed to be calming.

Roger watched intently as Brian greeted his regulars with a smile. Watching how Brian gently embraced a red headed girl, or high fived a freshman with a grin. It made Roger wonder whether this beautiful man was actually available. Roger wouldn’t be surprised if he had queues of people waiting to date him.

However insecure Roger felt about his lack of flexibility or how this was only his second class, he felt all of his worries dissolve as Brian’s eyes scanned the room before landing on Roger, flashing the most genuine smile that Roger had received. Roger was happy to reciprocate, even as John nudged Freddie glowering at the first interaction between the pair. Roger firmly believed that the few feet between him and Roger was much too great, and he had to hold himself back from crawling over to him and seating himself in Brian’s lap.

The minute Brian’s hand clapped loudly, signaling the class to begin, Roger decided he was going to actually put effort in- something he was not used to doing. John snorted a couple of times as he watched Roger out of the corner of his eyes, fold himself over in a way that gave Brian a great view, or when Roger ‘accidentally’ fell out of his extended tree, causing Brian’s to get out of his own pose in order to snake a hand around Roger’s waist and inch his leg so it rested on his upper thigh. Or best of all, when Roger still couldn’t do downward dog without tipping over, and Brian’s hard gaze following him encouragingly as he rested in table top (with his butt sticking out a bit too much) whilst the others finished their asana. The feeling of having Brian’s strong arm coaxing his body into positions he never thought possible made Roger nearly fall out of his pose again, imagining the various other positions he longed to get Brian in.

Still, Roger took every opportunity to make each position as sexual as possible. He had picked the spot directly in front of Brian for a reason of course. He was wearing Freddie’s tight clothes and he knew he looked good. All he wanted was to distract Brian from his inner peace enough to look over at a desperate Roger and feel bad enough for him to slip him his number discretely. To Roger’s dismay- it didn’t happen that class.

///

“Roger Meddows Taylor, are you wearing a thong?!”

John was never a gifted hissed, and so, when he whispered in a mortified manner the following week when Roger was twisted in warrior 2. Roger turned red as he felt the whole of the front row’s- and Brian’s, eyes on him.

“I picked it out darling,” Freddie helpfully added, much quieter this time as the row got back to actual yoga, and Roger dared to look up enough to meet Brian’s eyes, despite wanting the ground to swallow him and his blasted yoga mat whole.

Roger wished he hadn’t. When his blue orbs met Brian’s darker ones, Roger caught a look so unreadable, it sent a twitch down to his cock that would surely show up in his Lycra leggings. Curse John and his stupidly loud voice. Curse Freddie and his stupidly great eye for fashion.

For the rest of the class, Roger was convincing himself that he wore the thong to avoid awkward boxer lines and for overall comfort. He tactfully avoided the part of his brain telling him that he only wore them for the 1 in a million chance that Brian would grab him by the hand and drag him into the bathroom after class.

Baby steps Roger. Baby steps.

///

It took 3 more weeks until Roger plucked up the courage to finally talk to Brian after class. In fact, it was down to John bullying him that he was being a wimp that made him paint a shit eating grin on and flounce back into the studio just as he had exited moments ago to stand face to face with Brian in an otherwise empty room.

“Hello there.” Brian smiled, and dear god was his voice beautiful. Roger wondered whether it was possible to be sexually attracted to ones voice.

“Hi!” Roger managed to reply, his voice coming out a bit hoarse. He was really letting himself down lately. Normally, Roger was a walking talking flirting machine and could seduce practically anyone on campus, yet this Brian seemed to make all his words evaporate from his tongue.

“Roger, right?” Brian asked, leaning down to push all the yoga mats into his bag but not letting his eyes drift from Roger’s own blue orbs. Roger nodded quickly, letting the room dim into silence before he remembered he should possibly ask the brunets name so that he didn’t look like the kind of weirdo who already knew it.

“Brian,” the man smiled, as if reading Roger’s mind and beating him to it. “I’m gonna be honest with you Roger, I was wondering when you’d finally pluck up the courage to talk to me.”

Roger began to sweat more than he had in any yoga class before as he laughed nervously. His crush on Brian wasn’t necessarily a secret, but he didn’t realise how glaringly obvious he had made it in order for Brian to realise.

“I’m gonna be honest with you then Brian, you are scarily handsome.” Roger managed to stutter. Good old Deaky had embarrassed him enough with the thong so what would a little bit of pitiful rejection do for him now?

Brains soft smile seemed to falter, before his face twisted into a little smirk, directed at Rogers own uncertain expression. He had no idea what kind of power Brian possessed over Roger to turn him into some weak stuttering mess.

#maylor #brian may #roger taylor #john deacon #freddie mercury #deacury #fic #queen fic

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