#please take care of your molars i don't know if i can do that again'

[junonreactor]

i have been informed tha ti have "tiny veins" and this makes blood drawing "quite an experience"

[httpkaulitz]

high enough

PAIRINGS: Vampire!Bill x Female reader

CONTENT: Smut

SYNOPSIS: Bill is a little addicted to you.

WARNINGS: mention of addiction, mention of blood and bite, manipulation, fingering, oral (f receiving)

You met Bill by chance, after another day of work you were coming home and literally bumped into him. Staggering and somewhat disoriented, he didn't know where he was.

Against all your thoughts of self-preservation you took him home and took care of him.

When Bill told you he was a vampire, you thought he was crazy and when he showed you what he was you strangely remained calm. Somehow you felt like he wouldn't hurt you. And he never did.

All the blood he had from you was given to him willingly. You wanted to help him and so you did.

And it was by wanting to help him that you ended up in this situation.

"What do you want?" Bill asked impatiently.

"What I want?" You repeated, looking at yourself in the mirror. "Nothing. I'm happy."

He let out a frustrated groan before taking a deep breath. You watched him straighten up, though the action was considerably less intimidating. His bleached blonde hair was disheveled and tangled with a light sweat on his forehead.

"Damn it." You observed. “you’re worse than an addicted.”

“Brilliant deduction! Do you want a fucking medal?” You raised an eyebrow.

Bill slapped his face, rubbing his stubble tiredly.

“Can’t you just help me?” He was always ready to dramatize, you already knew his tactics. You turned to him.

“We have already had this discussion. No." You said firmly.

"I can give you-." He started to speak but you interrupted him before he could even continue his speech about how good he could be and give you expensive things that you never had. You've been through this before.

"Nothing." You interrupted, crossing your arms. “I don't want anything from you, Bill. I like my life. I like my boyfriend. I like my job. There is nothing I want from you that can change my mind. Plus, I’m pretty sure I can think of a handful of humans who would be more than willing…”

“I DON’T WANT ANY IDIOTS OFF THE STREET!” His jaw was tense. If he applied more force, you'd think he might break his molars. “I want your blood. Yours. Do I need to spell this out for you?”

He approached you, brown eyes glaring at you.

"Please." His voice was almost pleading.

Inhaling silently, you studied him with half-closed eyes.

A second later and you shook your head.

“There is nothing special about my blood. You're being needy because I was there for you when no one else was. It was my mistake. I won't let that happen again.”

Before he could lift a finger, your arm flew forward. Either he was too weak to fight back or he wasn't even trying. Whatever the reasoning, you were easily able to make him fall back into a chair.

He didn't seem surprised by the gesture, nor did he try to fight it.

“I’m going to meet my boyfriend.” You said approaching him. “When I come back, you will be gone.”

“Liebe.” He whispered with furrowed brows and doe eyes.

“Bill, stop. You're better than that." You paused, grimacing. “I'm serious, control yourself.”

His head fell back and despite your better judgment, you went to his side. The last thing you needed was a drugged-out vampire in your apartment.

The moment one of your hands wrapped around the back of his head, Bill grabbed your wrist.

The pressure was gentle but sticky. His reddish brown eyes tried to mask a poorly concealed despair. Both pupils were dilated.

"You know." He drawled, bringing the back of your hand to his cheek. "You're my favorite human."

“I’m not yours.” You corrected, unable to not find his attention somewhat amusing.

“Oh, but you are.” He snapped and you rolled your eyes, the stubble rubbing against the skin of your hand like sandpaper. “It means your blood is very special. You are my special human. I don’t want anyone’s blood but yours.”

He continued stroking your hand. You found it slightly disturbing and strangely adorable.

“Quick fix.” He whimpered softly, pulling your fingers up to his lips as he blinked rapidly. “Just a taste will be enough for me. I won’t bother you again after this.”

You let out a pained gasp, your thumb thoughtlessly brushing his upper lip. He responded by kissing the tip of your thumb.

“I won't do it again. This is the last time, okay?” You always said that and you both pretended to believe it. The truth is, you couldn't say no to him even if you tried.

"Sure." He agreed, releasing your hand. "Last time."

                      ✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

“Oh, Jesus, not again.” You exclaimed impatiently.

This time, he was lying in your bed, with the sheets piled up beside him. Your comforter was thrown somewhere on the floor.

“Liebe.” He greeted you lazily. Despite knowing his name, he never used it. Always using some German word that you didn't know what it meant. “I'm glad you're here. Would you mind giving me some liquid?”

You shook your head in disbelief.

"Unless you want me to piss in your mouth, I suggest you get out of here." You responded sarcastically without patience.

“Piss in my mouth?” He repeated slowly. Without warning, he burst into laughter, fingers gripping the sheets in delight.

You made a mental note to change them after he left.

“I’m an eccentric bastard, but not that eccentric.” He said. “You said last time that you wouldn't donate again, but you don't understand. You don't understand the euphoria you give me. It’s… I imagine it’s magical.”

''I'm sure you can live without it.'' Spinning around, you quickly rid yourself of the shirt, tossing it onto a nearby chair. You took a deep breath, arms reaching for the ceiling. The position was maintained until you felt the pleasant burning in your muscles.

"But I do not want." He says thoughtfully.

“That doesn’t surprise me.” You mumbled, taking off your jeans.

He didn't respond to your joke. Instead, he got up from the bed. Not that you heard or noticed it.

Until you felt the unexpected pressure of two warm hands resting on your hips.

“Bill.” You warned, looking at him over your shoulder.

"Hmm?" He hummed, shamelessly pressing into you.

“Get off me.” You whispered seriously hoping he would respect your request.

"I don't want." His grip tightened. You tried to ignore his hardened length digging teasingly against your ass.

“I heard a rumor that you’re not happy with your little toy.” He whispered in your ear huskily. You were so shocked by his boldness that you ignored how your skin crawled.

"You don't have ri-."

"It is not?" Bill asked with a raised eyebrow. “I keep tabs on my favorite human.”

You weren’t sure if he was serious or bluffing.

“So, you have romance, flowers, blah, blah, etc.” He listed, two fingers slipping under the band of your panties but not going any further. “But when it comes to being naughty, he falls a little… boring.”

A calloused hand brushed against your ribcage, nails grazing the skin experimentally. Involuntarily, your breathing became shallow.

“A little sexually frustrated, aren’t you?” He continued.

You were ready to lift a heel and tap his toes when, without warning, he grabbed one of your breasts, smirking when you shivered.

“I could do anything you wanted.” He suggested, brushing the outline of your hard nipple with his thumb. “I could be a good boy for you, if you want. I could easily spend hours paying attention to your pretty pussy, you know. I spent a beautiful day or two thinking about it.”

His breath sent a wave of goosebumps across your shoulder.

“Playing with your clit. Sucking it. Making you all nervous. Always giving. I don't have to worry about my own needs. I’ll put my tongue to good use, ma’am.”

Your hips moved forward as the two previously inactive fingers slid across the opening, not penetrating but brushing the sensitive wetness with tantalizing intent.

Protesting the action would have been counterproductive. Despite Bill's irritating nature of manipulating and being a general jerk, his words were leaving you embarrassingly wet.

And that was what was confusing you.

“You are a pathetic addicted.” You tried to sound angry, but your voice came out shaky.

You felt his shrug before he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You are my conflicted and sexually frustrated supplier. I don’t think we need to point fingers” He said amused.

Biting your lip, you forced yourself not to think about the hand massaging your breast or the two fingers caressing your pussy.

It was a trickery. The word alone made an unpleasant feeling of guilt in your stomach. Your boyfriend was a nice guy. Better than you dated in a long time. He treated you with a respect that's hard to find these days.

So, the sex wasn't the best. Was it really worth throwing away months of a well-paced relationship just for a few seconds of mindless pleasure? Especially with Bill, of all people!

You may not be the best person in the world, but you tried to be good.

On the other hand, befriending him wasn't exactly a step in that direction.

“Mistress?” He was gone. There was no longer Bill in that tone.

You would have found his submission more comical if it hadn't worried you so much. And it intrigued you more than anything.

“I’ll be a good boy, I promise.” He insisted. “Our little secret. Fair deal, I guess. In fact, I'll give you a free sample.”

Unexpectedly, he removed both of his hands and moved away from you. The disappointment you felt at the loss of contact was not something you wanted to reflect on.

You saw him kneel before you, his eyes wide but focused. More focused than you usually witnessed when he craved your blood.

"Come here." He gestured.

When you stayed still, he snorted softly. With a few quick movements, he knelt so he was eye level with your hips.

You knew what he was about to do. This, perhaps, was the worst part. You knew and you felt…excited. Relieved, even. For the first time in months, you were about to receive as much as you gave. Appropriately.

It was selfish and terrible, but equally thrilling and exciting.

“Open your legs a little for me, baby.” You did as he said, teeth firmly gripping your bottom lip.

"My God, you've been a lecherous young lady, haven't you?" Bill smiled, hands steadying himself on your hips.

"Shut up." You mumbled, ignoring his embarrassment.

"Yes ma'am." His fingers hooked into the elastic and slowly slid your panties down. The entire time, his tongue was stuck between his teeth while his eyes never left your pussy.

You took off your panties, almost shaking with excitement when he threw them over his shoulder.

“Hmm.” He marveled, tilting his head. "I was right. Beautiful."

The compliment made you not only blush but also become slightly irritated. Were your priorities really that far off?

That depressing thought spurred your next action.

Quickly, a hand grabbed Bill's hair by the roots. With a push, you pulled back, ensuring his eyes locked with yours.

“If you want my blood, you work for it. Got it?" You didn't even realize you had a dominant streak until Bill's obedient nod made you smile. “If I don't reach my high, you certainly won't reach yours.”

"Yes ma'am." He responded obediently. No sign of sarcasm or mockery.

You looked at him for a second longer and let go of his hair. Bill wasted no time.

It didn't take more than five minutes for you to cum. Whether this was a result of not having pleasure for so long or Bill's genuine talent, you weren't sure.

What you could be sure of, when a hand found his hair again and kept his tongue and lips attached to your clit, was that you were entirely willing to make that bargain again.

                     ✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

This arrangement lasted a solid month. Which surprised you. You thought the moral of exchanging blood for sexual acts would disgust you. At least enough to present a bigger argument the next time Bill showed up again. But that wasn't the case.

The next meeting was certainly a little awkward. You came home from your shift and found him sitting patiently on your bed. He didn't say anything. He just watched you as you tiredly took off your clothes. His submission was strange but attractive. It wasn't until you were blessed with a quiet Bill that you realized how much you appreciated him.

"How are you doing?"

It was strange, but you couldn't help but ask. Bill may have been an addicted and willing to do anything to get what you wanted, but he was still a living creature beneath that stupid desperation. Completely degrading him brought you no pleasure and wasn't something you felt completely comfortable doing.

“You won’t hurt me.” Bill complained. “I'm a big boy. Do your worst."

“Do you want a safe word?” Yet you asked.

“Unless you have plans to kill me, I really don’t see the point.” That was the last discussion about a safe word or words in general.

Bill came three times a week, sometimes four. Always when you were alone. His snark, thankfully, wasn’t present and he did everything you requested of him.

At first, you were careful about boundaries. The first week was spent mostly in your bed, with Bill buried between your thighs. He was surprisingly energetic, licking and sucking you like a hungry animal. His fingers were excited too, starting to pinch your clit and moving in and out of you at deliciously insane speeds.

No orgasms were faked, and if you were taking a while to cum, Bill worked with impressive voracity to ensure you reached your high.

That's what made you bolder.

In the second week, you ordered him to touch himself.

"What?" He asked confused.

"I want you to touch yourself." He studied you with half-closed eyes.

"You understand this isn't about my pleasure, right?"

"Yes. It's about mine. Drop your pants, sit on the chair and touch yourself.” Your voice didn't even tremble.

His confusion was evident, but he did as you asked.

As you guessed, watching him masturbate was a deeply satisfying sight. On some level, you wanted him to feel pleasure from this arrangement, but that had more to do with fascination. Fascination with being able to make someone bigger and stronger take off his underwear, sit down, spread his legs, wrap his hand around his generously sized cock and slowly start stroking himself. In front of you. Simply because you ordered it.

The control was intoxicating.

You didn’t ask him to do anything else after he climaxed with a strangled moan. And it was one of the first times you realized that Bill had no idea what your game was. Or at least why you were enjoying watching him cum.

The rest of the month followed roughly the same schedule. You would give him an order and after a brief but curious glance in his direction, Bill would obey.

Many of the commands required you to cum. At you request, Bill got into the habit of bringing a vibrator. Which he used on you very well.

Some days the commands were to get him out. You were creative and it was never the same way. True, he always touched himself, but sometimes it was kneeling on the bed or bending over a chair so you could admire his cute ass. Once, you even deprived him of his vision with a scarf, taking advantage of the slight uncertainty his hand felt when caressing himself.

By the four week, you were comfortable enough to ride his persistent tongue into pleasure without an ounce of shame or embarrassment.

On the days Bill didn't show up, you questioned what you were doing with him. In public and surrounded by friends, you were passive and sociable. On nights when the two of you were alone, you were loose and experiencing some serious dominance kink.

For a long time, you were puzzled and faintly appalled by your actions.

Then one night, it hit you.

When would you ever get that kind of sexual freedom again? That ability to explore what made your toes curl and grip the headboard until your mind went blank and your voice hoarse.

Nights with Bill made you feel liberated. They made you feel like a woman. The vampire never judged you, although in the end he received your blood, so that was his triumph.

Regardless, the ability to delve deeper into your sexuality and learn the new ways your body responded to stimulation was one of the biggest reasons you never withheld your blood from Bill.

If there was any guilt you held onto, it was because Bill did the things you asked for your blood, nothing more. It would have been nice if his actions were genuine. But he was an addicted, you reminded yourself.

This, when you looked back on the whole fiasco, was ultimately where you made an error in judgment. Assuming Bill regarded your meetings as nothing but a necessary task in order to gain the true source of pleasure: your blood.

In fact, you were completely unaware that after only two weeks together, he’d completely kicked his blood habit.

And that he was testing you.

It wasn’t until the month was complete that you found out why.

                         ✮✮✮✮✮✮✮

He wasn't sitting on the bed this time.

Instead, he was standing tall and physically looked immaculate. Hair combed, beard trimmed and he looked at you differently.

The moment you absorbed all these changes, you felt a distinct shift in power.

It was definitely not in your hands anymore.

“You look healthy.” You greeted. “Who finally got to talk you out of it?”

A part of you couldn't deny that you were a little disappointed. You sessions would probably come to an end. And the Bill before you certainly didn't look like he was taking orders.

But you weren't selfish enough to deny feeling genuine happiness that he was no longer an addicted. No one deserved to be a victim of this desire. Of course, he will always have to live with the desire to drink blood, but now in a controlled way.

“That’d be you, darling.” He revealed. “Put plenty of things in perspective for me.”

"Good." You encouraged, offering him a soft smile.

He continued watching you without blinking.

“See yourself in the mirror lately?” He asked.

Immediately, a hand patted your hair.

“Did a bird shit on my head again?” You walked over to the mirror, fingers examining you head.

Bill appeared behind you and stopped your search by grabbing your wrist.

You looked at him.

“Skin doesn’t have the vibrant glow it normally has.” He whispered calmly.

Eyebrows furrowed, you looked at yourself in the mirror.

Wow. How did you miss that?

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered.” He continued. “Always giving me the amount of blood I ask for is not an easy task. Or a healthy one. But I can’t allow you to get hurt.”

You nodded absently. Your brain became more fuzzy at the consideration Bill was giving you.

"Why are you being nice?" You asked, looking at him warily.

“Like I said… I got a little perspective on things.” He replied.

“Do I need to be worried?” You asked apprehensively.

"Hardly. Not only have you fulfilled my needs, but you did so discretely. As an added bonus, you even made personal sacrifices. That right there... that's the way to a man's heart."

“I think you’re overestimating my worth.” You pulled your hand away. The conversation starting to make you uncomfortable.

“Honey, you’re underestimating yourself. Let me explain what happened last month to you. I was vulnerable, needy and weak. Instead of making a name for yourself - which I'm beginning to doubt even crossed your mind - and taking advantage of me, you quietly gave me my fix. With me so far?”

“Anyone would have done it.” You knew this was a lie the moment it passed your lips.

“Mm… I’m afraid not, liebe. I don’t find that kind of loyalty.” You weren’t sure if you should feel flattered or flustered.

“Now, this is where it gets interesting. After I got my addiction under control, I couldn't help but wonder why you were helping me. So selflessly, in fact.”

“I got off on telling you what to do.” You defended.

“No, I understand that part. But you started making small sacrifices.” Swallowing hard, you took a step back.

"Like what?" You asked confused.

"Well, like breaking up with your little toy, for example." Bill hummed in amusement.

“He didn’t deserve to be betrayed. It had nothing to do with you.” Bill smiled at that.

“If it weren't for my mouth on your pussy three times a week, you never would have let the poor guy go. I had a little input into that.” Something inside you twitched with discomfort and pleasure.

“So, as we saw, you neglected your appearance a little. You didn't even realize how much blood I was taking from you. And yet, you continued to give.” Taking a careful breath, you tried to get your thoughts in order.

"You deserved to get what came to me for." It seemed like a lame excuse, despite its veracity.

“And that’s the fun part!” Bill exclaimed. “This whole time you were under the impression that I hated it. I hated making you cum, I hated cumming while you watched, I hated the total attention you gave me. I'm not sure if you've heard, but I have a bit of an ego. And you caressed it until I was weak in the knees. You had so much control in your hands and had the courtesy to worry about my own pleasure. Not very mistressy of you, liebe.”

“If you were so confused about it, then why the hell didn’t you stop?” You retorted. “If you didn’t like me not playing my role, you should have stopped playing yours.”

“Ah, but I liked my role.” He assured, eyes slowly scanning your body. “In fact, if you knew how much I enjoyed it, you would be more worried about disappearing so I could never find you.”

"Are you-?" Your voice died in the middle of your throat.

“Ah, I left my favorite human speechless. Well, let’s see if I can remedy that.” Before you could blink everything went dark.

When you woke up you were in a huge room with incredibly expensive furniture. The place was well lit and looked very modern, you could see some paintings on the walls around it. The tables held a variety of food and drinks. Some, you noticed, were among your favorites.

Your mouth officially dropped open when you noticed it was king size and the sheets were brown. Also expensive, it seems. Above that, your eyes sharpened on the silk ties tied provocatively to the headboard. That was certainly a vision that spoke for itself.

“I will not be your mistress!” You argued, quickly getting up from the bed.

“I prefer the term girlfriend.” He didn't move from his seat once.

This gave you the confidence to try to escape. You ran towards the door but it was locked.

“Nice trick, isn’t it?” Bill mentioned, pride coloring his voice. “I blocked your exit, my dear.”

“Bill let me go.” With a tight frown, you stared at him.

“I will give you anything you want.” He promised. “In the meantime, you might consider this vacation a little more…permanent.”

“You are imprisoning me!” You screamed, anger burning through your veins.

"Keeping." He corrected. “I'm keeping you. Considerable difference in terminology.”

You tried to regain control of your breathing, but your current situation didn't allow for that.

“I like you, liebe.” Bill stated seriously. “You are charming, adventurous, and deceptively thoughtful. More than that, you are trustworthy. And has a sexual appetite that rivals mine.”

“And you couldn’t have told me that without kidnapping me?”

"Keeping." He remembered. “What would you honestly have done if I told you I was pretending to be an addicted because I was more addicted to you? Which sounds as terribly sentimental out loud as it does in my head. Shame. I thought it would translate better.”

You backed away until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Tremblingly, you sat up, palms hitting the sheets beneath you.

“I was kidnapped-.”

“-kept-,” Bill said helpfully.

“-all because I was…nice.”

Bill shrugged. "Opposites attract?"

You lost consciousness right after you finished laughing. Rest assured, you found the situation more grim than hilarious.

Sighing, Bill walked over to your unconscious form. He sat up and gently picked you up so you rested against his chest.

The urge to smile and grimace fought violently within him.

“This could have been worse.” He confessed, looking at you.

He rested his chin on your head. The desire to smile won. He was happy.

[heartfullofleeches]

Look, I don't want to sound like a presumptuous person but I just read your OC Vendetta and Healer Darling.

Now please consider Healer Darling that will beat someone till they almost died but Darling went "Not so fast-", will revive/heal them again with the power of healer because in their mind the beating is not enough. Then this cycle will go on and on till the Darling is satisfied. Just- just a healer person who are not afraid to use it for bad...

[Yan Magical Boy + Healer Reader Blurb]

[Tw: Violence, implied attempted assault]

"On your feet."

Choked sobs spill from blacked and bruised lips. Blood dirties your colthing and the filthy alley streets - kissing your aching knuckles and some even splattering on your face from the spray. Your would be assailant clutches their right leg, glazing up at you with their good eye and silently pleading for mercy.

You almost laugh - saving all your energy for the fist you throw at their jaw.

"I said - get on your feet."

"I...I can't...I'm sorry.. My.. leg.. my leg I think it's broken. I can't put any weight on it. Please, please just let me go. I won't do anything like this again, I swear-"

"I know you won't."

You place a hand on their leg, nails sinking into the damaged flesh as they jerk in a feeble attempt at kicking you away. Radiance emanates from your palm - the discoloration of their flesh peeling away as it flares brighter. Your attacker can only watch on in horror as the feeling returns to their battered limb. You beckon them upward.

"Come on. Get up. No excuses now."

They stumble to their feet. Silence falls over the scene say for their labored breathes as they stand there, weighing their options. Clenched fists relaxed around their cracked. They already underestimated you once tonight. Your attack takes a step back to leave the opposite way they came-

Ending up right back where they were moments ago as your foot connects with their chest.

Some of your shots may be cheap, but you'd have to be a coward to hit someone while their back was turned - and tonight alone you've proved you're anything but.

"You didn't actually think we were done, did you?"

The wet crack of flying teeth bounces off the alley walls. A molar lands at the feet of the shadow hiding just beyond a collection of dumpsters outside of your range of sight and rage - followed by another soon after presumably from the same placement. He probably should've stepped in by now, but the only time he cared to was before you threw the first punch and knock your attacker off their feet.

Vendetta waits until you're fully invested in pummeling the poor fuck before reaching out and scooping up the collection of teeth to keep as a trophy. Maybe he'll make matching necklaces to surprise you with some day in the future. For now he had to focus on regaining the strength in his own limbs so he could get the hell out of here before you noticed him. Who needed porn when he got to witness something like this? He was dying to meet you in person, but approaching you in this state probably wasn't the best idea for a first encounter. He'd probably ask you to punch him too and climax on the spot.

"h....help....."

Vendetta looks up - lips curling into a cruel smile as his eyes meet with the source of the pathetic whimper. He presses his fingers to his lips, hushing your attacker as they're dragged away screaming. Vendetta clicks his tongue as he pockets the handful of teeth - heartbroken over the fact he can't join the fun just yet.

He'll just have to settle for the leftovers once you're done.

[starry-snippets]

part 4 jotaro + anxiety attack (tw: nightmares, implied ptsd, grief, chatacter death but no specifics)

thinking about sleeping with jotaro, wrapped in his arms until he tosses in his sleep. you feel the weight leave your sides and it stirs you awake yourself but what concerns you most is his heavy breathing and sweat rolling down his temples. he's gritting his teeth - his normally peaceful face while asleep replaced with nothing but stress.

you readjust yourself so you can hold his hand, your boyfriend immediately squeezing it as he grinds his molars. after a few moments of trying to stir him awake to only have your hand tightly held, you begin to feel pain seep in from how much force he's using.

"jotaro, please wake up." your voice is weak because of weariness, anxiety, and the pain from his grip and your inability to loosen it. "you're hurting me," his grip loosens there but his eyes remain closed. you use your other hand to gently cup his cheek, rubbing soothingly across his skin. "it's okay jotaro, I'm with you." he inhales, inable to speak despite wanting to reassure you he's fine.

his mind is running rapid with memories of battling dio - the lives lost and cruelties he had to bare witness. jotaro's chest feels impossibly tight, like he can't breath despite audibly gasping.

"honey," you say borderline panicked. remaining calm since you know he needs your help, you continue to stroke his cheek and take his hand again to rub circles on his palm. "breathe in and out. let's do it together?"

jotaro hates this feeling; the feeling of being unable to control himself. he's wanted to be strong for you since the first stand you fought together nearly killed you. but here he is now, unable to stop hyperventilating without you holding his hand and your soothing voice counting to twelve for him.

despite the voice telling him he's being weak, jotaro finds a growing peace in him to combat the overwhelming despair he felt from his dream. your kind voice giving him the strength to walk away from this ledge. you continue to rub circles into his palm while your other hand's still against his cheek, he takes a moment to relish in your touch while shakily stabilizing his breathing.

"I know that what we went through rivaled Hell," you say once he's opened his eyes, those beautiful azure eyes you fell in love with staring up at you, positive he's calmed down enough to take things in. "but no matter what I'm here for you. we didn't survive that emo reject together so you could fight through everything else alone." you lean down to kiss his nose, feeling the residue of his sweat on your forehead. you don't care at all as you're too worried about his well being.

"I love you so much jotaro. you're not alone. whatever you need, I'll try my hardest to provide." You kiss his nose again then say, "you mean everything to me jotaro." next you trial down to kiss his cheek, a bit startled when he pulls you into his chest with a hand on the back of your head.

silence consumes you both but it's not awkward. you hear his breath hitch every so often, making you think he didn't want you to see him cry. you don't blame him, feeling relieved that he's comfortable with you enough to let you aid him when grief overcomes him - even if it's just a little at a time. his voice is the shakiest you're ever heard it as he strokes the hair on your head, trying to calm his building sorrow for a second time.

"stay... please, I can't lose you too."

[kylowritten]

If the Slipper Fits

Pairings: Kylo Ren x ForceSensitive!Reader

Summary: Nobody wants to be the woman whose foot fits that slipper.

Word Count: 2.4K

Warnings: mentions of self harm

A/N: Let me know what you think about this part in the comments! Some lovely angst and forced proximity to follow next time👀

Part Eleven

You find the royal advisor tucked away near the back of the palace, where you presume is a room intended for battle strategy. There's a model of the kingdom in the center of the floor on a platform. Palpatine stands at the head of it, along with several other noblesse you don't recognize. Their heads snap up as you storm into the room.

"Get out."

No one moves.

Palpatine chuckles, somewhat awkwardly. "Your Highness, what an unexpected surprise. How can we —?"

"Get out," you repeat. Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. When there's still no movement, your voice adopts a hardened edge. "I demand you to get out. Now."

The noblesse scurry around the table and stream past you, giving you a wide berth. You slam the door shut as the last one flees from your glare. Palpatine is staring steadily at you, still rooted in place behind the table. You recognize the hint of uncertainty in his eyes, of fear.

"What is this about?" He asks. "You didn't have to yell at them. We were in the middle of an important meeting."

You fill the space between you, stomping to the edge of the table and then laying your hands flat on the surface. The model of the kingdom flickers at the disturbance. "I know what you're doing to Kylo."

"And," he raises a brow, "what is that?"

"I saw him, in that weird room. I saw him —" your voice chokes slightly, your confidence wavering. "I saw him," you finish. "I know that it was your doing. You said yourself that you sent him away."

Palpatine studies you before answering. "I don't know what you're talking about. What the prince does on his own time is hardly my business."

"He was...he was...harming himself."

"People do many things for their own strange reasons, who am I to condemn them for it?" Palpatine asks, waving a hand. "Is that all that you came here for?"

Your molars grind together. "It is, and I won't leave until you admit your influence."

"Then you might be here for awhile, Your Highness."

Palpatine moves as if to leave, and you step in the line of his path. Your voice reaches a pitch of hysteria that you desperately wish you could've controlled: "Why are you doing this to him?"

"Why do you care?" Palpatine sneers, his entire demeanor changing.

"I—"

Why did you care?

Someone says your name, and like a puppet whose string has been pulled taunt, you whirl around to face the owner of the voice. Kylo. He stands in the doorway. There's no way you can decipher the emotionless look on his face, the way his dark gaze bounces from you to Palpatine and back. "Did I interrupt?" He asks.

"No, she was just leaving —"

"Close the door," you command Kylo, speaking over Palpatine.

Your husband obeys without question, which both surprises and pleases you. From your side, Palpatine grumbles. You shoot him a look, then take a few steps towards Kylo, hoping to appeal to him. "You can't let him hurt you."

The faintest twitch of a muscle beneath Kylo's eye. "I don't understand."

"I saw you, just now, where you were." You swallow. "I saw you hurt yourself and—and I know that he has something to do with it."

"Please tell her that she's being ridiculous," Palpatine says.

Kylo's gaze skates over the both of you again, perhaps in an effort to decide who to side with.

"I don't know what you mean," he finally replies.

Palpatine makes a celebratory sound similar to a snake hissing, or perhaps an engine. "See, I told you. Now if you would excuse me."

You hope Palpatine can feel your eyes burning into his back as you watch his retreating form. Angrily, you address Kylo, "What the fuck was that? You defended him?"

"You don't know what you're doing," he bites back. His entire body seems to shudder with barely suppressed emotion.

You jab your index finger into his chest. "He's behind this, I know it." You feel your anger slip away, slowly, giving into sadness the way the face of a cliff might break and slip into the sea. "You don't need to do that, Kylo. It doesn't matter what you've done."

"You wouldn't understand," he growls.

"You're right," you snap. "I don't."

In a burst of action, Kylo seizes your wrist then grabs you by the waist, turning and flattening you against the wall. He towers over you, the enormity of his size eclipsing everything in your vision but him.

He snarls, his dark eyes bearing down on you, intense, smoldering with anger. "He was right."

"Who?" You breathe.

"You are a distraction," he replies absently. He shakes his head, nearly imperceptible. Kylo looks as if he's torn between kissing you or killing you — you're not sure which one terrifies you more. "If I am to rule, I can't allow myself to fall victim to your...ploys. I married you because I needed to solidify our bond and strengthen my power. Nothing else."

While you weren't at all under the impression that he married you for true love, you feel this isn't the time to mention it.

"I'm not trying to...to deceive you," you say.

Kylo's throat bobs as he swallows. "No. But I am allowing myself to divert from what's important."

You can't stop yourself — you reach up and lay your hand on his cheek. He bristles like you might as well have struck him. "Hurting yourself isn't the answer, Kylo."

"It's a reminder," he says back, low and haunted. "A punishment for my behavior. It helps me focus."

You shake your head. "It's not right —"

"He knows what's best for me."

It goes without saying who he is.

"Does he? He knows what's best for you, but he lets you hurt yourself? How can you say that?"

"Pain is the best teacher," Kylo says.

"Do you really believe that?" You ask. Something in your chest feels as if it's shattering.

Kylo drops your wrist. His hand ghosts over your side where the stonebadger attacked you. "I do." He pauses, then explains, "You never would've been motivated to use the Force without this. Without the pain. It fuels us."

"Fuels you, maybe." You shove him away, if only to create space. "I can't believe you."

"Tell me I'm wrong."

It was disheartening, really, how absurdly confident Kylo was. You wanted to shout at him, or hug him, or maybe go back in time and stop Palpatine before he could dig his talons into the young Ben Solo.

"You're wrong," you spit. "And you knew I used the Force and you didn't say anything? I tried to reach out for you."

"Clearly I was occupied with other matters."

You growl in irritation. Half of you wants to tear out your hair while the other wants to grab Kylo by the shoulders and shake him. Forcing yourself to take a breath, you relax your shoulders. When you speak, it takes every modicum of patience in your body to be calm.

"Where even were you? I've never seen anything like it."

"I would hope not." Kylo stands a few feet away. It infuriates you how uneffected he is by things that cause you turmoil. "It was...in my mind, I suppose. A mental state."

You frown. Then would he have scars?

"Yes, it has lasting physical effects," he says. You forget that he can selectively hear your thoughts. "It's a place of reconciliation. Somewhere for me to go and be alone."

"But I was there," you whisper.

Kylo has the nerve to appear slightly aggrieved by this. "Yes. It seems that the bond grants you access."

"I was you," you say. You're not sure why you're telling him this. Maybe because he's the only one who would understand. "It's like I was seeing what you saw."

"I suppose it's not unexpected. You were calling for me. It must've somehow manifested you into being there with me."

You practically beg, "Please don't do it again."

"You can't demand that of me."

"I'm not," you nearly whimper, "I'm asking."

Kylo stays silent. He opens the door and stands besides it, signaling that he's done with your conversation, no doubt. Luckily, you've never been that great on picking up social cues.

"I'm being serious. Not again." You rack your brain for some reasoning, a negotiation. "If you do it again, I'll stop using the Force. I'll stop training."

"That'll only harm you."

Emboldened by your tactic, you push forward, gaining enthusiasm. "If I'm not adept in the Force, or even using it, then I'm no good to you in our bond. Useless, basically. You can't expect to have heightened power if I don't have any."

"I can make you," he replies.

"I think you underestimate my aptitude for stubbornness.”

He eyes you. "You are exceptionally stubborn."

"See?"

"Fine. I won't." Your spirit lift in triumph, then promptly plummet at his next words, "If that's your wish, then I don’t need you distracting me. I want you out of my sight."

The next few weeks pass in a blur of long days spent by yourself, exploring the palace and the surrounding grounds. You slept and read, and dabbled when you could in the Force, but mostly you stayed out of Kylo’s way.

It was exceedingly difficult considering that he had blocked himself from you, and you couldn’t exactly anticipate his whereabouts. Unless you heard the sound of his boots preceding him, you were forced to either scurry away like a frightened mouse (fitting, perhaps) or duck into doorways to avoid detection. Sometimes, you suspected he was doing it on purpose, and just because you couldn’t sense him didn’t mean that he couldn’t sense you.

And…you were bored. There had never before been a time in your life when you weren’t doing something. The servants wouldn’t allow you to help with anything — prepping meals, cleaning, even making your own bed, though you persisted. Eventually, you gave up.

Normally you wouldn’t be glad to have Captain Phasma track you down, but you almost wanted to cry in relief when she did.

She calls out for you while you’re on your way back from breakfast. She breezes through the hallway like a predator hunting it’s prey, and yet it doesn’t unnerve you. You’re mostly just excited to have someone to talk to.

“Captain?” You ask.

“We need to talk.”

“Okay.” The enthusiasm in your voice causes Phasma’s brows to furrow. You cough, “I mean, yeah, okay.”

Phasma stalks away. You follow her into one of the many unoccupied rooms in the palace. You’re not sure what their purpose is, besides maybe being a glorified storage closet. This room hosts vases full of rolled canvas and what appears to be abandoned Stormtrooper armor.

“I suppose you remember the conversation we had at your wedding ceremony,” she says.

You nod.

Without waiting for you to elaborate, she continues with the efficiency that only a Captain of the kingdom’s army could possess. “I’m afraid the situation is getting worse. We have reason to believe that a group of fourth district rebels have snuck into our territory.”

“Why?”

“In order to free you,” Phasma guesses. She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know what they think they’re doing, coming up to the palace.”

You frown. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, they believe that you’re a prisoner here.”

Your weight shifts from foot to foot. You’re not a prisoner, exactly, but it’s not like you could just go wherever you wanted. “Weird.”

“Indeed.” Phasma shoots you a pointed look. “I wanted to send an ambush patrol but the prince has other ideas.”

“Kylo?”

“He thought it would be best to leave the group alone, they won’t make it far. And for you two to represent a united front. It’s not unheard of for royalty to tour the kingdom after marriage: show a good face to the people, and all that.” She waves her hand as if politics bore her. “He explicitly wanted me to tell you that you’re to leave in two days time. And that you need to be convincing, play the part. If not, I fear that your district will only continue to unravel.”

“And if they unravel, then that could lead to rebellions elsewhere,” you hazard.

Phasma’s eyes flicker. “Yes. We hope to prevent something like that.”

You accept, and Phasma whirls out of the room faster than you can ask anything else. For the first time in a while, you’re grateful to be alone.

First, Kylo married you in a bid to strengthen his own power, and now he wants to parade you around the districts like some sort of prize? He hadn’t even spoken to you in two weeks. How were you supposed to go on a tour of the whole kingdom with him?

You’re tempted to find him and confront him about this ridiculous plan, but then you remember the lash of the flog against his scarred back. You promised that you wouldn’t distract him if he stopped. You had no way of knowing if he was holding up his side of the bargain, but something in your heart told you that he was. Perhaps you thought too highly of him.

Its amusing that you think of me at all.

“Kylo,” you breathe.

I expect that Phasma has talked to you by now.

You’d be right. You pause. Where are you?

I’ve been busy getting ready for our tour, Little Mouse, he replies. His voice curls at the end, as if he’s pleased with this development.

You echo your previous thoughts. You haven’t even looked at me in two weeks and now you want to spend all of our time together?

Want is a strong word, he says, it’s more a necessity than anything, to quell the uprising in your district and anywhere else entertaining the idea.

Mentally you prepare to respond, but just like that — he’s gone again. You grumble to yourself.

On the way back to your room (you requested another, since it would be awfully hard not to distract your husband in his own bedroom) you mull over Kylo’s decision. More than likely he sought to calm his kingdom, roiling with unease.

But you could also use this.

It would be a perfect time to spend copious amounts of time with Kylo, to work your way into his mind. Or, at least, figure out how to do that. You hadn’t forgotten your promise to Leia to save her son.

Fine, you would follow along, but you would operate on your own agenda. Just like so many times before, you would act as if you were being tossed around like a leaf in the wind, but in reality, you were more like a bird of prey; hovering high above, surveying the terrain below, and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

Part Twelve

- - -

@juniperwoodwell

@eternal-mikrokosmos

@judypahtootee

[bardofhype]

hello limbus company fandom. third time's the charm i've been away from the community for a good bit now, and good god there are so many more IDs now so. this new addition's gonna be a long one. sit tight.

Yi Sang Molar Office Fixer: "Ah, there you are. Big Sister has informed me to give you this- for both your birthday and for being a consistent client for us."

Faust Zwei South Section 4: "Faust commends you for your insight on this day. For such an occasion as one's birth, most are usually prone to letting their guards down in favor of enjoying festivities to the fullest. Worry not, however- Faust has arranged an itinerary for today, perfectly suited to your needs while ensuring we can still protect you." Seven South Section 4: "Thank you for continuing your contract with us. As per the occasion for today, Faust will brew you the finest blend of a tea of your choice, free of charge."

Don Quixote Cinq South Section 5 Director: "Oho! So it has come to be your day of birth, yes? For being such a dear friend and client to myself, I shall reward you with my services all throughout today! So, shall a duel be needed, I- aha, is that one I doth see now?!"

Ryoshu W Corp. L3 Cleanup Agent: "... Here. H.B. Free tickets on the Warp Train. Not first-class, mind you. You should be lucky you're even getting a chance to witness the gallery that'll be arriving soon."

Meursault R Corp 4th Pack Rhino: "Please, take no concern over my excessive training today. It would simply not do well, failing to perform well enough to not need hatching on your birthday."

Hong Lu W Corp L2 Cleanup Agent: "Ahh~ glad I finished work just in time to meet up with you! Let's go to a cafe- drinks and treats are on me, for your special day~"

Heathcliff Seven South Section 4: "Haah... finally finished up a case. And... here you are. Got you a cuppa from the cafeteria. Cheers."

Ishmael Molar Boatworks Fixer: "Oh, it's your birthday? Ah- here ya go, then. Some of my secret wine to share, just for you. Here's to living all the way to another year~"

Rodion Zwei South Section 5: "Since you're already in my protection and all... here! Thought I'd surprise you by getting us a treat~ since it's your birthday and all." Deici South Section 4: "Psst, over here~ not so loud, okay? Or the head librarian will get onto me again... ta-daaaa!~ A little secret, from me to you. Happy birthday~"

Sinclair Molar Boatworks Fixer: "You've been very kind to us, so... here. I thought I would make you something for your birthday. See, you press the button there, and... ... hm. Hold on, I need to work on it a little more..."

Outis Molar Office Fixer: "I heard from Yi Sang. Come now- tonight's a night just for you, you hear? All drinks are on me, so don't be a coward now!"

Gregor Zwei South Section 4: "Ahhh, there you are, client bud... care to join me for a smoke break? Yeah, I know we haven't renewed the contract yet... so I figured I'd be your shield for no cost today."

hi limbus company fandom

so i had a thought. and that thought was "what if the sinners and all their identities had voicelines for when it was your/the manager's birthday" and what was supposed to be a funny "what if" scenario rapidly expanded into me actually thinking about it. so. because it ended up so long, i'm putting all of this under the cut so that no one has to scroll for a mile to read it all in the tag. you're welcome btw /lh

Yi Sang Base LCB: "Another year prolonging your stay in this world… may the rest of it be to your ideal pleasantness, Dante."

Seven Section 6: "The director informed me it was your birthday today, and instructed me to hand you this parcel as a gift. … I cannot tell you why she has it memorized. I try not to bother the director with such queries."

Blade Lineage Salsu: "How old are you now, Dante? … You do not know. I see. Yet another mysterious facet of you to be intrigued by…"

Faust Base LCB: "This is for you, Dante. I hope you enjoy it. … Hm? What is it for? Yes, Faust expected you to ask such a thing. It is your birthday, Manager."

W Corp Cleanup Agent: "Due to the nature of my occupation, personal occasions and celebrations are not common around the work environment. However, I am not bothered with taking a small portion of time to wish you a happy birthday."

L. Corp Remnant: "Birthdays were rarely given much worth in my old place of work- if we were lucky, a few of us would simultaneously take our breaks in order to have a small celebration. Perhaps it may not be so different here… but I hope you have a proper celebration nonetheless."

The One Who Grips: "How fortunate you are, to have lived another full year in this world with your humanity intact! Such a wondrous thing indeed… though, must you still wear that mask, even on such a glorious occasion that's just for you… ?"

Don Quixote Base LCB: "Manager Esquire!! I doth heard today is your birthday! I have collected up the others, and we are planning a stupendous secret arrangement for thee! I hope thee shalt be prepared!!"

W Corp Cleanup Agent: "Doth my ears deceive me? Is it truly your birthday, Manager Esquire?!?! What ho!!! I shall pay for thy next ride on the Warp Train, friend- the greatest gift I could bestow anybody!"

Shi Section 5 Director: "Happy birthday, Manager Esquire!! I have acquired thee a cake and gift! … Ah, I seem to have surprised thee- was I too quiet, walking up to you? Aheh, 'tis a habit of mine!"

Ryoshu Base LCB: "Congratulations. You're now one year closer to the B.D." (boundary of death)

Kurokumo Wakashu: "That's one more year you've survived now. IFFY." (impressive feat for you)

Seven Section 6: "The director told me to give this to you. Use it wisely, or I'll CUT on you." (crudely utilize tranquilizers)

R.B. Chef de Cuisine: "Word travels fast through these streets- H.B.D. I made a special pie this morning, just in case you dropped by… enjoy."

Meursault Base LCB: "Congratulations on another year. … I was only expected to give you a statement like that for today, nothing more."

Liu Section 6: "I was asked to deliver this cake to you. The candles were lit by my flame, so please do not feel obligated to blow them out immediately."

W Corp Cleanup Agent: "I was told today is a special occasion for you. Here- it is a first-class ticket you can use on the next Warp Train you board."

N Corp Groẞhammer: "You may take a day of rest today. For The One Who Grips has deemed it so- and for today is one you must experience in all its purity."

Hong Lu Base LCB: "It's your birthday today? How exciting~! Tell me, Dante- are you going to choose the acres of land, the pony, or the-- Hm? My siblings and I were able to choose between several gifts on our birthdays, was that not possible where you're from?"

Kurokumo Wakashu: "It's a special day today, is it not, Lord Dante?~ Come with me… ah, haha, no need to be so scared. I'm simply going to treat you to the finest dining I know of. Come on then~"

Tingtang Gangleader: "Happy birthday, Manager Dante~ Why don't we hit the casino floor, hmm? I've heard birthdays can be days of immense luck for the fortunate."

Liu Section 5: "Ah, you're just in time- I just finished brewing some high-class tea. Would you like some? I'll even let you have an extra cup for your birthday~"

Heathcliff Base LCB: "Mm. Happy birthday, clockface. As a gift, I'll try not to make too many wounds for you to turn the clock back for today. You're welcome."

Shi Section 5: "If you're expecting much out of me today just 'cause it's your birthday, you can bugger off. I'm not doing anything bloody special for you. … 'Less you're in the mood for some right scran."

R Corp 4th Pack Rabbit: "Oh? It's your birthday today? Bloody brilliant- come with me. As a gift, this hare's gonna teach you how to graze some grass!"

N Corp Kleinhammer: "O-oh- happy day of birth to you. I'll… see if I have time to do something better than that between all the gatherings today…"

Ishmael Base LCB: "Happy birthday, Dante. I'll try to do work without much complaint today."

Shi Section 5: "Happy birthday, Manager. This is for you. … Huh. Did I really catch you by surprise that much?"

LCCB Assistant Manager: "Today's your birthday. An important occasion that's going to make it all the more terrible if one of us slips up… I can assure you that won't be a worry with my presence here."

R Corp 4th Pack Reindeer: "Ah… happy birthday- kgh. Can you make sure not to stir up too big a racket in celebration?"

Rodion Base LCB: "Happy birthday, Dante~ Surprise! I got you something. Open it up whenever you feel like- just make sure to tell me when you do."

LCCB Assistant Manager: "Today's your birthday, yeah? Figured- so I got you something good as a gift. … Hm? Where'd I get the money for it? Oh, don't you worry your silly head about that~"

N Corp Mittelhammer: "A glorious day for you, is it not? The One Who Grips tasked me with delivering you a present today- how lucky for you, fuhu. Treasure it as much as you can, her gifts are worth slaying thousands of heretics for!"

Kurokumo Henchwoman: "Surprise, Dante~ I got you a little something with my protection fee today. Put it to good use now, you hear? Or else my sword will be a bit rash in the next battle~"

Sinclair Base LCB: "Ah- I-I completely forgot it was your birthday today, Dante- I promise, I'll be sure to buy something for you at our next stop."

Zwei Section 6: "I have a package for you, Dante. For all the good you've done for the team… you deserve this gift. Happy birthday, and may I continue being your shield!"

Jefe de Los Mariachis: "I'm doing a special performance tonight- you'll be there for it, won't you, Dante? It's a routine I've been practicing just for you, after all…"

Blade Lineage Salsu: "I hope you have a nice birthday today. I'm afraid I won't be around much- I'm needed today."

Outis Base LCB: "Happy birthday to you, Executive Manager. If you'd like, I will gather the others and have them sing your praises for the rest of today."

Blade Linage Cutthroat: "I see it is a special day for you, Executive Manager. I shall leave you to it, then- I wish not to impede what you have in mind for it."

G Corp Head Manager: "For today, I will grant you a day of rest. Only today, though- try to get out of your duties on any day but this one, and you will regret it."

Seven Section 6 Director: "I'm very glad I was able to catch you- here's some money. Treat yourself to something good today. You've earned it."

Gregor Base LCB: "Oh, hey, happy birthday, Manager bud. You think Vergilius is gonna put a little less pressure on you today 'cause of it… ? Ha, wishful thinking, huh."

Liu Section 6: "Hey, Manager bud. Come find me when it gets dark, alright? It's your birthday and all… and fireworks are much more impressive against a black sky."

G Corp Manager Corporal: "Greetings, Manager Dante, and a very happy birthday to you! I have cleared your schedule for today and have prepared several squadrons to help celebrate this special day of yours!"

R.B. Sous-chef: "Glad you stopped by. I've made a few special pies for a certain someone's special day today- put a little extra love into them, haha. Enjoy."

[greeds]

**I am sharing this Gofundme on behalf of Le, a wonderful and talented individual I've been acquainted with earlier this year. Our teeth are so important, and yet dentistry is still not covered by Canadian healthcare. Please share this post and consider donating to Le's surgery! Anything you give would be of great help ♥️**

Hi my name is Le!

I'm a 22 year old Chinese-Canadian trans artist living in Tio'tia:ke/Montreal. It's my birthday soon, and it would be amazing if I can get new teeth and smile again.

I don't think many people know this because I've hid it for most of my life, feeling ugly showing it, but I have a rare genetic disorder called dentinogenesis imperfecta (essentially all my bones are weak/discolored and I only have a few teeth left), I have 1 molar tooth left and it's recently infected and I think it's time that I get denture/implant surgery.

It's been a daunting burden physically and mentally because I can't eat what I want to or speak without feeling self conscious, and also financially because the surgery is very expensive and dentistry is the only thing that isn't covered by Canadian health care. I've applied for government funding several times already and each time they have rejected me. I also recently went to see if the University of Montreal can do it, but they told me that I'm too special a case to take in. It's just been an overall big source of anxiety and I've been denied again and again.

It's vulnerable and hard for me to reach out for support but I am starting a gofundme to start this surgery as soon as possible. The full surgery with dentures on top and implants on bottom done in Montreal costs $45,500 CAD. The surgery / recovery takes about 3 months for the top, and the bottom another 3 months. If you can share it with your friends or help out. Any donation will help even if it's only a little, it would mean a LOT!

**please share and consider donating ♥️**

[honeysidesarchived]

WHERE THERE IS NO TEMPTATION, THERE IS NO GLORY.

⊱ a santino d'antonio / oc short-fic

interlude i ( read on ao3 ) ( masterlist )

words: 3k

warnings: clown to clown communication! dassit.

rating: m/t

notes: little flashback/interlude chapter where we can all pretend we don't know the inevitable doom that euphie and santino are hurtling towards at breakneck speed ♡ thank you everyone for your love and support on this fic!!!

and thank you to my beta @starcrier who has been reading this content and proofing it not for the first time, but now for the SECOND time, after beginning this fixation for me from the start. you are an angel and ily! ♡♡

Two Years Earlier

It’s the second time that Euphemia meets Santino that she realizes some things in her life have been decided for her, by Fate, and against her will.

Down the road, it will be come a hallmark of their love. Santino will say it against her mouth, her jaw, her neck; il destino, he’ll murmur, you are my destiny. But Euphie will have felt it, that inevitable pull of him, long before he says it.

It’s a black tie even at his museum. She’s been here once before, for a different event he’s thrown, with a different man as a date. That one had been Italian; this one, tonight, is Russian. She would try to remember their names if they mattered, but they don’t.

Admittedly, it’s not quite a date for her, but it is for the Russian. He’s been courting her well and good for the last week, has taken to calling her my girl, is unaware that just two weeks ago she had let another man call her that (or if he knows, he refuses to acknowledge it). She won’t think about it very much; if there’s a little bit of her that hates it, she is reminded that almost all of the money goes home, and that’s what matters.

So, yes—the evening she meets Santino for what is, technically, the second time, she’s on the arm of another man, and Santino walks by with what she’s sure is every intention of ignoring her date for the evening. Her partner says his name, bright and friendly, and the Golden Boy stops and turns with a smile planted on his face that only thinly veils his annoyance at being detained.

“Buonasera,” Santi greets, hands tucked into the pocket of his slacks as he drags his gaze once over her date and then turns his eyes to her. The linger, longer than Euphie might like—men, she thinks, nothing they do doesn’t feel intrusive—and then turn back to her paramour for the evening. “Thank you for coming. Are you two enjoying the evening?”

“Yes, thank you,” the Russian says, and then with a pleased little smile, he plunges on to introduce her. “This is my Euphemia.”

The words leave a sour taste in her mouth. My Euphemia, this fucking gangster says, like he hasn’t paid for her attendance in expensive gifts that she promptly turns around for profit, like she won’t slide his credit card out of his wallet when he isn’t looking. She knows what he expects out of the evening—but he won’t get it. It wouldn’t be a party if he didn’t end up sorely disappointed and thoroughly vexed.

“Euphemia,” Santino repeats, looking more than pleased to savor her name. “That’s Greek, isn’t it? And your last name is...”

“Volpe,” she supplies, despite the warning bells going off in her head. She immediately regrets it. Idiot, she thinks to herself viciously, monsters love to know your name.

Santino’s expression warms. “Italian, then.”

“Yes,” Euphie replies, even though it’s not a question. She’s unaccustomed to being the center of attention at these things. “My parents have a taste for elaborate, long-winded names that people are prone to stumbling over and mispronouncing.”

A smile—one that does not look strained in the least—drags the corners of his mouth upward. He says, “It suits you,” his eyes flickering over her admiringly before he looks back to her date, feigning a grin at a joke that he makes.

They begin discussing niceties that Euphemia doesn’t care about; business, that which goes on under the Table, and yes, Euphemia is there too, but not really. She belongs to no organization, no man. She doesn’t contract work, necessarily—she gets picked up by mafiosos and gangsters that want a pretty slice of arm candy, finds ways to bleed them out just enough that they consider her an inconvenience and not a threat, and gets on with it. She’s selected by word of mouth alone, which means she has spent more time with the regulars of the underworld more than she would like.

As the old adage went, if it’s not broke...

And because she does not care about what they’re discussing—this and that, him or her, the gossip and annoyances of life under the Table—and desperately wants to get out of this dragging social obligation, Euphemia exhales a little sigh and sets her empty champagne flute on a passing tray and says, “Excuse me, I’m going to go freshen up.”

Santino’s gaze lands on her, heavy. There is something sly in his voice when he says, “Let me show you where to go, bella. It’s easy to get lost if you’ve never been here before.”

She knows where the restrooms are, because she has been here before; Santino must know this, she thinks, must be aware that this is not the same man she was with the last time they met in passing (although last time, her date had hardly deigned to introduce her, instead bustling right on to the business portion of it).

Her date is look at her expectantly, displeased that Santino has taken an interest in her but insistent that she not embarrass him by refusing a polite offer. She cannot afford to say, it’s fine, I know where to go, because men don’t like to acknowledge that Their Girl might have also been courted to attend an event with another man, once. The Russian will be in a bad mood all evening if she says that. Unfortunately for her, her particular brand of clientele are especially tedious when they’re in bad moods.

Euphemia stifles a sigh. “That’s very nice, thank you,” she murmurs, wishing desperately that she could just leave. It’s almost not worth it anymore to keep going. It would be a net loss; maybe she would be better off just eating crow and taking it.

Santino plants a hand on the small of her back and guides her out of the conversation, through the crowd of people and toward the back of the room. The low, scooping back of her dress allows him purchase to the skin there, and he takes a lot of care in guiding her—one hand on her back, the other occasionally taking her hand to wind her through the crowd, almost in a sort of waltz. Any excuse to be close to her, he takes, and even if he stops to talk to someone, his hand stays on her. A permanent fixture.

A marking of territory.

It’s always a pissing contest, with men.

She knows that the restrooms are, in fact, not this way, and for a second, she thinks about saying so—but what would be the point? To kick up a fuss now would be almost worse than breaking the magical illusion that she is there for her companion and not for his money.

“You can imagine my surprise to find you here again,” Santino says when the sounds of the party are drowned out by a closed door behind them. The quiet stillness of the hall seems to enshroud them, almost womblike; dulling out the roar of incessant chatter and elbow-rubbing and peacocking.

She keeps walking down the hall despite knowing that it’s not the direction of the restroom. A part of her hopes that if she continues to play dumb, Santino will tire of her more quickly.

And then he prompts, from behind her, “It is again, isn’t it? I could have sworn I saw you here just a few weeks ago, but you were here with...Abarca, wasn’t it?”

“Is there a point to the little thesis you’re writing out loud?” Euphemia asks coolly, not bothering to hide her irritation. She stops walking and turns to face the man, who seems quite pleased with himself; it’s his turn to move, an attempt at closing the gap between them, and each step he takes forward is a step that Euphemia inches backwards until her back hits the wall.

“My point is, Euphemia Volpe,” he rumbles, “that you might be breaking my poor friend’s heart. Can’t I be concerned about that?”

Her eyes narrow. “Your dear friend? Do you know his name?”

“Do you?” Santino replies evenly. He props a hand up on the wall beside her head, blocking her in—but while Euphie’s knee-jerk reaction is to throw up a red flag and bolt, there is something lovely about the gesture, as though he’s made their conversation that much more intimate by one single movement.

It’s dark in the hallway, dimly effused in an amber glow from lowered lights. They cast eerie, handsome shadows across Santino D’Antonio’s face. Absently, Euphie wishes she was more drunk, but she’d been taking the evening slow in preparation of disappearing from her Russian benefactor.

And no. She doesn't remember his name.

Santino seems to take her silence as affirmation, and he grins.

“Don’t worry, I won’t spill your secret,” he purrs. “If you do something for me.”

Euphemia’s mind races. She jumps to the worst case scenario immediately; but she can’t afford to think like that, can’t afford to sweat in front of the man who leans into her with all of the deadliness of a jungle cat. He’ll eat her up if she does, gnash his teeth and sink his claws in and grind her up between his molars. She’s sure of it.

Her predatory conversation partner arches a dark brow at her. He is handsome, Euphie thinks—pretty, the way an oil slick is, dark and iridescent.

“Do you agree?” he prompts. She stifles a grimace.

“Tell me what the favor is first.”

This drags a laugh out of him. “Sei una piccola volpe, aren’t you? Let loose in a hen house of idiot men.” He sounds particularly delighted by this revelation, like maybe he was worried she wouldn’t live up to his expectations. “The favor is just your favor.” He pauses and tilts his head, gauging her. “Go to dinner with me.”

It feels like a trick. It probably is a trick. She’s thinking of all the way that she can turn him down, squirm her way out of this trap that Santino—because she’s not stupid; she knows who and what he is—has laid out for her.

She’s trying to, anyway, but then Santino’s hand comes up to cradle her jaw, fingers slotting through the hair at the base of her skull, and he brushes their noses together.

“Gorgeous little fox,” Santino murmurs, his voice a pleasant rumble, crushed velvet and the sticky, dark-wet of blood. The air bubbles with a strange, hypnotic emotion, lulling her. “I think that I just have to have you. Say that you’ll come to dinner with me.”

The words send her heart fluttering. This is not the first time that a man has said such a thing to her, but it is the first time a man has said it to her this way—as though he is swallowed by his want of her.

Euphemia impulsively says, “Yes,” before she can turn the acquiescence over in her head forty times and smooth the edges down. The second the word comes out of her mouth, Santino is kissing her—electric, demanding, impatient. She’s been kissed by men many times before, and none of them like this; starved for her. She has never known she wanted someone to be driven insatiable by her presence until Santino D’Antonio is kissing her like a man incensed in a dark hallway.

I am always hungry for someone else, she has thought time and time before. I want someone to be hungry for me.

Satino bunches a fistful of velvet in his hand, gathering the fabric between his fingers at her hip and sighing, almost ruefully, like he wants to do more but he won't.

“I should take you from the idiot right now,” he says against her mouth, and he sounds almost breathless. “But I imagine you’re not through with him yet.”

It’s funny to hear him say it like that. When people look at Euphie on the arm of a Russian gangster, they think, he’s not done yet with that poor girl, but unsurprisingly, Santino sees right through it. He pulls back and gives her a half-cocked grin that’s only a little wicked.

Oh, she thinks, feeling a little more than desperate for another kiss, this was a mistake. But though a mistake he may be, Santino D’Antonio is adept at dressing himself up as a delicious one.

“No,” Euphemia replies. Her chest tightens when the warmth of his body leaves hers, pulling back, hand letting loose the fabric. “I don’t suppose that I am.”

“Then I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” Santi replies, that grin on his face not once faltering. He seems very assured that he’s going to sweep her off her feet. Absently, he reaches up and presses the pad of his thumb against her lower lip, dragging it across the skin still tender from the bruising of his kiss. “And what will you say, Euphemia Volpe, when you go back to your Russian friend and he asks you what you think of Santino D’Antonio?”

What could she say? That she wishes that he would kiss her again, the way that he just had, with longing?

“That I don’t,” Euphemia replies, her voice coming out of her silky. The words darken Santino’s gaze; he looks amused and ruffled, all at the same time. “Think of you at all.”

“Oh, that won’t do.” Santino is leaning in close again, the smell of his cologne washing over her, their lips so close they might as well be kissing. “How can I endear myself to you, belladonna?”

Euphemia knows who he is; she knows exactly the kind of man he plays at, at least in public. Even still, she wants to say something reckless, like, you could kiss me again; but she knows better than that, for now. It’s always ‘for now’, with fools.

“Don’t take me out to dinner,” she says after a heartbeat. “Cook it for me.”

Santino pauses and leans back, like maybe he was thinking she would have just asked him for another kiss, and then he laughs.

“Of course, how could I be such a fool?” He grins at her, wide and pearly-white. “Then I will pick you up tomorrow, and cook you dinner.” He starts walking down the hall, and Euphemia can’t help the disappointment that blooms warm and red in her chest, the petals unfurling and reaching each edge of her rib cage.

“You don’t have my address,” she calls after him, still leaned against the wall. Santino turns. His smile has not dimmed in the least.

“I don’t need it,” he replies back casually. “I can find you just fine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

Santino is a fine cook. By most standards, he is probably even an excellent cook, but he is a fine cook to a woman who has grown up with traditional Italian recipes that she has made most every day since she was trusted in front of the stove.

Euphie tries not to micromanage as he cooks, but it’s difficult. The man is wearing an apron over his five thousand dollar suit—probably more; she’s shooting low when she estimates that—and he lets the sauce that’s meant to simmer start boiling before he turns the heat down, and he doesn’t season his water with anything when he starts heating it up for the pasta, and Euphie just can’t stand it.

“Santino, have you ever made dinner for your family in your entire life?” she demands, nudging him out of the way and empty out half of the semi-hot water to replace it with chicken stock, setting the burner up again.

“No, darling,” he replies amusedly, watching her fuss over the sauce. “Just you.”

She stops. It shouldn’t be sweet��it is Santino, after all—but it is. He does a very good job of being the unassuming viper in this situation, she thinks. So she continues what she’s doing, keeping her hands and her eyes and mouth busy because if she doesn’t, they’ll find ways to busy themselves.

“This was supposed to be you making me dinner,” she chides, “not me teaching you how to cook. I think that it will take a lot of making up for me to—”

Santino’s hand tilts her face to him, and he leans down and kisses her. It’s softer than how he’d kissed her in the hallway, but it doesn’t lack the urgency. He still feels hungry.

She’s dreadfully caught up in it, letting him come back a second and then a third time, letting the flicker of his tongue against her lips part them obediently, letting the gentle reprimand of his teeth in her lower lip inspire a little noise out of her. It’s somehow too long and not enough, and when Euphemia drops the spoon on the counter to grip the front of Santino’s shirt (apron), his hands go to her hips.

“Sit down,” he orders playfully against her mouth, “and let me cook for you. And then we will see who will be doing the making-up, won’t we?”

Euphemia has half a mind to tell him to forget dinner—turn the burners off, she wants to say, and kiss me like that again, but more, and everywhere, and and and—but the competitor in her won’t let go. She exhales a short, impatient breath and says, “Fine, but you are on thin ice, amico.”

He laughs and shuffles her away from the stove to a stool at the kitchen island. In what can only be an effort to properly shmooze her, he follows it up with a glass of wine presented neatly in front of her, glittering-ruby, before returning to his half-done dinner on the stove.

“Amico, huh?” The dark-honey blonde glances over his shoulder at her. “Do you kiss all of your friends like that, Euphemia Volpe?”

The words send a pleased little flurry through her chest. As she watches him over her glass of wine, she replies, “Only the very handsome ones.”

When the food is served up, they don't bother going to the dining table. In Santino's loft, it appears that the dining table likely goes without much use, despite it being seated for a full party of people; instead, they stay at the kitchen island, and Santino deposits the apron on the counter before he leans against the edge of the island.

“You are a hard woman to track down, Euphemia,” Santino says, reaching over and scooping and olive off of her plate for himself. She makes an affronted noise.

“I thought you would have no trouble finding me?”

“I did not anticipate you were so efficient at covering your tracks.” He smiles, watching her across the countertop. “No family in New York. No employment history. Rent paid in cash. Most frequently spotted at the Continental, too, but otherwise your recreational hours are spent entertaining influential figureheads. If I did not know any better, I would think you were preparing to disappear.”

Euphemia shrugs. It would be unsettling, that he went digging on her, but she supposes that's life under the Table. It's not as though she anticipated he wouldn't, anyway.

“You are obsessed with me, Santi, it's alright, you can say,” she demurs. It's easier than saying I never want to have to try very hard to disappear.

He grins at her. “Maybe I am just offended that you never offered me your services.” And then, as though to be a good sport: “Because I am obsessed with you, Euphemia Volpe.”

She takes a sip of her wine, sets the glass down on the countertop, and plants her chin in her hand to regard him. His gaze is playful; he looks almost earnest about his words, even though she'd said them in jest. At any rate, it's a relief to have navigated the prying, for the moment.

Euphemia says, “How were you able to focus on cooking when you have me here, then?”

There is a crooked little smile on his face at her words, a smile that she can only see for half of a moment before he says, “Don’t you know the saying?” He leans in and tilts her chin up with his fingers, his gaze sweeping her, as though to admire the most opulent work of art.

“Senza tentazioni, senza onore.”

[iamtaran]

For the prompt thing: 15 and 37-together or separate I don't mind either way

:D Thanks so much for this prompt!! My first ever!!

15: “Was that supposed to hurt?” and 37: “So lie to me then.”

*

Three months after Jaskier last saw him on the mountain, in an upscale tavern in Novigrad playing for a gathering of minor mages, successful merchants, and actors, Jaskier looks up and sees Geralt standing in the back of the common. He is so startled that he ends up ending his set rather abruptly and stumping down from the little raised stage in order to quickly pack his lute away. If he can just get between the two parties exiled to social exclusion in the back and up the stairs to his room-

“Jaskier.” A hand lands on his shoulder. “You-

Jaskier shrugs the hand off roughly, and his voice is a whip crack even over the din of the common: “No.”

Because of course it’s Geralt, and of course he is standing there looking dumbfounded– as dumbfounded as he can, at least, when half the muscles in his face seem permanently pressed into his neutral scowl. They slacken now in surprise. Jaskier feels a mean little curl of pleasure to have shifted even those. 

“No,” Geralt repeats, like dragging the word over gravel. Jaskier cannot bear to look at him. He slides the last of the leather ties shut on his lute case and slings it over his back with too much force. It barks off the table behind him with a twong. He fights the urge to wince. He is hot across his neck with a familiar anger (which is in no way masking hurt, thank you) and unwilling to withstand a second more of this than humanly possible, and so turns abruptly away.

“That’s right, Geralt. No. Forgotten what it means? I know you’ve heard it enough in your life,” Jaskier says cattily. As he walks away, he throws caustically over his shoulder with a jaunty wave, “but let me introduce you one more time.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, an uphill rock fall of flailing and banging limbs and boots too heavy on the wood so that the whole tavern must hear the racket. No matter how much noise he makes, however, it is not enough to mask the sound of heavier boots following behind him on the stair. Jaskier scowls.

He had locked the door to his room, specifically because he room was nice enough to come with a lock. He had been pleased that his belongings would be safe while he performed. Now, he regrets it immensely. Stubbornly, he yanks the key from the pouch on his belt and struggles to fit it into the door. Struggles, because his hands are trembling. He curses.

He feels Geralt stop just behind him. His presence seems to exude– something. It sets all the hair on Jaskier’s body standing in emotion so strong he feels it in his fingertips. He doesn’t look. He refuses. As if Geralt is not there, he finally gets the key in the door and bursts in, swearing profusely when his boot toe catches on an uneven board and he stumbles. He tosses his lute on the bed. Still ignoring the undeniable presence in his doorway, he begins picking in the hooks down the front of his doublet. One tears loose under his numb fingers. He snarls.

“Jaskier-”

He whirls around.

“Did you not hear me?” His voice cuts through the room like a lobbed spear. “I’m uninterested, thanks very much. Now get out.”

Geralt’s brows snap together in consternation. The look is so familiar, which somehow simply rockets him from angry to furious like nothing else. Three months he’d had to forget, or try. Why did Geralt have to, to ruin it?

“You won’t even let me speak?”

“You didn’t let me, before,” Jaskier spits. Geralt– flinches. The molasses-slow shift of guilt oozes across his stiff features as unwillingly as ever. Even so, its presence is enough to give Jaskier pause, just for a moment. Not too long ago Jaskier would have flogged himself to see that expression, to catch a hint of it. Now it makes him grind his teeth.

“You…” Geralt sighs hard enough his nostrils flare and opens his hands wide. “You’ve always been a better man than me,” he points out as if clawing the words out pains him. Jaskier doesn’t take the olive branch.

“Pretty words for someone who claims not to be a man at all. Are you a man, Geralt?” Geralt’s eyes flash up to meet his, shockingly vulnerable for a split second. A single arrow of shame cuts through the red haze for a moment. Jaskier scowls and thinks, guess I’m not the better man after all. He changes course. “What could you possibly want to say to me? You got what you wanted, after all.” He turns away to finish undoing his jacket. It’s easier if he doesn’t have to look at him. To not have to read him as clearly as a friend of decades. His mouth runs away with him. “I’m off your hands. What, have you further complaints you were not able to air? Perhaps some long-carried unhappiness to get off your chest? Because I admit to being wholly uninterested-”

“No,” Geralt interrupts in a tight-strung voice. “I’m not- I didn’t find you to yell at you, Jaskier, what the fuck?” His honest bemusement grates. Jaskier throws his jacket on the bed and shoves his sleeves up to the elbow if only to have something to do with his riotous hands.

“Oh, then we’re breaking with tradition, then,” Jaskier says meanly. He flutters about the room impotently, unable to stand still, unable to look at him, yet unable to leave. “How quaint. Except, again, not interested so will you please-”

“-I’m trying to,” Geralt cuts himself off with a curse. “I came all this way to talk to you, will you just-”

“-and I’ve said no! Multiple times! You stubborn-”

Geralt bulls across the space so suddenly that Jaskier freezes.

“Will you look at me?” Geralt demands. Jaskier’s head snaps around.

“FINE!” he shouts. It does what he wanted; Geralt jerks back at the volume, eyes flown wide. Jaskier follows him with a single, sharp stab to the chest from one string-hardened finger. “I’m looking at you. Is this what you wanted? Do you see what you came for? Because that’s all that matters, right, is what you want?”

Geralt swells up like a thunderhead in a rush of barely-withheld frustration. He has to visibly quell himself. “I… care. About what you want.” His tone comes out bitten-off at the ends. “It matters. And, I’ll,” he scowls, “I’ll leave if you want. If you’ll just let me-”

“Let you what?” Jaskier snips, just to be an asshole. Geralt breathes in and out one through his teeth and rumbles,

“Apologize.”

Jaskier stares at him hard, with that deep unhappy line between his brows and the ready-to-pop tension of his mouth like an over-tightened lute string. He sees all of it and wishes he couldn’t. Geralt’s jaw is ground so tight Jaskier feel a sympathy pain in his molars. He looks paler than Jaskier remembers, with deeper shadows under his eyes. His hair is the dark grey it goes when it hasn’t been washed in a while. He smells of horse, sweat, road dust, and fire smoke. 

Jaskier tamps down on the sympathy that wells up in his chest like vomit and curls a petty lip.

“I wouldn’t think you’d know how. Do you need pointers?”

Geralt frowns.

“Don’t be childish.”

“Oh,” Jaskier gasps, feeling at once like he had won and yet burning, uncomfortable, unquenchable, out of control, “oh, I’m the childish one? Shall we reflect on your little tantrum, Geralt, some three months past? Side of a mountain, dragon hunt– ringing a bell?”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grits out. Jaskier has to fight to keep his face from betraying his surprise. He doesn’t want to be surprised, or to feel anything stirring hopefully in his gut with the words, delivered however begrudgingly. Geralt steps closer so that he is all Jaskier can smell. His eyes catch the lamplight like copper coins. “You didn’t deserve that. I was…” He rakes a cruel hand through his hair, numb to how it yanks his disheveled queue further out of arrangement. It looks as if he has repeated the motion many times before he had arrived. “I was angry and I took it out on you because… because-”

“Because you’re an arse.” Geralt glares, mouth already open to argue. Jaskier raises his voice over him. “Admit it! I was an easy target for you to take out your upset over things ending between you and Yennefer. That’s how it always goes with her! She chews you up and spits you out, only this time it wasn’t temporary. So you took your hurt out on me, your obnoxious, worthless travel companion. Like an arse.” The bitterness curls directly off his tongue. He hopes Geralt can taste it.

“I…” Geralt chews on the words– like glass, if his expression is anything to go by. “You’re… right about Yennefer. But you, you’re not-” Jaskier is barely listening anymore. He feels righteous and vindictive, like draining an infected wound but it’s not a healing pain at all. He doesn’t realize he is trembling.

“I was an easy target,” he snarls. “Easy to cast aside. Like trash.” Geralt bristles.

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” he barks. Jaskier flares up at him.

“Am I? You threw away over two decades of friendship in a squalling fit! Only, of course,” Jaskier laughs sharply, “of course, we weren’t friends, were we? You couldn’t even stand the word. I’m amazed you made it so many years with my unbearable presence.”

Jaskier had been watching closely: the jumping of the muscle in his jaw, the clench of his fists at his sides. It’s the snapcord tight draw of the tendon in Geralt’s neck that marks the breaking of his composure. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid!” he snaps. His flashes teeth like a feral dog. “Of course we were fucking friends!”

An unholy vindication swells up in him when Geralt makes an aborted move forward as if to shove him.

“No,” Jaskier hisses, and then he is shouting. He can’t stop shouting. He shoves out with both hands. Geralt doesn’t budge and he shoves and shoves and he won’t fucking budge. “I was your friend! Me! For years! But you were never-”

“Never what?” Geralt pushes back. “Never saved your life from jealous husbands, thieves, shapeshifters?” Again. Jaskier staggers back a step. His heart is pounding rage in his throat. “Never saved you from your own stupidity?” 

Jaskier feels as if he’s been slapped.

“Thanks ever so!” he snarks over the pain. “If this is how you apologize-”

“I’M TRYING,” Geralt bellows, spittle flying. His eyes flash the color of gold in the sun. “But gods dammit, Jaskier, you can’t make this easy, can you? Nothing can ever be easy, not with you around to fuck it up.”

Jaskier slaps him.

In the sudden quiet, the sound seems inordinately loud. Three breaths pass with only their heavy breathing and the murmur of voices from below.

Ever so slowly, Geralt turns his head back, eyebrows drawn up into a little fist of hurt, before his forehead smooths. He lifts one eyebrow pointedly and sneers.

“Was that supposed to hurt?”

The room seems to drop away. Right, then. 

Which is when Jaskier reels back and punches him in the nose.

*

Afterwards, after Jaskier has bloodied Geralt’s nose and Geralt has broken the bed frame with tossing him back onto it– after they’ve wrestled like school boys, elbows flying and pinching and slapping and biting and pinning– after Jaskier had gotten the upper hand for all of a moment with an old move learned with the other noble boys destined for knighthood whereas Jaskier was, apparently, destined to end up on a shitty little palliase in Redania locking a witcher’s elbow behind his back– – 

After Geralt has, of course, come out on top and managed to pin Jaskier sweating and swearing and sputtering beneath him– and after he manages to haltingly, breathlessly, quietly press out his apology to a captive audience– and after Jaskier finds something inside him breaks open like a dropped wine bottle and, pinned, he has no choice but the let the ugly hurt and broken shards puke out–

Afterwards, they lay huffing and panting into silence. Geralt’s shoulder and elbow press into his own, exuding heat like a banked fire. His hair tickles Jaskier’s ear on that side. His chest rumbles on a hum, and it could be indistinguishable from any other such room. Any other such bed and night. If he closes his eyes and pretends that his chest has not been wrenched open, Jaskier can almost pretend. They had never parted and travel on instead. Hunts, and vodka passed beside the fire, shared strange and lonely sights in the wilderness, and two friends.

Jaskier swallows. His throat hurts from yelling.

“Don’t take this to mean you’re forgiven.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier scratches an itch, squirms.

“You look like shit. Have you been surviving without me?”

Geralt chuckles a dry sound like something catching fire.

“In a sense.” A pause stretches. “How have you been?” He clears his throat. “Without me?”

Jaskier stares at the far wall. This pause, by contrast, stretches more languidly than a stray cat on a fence. Whip-hard and starved. He feel Geralt turn to take in his sudden stillness.

“…I don’t want,” Jaskier says quietly, “to talk about how I’ve been, Geralt. I don’t want to open up to you. I don’t want to bear my soul, and I don’t want to be honest. Even if we’re…” Better. Closer to alright. “…It’s too soon.”

“Hm,” Geralt hums just as quietly. Jaskier hears the shift of fabric. When he turns his head, he finds cat eyes back at him from a bare foot away. He swallows– chest open, chest closed tight, chest flayed. Geralt presses his lips together and bumps their shoulders. “Lie to me, then.” 

Jaskier watches, just perceptible, as the corner of Geralt’s mouth curls uncertainly up. He breathes. Chest open, chest closed tight, chest flayed. 

He smiles.

“I’ve been fantastic. Smashing. All gay parties and glowing candlelit nights.”

If his voice chokes and cracks on the lie and his smile wobbles, Geralt does him the rare kindness of not noticing. Instead, he turns onto his side and curls up delicately, so carefully, until his forehead is just pressed to Jaskier’s shoulder through the thin material of his shirt. His breath rushes out, fluttering the sleeve.

“…Me, too.”

Jaskier swallows.

His chest is an open wound. But he thinks he feels it healing.

[zumpietoo]

Errmmm....nope. Jug's a good person. That you fail to grasp that shows what an asshole you are. Anddd....actually? Tabi most assuredly DOES have a "personality", you just hate her and are a butthurt racist. Plus, nobody GAF what you think.

Actually, they've steadily expanded her character and she's now leading Super Teens....so, clearly, they know exactly what "to do with her". And they're doing it.

Why would she be "bored out of her mind" in the best/biggest role of her career, getting to work with the show's strongest actors?

No, you, again, dislike that Jug's with a black woman and not Slizzy's doormat....and, again, why TF would they both to "beg" anyone? If they were concerned thusly? They'd write her out or rewrite/retool her character...

Ummm....Erinn has a CONTRACT....and she's getting interviews, invitations and booking other stuff. HER movies actually get picked up and aired, not pushed back, refilmed, etc....SM engagement isn't everything....but if you think it is, guess you'll STFU about Cole, now, huh?

No it isn't, you dumb noobie/sock bitch....nor do they care. Erinn also provides much needed representation and they're able to use her in a moar dramatic way thusly, because she can handle the material (unlike, sadly, many of their previous African American casting errors before....with notable exception glorious Jordan Calloway)

Nobody GAF about Vermin except your Jermin loving ass, which is clearly what has you in a state....Crotchi's an abysmal actress who's had the same plot for every fucking season----because that's all she can handle.

The "nightmare fuel that is Jabitha"????? Good fuckin' lord.....IDK even what to say. Except it gets nice press and I love them.

Tabs was introduced slowly, over a season and a half, just like Jabi....you just don't like her and are a racist...she was never "thrown in" or "shoved to the front", she's a main, she can handle the material...neither of your kweens can.

Oh and Molars? Droop can't fucking act. The end....on ANY level....he's a bit better with FT, but not a lot. He gets minimal work because he sucks. Just like FB.

And the only reason he ever did get promoted? Because RAS thinks he's hot and likes to have shirtless himbos to fap too.

No you don't asshole....if you did, you'd like Tabitha. However, nobody GAF if you do or not...

AND YOU LOSE!!!

But please, both of you, now go blather about "taking up battle to fight for your ship", cuz that'll also get you nowhere and I want to laugh some moar!

[bronze-and-navy-is-creating-1]

Cecil gently took the note, saying to Erik "Keep your mouth open..." He read it carefully before saying back in double Spanish "What do you mean you don't have enough room- look. I don't care what you all do, just please get out of my son. It's not- it's not stable in there. All it takes is one cough then there are injuries and he gets bit and then there's hospitals... Look if you just- at least come out so we can talk?"

The spiders crawled back down for a moment in conference. Their king was sitting on Erik's molar wearing a traditional meat crown, the meat being a sliver of a chicken nugget they had found while exploring his stomach earlier that day. A few minutes later they returned with another note.

Quietly Cecil read out loud "We will meet but know this, there are three large egg sacks on his stomach, and if we are killed they will hatch and bite and most likely kill because children do not understand life or death. We wish to make treaty with nightvale and your radio show can help."

Cecil eyes them "you know. Threatening my son isn't the best method to get on the radio... But fine. Get in the cup at least, I won't kill you but I'm certainly not letting you roam around and love in other people stomachs."

The spiders seemed to accept this and soon w ridicously long train of them started marching out in single file, all getting in the cup. Cecil watched in surprise and pitty as they filed out, as the line was ridiculously long, they had to have been down in his smaller intestines at least. Then a realization hit him as he asked Erik, handing him his phone to type, "Did you forget to close your feeding tube cap again the other day? Because these are... There's usually not this many. Nor are they usually this poisonous... Or fat."

In response to the fat one tugged on Cecil's fingernail out of annoyance but kept going in.

New in town

@cuddlepossum

The news played as it normally did. A low buzz over the city. However there was a certain unusual energy to Cecil's velvet like voice. One he only got before seeing his mother on the day all of nightvales dead returns for homecoming. That and a few times Arby's sent him a delightful free meal coupon to Applebee's that actually turned out to be a gift card to buy roses at the local supermarket. He talked about those roses for weeks. 

Finally after briefly describing the traffic as "cars. They're on the road. Avoid them. Unless you don't feel like it. Of course…" he jumped right into it. "okay listeners I have some rather big news. Okay okay I know I shouldn't talk about personal things on the radio but… well listeners. It's important. And! And! I think I can make it relate to the radio so here it is… 

I Have… a… son! I found him a few days ago and boy. A lot has changed. I found him in the desert playing with a cactus- as children often do in the scrublands. But he looked a bit..  well honestly he looked like he had somehow escaped our annual sacrifice to the wolves but he isn't from here. He is not short at all. Nor is he overweight. In the slightest. His nose is not long and his eyes are as far from black as possible. 

And I adore him. 

He informed me that he was an orphan. And after a rather long few days in the hospital, to make sure he was fit enough to recover at least and did not have anything infectious such as throat spiders… I took him home. And boy let me tell you. He has changed my life for the better in almost every way possible. Well minus the now almost constant anxiety that apparently comes with parenting but honestly. I mean sure you leave them at home safe in bed with the kind faceless old woman who lives in your home secretly and ask her to watch him. But anything could happen. A black helicopter. Or the dark ominous figures from the dog park. Cancer. Spontaneous human combustion… the anxiety is more than fair of course. If do anything for him ...

More on this after these sponsors and a quick paranoid new parent tooottaally not calling to check up on his son for the third time in two hours…" 

Cecil then put the sponsors on and immediately pulled out his phone, calling the first on his favourite list. He had made sure to put the phone and bloodstones on Erik's bedside table but still he was nervous.