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wickedsmille · 26 days ago

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batman, robin, sentient super suits, oh my! part 2

Here's Part 1 and somehow there's going to be a part 3 too because I'm apparently incapable of doing anything short. Just ain't made for it. I've become resigned to my fate. But, hey, here's part 2! ;3

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“What is going on with this thing tonight,” Tim murmurs harshly with an irritated huff.

Jason would like to know, too, since Tim’s comms patched into his private line without Jason’s say so. It could’ve been the Red Hood fucking with him again but the suit has been tame. Well, okay, as tame as his suit gets. Which is suspicious all on its own but that’s a problem for a later time. Right now, he has an unsuspecting Tim on the line.

“Come on you stupid piece of shit,” Tim whispers like a man at the end of his rope.

“Woah, woah, language there, RR,” Jason chides him because he can.

Tim makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a grunt which would normally have Jason laughing except Tim chokes off the sound and mutters, “Uh oh.”

He’s never liked uh oh’s.

“What?” he demands, feigning annoyance but honestly a little worried.

“So,” Tim starts hesitantly. The rest of the words spill out of him in a rush when he says, “I was trying to get a hold of Batgirl because I’m on a stake out that isn’t a stake out anymore and I’m currently hiding from about thirty heavily armed and trained mercenaries but all the exits are covered so I can’t exactly sneak out.”

Tim trails off while Jason’s stomach churns. “You’re what?” Jason responds, this time truly annoyed.

“If I have to repeat myself and I give away my position,” Tim warns him absently. There’s another pause and Jason much prefers Tim’s word vomit to the ominous sound of Tim’s measured breathing and the growing din in the background. “Uh oh” Tim says but with more feeling this time.

“Don’t you fucking uh oh me. Where are you?”

“It’s the home goods warehouse southeast of the docks. 1334 Har-." Tim doesn’t get a chance to finish rattling off the address. If Jason has to guess, he would say it has something to do with the sudden sound of gunfire.

This is not happening. He got butt dialed into a backup call and now the littlest bird is a sitting duck in a den of lions. With only Jason to lean on. Who isn’t even sure where he is. It’s not like the actual contents of Gotham’s warehouses isn’t ever shifting between legitimate goods and illicit ones or anything. Property rights and leases exchanging hands between asset management teams and gangs. Money is money after all. The area around the docks is all warehousing and logistics so, over all, Tim has been completely unhelpful.

He knows better than to divide Tim’s attention when he’s in the middle of a serious fight. One wrong word and Jason could be the reason Tim gets a bullet to the brain or pushed off a two story catwalk. It doesn’t exactly leave him with very many options other than immediately changing his trajectory to take him over to the industrial center by the docks. It’s a quiet night. He should be able to hear the gunshots.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to waste valuable time playing Where’s The Fire Fight? because Red Hood has it handled. Or Tim finally made use of one of the many panic buttons he’s sure are sewn all over his less-than-stellar, non-magical-mystical-whatever suit. No matter how, Jason gets a ping on his HUD and a map of Gotham pulls up into the corner with a neat little red dot for Tim’s location. Now knowing where he’s going, Jason pushes himself to hurry the fuck up.

Getting back to his bike is a blur but he’s ripping down Gotham’s streets as soon as he gets the engine started and kickstand up. One irate cab driver has the audacity to honk at him when he blows through a red light so Jason gives him the middle finger and few choice words. The guy must be new to the city if he doesn’t know to look both ways for high speed vigilantes. Jason would be more than happy to teach him the lesson if he didn’t have places to be and things to do.

Thanks to his incredible driving skills and his innate ability to not turn himself into a pavement pancake, Jason gets to the warehouse in record time. If only Guinness had been watching. He would’ve gotten a medal or whatever it is they do when someone breaks one of the many, many pointless world records the books have immortalized.

Since all the doors and exterior windows do appear to be fortified and armed, Jason grapples himself to the roof and is delighted to see the unsecured skylight. Whoever these guys are, they must be from out of town too. Any Gotham-ized gangster, goon, villain or otherwise knows to board those up first. Out of towners, he swears. No problem, the cab driver got him primed for a teaching moment so he’s about to take these motherfuckers to school.

Handling Vigilantes 101:

-Never leave your skylights or exterior vents unattended.

-Before engaging in criminal activity, make sure you have active health insurance.

-Prepare to get your ass pounded into paste by some douchebags in tight leather (and not in the fun way).

In true Bat-fashion, Jason makes his dramatic entrance via ziplining through the skylight after cracking the glass with the steel-toe of his boot. He’s already got a gun out by the time his feet touch down with a jarring thud. The total amateurs, by Gotham standards, startle enough Jason has ample time to start putting them down. A flash of red and black from the corner of his eye lets him know Tim has darted out to either pull some shifty, sneaky shit or find better coverage than the shot to hell crates he’d been keeping between himself and a .22 to the dome.

Even when the mercs gather up their wits and retaliate against the new threat, the Red Hood does its job. About a minute of getting shot at, knowing he’ll be sporting a myriad of bruises from it but trusting his suit to keep anything fatal at bay, and the idiots start second guessing their current line of attack.

What’s a bruise or two for the ghost tales that’ll get spread around about the Red Hood being impervious? Jason may be all too human but the Red Hood allows him to pose himself as something more, something greater. Obviously unnerved, the shooting stops as the guys start back pedaling. Too bad Red Robin is there to greet them when they turn tail to make a run for it.

Jason watches as Tim neatly dispatches the leftovers. He might not have been able to properly appreciate it before, but Tim really is good with that stick of his. Liquid grace in motion, slipping under the mercenaries’ guards easily and transitioning from one opponent to another with a little flair and a lot of skill. Bits and pieces of it Jason can recognize from his own training regimens as Robin, some of it from a couple people he’s run into as Red Hood and can’t help but wonder how Tim met them. The weird amalgamation is all Tim though in the way he takes the best from what he’s learned then takes the discordant moves and shapes them into a symphony of movement. And pain cause, hot damn, Tim isn’t playing. Jason swears he sees one guy's molars get smacked right out of his head.

One of the assholes groans from where he fell at Jason’s feet after getting hit with a couple rubber bullets point blank so he kicks him in the head to shut him up. Jason is appraising his ally’s fighting skills, thanks. People can be so rude sometimes.

Tim downs the last merc and, with a satisfied smirk that has Jason’s gut twisting, he leans against his staff with his hip cocked. The tight fabric of his suit is clinging to him like a second skin. Enough so to make Selina and Dick proud. His cape falls in a wave at his back, held in place by the bandoliers crossing his chest. The damn things make Tim’s tiny waist painfully obvious. Small mercies Tim decided to ditch the cowl a few months back. The elegant fall of his too long hair suits the whole Red Robin look a lot better than the gimp cowl.

“Are you going to help secure them?” Tim asks, frowning and looking over his shoulder at Jason as he zipties one of the guys starting to wriggle around.

Jason’s higher thinking kicks back in. Tim does make a good point. They should probably truss up the trash before they’ve got another scuffle on their hands. He hadn’t even realized he drifted off a little bit there. Weird but it has been a long, strange night. Brushing it off, Jason crouches down to start hog tying the mercenaries closest to him.

Nothing, nothing, will ever beat the hilarity that is criminals awake and wriggling while they’re literally hog tied. Tim may not have approved while he was doing it but, standing next to each other on an adjacent roof to make sure the GCPD carts them off as they should, Tim isn’t saying a bad word about it. In fact, his lips are pinched together like he’s trying to hold back a snicker. One of the mercenaries jolts awake when an officer takes their arm to start hauling them away. The man startles hard and starts grunting and thrashing.

Tim loses it and, man, Jason has never heard him laugh. Like really laugh. It’s a good look on Tim.

“I’m not saying you should’ve,” Tim pushes out past a couple more chuckles.

“I’m sensing a but,” Jason says, his grin all charm and completely wasted since Tim can’t see his face because of the helmet.

“But,” Tim parrots, “that was pretty funny.”

Jason bows with a flourish which has Tim laughing anew though it is softer, quieter this time. In the middle of drinking up the delicate lines of Tim’s face and the curve of his smile, Jason’s HUD goes dark. Totally dead. There’s a couple emergency lights built inside since small, dark places don’t mix well with him anymore. Otherwise, nothing is working.

The Red Hood isn’t subtle one goddamn bit and the stupid suit is lucky he bothered with slapping a domino on before he went out tonight. Quickly undoing the security panels on the underside of his jaw, Jason pulls the helmet off. He shakes out his hair and swipes at the sweat beaded along his brow. A couple strands are stuck to his head and refuse to move so Jason reaches up and musses his hair in an attempt to not feel grungy and gross.

When he looks up, Tim is staring at him so, without the barrier of the helmet, he whips back out the ol’ Jason Todd charm, smiling wolfishly. Then Tim sort of, freezes up. Jason looks over his shoulder to make sure some new big bad isn’t lurking nearby that they missed. But, nope, nothing there. As he turns his head to meet Tim’s gaze again, he’s back to normal. Tim’s approximation of normal at least.

He’s tapping a hand against his thigh and looking off towards the cityscape of downtown Gotham. His other hand is settled firmly on his waist while he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Alright, well, thanks for the backup. Talk about a happy accident,” Tim says after clearing his throat a couple times.

“Don’t mention,” Jason tells him. “But really, don’t mention it. I don’t want all the Bats breathing down my neck.”

They’re a give an inch, take a mile bunch. If he green lights as a solid reach out for back up, the next thing he knows he’ll be on the main comms listening to inane chatter. Probably have a shadow or two trailing him on patrols like he needs help running his happy, shitty section of the city. Invitations to the Cave will shift to dinners and movie nights. As pleasant as that all sounds, he’d like to avoid it at all costs.

Tim nods easily and readies his grapple. “Fair. Well. Have a good night?” The awkwardness of Tim’s polite goodbye has Jason laughing and shaking his head. Tim bristles as he shoots off his line. “Or not, whatever,” Tim mutters.

“Yeah, alright, awkward bird,” Jason calls out to him as Tim swings away.

Next time, it’s Jason reaching out to Tim. Not even Red Hood calling out to Red Robin. He’s literally phoning Tim's personal cell on one of his burners and asking for a favor. There’s a little cell of nasty drug traffickers from down south with their sights set on Gotham. Although he could wait for them to make the egregious mistake of coming onto his stomping grounds, Jason has decided to gift them the honor of a house call given the sheer viciousness they’ve been using to move their product.

Problem is, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be undercover snuffing them out and Crime Alley rarely rests even with the Red Hood’s impressive shadow looming over it. If he goes dark for more than a week all hell breaks loose. Usually Roy will step in for him and his suit has been accommodating to the temporary trade off in wearer. That’s not an option this time with Roy otherwise occupied. As are his second and third options so he’s had no choice but to ask for help from the Bat he can best stand.

He didn’t even need to threaten or bribe Tim after promising a rubber bullets only policy would be fine. The agreement may have come readily but Tim did sound distracted. A niggle of doubt has him pacing his apartment as he waits for Tim to show up. For all he knows, Tim might’ve been less present in the conversation than he thought and not show up at all.

The knock at his window comes as a mild surprise. Twisting his head around, hand twitching towards the gun he has lying on the counter next to him, Jason relaxes when he sees Tim standing on his fire escape clad in dark clothes with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Tim waves at him and gestures to the window with a raised brow.

Jason doesn’t scramble to open it but he might do it a little too eagerly. Thankfully, Tim doesn’t comment on it as Jason steps back to let Tim in.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Tim asks dubiously once he’s standing in the middle of Jason’s living room with his hands jammed in his pouch pocket.

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Jason responds without actually being sure. The Red Hood could always reject Tim. Only one way to find out though. “Follow me,” Jason says as he gestures Tim down the hall to his bedroom where he keeps his suit stored.

“Alright. Sorry I’m late, by the way. My suit has been giving me issues lately.”

“Like what?” Jason asks curiously as he pushes open the door to his room and goes to unearth the Red Hood.

Tim shrugs and absently looks around Jason’s room. It’s uncomfortable to have Tim here, for him to see where Jason lives. He does his best to ignore it as he spreads the suit out on his bed. Approaching slowly, Tim takes his hands out of his pocket so he can run a finger down the chestplate. The whole thing does a little shimmy shake. Jason has a bad feeling about this.

“I’m not exactly your size,” Tim drawls, looking Jason up and down.

A spark of molten heat sparks deep in his core so Jason smothers it with extreme prejudice. “If you’re not lookin’ like a kid in daddy’s clothes then we’ll be fine. It’ll adjust. If it likes you.”

“If it likes me,” Tim murmurs.

There’s a sad, bitter edge to Tim’s expression as he stares down at the suit. Once more, Jason realizes he has stepped on a sore spot for Tim. The same one even. Let no one ever accuse him of being great at interpersonal relationships.

Tim banishes whatever he has going through his mind with a shake of his head. His face shifts to one of determination as he shucks off his sweatshirt. And his shirt. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants.

“Enjoying the show?” Tim questions sarcastically.

Right. Right, he was staring. When he shouldn’t have been.

“I want a refund,” Jason throws out to cover his folly. Tim snorts so Jason takes it as a win. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if the suit gives you a hard time. It’ll listen to me sometimes.”

“Sometimes. That’s comforting.”

“I try. Now get your tiny ass in it.”

Jason excuses himself from the room, shutting the door, before making his way to the kitchen where his open duffel bag is already stuffed with the essentials. To keep himself busy, Jason checks over the contents. Then double checking and tossing a couple other things in the bag. Once satisfied, he zips it up and pats the thick canvas of the bag. When he looks up from his distraction, Tim is there in the hallway.

I fucked up, Jason bemoans internally.

Not because the Red Hood is being antagonistic and obstinate in letting Tim help. The stupid suit must not have a single qualm with letting Tim wear it. Everything fits so damn well. There’s only so much reshaping the suit can usually do given the difference in size between himself and others but whatever bullshit gives the suits a brain has pulled out all the stops to make it work.

Tim looks good in it. Still short although the heels on the boots are higher. The extra armoring pads Tim’s form, making him look bulkier than he is but the suit nips in at the waist. He’s pretty damn sure the tac pants aren’t supposed to be that tight, either. Tim tosses the helmet from hand to hand under Jason’s scrutinizing eyes before popping it on.

“Wow, okay, I want one of these,” Tim says through the voice modulator. The mechanical growl has a shiver running down Jason’s spine. Because he keeps his apartment cool and there’s a draft somewhere he hasn’t fixed yet, of course. “The tech in this thing.”

“Great for concussion prevention, too.”

“I’m hoping to not put that to the test.”

“Yeah, try not to. You’re still smaller than me, shrimp, so keep moving and maybe nobody will notice.”

Pulling the hood off, Tim glares at him. “I’m not that much smaller.”

“You’re like, what, a buck forty soaking wet?”

Huffing, Tim puts the helmet on again. “Excuse me while I prove that doesn’t matter.”

“Go off,” Jason cheers flatly.

Tim flicks him off while he walks back towards the window. “Just getting in character,” he says as he gracefully slides back out onto the fire escape.

I am so very, very fucked, Jason thinks with no small amount of dismay. There’s only so much a mantra of ‘Don’t stress, repress’ can do and it’s getting really hard to ignore the way he’s been responding to Tim. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to keep trying to savagely squash what he’s starting to suspect may be the beginnings of attraction.

It all comes to a head when Tim asks him to partner up on a counterfeiting case. The request shouldn’t have surprised him. After Tim successfully patrolled Park Row as Red Hood, reporting no issues, they’ve been crossing paths more often. On one occasion, the tracker Jason stuck to a mobster’s car brought him to Tim instead. By some stroke of luck, Tim was tailing the same guy so, aside from the momentary hiccup, the takedown went smoothly. Then Tim’s grapple jammed when they were set to part ways another night after running into one another. Jason ended the night red faced and unable to think of anything but Tim’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, hanging on for dear life, as he flew them back to Tim’s bike.

A few weeks ago, he’d ended up battered, bruised and bleeding in some dark, dank alley in the East End. Willingly, Jason hailed Tim for an assist. Tim got him to a safe house and patched him up efficiently. The weird thing is, Tim’s cape was being weird. Sure, that makes him sound slightly insane and maybe a civilian would think so but Jason has been a mask for what seems like half of forever now. He knows these suits. So, the way Tim’s cape had fallen around them, stretching itself so it covered the both of them to create a safe, quiet space all their own, was suspicious. Then it got really suspicious when Tim tried brushing it aside to get some better lighting while doing the stitches but the cape kept somehow slipping over his back to go back to embracing the both of them.

There isn’t a single doubt in Jason’s mind that Red Robin was a plain,ol’ regular mass of fabric when Jason got it. None. He’s starting to suspect that isn’t the case anymore which is only cemented when they walk into the hotel room they booked for the night to serve as a base of operations in New York while they follow a trail of counterfeit money.

See, Jason was right next to Tim in the car when he called the hotel and made the booking. He personally heard Tim ask for a room with twin beds and the front desk agent confirm there was one available. Then Tim had tossed his phone into his bag, the same one with his spare clothes and suit, and they’d blared hyper pop and grunge on the radio without a second thought. Jason vividly remembers pulling into the hotel parking lot and Tim grabbing his bag, fishing his phone out and frowning thoughtfully that the screen was on with his email open. After a cursory check, he’d shrugged it off and they got out to settle in.

Getting comfortable is going to be a Herculean challenge for Jason since there’s only one queen bed in the room.

Tim pauses in the entryway and blinks before glancing down at his key card, backing up to look at the room number and back down at the card again. “They must’ve made a mistake,” he says blankly.

Before Jason can put his two cents in, Tim shoves his bag into Jason’s arms and snatches up Jason’s key card. Tim books it back down the hall towards the front desk. Which, okay, that’s fine. All’s the better because Jason will literally go insane if he has to share a bed with Tim. Years of freezing on the streets taught him to gravitate towards whatever heat source possible. Including people he trusts in his general vicinity when he’s sleeping. He simply won’t survive waking up with Tim as his personal teddy bear.

Storming into the room, Jason throws Tim’s bag onto the bed and yanks it open. He opens the hidden pocket where Red Robin is neatly folded and glares down at it.

“I don’t know what your game is, but cut that shit out,” Jason hisses at the suit. It doesn’t move but Jason gets the distinct impression it’s smug. Or he could be projecting. Can regular suits gain consciousness? Is that a thing? Doesn’t matter, not like anyone is around to judge him for talking to a maybe, maybe-not inanimate costume. “Seriously. I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.”

Jason doesn’t get the opportunity to further threaten the Red Robin costume. A harried looking Tim pops back into the room, two key cards in hand. When he looks at Jason, he seems a little lost.

“This was the only room they had left,” Tim tells him, tone carefully calm and even. “There’s some business conference going on.”

He swallows hard and nods, remembering a couple news articles he’d read through on it before leaving. “Okay, yeah, no problem.” There’s no couch either. Just a dresser, nightstand, bed, desk and one of those armchairs with cushions hard enough to use as a bludgeoning weapon. “I’ll take the floor?”

Tim doesn’t look at him but his face pinches in distaste at the idea. “No, it’s fine. We can share, right?”

“Nah, it’s alright, I’ll take the floor,” Jason insists.

Now Tim looks him in the eye and the steely determination takes Jason by surprise. “I can’t even fathom what the stains on this carpet are and there’s no padding. You’ll wake up an aching mess and be useless on the mission tomorrow. We can share the bed,” he says firmly.

Well, what is Jason supposed to say to that other than, “Good point. Bedfellows it is.”

The time they spend organizing their things and then getting ready to lie down is just as awkward as Jason thought it would be. On no fewer than five occasions, Jason nearly calls the whole thing off. There were other hotels in the area, right? Not all of them could possibly be full from the corporate HR consulting conference being held in town. Anything would be better than the fragile silence between them.

He doesn’t though. The thought of backing out like a yellow bellied coward had his gut souring and his mood shifting from placid dread to irritation. Each time the impulse comes up, he kicks it to the recesses of his mind along with every budding fantasy of what the night may bring. It’s getting pretty cluttered in that dark corner of his mind.

Tim doesn’t appear to be quite as affected. Some of his movements are stilted and he’s giving Jason a wider berth than normal but otherwise he does his own thing while Jason does his. If Jason weren’t harboring an incredibly inconvenient crush, he’d even say things were companionable. But he is, so suffocatingly uncomfortable atmosphere for him. Woe is his life, seriously.

Those feelings of giddy anticipation and mounting horror go sharply into focus as he and Tim, dressed down for bed in sleep shirts and comfortable pants, stare at one another from either side of the bed. Tim has a corner of the blanket in his hand, fiddling with a loose thread on the side of it. Otherwise, he’s completely still and everything he’s thinking is locked up tight behind the pale blue of his eyes. Jason can’t help but fidget too, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he feels a prickle of embarrassment slithering down the back of his neck. This is the weirdest game of semi-gay chicken he’s ever engaged in.

Jason breaks first if only to end the game. Grabbing the edge of his blanket, Jason tosses it back before flinging himself onto the bed. After a brief shuffle, he gets himself covered up to the chin with the blanket and his back facing Tim. Carefully, slowly, Tim crawls in beside him with much less flair and flourish. The blanket tugs for a second before settling again. While the bed is a good size, Jason isn’t exactly your average guy. Despite his best efforts to get as far away as he can, he can still feel Tim’s warmth brushing against his back like a phantom caress.

Man, sleep isn’t happening. He may as well get up and do some more research on the case or something. Screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, Jason wrestles with himself on if he should ditch the idea of sharing the bed and how he can get out of it without being overtly disrespectful.

#tim drake #jason todd #dc comics #jaytim #dc #timjay #red hood #red robin #wicked writes #or at least tries to #i'm doing my bestest #imagine the poor tumblrians here for the elf on the shelf joke and they find this

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enbyenvy666 · 9 months ago

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personal pornstar part 3/? cis!ver

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

after a little spending spree courtesy of your pro-hero sugar daddies, you send the pair some pictures of your new clothes, as well as a couple other outfits, leading to a late-night sleepover.

established!kiribaku x masc!reader part 1 | part 2 cis!ver trans!ver | part 3 trans!ver

CONTENT WARNINGS - 18+ MDNI, reader wears lingerie, threesome, anal sex, top!kirishima, switch!bakugo, bottom!reader, semi-rough sex, mating press, sexting/sending nudes, cuck chair lol, aftercare, no beta we die like men w/c - 3.2k

a/n - I figure out how to add the song this fic is named after!!

The payments you were receiving for spending time with Kirishima and Katsuki were relieving some of your financial stresses. You had bought new nice clothes with the money Katsuki gave you earlier that week, even sending him pictures of the clothes you tried on to get his opinions.

Once home, you wanted to use the rest of your day off to do housework, but as you went to put away your new clothes, you couldn’t resist the urge to try them on again, posing in front of your thin, floor-length mirror. A form-fitting blazer on top of a black button-down that had a rose pattern sewn into it in a kind of thread that looked black until in the right light it would shimmer silver. A classic silver wallet chain added a bit of spice to your new black slacks, all of which not only looked good together but also looked good on you.

Unbuttoning some buttons here and there, and rolling up a sleeve or two made you feel like a kid playing dress-up again. Sitting down on the edge of your bed, still in view of the mirror, you looked over your reflection one more time, grateful for Katsuki’s help. You also realised he hadn’t seen you in the completed outfit yet.

Holding up your phone, you posed in front of the mirror. A couple of buttons undone on the shirt, showing off your collar bones, legs crossed at the knees and leaning your weight on one hand planted on the bed beside you. Holding your phone up beside your face, you were looking at it as you took the photo, making sure it was in focus.

After sending it to the group chat with the two heroes, you started to strip off the nice clothes, hanging them up in your closet to avoid creases. Your phone buzzed on the bed, and you giddily picked it up, excited to see their reactions. What you had received back surprised you, but it didn’t disappoint.

It was a mirror picture of the both of them, similarly in a floor-length mirror, but you could tell theirs was wider as you could see what looked to be a significant portion of their shared bedroom. Both were in their base hero costumes, bare of the extra things like gauntlets and masks.

Katsuki was taking the picture, with the phone held up to his chest while he was looking down at it. Kirishima stood behind him, his muscular arms wrapped around Katsuki’s thinner waist, his bare chest against the blonde’s back. Kirishima had his lips pressed to Katsuki’s temple, but his sparkling jewel eyes were staring directly into the camera. As you were admiring the picture, you received another text from Katsuki, saying how he wanted to see you in that outfit in person.

With an almost childlike excitement, you continued to carefully put away the new clothes, wanting them to stay pristine until you saw the heroes again. As you put on some comfier clothes, your foot knocked on a cardboard box that sat on the floor of the closet, gathering dust. That procrastination curiosity got the better of you and you opened it, wondering what you could have put in there.

Oh…

Lacy underwear, thigh highs, garter belts. Impulse buys you got when you were feeling good about yourself but never had a reason to wear. Underwear that was made purely of leather straps around the crotch, waist and thighs, meant to mimic the look of shibari. A lace garter-jock strap-thigh high combo, leather harnesses, classic lacy thongs, all gone to waste.

But the giddiness and excitement from Kirishima and Katsuki gave you an idea.

The sun was setting by the time you were ready to send them a collection of pictures. Trying on the different pieces and trying to find the perfect angle and pose for the pictures. Showing your supple body in scantily clad underwear that barely covered your most intimate parts. Eventually, you had a nice collection on your hands, and without hesitation, you hit the send button.

But then the realisation hit. Here you were, sending them risqué pictures out of nowhere, when there wasn’t much of a build-up other than you sending a nice, somewhat sexy picture of yourself, and the two of them sending one back that you may have taken out of context. They had just gotten off work, they were probably tired and just wanting to relax, and you were sending them borderline nudes. Oh god, where’s the unsend button?!

Before you could even try to delete them, you saw the three little dots of Katsuki typing. They disappeared and reappeared a couple of times, making you chew on your bottom lip nervously. The dots disappeared, and you waited for them to reappear, but they didn’t return. With a sigh of defeat, you limply fell back on your bed.

Your phone began buzzing in your hand, the ringtone singing louder than you expected. Fumbling the device between your hands as you sat up, trying to recover from your freight before you answered. Katsuki’s contact name was on your screen, and it only served to make your already frightened heart beat faster.

“Hello?” You answered meekly, phone to your ear, cringing at the way the metal piercings scraped against the screen from you placing it there too fast.

“Oi! Do you know what ya doin’ t’me?” He shouted into the phone, but you swear you could hear the twinge of a smirk.

“S-sorry, I was just-” Your cheeks were warm, unable to hold down your cheeky smile.

“You know exactly what you were doin’. I’m callin’ you a cab.” In the background, you could hear Kirishima playfully scolding Katsuki.

“Really?” You gawked into the phone.

“Uh-huh, and you better wear one of those outfits f’me.” Looking around your bed at the various sets of lingerie and sexy underwear, you bit your lip.

“Which ones?” You asked, feeling a tingle between your thighs as your mind started to wander to dirtier thoughts.

“Dealers choice,” he huffed.

“Get here fast.”

———

Katsuki was waiting by the door, ripping it open the second he heard you shut the cab door. He dragged you inside as soon as you were within reach, slamming the front door closed before slamming his lips onto yours. Backing you up against the wall, his hands groped your hips, desperately grinding his own against you.

“Katsuki,” came Kirishima’s warning voice. He was standing on the nearby staircase with stern yet playful eyes, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. Katsuki pulled away, your lips popping, as he glared at his partner with a low grumble.

“Katsuki,” he mocked. Kirishima could only chuckle and shake his head, slowly descending a few more steps.

“Be gentle.”

“He said he likes it rough,” the blonde smirked, pulling you off the wall by your hips, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep yourself steady.

“Dontcha baby?”

You smiled meekly and nodded, fingers fiddling with the baby hairs at the back of his neck. With a smirk and a huff, he stepped back and took your hand, leading you towards the stairs. Kirishima ended up leading the way to the bedroom, and it was just as nice as it looked in their picture.

The bed was made, ready to be tussled and disturbed. A couple of candles on the bedside tables created a soft glow around the room, and a rattan chair sat in the corner, facing the bed. You weren’t able to admire the room any longer as Katsuki pushed you down onto the bed, standing over you with a smirk.

With a knee between your thighs, he slipped his hands under your shirt, pushing it up until he revealed the lace garter belt around your waist. His tongue ran over his lip, quickly pulling down your pants to reveal the sheer thigh highs clipped onto the garter belt with thin straps. Kirishima stood behind Katsuki, watching his partner rush to undress you.

Finally, bare of clothes except for the lingerie you had hidden underneath. Kirishima had his arms slinked around Katsuki’s waist, both of them staring down at you. It was like the picture, but now the two pairs of red eyes on you felt even more intense. Like two predators watching their prey. But you weren’t scared, you trusted them. As a silent signal, Kirishima stepped back, leaving a lingering hold on Katsuki’s hips until he finally let go, letting the blonde do as he pleased with you.

Katsuki began to tug on his belt, aggressively undoing it as his almost glowing eyes wandered over your body. Your thighs pressed together, feeling vulnerable under his intimidating gaze. You watched him undress, leaning back on your elbows as button after button came undone. You hadn’t even realised Kirishima disappeared from your sight until the drawer beside the bed slid open. Finally breaking your glare from Katsuki, you turned your attention to Kirishima, who was digging through the top drawer of the nightstand.

A bottle of lube and wet wipes were placed on the tabletop, Kirishima smiling softly at you as you watched him, his lips parting to show the pointed tips of his teeth. It was comforting, if only for a moment. While you were distracted, Katsuki had completely stripped off his clothes and swooped down, trapping you between his arms. With your neck craned to watch Kirishima, Katsuki used the opportunity to place a hot kiss on your neck, teeth dragging against your skin. You gasped and moaned as you grabbed onto his shoulders, back arching up until your torso was flat against his abs.

His cock felt hot and heavy against your thigh, yours barely contained by the matching lacy panties you wore. With your attention back on him, his lips travelled up your neck until they met yours, his hands running over your bare skin, stopping for brief moments over the garter belt and thigh highs, until his fingertips slipped under the elastic of your panties. Featherlight touches against your cock were accidental, his focus on the underwear itself.

He broke the kiss to retrieve the lube, squirting some on his fingers. His dry hand pushed your thighs apart and pulled your underwear to the side. The lube felt cold on your hole, gasping at the wet feeling as he slowly but firmly started to finger you open. Katsuki bit his lip as you mewled below him, rolling your hips in hopes of the digits slipping in further. You had almost forgotten about Kirishima until you heard the chair in the corner creak as he shifted himself on it to get a better view of Katsuki prepping you for him.

After fitting three fingers inside you, Katsuki pulled them out and slicked up his cock with lube, pressing the tip to your tight ring of muscle. With little resistance, he penetrated you, cock stretching your walls. Moans and curses flowed from your lips, twisting the bed sheets in your fists. He was quick to set a fast and rough pace, hips slapping against your thighs. Each thrust had his cock brushing against your prostate, sending pleasureful shocks through your nerves like electricity.

His strong hips made the bed creak, his grip shifting to your thighs to push your knees towards your shoulders. Without Kirishima’s calm and grounding touches, your body felt electric and like you were in another world. Eyes rolling back, back arching and moans turning to mindless babbles as each thrust against your prostate brought you closer to coming.

But Katsuki’s hips began to slow, your orgasm falling with it. Your eyes snapped to him, and through blurry vision, you could see Kirishima behind Katsuki, guiding him to lean forward. As he leaned over you, pushing your knees further against your shoulders and his cock slowly thrusting at a new angle, Kirishima held a strong grip on the blonde’s hip, lining up his cock to his husband’s hole. He could barely hold Katsuki still long enough to insert himself, but once he did Katsuki started to thrust even faster inside you, fucking himself on Kirishima’s cock.

Kirishima stared lovingly at the back of Katsuki’s head before he aggressively grabbed his hair, yanking Katsuki upwards. The blonde’s face was twisted in pleasure, Kirishima nibbling at his neck as his powerful hips set the pace. He had taken control of the whole situation, his staunch hold on Katsuki reigning him in, and he seemed to like it too, maybe even love it by the way he grinned.

“Fu-uck!” Katsuki groaned, his raspy voice sending a throb to your core. He still had your knees against your shoulders, so as much as you wanted to run your nails across the muscular landscape of his body, you could only clench the bed sheets. Each forceful thrust from Kirishima was felt inside you, your underwear growing dark as precum leaked from your cock, soaking the lace fabric. Drool dripped from the corner of your lips as you let out a chorus of moans, Katsuki’s grip on the underside of your thighs growing tighter, leaving crescent moons to dot your skin.

“Ka-Kats-ki,” you stuttered, eyes clenching shut as your peak grew closer, toes curling. Katsuki moaned at you calling his name, biting his lip to muffle the sound. A couple more muffled moans from him had you peaking your eyes open, catching the two heroes locked in a passionate kiss. When they broke apart, they stared deeply into each other’s eyes as Kirishima finally let go of Katsuki’s spiked locks. It was as if they were silently communicating with each other as Katsuki pulled your calves against his shoulders before leaning down, his chest almost against yours if your legs weren’t in the way.

Kirishima started thrusting intensely, forcing Katsuki’s cock deeper inside you. It felt like he was rearranging your guts with each stroke until the coil snapped as you stained your underwear. Clenching around Katsuki brought him closer to coming, Kirishima feeling the way his partner’s hips stuttered as he tried to match the pace of his hips. With a Herculean grip, he held Katsuki’s hips in place and started pounding him. Each thrust from Kirishima caused Katsuki’s cock to stimulate your prostate as it pressed against the sensitive spot perfectly at that angle.

With your lips parted as you whined and moaned, Katsuki kissed you, his tongue against the back of your teeth. Another orgasm started to build, barely coming down from the high from the first one, as you started clenching down on Katsuki’s cock once more. This combined with Kirishima’s superhuman speed brought Katsuki to cum, the feeling of his seed filling you bringing you to cum as well. Katsuki’s hole tightened around Kirishima and with a few more staggering thrusts, he came.

The combined panting of Katsuki, Kirishima and yourself harmonised in the room, everyone slowly coming back down to earth after being sent to cloud nine. Kirishima pulled out of Katsuki with a shiver, which allowed the blonde to pull out of you, just in time as your legs started to ache. Katsuki lazily rolled down beside you, sweaty back hitting the cooler sheets. Kirishima retrieved the wet wipes he left out earlier, cleaning himself off first before nudging Katsuki’s thighs apart to clean him.

In response, Katsuki pulled the red-headed hero down to kiss him once more. You looked away, feeling almost as if you were intruding. Your underwear being pulled down had you looking between your legs, where Kirishima was attempting to remove the soaked garment. You sat up, reaching down to take them off yourself.

“You don’t have to-” You were silenced by his hand cupping your cheek delicately, his smile just as soft.

“It’s okay, just relax,” he spoke, waiting for you to lay back down before he continued to remove the lingerie. Most of it had been stained by cum and lube, and most likely couldn’t be salvaged. Katsuki must’ve caught your frown, as he playfully squeezed your thigh before he climbed off the bed.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he said as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. The wet wipe felt cold against your abused hole, but it was better than feeling slick and sticky.

“What time is it?” you asked once Kirishima was done cleaning you, looking around for a clock. From the bathroom you heard a tap squeak before the water hit the tiled floor, the rhythm broken up by Katsuki cleaning himself up under the stream.

“Don’t worry about it,” Katsuki called over the water.

“I have work in the morning,” you replied as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, searching the room for your discarded clothes. Kirishima was fluffing about around you, stripping off the pillowcases and tossing them aside. Before you could ask him why, Katsuki peered out of the bathroom, scowling at you but the threatening look was diminished by his wet hair and water droplets running over his rippling biceps.

“Shitty Hair has late patrols, he can take you,” he explained shortly. With your brow furrowed and head tilted in confusion, he sighed.

“You’re staying the night, get in the shower.”

You blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing before Kirishima’s large hand found your back, leading you to stand up. Deciding not to fight it, you let the redhead lead you into the ensuite, where the shower was running, steam clouding the air.

“Kats likes it a little hot, turn it down if you need to,” Kirishima whispered to you before leaving you to bathe. The caddy hanging from the base of the tall showerhead was stocked with various skin care products like scrubs, moisturisers, and shampoo that, when you squirted it onto your palm, smelt like Katsuki’s hair. There was also a bottle of 5-in-1 body, hair, face, shave and moisturiser which you correctly assumed to be Kirishima’s. When you were done, the redhead was waiting and gave you a fluffy towel, pressing a chaste kiss to your wet hair as you passed him.

The bed sheets had been changed, candles blown out and only a lamp lit the room. Katsuki was now dressed in only his underwear as he carried the soiled sheets away. By the time you had dried yourself off, Katsuki had returned, now holding some folded clothes, which he handed to you. It was an old shirt and sleep shorts, both baggy on you, but smelt like the explosive hero. He dragged you to the bed, pulling you close on the crisp, clean sheets. You tried to ignore the fact that he was barely clothed, but you still felt your cheeks grow warm.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he smirked as he pulled you to his bare chest. “Red is a human heater.”

Speak of the devil, Kirishima exited the bathroom, a towel hung low on his hips as he used a separate towel to dry his red locks. He strutted through the room, displaying his gorgeous body decorated with scars from his years on the hero scene. Digging through a dresser, he found a pair of sweats and a faded t-shirt, slipping them on before climbing into the bed. He pulled Katsuki until his back met his chest, Katsuki pulling you along with him. After switching off the light and snuggling into the bed, Kirishima sighed, all the tense knots in his muscles slipping away.

“Goodnight Kats, goodnight baby,” he called into the dark room.

“Night Ei,” Katsuki replied, words slurred as sleep quickly took him.

“G’night,” you whispered into his chest, melting into his arms as your eyes drifted shut, the soft hum of the washing machine down the hall lulling you to sleep.

#bnha x reader #bnha x male reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo x reader #eijiro kirishima x reader #kiribaku x reader #kirishima x reader #gay #kirishima eijiro x male reader #eijiro x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugo x male reader #kiribaku #bakugo katsuki x male reader #mha x male reader #mha x reader #SoundCloud

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empthy1 · 1 month ago

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AFTER MIDNIGHT ꩜ .ᐟ quinn fabray x reader

character study (partially.) loved writing this. butch!reader implied, i hope my love for butches comes through. 1.75k words exactly.

Her momma always said that bad girls were the ones who ended up in nightclubs, indulging in alcohol and not God's teachings. The girls like that never found good husbands and never formed the families they were meant to. That's what she always said.

It was frequently hissed in her ear, the unfamiliar curl of the word "heretics" confusing her yet nestling unpleasantly in her mind.

Her momma made her promise she'd never become one of those girls. Would be pious, follow the Gospel, and find a God-fearing husband.

So, little Lucy Quinn Fabray, all of seven and sat on her momma's knee, did the only obvious thing when confronted with her seemingly imminent future.

She murmured a soft "yes, momma," and clutched tighter at her momma's modest yellow cardigan.

She was immediately chastised for that. There wasn't much she wasn't reprimanded for.

"Don't call me 'momma'." Her momma mother had huffed, pretty face tightening with annoyance and the hypocritical smell of alcohol on her breath. The line of her mouth thins contemplatively. "You make me feel old enough already. And don't wrinkle my clothes. I'll have to steam this. Again."

Now, some sixteen years later, here she was—going against the words she'd held as gospel for so long.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She nervously smooths down her too-short dress, trying to tug it past her upper thigh. She's not very successful. The amount of sequins sewn onto the garment would make her father red-faced and Kurt proud. She'd know—he picked it out for her.

"Please, Quinn. You have to get this one! It'd look so good on you." Is all she remembered before having the pink silk thrown at her. She had squawked indignantly at the impact, the hanger hitting her temple and catching in her hair.

Despite her (and Santana's) protests—"Oh, you are not letting Jesus Girl wear my nice dress from Sacs!"—she ended up in the form-fitting fabric regardless.

They hadn't even bothered to accompany her, leaving her to traverse her first club alone.

Sure. She was Quinn Fabray. HBIC, Head Cheerio, ex-Skank and a generally competent person. But she was competent in Nowhere, Ohio. Or in the friendly town of college students and old people that was New Haven. Sure, it was the third biggest city in Connecticut, but it was Connecticut.

This was New York City. This was shady alleys, dark, dank corners and the widest variety of people she'd ever seen.

The people in front of her in line were two obviously gay and already intoxicated men. At eleven at night.

The person behind her? A woman so tall and in heels so high she's sure if she turned around she'd make eye contact with her stomach.

She's not used to these types of people. This type of place.

The bouncer is burlier than ninety-nine percent of guys she sees at Yale—nice Polos and slim, toned arms replaced by a regular black tee, a... leather harness and arms like boulders. He scowls where they smile, but his hands are gentler when he takes her ID than they'd been with her. Hm.

She's visually assaulted by bright lights of every color. They flash against the wall and in her eyes, periodically illuminating the people around her.

Some taller than her, some shorter. Some slim like a willow with curling limbs, others sturdy with strong hands and a solid stance. Men, women, people who's gender she can't discern, with long hair, cropped cuts or anything in between in any color she could imagine.

She doesn’t have long to take in any of this. There’s a swell of people at her back and a melting pot at her front. She’s been here before, knows the rules—acclimate or die. Same as high school.

She’s seen the movies. She knows what’s supposed to happen. She’ll walk up to the bar, order a drink, and a handsome, tall man will hop out of nowhere and pay for it. A couple months of nondescript dating, they’ll be married.

Not exactly how her mother hoped it’d happen, but she won’t be too disappointed. She’ll just be glad Quinn is married and she can finally talk about her in church without the pitying coos of other moms.

All she can think is "yeah, scratch that." when the person who saddles up next to her is not a charming, dark-haired man with dimples and is, instead, the most handsome woman she's ever seen grinning at the bartender over her shoulder.

"Yeah, Mike. She's on my tab. Thanks, man." A regular, clearly. And... not the man she expected. Not a man at all.

She'd always thought wry smiles and crooked grins were inherently smug. They'd always been on the faces of boys trying to trick their way into her skirt, thinking themselves clever.

But this grin, the one you direct at her? She likes it more than she should.

"I haven't seen you around here before." Your voice is loud, elevated over the pulsing music. You'd turned to face her, elbow on the bar and strong-looking hand under your chin.

"You're either new to the city or new to the queer scene."

...they sent her to a gay bar. She's going to wring Kurt's neck. And then apologize so he lets her stay in his apartment while she nurses this humiliation.

Is that why the bouncer was in leather?

"...yeah. I'm new to both. I'm here visiting friends." She's not used to raising her voice—it's unladylike, her mother would say. Women were to be seen, not heard. Her volume is low, too low to be heard over the deafening music.

You have to lean closer, shift and tilt your head so she can repeat herself straight into your ear. The music booms, but she swears she can hear you inhale when her hot breath brushes the cartilage. Or when she cups a bare bicep, leaning into the warmed skin.

She had to catch herself, she justifies. She definitely lost her balance.

Except for the fact that she can dance in six-inch platforms and these are only four. There's no way she'd be tripping into you, especially only one drink deep.

Speaking of dancing.

It might be the shot (or three) she'd downed while you two were conversing and laughing and flirting but she wanted to dance. She'd missed it. There isn't many places to go dancing in New Haven, and not many people she'd go with.

So she tugs your elbow, says something that's not much more than an enthusiastic, unintelligible giggle and tears off towards the floor. You stubble behind her, chuckling under your breath when she bumps into some guy. Evidently, you're better at holding your alcohol.

She knows the lessons from bible camp. She'd gone there seven years—they're practically ingrained in her psyche. The most important one, plastered on posters and said by any adult in hearing range at the Summer's End Dance?

Leave room for Jesus.

But alcohol's a funny thing. And her head's all wrong—she feels mushy.

She likes your biceps. And your hair. The ease at which she wraps in your arms, her own fingers curling around the back of your neck, is atypical of her.

And there's definitely no room for Jesus when the sturdy line of you presses right up against her.

She'd like to say it was the press of people keeping you together, but even through the intoxication she knows she's lying to herself. She likes you. It's weird. Even among cheerleaders, with teasing skirts and flouncy hair, she'd never felt... this.

The short crop of your hair is increasingly more appealing. The strength in your muscles, and the charming black slacks that hug you nicely draw her more than long, batting lashes.

There weren't people like you in Lima. A voice in her mind traitorously murmurs, sounding too much like Santana. Maybe that's why this took you so long, Q.

The beat's fast, but you're both too drunk to articulate anything more than a stationary sway.

That's fine with her. She gets to feel your arms around her waist and rest her head on your homely shoulder. The swaying motions keep her steady, stop the stumbling she's bound to do once she's out of your grip.

As songs go by, she starts to go down, down, down. Sobering up, yes, but not expecting the wave of drowsiness that comes with it. She clings to you ever tighter.

"I think I need to go home..." Is mumbled into your ear, her lilting, quiet tone laced with breathiness. It makes you shiver, and she bites back a grin. Your body shifts, supporting more of her weight to help her out of the club—hand splaying over her lower back. So she did find a gentleman tonight.

Once you both slip out of the club—though a backdoor you were totally allowed to use, ignoring the Employees Only sign—she smiles. The city air is cool, brushing over her skin and making her sigh. As you release her, she looses her footing, but is able to recover with a (still slightly tipsy) laugh.

"Get home safe, Quinn." She hears you murmur. A pleased sigh escapes her at the kiss you press to her cheek. Naturally leaning into the touch, she almost misses how you grasp her forearm—deftly scrawling a phone number in Sharpie, big enough to span the whole area.

"Call me." And then you're off. The bouncer gives you a wave as you stroll past, shooting you a grin once he catches sight of her.

Whew.

...should she call a taxi?

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

She stumbles up to Kurt's apartment door, firmly feeling the effects of the alcohol. Bracing against the doorframe, she can't help but huff as she drunkenly fumbles with the key. Not quite sober yet.

Opening the door causes her friends to freeze—Santana and Kurt being in the middle of putting up a... rainbow balloon arch?

"Oh, there's no way I was wrong. You weren't supposed to be here before morning! Why aren't you with a lady friend, Q?" Santana says, eyes narrowing with discontent at her arrival (typical) and at her... lack of a lady friend.

Santana sent her out to hookup with someone. With a woman. She tried to orchestrate her gay awakening.

She's too drunk to think about that. Or the fact that she did, in fact, have a gay awakening. She doesn't even say anything. She doesn't need to.

She just raises her forearm—dark with the digits of your phone number—and grins at the cheers she gets in response.

#kiera's fics ₊˚⊹ ࿔#quinn fabray #quinn fabray x reader #glee #glee x reader

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stvmotorsports01 · 3 months ago

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The Importance of Light Bar Switches in Motorsports

Light bars have become an essential accessory for many motorsport vehicles, providing increased visibility in low-light conditions. However, to fully harness the benefits of a light bar, a reliable and efficient light bar switch is crucial. This article will delve into the importance of light bar switches and explore their various functions and benefits in the world of motorsports.

Why Light Bar Switches Matter

A light bar switch serves as the command center for your vehicle's lighting system. It allows you to control the activation, intensity, and patterns of your light bar, ensuring optimal illumination for different driving scenarios. Here's why light bar switches are indispensable:

Safety: In challenging conditions like fog, rain, or night driving, a well-placed light bar can significantly enhance visibility. A reliable switch ensures you can activate the light bar instantly when needed, improving your safety and reducing the risk of accidents.

Performance: For off-road racing and other demanding applications, a light bar can illuminate the terrain ahead, allowing you to navigate obstacles and make informed decisions. A responsive switch enables you to adjust the light bar's intensity to match the specific conditions of the course.

Functionality: Modern light bar switches often offer additional features like strobe modes, dimming options, and even integration with other vehicle systems. These functionalities can enhance your overall driving experience and provide added convenience.

Types of Light Bar Switches

There are several types of light bar switches available, each with its own advantages and drawbacks:

Toggle Switches: These are simple and reliable switches that offer a basic on/off function. They are often used in more traditional setups.

Push Button Switches: These switches are compact and easy to use. They can be single-press or dual-press to activate different light bar functions.

Rotary Switches: These switches offer multiple positions, allowing you to control the light bar's intensity or select different lighting patterns.

Digital Switches: Advanced digital switches provide precise control and may include features like dimming, strobe modes, and even integration with your vehicle's infotainment system.

Choosing the Right Light Bar Switch

When selecting a light bar switch, consider the following factors:

Compatibility: Ensure the switch is compatible with your specific light bar and vehicle model.

Functionality: Determine the features you require, such as on/off, dimming, strobe modes, or integration with other systems.

Durability: Opt for a switch made from high-quality materials that can withstand the harsh conditions of motorsports.

Ease of Use: A switch that is easy to operate and intuitive to use will enhance your driving experience.

Conclusion

Light bar switches are essential components for any motorsport vehicle equipped with a light bar. They provide the control and flexibility needed to optimize visibility and performance in various driving conditions. By understanding the different types of switches and selecting the right one for your needs, you can enhance your safety, improve your driving experience, and achieve greater success in your motorsport endeavors.

#light bar switch #off road accessories las vegas #racing harnesses #laser rocker switch and rocker switch #sewn in harnesses

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the-seelie-court-official · 1 year ago

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i cant wear a collar i can always Feel it on my neck, bad stim type. im one of them dogs what needs a harness. bright yellow. the word 'NERVOUS' sewn all over it. im actually aggressive but not everyone needs to know that

#they just need to stay the fuck away from me #memos from the embassy

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lanawinterscigarettes · 1 month ago

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From the clothing prompts can i ask is it possible to have football jersey with either Peter Parker or Eric van der Woodsen and male reader? Thanks

let me tell you I was absolutely ecstatic to see someone request something for eric so he's who I chose to do the fic with! this was originally supposed to be something short but then it spiraled into a big long thing so I hope that's okay <3

the original prompt list can be found here btw

Meet the Family (Eric van der Woodsen x male reader)

Warnings: mild swearing, implied sex/some suggestiveness, very mild angst I think??, fluff other than that <3

When Eric woke up that morning, he was in a football jersey. Your football jersey, to be exact, one that you'd left over at his house by accident the day before.

His mom had been on a trip somewhere, and his sister was out with her friends, which meant you two got some much needed alone time. One thing had led to another, and before he even realized it you were both tangled up in the sheets of his bed. You must've put on one of his shirts by accident before you left, and he'd grabbed your jersey thinking it was his in the dim lit room.

He knew why you were gone, of course. It was an unspoken rule for you to not be there when his family was so they wouldn't interrogate you on your "intentions" with him.

A sigh escaped from him as he laid back in his bed, bringing the fabric of the jersey up to his face and inhaling it deeply. It smelled just like you. God, he missed you already.

Honestly, he probably should've known better than to go down to breakfast while still in your clothes, but for one he was starving after the eventful night he'd had before and for another he didn't actually expect his family to already be there. Certainly not both of them at the same time. Great.

Part of him hoped he'd be able to sneak in, grab something small and scurry back up the stairs before being spotted, but unfortunately he had no such luck.

"Eric, darling. Come join us for breakfast," his mother's voice called out from the dining room, prompting him to let out a heavy sigh. He should've known it would be one of those days where she'd tried to cram all her years of absent parenting into one morning where she pretended like she actually gave a damn.

"I'm still in my pajamas," he called back hesitantly, hoping it would be a good enough excuse for him to at least change before having to sit down face-to-face with her.

"Nonsense, your sister's still in her pajamas, too. You'll be fine."

Damn it. Today really just wasn't his morning, it would seem.

He slowly trudged into the dining room and sat down at the table, hoping if he sat slumped over enough he could hide the jersey he had on. That didn't work, obviously. Lily might not have been the most present parent, physically or emotionally, but she knew when one of her kids was hiding something, and she certainly knew what a cheap piece of fabric sewn into a makeshift shirt looked like.

Her eyes narrowed as she gazed down at the jersey he had on, studying it closely. "What's that you're wearing?" She questioned, his sister looking up from her own breakfast at the matriarch's question.

"It's just something I borrowed from a friend," he responded a little defensively. Serena let out a snort of muffled laughter in response, clearly not believing him in the slightest. He shot her a dirty look, knowing if she didn't believe it, Lily wouldn't, either.

"Oh, really? And what's your friend's name? Have we met them before?" She tried to make the questions seem casual, but he knew better. It was an old and tired tactic she used when she wanted to know about her kids' social life without having to put in the actual work to be deserving of knowing the answer.

"Um, I'm not really sure," he mumbled in response, still sitting slumped over while buttering a piece of toast, trying to avoid eye contact with either of them.

"Eric, don't slouch. And take your elbows off the table," Lily chastised, clearly not intent on trying too hard to be seem like the caring mother she so often liked to portray to outsiders who weren't aware of the inner family dynamic.

He scoffed, clearly not appreciating her scolding so early in the morning. "You know what, I'm not that hungry anyway," he declared while pushing his chair back, stalking out of the dining room without giving them so much as a second glance.

His mother knew she messed up just from that response. "Eric, wait-" she tried to call out after him, but he was already gone, rushing back up the stairs and flopping down onto his bed.

He felt like crying, he really did. It was stupid, honestly. He didn't know why their opinion mattered to him so much. It's not like Lily or Serena were that present in his life, anyway. Still, they were his family, and despite his better judgement he didn't want them to hate you right away, which is probably the real reason behind him hiding you.

Just as he was about to break down into tears, his phone rang, and he instantly knew it was you from the ringtone that played. "Hello?" He mumbled, hoping his voice sounded like he'd just woken up rather than he was about to cry.

"Good morning, baby," your chipper voice came from the other end, something that caused him to smile. "I know it's still a little early, but I was wondering if you wanted to meet up for coffee."

He let out a quiet sigh of relief at the question. "Coffee sounds great right about now." Anything to get him out of that house. "Do you want me to bring your jersey when we meet up?"

"That's right, I did leave it with you, didn't I?" You commented, thinking out loud as per usual. It was such an endearing trait in his eyes. "Nah, it's fine, I can just pick it up some other time. I'm sure it looks much better on you than it does on me, anyway."

His cheeks heated up at your comment, not missing the slightly suggestive tone in your voice. He let out a breathless sort of chuckle before replying. "Okay, well, I've got to go get changed so we can meet. I'll see you in about twenty minutes at our usual spot?"

"Of course. Love you, babe. See you then."

It was hard for him to ignore the way his heart fluttered about in his chest like a caged bird trying desperately to break free from the walls that were his ribs. You always seemed to have that affect on him. "I love you, too. Bye."

Laying back on the bed, he dropped his phone on his chest after hanging up and stared up at the ceiling, unable to push away the giddy feeling he had. Leave it to you to somehow make an awful morning immediately better.

He headed back downstairs after he was finished changing, a pep in his step as he went. Lily was already gone, which made him think he was in the clear until his sister stopped him.

"Hey, wait up a second," she called out as she met up with him in the front hallway. "Why are you going so early in the morning? And dressed so nice, too," she added with a sly smirk that suggested she already had a bit of an idea.

"I'm, uh- I'm meeting a friend," he lied through his teeth, though Serena wasn't buying it for a second.

"Oh, really? And does this happen to be the same 'friend' from earlier that you borrowed the jersey from?" She lightly teased, giving him a playful shove.

An awkward chuckle escaped from him at her words, one that was obviously forced. "Okay, I've gotta go now. Don't get into too much trouble while I'm gone," he said quickly in an attempt to change the subject, about to leave when she reached her hand out to stop him, resting it on his shoulder.

"Wait, I just wanted to say that-" She paused, trying to find the right words. She searched for a moment or so before finally settling on, "I want you to be happy, you know that, right?"

"I know," he replied, not really sure where she was going with this as she took extra time to properly formulate her thoughts into words.

"Look, I don't know who this guy is that you're seeing, but if he makes you happy then I'm sure he's great. You should bring him around sometime." She gave his shoulder a squeeze before adding, "Maybe we can meet your new boyfriend at the same time we meet mom's."

He let out a scoff at her suggestion. "Yeah, I'm not subjecting him to that. But..." He sighed, seeming to know what she was getting at. She wanted to be in his life more, and this was her way of trying to connect. At least she wasn't overly judgmental like Lily could be. "If you really want to meet him, I'll introduce you sometime, okay?"

She smiled brightly at that, clearly getting the response she was hoping for. "Great! I'd love to meet him." She dropped her hand from his shoulder and watched as he started to leave again. "Have fun, and be safe," she called after him as he left.

"I will," he said while leaving out the front door, still filled with the utmost of glee at getting to see you. It sounded so stupid when you'd been over just the night before, but when you were gone he missed you like no other. Sure, he had Lily and Serena as his family, but with you was where he really felt at home.

He couldn't stop from grinning the moment he spotted you at your usual meeting place, two coffees in hand. "Hey, stranger," you greeted in a friendly manner while holding out his coffee. "I got you your favorite."

"You're the best," he replied before leaning in to give you an appreciative kiss. It seemed as though your lips got sweeter every time he tasted them.

"Yeah, I know," you joked in response, your eyes twinkling with that familiar hint of mischief he always loved. He took the coffee from you, blowing on it gently before taking a small sip. It was touching how you always remembered his order.

"So, my sister wants to meet you," he said after a moment or so after you started walking together. His voice was a little tentative when he spoke, as if it was a subject he was hesitant to bring up.

"Oh, yeah?" Your hand reached for his as you drank your coffee, making his heart flutter with affection. The action was so natural when you did it, as if you'd been together forever.

"Yeah. I think she feels guilty for all the times she's been absent in my life, which is why she's trying to make up for it now." Part of him had regretted leaving his gloves at home when he felt how cold it was, but that regret disappeared instantly when he felt your warm hand envelope his.

"Do you want me to meet her?" was your next question, which didn't surprise him very much as you were always pretty mindful of his boundaries and what he felt comfortable with.

"Only if you feel okay with it. I don't want you to think that it's, like, required in order to be able to date me, because it's not," he stated before taking a sip of his own coffee.

"Well, from what I've heard from the tabloids, she's quite the party girl," you began before continuing with, "but from what I've heard from you, she's just your big sister who's been through some pretty hard times." You were always like that, so open-minded and unjudgmental. It was a refreshing change from the usual Upper East Side crowd. "So if you're okay with me meeting her, then I'd love to do it."

"Really?" He couldn't help the way his jaw dropped a little. Most of the time whenever he had a new boyfriend, he tried his best to keep his love life separate from his family to avoid unnecessary drama, and they agreed to it because of that. But you were different, always finding new ways to surprise him, like offering to meet his sister with no problem.

You let out a good natured laugh at his response. "Oh, wow, you should really see the look on your face when I said that, you look ridiculous," you teased before continuing. "But yes, really. I know how important your sister is to you, and I want to make a good first impression. I can't do that if I spend all of my time trying to hide from her because I'm worried about what she'll think when she finally meets me."

He watched you with a gaze that was full of pure awe. Every time you spoke, it seemed as though he was falling more and more in love with you. "I just can't get over how amazing you are, did you know that?"

"Aw, baby, you're much more amazing than I am." You squeezed his hand and gave his lips a loving kiss to help emphasize your point. "Now, am I going to have to dress up and wear a suit to meet her, or do you think what I have on now is okay?"

It was his turn to laugh, his fingers lacing through yours as he held your hand a little bit tighter. "I think whatever you choose to wear will look great on you," he answered honestly.

"That's good to know, because I plan on showing up in a clown suit," you deadpanned, causing him to let out another snort of laughter at your dry sense of humor. "Yeah, I'll get the big shoes and the red nose and everything. I'll pull up outside in one of those tiny clown cars, and when you open the door about five of us will fall out."

"Oh my God, shut up. Now you're just being ridiculous." He tried to make it sound like he was chastising you, but it was clear from the smile on his face that he was highly amused.

"What, you don't like the idea for my outfit?" You questioned in mock offense, clearly being overdramatic. "How dare you. And to think I was even going to give you a fake flower that spits out water as a gift."

By this point, the disastrous breakfast he'd had with his family was completely forgotten as you'd successfully distracted him from it. Even if he didn't say something was wrong, you always knew regardless and did your best to cheer him up, which was just yet another reason to love you.

"I love you," he blurted out suddenly, unable to stop himself. "And I'm sure my sister's going to love you, even if my mom doesn't."

"Aw, baby. I love you, too." You stopped walking, letting go of his hand only so you could reach out and touch his cheek. The act was so simple, yet so intimate at the same time. "Your face is all flushed."

"Yeah, that's probably just the cold," he muttered while staring at you with what could only be described as the biggest heart eyes ever.

He was certain you must've been aware of how flustered you made him, which was the other reason behind his flushed cheeks, but you chose not to point it out. "Come on, let's get you somewhere warm then." Taking his hand in yours, you began to walk again, leading him God knows where.

"Hey, where are we going?" He asked in curiosity, though he didn't seem at all bothered by the way you were dragging him along like a dog on a leash.

"My place. I need to look through my clothes and find something to wear for when I meet your family," you casually replied, finishing your coffee before dropping the empty cup in a nearby trashcan. "Hopefully my clown suit isn't still at the dry cleaner's," you added with a cheeky grin, proud of yourself for the joke you'd made.

Eric just scoffed in amusement, throwing away his own coffee cup as he followed after you (something he had to do given just how tightly your hands were intertwined). "Again, I told you what you wear doesn't matter as long as it's not something utterly ridiculous, like a clown suit."

You let out a playful huff as you tugged him in closer while walking together. "Well, maybe that's not the only reason I think we should go back to my place," you purred suggestively before pressing a kiss to his jaw.

By that point, the redness of his face couldn't be blamed solely on the weather. "Ah, so that's how you're going to get me all warmed up," he lightly joked, clearing his throat as he tried to appear unbothered.

"Absolutely, it is," you eagerly replied, your grin from earlier back and plastered proudly across your face. "Maybe I can even give you another piece of my clothing for you to leave with, since you seemed to love that jersey so much." God, you were going to be the death of him, but he loved it, just like he loved you.

"I'll make sure to wear it when you meet my family for the first time so they know that we're serious," he said in a manner that was only half joking before giving you a kiss of his own.

He really didn't want to get his hopes up, but he was already certain Serena was going to love you, and that maybe even Lily would give you her stamp of approval. No other past boyfriend ever made him want to introduce them to his family, but you did, and that's what made you so special.

"You know, I really can't wait to meet them," you said after a moment or so, your voice genuine and not joking like earlier.

The corners of his lips tugged upwards into a soft smile when he heard that. Maybe he was still a little bit nervous about you meeting them, but knowing you were actually excited about it rather than worried made him feel much better about the whole ordeal.

"Yeah, me too," he agreed, and for once the thought of his partner meeting his family didn't terrify him completely.

End notes: I really do love Lily I promise but I'm also aware of the strained relationship she has with her kids so I wanted this fic to be accurate and reflect that haha

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#gossip girl #gossip girl imagine #gossip girl x reader #gossip girl fic #gossip girl angst #gossip girl fluff #eric van der woodsen #eric van der woodsen imagine #eric van der woodsen x reader #eric van der woodsen fic #eric van der woodsen angst #eric van der woodsen fluff #male reader #x male reader #gossip girl x male reader #eric van der woodsen x male reader

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ilminnestrone · 4 months ago

Note

Genesis' reaction to seeing Sephiroth in drag? Make this as horny as you want.

When Sephiroth goes more than an hour without answering his calls outside office hours, Genesis gets very annoyed. When he fails to answer more than three messages in a row, he starts to worry. But when even Angeal can't tell him where he is, or worse, admits that he can't reach him either, the facade of carelessness collapses miserably, and he drops everything he's been doing and rushes home. He doesn’t knock, he doesn’t try the doorbell, he simply uses his spare key card and storms his apartment unannounced. He already knows that if he is not at home, the next plan would be to search the entire Shinra building starting with the science department.

The flat is as tidy and clean as ever. An almost empty mug of herbal tea sits abandoned on the coffee table next to the sofa, right on top of the dust jacket of a historical novel he didn't know he was reading: Genesis moves it, and the material is so smooth that he can wipe the round halo with the back of his hand without leaving a mark. Vaguely jazzy music plays softly from the bedroom, and when Sephiroth's voice reaches his ears, anger gives way to relief: he’s humming wordlessly to the notes of the song, sounding serene.

Genesis reaches the room in silence, absentmindedly flipping through the novel to see if it is as tasteless as the cover design suggests, and leans his shoulder against the doorframe, one leg crossing over the other. Sephiroth does not notice him, and the string of notes continues undisturbed with more than adequate intonation.

When Genesis looks up from the page, any consideration of the literary quality of the work disappears. Sephiroth's back is turned, facing the full-length mirror, his white hands gently running down his sides, smoothing the fabric of a black dressing gown: it's good quality chiffon, so sheer that Genesis can count the lines of his muscles beneath it. His milk-coloured, tapered legs are wrapped in silk stockings adorned with lace and a thin line sewn at the back, garters lap at his thighs and hips. That perfect ass seems to have been put on this earth to wear lace culottes, revealing enough to be cheeky without being vulgar. The top is little more than a harness, something not very different from what the public is used to.

Genesis, on the other hand, believes he will never get used to the sight. To those hands grasping the dressing gown and releasing it a moment later, feeling its weight brush against the skin. To those hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. To that foot sliding along the calf to feel the texture of the stocking. To those black embroideries on his skin that make him look like a fugitive moonbeam.

Sephiroth moves closer to the mirror and runs his thumb along his lower lip, wiping away a smudge of lipstick: a desaturated mauve, practically the exact shade of his lips; the same shade that fades his cheekbones. A thin line of eyeliner makes his eyes even more feline, even more languid and tender. And he’s smiling. A soft, carefree smile, the kind that even Genesis would swear he saw on rare, cherished occasions. He smiles as he gathers his hair in his hands and looks in the mirror to see how he would look in a ponytail. The smile turns into a giggle, something so sweet that Genesis could die from it sitting down.

But suddenly the smile dies on his lips, his eyes open wide in horror as he sees him over his shoulder in the mirror: “Genesis!” Genesis feels like an idiot, and not just because of the stunned look on his face, the unhinged jaw, the book slipping out of his hands: he had frightened, perhaps embarrassed him. “Sephiroth, I'm so-” “I'm so sorry, Genesis.” Sephiroth hides as best he can in his dressing gown, curled up on the bed, his face hidden in his hands. "I'm sorry you had to see..."

Genesis wants to laugh, but Sephiroth's broken voice suggests it might hurt him. He sits down beside him on the bed, closing the distance between them before he can pull away. He takes his hand, trying to move it away from his face without forcing it. “Hey…” “I’m sorry… I’m…” “For what?” This time Genesis can't hold back a chuckle. “For being a stunner?” Something tells him that the only right thing to do is to bring those fingers to his lips and kiss them one by one, like precious things, and hold his gaze as he blushes. “You look…” he wants to keep going, but something the size of a hard-boiled egg, complete with shell, gets stuck in his throat and he has to stop to swallow it, “you look beautiful. Sorry, I should have knocked.”

They sit in silence for a while, Genesis' thumb stroking Sephiroth's hand as if to soothe the embarrassment. But his gaze is averted, fixed on the mirror. "I look stupid." This time Genesis sighs. He slips one hand under his silk-covered knees and wraps the other around his hips, hoisting him into his lap, preventing him from continuing to scrutinise himself in the mirror. He touches his leg with exhausting slowness, his fingers lingering on the embroidered hem. He doesn't know where he finds the courage to look up into his eyes. Fuck, he's perfect. "Does it feel right?" Sephiroth nods immediately, the shadow of a smile forming on his lips. “Does it feel… you?” He nods again, the smile even wider; he looks... mischievous: “You know what else I can feel, Genesis?” “Uh?” Genesis raises an eyebrow, curious, as Sephiroth leans in, his lips grazing his ear “You’re extremely hard.”

#ask #headcanon #genesis rhapsodos #sephiroth #ff7 #final fantasy vii #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #crisis core #genseph #sephgen #allusive

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ashmouthbooks · 7 months ago

Text

Læg nu smukt din hånd i min by katekane

A6 quarto hardback with homemade bookcloth - first time making it myself! and the title stamped on the front cover with fabric paint. I have never watched a single Far til fire film (not even the modern remakes) but when I stumbled across this on ao3 I couldn’t pass it by. this fic touches on Danish queer history with such heart and warmth and wonderful characters (I should probably watch the films) that it became an instant favourite.

for ikke at tale om at når man har tilbragt tyve plus år i fandom på engelsk og med engelske canons så er det at læse fic på dansk, der har udgangspunkt i dansk kultur og historie, som regn for sjælens ødemarker.

craft talk under the cut.

this is my first time making bookcloth so I want about it the cheapest possible way - fabric square from Søstrene Grene’s craft section backed with tissue paper which was a) the only paper I had that was big enough for the fabric square and b) salvaged from a past gifty delivery. it went ok but after drying some of the tissue separated from the fabric. hashtag yolo etc. I decided to use it anyway, and I think the moisture in the PVA was just enough to reactivate the paste on the paper backing, because the finished case came out beautifully smooth - and soft. I opted not to infill the cloth so it’s open weave cotton and feels as soft as a pillow to the touch.

the endpapers are also from Søstrene Grene, decorative paper 120gsm. The textblock is printed on 90gsm Munken Lynx Smooth Natural White, I wanted a whiter paper than usual as the chapter end notes have colour photos that I wanted to preserve. headbands are sewn on, the core is leather cord and the thread is embroidery thread.

the title is stamped on using rubber stamps from, you guessed it - Søstrene Grene. (they actually have letter stamps with the Scandinavian alphabet characters but the London store only has that particular set in all caps and the lower case set only had the English alphabet. luckily an æ is easily improvised and I have both a steady hand and a fine tip paintbrush for the circle over the å.) the paint is shimmery metallic fabric paint from Lumiere.

#fanbinding #bookbinding #my bindings #far til fire #katekane #læg nu smukt din hånd i min #dansk

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passivenovember · 1 year ago

Text

PERSONALLY, I like to think Billy's a talker.

Individually, I think that he spent his whole life before with his lips sewn shut, biting his tongue until copper ran down his throat because before, he was full of sunshine and pillowy softness that his father had to beat out of him.

Before his mom left.

Before Charlie Clark kissed him under the bleachers during soccer practice in the fifth grade and it shot like lightening through his blood and Billy just. Couldn't hold it in.

Before Neil found him and broke his collarbone and before they moved to this shit hole, and.

Before Steve.

Billy learned to keep his mouth shut.

But Steve's like a steady piece of land. An old tree that's been around long enough not to be thrown off over something so simple as boys kissing boys, and.

He doesn't shake, even when the wind tussles his leaves. He doesn't say much. He likes to listen. With his chin in the palm of his hand, and his eyes soft like linen bed sheets, and his skin shiny with sweat, his legs wrapped around Billy's stomach when he says, "Tell me what you want."

His fingers in Billy's hair, tracing down his chest.

Billy swallows thickly, words sticking like soup to the lining of his throat. He's used to it. Lying. So he smiles and says, "I want a grilled cheese sandwich."

And Steve says, "I meant with us. What do you want with me?"

His fingers don't stop tracing over Billy's skin. It tickles. Startles a laugh out of him and he says, "I want a grilled cheese sandwich with you tomorrow morning."

Steve frowns. "Okay."

"And the one after that."

Steve's fingers tangle in his har.

"Maybe we could have other stuff. Soup. Ice cream. Breakfast and dinner and cake at our wedding--"

Steve kisses him. He talks.

It feels good.

#harringrove #idk lol

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cowboygenesis · 7 months ago

Text

3: of thunderstorms | geralt x reader

part 3 of the "wild woman" series: masterlist.

pairing: geralt x reader

chapter warnings: nudity, smut, solo male masturbation.

word count: 11.9k

series summary: geralt begrudgingly accepts a monster contract issued to him by a strange girl, thinking it to be an opportunity for some quick coin. nothing goes as planned.

notes: if youre still reading this, thank you so much for sticking with me :) I've been finding a lot of joy in writing this fanfic despite the format being a little iffy for a reader insert (something i realized only 10k words into the fanfic har har). as usual, please leave feedback if you feel so inclined!

Geralt glanced into the greying sky, a sharp look on his resolute face as the light seeped through the sparse cracks of the stoney backdrop; a gentle reminder of the afternoon had begun to cascade down Geralt’s complexion just in time for their arrival in the town’s square.

Despite the upcoming downpour, the city streets kept flooding with life, crowds of people vigorously walking in and out of the center equipped with groceries, home supplies, and various homemade goods for sale.

Geralt watched as an elderly couple struggled to push the weight of a wheelbarrow filled with bags of groats, the husband’s solemn face contrasting his partner’s warm grin. She slapped his shoulder playfully, earning a hiss of annoyance.

“Stop! Come back!” came the cheerful giggle of a young girl, and the witcher stiffened as a group of children ran past his side, with one of the smaller boys bumping into the man’s muscular thigh.

The boy’s gaze rose, bright eyes meeting Geralt’s sharp stare. The few seconds between them must’ve felt like an eternity to the boy, or so the witcher thought. He was all too aware of his uncommon visage and expected most people, especially children, to react similarly to such a close and uncomfortable encounter.

His eyebrow raised suddenly as the child’s lips curled into a goofy, unapologetic grin. He giggled, tiny hands moving to push his body off Geralt’s armored limb, the force making his little body accelerate at speeds likely to make him eat dirt, and with the subtlest misstep, he almost did alright.

The boy dove through the crowd, and soon enough Geralt caught a glimpse of his blonde hair amongst his group of friends who engaged in a tug-of-war over a sewn, stuffed rag vaguely resembling a sheep. A soft giggle came from the saddle.

The witcher’s gaze flickered over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of the young woman riding his mare.

Her bare hands were raised and clasped above her head in an attempt to shield her face from the quickly accelerating downpour, a few drops cascading slowly down her elbow and soaking into the bouffant sleeve of her dress.

She was smiling; a warm, heartfelt smile that extended to her eyes and made her cheeks crease with dimples. Her gaze followed the small group of kids, decently amused at the brief ordeal. Her eyes shifted to Geralt.

Their gazes met, and she giggled again as if the awareness of Geralt’s sudden, reciprocated stare didn’t intimidate her in the slightest.

Her hand dropped to pet Roach’s mane, weaving her fingers through the thick strands and allowing her lips to form into a comfortable smile. She was enjoying their escapade, and it made Geralt wonder if riding a horse was that joyous of activity for common folk like her. But perhaps her smile was about something else entirely. He forced his gaze away.

“We’re almost there, turn right by that fencing,” the woman instructed through her everlasting smile, her right hand abandoning its post on the mare’s head to extend a finger towards the open plaza. Geralt hummed in understanding, relieved as the tight squeeze of the side street finally flooded into a much more spacious and comfortable area.

It was the beginning of harvest, and as his new companion had informed him on their way to town, an extensive market would be held in the square every day until the end of the moon cycle. ‘The sowing has been so bountiful the past few years, people struggle to sell their goods before they go bad,’ she had stated. Geralt wondered where all the acquired coin had been going, considering how modest the townsfolk looked.

Surely enough, the plaza had been set up into a miniature marketplace with an array of stick-and-cloth stalls lined up in two rows. Albeit far, Geralt could spot an array of different produce filling the wooden crates of around a dozen merchants, making the area almost unrecognizable from the state he had first seen it in the night prior.

The group made their way across the pavement, Geralt giving Roach’s reigns a gentle pull as they approached a cobblestone building nestled between a blacksmith and a general goods store.

A simple, wooden sign adorned the oaken doorway, rugged and chipped at the corners yet adorning a meticulous engraving:

‘The Novak’s Family Apothecary’.

The letters were uniform and bold, proudly advertising a decade-old familial business to the people of Posada and the neighboring towns. Below, in a smaller font: ‘Alchemy and Herbalism’. Strangely, ‘Alchemy’ had been viciously scratched off the slab, leaving a large gash in the otherwise polished surface.

“We’re here,” Maja stated, legs swinging back and forth along Roach’s sides as the group made their way through the insula’s archway. The narrow path led into an isolated square, much less populated compared to the center and harboring what looked to be communal living quarters.

Geralt trailed his gaze along the decrepit buildings and rain-slicked stone below his feet, then turned to pat Roach’s muzzle. He watched his companion shuffle around on the horse’s back, her skirt twisting and turning with the rapid movements and absorbing the increasing downpour that manifested in the form of small, dark spots scattered across the bright material. She grunted with a furrowed brow, struggling to find a proper angle to get down safely.

“Here,” Geralt hummed, reaching his arms to rest at the familiar spots on her dressed waist. She tensed her muscles at the touch, flexing under the soft corset and making the man readjust his grip. A thumb grazed gently along the material and the girl’s eyes shone with surprise, but the lack of resistance urged the witcher to continue his rescue.

“Thank you,” she replied tactfully as Geralt effortlessly rose her into the air then safely to the ground. Her boots made contact with the slick stone with a squeak, her hips and legs twisting around to adjust to standing.

“Gods… that was amazing. I haven’t ridden a horse in so, so long,” Maja exclaimed with a grin, carefully placing her hand on the horse’s muzzle. Geralt nodded, following in tandem with her movements. His gloved fingers significantly dwarfed hers at this proximity, and he noted the pulled, reddened skin around her fingernails as she patted Roach’s cheek. The mare whinnied softly, pushing into the girl’s grasp. “She’s such a good girl.”

“She likes you,” Geralt stated lowly, watching as his horse made gentle acquaintance with his new companion. The woman chuckled at the contact, amping up her pats and scratches.

“I like her, too.” She responded, glancing at Geralt’s face. Despite popular myth, witcher’s didn’t seem so frightening up close. If anything, Maja had grown to enjoy the tiny, obscure hints of smiles and chuckles that felt like such a rarity with the caliber of man Geralt happened to be. That moment was no exception, as her eyes trailed down to the man’s subtly raised mouth corners. It was a shadow of joy, and not so pretty, yet somehow the concept itself made the woman feel warm despite the accelerating downpour.

They were soon to be soaked. The minuscule, lightweight droplets had suddenly evolved into weighted beads, pattering aggressively against the metal gutters and forming reflective puddles in uneven areas of the pavement.

“We best get inside,” the man gruffed out, tugging at the hood of his linen cloak. He glanced at Maja, watching her hair dampen with the rain. He could have sworn he saw her shiver. “You go ahead, I’ll hitch the horse.” he nodded at her, reaching to grab the reigns.

“Allow me,” the woman retorted with a small smile, quickly wrapping her nimble fingers around the leather straps. Geralt watched with a raised eyebrow as clear droplets began trickling down her forehead and falling off the thick bedding of her upper lashes.

“I need to stop by that shop for a moment,” she perked up, extending a finger towards one of the doorways deeper into the square. The light from within was dim and flickered occasionally. Her head turned to face Geralt again, and he raised an eyebrow at her solemn smile as her fingers grazed the horse’s mane. “Besides, I… I haven’t done this in a long time. You know, cared for a horse. Just want to savor it while I can.” she ended sheepishly, glancing at her rain-slicked boots.

Geralt’s eyebrows raised subtly, his gaze scanning the girl’s lowered face. He hadn’t considered that such a simple, inherent part of his life would bring such pleasure to someone else. He had ridden horses all his life, so much so that it had become synonymous with walking. Alas, it wasn’t something he could be opposed to. The quicker he managed his interrogation, the quicker he could solve this town’s monster problem and trail ahead.

“Hitch her between the arches over there,” Geralt pointed toward the courtyard’s edge, simultaneously nodding at the girl’s request. She grinned in return.

“Oh! If it’s no issue, could you get me a bunch each of verbena and sage? Oh, and arrowroot. Big ones,” the girl perked up suddenly, raising a hand in question.

Geralt sighed, but before he could put his foot down, Maja had taken a step towards him. Her hand edged towards his sternum, gently pressing against his chest piece while her bright eyes made contact with his half-lidded ones. “Just mention my name. Miro’ll put it on my tab.” she smiled cheekily.

Geralt nodded once, maintaining eye contact to search her orbs for something hidden. The dark pools drew him in like a spell, refusing to let go.

Her grasp tightened on the reigns suddenly, and with a final chuckle and wave, she walked away. Her silhouette shrunk in the distance, and Geralt exhaled sharply at the faint sound of the girl’s one-sided conversation with Roach that morphed with the heavy patter of rain.

His feet carried him towards the front of the building once again. His hood had started feeling heavy with the weight of rainwater soaking into it, so the warm air hitting his face was a welcome feeling as soon as he creaked open the large, ornamental doorway to the alchemist shop.

He breathed in and looked around. It looked common, simple, exactly as every other shop of this kind he had seen in his extensive career. The wooden walls were lined with thin shelves and cupboards, each housing a handsome collection of vials, chalices, and corked bottles.

The witcher traced a hand along one of the larger vials, feeling along its decorative rivets. A thin paper card attached to the cork read ‘oil of parsnip’. He picked it up and swirled, the viscous, yellow liquid inside sloshing around with a soft gurgle.

“Oh, welcome! Come on in,” spoke a raspy, melodic voice, making Geralt look towards its source.

A tall, middle-aged man stood at the edge of the room, leaning against a wooden desk. His dark, curly locks stood taut in every direction, intertwined with thick threads of silver. The bump of his thin nose held the weight of circular rims through which the witcher could glimpse a hue of bright green.

“Quite the downpour, ain’t it?” he chuckled warmly as Geralt approached, fingers tugging at his hood to pull it back. The man was amiable, even after seeing the witcher’s white locks and wolf-head insignia.

“Quite,” Geralt retorted sternly, eyeing the thick, sheepskin ledger pinned under the alchemist’s hand. “Busy?”

“Oh, but not at all. This’s just that awful bureaucracy, y’know? They’re making me list my income every other moon. You probably know somethin’ about that, right?” the man panned a quill in the air, pointing it steadily down Geralt’s figure. “You seem like a kind of businessman yourself!”

“That’s one way to call it,” Geralt tilted his head with a hum, placing a gloved hand on the til’s rough surface. He leaned in, avoiding the bundles of dried lavender and white sage drying upside down on the ceiling. “But bartering is the best I can do if we’re talking business.”

The older man chuckled, clearly entertained by the witcher’s dry riposte. He shoved the journal to the side and straightened his posture as if he had just realized the situation.

“Tell me then, friendly barterer, what herbs do you seek? I’ve got everything, from plane ole’ mint to the rare white myrtle. Oils a plenty, too.” he advertised enthusiastically, gesturing towards the vials.

Geralt glanced at the shelves behind him, then turned his attention back to the seller. He approached the closest one and hovered his extended hand over the selection. Swiftly, he plucked out a small, smooth bottle. He swirled the yellow-green liquid inside.

“And these? Are they potions?” he questioned before watching the man’s eyes widen, mouth ajar slightly.

“No, ‘course not! No! We don’t sell potions here, only herbs and herbal oils. Ointments, that sorta’ of thing.” he protested, gleeful exterior suddenly deteriorating.

Geralt stood silent for a beat, eyeing the older man’s sweat-slick forehead and cheeks. The droplets thickened at his temples and slipped between the crevices of his wrinkles.

“I see,” the witcher finally spoke, nodding. The shopkeep seemed to drop his shoulders and sigh at his amicable response. “Are you Miro?”

“Miro. Miroslav. Yes, that’s me,” he replied quickly, the shadow of a smile returning to his lips. “How so?”

“Do you know a man by the name of Sylvanus?” Geralt questioned tactfully, leaning against the wall. “I’ve been told he supplies here. I need to know what he purchased this morning.”

“Ah… Sylvanus. Yes, yes. He’s a regular customer, has been since he arrived. A little off-beat that one, but intelligent, and good with herbs. Very, very knowledgeable in that area, yes, and always so polite! Secretive, too, but you know how those types can be, right?” Miroslav began cheerfully, yet straightened his demeanour once prompted to answer the witcher’s question. “But I’m afraid I can’t reveal the contents of my ledger, good sire. Maintaining the privacy of my clients is something our shop values greatly, really. And who might you be, anyway?”

Geralt placed the glass bottle down in front of the clerk and looked up at him with a nasty smile, the wolf-head amulet glistening in the gentle candlelight.

“Geralt. Geralt of Rivia. I’m here to investigate the suspicious activity happening in these woods, and I’ve gotten intel about a suspect visiting your alchemy shop. He’s a witch hunter. I have reason to believe he might be concocting something malicious with the ingredients acquired from you.”

Miroslav straightened up, lips formed into a tight line. There was a palpable tension that filled the air at that moment, one that caused a quiet ringing to echo inside the witcher’s sensitive ears. The rain pattered harshly against the window and roof, making Geralt wonder how Roach and his companion were faring.

“It… It could be true. But why? What would such a sophisticated, traveling folk like him gain from such a silly heist? People are dying from the beast, that beastie from the woods is what’s killing all my neighbors. Mr. Geralt, why? Why would Sylvanus do such a thing?” Miroslav harped, becoming increasingly distressed.

The instance of potentially being involved in something as serious as what Geralt was expecting was weighing on his psyche, as it would on most people. This guy simply wasn’t afraid to show the effects of it.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. If you showed me your ledger, I might be able to help this town, other people in the future, from meeting the same fate,” the witcher hummed, placing a firm hand against the wooden till. “It’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Miroslav sighed, nervously eyeing the leather-bound book tucked safely behind a pile of similarly coloured journals. His fingers traced the former’s spine, shakily taking it out and dropping its full weight in front of Geralt. The witcher nodded approvingly, extending his gloved hand in reach of the cover.

Suddenly, a dainty, wrinkled hand slammed onto his. Geralt’s gaze rose, eyes meeting the clerk’s wide ones. His pupils were the size of pinpoints, cheeks rosy and sleek with sweat.

“Don’t tell the Baron about this. Please. I beg you don’t,” Miroslav whispered shakily, and Geralt hummed in return. “I know we can’t practice it. I know we can’t, and yet it’s in our nature. There are so many folks out here in desperate need of these potions, and me, my family, I just can’t let myself leave all of this behind just because of… one, God-forsaken incident!”

A heavy silence befell the old shop. The creaking of floorboards echoed into nothingness, interrupted by a distant roar of thunder. Geralt sighed.

“What incident?” he questioned, taking a confident step forward. He could sense Miroslav’s body tense at the gesture, yet he persevered with his tactics.

The older man shivered and gulped down thickly, making his Adam’s apple bob. Geralt watched intently, placing an unassuming hand over his belt.

“An implosion. Somethin’ completely otherworldly,” the shopkeep explained nervously, fiddling with his journal, “It happened maybe two decades ago, on a spring evening like today. It was like a shockwave, radiating from within a single home, not far from here. I was in the market then, and when that force hit me I must’ve flown at least a perch into the air, I swear on the Gods! The Baron ordered a search of the home and later told us townsfolk it was a simple alchemical miscalculation. Falkrov they were called, I think… a sweet, young couple with a great talent for magic. The same magic that ended up taking their lives that very night.”

“They passed?” Geralt questioned without a beat.

Miroslav frowned.

“Yes. The explosion was simply too powerful,” he heaved, “And that was it. I knew the Falkrov's, not too well, but things were amicable… they were a kind bunch, and helpful, too. But too curious. Too volatile.”

Geralt listened, nodding tactfully and urging the man to keep telling the story.

“Magic was no secret in our parts, quite the opposite, witcher. This land is a powerful energetical pulse point, harboring some kind of ancient magic for centuries before our people even thought to inhabit it. When I was a little boy, my mother would tell me stories of lights and voices coming from the nearby woods, creeping shadows, and chants of witches. It’s true, that’s what she would tell me. And I saw it too, that I did! Creatures from beyond this realm!”

“What did they look like?” Geralt interrupted promptly.

“Little faeries. Or pixies, maybe, I’m not so good with the names, you know. Glittering little beasts with wings. Some sort of gnomes, too, or… a little boy with large eyes, what do you call ‘em…”

“A Godling?”

“Well… sure. A Godling, yes. A young boy skimming stones over a pond. It was long ago when I saw him, at least three decades it must’ve been… we don’t go in the woods anymore, my wife and I. Folks say that’s where the Falkrov’s met their ill fate, and so they’ve haunted that soil ever since,” Miroslav continued somberly, “Nothing’s been the same since that day, Mr. Geralt. And recently, something has changed again. The woods aren’t safe no more, not even in the daytime.”

Geralt nodded, arms crossed as he watched the shopkeep open his journal. He licked his thumb and skimmed the yellowed pages fervently, humming something under his breath. Finally, he stopped. His eyes narrowed, landing a finger against a uniformly drawn table and sliding it down the page.

“I’ve lost hope for this town long ago, Mr. Geralt, but Sylvanus has managed to spark it back up again. He’s a brave man, bold. Goes into those woods on his own and makes sure they’re safe before any of our own folk head out themselves, and at the end of the day refuses our coin. It’s not something any ordinary man would do.”

“I know,” Geralt replied dryly, grabbing at the open journal and twisting it around to face him. The shopkeep’s handwriting was sloppy and thick, drilled forcefully into the pages below. “I plan on finding out what motivates him.”

Miroslav nodded apprehensively, hands crossing loosely against his chest as he watched the witcher get to work. Geralt scanned down the page, skimming through about a dozen names before finally reaching a familiar one.

“Nightshade and mandrake root,” Geralt spoke quietly, eyes narrowing at the chicken-scratch text. “Not a common purchase. Did he mention anything about these ingredients? What he was going to use them for?”

“No… not at all. I never question my clients’ choices, I feel it is against company policy to butt in like that. It’s none of my business, Mr. Geralt, sir.” Miroslav replied with a shrug, making the witcher sigh apprehensively at his nonchalance.

Within his mental compendium of herbology, Geralt searched for the two ingredients Sylvanus had purchased. Both were powerful, potent herbs used in ritual rites and deadly potions, something that a well-meaning passerby would never resort to purchasing; unless there was more to it than met the eye.

“Alright. Thank you, Miroslav,” Geralt nodded, closing the ledger with a quick slam. He watched as the shopkeeper nodded nervously, looking down at his shoes. His hands moved fervently at his sides, and before long he had withdrawn the book into a nearby drawer.

“Please… don’t do anything rash. I can vouch for Sylvanus, that I can. Perhaps I shouldn’t have revealed this information to you…” he spoke softly, eyes glassy with tears.

Geralt sighed once more, crossing his arms. "I won't act hastily," he assured Miroslav, though his tone carried an edge that made the shopkeeper swallow hard.

Miroslav nodded, looking relieved yet still anxious. "Thank you… thank you. I hope you find the answers you're looking for."

“I’ll take a bundle each of sage, verbena, and arrowroot. It’s for—” Geralt began.

“For Maja?” Miroslav interrupted promptly, perking up with a bright glint in his eye. He cleared his throat once becoming aware of his own enticement, mellowing down promptly. “Yes… yes, alright. You know each other, then? You and her?”

“She offered me information about the disturbances in this town.” the witcher replied promptly, slightly taken aback at the question.

Miroslav nodded with a smile, gaze boring into Geralt’s eyes. He lingered in that position for a while, before finally shuffling around the table to reach a large shelf near the ceiling. He hopped in place a few times, grunting as he attempted to reach the herbs resting atop the plank with a comical fervor.

Geralt rolled his eyes subtly, turning around and taking a long stride toward the struggling man.

“No, no! I got it!” he wailed suddenly, pushing Geralt away with his lanky hand. The witcher grunted at the unexpected strength, instead opting to stay back and watch the show from afar.

Finally, with one last jump, the older man managed to grab at the bundle of herbs and pull them down with a triumphant grin. “Here they are,” he said cheerfully, handing them over to Geralt. “I’ll put these on Maja’s tab.”

Suddenly, just as the witcher placed his hands against the thick bundle, he felt Miroslav’s nimble fingers grab at his wrists. He held on tight, almost uncomfortably so, holding Geralt’s gaze adamantly. “She… just, please stay diligent out there.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, noting the earnest concern in the alchemist’s eyes. “Appreciate it. Take care, Miroslav.”

The shopkeeper nodded in agreement, finally letting go of the witcher’s wrist. He felt the blood pulse back into his digits, opening and closing his fist at the numbness. He turned towards the door, opening the door and marching through unceremoniously.

“Take care, Geralt.” he heard Miroslav call out as the doors behind him closed with a loud thud.

As he stepped outside, he noticed the storm had grown fiercer. Rain lashed the streets and thunder boomed overhead, bright lights striking amongst the darkening clouds.

“Winds howling,” he muttered under his nose, feeling a harsh breeze brush against his cheeks as he opened his pouch. He sighed as he caught a whiff of the sage, tucking it away safely before taking a moment to enjoy the aroma.

“Geralt!” rang soundly in his ears, the familiar voice now strained and desperate. Time seemed to slow down at that moment. His peripheral caught a glimpse of something dark, a speckled form dashing right past his side. The adrenaline within his veins pulsed fervently and he scanned his surroundings for red. The witcher’s hand reached instinctively for his sword, yet stopped short when he recognized the creature dashing between the citizens.

It was the deer he had hunted earlier; alive and bounding through the rain-soaked streets, white tail bouncing with its agile strides. The townsfolk scattered promptly at the disturbance, yelling, gasping, and pointing as the animal sped past them, its hooves clattering against the cobblestones. His eyes grazed past the familiar patch of dried blood staining the animal’s white belly, centering around a deep gash.

Geralt's brow furrowed, body tense as his wolf-head medallion vibrated soundly against his chest. His ears rang as he brought his hand up, feeling the reverberating within his fingertips and frowning softly. It felt incomprehensible.

His mind raced as the deer flew past fearful townsfolk, bouncing off stalls and getting its soft fur soaked the few times it tripped over its hooves. It darted towards the edge of town, finally disappearing amongst the buildings.

He stayed put, letting the sword slide back into its hilt with a soft slash. Instinctively, his head turned, glancing into the courtyard and catching a familiar glimpse of a white apron.

He found Maja running towards him, face pale and eyes wide as she approached. She looked as shocked as the rest of the townsfolk, but there was something in her expression that Geralt couldn't quite place; a certain glint in her eye that he hadn’t witnessed in a long while.

"Maja," he called out sternly, in a panic, striding over to her. "The deer—"

"It’s alive," she interrupted, her voice trembling slightly as her hands motioned frantically in every direction. "It… it came alive. Just like that. I was leaving the shop, I just wanted to check on Roach, I wasn’t looking and—"

“What happened?” Geralt demanded, grabbing at her shoulders and keeping her from flailing. Her skin was soft to the touch and slick with rain. He squeezed gently, finding himself momentarily entranced by the proximity. He studied her closely, breathing deep and contrasting her small, shallow bellowings in an oddly pleasant symphony.

“I…” she began softly, gaze finally meeting his. Her eyes were wide with bewilderment and her pupils dark like pools of ink as she reached toward him. Her hand linked with his, holding firmly onto his tense forearm and mimicking the squeeze. It felt comforting, and Geralt found himself overcome with a sudden, inexplicable wave of ecstasy at the gentle pressure. “She came alive. The doe came alive.”

The rain continued to pour around them, the world fading into a blur as Geralt's focus zeroed in on Maja. Her lips parted slightly, and he could feel the warmth of her breath mingling with his. The proximity, the intensity of the moment, it all surged through him like a shot of adrenaline. Something about it felt strange, almost unnatural.

“Maja…” he started, his voice low and rough. Her name felt like a prayer on his tongue, an invocation of something deep and ancient. He could see the confusion and fear in her eyes, but there was something else there too—something that mirrored the turmoil within him.

Their breaths mingled, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still once again. Geralt’s gloved thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a stray droplet of rain. Her skin was soft beneath his touch, and he found himself leaning in, drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

“We need to get out of here,” he added, sternly this time.

She nodded, her hand tightening around his forearm. The connection between them was palpable, a current of unspoken understanding and shared resolve that felt like an inexplicable spell; ecstatic, but otherwordly. He withdrew with a grunt, attempting to shake the strange feeling off.

Without another word, Geralt shrugged off his thick cloak and draped it over the woman’s shoulders, the heavy fabric cascading softly down her frame. The woman looked up at him, gratitude flickering in her eyes as she raised the hood over her head.

“Let’s go,” he urged, gently guiding her towards Roach. He undid the skillful fastening of the reigns against the pole and trailed ahead, feeling the woman’s presence just beside him.

The rain pounded down on them feverishly as they walked through the storm. Most of the crowd had dispersed by now, except an unlucky few stuck fixing the cracked stalls resulting from the sudden ambush from before, grunting as their hair became damp with the downpour.

Geralt remained silent in this voyage, his thoughts a whirlwind of the strange events as they crossed the plaza and made their way towards the tavern, thunder roaring wildly above them. In those moments, he could feel his companion’s body draw momentarily closer to him, her hands grazing unsurely at his side.

As they approached the tavern's entrance, Geralt adjusted his grip on the reigns. He turned towards Maja and issued a small, polite bow. “Thank you for the lead. I’ll make sure to take care of your… monster problem. Farewell.”

The woman curtsied back with a smile, yet it quickly shifted into a solemn, anticipating expression. The corners of her mouth turned downwards as she leaned in to grab his hand with two of her own. The contact made Geralt flinch, eyes narrowing instinctively at the touch.

“I’d like you to stay,” she began assertively, eyes shining with determination as she sandwiched the witcher’s gloved hand and gave it a firm squeeze. Her nimble hands felt strangely sturdy around his fingers. “Please, Geralt. You’ve shown me more kindness than I had ever expected, so it’s only right for me to return the favor. Come in, take a bath. Get warm. I’ll make us supper, if you like.”

Geralt studied her face, weighing her rare sincerity against his instinct to keep moving. Staying in one place always brought complications.

The rain was relentless, soaking them both to the bone, and the warmth of the tavern seemed increasingly appealing. The thought of a hot meal and a bath felt like a rare luxury nowadays.

“Alright,” he said finally, nodding.

Maja smiled, quickly getting to work and hitching Roach to the familiar wooden post. Geralt watched silently, noting the agility and apparent experience in her motions.

Once finished, she grabbed his arm again, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Come on, then! You smell like a wet mutt!” she said, yet her tone bared no hint of malice or teasing.

Geralt chuckled at the remark, the comfortable warmth of the tavern seeping into his bones as they finally stepped inside. The door behind them closed with a loud thud, drowned out by the music and chatter inside. “That’s no way to treat a guest,” he replied curtly.

“A very apprehensive guest,” she muttered, pulling him inside. The tavern’s interior was bustling with activity as usual for this time of day, patrons singing and laughing, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and ale. The bard currently performing seemed to be the same flaxen-haired woman as the day before, this time dressed in an intricate suit of purple and green.

“Maja! Our Majeczka!” came a voice from their left, making Geralt’s gaze drop to the stout, bearded man sitting amongst a crowd of similarly dressed patrons.

“Evening, everyone. Martijn, Jannick,” Maja replied cheerfully, giving the group a polite nod. “Just passing through.”

One of the guests sitting at the table, a tall man with a scarred face, leaned forward, leering at her. “Got yourself a new man, have you, girl? Bet you forgot all about us!” he teased, earning a round of guttural laughter from his friends.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed apprehensively, but Maja merely smiled, placing a hand on the scarred man’s shoulder. “Just a guest,” she said, her tone polite but firm. “Be nice, guys.”

Another man, younger and with a head full of unkempt hair, snorted. “Don’t see many witchers around here. Hope he’s not here to cause trouble.”

“Only if trouble finds me first,” Geralt replied calmly, his voice carrying a warning, subtext-filled tone that seemed to quiet the group down momentarily.

“Trouble, eh?” Martijn chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Just keep your trouble away from our drinks, witcher. We’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Jannick, the scarred man, leaned back in his chair, still eyeing Maja. “You sure you’re just passing through, Majeczka? We’ve missed having you around. Thought maybe you’d be staying a bit longer this time, you know. Keep us company a while.”

Maja’s smile remained splayed across her face. “I’ll be right with you once I’m done with this one. You boys behave yourselves, alright?” she replied with a chuckle, motioning towards Geralt.

“Always do,” Jannick grinned, raising his mug in a mock salute. “You take good care of our girl, witcher. Wouldn’t want her getting broken.”

Geralt glanced at Maja in question, and she responded with a pleading gaze. Her hand squeezed his, urging them to continue.

“I’ll make sure she’s safe,” he said, meeting Jannick’s gaze with a steady look before heading on, following his companion’s steps.

As they turned the corner, Geralt watched Martijn raise his hand abruptly and give the woman’s arse a hefty, reverberating slap. She squealed tightly at the motion, her body tensing as the men proceeded to burst into ravenous laughter at her upset reaction.

Geralt tensed, sneering at the sudden physicality, swiftly striding towards the scarred man and preparing to give him a piece of his mind. Just as he raised his arm to swing, he felt a gentle touch of Maja’s hand against his chest.

“Geralt,” she muttered, gaze sharp and boring into his face. The air around her stilled suddenly, eyebrows high on her forehead as they exchanged challenging glances. He could sense the men beside them halt, watching the commotion unravel. “Don’t. Please.”

The witcher clenched his jaw tightly, muscles taut with the urge to strike at the rowdy patron. He met her gaze, seeing the unspoken plea in her eyes. With a deep breath, he lowered his arm, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

He hummed calmly, yet his gaze betrayed his faux demeanor by shooting an ice-cold look toward the two men. They cowered slightly, yet the smiles remained on their reddened faces.

“Thank you,” Maja muttered quietly, eyes filled with gratitude as they walked towards the staircase. As they reached the balustrade, the laughter and jeers from the patrons followed.

“Mighty witcher, got him wrapped around her little lady finger!” one of them called out, causing another round of laughter.

Despite the comments, the pair urged on. Geralt could sense his companion’s pace quicken as she fled up the stairs, skirt flailing with her speed. The man followed promptly, tailgating the girl as she led him up a ladder hidden at the dead end of a corridor.

As they climbed their way up, the air began to feel thick with a familiar scent. Lavender and vanilla… but perhaps it was honey? The smell weaved around Geralt, enveloping him with a comforting, sweet fragrance that made the witcher hum thoughtfully. It felt sentimental, somehow.

The attic room was lined with shelves overflowing with jars and pouches of dried herbs, each labeled meticulously with elegant handwriting. Bundles of drying flowers hung from the rafters, casting a range of intricate shadows on the wooden floor below.

Books, weathered and well-loved, were stacked in precarious piles across a large oak table that dominated the center of the room. Some lay open, their pages yellowed with age, revealing intricate diagrams and notes scribbled in faded ink.

An unlit candle stood sentinel among the tomes, which Maja approached promptly, stumbling over some of the open books with a quiet gasp.

The room was dark, lit only through the presence of a round, glass window peering into the outside world and giving the two a glimpse into the heaving storm. Below it stood an unpolished desk stacked with stray pieces of paper and a clay mug, paired with a matching chair.

With a hum, Geralt took a seat in silence. His arms crossed as he watched the woman work at a box of matches.

“Thank you for respecting my wishes down there,” she said quietly, her back to him as she busied herself with lighting the candle. “They’re harmless, really. It’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“They shouldn’t treat you like that,” Geralt replied, his voice still tinged with irritation at the patrons and Maja’s haphazard way of managing them.

“I’ve dealt with worse, and I’m sure you have, too,” the woman said solemnly, turning to face the man with a small, tired smile. “Don’t look at me like that, Geralt. I don’t take their disrespect lightly, that much you need to know. But you must understand… I don’t wish to anger them. The life of a barmaid is a humble one. I don’t make much coin, and what I do make often gets privately cut by my supervisor. These people’s drunk foolishness and their bottomless pockets might just help me find a better life for myself, if not now or tomorrow, then one day.”

Geralt remained silent, gaze insistent on holding Maja’s as she spilled her heart out to him. He couldn’t say much, not out of disregard, but a lack of words. Their lives differed drastically, and giving advice seemed like a fruitless effort.

“And I’ve said too much again. Forgive me, it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to unravel myself like this,” she chuckled, the warmth returning to her voice as it did to the room. The candle’s gentle flame rose, casting a soft, golden light onto the walls. “I want to know more about you. Tell me then, why are you here?”

Geralt dropped his gaze, arms squeezing over his chest as his mind pictured a vague image of a flaxen-haired woman. Her green eyes narrowed with a smile that mimicked Geralt’s, yet he made it falter soon after.

“I’m looking for someone important to me,” he spoke softly, bringing his eyes back to Maja’s. Her frame seemed to glow in the soft candlelight, eyes reflecting in shades of liquid gold as she smiled kindly at him, empathizing.

“Family?” the woman questioned softly.

“Not exactly, but close enough. She’s like a daughter to me,” he spoke, words tinged with a potent mixture of longing and determination. He settled into the chair, the flickering flame casting shadows that danced across his weathered face.

Maja stepped forward, kneeling in front of the witcher with a gentle smile. "Someone like a daughter... That's a strong bond," she remarked softly, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a well-worn book on the floor between them. "You must care for her deeply."

"And you're here, risking your life to find her," Maja observed, her gaze steady as she met his eyes. "That says a lot about you, Geralt."

He nodded again, the lines of his face softening ever so slightly in the warm glow of the candle. "It's what I do," he said simply, his voice carrying a quiet resolve.

Maja reached out, her hand covering his briefly in a gesture of comfort. "You're doing what you feel is right," she assured him softly. "And that's more than most."

Geralt nodded, his eyes distant as memories flickered behind them. "She turned out to be... special. More than I could have imagined," he admitted quietly, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability in the way it shook. “Strong, too. I wonder how much she’s changed.”

“She sounds wonderful,” the woman replied tactfully, reaching a hand towards the witcher but faltering momentarily. She withdrew, gaze dropping. “Maybe I could meet her one day?”

Geralt’s eyes broadened at the suggestion, yet his body remained lax. Suddenly, he could imagine an instance where the two girls made friends. It was a vague and hazy thought, yet the idea made the man chuckle. “I think you two could get along,” he replied, legs relaxing and falling to the sides. “You both have a stubborn streak.”

Maja's smile widened, a mild laugh escaping her lips. "Stubborn can be a good thing," she remarked lightly, her eyes meeting Geralt's with a warmth that mirrored the candlelight surrounding them. "It sounds like she's lucky to have you looking out for her."

Geralt nodded in silent acknowledgment, appreciative of the girl’s words. He took a moment to take in the air, allowing the gentle fragrance to ease his nerves.

“Is there anyone looking out for you? Family, lover?” he asked suddenly, tone flat yet his eyes reflected a genuine interest. He had realised the two knew nothing about each other, and yet were sharing tender conversation in the intimate setting of a hearth. Regardless, he awaited a response.

"Someone looking out for me?" She sighed softly, her gaze drifting momentarily to the dancing flames before meeting Geralt's eyes again. "Yes, well... I do. But it's complicated."

Geralt nodded in a comfortable silence, sensing the weight behind her words. He hummed slightly, acknowledging her response without pressing further.

Maja shifted her body weight, the corners of her lips curling into a small, rueful smile. "You know," she began softly, her voice carrying a hint of playfulness to lighten the moment, "You should ask me again under better circumstances… perhaps after an ale."

Geralt's lips quirked in response, a rare hint of amusement crossing his stoic expression. "An ale, huh?" he mused, his eyes meeting hers with a hint of warmth. "I'll keep that in mind."

With another chuckle, Maja rose gracefully from her position, brushing invisible dust from her skirts. "Alright. Now, how about that bath?" she suggested lightly, her tone shifting as she moved towards a small door leading to an adjoining room. Her head turned to face the witcher one last time. “Don’t miss me too much, okay?” she giggled playfully and swiftly disappeared into the darkness ahead.

As Geralt watched the woman go, a flicker of admiration and curiosity brewed within his gut. He settled back against the wall with a sigh, allowing himself a moment of solitude to reflect on the unexpectedly inward conversation.

The storm continued to rage outside, and Geralt could hear the gentle sound of pouring water in the room over. He closed his eyes, allowing the ambiance to soothe his thoughts, meditating silently until he heard a soft, muffled singing. He couldn’t quite make out the words of it, but its rhythm felt solemn and strangely familiar.

As he let himself sink into the brief, comforting feeling of the moment, the singing abruptly stopped, followed by the sound of the doorway opening up again.

“Geralt,” his companion spoke soothingly, trying to get his attention yet staying careful as to leave his rest undisturbed. “Your bath is ready.”

The witcher nodded, promptly standing up and catching a glimpse of the woman’s flushed cheeks. As he approached, a warm, steamy current enveloped his tired face.

“Follow me,” Maja invited him with a smile, gesturing to come in. As he did, the air turned hot and stuffy. He skimmed around the small room, noting how similar it was to the first one, save for the books and journals.

Lines of herbs littered the ceiling, giving the sizzling air a soothing fragrance. In the center of the room stood a considerable wooden bathtub, its flanks polished smooth from years of use. The atmosphere had been prepared meticulously, water steaming deliciously as a fresh set of towels lay on a small stool to the side.

"Thank you," he declared sincerely, turning to meet her gaze. Her skin had grown slick from the moisture, and she puffed gently as she grinned.

“Least I can do for you,” she shrugged politely, curtsying as she headed for the main room. “Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be reading in the room over.”

Geralt nodded. The temperature had made his current getup uncomfortable, and so his hands had already begun toying with the clasp of his leather belt.

As he watched the door close, he sensed a rush of adrenaline surging through his body. In a point of weakness, his hand extended towards the girl.

“Share it with me,” he uttered assertively, just in time to glimpse the doorway stop, then swing back open, revealing a puzzled face and creased eyebrows.

“Share with you?” she questioned, cruising over to reveal her full body. Her hand glided off the doorknob slowly as she awaited an explanation.

“The bath. Share it with me,” the witcher replied promptly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the woman’s face for a hint of apprehension or rejection.

Yet, it never came. Her bewildered expression gradually shifted into one resembling gratitude and… mischief. Her eyebrows softened, eyes half-lidded as her lips curled into a muted smile. “You want to bathe together?”

Geralt rolled his eyes at her figurative remark, continuing to finger at his belt and finally feeling it come loose. He could sense Maja eyeing his midriff, and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the shamelessness and the wideness of her eyes.

“I enjoyed our conversation, and wish to continue it,” he explained matter-of-factly, fingers trailing up to his breastplate. He began to work at the buttons there, skillfully undoing the intricate ties and letting the armor fall to his feet. “So, bathe with me.”

Maja hummed at the scene, taking a testing step forward whilst maintaining feverish eye contact with the witcher’s armorless torso. He felt so unspeakably light now, unburdened from the weight of his protection. He nodded at her, slowly tugging at the dark linen shirt dressing his toned body.

“So, so, outrageous, witcher,” Maja chuckled playfully, taking a long stride towards him. She gave him a lingering look as she passed, eyeing the soft trail of white lining his strong lower belly as he stretched to discard the shirt into a nearby corner. The woman chuckled, and his gaze followed her movements as she quickly disappeared behind an intricate partition separating the bath from the far side of the room. “Don’t you feel indecent, undressing like this in front of a lady?” she smiled, tone laced with slight sheepishness.

Geralt chuckled warmly, watching as the girl’s silhouette moved behind the thin, half-opaque part of the screen. She arched her back, grabbing at the clasps to her corset and undoing it promptly before he heard it drop to the floor, eyes insisting on her form. Next, she worked at her skirts, skillfully unbuttoning the back and letting them fall to the ground with a quiet thud. She was now left in her undergarments, the bouffant textile revealing less and less to the imagination.

“I could say the same for you,” Geralt retorted, mimicking the shadowy figure by sliding down the rim of his pants and codpiece. He sighed airily at the lack of constraints around his body, allowing the steam to nip gently at the exposed skin.

Maja laughed in return, her figure turning to face him. Somehow, even through the thick partition, he could feel her warm, challenging gaze scouting down his sweat-slick body.

“I feel like you’re looking at me, witcher,” she commented quietly, pausing to play with the elastic waistband of her bloomers.

“And how could you tell?” he questioned, hovering his gaze over the spot he assumed her eyes to be in.

She made a quick, incomprehensible sound at the response, something between a chuckle and a sigh. The fingers under her waistband lifted suddenly, soft fabric dropping to the ground.

Geralt observed the shape of her hips, the delectable way they curved at the widest point, then dipped. For a split second, he wondered how soft her thighs could feel beneath his rough palms.

“Intuition,” she responded at last, voice smooth and confident as her brasserie finally came undone.

Geralt followed suit, removing his own undergarments in an unusually slow matter. In a way, he wanted to savor the feeling of brief vulnerability, both physical and emotional.

He came forward, stepping into the bath cautiously and letting the heat envelop him. The warmth spread from his digits, up to his legs, and finally lapped up against his chest as he submerged.

On cue with the quiet splashing, he witnessed Maja shift behind the partition. “Close your eyes, okay?”

The man abided in a heartbeat, lids shutting tight as he adjusted his arms on either side of the tub, pecs flexing with the stretch.

He heard her soft, wet footsteps tapping against the wooden floorboards, approaching slowly and cautiously. The ambiguous darkness in front of him gave birth to a fuzzy image of the doe, its hooves prancing against the soft moss of the forest floor.

“Don’t peak,” she added through a grin, and the thought alone made Geralt’s eyes shift behind his lids. Regardless, he persevered.

Soon enough, he felt a small current splash against his chest, paired with the proximity of his companion entering the bath.

Once his eyes fluttered open, he watched the water ripple around her nude body. The woman’s skin looked soft to the touch, yet was littered with numerous scratches and bruises. They trailed along her arms and chest, or at least as far as his eyes could reach beneath the water’s sudsy surface.

Geralt readjusted his sitting, leaning comfortably against the edge of the tub. He noted the distance between them, far enough to keep their bodies apart yet close enough for the witcher to gauge the sparkle in the woman’s eyes.

He glanced down her body and watched her smooth her hand over the crystal clear surface, digits brushing over some greenery he had failed to notice before— eucalyptus and calendula. Their scents mingled, creating a soothing, thick atmosphere in the air between them. He reached out, brushing a petal aside with his fingers. “You know your herbs,” he commented, glancing up at Maja. “These aren’t just for show.”

The girl smiled softly, a touch of pride in her eyes. “Herbs have their uses beyond potions and poisons. A good bath, tea, or ointment can heal the mind as much as the body.”

He nodded at her small wisdom, nipping at the small, yellow flowers with his fingertips. “You said you knew Miroslav,” he observed, his tone suddenly stiffening at the recollection. “And a lot better than you initially let on.”

Maja’s expression grew thoughtful, a glint of sentiment clouding her half-lidded gaze. “Miro… is someone important to me. My childhood was complicated, or rather… became complicated at some point. He and his wife, they took me in, no questions asked. Nurtured me, helped me stand on my own… protect myself, make a living. I owe them a lot, including what I know now,” she said, her voice softer. “He’s my own Ciri.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the subtle undercurrent in her tone. Despite the limited information on Maja’s part, the subtle comparison to Ciri made Geralt’s lips tighten solemnly, a hum escaping his throat as he regarded his next words carefully. “He seemed worried about you.”

Maja looked away swiftly, her fingers playing with a strand of wet hair that cascaded down her shoulder. “Yes, he worries about me often. It’s nothing serious, I just…” she began, eyes darting around the room and landing on the window. She breathed in deeply.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed slightly, intrigued at the sudden quiet. “Just what?” he prompted, leaning his body forward as a learned intimidation tactic. He didn’t feel it was appropriate in the situation, yet his habits betrayed him.

Maja sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as she allowed her eyes to connect with Geralt’s again. “The killings in the forest, that monster… they’re worried for me, that’s all. And I don’t blame them one bit, every one of us has been on edge recently… nobody knows what’s lurking out there, or perhaps they’re just too scared to find out.”

Geralt stayed silent through the woman’s monologue, allowing her to reveal the information bit by bit.

Maja’s fingers stilled in the water, her expression becoming guarded. “There’s a lot of history to this land… a lot of needless suffering that happened in these woods. It’s not something anyone can take back, but… I think there’s a reason for what’s been happening.”

“You’re being cautious,” Geralt replied lowly, studying the woman’s face closely. He noted the subtle rise of her eyebrows at his unusual sternness and so decided to lean in closer. He felt his hand brush against Maja’s nude calf, and she flinched at the soft physicality. He didn’t withdraw.

“Anything you can tell me might be useful,” Geralt pressed gently. “Even the smallest hint could make a difference.”

Maja hesitated, her gaze dropping to the swirling water below. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the vibrant glow of her slick skin. She traced a finger along the edge of the bathtub, thoughts seemingly lost in turbulent depths.

“There are… stories,” Maja began slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. “About something ancient that roams this land. Some call it a pulse point, a powerful epicenter of some sort.”

Geralt nodded thoughtfully, absorbing her words. “Do you believe these killings are connected to that?”

Maja hesitated again, her lips forming a thin line. “I… I don’t know, Geralt,” she admitted reluctantly. "People have always been unkind to that which they perceive as different."

The witcher stiffened at her words, eyes widening slightly and taking in the woman’s somber expression. Somehow, it felt like there was a sentiment in her language, the way she frowned, how the candlelight illuminated her pronounced nose and soft brow ridge.

“And yet it’s something that has never discouraged you before,” he began quietly, crossing his arms over his legs, attempting to close the gap between them.

“It’s complicated,” Maja replied hastily, rubbing at her arm. “But I bet you’d understand. How does it feel, Geralt? Being a witcher?”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. He had thought about this question often, staring at the night sky for hours until a glint of explanation manifested, anything to satiate his search for identity; alas, it never appeared as expected. “It feels like an urge. A calling,” he began slowly, his gravelly voice carrying the weight of solemn memories and lost lives. “It’s about survival, strength, a sense of duty. But it’s also about choice— choosing to protect those who can’t protect themselves, even when they despise you for what you are.”

Maja listened intently, her eyes searching his face as if trying to unravel the layers of stoicism and strength he wore like armor. “It sounds lonely,” she remarked softly, almost to herself.

“It can be,” Geralt admitted, his gaze drifting to the flickering candlelight dancing on the water’s surface. “But every once in a while, you meet someone who reminds you why you keep going.”

She met his eyes then, her expression softening. “Like Ciri.”

Geralt nodded, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Like Ciri.”

Maja nodded, pondering the connection. “The way you speak about her… it’s admirable. You might have a tough shell, but I bet there’s a soft heart somewhere in the depths of your chest.” she ventured gently.

Geralt regarded her with surprise, eyes widening at the heartfelt comment. He sighed softly, allowing her words to wash over him in a moment of silence.

Maja met Geralt's eyes again, her expression thoughtful. She raked a hand through her dampened hair, body sinking deeper into the water. “When will you depart?” she asked gently, “Posada, that is.”

Geralt considered her question, his gaze drifting to the vague outline of the woman’s thighs gliding beneath the glassy tile of water. “It’s not a question I can answer easily,” he confessed, “There are still things I must attend to here. It’s what fate had in store for me, and so I must honor it.”

“And where will it lead you next?” Maja pressed softly, her eyes probing.

Geralt shrugged narrowly, an unsightly smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Here, for now,” he replied. “The Path is a cryptic code with no set rules or requirements, no moral compass or direction. Wherever it takes me, so mote it be.”

The woman nodded gently, allowing her arm to swim silently across the space separating them. She let it slide across his forearm, dipping down to brush at his battered knuckles. “You’re welcome here,” she said sincerely, voice tinged with warmth. “As long as you need.”

“Appreciate it,” Geralt murmured, yet his yearning digits betrayed the nonchalance of his tone. He let the woman explore his palm, feeling her fingertips graze at his rough skin and caress the countless scars there.

He felt it again— the sweet, palliative aroma of lavender and honey. It churned in his nose, sending paroxysms of euphoria throughout his body and sending him into a bizarre overdrive. His fists clenched as he attempted to wash the feeling away, rasping under his breath at the intensity of the sensation.

Suddenly, the woman leaned in. The water rippled in waves as her legs repositioned, allowing her leverage and better control over her stirs.

“Geralt,” she chanted quietly, soft breasts peeking out of the water as she rose on her knees. The witcher observed, hopelessly entranced by the smooth, slick skin and the rouge peaks of her nipples as they emerged from beneath the surface. The sky outside roared, and in the heat of the moment, Geralt uncovered an aching to reach out and touch her skin, feel the warmth of it, caress at the curves of her body.

“What is this?” he questioned through gritting teeth, eyes half-lidded and hazy as he navigated the strange intoxication flowing through his body. “This smell—”

“Lavender and honey,” they said in unison, voices echoing in a remarkable, reverberating symphony that echoed within the witcher’s drunken mind.

The woman stopped, her hand entwined in Geralt’s larger one as they exchanged gazes. He felt stuck in place and time, watching her pupils dilate into two black discs. The witcher inhaled sharply, letting a barely audible grunt sneak past his parted lips, harmonizing with the strong patter of rain outside.

Suddenly, thunder struck down with the blinding glow of nearby lightning. The sound pulsated within the atmosphere, weaving into the tantric air, making his companion flinch with a loud yelp and momentarily clearing the witcher’s murky vision. He stiffened, hand tensing around Maja’s before she slowly sunk into the water again, withdrawing from his fervent grip. She gazed at him, eyes sparkling as he rubbed at the lingering feeling of her extracted touch.

Geralt blinked rapidly, adjusting his body and squeezing at his palms. He sighed, head shaking gently as he tried to recalibrate, his confusion briefly overshadowed by his companion’s harsh reaction. “It’s alright,” he said quietly, voice subdued yet somewhat dismayed. “Just a storm.”

Maja nodded, her breath still hastened as she took in the reassuring sight of Geralt’s sturdy form. She exhaled loudly, trying to rescue her composure, and offered him a faint smile tinged with gratitude.

“Just a storm,” she nodded along, body sliding downwards and allowing her head to submerge fully. She lingered there, long hair floating beneath the surface like a bundle of dark sea kelp, matching the gentle ebb and flow of their bath.

Surfacing, she let her hair cascade down her shoulders in shiny ribbons, quickly brushing it back with stray droplets shimmering in the candlelight. Geralt’s lips twitched in a dry chuckle. “Any better under there?”

“Much,” the woman answered quietly, tilting her head and beaming softly. They sat in a restful silence, the woman beginning to gently brush her calf against his and watching for a reaction. He held her gaze, staying put and abiding by the physicality, watching her benevolent gaze falter to gloom. She withdrew momentarily, splashing at the water.

“I’ll get the sheets ready,” she declared politely, shifting her arms to get out of the bath. Her eyes suddenly met his, and she quirked an eyebrow. “Eyes closed now.”

Geralt tilted his head quizzically, yet the woman’s increasingly stony expression urged him to comply. He felt a gentle splash followed by gentle, quiet trickling as the girl made it out of the wooden tub. Suddenly, against his better judgment, Geralt’s eyes fluttered open, just enough to catch a subtle glimpse of his companion’s backside.

The witcher gazed down her shoulders, watching them flex and release as she squeezed her hair dry. The grove of her spine descended a slick slope, smooth skin harboring a constellation of scattered moles. He hummed, taking note of the two dimples decorating her lower back, and finally reaching the soft flesh of her ass. He stared for a while, admiring, feeling like a hungry wolf watching his delicate prey pasture in a field. He grunted quietly at the unchaste thought, deciding to shut his eyes again in a moment of foreboding clarity.

He heard some shuffling, stomping around, a grunt or two, and finally a gentle voice. “Okay, you can look now.”

His eyes reopened, no hint of mischief in their glassy surface. The woman appeared before him, dressed in a large, linen slip. The white cloth bared irregular patches of wetness scattered across its surface, making Geralt suppose she dressed in a hurry; perhaps as a habit.

“I’ll get everything ready for you. Relax and enjoy the water while it’s still hot, okay?” she giggled warmly, flashing the man a giddy smile. He nodded in understanding, leaning back against the bath’s flank.

For a split second, Maja hesitated. She stood in place, doorknob in hand, yet refusing to twist. She gazed over Geralt’s exposed chest, across his strong arms, and down the faint outlines present beneath the suds. Her face glowed in the soft lights, casting a soft shade of pink across her nose, temples, and cheeks.

“Thank you,” his companion started loudly, wincing at her own shrill. She cleared her throat to recompose herself, beginning again. “For listening. I haven’t said so much in one sitting in a long, long time.” she giggled.

The witcher’s lips parted to speak, but before he could utter a word, the woman shot him a reassuring grin and disappeared behind the door. The man sighed, taking in the sudden silence, or what felt like a silence. The storm continued to rage outside, intermitted by soft sloshing and Geralt’s steady breathing.

He shut his eyes and sighed meditatively, enjoying the warm bath and gentle kindness of a stranger for just a second longer, or at least for as long as the night allowed. He thought about the deer, the journal in the woods, Miroslav, Maja… the memories of that day flashed behind his eyes like a storybook, making him sigh in exasperation. He thought of her soft breasts and the way they bounced with her subtle movements, her plump thighs and delicate waist, ideal for sinking his palms into…

Geralt grunted softly. Unbeknownst to him, his hand had begun dipping down his stomach and trailing along the soft patch of flaxen. He stroked that area, humming quietly as his digits passed down a pulse point, feeling the mild, rhythmic pumping of his blood.

The witcher flexed his back, adjusting for comfort and letting his hand slide lower. As he reached the base, he let out a soft moan escape his throat. The gentle pressure made him shiver, a strong inflow of blood causing him to engorge against his palm. He pressed at the soft flesh of his cock, feeling it pulsate rhythmically to the beat of his heart.

Thunder crashed, and his mind flooded with images of her bare ass. He furrowed his eyebrows at the lewd picture, surprised at its immense clarity within his memory. With a soft pull, he began working at his thick length, remembering the shallow dimples on her lower back. Each stroke elicited the softest of grunts from him, progressively quickening the pleasurable motion.

He thought about her voice. With every pull, he imagined hearing her chant his name, moan, and mewl in pleasure as he pounded into her with a vigor he was certain she hadn’t experienced before.

His hand grew into a fist, lips a tight line as he pumped his cock. Eyes half-lidded, he glanced over at the doorway where he last saw her leave. The memory of aromatic lavender and sweet, sticky honey enveloped his senses, hand gliding smoothly against the hardness of his length at the intoxicating thought of the fragrance.

Geralt could feel himself reaching his limit. His lips fell apart, teeth clenched tight while his hand stroked rhythmically, picking up the pace and pressure. He could feel his cock throbbing between his digits, gently enveloped by the warm water current that only elevated the fierce affair.

“Fuck…” he called out breathlessly, head rolling back to hit the brim of the bathtub. He bucked his hips into his open hand, picking up a rough, animalistic rhythm. He fucked into the hole, eyes closed to let his mind roam where it wanted to be most at the moment. He imagined grabbing her soft thigh, squeezing at its soft flesh and pounding, fucking, ramming—

“Gods, fuck—” he hissed suddenly, feeling the tension brewing inside his stomach, extending rapidly throughout his lower body and spine, bucking his tired hips one last time until… he went over the edge. With a tremor in his hand, he felt his entire being come undone as his hot seed spilled into the bath, mixing with the salty beads of sweat cascading down his flexed muscles.

The witcher breathed heavily at the comedown, whispering quiet praises into the humid air that reached nobody but the silent flames of candlelight. With a gentle sigh, he felt a wave of primal ecstasy and relaxation wash over his strained body, soaking his skin with sparks of electricity.

Then, there was silence. The man’s heaving calmed, and before long, he felt a strange longing brewing in his stomach. In one instance, he began scooping water over his flaxen hair, letting it dampen and soak.

Once he was done, he withdrew from the warm comforts of the bath and faced the inevitable, unforgiving chill of the attic. He stood there, watching the soapy water cascade down his heated body, and considered his companion. It was a peculiar feeling, an elaborate blend of culpability and interest as he evaluated his prior acts. Despite his fiendish looks and capabilities, even witchers craved the mortal touch of a warm woman.

Exiting the bath felt like a necessary evil as the cool breeze began seeping through the half-open window. Geralt huffed as he wrapped a towel around his waist, quickly enrobing himself in a simple linen shirt and pants. Once done draining the water and drying off properly, he slowly made his way through the elusive doorway to the other room.

The scent of autumn rain and thunderstorms hit his nose immediately. A soft, palpable freshness of the soil that soothed his senses and lulled him into oblivion within seconds.

Taking another step forward, he noticed the dimness of the room. The stray candle had been put out, instead replaced by a burnt-out yet still fragrant stick of incense that clouded the room in a cozy, aromatic haze.

His eyes glanced around the perimeter, taking note of how much neater the space looked. The stray books littering the floor were now perched neatly on top of each other, while the sheepskin rug lay flattened next to the bed.

Curiously, on it lay his companion.

Her soft, damp hair cascaded down an intricately embroidered quilt, her limp body cocooned safely within its warmth. The bed next to her had been carefully made, complete with a fresh set of clean linen and a soft, inviting pillow.

Geralt couldn’t help but sigh at the peaceful scenery. He walked over quietly, making sure to keep the woman’s peace undisturbed. He crouched down, letting the soft, airy groans of the girl fill his body with warmth and comfort. She was sound asleep, tucked in like a baby lamb.

Without hesitation, he placed a slow, secure hand under the woman’s back and knees. Effortlessly, he lifted her off the sheepskin, feeling her weight sink into his strong arms.

Her skin felt searing, and so, so satiny after the long bath they had taken together. He glanced at her face, admiring the placid, sheer expression on her tired face. In the soft glow of the night, she seemed to be smiling.

After a prolonged beat, Geralt rose and took a step towards the made bed. He unraveled the fresh sheets and gently pressed the woman’s body into the mattress. She sighed at the motion, yet her eyes remained shut. She shuffled around, finding a comfortable position on her back and quickly pulling the covers up to her chin.

He leaned in, placing a gentle hand against her covered shoulder. She sighed at the touch, eyebrows softening instantaneously. Geralt chuckled gently, lingering for a moment, yet finally deciding to withdraw. He gazed upon Maja’s face for a while, picking at the moles and imperfections littering her skin, up until her body shifted to face the wall. Her hair flowed gently down her back, gliding like shining ribbons upon the soft quilt.

With a soft sigh, he finally withdrew from her sleeping form. He sat on the sheepskin carpet, allowing his body to relax against the hard, wooden floor. After many decades of similar, if not worse, conditions, it was something he had grown used to.

With a guttural groan, he stretched out his limbs, letting them fall naturally to his sides. He twisted to the flank, leaning against his forearm and catching yet another peek of his sleeping companion.

Maja had curled in her sleep once more, this time facing him fully. He skimmed her features for a while, counting the tiny moles resting upon her cheeks and forehead that spread across her face like a small galaxy. As he continued, the soft buzz of rain lulled his mind to a quiet rest. His eyes gradually closed, eyebrows came lax, and ultimately, the last memory of that day was the delicate scent of lavender and honey mingled with her gentle smile bidding him goodnight as he fell into sweet oblivion.

—

Deep into that faithful night, whenever thunder would strike the small town of Posada, Geralt would feel the delicate embrace of a woman’s hand as it caressed the scars of his own.

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