#unless they’re asked for whenever prompts are open! like someone asked for a flash fic a while back

[tickle-bugs]

Hello!! I hope this doesn’t come off as pushy or rude or anything but I was just genuinely curious, are there characters/pairings that you like but haven’t written about, and would you like to write for them in the future?

Not rude at all! Thank you for asking, actually, because yes! There’s plenty. I’m very open about how writers should write for themselves and what they like, and I do that, but…there’s definitely characters/pairings/fandoms I’ve always wanted to write for, but don’t, because they’re not necessarily fan-favorites or I just haven’t tried yet!

this is probably going overboard, but that’s my brand, so here’s a list (gonna exclude characters/pairings that I have WIPs for):

- *gestures at the entire musical/video games section of my fandom list*

- *gestures at the entirety of Ragnarök* (shoutout to ragnarök anon ilysm)

- I’d like to write some explicitly romantic Lokius! My next WIP for them is schrödinger’s Lokius again but I’d like to try my hand at proper romance I think.

- I’m still not currently writing for TUA because I’m super burnt out, but I always wanted to write more for characters that weren’t Klaus or Five. Nothing against them, I’m fond of them, but they’re hands-down the most requested characters and I would’ve liked to try writing for Vanya, Diego, Allison, Lila, etc more. Maybe Luther even idk. I also feel weird writing about Ben because he’s heavily infantilized by the fandom but he could be fun too! Idk my TUA feelings are complicated so I’ll leave it there.

- I really want to write something with Barry and Cisco from The Flash. No concrete thoughts but I love their dynamic and it would be so fun. Also maybe something with Caitlin? Niche fandom though!

- I’d love to write for Arrow. Felicity is my beloved. Oliver seems like a very fun character to write with literally anyone (also I was recently introduced to Barry/Oliver as a thing and I gotta say I’m intrigued!)

- Eggsy from Kingsman! Kingsman is one of my ultimate comfort movies and I’d love to write literally anything with him. He has a very distinct voice that’d be a blast to write!

- I wrote him in one of the five sentence challenges a while back, but I’ve always wanted to try writing Gabriel from SPN into a full length fic. He also seems like he’d be fun to write!! Also Rowena, Charlie, and Kevin. AND BENNYYYYYYY

- I can’t seem to get past episode one of critical role campaign 2 (I’m bad at processing audio so I have to sit and properly watch which takes time I simply do not have) but I am looking very disrespectfully at Mollymauk.

- I am utterly flabbergasted that I haven’t written properly for The Mandalorian, but I want to write Din. He’s so cute :)

- Avengers/MCU, maybe? Plenty of characters there I’ve never tried! Thor seems like he could be fun (Ragnarok fic perhaps)? I don’t really have any ideas for it but I think it might be fun!

- OH y’know what I really want to try? It’s not necessarily a character, but more ler perspective!!! I tend to take the Lee’s POV so we get ✨maximum description of feeling✨ but I had lots of fun writing ler!pov recently in One of a Kind and Stress Relief. So there’s that!

- I’ve already written a Witcher fic and I have a WIP for them in progress so this is technically cheating, but I wanna write Yennefer and Geryenskier so badly. I love Yen so dearly.

- I don’t know that anyone would necessarily be interested, but I’d have fun writing a fic about my D&D characters I think. They’re my babes!

- I know I already gestured at my video games section but y’all…I wanna write about the Peter Parker from the 2018 Spider-Man game so damn bad. Or even Miles!! They’re so cute wtf!!!

- not specific, but I wanna write more femme centered fics. Most of my content gravitates towards male characters because ✨gender is a weird soup✨ and so many female characters die or are badly written, but women are so!!!!!! In conclusion I wanna write about more women.

- Another nonspecific yet specific thing: Anime! I haven’t watched any series in a very very long time, but I have plenty of characters that I enjoy! The problem is I lose all grasp on plot and as a canon/canon-adjacent writer…yikes. But I would like to write for Haikyuu (lee!Bokuto, Daisuga, ler Akaashi), Fairy Tail, maybe One Punch Man (Genos my beloved)? I probably won’t, which is why they’re not on my fandoms list, but I think about it often. There’s other anime I know that I loved, like Owari no Seraph, FMA, Blue Exorcist, etc but I retained absolutely nothing, just very vague concepts of who the characters are. (Well I retained FMA but I have zero desire to write for it)

There’s a few things I didn’t mention that are firsts for me, but I have WIPs for them so I didn’t really count them for the list, but yeah. Hope this answered your question! Thanks for asking <3333333

[raichijin]

⋆͛♡⋆͛ the hangover; mirio edition.  ❥ a one-shot.

━━━━━ 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. (tba)

preface; writing this was honestly so painful. a testatment to why i should never 1.) do collabs ever 2.) write long things. i am drained.

word count; 5k words.

starring; mirio, mina, shinsou, denki, unnamed boyfriend.

summary; after your boyfriend forgets about your anniversary, you spend some time with friends to forgive and forget about what happened. then it gets worse.

warnings; reader gets called some nasty names towards the end of the fic. watch out for that.

you were supposed to be spending this weekend with your boyfriend. at a resort, poolside, on vacation, or on a beach, or where ever he’d fancy peeling off the nice (read: expensive) swimsuit he’d gotten you for your five year anniversary.

he was kind, is kind, but not as committed to your relationship as he was to his job. not even a call as the clock struck midnight, almost an hour past your reservation, but a text the morning after with a short apology, and the sudden announcement that he’d be working late. again. you didn’t cry. wouldn’t, because shedding tears would cause a mess and a headache, and self-doubt is what’s tucking you in at night, telling you that maybe for tonight, tomorrow and the day after your feelings don’t matter.

cause his job is the one keeping you afloat. (your interest in the arts is cute, to him; like a hobby. nothing you could stay afloat with. it’s too risky, he insists, so to you, it became nothing. to others? it became offhand remarks at his high-end office parties. a joke to your in-laws. a breathed sigh of relief from your parents.) so more time is what’s best for the both of you.

that has to be it.

your friends figure out something might be wrong when you go ghost for days, bordering on a week.

you mention how it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re by yourself as you are, but they don’t buy it. say you need to loosen up, take a vacation of your own even when you say you don’t need it because you’re not working, give you sharp glares whenever you object. you don’t know why you thought you had a choice in the matter — especially when mina’s sugar mommy gives her enough money to afford 2 full suites at one of the most expensive hotels in the area.

denki also tags along, just cause, and brings his boyfriend; shinsou, with him.

if they know what’s going on, they never mention it. 

and it’s a little easier to cope that way.

you dip your toes, ease yourself into the night, before you’re being pulled into the deep end and your mind’s been left at the door, but your body is having a field day.

you should’ve blacked out two margaritas ago.

you think you did.

you’re too drunk to recall all of the rash decisions you made, or whether or not you maxed your credit card, but you’ve must’ve gotten separated from your friends somewhere along the way, because when you wake up, you are distinctly not in your bed, not in a tastefully decorated room, not in a hotel.

and mina, shinsou, denki? unless they’re in the adjacent room, they’re not here with you either. you’re still in your clothes from last night. your shirt is missing a button and you don’t have your shoes on, but beyond that, you’re perfectly fine.

a scraggly bed head lies next to you, who is, notably, more nude than you are.

he has no shirt. no shoes. no pants. his blonde hair is unruly and you’re so shocked you actually start to wake up. your eyes widen and you’re sitting up so fast you’re a bit dizzy from the sudden motion.

the room is spinning and you feel sick, the headache behind your eyes making you want to grind your molars into dust. and just as quickly as you sat up, you lay back down; shaking the bed with the force. the guy next to you isn’t as heavy of a sleeper as you hoped, though. he blinks open tired eyes, showing you the most exquisite navy blue, and the little bit of drool dripping down his chin might’ve been cute if he wasn’t a complete stranger.

though you can’t stave off the creeping anxiety, the silence as he comes to his senses doesn’t feel wrong, and you’re more confused than scared.

he rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, and gives you a criminally bright smile, and though his voice is wrecked when he says “...g’morning, sunshine.”, you doubt yours sounds much better. 

the nickname makes you feel fuzzy, if only for a second.

“i, uh … good morning?” you sound awkward, but the guy manages to find humor in your predicament when he chuckles gently, sitting up without so much as a second thought. you can see more of his body when he does so, and when his hand comes up to ruffle his hair, you can catch the glint of a silver band, resting on his ring finger. 

then everything clicks into place.

did you cheat? was he cheating?

all of the things you’d been beating yourself up over settle thick over top like smoke clouds and a raging fire. you feel like you’re suffocating, and don’t realize you’re freaking out until a strong hand is wrapping around yours, which, in your panic, you squeeze.

you spot a matching ring on your hand, that you know for a fact wasn’t there before,

and you think that’s when you pass out.

you wake up (again) to a room with tacky but charming decor, the smell of breakfast, and considerably less of a headache than what you started with. now more lucid, with the strength in your body to walk and think, your first priority is finding your phone. you tap your pockets, check the bedside drawer and tables, under your pillow, in the cracks of the bed, under the bed.

no cigar. you’re digging through miscellaneous memorabilia, trinkets and clothes that aren’t yours for at least a minute before the guy you were laid up in bed with comes back to just to see you picking through the corners of his bedroom, banana in hand.

he stands in the doorway and clears his throat. he has clothes on this time, pants. “you’re awake? are you feeling any better?”

you startle, straighten your back and stand upright, your arms falling to your sides. “um, kind of. i — have you seen my phone?”

he shakes his head, offers you the banana. “you should have this though! it’ll fix that hangover, i think.”

“i … thanks.” standing and eating a banana in someone else’s bedroom is certainly … a time.

“i made some breakfast,” he says when you’re halfway finished, “if you want some.” he ends with a smile, and you feel those 3 shots of serotonin go straight to your brain.

granted, you shouldn’t be that happy.

he takes the lead and turns around, leading you down a narrow hallway into a quaint kitchenette with a lovely beach view and all the good summer vibes condensed into a single, small room. it makes your heart hurt even more when you realize you have someone home, someone expecting you to come back.

to a hollow apartment, a cold bed, a lukewarm welcome.

you have to force your brain to be quiet to even hear a fraction of what blondie is saying.

“alcohol basically just dehydrates you. the potassium stops that, gets you all your minerals and stuff back. i heard it works with beer, so i was thinking it works for other stuff too!” he sounds so chipper that it brings your mood up just to hear his voice.

so bold and sure, warm and kind.

“but if it doesn’t clear up in 30 minutes, i have some advil i can give you! don’t want you having a headache all day now.” he’s sitting you down at his small table and sliding some pancakes in front of you, some orange juice. eating feels like a chore, but you know you have to, or that you should try at least.

while you push around your food, blondie chatters away, and even if you just met, he has you entranced by the way he speaks. smooth like the butter on his toast as his stories flow effortlessly into one another, how easily he can chat you up is amazing; getting you from gentle chuckles to full blown belly laughter before you can get your first bite in.

there’s lulls in the conversation if you count the moments he takes to actually eat, but he keeps you on your toes with his personal anecdotes, and questions about yourself, forcing you out of your shell, little by little.

the thought of your boyfriend pushed back into the depths of your mind.

until you broach the topic of your friends.

you learn quickly that he’s a good listener, completely silent unless prompted, asking questions or making jokes only when you’re finished speaking. when he asks, you tell him about the ones that got you here, shinsou, denki and mina.

his eyes flash momentarily, a look of recognition, or maybe understanding, passing over him. he hums gently, head swaying as he does so.

“they’re a little rough around the edges but they’re like family, you know?”

“i get what you mean. they were very nice when i met them. especially at our wedding!” he sips his coffee.

“i — are you alright? you’re choking!” that you are. the guilt you felt when you first woke up and the rising panic ram into your gut like a freight train, and suddenly, you don’t want to eat anymore.

"what do you mean we're married?" you rub small circles into your forehead as this idyllic morning goes right back to being cruel hell. 

"yesterday, at the chapel," he twists his wedding ring with warm familiarity that makes your stomach churn. "i can't really believe it myself, like maybe we were meant to be? i know the universe works in strange ways like that."

you're sorry to burst his bubble, but you save the happily ever afters for fairy tales, not real life.

you pinch your forehead and heave an exasperated sigh.

"i have a boyfriend." you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to seek lost comfort. "and we don't know each other to begin with. can't even remember your name, i was so drunk."

you cradle your face in your palms, feel his stare bore into the top of your head.

"togata." you perk up.

“what?”

“my name. it’s togata. mirio togata.” 

“oh.” you rub your cheeks, pull them back with the heels of your palms.

“that’s a nice name.” an uncomfortable silence washes over you both before someone speaks up. mirio.

“so what do you want to do?”

you answer a little bit too fast in response. “i don’t know. i … i should call my friends. i still need to find my phone—” you stand up, ignore the onslaught of nausea, and look around the kitchen.

“help me look? and then … and then we can figure out all the other details later.” mirio carries both your plates to the sink, and busies himself with dishes for a brief moment, allowing you to find the bathroom nook and reorient yourself. you fix yourself up a bit, straighten out your shirt and fix your hair up. no time to take a shower.

you cup a hand in front of your mouth, breathe and sniff. eugh. 

“hey, uh, togata; got an extra toothbrush?” his heart might’ve lept when you called him by his given name.

“um! yeah!” rushing water obscures his voice a bit, but if he shouts he’s loud enough to hear. “check under the sink? i should have some there.”

“thanks.”

you rummage around in his cabinets, and in that time he’s managed to clean up the leftover food and put a shirt on. 

your phone having gotten lost or being stolen becomes more of a possibility the longer you think about it. you doubt you came back to his house to do anything but sleep. how many places could you have dropped it? you come out of the bathroom to mirio sitting back at the kitchenette table, holding his phone in his hand.

“hey togata … do you think you can call me?”

“i mean, sure, but i don’t know if i have your number...”

your anxiety makes you a bit snippy even when you don’t mean to be rude, but you can apologize when you get your phone back.  ”just give it to me then. i’ll do it.”

it rings a few times before someone picks up, which is a step up from going to voicemail, and the situation goes from okay to great when the croaky voice of shinsou answers, worn out and tired, but awake enough to make a greeting.

he says you’re not here to pick up the phone right now, you interrupt and say that this is you, and that you just borrowed togata’s phone to figure out where yours was.

“togata? who?” 

“my, my um. husband.” gingerly said, you can see mirio tense up in the corner of your eye.

“oh,” someone’s snickering away from the mic. denki probably. you can’t help but roll your eyes. “mirio?” you’re upset that he can remember his name but you couldn’t. “how is he?” you shoot mirio a look, he gives you a thumbs up.

“good. so, uh, where are you guys?”

two hours away. they’re two hours away by car and mirio’s pickup truck is exactly what you’d expect from him. it’s big, beat up, it’s blue, and it’s his pride and joy, even if it’s slow to start up. if anything, it feels a bit humbling to hear the low hum of the buzzing engine. brings you back down to reality, out of the lap of luxury.

reminds you of the way mirio laughs with his whole chest. that gentle, rumbling purr.

you’re sinking into the crunchy leather seat with a groan, then a laugh from togata; to which you swat at him. you give him the address so he can set it up with his gps, and get going. he messes it up a bit and then it’s your turn to laugh, much to his displeasure. he blushes from the embarrassment, and you pat his shoulder, still chuckling. it feels natural. waking up together. having breakfast together. unofficial road trip to meet back up with your friends because you got blackout drunk and are 100 miles away.

oh, right. you sigh softly and mirio looks over, thinking to comfort you by turning on the radio, greeted by soft pop and slow guitars.

the silence carries.

fifteen minutes into the drive, he thinks to ask about your boyfriend.

“what’s he like?” togata drums his fingers on the wheel with an air of anxiety almost, though you can’t imagine why he would be — unless he thinks you won’t react well to his question. you don’t mind however, and sate his curiosity without as much as a glance.

“oh, he’s nice,” your statement lacks the enthusiasm you’d expect when someone talks about their significant other. it seems sincere, yet exhausted.

“buys me whatever i want, when i want it, loves his job to death, and … we were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary this week.” dejection is visible in the way you slouch your shoulders, interest waning. mirio can’t help but exercise a little concern, filling in the gaps while he’s at it..

“and you couldn’t, because you came here?” you shake your head.

“what? no. i came here because he was too busy, and my friends thought i could still have some fun on my own. his job is important to him.”

“and your relationship isn’t?” your eyes narrow, glaring at him from the passenger's seat.

“the fuck’s that supposed to mean mirio?” 

“well, an anniversary is supposed to be more important than some job— don’t you think he should just take a day off? it wouldn’t hurt.” you lean against the car door, shoulder propping your head up as you peer out the window.

“i mean, i guess. but he’s keeping us afloat, so i can’t really complain.” togata’s eyebrows shoot up.

his tone is incredulous. “what, you don’t work?”

seeing you cringe away out of the corner of his eye is what makes him back track almost immediately.

“i’m so sorry! i’m — wow, that was completely out of line,” your embarrassment lessens when he apologizes, and you inhale sharply. 

“don’t worry. it’s, it’s fine.” you can’t help the way your fingers dig into the flesh of your arm, gnawing the inside of your cheeks, afraid of getting laughed at. mirio wouldn’t laugh at you, would he? 

“i, i used to make music. i was in a band in highschool, actually.” though mirio’s forced to keep his eyes on the road lest you two crash, you can see the way his smile reaches his ears, the silent ‘wow’ of awe making your cheeks heat up. high brow company doesn’t have much use for your talents unless it’s the violin, or something else that fits their lame-ass agenda. your bass chills in the back of your closet, a relic of the past, but a neat decoration.

you shake your head, too caught up in your own train of thought that you didn’t realize togata was speaking.

“i’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“oh! i was just curious, i asked if you sing?” you snort, then full on laugh, though mirio doesn’t seem to get the joke.

“oh, hell no. i don’t have the voice for it, nor the patience to do vocal training. i just played bass! thought it was easier than guitar because it only had 4 strings. i was wrong. maybe i could … show you sometime? i mean, it’s been a while, but i think i remember a few songs: have you heard of seven nation army?”

you talk with mirio about music at length, and learn that he’s a pretty big enthusiast himself and while he’s never played an instrument, he’s been interested in learning guitar. he brings up your band, and the memories of your senior year come flooding back; mina and denki convincing you to audition, your stage fright, recruitment later in spite of it. 

mirio can see the stars in your eyes when you speak, speaking so animatedly with clear adoration at the topic at hand, and he starts getting a creeping suspicion that back where you’re from, you don’t get to talk about this as nearly as much as you like. he realizes in the same breath that he doesn’t mind indulging you. he participates enough so you don’t feel like you’re chatting his ear off, but quiet enough to hear you fill in the empty space.

the way your hands move as you tell stories is adorable and so is your enthusiasm, he could hear you ramble for hours and never get bored. and he nearly does, it’s been an hour and you’re still talking — but then you take a breath, and apologize for no good reason.

he squints at you, confused.

“what’re you apologizing for?”

“i’ve been talking waaaaay too much. i’ve barely heard a word out of you for the last thirty minutes!”

“i thought you were having fun! i know i liked listening. besides, it looks like that you don’t get to talk enough about the stuff you enjoy. i’m willing to listen, so talk all you want!” the assumption makes you furrow your brow, and you hate that you feel like he’s right. 

your boyfriend either talks about his job, your friends, his parents, or nothing at all. no interest in music. no time for it. your friends enjoy reminiscing on occasion, but you don’t speak enough to them to get all nostalgic.

it’s … nice that he takes your feelings into consideration. you smile to yourself, saying nothing in response.

“we’re getting closer to the hotel — it’s 30 minutes away now.” it gets quiet again, before all the sounds you hear are the other cards and the slow hum of low volume music you’d forgotten about, coming from the radio. you turn towards the window to take in the scenery while mirio catches glimpses of you in his periphery, surprised at how adorable you look, doing even the most mundane of things.

mirio couldn’t remember much from the night before, well, can’t remember anything that wasn’t you. you weren’t completely out of it when you met him, but he could’ve misjudged, considering he wasn’t quite in his right mind either. didn’t know if it was the alcohol that made you so bold, but everything about you was so charming. 

from something as simple as your smile to how easily you chatted him up, despite his tendency to be a tad overbearing, you would take him and his attitude in stride. running around town, dipping in and out of nightclubs with your friends close behind, getting kicked out of said clubs, dancing and laughing together in another—

he huffs, pouting to himself. your boyfriend was so damn lucky.

he steps on the gas and starts going a little faster. you don’t seem to mind.

the rest of the trip was silence, and it wasn’t until he parked and stepped out of the car and said something.

“wow.” he whistles, low and long, until you pinch his arm to stop from attract the stares of passerby. “you guys could afford this? gosh. that’s like, three of my paychecks, maybe.” you chortled as he helped you out, quick to clear up any confusion.

“not me,” you walked in the lobby with him, going straight to the elevators after checking in with the front desk. “i could barely afford it! mina’s … uhm, girlfriend, paid for a room for all of us.” he arches a brow at the emphasis on girlfriend, but if he has any objections, he holds his peace.

“mmh. wonder what it’s like to be rich.” 

you laugh as you’re carried up a few floors, specifically to the more expensive suites, at least 12 floors up. “me too dude! mina is lucky.”

you’re barely knocking on the room door before denki is throwing it open and screeching, ushering you both in. they remember mirio from last night, which is upsetting, considering they don’t remember anything else: not how you got to mirio’s house, not how they got back home. not how they found your phone in the bathroom either, apparently.

“speaking of bathrooms, i’m gonna take a shower. keep mirio company, i guess." 

you have to look through your luggage for a change of clothes, and find your phone on your bed in your room, charging and you don’t think about going through it until after you’re clean.

coming back to nearly forty notifications from your boyfriend wasn’t on the agenda, and quite frankly, might’ve been a sign. some were calls but most were all lower case texts, each more foreboding than the last. holding your towel up with one hand, you scroll through your messages with the other.

 what the fuck is wrong with you?

 who the hell is this guy?

beneath it, a video of you and togata. your pupils dilate, and a deeply rooted sense of dread clutches your heart. it looks like a screen recording off of denki’s instagram account, of you two dancing. not overtly scandalous, but too close for comfort.

have you been cheating on me? 

for how long

how desperate are you? i say i have a business trip and you take it as an excuse to slut it up somewhere else?

you’re fucking pathetic.

heart slowly sinking, threatening to beat out of your chest, you can’t find it in you to scroll through the rest. you barely have pants on before you’re calling him up, frenzied and feeling out of breath. the phone barely rings twice before you’re going to voicemail and hearing the beeping tone. 

fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

you hang up, and try again.

this time, he picks up on the first dial tone.

“baby?” you nearly yell into the microphone, while the other end remains silent.

“what is it.” his voice is hollow, not even asking a question; rather making a statement. you choke on your words, are quiet for a few seconds at most before he’s barking at you. “i don’t have all day. i’m busy.”

“t-that video. it wasn’t, it wasn’t anything—” something slams in the background that makes you flinch, and he takes it as a good opportunity to cut you off.

“so the wedding wasn’t shit either? the way he was holding you, looking at you like that, like some lovesick fucking puppy?”

“w-what? what’re you talking about honey? it’s nothing like that—”

“don’t get fucking cute with me. i’ve seen the photos. that girl mina doesn’t know how to not publicize your life.” you feel like dying. 

“i knew i should’ve never settled for you.”

“you don’t mean that—”

“shut the fuck up.” there’s more shuffling on his end, a deep sigh. you’re too shaken to speak. “i wasted so much on you. gave you a house, a home, just for you to repay the favor by being a two-bit whore, sit on your ass all day and complain, and waste my time with those stupid fucking hobbies of yours.” what’s more terrifying is that his voice doesn’t wane or waver. he means it.

“... honey, please. please just let me explain!” you hadn’t even noticed the tears until you’re wiping them off your cheeks, your sniffling getting louder until you’re full on sobbing.

“there’s nothing left to explain. get your shit out by tuesday. we’re done.”

the line goes dead after that.

you don’t realize how much time has passed since you went to go shower initially, only that it’s been a while, considering how urgently mina starts knocking on the door.

“baby, are you alright? you’ve been in there for half an hour!” you can’t find it in you to respond. all it results in is choking on your own words, coughing and sobbing and tears and this fucking headache.

you don’t want to be seen.

mina announces that she’s coming in, and conversation behind the door quiets down until you can’t hear it anymore. just your own thoughts. she opens it and finds you in the corner, your knees to your chest while you’re just barely dressed, hair soaking wet. crying feebly until she rushes over and asks what happened.

you show her your phone. the texts.

she wraps her arm around your back and helps you up. hands you a towel so you can finish drying yourself off, and picks out some clothes for you to wear. when she turns around, she’s greeted by the concerned faces of your friends. mirio.

her face morphs from a look of concern to pure rage.

“what the fuck!?” she all but snatches your phone away from you, to which you pull your hands back and cradle you legs again. “who the fuck does this asshole think he is?” she looks down at you just then, and sees the red in your eyes, the tear tracks that stain your cheeks and a few drops dripping off your chin. you need your help more than you need her rage and half hearted insults. 

“you yelled.” shinsou states plainly. “is everything alright?” mina approaches them and ushers everyone out, closing the door, presumably to give you some privacy.

you dress slowly, the few minutes feeling like an eternity before you’re reaching for the door handle, clean and feeling like shit, for different reasons other than a hangover.

when you emerge from your room, mirio gives you a hug.

a hug that you melt into. one that you weren’t expecting but squeeze him back just as hard, tears that didn’t quite make it out seeping into the spot where you press into his shirt. his arms are comforting and strong, rubbing and patting your back gently, until the room is silent beyond your heartbeat and your sniffles, your friends milling about in the background.

“he said i have to move out.” your fingers dig into togata’s shirt. “pack up all my stuff and leave but i don’t know where i’m supposed to go—”

there’s a smaller hand patting your back when mina speaks up.

“d-don’t worry.” you can feel her hugging you too, a special warmth blooming in your chest. 

“we’ll figure something out.”

while you’re leaving the hotel, mina makes a call to her girlfriend camie to explain the situation, and by the time you’re back in mirio’s pick up, she said that camie offered to rent you an apartment in her name. the earliest she can get it was by monday, so she offered to let you spend the night for a couple days as well. denki says that he and shinsou could help you with things around the house: shopping, redecorating, etc.

togata is the one who offers to help you get your stuff. you arrange the date for monday, actually exchange phone numbers, and meet up at 8.

it makes sense; his car has enough space in the back, you don’t have much of your own stuff, but you nearly regret accepting the offer in the first place. something about moving out with your … husband in tow doesn’t sit well with you. almost seems like it’s too soon. 

but mirio’s charming enough to make the whole ordeal seem less like a fever dream. you’re beaming at him by the time you’re all done, laughing and smiling and so infectiously happy. by the time you both wind down you’re out of breath, wheezing in the front seats of the car.

he smiles fondly at you.

you can feel your cheeks heat as you return the sentiment.

then both of you are back on the road. the musics louder this time, and you get to show him how shitty you sing; which he insists isn’t so bad after all. it’s after twenty minutes of this that you’re suddenly struck by the irony of it all. 

“i can’t believe our first date with you was me moving out of my exes apartment.” mirio chokes on his spit, cheeks bleeding red as he does a double take, eyes flitting from the road, back to you, back to the road.

“wait.”

“that was our date?”

𝔱 𝔞 𝔤 𝔩 𝔦 𝔰 𝔱 ;  @mitsusuri​ @okayshin​ @tamasoft

[dancedelion]

omg have you heard Tolerate It from taylor swifts new album? it reminds me of your fics so much idk if you might wanna use it as a prompt. specifically "if it's all in my head tell me now, tell me i've got it wrong somehow / i know my love should be celebrated, but you tolerate it" but also just like the whole song in general hahaha xo

Ahhh you’re so right! It’s a really great song. (My other favorites from the album are ‘champagne problems’ and ‘right where you left me’) Thank you so much for the ask and the suggestion! I’m sorry it took me so long to actually get to writing a fic about it, I was busy with uni but I've been thinking about the fic all this time. I hope you like it!

Here it is (or here on ao3):

Geralt of Rivia is a man made of stone. He endures. The world spins around him, he stays the same. For a long time, he does. Nothing can faze him, nothing draws more than a sigh from him.

(He is the first man on earth.)

Nothing could surprise him or catch him off guard. He watches, he hears and he expects the unexpected. The way a witcher learns to feel the world, with all its contradictions, the threats in a gift and the gift in a threat. He learns to become the monster he hunts and understand its ravenous hunger. He has learned to recognize a trap and to walk straight into it, head held high.

(He weathers it.)

His knees might break, his leg might be bruised, might be bleeding, might be crushed beneath the enormous body of a monster he killed, but as long as it can move, he will move it. No gash in his arm will stop him from hunting. No slammed door will stop him from sleeping.

(He weathers the storms, the nights, the long days, the sad days.)

He sleeps in the woods. On rainy days, he sleeps wet. On snowy days, he sleeps cold. In monster-infested parts of the woods, he sleeps with one eye open.

(He weathers the stares and the talk and children running from him in the streets.)

No insult, no matter how well-deserved, can stop his stone heart. No breathing thing, no matter how misguided, no matter how wasted, no matter how cruel, can stop him from saving it.

(Nothing can break this curse, no true love’s kiss, no dragon’s breath. He wanders the world, he is made of stone.)

He doesn’t need.

(He weathers the crickets chirping close by.)

Nothing can change his opinion once he has made up his mind.

(Coin does not move him. Threats don’t move him. Do you dare to call the mountains noble? Do you grant a rock the notion of honour?)

Some things, a woman with soft skin and a sharp blade, a young girl with a future, stones in the street – some things leave him unbalanced. But in the end, even that belongs in his life, because it turned out to be made of pain.

But then –

Like the only thing that has ever been sudden. Like a flash from a time he does not remember. Something changes.

Someone changes. Him.

His mind, constantly. His clothes, whenever he can afford something better. His lovers like a traveller changes beds.

He – bright and inexplicable – saunters into Geralt’s life a minor nuisance – Geralt knows and deals with those – but then –

Jaskier stays. And the world becomes loud. And flowers become a sea of colours. And Geralt has rarely had to hide a smile before.

Geralt has always made do with the bare minimum, but Jaskier thinks he deserves lavender in his baths, clean clothes, healed wounds. And, just like losing the advantage in a fight, Geralt feels himself softening. The world is hard to withstand again, as if her were just a child, before his first trials, before anyone ever hurt him, and it’s all Jaskier’s fault. Hushed words hurt again, he can feel each scrape and even the smaller bruises. He never cared people were afraid until Jaskier told them to be impressed. He has never longed for something precious until -

He hates Jaskier for it, for the way his chest goes tight, for the way he misses the easy touches the moment they’re gone.

It was easier not to feel anything at all. It was necessary not to feel anything at all.

He wonders if Jaskier knows, if this was his plan all along - to become so necessary, so indispensable, so deeply lodged into Geralt’s heart that nothing could wedge him out. But Jaskier can’t have expected those feelings to grow so heavy - Jaskier would crumble under even half the weight of it. No. Jaskier never asked for this. Nonetheless, not even this unyielding bulk of emotion that Geralt can’t put a name to is enough to make Jaskier flee. He would never carry his share, but the sight of its mass doesn’t frighten him.

Of course Jaskier wants Geralt to like him. That’s how he gets what he needs, his adventures and his muse. The severity of it has never surprised him, he has always been strangely casual about it. Acceptant, even. And if Jaskier is not going to mind his affection, Geralt is not going to stop showing it, even though he does wonder where Jaskier’s limit is. If Geralt ever acknowledges it. If her ever puts a name to it. If he ever makes the wrong move –

He won’t. He needs this fragile thing whole now. He will be as fond as Jaskier can take, not a smidge more. The smallest bit of warmth from a witcher is scalding hot, he knows. So he is careful. He minds his movements. Nothing too startling, nothing too grotesque. No smile that shows his teeth. He won’t let it become so vast that it crowds Jaskier into a corner and forces him to reject it.

Jaskier tolerates the hair standing up on Geralt’s neck when he is bathing and his lingering glances whenever Geralt can’t control himself.

They both know Jaskier will only stay if he lets it go unsaid.

 ***

Jaskier never hoped for much from Geralt. At first, it was just a risk with massive pay-out. Geralt was intimidating and skilled while Jaskier had nothing on offer except for far-fetched promises. Only later, Jaskier realized how much better Geralt is. Not just better, but good. So good. Always trying to do the right thing. It’s clear destiny has great plans for him, no matter how much Geralt loves to deny it. And of course, Jaskier is only a footnote in his story. (No one knows better than Jaskier, he is writing it himself.)

Geralt will go out and save the world and he will let Jaskier wait for him. He will let Jaskier trudge after him and paint him beautiful in his songs. It’s perfectly understandable that Jaskier wants that – who wouldn’t want to get close to a legend? Some things are harder to get away with, but Geralt lets him, easily. He lets Jaskier make his excuses and they both pretend not to know the truth behind his little lies. Attend the festival with me to protect me from angry husbands, Geralt. Wear this doublet because that’s respectable, you heathen. Let me bathe you because you smell like a rat.

Geralt is much smarter than people give him credit for and he can see through Jaskier effortlessly. And of course he also is much kinder than people give him credit for, so he does not mention it.

Nothing Jaskier does can press Geralt into a final good-bye that Jaskier can’t wriggle out of and turn into See you next spring.

He is made of stone. Jaskier’s love won’t impress him, but it also won’t scare him, won’t hurt him.

(He tolerates the burning brightness of the sun. He tolerates the lizard’s small feet clutching onto him.)

Bottomline is, Jaskier gets to keep this. As long as Jaskier doesn’t let it overflow and keeps it just secret enough that his songs come across as odes rather than love letters, Geralt doesn’t mind it. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and leaves everything unspoken.

 ***

Jaskier’s favourite indulgence is bathing Geralt, perhaps because of just how much Geralt lets him get away with. The first time he did it, he was cautious about it but when he realized Geralt’s protest were half-hearted, he grew bolder. Geralt tolerates Jaskier’s hands messaging his scalp. He tolerates the petals and oils. He even tolerates Jaskier’s gentle touches so long as Jaskier reigns himself in and keeps them sparse.

Tonight, Jaskier offers to wash Geralt’s back and Geralt gives him a short nod. He is completely rigid under Jaskier’s hands, but he tolerates it. Jaskier relishes in being able to be kind to Geralt, but at the same time, he feels guilty for wanting more. Shouldn’t he be satisfied? Geralt gives him enough as it is.

Jaskier knows this is the kind of love that smothers people, violently, until their eyes are bulging and their limbs twitching. It’s the king of love to break free from, unless you have skin as though as his. And not many people do.

Jaskier is exceptionally good at making people leave. It’s his second talent – right after being a bard, he’s a leavee. Someone who gets left. Geralt is the only one who can put up with his love for any length of time. It’s precarious – each touch might be the one that is too much. When Geralt finally tells him to leave and never return. So Jaskier plays his risky game and tries to walk the edge.

“If you leave them out in the cold for too long, frozen. Let them eat mushrooms from the woods – poisoned. Don’t watch how much alcohol they’re drinking – dead. She is very concerned,” Geralt tells him while Jaskier adds more oil to the water.

Jaskier blinks. What had they been talking about? Ah right, a sorceress in love with a human.

“Uhm,” Jaskier says slowly, “Geralt, have you forgotten that I, too, am human?”

“It’s very concerning.”

Jaskier shakes his head and keeps walking around the bathtub. It’s not like he can do anything to stop Geralt from seeing him as weak and incapable. And yet –

“Excuse me? If you think I need constant supervision like a dog, I will be very insulted.”

He emphasizes very. He is already insulted. Geralt, however, is not looking at him. Like he’s not even worth being noticed.

“Humans are fragile,” Geralt says to the water, “you turn your back or don’t pay attention for a moment and they’re gone.”

“Ah, ah,” Jaskier lifts his finger and wiggles it disapprovingly, “don’t believe you’re getting rid of me so easily.”

Jaskier lets his gaze wander over Geralt’s sculpted back. He allows himself to look only because he knows even witchers don’t have eyes in their back.

He wonder who else has touched Geralt, has dared to love him, as held his gaze in the candlelight and made him smile. He wonders if they did it right.

“Susceptible to diseases, falling victim to mild weather conditions, a bad harvest,” Geralt apparently can’t let this go. “You can barely make it a few decades.”

Jaskier is inferior, sure, he gets it. Knowing Geralt, he probably doesn’t even realize how insensitive he’s being.

Jaskier lets his hand sift through the water to see if the temperature is right, then he decides the bath is missing some petals. See, Geralt. Still useful.

“You say that like it’s nothing,” Jaskier says, “that’s a whole lifetime.”

“It’s a sabbatical.”

That statement makes Jaskier so indignant he has to stop trying to pick the most beautiful petals and turn around.

“You’re just over a hundred,” Jaskier scoffs. “And you’re not invincible either.”

Seriously. Maybe writing all those high-praising songs about Geralt are getting to his head. He should write a song about how Geralt is just a totally average guy, actually, that can be killed too if he doesn’t pay enough attention to who he insults during his bath.

“I’m hard to kill,” Geralt says, “humans… a gust of wind could blow you over.”

“I don’t believe it’s quite so dramatic,” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I have managed to keep myself alive this long after all.”

He carefully keeps his gaze on Geralt’s head and his dripping hair, conscious not to let it wander further down and make Geralt uncomfortable.

“Barely,” Geralt presses his lips together. “I had to save you from almost drinking poison twice, from slipping or stumbling down the stairs at least a dozen times, from angry men with shovels over eight-”

“Okay, okay, stop, I get it,” Jaskier quickly interrupts. “I might not be the prime example.”

Finally, Jaskier walks around the tub to hand Geralt a towel. When Geralt gets up, the water splashing, Jaskier hurries to turn his back. There are lines, and this is one.

He listens. Ruffles. Shuffling. Wet footsteps over a wooden floor. Clothes rustling – a pull. Jaskier turns back around, now that Geralt is wearing pants.

“Well,” Jaskier says, eager to get back to what they were originally talking about, “she loves a human, so what? It can’t be as bad as being hopelessly in love with a witcher, you can be sure of that.”

Geralt, who had just pulled a black shirt over his head, abruptly turns.

“A witcher?” Jaskier freezes. Ah. Fuck.

He spoke the unspeakable. He said the poetically and pathetically unsaid. Another line he promised himself he would never cross. He doesn’t want to test Geralt too much.

He can tell his heartrate speeds up and he hopes against hope Geralt will ignore it, will ignore his sweating hands. Maybe if he just acts casually enough, this can be another thing Geralt tolerates. (Oh, if he could say it, Jaskier would never stop.)

“Don’t be obtuse, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt flinches backward, a small movement.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He tries to parse Geralt’s reaction, but Geralt is just staring. He’s not taking it well. Maybe he thinks he has to respond, so he’s awkward and trying to find a gentle way to state the obvious. Maybe Jaskier just made it too literal, too personal. So direct that it’s suddenly uncomfortable, when Geralt could overlook all of Jaskier’s other slip-ups.

Laid out like that, Geralt might feel guilty about just accepting it. Even though Jaskier would be more than happy to just continue as they were, giving as much as Geralt would let him. Would it help if Jaskier promised not to mention it again? How can he step back behind that line? How can he swallow the words back down again?

How can he stop Geralt from leaving?

 ***

Geralt knows he’s giving too much away again, with his idiotic reaction. He should take it in stride, like he does all of Jaskier’s little love affairs. But he can’t move, can’t do anything but look at the fragile human across from him, who just won’t understand what exactly it is Geralt is so afraid of.

(Once you blink out of existence, I’m the one who will have to deal with the damage you’ve done to that wall I built around my heart.)

Geralt can deal with all those lovers who come and go, who are so loveable that it just makes sense Jaskier would leave him for them. But he never thought –

He didn’t expect –

A witcher?

Why would Jaskier love a witcher? Witchers are too brutish, too brutal to be worthy of a love like that. Then again, when he thinks about his friends back at Kaer Mohren, someone like Eskel, yes, it doesn’t seem so strange. Because deep down he’s always known it’s not being a witcher that makes him untouchable. It’s something else, something far more terrifying. Because that makes it his fault. It’s his own fault Jaskier doesn’t like him.

And Geralt should never, ever ask him to. He should get a grip, shake himself out of it and just accept that Jaskier can love a witcher. Just not him.

Act like it’s nothing. Act like it doesn’t matter. It’s just a small incident they can sweep under the rug like every other time Geralt was being a little too much.

“I -”

Geralt has forgotten how to speak.

Each moment he draws it out longer, the less likely it becomes that Jaskier will forgive this overreaction. Not as easily as the last few times.

What if Geralt just asked, why it can’t be him? Could Jaskier forgive that? No. They both know. It’s that Geralt can’t ever get it right, that he’s too harsh, has too many edges. It’s that all of his affections are pitiful, laughable, compared to what Jaskier really deserves.

Okay. Okay. He just needs to calm down. They can walk through this. He tries his best to smooth out his expression.

“I’m sorry.”

Deep breath.

“So, who’s caught your attention now? I didn’t know you’d met another witcher.”

As he says it, it becomes terribly clear all out of a sudden how very replaceable Geralt is. Geralt isn’t giving Jaskier anything he can’t get elsewhere. If this other witcher allows it, Jaskier can just as well travel with them. If Geralt makes it anymore plain what a bad friend he is, Jaskier will leave without hesitation. Especially if Geralt can’t get a grip on his emotions. Jaskier needs to be absolutely sure that Geralt will never make a move that will be embarrassing and uncomfortable for both of them.

But Jaskier’s jaw falls open, almost comically.

“What – what the fuck are you talking about?”

Damn it. Jaskier won’t just let him circumvent the topic then. Geralt has made things too awkward earlier with that long stretch of silence. Being casual won’t do this time.

“Fuck,” he says, looks away. “I’m sorry.”

Forcibly, he drags his eyes back again. Please, he tries to somehow communicate. Please just tolerate it.

“I don’t understand why you’re apologizing.”

Geralt swallows audibly. The statement is a little hard to interpret. Maybe this is Geralt’s olive branch. Jaskier is willing to pretend this little mishap never happened. All Geralt has to do is go along with it and they can be back to normal.

“Hm,” he says.

He’ll go to sleep. Maybe in the morning, Jaskier will go off with his witcher. But maybe he’ll come back in the spring, bored of the witcher like he gets bored of all his other lovers. Geralt has to hang on to that possibility.

“Wait, no -”

Jaskier is suddenly scrambling to get closer. Geralt pauses in his step.

“Wait, wait, wait, conversation not over,” Jaskier says quickly, stops in front of Geralt. “What witcher are you talking about? What the fuck, Geralt?”

“I – your love – I – it doesn’t bother me,” Geralt says, staggeringly unconvincingly.

It is a little strange, now that Geralt thinks about it. Where did Jaskier meet this witcher, and why did Geralt not notice? They’ve been travelling together for weeks. Maybe he met this witcher longer ago. In spring, before they met again. If that’s the case, that means it’s more serious. It’s been on Jaskier’s mind a long time. Fuck.

“Really?” Jaskier asks. “It doesn’t?”

Maybe this is why Jaskier hasn’t told him all this time. He was afraid how Geralt would react, if he would take it badly.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Jaskier lets out a long breath. “I was so worried.”

Geralt nods curtly. Good. He said the right thing, then. Jaskier’s heartbeat quietens down.

“But then, it hasn’t bothered you so far, am I right?” Jaskier gives him a lopsided smirk.

It’s an irritating thing to say. Surely Jaskier noticed that all of his dalliances had bothered Geralt, at least a little. It might be that Jaskier expected more of a reaction out of Geralt because this is more than a dalliance.

“Hm.”

Out of all the people Jaskier could choose to settle down with, why did it have to be a witcher? He wonders if it’s just implied that they won’t keep travelling together. Should he ask? No, better not. That would make it seem like it does bother him. He doesn’t want to put Jaskier off more than he already has.

“Does…” Jaskier seems hesitant, shy even. “Does that mean you don’t mind when I tell you?”

Geralt’s hands clench, but he unclenches them again quickly. No, he does not mind to hear about how much Jaskier loves someone else, about how he is going to leave and live a happy life with them. He doesn’t mind at all.

“No.”

“Wonderful.”

Geralt waits for a beat, certain that Jaskier is about to start gushing about this witcher he met, but it doesn’t come. The conversation seems to be finally over. Jaskier is humming contentedly under his breath while they are getting ready for bed. It’s good. (It’s the last of this Geralt might ever get.)

They have a room with two beds. Geralt lies still and listens to Jaskier’s calm breath.

Jaskier blows out the candle on his bedside table.

“Goodnight, Geralt. Love you.”

…

?

???

“What?”

“I said, goodnight.”

“After - after that.”

“You said you didn’t mind. You can’t take it back now.”

The light of Geralt’s candle flickers up after a quick use of Igni.

Jaskier is shooting him cautious looks from the other bed.

“You said you didn’t mind,” he repeats.

“I said I didn’t mind if you talked about your witcher,” Geralt says, because it’s the easiest thing to say. This one he knows.

“Stop talking about yourself in the third person, it’s weird.”

Stunned, Geralt sinks against the wall.

“Me?” “Yes, you. Who else would I be talking about?”

Who else, indeed.

“I thought you met someone.”

“Yes, I did, in Posada. You were there.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Come on, Geralt, stop playing dumb. You’ve known for years I’m in love with you.”

“You’re in love with me,” Geralt says, dumbstruck.

“Geralt, are you okay? We just had a whole conversation about it.”

Jaskier is sitting up in his bed too now. He looks small in the shadows, even smaller when he draws his legs up. Geralt can only keep watching him.

“Wait, you really didn’t know? You thought I was talking about another witcher?” Geralt nods mutely.

“Oh.”

There is no other witcher. Can that be right? Geralt has a distinct feeling he is misunderstanding something.

“Well, I’m sorry. If you didn’t know,” Jaskier says. His voice has turned very soft. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s gaze on him.

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you did. I really did. But, uhm. I get this is a lot to deal with. If you. If you would like time to process, I could -”

“No.”

“Oh. Good.”

Geralt sits up urgently, swings his legs over the side of the bed. Jaskier is instantly alarmed.

“You don’t have to go,” he rushes to say. “You can just get used to it. Nothing has to change.”

“I just want -” Geralt closes his eyes, takes another deep breath. “It’s hard to say.”

“Whatever you want, really. If – if you want me to leave, I will. Of course.” “No. I.”

He stands up abruptly. Each of his movements is stark and sudden. Why can’t Jaskier just understand him? Why can’t he just say all those things he thought both of them knew, when it was really just him all along? Him, in his head, with a myriad of unfeelable things.

He steps toward Jaskier stiffly, watches Jaskier’s eyes go wider. He climbs onto the bed and presses Jaskier back by his shoulders. Wills him to get it. He searches his eyes, wants so viscerally, so obviously, that Jaskier must see it.

“Oh,” Jaskier mouths. “Is this -”

His hands come up to cup Geralt’s face.

“Yes,” Geralt’s voice doesn’t come out as anything more than a whisper.

“Darling,” Jaskier says, like it’s a revelation.

Geralt needs to tell him. Out of all the things he has never said, this one is burning his tongue. He leans down and presses his lips to Jaskier’s in the half-dark. Jaskier draws his head back only to catch his breath. But it wasn’t good enough. He needs to say more. He needs to tell Jaskier in all the words that he has.

He breathes another kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, then one against the barely visible dimple on his cheek. Nothing cushions Geralt against the way Jaskier’s hands slide up into his hair and his grip tightens. His hair smells sweet. His eyelids flutter. Love is lighter, now that Jaskier is helping him carry it.

Jaskier lets out a breathless laugh. Geralt wants to catch his pretty smile. He wants to make that smile everyday. He wants to draw up laughter from the bottom of Jaskier’s stomach.

It’s disarming. Geralt is still wearing pants and a shirt, but he feels stripped down. It’s all laid bare now, all those impossible hungers. All forbidden wishes. Each place on Jaskier’s face that Geralt has dreamed of kissing.

Here is something soft, something that has always lived in him. Jaskier has just chiselled away at the stone until he found it and fed it and made it grow into a vast expanse of tender touches and whispered words.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier says quietly.

Okay. Okay is a flavourless four-letter word. It weighs much more than that.

It’s significant. Substantial. It extinguishes sadness swiftly, like an uprising flame just before it can consume everything else.

“It’s beautiful,” Geralt says, because he’s never been particularly good with words. “It’s perfect.”

I want you, I want you, I want you. Aren’t you frightened?

Geralt takes one of his hands from Jaskier’s shoulders and props it up next to Jaskier’s head instead. Looming over him, a threat in the darkness, Geralt keeps his face close to Jaskier’s, his eyes fixed on his eyes, as if to ask him.

Jaskier answers with an cheerful smile.

I’m elated, darling. You have me.

It’s nothing to take. It’s nothing to endure. It’s no weight to crumble under. It’s something to have. Something to share. Something to make real in the dead of night and fantastical at dawn.

It’s the most precious thing Geralt has ever been allowed to have. And it’s a privilege, getting to keep it.

[minddofbecka]

(long) gc fic rec

All The Days Of My Life by rilla - 41k

It's 2016. At the end of the band's last tour, Zayn and Harry get married in Vegas. It's not the worst thing that's ever happened to them, but it certainly comes close. Half fix-it fic, half woke up married.

Trust Me by alnima - 78k

Zayn has trouble trusting Harry to catch him when he falls, but Harry is determined to be there no matter what it takes. Part 1.

Stay With Me by alnima - 173k

Zayn and Harry could never get it quite right. And now isn't any different. Except it is. Part 2.

and you and i were fire, fire, fireworks by trishapocalypse - 21k

espresso yourself yeah?? I stopped by there today

YOU WERE? what time??? maybe I saw you???

oh it was like half-eight? had an early class and all

oh ): i was hoping maybe you were there when i was… woulda been like fate, huh??

(Or: the one where Zayn is drunk and lonely and Harry is a number graffiti'd on a loo stall door that Zayn texts. A lot.)

like a sledgehammer by colourexplosion - 5k

Harry’s a good flatmate otherwise. He doesn’t ask questions when Zayn leaves without telling him for a few days and comes back looking refreshed and a bit younger than before. He doesn’t burst into Zayn’s room unannounced and he respects the fact that Zayn doesn’t go out during the day unless it’s absolutely necessary.

And if he’s figured out Zayn’s a vampire, he’s never brought it up.

Or, Zayn's a vampire and Harry's his human roommate.

let me be the one who calls you baby by alnima - 8k

“You look lovely, you hunk of man meat,” Harry declares, winking at Zayn.

Zayn blinks at Harry, his movements stilling for just a second before he continues to crawl into bed. He settles back against the pillows, wets his lips, and says, “What did you just call me?”

“Hunk of man meat,” Harry repeats, and it sounds kind of silly the second time that he says it.

“Right, I thought so."

Dancing On My Own by rilla - 59k

A Four Weddings and a Funeral au. Zayn and Harry keep meeting at weddings over the years, and slowly fall in love.

baby i’ll never leave if you keep holding me this way by estrella30 - 10k

“Does he have your mark?” his mum asks. Zayn shakes his head. He’d looked at Harry’s wrist explicitly for the edgings of Zayn’s family crest but couldn’t find anything. Not that that means Harry’s not the one; it might need a touch or connection to come to the surface. Zayn’s not sure he wants to find out though. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to know for certain.

“Ah, well. It could be coming,” she adds, and Zayn shrugs. She’s silent for another moment, before quietly adding, “You could pick him, you know.” She sounds thoughtful, distant even. Zayn wonders what she’s thinking about, what she’s remembering. “If you want to that is. I know you’ve not been looking for your mate Zayn, but maybe this was what you needed. Maybe you needed your mate to find you.”

or - Zayn is an immortal modern times non evil sexual incubus who is reluctant to find his mate. And then he meets Harry.

all that is gone and all that’s to come by greenandgolden - 10k

Once upon a time, Zayn’s Instagram had been littered with photos of Harry. Some of them together, some of him alone. One of Harry sleeping in Zayn’s bed, his face a bit puffy and his hair a wild mess sprawled across Zayn’s pillowcase. Pictures of them with each other’s families from holidays and birthdays, everyone with smiles on their faces and their arms wrapped around each other. Most of those photos are saved on Harry’s phone, hidden away because he couldn’t bear to delete them but at the same time he can’t stomach looking at how happy they were together versus how miserable he is now that he’s alone.

a post break up au

i fall in love whenever we meet by leighbot - 5k

“You had on operation on your back, babe. D’you not remember?” the man says as he reaches a hand out to rub gently at Harry’s chest.

Harry turns back again, feeling queasy with all of the movements. “No. I’m sorry… are you my doctor, too?”

“No, I’m not your doctor. My name is Zayn, H. Do you remember me?”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats, enjoying the way the word buzzes at the tip of his tongue.

Or, the one where Harry has temporary amnesia after surgery; he doesn't need his memories to know he loves Zayn.

He Feels Like Home by moonstarwrites - 21k

Under the impression that he would never meet his soulmate because others in his family faced the same circumstance, Zayn married Perrie and built a life with her. While that life wasn't anything out of the ordinary, it would do. Then, Zayn met his soulmate, Harry.

Love Is Blind (and darling, right now, I can’t see you) by purpledaisy - 35k

Harry had squeezed his eyes shut pretending it was real for the moment, that Zayn was actually his. Still, it doesn’t matter if the lights flashing behind his eyelids were the brightest they’d ever been because Zayn must have had his eyes wide open just waiting for it to be over. - Written for the prompt: pretend boyfriends

Boy with a Coin by Archangel_Blood - 29k

A piece of paper falls out of the bundle, and Louis snatches it and starts reading before Zayn can prise it off him.

“He’ll have eyes as green as frogs.” Louis arches an eyebrow at his brother. “Very romantic, Zayn. He’ll wear sparkly boots and he’ll be marvellously kind. He can juggle, and he—four nipples?” Louis barks out a laugh. “Zayn, such person doesn’t exist!”

“Exactly!”

Slide

by thisonegoes - 87k

Zayn's dad explained it to him in a small speech, the day she was born."No one prepares you for it. There aren't any manuals. Sometimes being a good parent means simply keeping your kid alive. Keep them breathing, make sure they're safe, love them until you could burst with it. On days when everything feels especially hard, just remember that your kid is Number One. Everything else becomes secondary. Less than. Minuscule by default. And believe me when I tell you this: when she eventually paints you a picture, sings you a song, does a cartwheel... always be sure to clap. If you're proud, make sure to say so."An AU about being a father, having faith, and growing up.

What If This Storm Ends by Archangel_Blood - 18k

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Harry does actually know how to take a hint; sometimes he just chooses not to. It’s not that he particularly enjoys disappointment, but he can deal with it. What ifs, on the other hand, those are the paper cuts and grazed knees that seem like nothing much, yet they take forever to heal, itching and stinging and driving you mad.

Give It All Away To You by disarm_d - 10k

“Zayn’s got love at first sight,” Louis says. “Again.”

University AU in which Zayn and Harry figure out how to give each other what they want.

we can take the darkness by leighbot - 72k

“I’ve met the guy and he’s always making eyes at you when you’re not looking.”

“No, he isn’t,” Zayn dismisses, finishing off his second glass of water. “I would have noticed if Harry ‘made eyes’ at me,” he says, using the air quotes. “We’ve been best mates for over three years.”

“That’s why I said: when you’re not looking,” Griff repeats. “It’s like you’ve never seen a Sandra Bullock movie.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and stands up. “Harry Styles and I are best friends,” he says, loudly and clearly. “Nothing more.”

Entangled Arms (or a vacant space) by vinoharry - 43k

When Harry first approached him at the bar, hips swinging and walking dick first, Zayn thought it was going to a night of perfunctory small talk before they fell into bed together. But Zayn got so much more than he bargained for.

new clothes, bloody nose by dutty (vodka) - 22k

The one where Zayn is an escort and Harry happens.

a sky full of stars by weddingbells - 20k 

In which Harry Styles is a librarian and Zayn Malik reads lots of books, and Harry pines and Louis Tomlinson and Niall Horan tries to help him to get the boy who might be the boy of his dreams, and Harry just wants to know everything about the tattooed angel he can't stop thinking about. Basically.

You Might Just Be What I Need by PornyZiallFeels - 47k

Saw Zayn again today

Figured you would that’s the thing with dot n his daughter being mates

Runnin into him might become a regular thing now

Fuck me

your love is a waiting game by alnima - 26k

It’s been four days without Harry and Zayn’s feeling brave. He loves him, but he’s not waiting for him, not anymore. If Harry can’t love him – won’t love him – then he’ll find someone else.

When All I Want Is You by estrella30 - 9k

The flat is small. It’s tiny and cramped and nearly everything that’s inside is either broken or on its way to needing to be fixed. They’re never going to fit all of their things here, and will be in each other's faces every second of their lives.

Zayn absolutely cannot wait. It’s tiny but it’s theirs. It’s going to be theirs.

When Harry moves out a year later and Zayn’s left alone, the flat’s never seemed so big.

or - Zayn and Harry move in together and don't have a lot of money and everything falls apart (and then gets put back together)

where did the party go by shuttermutt - 34k

"…insofar as the two parties who want to wed should decide to do so before they have both reached the age of eighteen (section 1.ii) they will have a period of one year henceforth to decide if the marriage is fruitful and if not, they shall be allowed to part as if having not been married in the first place…" Section 2 of the 'Romeo and Juliet law', passed into law in Britain and its territories, 1803

They duck into a tattoo parlour that’s halfway between the city centre and Harry’s mum’s and Zayn gets two black lines carefully inked onto his left ring finger. He smiles up at Harry while it’s being done.

"It’ll last forever," he says. "Just like us."

Conspire Against the Odds by whatwasthatharry - 38k

“Louis?” he asks, eyebrows knitted together as he tries to process what just happened.

“Yeah, Z?”

He sounds tired, and Zayn finds himself wondering if it's because it's clear something is weighing on Harry..

“Is everything okay with Harry?”

(A story in which Zayn meets Harry during their senior year of college and immediately becomes infatuated with him. But Harry disappears most nights, and it's clear he's hiding something. Zayn wants desperately to know what's going on, but no one seems to want to tell him anything.)

In A Flash by hmarie - 24k

Zayn found Harry slouched in the corner of the destroyed nursery. His hands covering his face as tears streamed down his cheeks. The white crib Zayn had spent five hours making sure was put together 100% correctly, flipped over and smashed to pieces. Zayn had to step over the crumpled blue bedding in order to even get to Harry.

“I can’t do it anymore, Z.” Harry’s sobs tore their way from his chest.

Zayn’s fingers trailed across Harry’s cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears. He cradled Harry’s face between his palms as a few more tears slid from his own eyes. He slowly nodded. “Regroup, we can do that.” Zayn let his forehead rest against Harry’s as he gently leaned forward to capture Harry’s lips. “Let’s get out of this room.” He quickly stood and pulled Harry with him.

Or- Harry and Zayn give up on their dream but Gemma won't let them.

you can drive all night by liquidmeasure - 25k

"Harry needs someone to guide him, to tell him where to put each part of himself. It feels right somehow, and lately maybe something more than right, because sometimes he catches himself contemplating intentional accidents, just to see if Zayn will come running, where he’ll touch Harry. An elbow, a shoulder, the curve of his waist."

Harry doesn't know where to put his parts. Zayn helps him figure it out. Louis yells a lot.

Million Dollar Man by soyane - 50k

Harry is a student, who'd much rather focus on writing articles and participating in conferences than working to pay for his bills.

Zayn might have a proposition for him.

What If This Storm Ends by Archangel_Blood - 18k

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Harry does actually know how to take a hint; sometimes he just chooses not to. It’s not that he particularly enjoys disappointment, but he can deal with it. What ifs, on the other hand, those are the paper cuts and grazed knees that seem like nothing much, yet they take forever to heal, itching and stinging and driving you mad.

Once upon a different life by withbatedbreath (heart_eyes) - 45k

Zarry version of The Vow

When it comes to love you're an easy fight by orphan_account - 11k

AU. Harry never really could say no to people.

Hands All Over by blainedarling - 8k

“Point is,” Louis leans over the back of the sofa. “Point is, that Harry Styles has got a very good bum. And I feel very confident in saying that having seen it up close and in person now, too.”

The room goes very still, and quiet. Even Niall stops eating.

“What was that?” Zayn asks, as calmly as he can manage. This is Harry Styles they’re talking about. It’s not like he’s got a crush or anything, but— He might have gotten off to that photo of him on holiday in the tiniest of tiny yellow shorts more times than he would care to admit.

“Harry Styles,” Louis replies coolly, his eyes twinkling. “Was signing off on his pre-exercise questionnaire upstairs when I was on my way down.”

—or, the one where Zayn tries and fails to massage his celebrity crush without getting massively turned on.

Tight Lips and Cold Feet by mmaree - 17k

He remembers an intensity of feelings but not a lot of words.  He recalls drunken laughter with mates, sunny days and shy smiles, shit weed and tattoo parlours, cold sheets and burning touches.  Harry recalls a fantasy where real life took a backseat, where all that mattered was that they were young and alive.

At some point, Harry got scared.  He needed something he could hold on to, something he could be sure of.  But the more he dug for reassurance, the more Zayn clammed up.

And the more they f*cked.

Maybe Zayn saved his words for his books when he should have spoken them aloud.  Maybe Harry should have ended it better instead of running away like a coward.

Then again, maybe he should just stop dwelling on the past.

Or the one where Harry gets cold feet.  Three years later, Harry’s an editor and Zayn is the new writer he’s been assigned to work with.  

They have a lot more than just a book to work out.

Readiness is Near by greenandgolden - 13k

“Morning everybody, sorry I’m late.”

Harry looks up from his tablet, his heart dropping when he sees Zayn walking into the room. He’s heading for the desk in the front and no, this is not happening. Harry did not just douse his professor in coffee. He did not just give his professor his shirt and his phone number.

A teacher!zayn, (adult) student!harry kidfic.

hey moon (please forget to fall down) by leighbot - 7k

He spots a tape on the nightstand on his side, next to a glass of water and two small paracetamols. Zayn, watch me is written on a sticky note and Zayn smiles, confused, as he scoots closer to the edge.

Or, a 50 First Dates AU.

on the line by alnima - 32k

Zayn nods and watches him, feeling like he should feel relieved. Mostly he’s worried. It’s a silly thought, but sometimes Zayn wonders if Harry has some boyfriend across town that he goes to see on nights like this, nights where the air feels different between them. And because even after six years, it’s never made sense to Zayn why Harry, a salesman, needs to spend so much time at the office at night. But who is he to have suspicions when he’s about to head out and deal with some drug trafficker across town?

Or, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the Zarry version