#what’s he supposed to do when he sees those green eyes??? NOT write poetry about them?????
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more skinny dipping except it’s yuuji simping over megumi’s eyes
i posted this on twitter so i felt the need to put it here too
doc stats:
word count: 23.8k words
scenes complete: 2 out of 10 scenes
#it’s only fair like i can’t just feed the twitter mob and not you guys as well#it’s literally just yuuji being so down BAD for megumi#the pretty library stranger is megumi fr#what’s he supposed to do when he sees those green eyes??? NOT write poetry about them?????#writing yuuji is perfectttt bc i just get to write about how pretty megumi is like ong#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#megumi fushiguro#yuji itadori#itafushi#jjk fan fic#ao3
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But stand brave, life-liver, bleeding out your days in the river of time. Stand brave: time moves both ways,
in the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating joy of life...
Elisabetta Mounteverde Dmitrou (also called Elisa) is my sona for Pentiment! More info below, though there's huge spoilers for the game </3 (art credits: photinus (TH), last two are by me)
As the game's story transpires over 25 years, Elisabetta's age changes alongside it. While she is introduced at 24, she is 49 by the end of the story. She's about 5'3, and was originally born within Ethiopia during the Solomonic dynasty. As her parents were both recent converts to the Catholic church, it was thought Elisa's blonde hair and green eye (singular) were a blessing from god. Soon after being born, she was taken to the Holy Roman Empire, and "adopted" by a Italian noble family. Seeing potential in her from a young age, Elisabetta's adoptive parents gave her all she needed for a proper education, and Elisa soon developed a deep love for art and poetry both...! She was also very aware that she was considered something of a "spectacle," something people would point at as proof of god's glory. She hated this, but felt powerless to do anything. As the years went on, she retreated into her world of literature and paintings, always wary of the intentions of others. When she was of age, her choices became either to marry or join a convent. Elisabetta choose marriage... but choose a man who ran a printing press and was a member of the guild. This was a way for her to have access to new books as they were being made, as well as connect with writers and artists from across all of the Holy Roman Empire. As she settled into being married, however, something unexpected occurred... when her husband decided to commission a portrait of himself and Elisabetta to celebrate their union, he asked Elisa's father for recommendations on a painter. He recommended the son of Josef Maler, a long-time family friend, who had recently become a master artist. And so, the Dmitrous would become the first official clients of Andreas Maler in his new role as master. Even though it was supposed to be a painting of both of them, Elisa's husband was away more often than not, which of course slowed Andreas down </3 but it wasn't such a terrible thing, however, as he found Mrs. Dmitrou to be much more interesting... and Elisabetta found herself warming up to him in a way that she didn't often do with people. It didn't take long for the feelings between them to become romantic in nature, but with both of them being in (complicated!) marriages, they couldn't do much about it. Despite this, even after the portrait was finally finished, they kept in contact thru the post for the next 7 years... one day, however... the letters from Andreas stop coming.
(It is believed that Andreas Maler died during the fire of the Kiersau abbey, trying to save what he could of the library's books. in a way this is true; he withdrew from the living entirely. Those who caught glimpses of him thought he was a ghost. But hiding away within the forest, or within the Roman ruins beneath Tassing, Andreas Maler was very much alive... and one day, some 19 years after the fire, and some years after her own husband passed, Elisabetta receives a letter.)
Umm sorry this is already long I just love writing about their soap opera ass story </3 anyways as for her personality, Elisabetta tends to come off as a bit cold. She's incredibly wary of other people, to the point where even so much as holding a conversation is difficult. Her being very suspicious and analytical is partly due to the natural curiosity she holds, though. She loves learning about the world, despite everything. She is also fairly headstrong, and tends to do things her own way despite how others may object. When she's older, she starts to be a bit more open. She craves warmth and kindness and wants to feel as if she's a part of a community. The people of Tassing are kind to her... (and they don't go ratting off about when Elisabetta sometimes spends the night at Andreas' home, despite the fact that such behavior is improper for an unwed couple)
Silly funfacts: ~ Despite having such a serious personality, she has a lot of love for fairytales. She wants to believe at least some aspects from them are truthful, even if it's silly. ~ She can sing fairly well, but is awfully shy about it. She's willing to sing during Christmas celebrations so long as she's not the only one doing it, though. ~ One of the first things she did upon arriving within Tassing was fix up the old guest house which was no longer in use after the abbey fire. ~ She loves cats, specifically white ones. It didn't take long for her to make friends with all the strays living within Tassing as well. ~ When Madga returns to Tassing from Prague alongside her friend Esther, they quickly make friends with Elisabetta, both curious about what such a fancy lady was suddenly doing there, and Madga was especially curious about the person who was now using her dad's old printing press. Elisabetta in turn treats Madga as something of a daughter. Elisabetta is also friends with Veronica, Brigita, Ursula, Anna, and Paul. She figured out that Veronica and Brigita were in a relationship in no time (but also quietly let them know she's had crushes on girls before, too, and that their secret would be safe with her). ~ Anna and Paul's children call her "Auntie Elisa" !
#[ and evermore amongst our mirth ]#[ s/i introduction ]#spousal death tw for this one her and andreas are a soap opera to me#or one of those books middle aged moms love with the handosme open shirt guy on horseback#oh religion tw as well!#.....i have more to do but i dont feel like it today ill do elda and auggie tomorrow#honey and eufrasia are still in development and probably wont get an intro post for a bit!
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Travel Poetry - Greece
GREECE
Every account I’ve written thus far about
My experiences in different countries has
Been positive. In mood, I mean. [At least
I hope they’ve come across that way.]
My experience in Greece was very different.
But I thought I’d write about it anyway.
I went to Corfu, Greece, in the summer
Of 2017. With my old girl, who I’ve also
Mentioned several times so far. Basically,
As you have probably already guessed:
Our holiday in Greece was supposed to be
A relationship-saving trip; but, it signalled
The downfall of our thing. I wont bore you
With the details of the mortal romance.
I’m sure many of us have stories of
Relationships in decline. It can be rather
Like a drawn-out fever, when you know
That the bond is dying, and there is little
You can do to try and resuscitate it, and,
For some bizarre reason, you stay with
The other person, even though the deal
Is deteriorating right in front of you.
Suddenly her gold hair and green eyes
Weren’t as magic anymore. Anyways.
Physically – there was nothing wrong
With Corfu. It was exquisitely beautiful.
I remember on the first night going down
To the beach, and the sun went down across
The sea, in a seismic celestial show, with
All kinds of reds and oranges, mixed with
The wispy final-clouds in the sky; was like
Some Impressionist classic, or the climax
Of a movie, following a happy ending.
And, on the horizon you could see the
Hills from the other side of the island.
This was proper, rural Greece: and you
Could see right here why this nation had
Been a cornerstone for Western civilisation.
I had read the philosophy classics back,
Of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, etc etc etc,
In my first year at university, and loved them.
And, coupled with the splendour of these
Surroundings, I understood why those
Men were inspired to try and make sense
Of the sheer wonder of their planet:
The Grecian islands were that pretty.
But, perhaps ‘rural’ was the incorrect word.
Because we were basically living in a resort
For seven nights. And, I found it total Hell.
There were lots of fat, middle aged people
Walking around. And there weren’t any
Museums in the nearby town. It literally
Only had a pair of supermarkets and that
Was about it. … I hung out at the pool one
Night and I got speaking to this man who
Was from Yorkshire. I was just speaking
About various things since he could speak
English as well, and we were both drinking
At the bar. I mentioned I was from Scotland.
And, he responded by saying, “Oh, yeah,
My grandfather was from Scotland. So,
I’ve got a bit of the Scottish poison in me
As well.” I shit you not – that’s what he said.
The fact that he chuckled after saying it,
As if I would take it as casual banter as well,
Was doubly unsettling. So I went back to
My room after that. … Across the week,
There, I did do a bit of writing, too.
But, man, the heat was 35 degrees, non
Stop, and it was hard to concentrate on
Just about anything. There were a few rare
Moments with my old girl, when she
Was in a brighter mood. We sat by the
Pool and she told me some stories. From
Her girlhood. Not every story was cheerful,
But at least she was speaking to me, still.
She recanted one about when she was
A girl, on holiday with her parents, and
She tried to jump on a floating bed in the
Pool, from the poolside. And, the bed
Buckled under her and she sank right
To the bottom of the pool, in the deep end.
And, because she was only six, she didn’t
Know how to swim, or get back up,
And was basically submerged in the pool
For tens of seconds, inhaling water.
Her parents hadn’t noticed her fall in.
And it was only another guy, a stranger,
Who happened to notice this odd shape
Under the water. He jumped in, and lifted
Her out. She threw up chlorine pool-water
For several minutes, coughing and spluttering.
She had very nearly died. She said that
When she was underneath the surface
She was scraping at the tiled walls of the
Pool and hollering for her mum and dad.
But they couldn’t hear her.
And, it was insane to think how she might
Not be here right now, as a twenty something
Year old woman, telling me this, if it hadn’t
Been for that stranger man who rescued her.
[And, I still loved her, by the way. With
Her tinkly, musicbox voice, and Polish accent.
You must think me a loser to still be
Writing about her after such a long time.
I suppose that’s what love does to some people.]
There aren’t many other stories about Greece.
I would like to go to Athens in the future,
In order to re-try the nation. I’m sure if
I experienced it in a cultural way, I would
Dig it a lot better. From the week I spent
There, it was largely a long, heat-addled
Nightmare, full of unhappiness.
But, the supermarkets did sell really cheap,
Voluptuous fruit and vegetables. As in,
Proper foods that were grown locally.
I remember the olives and the tomatoes,
All ripe and proper. They didn’t taste like
The stuff I knew from Morrison’s
Back home – they tasted proper. And I
Would go swimming in the daytimes.
And there would be a tremendous thrust
Of the waves coming inland from the sea,
That, as I floated on my back, would lift
Me up in steady half-violence. And by
The evenings my hair would be all thick
With the pure seat salt that’d gotten into
The strands. … And, do you know the whole
Irony of the holiday? I regret not making
The most of it when I was there, and
I wish I could go back in time and do things
Differently with that full week I spent there.
I suppose notions like regret can be
Important teaching methods.
#writeblr#creative writing#writers on tumblr#tumblr writers#spilled ink#poetry#poem#poems#poets on tumblr#travel poetry#travel writing#greece#corfu
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Odyssey
Pairing: Poseidon!Armin x Reader
Genre: romance, smut
Warnings: slow-burn, minor character death, manipulation, stalking, possessiveness, Yandere behaviour, puppy play, piss play, body worship, throne sex, implied age-gap, oral(male receiving), hair pulling, collaring (without consent)
Word count: 9.8K
Synopsis: Armin’s quest for revenge leads him to you, daughter of a merchant and object of his infatuation.
Author’s note: thank you @bubbleteaimagines for hosting this collab and allowing me to join <3 Also, thank you @onyxoverride for teaching me how to write about pee!
Attack on Titan Masterlist
Present day:
If the river could speak, you wonder what it would say.
In the silence that surrounds the rushing of the water, you’re sure you would hear it. Sometimes, you’re sure you can hear it, but then you remember the dangers of trusting unfamiliar voices. Especially unfamiliar voices in a place like this.
No one goes near the river Shiganshina. And you forget the reasons why much too often.
It’s rocky, slippery, there’s no path to walk on, and the nymphs grow sharp teeth when men approach them, hissing and eyes glowing red. But that’s what makes it perfect for you.
Sasha first mentioned the river months ago, recalling the places on the island that her and her father avoided whenever they went hunting. You hadn’t paid much attention to it until days later, when Connie recounted with round eyes how Floch’s body was found beside the river Shiganshina, mouth full of water and eyes gouged out. You knew you needed to go there yourself.
A pearl necklace is what you stole. And under the guise of going to wash clothes at the well, you made your way south of your small island with only Sasha’s vague instructions and your intuition guiding you.
You could hear the ocean as you walked through the untouched woods, your heart hammering in your chest every time the waves crashed against the island’s cliffs. You weren’t allowed to see the ocean- you weren’t allowed to be around any large body of water, for that matter- but you still knew your island well enough to know that a step in the wrong place could lead you tumbling down the cliff.
You would die before you got to feel the water on your skin and that, you thought, would be the most tragic part.
As your feet began to sink into the muddy ground, you could smell the salty water, and a slight metallic scent behind it that only drew you in closer until you reached a clearing. It was small, crowded with foliage with only a few dead plants on the ground where you could only assume people had attempted to step foot.
And there was the river. It was small, its water emerging from underground before the tide pushed it to the edge of the island- to a waterfall. So loud that it could drown out any noise, any screams. You shivered. For a moment, you just stood back and watched. The water was was green, but so clear that you could still see the fish swimming beside the floating objects. Coins, silver, small statues, and whatever else hopefuls had tried to offer. You pulled out your own offering and whispered a short prayer before throwing the necklace in.
It could have been your imagination, but the water calmed. It was quieter. And, like that, you felt as if the river had opened up its arms to you. Strong arms that you have to be cautious not to spend too long within lest you get trapped.
Thankfully, you’ve learned to read the signs. You know when the river wants you to leave, when it wants you to keep your distance, when it wants to keep you close, and even when it wants you to bathe. Those are the special moments. It’s rare the river is calm enough for you to dip your naked body into, but surrounded by the cool water, you feel like you could stay their forever.
If the river could speak now, however, you’re sure it would tell you to fuck off.
Either that or it would tell you to come back when you have something more to offer its god than a single golden bead from your grandmother’s necklace. Only three are left on the thin string, though you think you might keep the last one to honour her death. After that, you’ll have to go back to offering coins and whatever other trinkets that will keep the god of this river sedated long enough for you to dip your feet into the cool water, maybe take a sip, and then return home before your father realises where you’ve been, much less where you’ve been unchaperoned.
The latter is hardly your fault. Sasha and Connie are too scared to step foot in the Shiganshina forest, let alone the river itself. And you can’t trust anyone else to accompany you, especially the servants whose tongue could slip at the drop of a golden coin. Your father would never forgive you for spending time in the territory of the God of the Ocean or- as he liked to call Armin- the destroyer of seas. And thus, being left alone seems to be the only way.
Well, that’s unless Mr Arlert decides to join you.
The owner of the stable who appeared on the island out of nowhere is the last person anyone would expect to be brave enough to spend time at the river Shiganshina. He mostly keeps to himself, only ever seen tending to his horses or immersed in scrolls of literature and poetry. And yet, he’s here almost as often as you are, almost as vulnerable as you are.
Despite his solitary nature, Mr Arlert has been quick to make himself adored. Mothers swoon over his charm, scholars constantly indulge in his curiosity, and sailors are fascinated by his knowledge of the world and its oceans. He’s no warrior, and already in his late twenties, but he’s still without a doubt one of the most eligible bachelors on Paradis. And, yet, to any marriage proposal sent his way, he declines with a polite “A husband is not what I am fated to become”. Even Annie Leonhardt- whose father Mr Arlert would constantly visit- had her heart broken. But no one blames Mr Arlert, of course, who was there to comfort Annie, to make her realise that she just needs to be a better person, that’s all. It’s not his fault her heart broke, Mr Arlert reassured.
Thinking about it now, you’re amongst the handful of women who haven’t been offered to the tall blond. And with that comes a sigh of relief as you drag your fingers through the water.
It’s not like you dislike him- the opposite, actually- but being with Mr Arlert is like taking the hand of an invisible man in the dark and letting him guide you.
His words constantly have your thoughts spiralling in directions that they shouldn’t be. Thoughts about leaving the island, thoughts about going to the ocean, thoughts about becoming a priestess. Thoughts you aren’t allowed to have.
You fate is bound to the home you were born in, a thick rope tied to your ankle, only letting you go as far as this very river. And Mr Arlert sits beside that rope, a knife in his hand, blue eyes staring into your soul, waiting. You’re not sure what he’s waiting for. But what you’re sure of is that to be taken away from the life you know of is an inconceivable fantasy. The unknown is a dangerous thing, after all.
The small island of Paradis may lie far away from the rest of the world, but their core values remain the same. A woman must grow up to either serve her father or her husband. Your fate has already been decided for you. And, frankly, if it means not having to share a bed with an old man who marries you for your dowry, you’re very happy with taking care of your father until the day that he’ll be put into the ground.
But then there’s always the third option. A woman who serves neither her father nor her husband will serve her god.
You had never been given that option by your god-hating kin. Simply suggesting a future as priestess would earn you at least five lashes, so why… why can’t you stop thinking about it? Your instincts have you blame Mr Arlert, but you know that your fixation began before he arrived on the island; all he’s done is vocalise your thoughts.
As a gust of wind blows the leaves and the salt from the sea gently caresses your cheek, you wonder who your god would be. Do you resonate with Pieck’s beauty, or Zeke’s creativity? Maybe. But as you look into your reflection, you know that your god is no other than Armin, the god of the ocean. The fates must think this is hilarious, but you just want to scream.
“It’s getting late. I wouldn’t want your father worrying about you.”
You jump at the sudden voice, turning around at the familiar face, leaning against a tree with a gentle smile.
“Thank you, Mr Arlert.”
His footsteps are so gentle, as are his apologies.
“You don’t need to thank me. I’ve come to invade your space, after all.”
“It’s not my space, it’s Armin’s. The god is only letting me stay here.”
He smiles a knowing smile, one that you would usually find patronising on any other man. But Armin is charming, too charming for you ever to think that of him. “I suppose you’re right.”
He comes to sit down beside you, taking his usual place at your right- the voice of reason. It’s quiet for a moment, before you remember.
“Lemnos,” you say.
The blond smiles. “I’m not named after a place.”
And you roll your eyes, as you’ve done every time he’s given you a useless hint. “That hardly narrows it down.”
“Well, I can’t make it too easy of a game.”
“You can’t make it impossible either!”
“It seems like I already have.” And you’re not sure if you want to wipe the smirk off his face or just stare at it.
“What about Tree?”
Arlert laughs. “No, but you have one guess left.”
“What?!” You sit up straight, eyes wide. Now you really want to wipe the smirk off his face.
“You have seven guesses, and in the eleven months we’ve known each other, you’ve used up six.” His explanation is calm and rational enough for you to almost convince yourself that the rule has been there from the start.
“Wait- wait. I never knew about this!”
“I thought everyone did. It’s traditional wager rules.” Mr Arlert’s tone is sorry, but you know he’s everything but. So, you cross your arms and pout, hoping that staring him down might at least give you the smallest chance of winning your wager.
He leans forward, mirthful and you feel a shiver go down your spine. “What is it, little puppy, sulking because you’re afraid you can’t win?”
You flush at the implication of your loss- “No- no not at all- no”- before registering his actual words are and only then can you feel the heat rise and you’re sure it’s doing you no service. “I know I can win!”
“I know you can too,” he assures you.
You frown. “Are you being sarcastic?”
It’s his turn to flush. “No, not at all! You can win- the water god favours you, after all.”
And although you shrug, his words stick. They always do.
Before you go home, you pass by Armin’s temple and place at the foot of his statue the remainder of your grandmother’s necklace.
A year ago:
Amrin knew how fickle the gods were and he thought that this knowledge made him impervious to those feelings. He watched how Eren jumped from woman to woman daily, how Reiner picked and chose his battles without a care, how every single fixation a deity would have never lasted more than a year. He thought of how stupid it was to spend a life of immortality indulging in such temporary pleasures. And he looked down on his kin for that very reason.
It was only after one argument too many that Armin finally let it slip. The god of the sea was usually quiet, offering soft smiles, casual conversation, and minimal conflict. That was his only rule: keeps quiet before the gods of the pantheon as he takes his anger out on the humans below. But that day, he forgot about his rule.
Maybe it was the years of silence that caused the Eathshaker’s outburst, or maybe it was just Eren’s bored expression as he talked about his mistresses in front of Mikasa. Armin couldn’t take it. Gathered at a marble table beside all the Olympians, he scowled and told them how stupid they all were.
“Don’t you realise? You’re all wasting your immortality by being so idiotic, so fickle! Everything you touch becomes a temporary pleasure, ruined by your inability to act like real gods.”
He should have stopped; he really should have stopped. But the crack in the glass bridge had been there for years, and now the shards of glass were dropping down into the sea. “You might as well be human!”
The room went silent. Eyes went wide, and mouths gaped, but the gods opted for silence. Every deity wanted to speak up, maybe even draw their swords, but they were more intelligent than Armin was in that moment, which was more unusual than one might think. He had never snapped so violently before. Armin may have been aggressive, but he knew his place. Knew when to be docile. Now, he felt like he could crumble Olympus itself with his rage and bury the Olympians with their dead parents.
The king of the gods, however, leaned forward. His emerald eyes were unmoving, devoid of emotion though his lips tilted into a monstrous grin.
“You’re just as fickle as the rest of us, brother,” was all Eren said.
When Armin lunged at him, knocking the fine glass off the table, it was Mikasa who pinned him down. Arms locked behind his back, all Armin could do was watch as mirth flooded Eren’s face, and the god of the sky laughed. The bastard laughed and laughed and licked the small wound on his hand from a shard of glass. It healed immediately. Even their pain was temporary.
And like he had been doing for the past millennia, Armin found solice in his only rule: if he couldn’t take out his rage on his brother, Armin would take out his frustration elsewhere.
His first instinct was to find a woman, but the thought of seeking out temporary pleasure, from a mistress no less, reminded him too much of Eren. So, he descended to earth, trident in one hand as the other gripped the reigns of his horse and they rode for three days and three nights. That’s all it took for the god of the sea to find what he was looking for- someone deserving of his hatred.
There are many humans like the merchant. But most of their hatred is silent. And when it’s not, blasphemy often falls upon deaf ears. The merchant just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time when his drunk rambles led him up on the deck screaming out Armin’s name like it was venom in his throat, until he could scream no more. He was drunk, but the merchant’s hatred for the god of the sea did not cease when he was sober.
And when Armin heard his name, the god wasted no time calling forth a storm to sink the merchant’s ship. He took care to ensure that the arrogant man watched each and every one of his men be swallowed whole, their bodies only resurfacing lifeless, before the storm calmed.
It took five days for the merchant to swim back to his island.
He never returned to the sea.
As the weeks passed, he relocated his home to help him stay away from any body of water and made sure that his family followed suit.
But Armin followed, and the merchant’s father died weeks later with saltwater water found in his lungs.
Unfortunately, that was not enough to sedate the god of the sea’s need for vengeance. Fortunately, it was not enough to sedate the merchant’s hatred either. The hubris didn’t leave him. Instead, it just grew and grew and grew until the merchant considered himself more of a god than Armin would ever be.
“Oh, oh.” Armin couldn’t help but smile as he watched the man urinate before his temple. “This is perfect, so perfect.”
Armin was going to show his uncaring brother how different he was from the rest of the miserable Olympians. As he stood above the island of Paradis, golden hair blowing in the ocean wind, the god vowed to begin his Odyssey. An eternal Odyssey. A journey that would last longer than the ten fleeting years he had with the Greek hero- a journey that would last longer than the universe itself.
And he knew exactly where to begin. A man’s most valuable possession: his child.
It was only after your grandfather’s death that Armin noticed you. When he first began watching the merchant’s household, under the guise of either a guest or a bird, he had been surprised to learn that the blasphemous man had no wife, nor children. Armin only realised his mistake one night, when you came to lay a blanket on the drunk man’s barely conscious body. The merchant had pulled you towards him, muttering apologies and you had wrinkled your nose before offering him a soft smile. “It’s okay, papa”.
A daughter sheltered from the world, it seemed.
The god had initially thought you were one of the servants. There were only two in the house, and your tasks were all similar. But as Armin began to watch you closer, he saw how you did have a life outside your home with friends, interests, men- a life your father was blissfully unaware of.
The merchant hardly left home- playing the part of the sick man- and you took care of him- playing the part of your dead mother- in a happy sort of agreement.
You didn’t speak about it to your friends, but you detested your doting role. Armin could tell. The way you wrinkled your nose every time your father walked through the door, the eye-roll when you were given a load of laundry. The god couldn’t help by laugh at how pathetic the merchant was that not even his only daughter- his lifeline- cared for him. The merchant didn’t know, of course. Your fake smiles and gentle hands were enough to deceive him, keep him sane. But Armin was going to break that pattern.
The merchant didn’t deserve the care of a woman. He didn’t deserve anything. So, Armin was going to take you away from him.
His initial plan was to kill you. Simple, efficient, quick. And then he thought of dumping your body somewhere far so that the search for you would break your father’s spirit even more. He hesitated, though, he wasn’t sure why, but he did. And then, you changed your routine.
After meeting up with the two individuals you called your friends at the Sunday market- instead of going back home- you carried on walking. Through the houses on the outskirts and into the dense trees, you almost stung your sandal-clad feet twice before reaching a river. The river had no god of itself, but you still threw in an offering and muttered. Stupid human. And then you sat beside the river and- nothing. Your routine was boring, obviously a ritual to let you escape from reality. Yet, he couldn’t tear away from you. The woman at the river Shiganshina was a different one than the woman who served her father. The one here relaxed her shoulders, cursed at the world around her, smiled- albeit randomly but it was real. He decided there that he would kill you tomorrow.
But when, the next day, you led him back to the river, Armin was lost in you again. Lost in your honestly, lost in your need to escape. He wanted to see more, he needed to see more. Metaphorically, of course. But when you began undressing, the pleated robes dropping to reveal soft skin and tender curves, the god of the sea realised that he wouldn’t mind literally seeing more of you. Armin had been with goddesses and nymphs and, hell, even Aphrodite herself, but never had he been this awestruck. He had to hold himself back. Even though the way you were bathing made it seem like you were worshipping him, water dripping from your body, wet hair hiding the swell of your breasts. Armin’s breath stuttered. He couldn’t reveal himself. He couldn’t.
So, he watched, and watched. Trying desperately to take in everything you were from a distance. Armin didn’t count the number of times he visited you before finally decided that killing you was no longer an option. He told himself that his change of mind was progressive. A practical choice to draw out his revenge into the most painful and convoluted Odyssey. To do that, he couldn’t kill you. No. He was going to take you for himself. Armin was going to turn the daughter of the merchant into a servant of the one God he detested.
Putting the thought into your mind was pathetically easy. As you walked past his temple on your way home, an echo of laughter emerged from the marble building. You paused for only a moment, but it was enough for Armin to catch the look in your eyes. It was one of longing, mixed with a curiosity that threatened to pull you in. But you seemed to catch yourself in the act and hastened yourself home.
And so, Armin’s true Odyssey began.
For his journey to progress, he had to meet you. Not as a bird or a horse or through glances as a guest. He had to meet you properly. This was the only way to draw you in, he told himself. The only way for you to submit completely and willingly.
Armin could have forced you too your knees, but he had to ensure that your father watched has his daughter chose Armin over him. And chose Armin you would. Every piece was in perfect place. The fates seemed to have woven a beautiful cloth of gold for the god of the sea.
What he failed to realise was that the cloth was in fact a snare- a trap which he will never be able to escape from.
Eleven months ago:
A short gust of wind had the pears in your thin basket tumbling down onto the rocky ground. You rushed after the fruit, crouching down to pick it up when a shadow appeared, and a hand reached out to pick it up for you. The sandal-clad feet were pale- paler than anyone living on this warm island and the robes a fine, ironed white. He somehow seemed to glow brighter than his clothes, and you purposefully let your fingers graze his as you picked up the fruit.
“Thank you,” you said, standing up.
You were hoping that he wouldn’t catch your staring. But even if he did, you couldn’t tear your eyes off him. He was lean, taller than you but not intimidatingly so and his eyes were like oceans that you found yourself staring into as he introduced himself as Mr Arlert. Just Mr Arlert. The new owner of the stables with a voice so soft, it took a moment before you remembered to introduce yourself.
“Y/N. And thank you, again.” It isn’t appropriate for an unmarried woman to be talking to a man on her own, but you couldn’t help but ask. “Do you have a first name Mr Arlert?”
His smile was contagious. “I do. But names are a powerful thing. I’m afraid I can’t give mine up freely.”
“Oh.” You scrunched your nose. “Can I pay for it then?”
You were dead serious, but the blond man laughed. How can someone look so pretty when they laugh? You wondered.
“I’m serious! I can pay you; name your price.”
Mr Arlert looked down at you, blue eyes twinkling. “I’ll think about it.”
“So, is that a no?”
“It’s a no, for now. One day I’ll tell you my name.”
He was sweet, so sweet, but you still gave him a sceptical frown, nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing. Mr Arlert in turn gave you a sorry look before his eyes lit up and he pulled out from his brown satchel a small book of yellowed pages and a dusty blue cover, the gold embossing hardly visible. You nose only scrunched further.
“My name is in this story. It’s mentioned few times, but it’s an important one,” he said to you.
You took the book and flipped through the worn pages, immediately recognising the tale of Aphrodite and Ares. The lovers.
Why the challenge? You wanted to ask Mr Arlert but you knew the answer you your get would be too cryptic. Besides, you think, I like a challenge.
“How long do I have?” You asked instead.
“A year and a day.”
“And what will I get if I figure it out?”
At this, he pondered. But it seemed feigned, and you wondered, just for a split second, if the man had planned this from the beginning. But why? This was another one of your questions that went unanswered that day. Because before you could say anything more, Mr Arlert leaned forward and said, “Your reward will be divine”. And he walked away.
Nine months ago:
Life was well after Armin arrived. There was no other way to put it. Your father was confining himself to his room more often than before, and you were finding more opportunities to visit the river, leave the house and, eventually, you met the handsome baker’s son. Jean was kind, a gentleman, but not the arrogant type like most the men your age. You didn’t even feel too much guilt when you thought that spending a future with Jean- taking care of him and his home- wouldn’t be too bad. It’s quite pathetic that your life had been reduced to not being “too bad”, but the idea of marrying Jean sat on the comfortable line between reality and fantasy. Safety.
And then you were visited at the river.
Mr Arlert wasn’t even surprised to find you there, he had just smiled and sat beside you as you clenched your fists and forced yourself to smile back at him. You had always enjoyed him, his company, his challenges, but now it was like he was provoking you. The river Shiganshina was your river, your special place away from the hellscape that was the town. And now Mr Arlert had brought himself and his ordinary life into it.
You pulled your sandals back on, the crease in your brow evident. He clearly couldn’t get the hint. But before you could stand up, he spoke, and you paused.
“I wish I could jump in and swim away,” he said.
Curiosity got the best of you, as it often did with the man.
“The waterfall would kill you.”
The awkward laugh again. It had an effect on you so that your jaw couldn’t help but unclench. “If it means that I get to touch a waterfall, I wouldn’t mind, you know?”
You knew. You knew exactly what he meant. But you didn’t tell him.
“Didn’t take you as the suicidal type,” you said.
“I might get saved, who knows.”
“If you’re counting on me to jump after you, I’m letting you know I won’t.”
“I know,” he laughed. “I was thinking of more of a divine rescue.”
You finally looked at him, and- unsurprisingly- his blue eyes were glued to yours. What was surprising was his unwavering tone, his straight face. Mr Arlert was being serious. Why was he opening up to you this suddenly? So far, your interactions had consisted of him staring, you trying to guess his name, and him continuing to stare. In that order. You knew there was more to him, but it’s only now that you found yourself wanting to seek that out.
“You think Armin would save you?” You didn’t miss Arlert’s smile.
“I’m hoping I’ve gained his favour- done enough for him to allow me freedom via waterfall.”
It was your turn to smile. “You probably have, You’re at the temple often.”
“Thank you.” He blushed and you quickly pushed down the thought of how cute he looked. Sitting beside you, trousers rolled up and feet in the water, Mr Arlert looked more than cute. He looked like he belonged. You weren’t sure how that made you feel but, in that moment, you didn’t mind him entering your world.
“I think you would also be saved if you jumped into the waterfall,” Mr Arlert said.
You laughed. “Is that your way of saying I’m a nice person?”
“Something like that.” He paused. “I think Armin would appreciate your- uh- honesty. You’re like a priestess.” He laughs nervously at your expression. “You know, they have this personal affinity with the water and such.”
You knew exactly what he meant. How a stranger could read you so perfectly, you weren’t sure. But as you hid your smile between your hands, you wondered whether you were prepared to face the fear of the unknown. Maybe, with Mr Arlert, it would be a bit less unknown.
A few days later, Jean was announced missing. A search party was sent out and even Mr Arlert, on his recently acquired brown horse, couldn’t find him.
Present day:
Armin isn’t sure if he likes playing the part of the nice boy or not. Humans are simple creatures who praise him continuously and, without divine responsibilities, there is no need to take his rage out anywhere. But a god is who he is, and every day, he yearns to be seen as one. To be seen as one by you. He watches as you worship him, but you never look at him- not like you do the statues, or even the small river which you think is your only true connection to the god of the ocean.
You both want more, and you both know that, but you only ever admit it to each other when you sit beside that very river. There, in those moments, Armin feels a bit more like a god. Whenever he’s around you, he feels a bit more like a god.
He’s told you before, but your perfect honesty has made it easy for him to unravel around you. He wants to unravel around you in other ways, too, and he wants you to unravel around him. Armin can’t count the number of times he’s sat beside you at the riverside and wanted to do nothing more than to kiss those lips of yours, to press the hard cock that he hides inside of you and watch as your eyes roll back, and you call out his name.
But the God of the Sea is not Eren. Armin will earn you. And he’s very close to doing so. Not Mr Arlert. You have no interest in human men, that much is clear. You yearn for something more powerful. And you’re right. Only a god is worthy enough to stand beside you, lay between your legs, be in your arms. Mr Arlert is simply a means to push you to realising that the god in question is Armin.
In the meantime, he’s been nothing but patient.
It’s only when you come to his door one night, eyes puffy and red, that he lays his hands on you for the first time. He rubs your back as you cry and cry, fat tears refusing stop falling. You tell him about bout your father. About how, since he got better, he’s been refusing to let you out of the house, snapping at every moment and accusing you of being a filthy god-worshipper.
“He s-sai-d- he said we’re ‘gonna move away- said we’re gonna get as far away from the s-sea as possible.” You can hardly speak, though the tears have stopped, your voice still shakes violently. But Armin listens, he holds you close to him and repeats that everything is going to be fine.
You can’t stop thanking him as you leave, and he promises that his door is always open for you. “Whenever you call for me, I’m here,” Armin tells you. “Right beside you, always,” he adds as he watches you walk away.
He’s reached a new chapter of this Odyssey.
Present day:
You suppose your father’s death should have been expected. He was an old man, obviously depressed, and his only lifeline was his daughter who hated him.
You also suppose you should feel guilty. You don’t.
Familiar faces give their condolences and whisper questions of what is to happen to you now. You only pay heed to Sasha and Connie, though, who give you a soft hug before Sasha tells you that her family would be happy to take you in. You reassure her and everyone else that you have a plan, though your best friends are the only ones who seem to believe you.
“I heard Marie has a son who’s single, maybe they can-“
“You’re not actually talking about marriage here are you?”
“Well, the girl is all alone in the world, now! She needs a man to lead her on the right path.”
The old women are wrong, so very wrong. You don’t need a man. You’re fucking sick of men- sick of them all- everything they’ve created and everything they stand for.
What you need is a god.
The head priestess of Armin’s temple in unsurprised when you knock on her door with nothing but a bag and the clothes on your body. Those clothes are burned soon after, along with many of your other things, leaving your old life behind.
She tells you that you’re lucky there’s a place for you. The last priestess left running off with a man, “Which is a cardinal sin”, she makes sure to repeat every-so-often. The head priestess seems to hate men more than you do, sneering whenever Connie comes by.
Sasha and Connie are unsurprisingly shocked at your choice of work and even if they visit almost every day, they always tell you that they miss you. They think you’ve come the temple out of desperation- everyone does- and you let them believe. Because despite cleaning the marble floors or whatever other arduous duty you’ve been given, a smile is never far as you realise that you’re free from man. Indeed, explaining the truth to anyone would be far too difficult.
Well, except one person.
You’ve never missed anyone before. Not with your father keeping you so sheltered for most of your life. But as you push through the Head Priestess’ relentless schedule, you can’t help but miss Mr Arlert. He disappears after your father’s funeral, so you leave him a note at the empty stable with your final guess. You like to think he decided to follow his own path, you also like to think that he too wishes you were beside him, a guide in the unknown.
Present day:
The room is a box of marble, with a throne sat upon a dais at the centre and one fountain at every corner, each one sculped into a horse. The object of your interests, however, is the large bowl of water on the floor in front of the throne.
This is your initiation. You will emerge from this room not as an apprentice, but a Priestess.
You kneel down and lift the pot of clay to your lips. The head priestess kept on repeating how important it is to not put it down until you’re finished. So, you gulp the water down until you can see the image of Armin. You’re the one who selected the pot, with its faded paint depicting Armin and Hange’s fight for patronage of Sina. It’s a powerful image, but when you put the pot down, you come face to face with something very different. Armin is standing in a room-this room, you realise- and crouched down before him is a young woman, looking up in awe. It takes bit longer of a moment for you to realise that the woman is you.
Looking up slowly from the pot, the first thing you see is sandal-clad feet. Golden sandals, just as fine as the robes he wears, draped in perfect waves. The first word you think of to describe him is divine and it’s indeed accurate because-
“Mr Arlert.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
But you know that’s not correct. The man- no, not a man- before you is taller than Mr Arlert, by a foot and a half at least. His muscles are more prominent that the stable boy’s ever were, strong legs visible through the large slit between the layers of fabric draped over the god’s figure. Half of his shoulder-length hair is tied back using a golden pin whilst the rest frames his perfect, perfect face. You can’t help but think that Armin looks nothing like his statues- no medium of art could capture the ocean within his eyes, glowing in the dull light of the room. Then again, the stories didn’t capture the way the god acts either.
“Armin,” you say, this time your voice louder.
Now, you know.
His sad smile is familiar, but there’s something there that never was. “Oh dear,” he says. “I’m afraid you’ve lost out wager.”
Armin can’t help but compare you to a puppy, with large eyes staring up at him from your crouched position and an expression a perfect mix of excitement, curiosity, and shock.
You reach out a hand tentatively, but it hovers in the air between the two of you once you notice Armin’s raised brow. But he doesn’t rebuke you for it. After all, it’s only your first encounter with the god. He can’t expect you to behave perfectly, to adopt the right etiquette- no, he’ll have to train you first. Like he would a baby mutt. The thought makes him smile.
“I’ll accept any consequences, my god,” you say. Your voice sounds so sure of itself, so unlike your usual ramblings, those that Armin could and would listen to for hours. Right now, though, the certainty, it’s laced with desire that sends blood rushing south. You don’t notice. You’re too lost in his eyes to notice anything.
When he places his hand on your chin to hold it up, he can feel you shiver. “Such a perfect little worshipper,” he says. “I couldn’t possibly punish you.”
Armin can swear he sees disappointment in your eyes before he turns around and walks up the dais. The marble of the throne is cold beneath him, but the sight of you looking up at him with such longing is enough to warm him up. Now, Armin is sure you’ve noticed his growing erection because you crawl towards the dais, not yet climbing it, but close enough to see and lick your lips.
“Let me thank you at least, Armin.” He almost groans at the sound of his name. God, he wants to hear you say it over and over.
“Come here.”
And you climb up the dais only to pause before Armin leans forward and grabs your hips. Two lips, as if led by an invisible string, meet. You kiss like you’ve been waiting years for Armin and, in a way, you have. His tongue is inside your mouth quickly and he’s kissing, sucking, letting his teeth gently graze your lips as he revels in the feeling of you. As your bodies lean against each other, you can feel his heart hammering against your own. His chest is stone, but his lips are so soft and your hands find his golden hair. It’s also softer than it looks, and Armin can’t help but let out a moan as you gently tug.
When you pull back, his pupils are blown. “Thank me, then,” Armin says, breathless.
Sitting between his legs, your hand is tiny compared to his cock, and you can’t stop staring at it. Long and somewhat slender, but veiny with a flushed red top- he can see you gulp before you take an experimental lick at him. Armin’s hold on your hair only tightens and you look up at him, doe eyed and seemingly innocent.
“Put it in your mouth, pretty girl,” he says, guiding your head gently. “So obedient- Yes, exactly, just like-ah- just like that.”
But he doesn’t need to push down- no- he lets you set your own pace only because you do it so perfectly, almost as perfect as the wet noises you make. Armin doesn’t have time to be surprised, he’s just able to react fast enough to suppress his own moans so he can hear your wet tongue caress the base of his cock, as your lips create the perfect o-shape to accommodate him. Your drool is everywhere in a matter of seconds- his balls are coated with it, and so is your lap, where the spit seeps through the thin white fabric you call a robe.
“Like a puppy,” he murmurs. And you look up quizzically. “You’re drooling over me like a desperate puppy- a puppy in heat,” he grunts. “You just want to please me, don’t you? ‘S alright, puppy, I’ll let you do that.”
If you could nod your head, you would. Instead, your cheeks burn, and Armin is so lost in the way that you look- not even able to take his entire cock in his mouth- that his hips begin to buck unconsciously. He hits the back of your throat, and you gag at the sudden impact, but he hisses and murmurs “What a good, wet hole. So good, good-”
The earthshaker is afraid that if he speaks any louder, his voice will slur into incomprehensible sultry sounds. But as you struggle to take his cock even deeper into his mouth, he lets out groans that go straight between your own legs. You moan around him, and the reverberations make his head roll back. God, you could stare at him forever. And he would let you.
“Look at me,” he says whenever your eyes go astray. “Look at your god.”
As his hips buck more violently, Armin can feel the pressure in his lower stomach, the impending orgasm and he wants to stop- wants to hold out the way he always has. But he can’t, it’s too much and he just cannot pull out of you. He simply pushes further and further into your tight throat, repeating your name like it’s a blessing. “fuck, puppy, ‘m going to- I’m going to cum down your throat. You want that, do you you’re your god’s cum- ah, fuck, ahhh”-
Pushing your head down to the base, both of his hands at the back of your head, Armin cries out you name and you can feel the warm liquid go down your throat, thick ropes filling up your mouth, some of it dribbling out. Armin reflexively pushes it back in your mouth, ordering you to swallow it all, to show how grateful you are. Of course, you oblige. But before you can even regain your breath, Armin suddenly pulls you off his cock. His pupils are dilated, and he wears an expression- anger? Shock?
“You’re not a virgin,” he hisses, teeth gritting against each other. His breath is frantic, uneven. It’s not a question and you begin to recognise his expression. Rage. “You’ve done this before.”
Fuck.
The God of the sea has his fair share of consorts and mistresses. Some of them virgins- though he never chases them the way Eren does- some of them not, but none have made him cum so fast. He would like to blame it on the year of pining, of restraint, but he knows better. It’s you. You do this him. You make him so wild, so willing, so pliant even.
In that moment, as he looks your worried face, so desperate to please, he thinks that he’ll never be able to let it go. You’ve consumed Armin and he wants to do nothing more than burn eternally. You must understand that- that you exist as his beacon, that’s where you’ll be your happiest, but those thoughts are too complex for a human. You, in your fragile state, can’t understand. It’s alright, he’ll just have to show you bit by bit that you’re his. But to do so, he must first take on the role he’s familiar with. That of the punisher.
“Who is he?” Armin snaps.
“It was only-“
“Who is he?”
You pause. Memories of nights spent together, huddled close and trying to keep quiet already fading. “Berthrolt Hoover.”
Armin’s shoulders relax, “I see.”
His breathing slowly goes back to normal, and, at the back of your mind, you know you’ve signed the young warrior’s death. But your worry is fleeting as Armin grabs you by the neck and hoists you over his knees, laying you down on your stomach effortlessly. “A priestess who isn’t a virgin?”
You look up as see Armin’s familiar sweet smile, but it’s laced with mirth that makes you forget the Mr Arlert he was before. You cry out at the first slap of his hand on your ass, more out of surprise than pain.
“I don’t think the people of Paradis will be very happy to hear that,” he says. “An unmarried woman giving herself away to a pathetic boy.”
Slap!
“I’m sorry!” you cry out. “It was a mis-”
He slaps you thrice.
“No excuses, dumb little puppy. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure this punishment.” His voice is deceptively soft, as if he is actually sorry. And when you look back up at Armin, his face betrays no malice. But it doesn’t show any cruelty either. Instead, there’s a fascination.
Armin has you sprawled across his lap, at his mercy and he is discovering you bit by bit. As a god. His cock twitches and then suddenly he tugs off the fabric of your robes and they disappear.
The way you squirm is half- hearted, and Armin has to laugh. “Embarrassed? Now of all times? I didn’t know you were such a prude. Or is this all just to compensate for the fact that you’re a whore in my temple?”
You shake your head, “I swear, I’ve never belonged to any man!”
Fingers trace the expanse of your naked body, soft enough to send shivers down your spine. “Oh? Really?”
“Yes yes, I swear, ah!” His fingers find your naked ass and they grab onto the flesh, massaging, groping, feeling you. Armin’s other hand rests on top of your head, stroking it gently and you’re so lost in his touch that you almost forget to speak.
“I belong to no man, I never have. Only you. It’s always been you, Armin.”
The god’s eyes widen, and he gently pulls you up from his lap only to seat you on it, upright and, this time, there’s so much more to admire. “You’re right,” he says. Armin captures your lips and this time, it’s longer, rougher. He doesn’t want to pull back, doesn’t want to lose the feeling of your soft lips against his, but his hands have already found your breasts and soon, his tongue joins them. You moan as he begins to lap at your breasts, leaving hickeys and spit in his wake as his finally finds your nipples and begins sucking them like a child as you whine and lean into him.
“You do belong to me,” he finally says, his voice partially muffled as he loses himself in the worship your breasts. “You’ve always belonged to me.”
And you can do nothing more than nod your head as your fingers tangle in Armin’s hair and you’re pulled into another kiss. His hand goes down your body, squeezing every single mound of flesh as if it needs to be touched so that when he finds your cunt, Armin can’t help but smile at how wet you are.
“Already, but I’ve hardly done anything to you?”
What a liar, but you don’t have a chance to tell him before he plunges a finger inside of you. “Oh, puppy, my puppy,” he groans at the contact the same time you moan, pushing your hips against his digits. “You like my fingers like that inside of you?”
“Yes, yes, I do, I really love them- it feels, oh my god, it feels too good!” you grip his shoulders, unable to do anything but desperately buck your hips at the smiling Armin. He knows what he’s doing, he knows that his fingers are giving you just that satisfaction, but it’s still not enough to bring you over the edge.
“Please Armin, please.” You squeeze his shoulders.
“Tell me what you want, tell me, I’ll give it to you- I swear.”
“I want to feel you, all- ah- all of you. I need to feel you inside of me!”
You’re not sure at which moment Armin removes his robes, but as he moves both of your legs so that you’re straddling him, your hands are on his bare, lean chest. The god’s nipples are flushed pink and pert, practically calling to you and you respond by brushing your fingers over them and watching him twitch ever-so-slightly in response. You withhold the urge to take them into your mouth, even as Armin rubs his cock against your cunt, releasing the sweetest of sounds.
He’s already leaking precum and it mixes with your juices so perfectly, his cock being dragged back and forth, only making you gush even more. “So messy,” he mumbles as he uses his tip to spreads your juices across your thighs. At this point, you can practically feel it throbbing, ready to be sheathed inside of you and the whimpers of your desperation echo against the temple walls.
When Armin slips inside of you, simultaneous gasps escape your lips. The god pulls your body closer to his as you throw your head back, stars in your eyes.
“Look,” he whispers. “Look how easily I slip in- it’s- it’s like your cunt is made for me.”
“Armin,” you whisper back. “Armin, Armin- ah- Armin.”
He sinks you down slowly, the stretch hitting every single spot that leaves your legs practically limp. The god is holding you up, whispering his own mantra that you can’t hear over your bliss. Once inside, your eyes look lock with Armin’s and he’s staring at you in a way he’s never done before. You’ve never seen pupils so dilated and the two of you stay like that as if making up for the moments when you should have been connected in this way. An eternity, it seems, the two of you have needed each other.
“I’m your god,” Armin finally says. “I’m your god and- hng ah-” He begins moving you up and down his shaft. “And I’m going to make you cum all over this cock- okay? All over your god’s cock.”
You nod your head pathetically as he lifts your hips and slams them down against his own. He is strong, ruthless in the way he bucks his hips up every time he lifts you from his cock, as if he can’t bare the empty feeling of not having your tight pussy clamped around him. At this relentless pace, you’re sure that the sound of your connecting bodies could penetrate even these marble walls. And yet, you don’t hold back. Thanks and praises spill from your swollen lips and Armin can’t help but lean forward and push his tongue between your mouth, as if he can absorb all of your word. “So good, so good, it’s- uah- I just want more, more of your cock, you fill me up so good!”
Armin can’t deny you. He pushes your thighs to your chest and picks up your entire body to fuck himself. He manoeuvres your body like a toy and as your tongue rolls out and your eyes become glassy, you begin to look like one too. The only sounds coming out of your mouth are incomprehensible, even as Armin attaches his mouth to one of your bouncing tits, you can only squeal.
“Such a good puppy,” he says between kisses. “Letting me use her holes like this. A god using a puppy’s holes- you should be- you should be grateful! Tell me, tell me you’re grateful!”
“I am!” you cry out. “I am grateful!”
“Good girl, good puppygirl.”
When Armin flips you over, you’re sat on his throne and he fucks into you harder, harder than he was doing before, and you swear his moans are louder too. He’s looking down at the movement of your stomach as if hypnotized by the way his cock disappears into you. And, in a way, he is. The fascination of being inside of you- just the idea even- is enough to make him want to cum.
The sudden position has him hitting new spots and the build-up is so fast, you hardly have the time to warn him. “Armin, Armin I’m cum-“
He grabs your face as you release around his cock, body spasming but unable to look away as Armin’s gaze burns through you. “Good girl,” he says. “Show me, show me how you cum. Just like that, just like that.”
He continues to plough his hips into yours and the spasms of your pussy leave him unable to hold back. “Inside of you,” he practically growls. “I’m going to cum inside of you- yes, yes, yes I am puppy. I’m going to cum inside of you and you’re going to show me how you take it yeah?”
You’re too far gone to even register the implications of what he’s saying, but he buries his cock in your warm walls and releases his cum inside of you with a heavy groan. “Just like that, just like that- I’m going to fill you up with my seed, puppy, my puppy.”
Armin feels like he’s emptied his balls- two powerful orgasms which leave his legs shaking violently. And yet, he pulls out of you slowly and stands back up to his full height, cock in front of your face. Almost instinctively, you rub your cheek against it, giving Armin soft kitten licks and he coos at you, stroking your hair. But he doesn’t push, he just holds his cock there and pumps softly as he stares at your fucked out face. Messy, covered in his spit, his hickeys, his bites, his cum- you look perfect, divine. Only one thing is missing. “I’m going to give you everything I have, puppy. And you’re going to take it, okay?” You nod and open your mouth for him and, immediately, a strong stream of pee emerges.
At the bitter taste on your tongue, your eyes roll back, and you spread your legs even wider, a welcome to the mess he is about to make. Armin accepts and angles his cock to release his pee over your chest, then your stomach, and then your already-throbbing cunt. He lifts a foot to rest on the throne and Armin doesn’t think he’s even seen such a beautiful sight in his life.
As if guided by an implicit will, Armin’s foot hovers on top of you and suddenly, he presses against your lower stomach. Your eyes snap back into focus as you whine out for him to wait, wait just a moment “I just had water,” you cry out. “It’s gonna- It’s gonna come out!”
But Armin simply grins. “Let it come out,” he says and presses his foot down harder. “Pee yourself dumb little mutt, be a good puppy for your owner.” The trickle that emerges is involuntary, but Armin’s grin is wider. “Yes, good girl, just like that. Let me see more, let me see more of you.”
The pressure that was holding the bowl of water back broke and you felt the warm liquid against your thighs before you realise what’s happening. Armin practically moans as he watches you whimper and struggle to hold your pee back as it spreads over the throne, the dais, and even Armin himself. He doesn’t stop until you’ve given it all to him.
You expect Armin to disappear.
You’ve given him everything. His goal is complete, you think, he has nothing more to do with you. But, as he has done many times before, the god surprises you. Armin’s body is heavy against yours when he collapses on top of you, but the weight is comforting. Despite the malaise of urine and cum rubbing against both of your bodies, you wrap your arms around the god of the ocean and hold him close.
Even as you close your eyes and lean your head back on the marble throne, Armin doesn’t leave you. Even as you open your eyes back up and see blue ones staring back at you, the look he gives you is so familiar and long hair in such unfamiliar disarray that you can’t help but smile.
He doesn’t ask why. Instead, Armin calls forth a stream of warm water from the adjacent fountain to clean the both of you. It feels like a fever dream the way floating droplets caress your bodies, and when Armin stands you up, his hands not leaving you, the perfume that suddenly envelops you is heavenly.
“Can I give you a last kiss, please?” you ask when your robe appears once again. And Armin leans forward to capture your lips, dragging his tongue on your bottom lip as if to taste you.
It doesn’t feel like a final kiss. You’ve had many of them- Jean, Sasha, Berthrold, your father, and even your mother, though you can’t remember it. This kiss is different. It feels less like a kiss and more like a promise, a vow. a shiver runs down your spine.
“I am your god,” he says and lifts his both of his hands slowly to wrap around your neck. “And you’re my worshipper.” You gasp as a cold sensation spreads around your neck, just below Armin’s fingers. It’s sudden, and heavy and when he removes his hands, yours fly to your neck and there’s a metal band there where there was none before.
“It’s sculpted from Hephaestus’ gold,” Armin says as he strokes his fingers along the metal. But he’s not looking at his gift, instead he looks at you.
“Armin- I- this is. But why?”
For the first time, he can’t read your expression. But it doesn’t matter. You belong to him. You always have, but now you know. And if it takes time for you to understand, Armin can wait. He’ll wait right beside you, always, always there to guide you.
“This is not the end of my Odyssey. My Odyssey is eternal,” he says before giving you another short kiss and disappearing, the warmth of his lips still present.
The gods might not all be fickle, you think, so you just smile sadly. But the gods are all selfish, so you touch the collar around your neck.
A/N: This is my first ever collab and I was- as still am- a bit insecure about how this story turned out so I appreciate all of your support ❤️. I would also like to apologise to my fellow history nerds for the historical inaccuracies.
#armin x reader#armin arlert#armin#armin x you#eren mikasa armin#eren aot#AoT#AOT headcanons#aot levi#aot smut#aot fanfiction#aot fanfic#snk smut#snk fanfiction#snk eren#levi attack on titan#tw piss kink#tw piss play#tw choking#tw collar#yandere armin arlert#tw stalking#throne sex#tw obsessive behavior
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dalí on tuesday
charlie dalton x reader | cursing, smoking, brief mentions of sexual things, charlie (probably) has daddy issues, cameron | she/her pronouns | fluff | wc.2562
i am in love with charlie, this is now a charlie dalton centric blog, also ignore how terrible the title is please
anon : Hi!! I love your blog! can I request a charlie Dalton x reader fluff where reader is an artist and he visits them while they're painting? (maybe they end up wiping paint on his face?) I don't know, something really sweet at cute <33333
Charlie Dalton had been resigned to relish in small pleasures to keep himself sane at school, never did he think the library would be one of those. More specifically, the painter tucked into the basement of the library.
───☮︎───
Charlie Dalton was a connoisseur of many things. Pretty girls, expensive wine, shitty poetry, and hand rolled cigarettes - to name a few. His imprisonment at Wellington made only one of those things readily available. So he settled - boxes of cheap smokes bought through upperclassmen, bottles of grocery store wine someone would sneak in from a party, and the two girls that occasionally came with Knox. The shitty poetry was always on deck, he had that at least. It was a tragedy to be resigned to such a bland life, there was absolutely no carpe diem-ing happening in a school that held adolescent boys to uniforms.
It was miserable, truly, but Charlie scrapped by on the thought that soon enough there would be no more stuffy Catholic school and he could finally have a taste of freedom. In the meantime, he would have what little fun he could. The meets in the cave were always the highlight of the week. A place where he could talk and people would listen, and not because they had to but because they enjoyed it. They enjoyed his words and thoughts and presence. No one else had ever really seemed to enjoy Charlie’s presence. They could tolerate it, handle it, but they always had more pressing matters. A business meeting to attend, a bill to pay, a dinner to go to. Always something just a little bit more important and never quite enough time for Charlie. But the other Dead Poets, they valued him. He wasn’t just a kid, a college tuition to pay and a life to layout. He was a person, with interests and hobbies.
It had been there, in the safe haven of the cave, that the idea for the library first came up. Meeks had already talked Pitts into coming, Neil didn’t take much convincing at all, Todd was also easy to lure, Cameron groaned about leaving school grounds but refused to be left out, and Knox agreed to go but only if Nuwanda came too. Charlie had already started to cover what there was to do at a library, read?
Meeks dove into the technical manuals and Pitts followed tentatively, cradling their science project in his arms. Todd had followed Neil to the S authors, Cameron was trying to chat up the woman at the register, and God only knew what Knox was doing. He had been stranded with few options. He could find the geniuses and be talked over for the next hour or third wheel Neil but that guaranteed intruding on something he probably shouldn’t. The polite thing to do would be to rescue Cameron from making a complete fool of himself, throwing bad pick up lines at a clearly uninterested college student, but it was amusing to watch.
Charlie settled on trying to find Knox, at least then he could have some company. Said company was absolutely nowhere to be found. The rows of shelves wound in a confusing maze and Charlie was lost before he could even begin to look. Weaving around he did come face-to-face with a rather large picture of Charles Dickens that made him recoil. It was perched just at eye level above a short staircase and it seemed to judge his every movement. Charlie followed the carpeted stairs down to escape Mister Dickens’ strange little beard and beady black eyes.
The further down the steps Charlie descended the brighter it appeared. The lower level was the children’s section. Considerably more fun than science books or Shakespeare. The big oak counter was abandoned but the lights were still on. He was alone, still.
Charlie sighed, sitting down in one of the bright red wooden chairs. He was much too big for it but it held well under his weight. A sad stuffed bear stared dully into him from the green glossy table.
“Well hello,” He mumbled, picking it up under the arms, “And you must be?” He cleared his throat to take on a gruff baritone, “Mister... Bearington,” Charlie sighed, that was bad. He dropped the bear into his lap, “This is so stupid,”
“Bearington?”
Charlie shot around in the chair, tipping himself off center and stumbling to his feet, bear still clutched in his arms, “Where the hell did you come from?”
“A few blocks over, walked here actually.” You turned back to your work. A painting. Not just a painting, Charlie realized, a mural. It stretched the length of the wall, roughly sketched in pencil and waiting to be finished.
He blinked, “That’s good. The wall I mean,”
“Thank you,” Your face flustered and Charlie took notice, “It’s not much of anything yet, just an outline. It’ll look better painted.”
He took a few steps closer, sidling up to you, “What’s it supposed to be?”
“A forest,” You pointed to a rotund blob perched on a long line, “That’s an owl, and there’s going to be a fox somewhere down in the grass,”
Charlie grinned, “That’s an owl?”
“That-” you tapped the blob, “Is a shape, objectively. Subjectively, it’s an owl.”
His brow creased, “Subjectively it’s an owl? That's like saying Mister Bearington is a rabbit, subjectively,”
You stared at him, baffled. It was almost irritating that he could so casually come down to your domain and invade your creative bubble. And it was even worse that he talked to himself as a stuffed bear but now he was challenging your judgment on what was and was not subjectively an owl. But he had a wonderful smile and it lessened the intrusion. Plus, you had never seen a teenage boy develop an attachment to a stuffed bear as quickly as he had, “What’s your name?”
“Nuwanda,” He grinned, setting his chin atop his bear’s plush head.
“Nuwanda?” You blinked at him, “That’s… neat. I’ve never heard that before.”
“What can I say? The only Nuwanda this side of Vermont. What’s your name?”
As you opened your mouth to answer several sets of footsteps thundered down the stairs. Knox spun around the corner first, closely followed by Pitts and Meeks.
“Charlie!” Knox called, “We gotta go before Cameron proposes to the clerk.”
You looked at the boy in front of you, “Is Charlie short for Nuwanda, or just a nickname?”
He shrugged, “I’m Nuwanda, subjectively. It was truly a pleasure meeting you. Can’t wait to see your thing DaVinci!” He set the stuffed bear back on the table as he made his way out of the room. With Charlie’s energy gone it became much quieter and you were plunged back into the impressionistic outline of your artwork.
The next time a library trip was suggested Charlie didn’t completely dread it. Yes, it was still numbingly boring because it was a library and he didn’t have clerks to fall in love with, people to write love letters to, anyone to kiss in the aisles, or a spaceship to build, but he did have his own personal Van Gough to torment.
The lower level was the first place he went, not even hanging his coat on the rack inside the big double doors. He made his way past Cameron’s preoccupied receptionist and under Dickens’ hard glower. Halfway down the steps, the smell hit Charlie. Wet paint.
You had just picked out a brush when he pulled one of the wooden chairs next to your station. He sat in it backwards, holding Mister Bearington out in front of him, “Never got your name Monet,”
“Well, it's not that. Or Da Vinci.” You stroked the brush up the grassy outline.
“Do you want me to guess?”
You had yet to look at him, “Nope,”
“Are you gonna tell me?”
“Should I?”
“Obviously, I told you my name.”
You set the brush down and turned to face him, “(Name).”
“Pretty,”
Charlie Dalton liked many things and the musty old library uptown had never been one of them. It had ancient red carpets and gaudy gold ceilings and it was trying too hard to look regal. So it was a sheer shock when he began to leap at the suggestion of going and even more so when he chose to go by himself one afternoon. Naturally, the other poets followed him, they had to.
Charlie didn’t dally upstairs, waving hi to the clerk and rushing down to the children’s section. A sign was posted outside the entrance warning of wet paint but he stepped around it.
“You’re making progress Picasso!” He set his hands on his hips and took in the wall.
You turned back to look at him, “Did you not see the caution: wet paint, do not enter sign?”
“Oh no I saw it,” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, “It's bright orange, hard to miss, really,”
“So you just chose to ignore it?”
He nodded, making his way over to sit by you on the ground, “I choose to ignore lots of things, it really makes life easier,”
You shook your head, “Are you just going to sit here and bother me?”
“Yes, that's actually the whole reason I came today, believe it or not.”
You blubbered in vague disbelief, “Please tell me you’re not serious,”
“Dead serious,” Charlie grinned, leaning closer, “I had to see how your weird owl was going. And also make sure you hadn’t gone mad and cut your own ear off yet,”
“You’ve already used the Van Gogh joke, Charles,”
“Maybe I want your ear,”
You paused, “You… what?”
Charlie’s confidence cracked, “That was bad. Shit, that wasn’t supposed to sound that way. It was like, a bad pickup line? Because Van Gogh cut his ear off to send to his girlfriend,” He sighed, shaking his head, “Sorry,”
“I mean if I had to pick someone to give my ear too I guess you would be my first choice?”
Charlie looked at you, eyebrows pinched together, “Why?”
You shrugged, “No one else has asked, first come first serve.” You dipped your brush back into the blue paint and went to work on a patch of flowers.
“Huh, well I do appreciate it,” Charlie scooted closer, leaning over your shoulder. He was close, very close. When you took a breath you could smell his cologne and whatever it was he used in his hair and you could feel the edge of his sunglasses brush your ear. He brought an arm around to dip his finger into the soft sky colour on your palette. And then he wiped it on your nose.
You gasped sharply at the foreign feeling, snapping your head to the side to glare at him, “Why?!”
Charlie snickered, leaning back, “The opportunity presented itself, how could I just let that pass?”
You reached back, squirting a touch of purple paint over the palm of your hand, “That was truly a horrible idea,”
Charlie shot up just as you did, stumbling backwards, “I’m sorry-” He stuck his hands up in surrender, “I regret my actions and if I could take them back I would,”
“Hmm, but you can’t” You took a step closer, “Surrender now and it doesn’t have to get any messier than this,”
He pointed towards your paint coated hand, “Do not,”
You grinned, “I might,”
“I’m begging,”
“Fine-” You offered him your other hand, “Truce?”
Charlie mulled it over for a moment, “Fine, truce,” He grabbed your clean hand and you used it to pull him towards you.
“Why on earth would you trust me?” You tugged him even closer as he shrieked and smeared your hand down his cheek, “There, now we’re even,”
Getting distracted by your triumph gave Charlie the upper hand. He pulled you to him the same you had done to him and pressed his cheek flush to yours. The paint was cold against your skin and you jolted back, away from him.
“Vile,” You hissed, “You are vile and evil. That's so cold. You will pay, I hope you know that.”
Charlie snorted, “Oh please, what’re you gonna do?”
“You underestimate me, you ass, I’ll figure something out,”
“Will you?” Charlie grinned, “I will be waiting in anticipation,”
“You better be,”
Meeks elbowed back into Cameron’s ribs, “You’re going to knock me over,”
Cameron craned his neck further to peek around the corner into the children’s section, “I just want to see, let me look,”
“Nothing is happening-” Meeks snipped, “They’re just talking now and I might be able to hear if you could can it!”
Cameron rolled his eyes, “Of course, whatever you say,”
“Will you shut up?” Knox batted at Cameron’s shoulder, “They’ll see us, we’re not super well hidden,”
“If you don’t stop talking they’ll realize we’re here,” Pitts mumbled, rolling his eyes. Cameron started to rebuttal, turning to look at Gerard but the motion knocked Meeks out of place and he gasped, stumbling forwards. This did indeed draw Charlie’s attention.
“Meeks, what the hell?” Charlie snapped. He was in a state, sunglasses askew in his hair, paint smeared from his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth, and his shirt was wrinkled away from his collarbone.
Meeks stared, “Hi Charlie. Are there any textbooks down here, uh… the science ones?”
Knox groaned, stepping out from behind the wall as well, “We wanted to see why you came here on a Tuesday afternoon by yourself,”
Charlie blubbered, “Did you all come? Is Keating there too?”
“He could be,” Meeks shrugged.
Charlie rolled his eyes, “Will you leave, I’ll be upstairs in a second,” The other poets nodded, scampering up the steps to the first level.
“Assholes, should have known they’d come,” Charlie sighed, adjusting the sunglasses atop his head, “I need to go before they decide to intrude again. I’ll see you soon though, anxiously anticipating payback,”
He was almost out the door when you bucked up the courage to call out to him, “Charlie, wait.” You let him turn back to you before continuing, “Could I have your phone number?”
He clicked his teeth, “Don’t have one, private school. But I’ll find the library number in the books and try to shoot you a call sometime,” He winked and started back up to his friends.
Knox was waiting at the landing with a handful of tissues, which he shoved into Charlie’s hands, “So you’re gonna read your stupid poem about tits at a Dead Poets meet and then not tell us you’ve got a girlfriend?”
Charlie grabbed the tissues, “Not my girlfriend, I meet her like two weeks ago,”
“Didn’t stop Knox,” Neil elbowed him.
Charlie wiped at his face, “Well I’m not Knox. I like her painting, she's good.”
“It looks like she was painting you,” Cameron slapped at Charlie’s chest and he threw the tissues at him in retaliation.
“Shut up, at least my library worker actually talks to me,”
Cameron fumbled with the dirty material, batting it away from his chest, “You dick!”
Charlie grinned, pulling his glasses down and starting towards the door. Something about it was thrilling, having this to himself. A little secret that he and you shared. His personal Salvador Dalí, something to look forwards to besides bad tobacco and Keating’s eccentric lectures. It was bright and exciting and he felt seen. He felt important. The blue paint he had stolen from your tray was still on the tip of his pointer finger and he wondered how long it would be until he could see you again.
( @interwebseriesfan24 )
#dead poets society#charlie dalton#charlie dalton x reader#charlie dalton imagine#dead poets society x reader#dead poets society imagine#its the way this tried to crash my computer#also peep the new format#dedicated to everyone who said theyd read if i posted dps#enjoy!#dps#lennie writes
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Would lowkey kill to see Kauri attempting to write poetry in his relationship with Jake era (omg Jake helping him/being the one to write it down) I always forget that he was a writer and loves poetry and I love him 10 times more every time I remember
CW: Some references to past trauma, forced illiteracy, some brief internalized victim-blaming/slut-shaming, Kauri’s low self-esteem
Takes place after Worth the Risk and Kauri’s first glimpse of his own past
“This is fucking stupid. I can’t fucking do this.” Kauri picks up the notebook, hard-backed blue with little golden stars twinkling on the cover, and throws it full-strength across the room until it smacks into the wall and drops to the ground, open to his own scrawling, struggling handwriting.
Chris, wrapped in a big fuzzy blue blanket and curled up in an armchair playing a game on his phone or texting Laken or maybe both, flinches and looks up. “Kauri?”
Kauri looks away from the earnest concern in those huge green eyes and kicks ineffectually at the coffee table, hissing when he doesn’t actually miss and his toes connect with the hard wooden leg. “Fuck. Fucking-... bullshit, I’m an idiot trying to do this, just-... god damn it. I should know better.”
There’s a silence, and then Chris asks, softly, “Know better than, than... than to what? What were you, um, you doing?”
Kauri’s jaw is set and for a second he considers lying. He’s a good liar, after all, and Chris is always so ready to believe him, he wouldn’t even question it. Safer to lie, hide the ideas inside his head, talk instead about something soft and surface-level.
Safer to be stupid, always.
But he’s trying not to do that anymore.
He’s trying.
“Writing,” He says, finally. “I was... trying to-... write something.” The words are ground out of him nearly against his will. He glares at the notebook lying open on the floor, the scrawling handwriting of the fucked up slut still thinking he can be anything else. Looping and childish, too big almost to fit within the lines.
“Oh.” Chris pauses, and then brightens, setting his phone aside and straightening up. “You, you sad you think that you used to, to, to, to write, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” Kauri’s head hurts, a sharp punishing ache. How dare he think in metaphor and simile, how dare he try to build the villanelle, how dare he remember vaguely arguing with someone in a coffeeshop over old poetic forms being superior to poems that don’t even try to fit within a rhythm, and he just-
This is so-
He’s so stupid, thinking he could just pick it up again like it hasn’t been a decade or close, like he’s still whatever stupid shit lived in his body before he-
signed up for this-
followed a fucking hot guy outside in the dark and got thrown into a van and made into Kauri.
“Well, my... my professor for, for, for, for Playwriting says... says writing is a muscle. You, you have to exercise. And you can’t do the, um, the, the, the-the heavy weights until you start with, with small ones.”
Kauri snorts, derisive, but it’s not because Chris is wrong - of course he’s not wrong. Part of Kauri knows it, too, that he used to write all the time, around the pounding inside his skull he knows that he used to scribble lines on napkins and paper towels and the margins of his study books, bringing together the poem itself only later, usually alone or with a boyfriend on the other side of the room. He used to be able to do this.
He used to do this all the time.
“I wish Owen had wanted someone who could write a fucking poem,” Kauri says, voice breaking on the tears that threaten. “Maybe then I’d still be able to.” He pushes himself to his feet and stomps over to scoop up the notebook almost violently. “Why are you taking Playwriting, anyway? I thought you wanted to do set design.”
“I, I do.” Chris shrugs, eyes on Kauri, watching him walk back towards the doorway that leads to a hall and then to the kitchen. “But I thought-... I, I, I figured-... maybe if I learn how to, to write a play, it would help... visualize. For, for, for set-building. You, um. You know?”
Kauri exhales, slowly, and then nods. “Yeah. I get it. That’s a good plan - I mean, not that I would know, I’m a college fucking dropout, right?” He laughs, bitterness in every word, in every sound.
“No,” Chris replies, simply. “You, you were... abducted. We were, um. We, we, we were stolen. Your words were, um, were stolen, too. That’s what Dr. Berger-”
“Fuck Dr. Berger,” Kauri snaps, and leaves the room before Chris can make any more sense and possibly break apart Kauri’s determined self-loathing while he still wants to soak in it.
Hating himself for what he can’t do - or what he’s been told he can’t do - is so much easier than trying to do it anyway.
Everything was easier than trying to get better.
So why is he still trying?
Notebook clenched in white-knuckled hands, Kauri climbs the stairs like a man moving to the gallows, one by one, his thoughts a swirling morass of self-hatred, and then he moves into the bedroom he shares with Jake here and stares at the rumpled covers on the bed.
He sleeps here every single night, wakes up to the same face pressed red on one side from the pillow, hears the same deep voice rumbling good morning, feels the same arm slide over his waist, the same scratchy stubble rubbing his jaw when he’s kissed.
I have generally found, in my work, the fucking therapist’s voice echoes inside him, that when you begin to do the work to rebuild, you will find yourself dedicated over time to reconstructing not just a room, Kauri, but the entire city that was once leveled. Does that make sense?
He’d told her it didn’t.
Kauri spent years dodging therapy whenever Nat didn’t talk him into it, and he hates going. He hates having to spill all the darkness inside him to someone who never stops being so goddamn calm.
But the first time she’d said, have you ever heard about the effect that solitary confinement has on the human mind? He had told her he didn’t know, but he’d started crying, too, and hadn’t been able to explain why.
Part of you knows, Dr. Berger had said gently. Part of you always knew.
He had never really wanted to know the person who had inhabited this skin, or try to be him again. But standing here looking at the evidence of the life he is slowly building - his clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor by the bed, his toothbrush in the little cup in the bathroom, a picture of he and Jake in a frame by the bed now, the very small silver ring he wears sometimes even though they’re not and they probably won’t but it kind of feels good to wear it sometimes...
He wonders if Liam Harker wanted a life like this one.
---
“It’s really dumb,” Kauri mutters, pulling the pillow over his face, burning red with embarrassment. “I didn’t even really mean for you to see it-”
“It’s not dumb,” Jake says, gently. Kauri feels the dip in the mattress as he sits down, feels the warmth of his hand resting on Kauri’s thigh through the blanket. “I’m sorry I read it. I didn’t know what I was looking at. If it was supposed to be a secret-”
“No. I didn’t. I forgot I left it out on the dresser. It’s not your fault. It’s so fucking stupid. I don’t know why I even-”
“Kauri.” Jake’s voice sharpens, a little. “Stop. Stop calling yourself stupid. You’re not, and you never were, and you don’t have to repeat what that asshole told you about yourself anymore, remember?”
Kauri swallows, hard, a lump in his throat he can’t quite breathe around. “When does it stop being his voice,” He asks, muffled, “and start being my own?”
“When you let it,” Jake says, rubbing his leg soothingly. “Just like my dad’s voice. You’re not stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life. I’m sorry I read it, but that’s because it wasn’t mine to read, not because it was dumb, or bad. It wasn’t.”
Kauri hesitates, then pulls the pillow to the side, looking at the sincere affection in Jake’s face, his slight smile. “Yeah? You’re not just-”
“Saying that? No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not, like, a poetry person-”
“It’s not even a real villanelle, anyway.”
“I have no idea what that means. I just... I thought it was pretty good, actually. When I realized-... I put it down when I realized you were writing about-... you know. Yourself.”
“Liam,” Kauri says, hoarse, barely able to pronounce the name. “I wrote-”
“Yeah.” Jake takes his hand, pulls it to his lips, presses a kiss to Kauri’s knuckles. “I know. It’s really good, Kaur. You should keep writing. I promise I won’t look at any stray papers I find anymore, yeah?”
Kauri takes a breath. He feels almost dizzy, in a way that is both terrible and wonderful. The way you open yourself to the people you love is a horrible, amazing risk. The way you spill the darkest parts of yourself, not things you’ve done wrong but the things you are afraid of allowing back into the light, in case it washes them all away again.
But the light he lives in now isn’t cold, and it isn’t taking him away from himself. The light he lives in now is sunlight.
“What?” Jake’s eyebrows raise slightly. “What’s that face for?”
“Jake. What if-... what if I ask you to? Read them?”
Jake’s lips press together, and he nods, smiling slightly, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against Kauri’s hand. He’s always warm, Jake, even on the coldest days. He’s always warm. “I’d be-... be fucking honored, or something that sounds less bullshit than that, but I mean it. I’d be... I love you, Kauri. Seeing inside your head is what I want to do for-... for forever.”
“Maybe I’ll ask then,” Kauri says, and pulls Jake’s hand and then Jake himself, the taller, larger man settling on top of him, holding himself up on his elbows, careful not to rest all his weight. “I love you, too, you know.”
“Yeah.” Jake kisses the tip of his nose. “It’s pretty fucking great.”
Kauri’s eyes glimmer, but he closes them so Jake can’t see, and kisses his forehead. “It’s nice to think that I’m lucky and mean it.”
“I think you should read your poem to Dr. Berger,” Jake says, and when Kauri groans, he pulls back. “I mean it. She should know.”
Kauri wants to argue, but he looks into Jake’s eyes, and sighs, and says he’ll think about it.
---
AN APOLOGY
I am built from the hollow air left after your heart stopped beating
Your hands still gripped tight to the life they were ending
I know you thought of home but I don’t know where your home is
The sound of my voice is a green valley that only sends back screaming
Covered in smoke and dust that I told myself smelled like cologne
Pathways that remember your laughter silent in the years that followed
Have I done enough to build a life you would have enjoyed living?
I am built from the hollow air left over when your heart stopped beating
The heat of their hands as inevitable as a river tore down every foundation
Their cruelty buried you so deeply that only I remain
I don’t deserve the love that should have been yours to receive
The sound of my voice is a valley echoing back your screaming
I owe you an apology for walking around inside you
Crumbling ruins with my touch and calling it preservation
I’m sorry for every blade of grass growing through our bones
Am I nothing but hollow air from when your heart stopped beating?
-
Wildflowers grow inside me from soil windswept over ash
Is that life worth everything not quite dead so deep below?
Is Kauri Grant good enough to make up for Liam Harker’s loss?
In the valley of my body, does anyone but me still hear you screaming?
I owe you an apology and have to hope the life I live provides it
I wish I could ask for forgiveness from the shape of you
We’re both ghosts, in the end, mosaic pieces shattered in shadows
I’m sorry that I’m all that’s left.
I built myself from hollow air in the shape of a heart still beating
The sound of my voice will always carry the echo of yours screaming
Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @orchidscript @cubeswhump , @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary @moose-teeth @whumptywhumpdump @wildfaewhump
#erase to control#recovering whumpee#trauma recovery tw#Kauri's Low Self Esteem#internalized victim-blaming#some internalized slut-shaming but brief#references to death#memory loss#bbu#wru#box boy#box boy universe#jake the shelter guy#chris the strawberry blond romantic#angry whumpee#caretaker and whumpee#poetry#yes I wrote a poem what of it#whump#emotional whump#recovery whump
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He is My Home (Din Djarin x f!Reader)
Summary: Din’s going to have a nasty scar from the wound on his side, just like the ones you have, the ones you’re insecure about.
W/C: 2.3k
Warnings: light mentions of blood and injuries. mentions of birth. scars (none are explicitly from SH) are mentioned.
A/N: Fluffy Din can I get a hell yeah?? @binarydanvvers sent me this request and it’s absolutely precious so I’m really happy I got to write it. I hope y’all will love it too!!
Din Djarin’s body is defined by his scars, even if few or no other living beings have seen them.
The very first scar on Din’s body came from his birth. Vha Djarin’s baby came out happy and healthy, but an apprentice midwife with an unsteady hand nicked the child’s skin with her blade as she severed the umbilical cord. That’s where the small white line above his belly button comes from.
The other scars include various missions, combat as a young adult, some nearly mortal wounds. There’s a scar across the bridge of his nose from some mission where he was fighting for your little green son’s life. There’s a long line along his forearm from a slice due to an opponent’s blade, on the underside, where the beskar didn’t protect him.
Everything about Din is beautiful to you. Even his name is so beautiful to say- Din Djarin. It sounds like poetry in his mother tongue’s accent. You’ve married him, become his riduur. You see his face daily, the face he was so scared to show you.
Din had feared you’d find him ugly. That you’d think him unlovable, that his nose was too big and eyes too deep-set, his entire body and even his soul too scarred. It wasn’t until after your wedding, when you removed his helmet and cried in joy, that his fears were cast away. You pressed your forehead to his and cupped his face and genuinely told him that you couldn’t imagine a more beautiful man, a more handsome and wonderful Mandalorian behind that beskar.
That night was spent exploring each other’s bodies now that you had total and complete access to Din’s body. It wasn’t entirely sexual, though much of it was; you just felt his abs and his arms and his warm skin beneath yours, and he did the same to you.
Your life has been perfect for the past few months as Din’s riduur. You get to see his face every day, kiss the scar on the bridge of his beautiful nose. You have the privilege of rolling over in bed and seeing his sleeping face, his brow furrowed even in his sleep. You get to see his little green son squeal in excitement when he gets to see his daddy’s face, the way the three small green fingers of each hand grab at one stubbly cheek.
Din is equally as happy. Being with you allows him to be a human again; it allows him to be Din, not Mando. Your warm arms around him in the middle of the night stall the nightmares of the siege of his hometown and the kills he committed and the way the pile of Mando helmets looked in the corner of the covert.
Of course, practicality dictates Din still must work. As a bounty hunter’s riduur, your options are really either to be a bounty hunter too, or a stay at home buir to your little green son. As you have next to no fighting skills, you stuck with the role that introduced you to your husband in the first place: interplanetary nanny to your bug-eyed baby boy.
You enjoyed the pretend domesticity, but you also appreciated the charm of the fact that home is literally where you make it with the Razor Crest: on any planet, moon, or space station. Your home travels with you, your home is wherever the Crest is tonight.
Even before you found the Crest, Din has been your home. He’s your place and your person, ever since the first time someone threatened you and Din shot them dead where they stood and you stared for a second in utter terror they’d jerk back to life before running into his arms and burying your head in the skin between his helmet and his cape. And that’s when you realized that Din’s arms were your safe place, the one place nothing can hurt you. Not when Din is protecting you.
Tonight more than ever, you miss Din’s arms. He took a honeymoon phase of one or two bounties a month after your riduurok, to spend time with you and the child and your newly formed, legally Mandalorian family. Your aliit, your clan. All good things must come to an end, though, and Din was back into his hunting. It’s been a week without him. Your beskar ring feels cold on your finger tonight as you trace your hand over the etched mudhorn in the wedding band.
Your green baby is cuddled to your chest, snoozing happily with his mama. You press a kiss to his head, thinking about Din. The child’s father. The little creature radiates warmth and relaxation and hypnotically urges you to fall asleep alongside him. Rest, mama. And you do.
-
The next morning, you startle awake at the sound of beskar clanging against the metal of the ship. “Riduur?” You call out, sitting up excitedly.
“Hi,” he says weakly, and the tone sets panic into your body. You jump out of the bed to find Din kneeling next to the carbonite, a freshly sealed and still sublimating creature trapped in it.
Din clutches his side and you sink to your knees frantically. His orange gloves are covered with blood as one reaches to you. “Din,” you panic, unsure what to do for a moment. “I’m going to go get the medkit. You start undressing now, beskar off, clothes off,” you order him and get to your feet. You pull out a cot and pop it open. “Lay here and wait for me.”
You fly into a tizzy around the ship, grabbing the various things you need. Bacta, needles, bandages, the official medkit. Good. You return to his side, where he lies in his boxers and helmet. “Baby,” you coo gently and remove the helmet. “Just me, remember?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, dazed eyes looking up at you. His dark hair is drenched in his sweat, and there’s a trickle of blood from his lip.
You fly into action. “Bacta’s going in first, love. Going to jab it in, get ready.” He softly nods and makes a whimper as you stab the needle in, pushing down the plunger and emptying the syringe into his body.
He’s numb now. You wipe the wound and grab the cauterizer. “You might feel this, Din. It’s gonna be quick, I promise.” He doesn’t even respond, eyes shut. You use it and he twitches, his face cringing in pain.
“I know, I know. Doing so good, almost- there we go,” you sigh as the wound is finished cauterizing. “You did wonderfully, my warrior. Providing for us no matter the cost,” you tell him and press a soft kiss to his forehead.
You press a large gauze patch and bandage over his wound, to ensure it stays clean. “Okay, okay baby. You can sleep now. Did so good for me, my strong man,” you mumble, cupping his face.
“You did all the work,” he mutters, a soft smile on his face. The medication wipes him out into a deep sleep.
-
Bacta isn’t a miracle drug. It can’t save you from certain death, can’t reverse the growth of diseases that have already infiltrated. The miracle, really, behind Bacta, is how quickly it works. It heals wounds that would take weeks in days, and days in hours.
When Din wakes later, the cauterized wound has shrunken exponentially. He’s still got lots of bruises and nicks, but he’s better. There’s a familiar hum, the soft roar of hyperspace surrounding the Crest.
He sits up with minimal pain and looks around. There’s a soft light coming from the bunk, where you and the baby sleep. The light is for the child. He’s scared of too much dark; you’d learned that especially in the days where the hull would be coated in blackness in order for you and Din to kiss and touch and love. Your face is peaceful as you sleep, and Din looks at you with all of the love in his heart.
He stands, albeit slowly, and walks to the bunk with a jerking and awkward stance. He just wants you, your softness and warmth. It’s common that he’ll sneak into bed with you after a mission or piloting the ship, or simply because you took a nap and he just needed some sweetness in his day. You instinctually nuzzle into him, attracted to his warmth. The child follows suit, nestling between the two of you. His two favorite people in all of the galaxy, his buirs.
The three of you are at peace, in your home: with each other. You roll over as you notice the warm presence and a small smile graces your slowly waking face. “Mm, riduur. You were supposed to be on the cot,” you chuckle softly and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
“Bacta fixed me up enough.”
“You’re gonna have a nasty scar,” you chuckle softly.
“I’ve got plenty of those already. What’s one more?” He asks, nudging your face with his nose.
It’s unbearably soft and warm. “Scars seem to be our problem,” you nod in agreement.
He pulls away and looks at you, in the soft blue glow of the baby’s nightlight. “Cyare, scars aren’t a problem. They’re reminders, of everything we’ve been through and will prevail through in the future.” He kisses your collarbone softly, setting your child aside.
You frown. “Doesn’t mean I like them. They’re gross.”
Din’s frown matches yours. It’s a warm night in the Crest, leaving you sleeping in just a breastband and a pair of shorts. He can see the scars littering your abdomen, the ones you’re so insecure about. “Tell me about them.”
“Din,” you pout.
“We are one when together, we are one when parted,” he mumbles, scooting down to press a kiss to one scar. Your wedding vows, the ones you took and meant with all of your soul. “Your pain is mine, my love. Tell me about this one,” he says, a featherlight fingertip tracing the line.
You sigh, making your abdomen inflate and deflate deeply beneath him. “I was 11 cycles old when I got that one. My appendix ruptured, they had to remove it.”
He nods and kisses along the scar, big brown eyes looking up at you. “I see. And this one?” He asks.
You chuckle softly. “This is from when I was stupid enough to sleep in just a breastband and shorts, like this, and I rolled over on green bean and his claw stabbed me.”
Din recalls. He chuckles happily at the memory and presses a kiss to the scar, his fingers still tracing the last one. There’s one on your knuckles. He takes your hand and traces it, looking at you. Silently asking.
“Lothcat bite. They’re not as cute and docile as they look,” you nod as Din’s lips ghost over your fingers.
You think about the places you got those childhood scars. All at home. The newer one? From your newer home. Yes, your old home may have scarred you, most certainly physically and maybe mentally or emotionally, but they left their mark on you. Your eyes water as you look down at Din. “Your turn,” you tell him and push him down into the mattress of the bunk.
There’s been one you’ve always meant to ask him about. You straddle his hips and sit between his groin and his navel. “What is this one?” You ask of a little mark above his navel. It’s a stark white, contrasting his skin.
“My birth. A midwife nicked me while severing the umbilical cord. I’ve heard that my mother was ready to take the surgical tools herself and go after her,” he chuckles.
You smile softly. There’s a scar on his cheek and your fingertips slowly draw the outline of it. He nods. “As a teen, obviously. Before the helmets went on. Close call with a spear,” he admits, a soft smile on his face. “Those are the only fun ones. The rest are from bounties,” he admits.
You chuckle softly. “Fun ones?” You tease.
“Interesting, I suppose,” he admits, taking your fingertips from his scar to rest them on his lips, kissing them then just holding your hand. “Do you see, my love?” He asks.
You simply nod, eyes watering again. Din reaches up and wraps you in his arms, lowering you to lie chest to chest on top of him. “You are so beautiful, my love. My riduur,” he mumbles to you. You sigh contentedly and kiss the scar on the bridge of his nose.
“Easy for you to say. You’re a bounty hunter. These all suit you. Besides the fact that you’re already covered head to toe in beskar, it would just work.”
He frowns. “Cyar’ika. Neither I nor anyone else cares about your scars. They’re part of you; how could I?”
You whimper and bury your head in his neck, allowing yourself to cry. “It’s been a hard day, Din. Please let me have this.”
“I will not. I absolutely refuse to let you think like that,” he tells you and cradles your head. “You can cry all you’d like, riduur, but it won’t change the fact that I find the scars absolutely beautiful. They’re so perfectly you. They’ve made you who you are, the woman I love so dearly. How could they be ugly when they’re made of you?”
His words make you cry harder, and you sob into his bare skin. He strokes your back, allowing you to cry it out. He mumbles sweet words in your ear; just letting it happen.
When you’re finished, you lift your head with a sniffle. “I love you so much, Din. You make me feel like I have a home with you.”
He kisses your forehead softly. “This is your home, my love. Right hear, in my arms, wrapped up with me.”
-
taglist:
@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @softly-sad @blo0dangel @luxurybeskar @binarydanvvers @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl
#din djarin#din djarin x reader#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian fic#the mandalorian fanfiction#the mandalorian#mando x reader#mando#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#jose pedro balmaceda pascal#pascalpanic
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Stuck in the Middle with You
A gift for the lovely @chubbykatsudon for the Novigrad Gift Exchange 2021!
Geraskefer, minor Lamden. 16507 Words. Can also be read here on ao3! Rated M for an abundance of cursing and deeply suggestive flirting! Tags for a small amount of canon typical violence, & a very big dog (Roach, my love)! Other tags include: Oh My God The Were Neighbors, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Idiots to Lovers, We're Really Running The Gamut Here, Going viral on TikTok, The best lease of all fucking time, apple juice, and ever changing groupchat names.
x
“A year! A full year. Two! THREE!”
“Hmm.” Geralt muttered. In one hand above his head, he dangled the dead-though-still-writhing remains of a drowner. He’d stabbed it in the spine— nerve damage, unfortunate stuff. At his feet, the groveling man who’d gotten him into this mess in the first place. About 75% of the people he had to rescue from monsters, he found, were the rich sticking their noses places they oughtn’t, out of pure arrogance. This one, a landlord, apparently, had decided to wander off drunkenly from a party and go poking about the river.
He whimpered. “I— I’ll throw in maintenance! Please, Witcher, I—”
“Do you allow pets,” he asked dryly, “I need a place for Roach.” He gestured with his head to Roach, who was watching the thrashing drowner body with interest.
“Ah, no, we don’t—” Geralt dug his thumb into a wound in the deceased drowner’s neck, causing it to hiss and send out spittle. The kneeling landlord cried in fear.
“Yes! Yes! Fine, we can accept your dog, please, please Witcher I can’t die, I—”
“Deal,” Geralt said, and thrust his sword through the drowner once more, severing its head from its body. The man yelped as blood and assorted monster bits sprayed out. Geralt dropped the remnants of its head and neck to the ground, landing with a sickening splat, and the man wailed again.
“When’s move in?”
——
Move-in, as it turned out, was a week and a half later, the first of the month. It was a good apartment, better than he’d have ever rented for himself��� a quiet street, an elevator, laundry in the basement, and a doorman half the time. Geralt had a view of the city from his bedroom and of the tree-lined street below from his brightly and naturally lit living room, while the second bedroom had a view of the apartment’s courtyard. The kitchen was a good size, though he didn’t cook much, and it had a dishwasher, which was worth its weight in gold. There was a corner shop at the end of the block, and a few restaurants, coffee shops, and bars within walking distance. Eskel and Coën would love visiting, at least, and if he got a decent enough couch and tv, Lambert would too. Not that they’d have much opportunity to visit, but he could have his dreams, few and minor as they were.
It was on the 8th floor, which was high enough to feel safe. There were only four apartments to a floor, which helped. Ultimately, he figured, nobody would really suspect a Witcher to live in a regular apartment building. And if anyone came after him, well, he’d deal with that then. With Ciri away at school, he would have less to stress about. He’d be subtle, wouldn’t tell people in the building he was a Witcher, wouldn’t talk much to anyone, would hope they wouldn’t notice his eyes. He’d wear sunglasses. It would be fine! This apartment was probably the second most favorable payment he’d ever had from a contract—the first of course, being Ciri— he wasn’t about to turn it down, or regret taking it.
Even when he was stuck in the elevator with, quite possibly, the most annoying man on earth.
Geralt was taking the last of his suitcases upstairs, which was really Roach’s suitcase, and a box of his cooking supplies— an embarrassingly small number of pots, pans, bowls, plates, and utensils. Just as the door was closing—
“WAIT! Hold that, hold that, if you’d please, fuck!”
A man with brown hair came barreling toward the elevator, just barely sticking his expensive looking brown leather shoe in the doors before they closed. They slid open with a soft ding, and the man, out of breath, tumbled inside.
He was tall, with a mop of brown hair and egregiously bright teal pants, a slightly lighter blue dress shirt tucked in to match. He heaved against the elevator walls, breathing heavily and eventually sinking down to a crouch to catch his breath.
“Good save,” Geralt said.
“Thank you,” the man said between gasps. “You saved my life.”
“I didn’t do anything."
The man waved his hand at the buttons. “Button. Button. You. Press. You pressed the— you know.”
“No I didn’t.”
The man paused, his breathing slowly going back to normal. “You didn’t—” He looked up at Geralt, his eyes a brilliant, piercing blue. He was frowning. “What do you mean you didn’t? You didn’t press the button?”
“Nope.”
The man came to standing, and Geralt found that the man wasn’t just tall, he was nearly Geralt’s height. “You mean to tell me, you see a man running for the elevator, screaming for you to hold the door, and instead you just— just stand there and watch?”
Geralt lifted his box a bit. “Got my hands full.”
“You have elbows! Two of them, might I add!” the man cut in before Geralt could lift the suitcase tucked into the crook of one arm. Instead, he shrugged.
“More fun to watch you run.”
“More fun to— I cannot believe this,” the man said, looking up at the floor numbers. The elevator continued to rise, and he suddenly groaned. “Ah, fuck, we’ve missed my floor,” he said, fumbling over to the buttons. Geralt frowned.
“We’re only on the fifth floor.” He watched the man press the button for the second floor. “You ran to the elevator… to go to the second floor?”
“I don’t like stairs!” he complained; Geralt could tell he’d had to give this explanation many times before.
“You like running more than stairs?”
“I would run toward convenience any day.”
“Mmm,” Geralt hummed softly.
They stood in silence for a moment. “Sorry, who are you? New neighbor, then?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have a name, or must I call you Mildly Rude Elevator Man? You wouldn’t be the first to earn a title from me. I don’t even know the woman’s name who lives in the Penthouse so now she’s just Penthouse Lady. But surely you have a name?”
Geralt smiled. “8b.”
“Oh, hilarious, 8b, alright, then I’m 2d. Lovely to meet you, 8b,” he said as the doors slid open to the 8th floor. “Do you need some help with those?”
“No,” Geralt said, and maneuvered himself out of the elevator carefully.
“Alright, fine then, if you say so, but I’m very helpful, actually, when I need to be. I have two hands, you know.”
“I’m sure,” Geralt grunted and approached his door. Fishing in his pocket for his keys for a moment, he found himself turned to the man in the elevator— 2d— and watched as his eyes grew wide as they fell on Geralt’s medallion, just as the elevator dinged and the doors began to slide closed. Well. Fuck.
“Wait— is that—” 2d’s eyes grew wide, and then a grin split across his face. “You’re a Witcher, aren’t you! Wait!” but the doors had already met, and the elevator began its descent.
Okay, so, subtlety gone, and given how chatty 2d had been, he figured it was only a matter of time before the entire building knew. That was the price for a free 3-year lease in a building far above his price range at the best of times, he supposed.
There was no way this would be worth it.
——
There were three days of peace, before 2d came knocking.
It was mid-afternoon, and in the living room the sunlight streamed through his new windows onto the small amount of furniture he’d arranged so far. Roach’s bed, his orange couch, a small tv, a chair, a barstool, a bookcase. Everything else was either still in boxes or simply not purchased yet— he’d never had need for it. He didn’t even know what to do with an apartment he could enjoy spending time in. The morning had been spent sitting on the couch, letting his coffee go cold as he looked around and tried to figure out what to do with this place he might actually be able to relax in. Until, of course, the knocking began.
He tried to ignore it, but 2d was persistent. After the 5th set of knocks, Geralt groggily rose from his chair, coffee in hand, and opened the door.
“Good morning! Hi, ah, hope you’re alright, settling in well?”
“What do you want.”
“Oh, glad to see you’re in a good mood,” 2d replied easily. His outfit was just as bright today, his pants a vibrant green with a mango pattern on them, his shirt a matching orange, with yellow cuffs, and a… oh, gods above, a guitar case strapped to his back, the leather strap running across his chest, hugging him closely. His clothes fit remarkably well, Geralt noticed, and then tried to promptly un-notice. But it was hard. 2d’s eyes looked especially blue today, which was bullshit. Geralt raised an eyebrow and hoped he wasn’t being obvious about anything, though it wasn’t as if Witchers let their faces be easily readable.
“Listen. You’re a Witcher. Very neat, very cool, I could smell the heroics and heartbreak on you in that elevator, I’m getting whiffs of it even now—”
“That’s sweat. Or coffee.”
“Well, okay, it’s not, but okay. My point here is, you have stories. And I write stories. Well, I write songs. Music. Poetry, art, etcetera. And I’m good, I promise I’m fairly decently good—”
“Was that you on Sunday singing the song about the… rabbit? And the moon?” He didn’t remember it well, but whoever was singing had definitely mentioned worms, as well.
“The… oh! Yes! Ah,” he cleared his throat and began. “But have you heard the story of the rabbit in the moon? Or the cow that hopped the planets while straddling a spoon? Right? Yes, love that one, it’s a fun one to sing at bars. Great warm-up song. Cosmo Sheldrake! Gotta love them, strange bastards. I should record that for TikTok, now that I think of it.”
“Sure.” The man’s singing voice was… light, airy, with something like a faint rasp in there, but he dipped down low into his register another was a whole new layer of sound there as well. It sounded like him, but it was somehow completely different than what Geralt would have expected the man’s singing voice to be like. “Cows don’t do that, though. And the references to beasts in your other songs were just as unrealistic. You shouldn’t be confusing people, monsters are serious business. Someone could get hurt.”
“Perfect!” 2d cried excitedly. “See! You know these things. I would like to learn these things. Think of it as educating the public, and helping out your great new friend Jaskier. Which, hello, I’m Jaskier. You’re Geralt, right? Of Rivia?”
Geralt shifted on his feet. It shouldn’t have surprised him. There were only so many witchers, let alone ones with long white hair and a wolf medallion. Damn internet. “And if I am?”
Jaskier’s wide grin turned sly. “Then I know for a fact you have stories.”
The witcher sighed. Well. He’d bore this man with his bad storytelling, and he’d get bored, and he’d leave. In the meantime, Geralt would get to look at 2d’s well-fitting clothes and shoulders that looked terrifically broad. It could be worse. There was a long pause.
“Fine. This once. But I’m not your friend.”
“Brilliant! Beautiful, fantastic,” Jaskier was saying, and slipped past Geralt and in to the apartment.
And then Roach barreled in.
“OH, HOLY FUCK!” Jaskier screamed in surprise, as the great Dane barked, getting right up to Jaskier before Geralt quieted her with a quick command. She plopped down at Jaskier’s feet obediently, and stared up at him with big, watery brown eyes. Jaskier’s hands were raised high above his head, and when he spoke, it came out as a raspy whisper.
“I did not know you had a dog. Have you always had this dog? Whose dog is this, this is your dog? How have I missed this. What’s his name?”
“Her name is Roach.”
“Her names Roach,” he repeated in the same horse whisper. “Why have you named your dog after an insect.”
“Can’t get rid of her,” Geralt replied, though he knew that made it sound like he didn’t absolutely adore her. The name had been a joke, and it had stuck, simple as that.
“Oh. Lovely. Okay. Will she eat me? She won’t eat me, right? This is a good dog, a good dog with manners?”
“She won’t eat you. Unless I tell her to.”
“Stop that!! Oh, stop that, oh my gods. Okay. Okay. Hello puppy. Nice, non-murdering puppy. Not a puppy. Good… large dog. Good large girl. You’re nice, aren’t you. You won’t kill me at all, not even a little bit.” He slowly let one hand come down to his side, and Roach surged forward to lick it. Jaskier yanked his hand back up and shut his eyes tightly.
“Okay. Maybe I should come back. At another time when I am more prepared for your non-murdering, not at all monstrous 4-foot tall dog.”
“She’s more like 2 1/2 feet tall.” Geralt cocked his head to the side. “Maybe three.”
“Fuck. Gods. Okay. Okay. Another day then! But definitely. I will want to hear these stories. Okay?”
“Sure,” Geralt agreed. This was more entertainment than he had expected today. He held back laughs, smiling while Jaskier’s eyes were still shut tightly. “Another day, then.”
“Okay. I’m backing out now, he said, and slowly began to do so, not turning away from Roach. She came to standing, and he jumped back at the sound of her nails against the tile floor of the kitchen, eyes still squeezed shut. “OKAY, OH, NO, okay doggie, no following me. No following. Thank you. Okay. I will. See you soon. Okay? Okay.”
And then Jaskier was out the door, and running down the stairwell. Geralt closed the door behind him, and turned to see Roach looking at him, her head cocked. He laughed, and bent down to pet her.
——
It took just over 24 hours for 2d— no, no, Jaskier— to come knocking once more. This time, Geralt answered the door more quickly; best to either get this over with, or get some more laughs out of it while he could. Behind the door stood Jaskier, mildly nervous looking, already glancing over Geralt’s shoulder into the apartment.
It was either a blessing or a curse that Jaskier’s outfit was not nearly as tight-fitting today, though the strap of his guitar case still cut close to his figure against his lavender sweater. In his arms, he held a variety of brand-new-looking dog toys; kongs and bones and pull-ropes and even some balls.
“Hi! Ah, this time, I’ve come prepared! With distractions and assurances your Roach will not eat me. If you’d still be available for relaying some stories?”
“…You bought her toys?”
“Ah…. maybe a bit? Well, yes, I certainly don’t have a dog, I just did some searching for what kind of things abnormally large dogs might enjoy and picked some up on a walk this morning. Nothing big.” Geralt looked again at the pile in Jaskier’s arms. He’d… bought toys. For Roach. Who he’d just met the day previously, and had scared him silly.
The more time he spent around Jaskier, the less he understood about the man.
Geralt took a step back and gave a whistle, and soon Roach was trotting in from his bedroom. He could smell the tension off Jaskier, and put a hand on his shoulder to calm him. “Try to relax. She’ll know if you’re stressed.”
“Right. No stress, just a dog who could swallow me whole. That’s fine, this is fine.”
“Put your hand out low, so she can sniff.”
After a bit of hesitation, Jaskier took a deep breath and did as he was told. “Friendly, Roach,” Geralt said as she sniffed loudly around Jaskier’s hand. And a moment later, she was licking his hand, sobering all over it. Jaskier laughed nervously, a light and airy sound Geralt found himself enjoying a bit too much. His smile was radiant, the relief in his broad shoulders palpable. He carefully moved his hand to give her a scratch on the cheek, and Roach leaned into it, pressing up against him, her tag wagging a mile a minute.
“Feel better?”
“Hmm? Oh! Yes, yes,” Jaskier said, pulling his attention away from Roach. “I’m really not usually scared of dogs. She’s just… very large, and was unexpected. But you’re a good girl, aren’t you? You’re not nearly as scary as you look! Just like your owner, isn’t that right.”
Geralt frowned. He knew he was frightening, there was no sense in denying it. He had frightened nearly every human he came across, at least in some small way. But even since Jaskier had realized he was a witcher, Geralt hadn’t smelled fear on him. Only just now, when he’d met Roach.
Again, he understood Jaskier less than before.
Geralt stepped back wordlessly and allowed Jaskier to step further into the apartment. He pulled out one of the balls tucked into the pile of toys in his arm and threw it further into the living room, and Roach excitedly ran after it, plopping down to chew on it next to her well-loved gray bed.
Jaskier followed, moving through the room like the breeze, before sitting on the couch, kicking his shoes off, and shoving his feet between the cushions.
“So! Where should we begin! Tales of your early days, your first forays with beasts? Your most recent victories? Epic quests?”
Geralt stared at Jaskier, an eye twitching. “Don’t— what are you doing?”
“Well, I figured we’d be here a while, might as well get comfortable!”
“On a stranger’s couch. A witcher’s couch.”
“On my new, good friend Geralt-The-Witcher’s couch! We’re hardly neighbors, we’re strangers! Wait, no, sorry, hardly strangers, we’re— where are you going?”
Geralt had turned and walked to his bedroom. He quietly shut the door behind him, walked to his bed, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it. He was good at controlling his emotions. He barely had them, after all, that’s what they said about witchers. But this man, this self-proclaimed friend was driving him to madness, and it had only been four days in the building. He briefly considered moving, abandoning the apartment entirely, giving it to someone else. Or perhaps throwing this Jaskier out the window. But none of those were worth the time, or the inevitable paperwork. He could kick Jaskier out, but he’d come back, he knew he would.
It was best to just be boring. Just be boring, refuse to tell the good stories, and tell the boring ones he did have, badly. Jaskier would get tired of it, take what he got, and discover there was nothing interesting or worth telling about witches. Who would want to hear songs about him, anyway? Humans, in large part, still thought witchers were monsters. It had gotten better the past few decades, but… not much.
He took a deep breath and pulled the over-worn pillow away from his face. Time to just get it over with, he supposed. Another deep breath and he returned to the living room, where Jaskier had pulled out a pad of paper, several pens, his guitar, a small bag of what looked to be popcorn, and three notebooks that looked completely filled already. Jaskier whipped around to see him and gave a big, toothy smile.
He was doing this, Geralt thought, just to get the writer out of his hair. No more, no less. It had absolutely nothing to do with anything else.
“Geralt! I am perfectly ready, and if you can’t think of where to start I have dozens of questions for you. Hundreds, really, so don’t worry about it at all! Sit down, sit down.”
“This is my house,” Geralt said, grabbing the only other chair and sitting a ways from Jaskier, “I should be inviting you to take a seat.”
“Well, that might be the case if you were an experienced host, but I get the feeling it’s not really your forte. Alright, ready to begin?”
“Did you notice how I didn’t invite you to take a seat?”
“I did, actually! Again, I can tell you’re not a natural at the hosting thing. Not to worry, I’m plenty comfortable now.” There was a glint in his eye that told Geralt he knew exactly what he was doing.
Geralt sighed, and fought off the thought that Jaskier was very, very lucky he was pretty.
A few hours later, Jaskier had gathered up his things, ready to head out. “Don’t worry, Geralt, you were plenty helpful. And our next session we will absolutely get to some… even more interesting stories, I’m sure we’ve only just barely scratched the surface.”
“What.”
Geralt had been as boring as he could possibly manage, giving only the barest of details. Jaskier had still seemed intrigued, still prodded. His eyes had been full of life and wonder at the smallest details, he’d taken fervent notes, he’d looked like an oil painting when the sun had begun to set and cast him in vibrant golds, showing off the warmth in his cheeks and the well-hidden but sharp lines of his body. This had nearly killed Geralt. And now Jaskier wanted to do it again?!
“Yes, of course, I’ll need to do some writing and then come back to you for more— really, I think I should just accompany you on your next contract, I think I’d get much more out of it— not to say you didn’t do wonderfully, dear, but I can hardly imagine that anything compares to the real thing.”
“No. Too dangerous.”
“I can keep out of the way!” Jaskier said, hefting the guitar case onto his back.
“You can’t, you won’t it wouldn’t matter if you could. No.”
“Oh, I’ll wear you down.” Geralt was deeply afraid that this was correct. “Gods, I should probably eat. What time is it? It’s not Thursday, is it? Is it Tuesday? Oh, I wonder if Posada’s is doing their wings night tonight. You’ve had them, right?” Geralt stared back blankly. “Geralt. Ohhhhh, Geralt, you cannot tell me you haven’t had Posada’s wings yet.” Geralt raised a single eyebrow.
“I’ve been here four days.”
“And what have you eaten!”
“…Food?” The real answer was anything that took less than 15 minutes to prepare, cook, and eat, but he wasn’t about to say that, was he? That’s not a thing you say to people.
“Ohhh, no, Geralt. No no no.” Jaskier shrugged off his Guitar case and whipped out his phone. “No, this is my treat. Oh fuck, it’s Thurs—no, nope, sorry, saw the T and got worried. It is in fact Tuesday, and it’s 7pm so we’re in the clear; we are in fact doing Posada’s wings deal. This is half the reason rent on this place is worth it— not that you have to worry about that. I mean, neither do I but, whatever. Sit down, I’ll order now. Wait, no, you get the plates, I’ll order, okay.”
Geralt stared blankly at Jaskier as he bustled through the apartment, around the unopened boxes and suitcases, the few pieces of furniture, all while on his phone, ordering takeout for the both of them. He seemed to be a natural at almost everything— except talking, somehow, which didn’t give Geralt much hope for his lyricism. But he flowed through the apartment like water, the lilt of his voice carried through the air like honeysuckle on a breeze.
(If you asked Geralt how Jaskier had managed to stay at his apartment from 1 in the afternoon until 10:30 in the evening, Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell you. It involved some toys for Roach, some terrible storytelling, and a wing deal that seemed like it should be financially devastating for Posada’s. And if you asked him at what point Jaskier had started feeling like, well, maybe one of the better things in his life, he would deny it was so early as a mere few days after they met.
He’d be lying, but he likely wouldn’t quite realize that.)
——
Contracts weren’t especially plentiful in the early spring like they had been in years past, but the ones that did crop up were often fairly big. Such was the one Geralt happened to find on a walk with Roach, a week later on a billboard outside the largest park in the city.
A Griffin’s nest. He could probably relocate them, if he had help. He didn’t like killing monsters when he could avoid it— and griffins weren’t horribly dangerous when left well enough alone. It wasn’t their fault society had branched outwards, into their natural habitats. They shouldn’t have to pay for the mistakes of humans.
Besides, he understood monsters more than people, half the time.
So, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the flyer. The chat was used so infrequently that he didn’t even bother to scroll for it, he just typed in the names with one hand, the other busy wrapped Roach’s leash. Slowly, the names appeared. ESKEL, LAMBERT, COËN.
He sends the picture with a short message; ‘Anyone in, or am I doing this myself’ before tucking the phone back in his pocket. Geralt had learned years ago to keep his phone on Do Not Disturb when on walks with Roach; it was his quiet time. If he didn’t have his walks with Roach, he would lose his mind. When he arrived back at the building, he checked the phone in the elevator.
24 Messages from GETTING LIT WITH CITY WITCHERS
Coën – Just now
I don’t think that’s how flamethrowers work??
And before he could even open up the messages, another notification popped up as he stepped out of the elevator;
25 Messages from GETTING LIT WITH CITY WITCHERS
Lambert – Just now
Fine ruin my dreams fuck
He smirked and put it away to let himself and Roach into the apartment. A turn of the key and he let go of the leash, Roach pushing the door open and bolting for the couch, rolling all over the orange cushions. Before Geralt stepped in, he heard the sound of music fluttering up from the second floor; this time, Jaskier was writing a new song, getting stuck on different chords and changing his idea on the words every few seconds. The stop and go nature of it should have bothered him, having to hear someone all the way from the second floor should bother him (why did Jaskier insist on having the windows constantly opened??) but instead, he found it… pleasant.
That could not possibly be good.
——
When the four returned back from the contract, they were bruised, had splinters in truly unspeakable places, and were covered in grime. But, four griffin eggs successfully relocated, a mother griffin tolerant of her new home, and a decent paycheck to split amongst the four of them. Roach, dirtiest of all of them, ran into the apartment first and rolled around on the cool tile of the kitchen. At least it wasn’t on the couch, Geralt supposed, as he led in his fellow witchers. His apartment had been the closest when they’d returned to the city, and he’d agreed to let them all crash.
“Geralt holy fuck,” Lambert said, sounding incredulous as he began to shed his armor. “This is ridiculous! I know you saved the landlord, but shirts, did you show him a good time too?! This is unbelievable.”
“Damn, Geralt. You did good,” Eskel agreed with a pat on his younger brother’s back.
“It’s really nice. You could use some… decoration, though,” Coën added. “Just, you know. Anything on the walls. Pictures, posters, something.”
“I just moved in. Do you guys want coffee?”
The three groaned, and Lambert flopped on the couch, sufficiently de-armored. “I want to sleep for a hundred years, Geralt. No I don’t want fucking coffee.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and put up a pot.
“It’s 11pm,” Coën said blankly. “Do Wolves not sleep? Is this a thing? I thought it was only Cats who didn’t sleep.”
Lambert shifted carefully onto his side. His next words were said almost in rote, as though he’d heard someone else say them a thousand times before. “Cats sleep pretty soundly, they just don’t do it at night. They have better things to do."
Coën shrugged and headed for the bathroom, but Eskel and Geralt sent each other a look. Eskel’s eyes squinted a bit, and they slowly turned to look at Lambert, motionless on the couch. There was a long moment of silence, as they just stared at the youngest wolf.
“Where’d you learn that one, lil Lamb?” Eskel asked carefully. Geralt caught a whiff of anxiety emanating off his younger brother for a moment.
“What? Oh. Uh, yeah, I met a Cat. So what?” He turned to look at his brothers, and he frowned. “Hey! So what?! You have something to say?! I can make friends!”
“You get this defensive about all your friends?”
“Geralt I will throw your couch out the fucking window, I swear to God.”
“What’s your new pal’s name?” Eskel asked. “This buddy of yours. Your chum.”
“I fucking hate you both!” Lambert shouted, and buried his face in a pillow.
With the coffee done, Geralt poured himself a mug and sat down at the kitchen bar, watching Lambert toss around on the couch. Eskel settled into one of Geralt’s only other chairs, and sat back.
“Are you gonna tell us about him?”
“…I need to be fucked up for that,” Lambert muttered. Geralt gave a gesture with his head to Eskel, who rose and opened a cabinet in the closet to reveal two bottles of White Gull. Eskel barked a laugh.
Lambert groaned and let his head fall back against the cushion once more. “Fucking hate you guys. Give me one of those.”
x
This was not the first time the halls were muddy.
Over the past two and a half weeks, the floor of the lobby had often been tracked with mud. She had tried to ignore this. The annoying musician, (her mortal enemy on the second floor), had been particularly stuck on some new song that was both uninspired and going nowhere. She had tried to ignore this, as well. She’d ignored Jane on the fourth floor’s delivery fiasco, and the fact that Eiman from floor 6’s fire alarm had gone off in the middle of some careful brewing she’d been doing. She had even tried to ignore the barks of a large dog from the new tenant in what was supposed to be a strictly no-dog apartment building.
(It wasn’t that she cared about the rules, she couldn’t give a shit about rules. She just hated them being broken when it inconvenienced her.)
What she could not ignore, however, what had pushed her decidedly past her breaking point, was what sounded like a heard of grown men who had trampled through the lobby, made their way up the stairs, undoubtedly coating it with mud, and were now somewhere several floors below her, all the windows thrown open, one of them lamenting about some man who he was infatuated with.
It wasn’t even good gossip. It had stopped being good gossip an hour ago, when he’d become so drunk he’d just started repeating the same things about this man— Adam, or Adrien, or Aiden, or something like that— over and over and over again.
And they were doing all of this past quiet hours. Did she have insulated, noise cancelling windows, yes. Did she herself enjoy a good night in with friends, or even a party, sometimes past quiet hours? Of course. Had she occasionally made a mess in the lobby? Possibly.
But she’d cleaned up, taken responsibility, and not made it everyone else’s problem at 2am on a Wednesday night when she’d very much like to have the windows open for a fucking breeze.
This, Yennefer thought, was not what she paid rent on a Penthouse for.
She groaned, checked her phone, and turned her bedside light on with a wave of her hand. Hadn’t anyone told these poor bastards about the witch who lived in the Penthouse? She stared at the hour again; it was 2:06am. Did she want to deal with this now? Or did she want to save raining down unholy terror for a reasonable hour, and instead capitalize on time differences.
It wasn’t a difficult decision. She pressed a few buttons, and her video chat call began to ring. A few moments later, a smiling but confused looking Anica lit up her phone, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses.
“Yennefer! It’s lovely to hear from you but… what time is it there?”
She groaned. “2am. Don’t remind me. New neighbors suck. Tell me something fun you’re working on.”
Anica smiled. “Oh, if you want something fun, you’ve come at exactly the right moment. This week Sabrina’s here, and we’re working on a warding charm against fungi in gardens— I figure we could likely scale it up to fields, but I want to have things worked out just right before we move on….”
Yennefer smiled as her friend went on, and tried not to wince every time she heard a faint wail come from several floors beneath her.
x
“And— he sucks. Like, he’s fucking. Sly, and cocky and shit. Where does he get off being all—” 3 hours after he had begun, the deeply drunken Lambert was still talking, gesturing wildly in front of them. “—You know?! It’s no v’y thoughtful.” He drifted into silence once more, while Coën, Eskel, and Geralt just nodded. Most of what that had gathered was that Lambert’s overwhelming crush on this mysterious Cat Witcher, Aiden, had hit him like a truck a year or so back and he still hadn’t made a move. Which meant he was serious about this one.
Coën opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. There wasn’t much to say— Lambert was a goner. He hadn’t quite fallen asleep yet, so far as Geralt could tell from the rise and fall of his chest, but he was getting there. Eskel slowly began to stand up and collect the empty bottle of White Gull they’d finished. Suddenly, Lambert’s eyes flew open, and he careened forward, arms waving wildly. “AND HIS HAIR?! I fucking hate him! He’s awful. He’s so fucking hot and I hate everything. He sucks. How do I get him to sleep with me?!”
Eskel sat down again with a sigh.
x
“Wait. Geralt, you went on a contract without me?! After I specifically asked to go?! Geralt!” Jaskier huffed, his tub of sesame chicken nearly spilling. The nature documentary in front of them hummed along, though neither payed it much mind. They never did, really.
“Griffin nests are too dangerous,” Geralt said around a bite of noodles. Jaskier’s presence in his life could be described with many negative adjectives, but he had to admit, he was better fed when the musician was around. “Besides, that was two weeks ago now. You’re behind.”
“All the more offensive that I’m just hearing about it now!”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “You going to come watch me deal with these Wyverns, or not?” He might as well just let Jaskier tag along for something small. Maybe he wouldn’t be a disaster, and then he’d stop pestering Geralt for stories he didn’t want to tell, much less be broadcast to the entire world. Unfortunately, he was beginning to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed Jaskier’s company, but that was all the more reason to cut him out of his life, wasn’t it? He was too big of a liability.
Jaskier had started helping to brighten up Geralt’s apartment, both figuratively and literally. There were now some framed pictures on the wall, as well bright takeout menus (“At least it’s something, Geralt, you need color in your life!”) and even a plant hanging by the window, which was thankfully fake. When Jaskier was around, everything seemed to fit well enough.
When he wasn’t though, the living room was discordant, this wall decor was now big and bold in places and nothing matched, and very few things were things he’d pick out himself. When he saw it in the mornings, he often sighed and shook his head, and tried not to think about it too much, or who had put it there.
He tried really quite hard not to think about Jaskier very much at all, but he was over nearly every day now. It was hard not to.
If Geralt had also finally bought himself a sturdy bedframe, bedside tables, and good sheets for himself, well, that had nothing to do with Jaskier at all. It’s not like Jaskier would ever see it, after all.
“Fine,” Jaskier replied after some internal debate, “But I want to see griffins, someday.”
“Mmm. Look them up, if you’re so keen on seeing one.”
“It’s not the same! Do you think it’s the same?! Ugh.”
“So, you’re coming?”
“Of course I’m coming! What sort of question is that? When do we leave? What should I bring? Ooo, what do I wear?!”
Geralt sighed deeply. “Don’t wear anything baggy, or bright, or anything that will make much sound. Don’t bring anything. Your phone, but only for if you get lost. Do NOT get lost. We leave here tomorrow at 5am.”
Jaskier choked on a piece of chicken. “Five a— Geralt, we cannot possibly leave here at 5am. Why! God, the things I do for music. How non-vibrant do my clothes have to be? Does a sort of forest-y green work? Do I have to wear camouflage? Please say no. You’re already severely limiting my wardrobe options, please don’t also make me commit fashion crimes.”
“Jaskier, you’re not going anywhere where you have to… impress people. You’re watching me catch, tag, and release a wyvern outside the city. That’s it.”
“I think the Wyverns deserve a good outfit! Besides, this is my first hunt! Our first big outing! I want to mark the occasion, but you and your rules prevent me. Frankly, I’m hurt.”
“Would you rather get eaten?”
“At least I’d leave a handsome corpse!” Geralt chuckled, and took a swig of beer as Jaskier swallowed thickly and continued. “But, ah, no, I’d really prefer to avoid death and injury as much as possible. Really. Truly. Not a masochist. Which surprises some people, weirdly. Do I give off a vibe? Geralt, do I give off vibes? I don’t give off any vibes, right?”
The biggest benefit of having Jaskier around, Geralt found, was that he could tease to his heart’s content, and Jaskier wouldn’t realize until Geralt had gotten a good laugh out of it.
Geralt nodded. “I can see that. There are definitely vibes.”
Jaskier gaped, and then stuttered in response. “I—you—no! That’s—there is no way—how—and what do—what’s—abs—there—I—you—that is not—!”
If Geralt could fight off his smirk a little longer, he’d get to watch Jaskier fumble for at least another minute… and it would take his mind off of trying not to picture Jaskier on his bed, pale skin and dark chest hair fully revealed, arching his back while Geralt indulged him in some fictional, masochistic tendencies. No, couldn’t think about that. Not realistic, anyway.
And then the image flipped, now with Jaskier above him, gazing down lovingly, raking his nails against Geralt’s exposed chest…
“I—the—Geralt! I thought we were friends!!”
Geralt shook it off. Not realistic.
——
The contract was supposed to be for the removal of a particularly pesky wyvern, who’d made a habit of sleeping on the top of a high rise on the other side of town, occasionally swooping down on unsuspecting residents on their balconies. Recently, it’d nabbed a little girl’s doll, which shouldn’t have tugged on his heartstrings, but after Ciri had come into his life, all bets were off. So, a nasty wyvern, somewhere it shouldn’t, who needed to be returned to a suitable habitat and tagged for tracking purposes. It had happened before, there was nothing suspicious about the contract.
Unfortunately, things were rarely so cut and dry in Geralt’s world.
It was 7 o’clock before Geralt and Jaskier finally dragged themselves back to their building; muddy, grimy and tracking it all through the lobby. Geralt’s chest was somehow still sore from being thwacked by a steel baseball bat. The contract had been a sham, and he and Jaskier had been… detained, Geralt would say, kidnapped being too strong a word, by some idiots who wanted to prove they could best a witcher. He’d hoped they’d mostly left violent displays of superiority back a few decades ago, but humans never failed to live up to the worst of themselves, he thought bitterly.
If they woke up from their concussions, hanging upside down from some pipes in the basement they’d chosen for their assault, Geralt was fairly sure they wouldn’t bother with witchers again.
“So, this was a less dangerous one, mm?” Jaskier asked groggily as they piled into the elevator. “Wanna come to mine? I feel like I’m five minutes from sleep.”
Geralt shrugged. He hadn’t actually seen Jaskier’s apartment. Not that he wanted to, of course. Jaskier mashed his finger into the button for the second floor, swaying on his feet. He slumped against one of the walls and let his eyes fall closed, and Geralt found it hard not to stare. His dark green shirt was ripped, exposing some pale skin and shallow cuts and bruises he’d received. His pants were filthy, and his face was still covered in grime, while bits of his hair stuck out at odd angles. Small prices to pay for making it out alive.
In fact, Jaskier had put up much more of a fight than he’d been expecting. He wasn’t a trained fighter by any means but he’d made himself more than useful. Geralt might not have made it out without his quick thinking—a phone flashlight to the eyes of their assailants, a kick to the back of the knee of another, biting the wrist of a third when it shot past his face, as he had lunged for Geralt. Jaskier had been damn near feral. Adrenaline, Geralt supposed. Hell of a drug.
Witchers felt adrenaline too, though it was different. Similar enough, though, that he was sure his overwhelming fear of seeing Jaskier hurt, how he’d screamed at their captors to let Jaskier go, how he’d been a second away from ending them in retaliation before he’d realized how far he’d gone, yes, he was sure that all of that was nothing more than adrenaline. Even if it had only kicked in when he realized Jaskier was in danger, rather than just himself, rather than when they’d spat obscenities at him. It had been when Jaskier had spat at them, called them bastards, and earned a kick in the stomach for it.
The elevator was silent as the doors slid shut.
“Do people always look at you like that?”
“You mean with a dagger in their hands?”
Jaskier frowned, chin still tipped toward the sky, arms folded close to his chest, eye lazily shut.
“No. I figure you wouldn’t have brought me, if that happened very often. But they were so…” he shook his head. “They were fucking hateful. They were monsters.”
Geralt huffed a laugh. “Monsters chasing a monster.”
“No, you’re not. Hey. Geralt. No, you’re not.” Jaskier had opened his eyes and waited Geralt to meet them. The witcher looked away as the doors slid open. “You’re not a fucking monster, I don’t care what they say. I know you by now.”
“Just open the door.”
Jaskier sighed and shuffled over to his door, opening it after a bit of a fumble with the keys.
The layout of his apartment was different, Geralt noticed—the front door let out into the living room, not the kitchen, and his bathroom was on the left, not the right. It seemed like there was only one bedroom, and his main window looked out over the cityscape. But it was, predictably, the décor that stood out the most.
Jaskier had lined his ceiling molding with little lights, and as they entered, they flicked on, drifting smoothly between all colors of the rainbow. The place itself was messy, notebooks strewn about everywhere, cords coming out of various outlets without rhyme or reason, cups and plates scattered about. Geralt spotted what he thought might have been pants in one corner, but he chose not to look so hard. Jaskier flicked on the light switch, and Geralt could see how bright and colorful Jaskier had made his home—it worked somehow, though it seemed as though if a single piece were removed it would look wrong, somehow.
His instruments all looked remarkably well-kept, though. They hung on the wall in specialized mounts; two guitars, a violin, some other string instruments Geralt didn’t recognize. There was a small black case maybe holding a wind instrument sitting next to a rather impressive-looking keyboard, and the table where they sat was the only tidy area in the apartment, so far as he could see. Of course, he hadn’t seen Jaskier’s bedroom. Yet. Not that he would want to, of course. Or ever have cause to.
Jaskier plopped down on a vibrant green velvet chair and waved one hand at the room, the other covering his eyes. “Sorry for the mess. You can sit anywhere. Oh, wait, there’s cider in the fridge, would you mind? Second shelf. And don’t laugh at me for drinking cider.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I know it’s too sweet. I get it. But if you drink beer or wine every night it gets boring. And if I ever grew bored of alcohol, I’d be devastated.”
“Won’t disagree with you,” Geralt muttered as he returned to the living room with a 6-pack. He sat down on the couch and opened the bottles, handing one to Jaskier. They drank in silence, and Geralt tried to get comfortable on the overly plush blue couch.
“Sorry you got dragged in—”
“No, no, stop that. I asked to come. Specifically. You had no way of knowing. Besides, I’d rather be with you to deal with that, instead of you… oh, disappearing to your apartment for days and not answering me.”
Mm. He’d done that, once or twice. Maybe three times. “Sorry.”
“Geralt. It’s fine. It’s their fault. You did nothing wrong, you were just trying to help.”
“Mm.”
They drank in silence for a bit. The cider was, in fact, too sweet, but it suited Jaskier. Geralt find he didn’t mind it much as he should have. He tried not to think of kissing it off his lips.
Jaskier gave a snort in the silence. Geralt looked over and raised an eyebrow.
“Sorry, it’s just—got any other enemies I should know about?”
Geralt smiled and leaned back. “Mm. A few. Lot of humans.”
“Right, just, in general. Alright, so just ‘most humans’, got it. Next?”
“Monsters. Don’t know why, they just don’t like me.”
Jaskier laughed. “How unfair of them! They ought to give you a chance. Anyone else?”
“Mmm… some other witchers. None from my school, though. Definitely some mages.”
“Oh, fuck mages,” Jaskier said.
“Don’t fuck mages,” Geralt teased, “It won’t end well.”
“Ugh. Trust me, I know.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows until Jaskier looked at him and groaned. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve only done it a few times, and I’ve sworn off them.” He finished his cider and reached for another.
“Do you have any enemies I should know about, Jaskier?”
“Valdo fucking Marx,” Jaskier spat immediately, kicking his legs up on the table. “Garbage. Absolute garbage. Stole my work at Oxenfurt. Deeply fucked up man. I want him dead. Not in a, ‘I’d hire someone to kill him’ way, but in a, ‘if he died in an untimely and horrific way tomorrow, I would spend the weekend celebrating’ way. Shouldn’t say untimely. His death will absolutely timely, whenever it comes. Really, maybe untimely because it’ll be late. Hmph.”
Geralt nodded, kicking his feet up as well. “Anyone else?”
“Mmm, no. Oh! Well, Penthouse Lady, or as I like to call her, The Bitch of the 13th Floor. She’s a mage, you know.”
Geralt stared at Jaskier. “Oh, no, no, don’t think like that. That is decidedly not one of the mages I was speaking about. No, Penthouse Lady is just… I mean, gorgeous, but evil. Extremely, wickedly beautiful, which should be a crime. She will take your clothes out of the washing machine, wet, just because you’ve left them there a bit too long. A minute. 35 seconds, minutes, whatever, really. And if you break one of the building rules and catch her in a bad mood, she will eviscerate you. She’s made people move out before, out of pure terror.”
“But not you?”
“No! No, I’m not leaving. She’s can’t make me. We’ve been mortal enemies for years now, that’s a commitment.”
Geralt laughed. “How do you afford to live here, anyway? You haven’t got a job.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, lowering his cider with a smile, “How dare you. You have no idea. I could be employed. I could have several jobs, you don’t know.”
“Jaskier, I met you at 3pm on a Monday. You come over at all hours of the day. You are rarely doing anything one could describe as ‘work’.”
“Alright, alright, I get it. It’s a… parents thing. And grandparents. Whole family, really. Ever been to Lettenhove?” Geralt thought a bit, and then nodded—it had been awhile. “Yep. That’s us. Earls and whatnot. Technically, I’m a viscount, but I prefer the title ‘Family Disappointment’. More accurate.”
Geralt pushed Jaskier’s foot with his own. “Stop that.”
“No, it’s not—it’s not a bad thing, to disappoint those people. You know? If I’m disappointing them, I’m doing something right. Besides, they keep throwing money at me in hopes that it’ll change something. Which, you know. I’ll take it.” They sat quietly for a moment. “I have been published, to be fair. And I do go out to sing at bars on Thursdays and Saturdays. I have some followers on Spotify, TikTok and what have you. I’m not nothing. It’s just not up to their standards. ‘S why I have a pen name in the first place.”
“Jaskier?” Geralt asked, and his friend nodded. “It’s a good name.”
“Why thank you.” There was quiet for a moment. “You know what they named me? Julian Alfred Pankratz. What a name. That’s the thing, with them, and their traditions—I’ve got two other people’s names, and none of my own. ‘S why I picked one for myself.”
“Mm,” Geralt said softly. Jaskier hadn’t ever said much about himself, now that he thought of it. Might as well take the plunge. “Don’t know what my surname was. Just have Geralt. Witchers are left to their schools and made to pick their own names. Picked Rivia out of a hat, essentially.”
Jaskier looked at him oddly, before raising his bottle. “To families that don’t know what they’re missing,” he said softly, and Geralt clinked their bottles together, the sound short and sweet.
——
A few hours and ciders later, Jaskier had slipped asleep, chest rising and falling gently. It hadn’t been a hard call for Geralt to make; he’d slipped Jaskier’s shoes off and carried him to his bedroom, laying him down on the bed, maneuvering him under the sheets. The bedroom was subtler than his living room—a cream color, beautiful loose paintings and sketches on the walls of flowers, hung up with tape, and dozens of pictures; some framed, some loose polaroids hanging on strings, all of friends and places he must have travelled. His oval mirror had sticky notes around the edges—what looked like scraps of songs, chord progressions, passwords, dates to remember, and a small note of encouragement to himself— ‘Keep Going!!’
Geralt smiled, found an unused sticky note, and grabbed a pen. When he was done, he smiled to himself, and put it just below the ‘Keep Going’ note.
After leaving a glass of water on his bedside table, Geralt slipped out of Jaskier’s apartment taking the elevator up. When the doors slid closed, he took out his phone.
4 Messages from CITY WITCHERS GETTING LAMBERT A DATE (ES….)
Lambert – 48 minutes ago
God, this shit should NOT be so hard.
To: CITY WITCHERS GETTING LAMBERT A DATE (ESKEL, LAMBERT, COËN)
Message: yeah, I feel you
He slipped it away, and hoped nobody would question it in the morning.
x
Yennefer stretched, sun hitting her eyes, and sucked in a lungful of the breeze coming through the window. It was… nice. Pleasant.
Boring.
She took out her phone.
To: Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Message: Who wants to go clubbing this weekend. I’m bored. Also Sabrina I know you’re 200 miles away w Anica don’t be snarky
She rose and began to stretch, sparing only a glance when her phone dinged.
Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Sabrina – Just Now
Sure count me in. I’d love that. Woohoo
She rolled her eyes and smiled, ignoring that her friend should absolutely still be asleep, given the time difference.
Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Coral Lytta– Just Now
I’m down for a barhop at least but only if we’re coordinating outfits I’m begging you I don’t want a repeat of last month!!
Yennefer finished her stretches and flicked her hand to start the coffee pot in the kitchen. She needed a change of pace. Things had gotten too predictable. Maybe she’d take someone home, that would be fun. She checked her phone again.
Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Fringilla – 7 minutes ago
Why is anyone awake??? Go back to sleep
To: Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Message: Frin it’s 7am. This is a normal hour.
Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Fringilla – Just Now
Not on my day off it’s not
She sighed. Okay, maybe they wouldn’t end up clubbing, not given everyone’s moods this week. But at least she’d get out of the apartment, and maybe get someone else into bed.
x
9:37am
Thursday, March 12th
2 Messages from Jaskier
Just now
Oh, and the note, I’m just seeing this now. “Reminder: Don’t Fuck Mages.” Thanks, Geralt, what would I do without you? My witcher in… slightly muddy armor, last I checked. ;)
7 Messages from CITY WITCHERS GETTING LAMBERT A DATE
Eskel – 19 minutes ago
“YEAH I FEEL YOU??” GERALT????? (sent with Echo)
NEWS
New Novigrad Times – 2 hours ago
Three men suspected of breaking and entering, larceny, and assault found suspended upside-down in a residential downtown building. This story is will be updated as new information is revealed.
14 more notifications
x
The next afternoon, he heard it while on a walk with Roach, and tried to brush it off. A voice sounding suspiciously like Jaskier’s was emanating from some teenager’s cell phone. “Oh Valley of Plenty, Oh-” the voice sang, before he tuned it out. It was deeply unlikely it was Jaskier. Something in seeing him asleep a few nights before must have poisoned Geralt’s brain.
He heard snatches of it, though, everywhere he went.
Toss a—
They came after me , with masterful—
Brings you to mourn—
That’s my epic tale—
It drove him mad, but he shook it off every time. What was the likelihood of it being Jaskier, anyway?
It’s in the lobby, where he realized. The doorman, Sonny, was swiping through his phone as Geralt checked his mailbox. When he turned back around—
With Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…
Geralt grimaced. “Fuck.”
When he returned to his apartment, he found a sticky note waiting on the door for him.
If you track mud into this building one more
time, I will make you kneel and fix it yourself.
All the best, ~Penthouse.
x
Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Coral Lytta – 17 minutes ago
Yen! Isn’t this your ~enemy~??? That guy from the second floor who takes like 3 hours with laundry?? http://vm.tiktok…
——
Jaskier -- 15 minutes ago
So. I may have gone viral,
——
To: Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Message: How the hell does this have 700 thousand likes already? It was only posted today
——
Jaskier -- 5 minutes ago
This is a good thing though, right??? Is this the wrong time to invite you to see me perform tomorrow night
Ciri -- Just Now
Hey uh??? Dad??? I think someone wrote a song about you???
——
Anica -- Just Now
Yennefer, I am so so sorry, but I already have it stuck in my head. I’ve only watched it twice now I swear
——
8 Messages from CITY WITCHERS GETTING LAMBERT (AND GERALT) DATES
Lambert – 1 minute ago
Literally how the fuck does this happen to you
Jaskier -- Just Now
Hey that rhymed!!
x
Jaskier had told him not to stress about what to wear, that he could just ‘sit in the corner and brood’ and that ‘nobody would recognize him’, but nothing about this felt like a good idea to Geralt. Is this what having friends was? Going to places he didn’t want to be, at times he didn’t want to be there, just to make someone else happy? It was terrible, and frankly, he wanted a refund.
Geralt slipped into the bar a few hours before Jaskier was slated to go on—just to get a booth decently near the stage where nobody would bother him. He didn’t care about seeing Jaskier warm up. He was on stage, tuning his instrument that wasn’t quite a guitar—either a mandolin or a lute, Geralt thought. He was listening for something, adjusting things, getting a feel of the space. His brows were furrowed and he looked to be deep in thought. Not wanting to bother him, Geralt bought whatever was on tap (some earthy beer he would tolerate for the evening) and slipped into a booth near the stage, far enough out of the light so that he wouldn’t be noticed easily by people.
He sat, watching Jaskier, letting his eyes wander down his teal and red ensemble. The pants were a tight fit, but the shirt was airy, unbuttoned a bit more than might be decent, and Geralt found himself mentally unbuttoning more, and more, and more, until his eyes flashed up and made contact with Jaskier’s.
The musician lit up like the sun, a wide beaming smile, and he quickly hopped down from the stage. “Geralt! You made it! And early, too! Oh, I’m so glad. Okay, I’m 3rd up, so you will have to sit through some other people, but not too many. I’ll join you when I’m done! You’ll enjoy it. Well, I don’t think you’ll love it, but you’ll probably tolerate it for your dear dear friend, who is slowly but surely making you famous. Right? Okay!”
“You’ll be fine,” Geralt said. He knew Jaskier’s nervous energy speeches by now.
“What? Oh.” Some tension in Jaskier’s shoulders loosened. “Thank you. I just haven’t been on a stage since suddenly so many people know my face. I did post about this, but I don’t think very many people will come. Maybe I shouldn’t have? I dunno. Still navigating fame! Alright, I should get back. I’ll see you soon!”
x
“I’m making an executive decision,” Fringilla said, turning on her heel. They’d been walking for 45 minutes, trying to decide on a bar. “We’re going here. We are too damn old to be spending half the night walking around.”
“Fine,” Yennefer relented, taking Coral’s arm, “but if it sucks we’re going out again tomorrow and it’s my pick.”
The three entered the bar, a dimly lit place, mostly wooden and already fairly active with people bustling about, a stage in the back looking ready for a musician.
“Oh, I love live music, yes! You get us a table near the stage and I’ll get the drinks,” Coral said; “Dry Martini and a Whiskey Sour?”
“You know us so well,” Fringilla said, and she and Yennefer left to find a table. They ended up at a booth egregiously close to the stage, in Yennefer’s opinion. They got comfortable, settling in for the night, most likely. Until one of them found someone to go home with, at least.
When Yennefer looked up, it was to a tidal wave of people entering.
It wasn’t to say the place wasn’t busy before, but soon she could barely see the bar, as giddy looking patrons took up tables and booths, and eventually, just whatever standing room they could find. Coral managed to cut through the crowd, levitating the three drinks, looking frazzled. “When did all these people get here?!”
“No idea,” Fringilla said, reaching for her Whiskey Sour, “but I’m glad we’ll at least be able to see.”
“Mm,” Yennefer agreed, grabbing her Martini, raking her eyes over the crown. Options, she thought. It was always so good to have options.
“Any idea who’s performing tonight?” Coral asked. “I couldn’t find a poster or anything that said—probably someone good, for all these people to be here”
“No idea,” Yennefer replied absentmindedly. It’s not like it mattered. She couldn’t imagine herself giving much of a shit about who was on stage, anyway.
x
The first performer was fine. Geralt thought they were a little boring, but they weren’t who he was there to see, anyway. Yennefer couldn’t be bothered, staring instead at a handsome young woman in a low-cut satin dress. When she finally made eye contact, though, she gave a friendly, decidedly not flirtatious smile, and Yennefer moved on.
The second performer, a kind of musical comedian, was pretty good. She capitalized off of the energy in the room, which Geralt had to admit was palpable. As soon as people had flooded in, he’d made a point to look intimidating—much as it had prevented people from sitting at his booth, it hadn’t stopped them from buzzing around the bar, and he realized they must be there for Jaskier. It put a pit in his stomach, but also made something in his chest whizz around in joy. Ah, fuck.
And then, up was Jaskier. The announcer welcomed him on stage, and Jaskier bounced on, to the warmest welcome thus far.
“Gooooood evening everyone, lovely to see you all. And I do mean all. How many people are here? There are at least…” he counted for a moment. “At least 12. Possibly more.” He got a laugh, and winked at someone in the middle of the audience as he sat down on a stool in front of the mic.
“I cannot fucking believe this,” Yennefer groaned quietly. Fringilla patted her on the back. “There, there. Maybe he’ll be terrible.”
Jaskier hummed softly, warming up his voice. No, Yennefer though, he wouldn’t be terrible, because unfortunately, he was quite fucking good.
His first song was another one that had also blown up after his sudden viral-ness of the past week, an original he’d told Geralt he’d written in university, and never stopped being proud of. Geralt smiled into his second drink of the night, enjoying watching Jaskier get comfortable on the stage.
His second song finished to applause and cheers, and Jaskier got up to bow, pushing the stool far behind him with his foot. Yennefer put a fist in her hair. Unfortunately, her mortal enemy was fucking magnetic.
“Freak him out, like you said you do,” Coral whispered to her. Yennefer frowned, but nodded soon after. At least she could make this fun for herself.
Jaskier grabbed the mic and moved it off to the side of the stage, throwing some smiles to people who had their phone out, before stopping and speaking into it when the crowd had quieted a bit.
“Hey,” Jaskier said gently, his voice commanding the bar, as he looked out into the crowd. He found Geralt’s face, and beamed at him, before turning back to the sea of people. “Is uh… is anyone here on TikTok?” The crowd cheered and he launched into Toss a Coin, forgoing the stool entirely, choosing to dance around the stage.
To Geralt’s complete mortification, at the top of the first chorus Jaskier suddenly pointed to him. “Toss a coin to your witcher, Oh valley of plenty, oh!”
By the third chorus, Geralt had been sufficiently pummeled with coins, bills, and what looked like a gift card to a café, when Jaskier tipped back his head to the other side of the stage. Yennefer was sitting back, arms folded, a single eyebrow raised, flanked by Fringilla and Coral on either side, looking expectant of the musician, mimicking their friend’s pose. Yennefer thought she was fighting off her smirk, but it was hard to say. Her eyes met his, and for a brief, brief moment his smile faltered, before he let out a cackle, continuing to play. The audience ate out of his hand, and he seemed to grow more and more at ease, preening at the attention.
“It was worth a shot,” Fringilla said with a huff of laughter and a shake of her head, returning to her glass. “He’s really got something, hate to admit.”
When the song finished, he took a deep bow to riotous applause and caught a coin someone threw to him, tucking it in his pocket.
Behind him, a witcher and a mage made eye contact for the first time; gold met violet, and the air between them seemed to electrify.
“I think we’re on our own for tonight, Coral,” Fringilla said with eyebrows raised, watching her friend stare across the room, and Coral giggled in response. Yennefer made a point to use a fraction of her chaos to stir her martini from afar, so this man knew what he might be getting into.
“Thank you, thank you all. I think we have time for one more quick song. And I do hope you’ll give our next artist after the break the same amount of attention, as a personal favor to me,” Jaskier said, getting some laughs, and tuned his instrument for a moment before speaking again. “You’ve been a dream. Really, truly, thank you. I fully expect this kind of turn out every week, though, so cancel all your other Saturday night plans for the next, oh, 7 to 8 years.”
A smattering of laughter again from the audience, and then Jaskier was starting Fishmonger's Daughter, a song Geralt had deemed dirty enough to ignore the lyrics of. He looked away from the woman, clearly a mage, across the stage from him—she was gorgeous, long black hair and bright violet eyes. She was flanked by two other women in similar deep velvet dresses—the first a rosy pink, the third a midnight blue, while the woman’s he’d locked eyes with was pitch black, matching a choker around her neck. She tilted her head to expose more soft tan skin, examining him from afar as she stirred her drink with magic, graceful and languid.
Do not fuck mages. Do not fuck mages. Do not fuck mages.
He sat back in his chair, and suddenly realized that Jaskier’s set had ended; his friend was bowing, and then disappeared off the stage in favor of the announcer. The bar was buzzing, people milling around, and then Jaskier, blue eyes gleaming, cheeks flushed, smile stretched from ear to ear, was sitting in front of him.
“Geralt! Was it good? Give me your thoughts.”
“Not bad,” Geralt said with a smile, and a pat on his friend’s shoulder. Was it too much? He gave it a small squeeze, and something small in Jaskier’s face changed. He looked up and down Geralt’s face, and suddenly the witcher realized how close they were, that Jaskier was licking his lips, that he hadn’t taken his hand off his shoulder, that the world had disappeared around them. His gaze dropped for a moment to Jaskier’s lips. He could smell arousal, and excitement, and happiness, but he was in a bar, there was too much to take in, no way to know for sure it was coming from Jaskier. He held his breath, and met Jaskier’s eyes again.
His phone rang.
They kept staring.
Another ring, and someone tapped on Jaskier’s shoulder.
“I should—you get that, Geralt, I’ll be a moment, just ah, have to say hello to the adoring public, I’ll be back!”
Geralt let his witcher-slow heartbeat a few more times, dazed, before looking down at his phone to see Lambert was calling. He answered, putting a finger in his other ear.
“Geralt!” Lambert hissed. Geralt could barely hear him over the noise of the bar. “Geralt! Have you seen the group chat?!”
“No. Speak louder, I can barely hear you.”
“I can’t! He’s in my apartment, Geralt! What the fuck do I do! He brought booze! He looks fucking fancy!”
Geralt frowned. “Are you on a date?”
“Not that I’m fucking aware of!”
Geralt frowned deeper. “It sounds like you’re on a date.”
“We can’t be on a date! He just asked if I wanted to do dinner! That’s not a date!”
“It can be. Clearly is. Just—take him out somewhere.”
“Fucking WHERE, Geralt!”
“Don’t you have a sushi place around the corner? Do that. Or somewhere else. Doesn’t matter, just wear something decent and go.”
“How the fuck—” Lambert was asking when Geralt hung up. He looked at his phone screen—98 unread messages from the clowns. He shook his head and looked up—Jaskier was peacocking around the bar, flirting with everyone who seemed receptive. He was a natural, winding his way through the crowd, making them all feel special. Someone was buying him a drink, and it looked like he was already part of the way through another. He delighted over everyone, taking selfies, accepting compliments, giving them in return to appreciative and giddy smiles.
That was how Jaskier was, Geralt thought. With everyone. Little moments didn’t necessarily mean anything.
He turned back to look at the sorceress across from him. Her companions had left her, disappearing into the crowd for more drinks, perhaps. She was playing with something on her table, and glanced up to see him staring. She smirked, picked up the small object, and began to levitate it over to him.
Geralt watched as through the crowd, over the stage, the object floated over to him.
When it finally arrived at his table, Geralt watched as a small coin was dropped neatly in front of him, giving a small clink.
He smirked. It was a parlor trick, and barely that, for a mage. But it was intriguing. She was intriguing. And Jaskier was busy being fawned over by fans, so it’s not as though Geralt would be missed. He stood and waded his way through the masses, towering over many of the other patrons, before finally making it to his destination. He held up the coin.
The woman smiled up at him, sly, and spoke before he did. “No need to thank me, just doing as the song requested. Are you so often followed around by… loyal bards?”
He laughed. He hadn’t heard someone use ‘bard’ in decades. “Not until recently. To who do I owe the pleasure?”
“Whom, I think,” she quipped, and offered her hand. “Yennefer.”
“Geralt,” he said, and she laughed as he sat down across from her.
“Yes, I’ve heard as much. The White Wolf. Quite the title.”
“I didn’t pick it myself, I assure you.”
“You don’t seem to mind it all that much.”
“… I suppose not. Better than some of the other titles I haven’t picked.”
“Do you have many of those?”
“Plenty. Couldn’t tell you what most of them were, though. Hard to hear when you’re dodging enemies.”
She titled her head slightly and sat back to let her gaze drag over him. “So, none from lovers, then?”
He smiled again. “Cheeky.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Take it however you’d like.”
“You’re not much for flattering yourself, are you, Geralt.”
“That’s what I’ve got my bard for.”
She laughed, a light thing that he knew would be echoing around his chest for days. She leaned back in, looking around conspiratorially. He leaned in a touch as well, their faces only inches from each other now. “Tell me, Geralt. Are you as noble and chivalrous as that song made you out to be?”
“It flatters me. But I do my best for… those in need.”
“And if I were in need, you would do something for me?”
“I might be able to do that.”
“Well then.” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I would be entirely grateful, Geralt… if you get me some apple juice.” He leaned back in confusion, while she pressed the coin he still held further into his hand. “This should cover it.”
When he leaned away, she wore an unmistakably coquettish smile, biting back a laugh. He smiled despite himself, brows furrowed as he looked down at the coin, and back at her, before letting out a small laugh himself.
“Alright. One apple juice, fair mage. I will do my best.”
“Take care on your dangerous voyage!” She called after him, as he slipped into the crowd. She whipped out her phone; the break would be lasting another 15 or so minutes, just enough to play a game on her phone. Whether or not Geralt made it back to his table in time for the next set was none of her concern. Besides, he’d somehow befriended her most recent mortal enemy, so anything that happened tonight would have to be a one-time thing. If anything happened, of course, but Yennefer was not in the habit of letting a good time pass her by.
Things were perfectly right in her world, as she waited for her phone to load, until suddenly someone dressed in frankly garish teal and red was standing before her. She didn’t look up from her phone.
“Ahem?”
She continued looking at her phone. The damn thing wouldn’t load.
“You know, it’s very rude to keep your most reviled enemy waiting.”
It still wouldn’t fucking load. She groaned and put it down. “What do you want, Jaskier?” Her neighbor, grinning widely and holding two glasses of punchy looking drinks, sat down across from her. “No one else hesitated to applaud my wonderful performance except… for you. Come on. You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”
She raised an eyebrow and looked at him for a moment. “I don’t buy it.”
He frowned. “No, that’s four. What don’t you buy?”
“The song. You expect me to believe you willingly put yourself within 10 miles of danger? You already complain that the second floor is too dangerous for you.”
“It is dangerous, and I sleep there, so it’s different. Really, it did happen, you could ask Geralt. Actually, gods, no, don’t ask Geralt. Don’t talk to him, actually. You’d hate each other, definitely, best stay away.”
“Oh dear. Someone’s already jealous.”
“I am not—!” he squeaked, before leaning in. “I am not jealous, I just don’t need you and your…” he waved a hand at her, “your face-ness scaring him off!”
“My face?”
“Yes! It’s full of… secrets. And… plots. Evil plots!”
“Right. Do you know what your face is full of?”
“Charm? Charisma? An air of mystery?”
She swiftly grabbed one of his drinks and splashed it in his face, while he gaped. She swiped a finger across his cheek and tasted it. “Mmm, no… something fruity. Strawberry?”
“Raspberry,” he corrected. His face dripped. “I had that coming, a bit.”
“Oh, absolutely.” She waved a hand, and the drink was gone—his face, shirt, the table all now dry. “Don’t take that as a kindness. I just don’t want to pay for your dry cleaning.”
“Of course,” he replied, touching his now dry face. “And I don’t want any more battles with you in the laundry genre, if I can help it.” Despite herself, she laughed.
“Ah, I see there is a brain behind those blue eyes after all.”
“You just like seeing me covered in liquid and at your mercy.”
“Maybe,” she admitted.
He sat back in the booth. “You know, if you weren’t utterly terrifying, I could write songs about you as well. I’m sure you’ve got stories. We could make some together.”
“I am the story.”
“See, that’s good! Have you considered abandoning magic and the position of ‘very sexy, very scary witch’, and instead working towards of ‘very sexy, very charming poet’? At least then we’d be competitors in the same field. Same playing ground! Same weapons, which is to say, absolutely no weapons.”
“Mm. And have you considered abandoning your current title of ‘unfortunately charming, unfortunately talented, deeply annoying musician’ and opting instead for ‘very quiet, mildly charming eye candy’? It would suit you more.”
“The day I stop talking is the day I run out of breath.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Dear Ms. Penthouse, I’m sure you’ll be the one to bring it about.”
“Wouldn’t you love to be so lucky. Besides, haven’t you got a wolf in shining armor to protect you?” Just then, a sound went over the loudspeakers. 5 minutes until the end of the break, then.
“Well, much as I’d love to continue this lovely and for me, a frankly sexually confusing chat, I must grab my drinks before our next musicians are on.”
“Take care, then. I’d hate to see you die without getting to be a part of it,” she said, giving him a pat on the arm, her hand lingering as he looked at her for a moment, licking his lips and then hurrying off.
It was only moments before Geralt returned.
“One apple juice,” he said, setting a tall glass in front of her with a straw. Yennefer smiled and pulled it closer to her, taking a sip. “Is it to your liking, fair mage?”
It was quite good, actually. “Acceptable. Thank you, dear witcher, for your services.”
“Any others you’d like to request of me?”
“Mmm… give me the evening to think of one.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be here forever.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll think of something. You just go… sit in the corner and brood.”
He laughed. “You’re not the first one to say that to me tonight.”
“Mm, so you’re completing quests for others? Should I be worried?” She snuck a glance toward the crowd, and Geralt followed her eyes to land on Jaskier, fliting between people, drinking something that this time looked icy and blue. “Just a friend, I hope?”
Geralt turned to look back at her. His face had too many things subtly happening for her to read it well, and after only a moment Fringilla and Coral had returned, beginning to slip into the booth.
“Will you be joining us?” Fringilla asked, but Geralt shook his head.
“I’ve been told to go brood,” he replied, and made his way back to his booth.
——
Geralt did, in his defense, make an attempt to listen to the other performers. Jaskier spent the evening continuing to flirt around the room, hands lingering on him, his own hands gently caressing shoulders and arms. Geralt could tell already he’d be going home alone that night. Well, not alone. Yennefer and he had been sharing glances as the night progressed, and he was fairly certain he knew where that was heading.
He just wouldn’t be going home with Jaskier, who would himself undoubtedly be going home with some fan or other patron. He had his pick of the room, for the most part. Which was good. Geralt knew he sought the praise, the fame. Besides, Jaskier and he had only planned to spend the late night catching up on their weekly nature documentary.
Another man paid for Jaskier’s next drink, a fizzy concoction, and Geralt felt himself give the tiniest hint of a growl.
Eventually, Yennefer’s companions slipped out, and he returned to her booth.
“Do you have a quest for me, then?”
“Mmm. How about, protect me here, until it’s time to leave, and then walk me back to my apartment?”
Geralt nodded. “That, I can do.”
The night pushed onward. After a few performers more, Geralt looked around in between sets and realized he’d lost track of Jaskier entirely. It would be unlike him to not give a heads-up before going home with somebody. Geralt frowned and checked his phone. A few dozen messages from Eskel and Coën, and; one missed call from Jaskier. Shit. He took a deep breath—he could smell his friend in the air, but not quite which direction it came from, not with so many people. Yennefer gave him a look.
“What’s wrong?”
“Missed a call. Hold on.” He pressed the redial and held it to his ear. It rang three times before it picked up. “Jaskier?”
“Mmm. Ger. Ger’lt. Do you wanna go home? With me.”
“You want me to take you home?” He shot an apologetic look at Yennefer.
“Come home with me.”
“Okay, Jaskier. Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Alright. Be there soon.” Geralt hung up and began to slide out of the booth. “Sorry. He’s had a big night.”
“I could tag along,” Yennefer offered. “And then you’ll have doubly earned your rewards tonight.”
“I—sure, sure,” and they were off, navigating around the bar and out the door. “He doesn’t live that far away,” Geralt began to explain.
“Oh, I know.” Geralt shot her a questioning look as they exited the front door.
——
Jaskier was right there, leaning against the wall. His head ached—he’d had possibly more to drink in this night than he had for the past two weeks combined. It had all caught up with him, and he’d found himself outside, taking deep breaths of fresh air, clutching his lute bag to his chest.
He’d flirted around all night, but nothing, nobody had been worth his time. How was he supposed to focus on anyone when Geralt was right there? Not that he was interested, of course. But he’d come out, he’d come early, just to see Jaskier perform. Well, to be fair, his hit song, (he had one of those now!) was about Geralt, so that was probably why he came. But he wanted to pretend it was just for him. That Geralt had wanted to see Jaskier perform. He was miles out of Jaskier’s league, but oh, could he could absolutely dream some very, very sexy dreams.
And then his mortal enemy had been there, and wasn’t that a treat. She’d looked gorgeous. It was unfair. His building was full of beautiful people, all who only tolerated him, were abysmally out of his league, or would eat him for breakfast, if they had the chance. At least fighting with her gave him the excuse to look at her, talk to her. She’d splashed a drink in his face and he’d needed to slip away to the bathroom when they’d finished talking, just to calm himself down. That was unfair. Don’t fuck mages, he reminded himself. Not that she ever would. He’d had at least 6 more drinks after that, just to push the thought away.
He’d thought he’d been doing a bit better, the past few minutes. But clearly, he wasn’t, as he must have been hallucinating.
Before him stood Geralt (gorgeous, fascinating, generous, kind, warm-hearted Geralt), looking a bit dazed himself, as well as The Bitch of the 13th Floor (intriguing, deadly, witty, beautiful). So, his sexual fantasy that he had not until that moment realized existed.
“Oh dear. I’m worse than I thought.”
“Jaskier, what’s wrong?”
“Too much to drink. Now I’m hallucinating.”
Geralt frowned. “What do you see?”
Jaskier pointed to the woman in front of him and then shut his eyes tightly. “Unless… unless it’s a magic thing.”
“No—Jaskier, this is Yennefer. Yennefer, Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s eyes flew open. “You know this woman? Of course you know this woman. So you do have a name!”
“Of course I have a name.”
“I don’t know, maybe mages don’t all have names.”
“You two know each other?”
Jaskier smiled loosely. “That’s my mortal enemy.”
“This is not Valdo Marx.”
“No! Penthouse Lady. Second one.”
“Oh. The Bitch of the 13th Floor.”
“Glad to know I hold a reputation in your circles, Jaskier,” she said lightly. “Though I’m a touch offended I’m only number 2.”
He frowned, and reached out for her arm, and held it lightly, then did the same with Geralt.
“Oh fuck. You are both here.”
“Right. Let’s get you back home.” Carefully, Geralt lifted Jaskier’s arm over his shoulders, and the three began to walk, Yennefer on his other side. They went to walk before he stopped, pulling Jaskier’s arm off him, and bent down.
“What are you--?”
“Your shoe strap is undone,” Geralt explained, before flashing a grin up at her. “I suppose this isn’t what you meant when you told me to kneel.”
“As I recall, I haven’t asked you to do that yet. I was saving it for the bedroom.”
Geralt finished with her shoe and then rose up, and they began walking. “The sticky note. ‘I will make you kneel and fix it yourself’?”
“…You’re the new tenant?! You’re the muddy bastard?!”
“Wait, you two were going to have sex?!” Jaskier whined.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
“I thought it was ‘Don’t fuck mages’, not ‘Don’t fuck mages unless they’re really hot, then that’s the exception’!”
“I can’t believe this,” Yennefer said. Her world fell apart and clicked into place all at once as they crossed the street. “Oh my god.”
“Did you not know?”
“Of course I didn’t know! You didn’t say how you knew him!”
“Well, there it is,” Geralt sighed. “And Jaskier, don’t just to conclusions, I wouldn’t presume that of her. All I did was buy her apple juice.”
“Now what kind of metaphor is that!”
“The kind that isn’t a metaphor at all.”
“Jaskier, if you say a single word about my apple juice—”
“I’m not saying anything about apple juice! It’s a noble beverage! But your apple juice leads to some implications!”
“And what if it does!” “Well! Well!” Jaskier flustered. “Well! We were going to watch our nature documentary tonight!”
“No we weren’t,” Geralt grumbled.
Jaskier looked at him, hurt. “What?”
“We weren’t going to watch the documentary, Jaskier. You were going to find someone to go home with.”
“I did find someone to go home with!” He said, bumping his hip into Geralt.
“I don’t count,” Geralt muttered, as they finally made it into the building.
“Why don’t you count?”
“Because, Jaskier, you weren’t planning to sleep with me.”
“Says who!”
“Let’s just go to mine,” Yennefer said as they stepped in the elevator. “I don’t want to try and navigate his apartment in the dark. I’m sure it’s a wreck.”
“It’s fine, actually,” Jaskier muttered. “Geralt I know we wouldn’t have slept together, you have standards, but—”
“Well, more like because he was planning on sleeping with me, thank you very much.”
“Watch out, Lady of the Penthouse, or I’ll… write a song about you.”
“Who said I was planning or not planning on sleeping with anyone?”
“You did!”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“That’s the point!”
“So, you two… aren’t sleeping together?”
“What’s your point?!” Geralt demanded, oblivious to Yennefer’s question.
“Well, that’s how you know someone doesn’t want to sleep with you! One of the many ways. They don’t say they do! You’ve made it clear we’re just… you know. Pals.”
“I never said that!”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
“Jaskier, for once in your life, would you say something with some sense?!” “I said, ‘come home with me’! How much more clear do I have to be than ‘I’d rather spend the night with you’?! Actually, frankly, with both of you, this is nice. Loud, but nice. I can’t believe I’m saying this about my sworn nemesis.”
“Now, hold on—”
“Everybody shut up!” Yennefer said, loud enough that the boys shut their mouths. “No more speaking. We will be at my apartment soon. I will be going into my kitchen to get you,” she pointed at Jaskier, “something to ensure you don’t get sick all over the elevator.”
“I’m—I’m feeling a lot better, really,” he said. She made a shushing motion against his lips, and she could feel his hot breath, could sense his heartbeat race faster, watched his cheeks flush. Interesting.
“By the time I’m back, I want you two sorted.” The doors dinged, and they emerged on a landing in front of an intricate white door, which Yennefer opened with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be back in a moment. Just… let me know who Geralt will be kneeling for,” she said, and then walked into the kitchen, heels snapping against the tile.
She looked at her cabinets, opening one and retrieving the bottle she wanted. Well. They’d need more than a few seconds, surely. She placed it carefully on the counter and listened.
“I…” Geralt was saying. “Um.”
“I didn’t… Geralt. I’m sorry. I don’t want to… ruin things.”
“You’re not ruining anything.”
“You’ve hardly shown interest, I know you’re not…”
“I’m bad at these things. Talking. You know that.”
“Okay, then…” Jaskier trailed off, and took a big breath. “Then show me.”
“Show you?”
“What you mean. Or… what you don’t mean. I don’t know. But if there’s… Geralt, if there’s something, anything about me that you want, in that way, I am asking you to show me. It’s fine if not. But… I’m here, I want it, if you do. I mean, I want it either way, really. Have for a bit.”
“…You’re drunk.”
“I won’t be, once Yennefer gets that… thing. And it’ll be the same. I promise.
“I don’t want you regretting anything.”
“How could I regret you? Show me, Geralt. Please.”
“…Show you."
“Yes, yes, please, Geralt. Pl—”
And there was silence. Or, there was the sound of mouths sliding against each other, soft, deep moans reverberating in their chests. She let them have the moment, and then Jaskier gave a soft whine, and she smiled. That was her cue.
She clicked into the foyer, bottle held aloft.
“A gift,” she said, and the two staggered apart, “for my nemesis. Purely because his white wolf brought me apple juice, let it be known. And thank you for the show. Both at the bar and here.” Jaskier stepped toward her and took the bottle.
“I must warn you,” she said, “it tastes like goat piss.” Jaskier popped the cork, and chugged the bottle before making a face.
“How long does it take to— oh, fuck—”
“Pretty instantaneous,” Yennefer said as he grabbed her shoulder to support himself. Geralt came up behind him.
“The room stopped spinning. I didn’t even realize it was spinning,” he frowned. He shook his head for a moment, turned back to Geralt, and grabbed his neck, pulling them to meet in a firm kiss. “See? Meant it.”
“Maybe I need some of that too,” Geralt muttered. “Things are spinning.”
“As much as I enjoy playing cupid,” Yennefer said, taking back the bottle, “it seems as though I’ve been a bit removed from the equation, so you two had best be off, I suppose.”
“Someday, you’ll be won over by my charms,” Jaskier said with a kiss to her knuckles. “But if you two had… plans… I could always wait a night. Unless you’d like both of us in your bed,” he half-joked to her.
“I don’t know how this is happening to me,” Geralt muttered.
“Oh, be careful what you wish for, Jaskier,” she hummed, “you might just get it.”
“Does this mean I’ve won you over?”
“It means I don’t let a good night pass me by.”
“Oh, so you think I’ll be good, you admit that.”
“It means I’m open to you proving me wrong. But I saw you play. You can make good use of those hands. Geralt?”
Geralt was leaning against the wall, staring into the middle distance, looking lost. “I just. A lot has happened. I thought you hated each other?”
“I told you she was gorgeous, I don’t just say things.”
“You do very much just say things.”
“Well, then, someone’s going to have to shut me up.”
Yennefer tilted his head back to face her and pulled him down into a kiss—languid and slow, as one of his arms grabbed her waist and pulled her upwards and to him, just enough that she was standing on tip toe. She ran her hands up his chest, coming to rest around his neck, playing with his hair. He finally pulled away, just to kiss a line down one side of her jaw, sucking a small mark onto her neck.
She looked back at Geralt, still a bit dazed but with a fire behind his eyes. “Well,” she said, detaching herself from Jaskier. “Will you be joining?”
Rather than answer, Geralt took a few steps forward toward her. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—gentle and almost pleading. They fit together so easily, he thought. He hadn’t ever fit with someone like he had with two people tonight. How had he earned this? How had he made it to this point in his life?
Jaskier was suddenly behind him, kissing his back, running one hand up his chest, the other against Yennefer’s hand, which had reached his shoulder. He couldn’t have all this, could he?
“You think so loudly, Geralt,” Yennefer teased him.
“It’s true,” Jaskier agreed. “Even I hear it, darling.”
“Okay. Then… take me somewhere I don’t have to think.”
Yennefer smiled, took his hand in hers, and Jaskier’s in her other. “I’m glad your place was the bedroom,” Jaskier whispered, “Because honestly, mine would probably be the zoo.”
Yennefer pinched his hand, “Ow! But am I wrong?! You don’t need your brain for the zoo!” and led them on.
x
8:24am
Sunday, April 3rd
16 Messages from Aretuza Takes Novigrad
Coral Lytta — 9 hours ago
okay, thanks for letting us know, yen!!! have fun!!
Fringilla – 9 hours ago
Wait, I’m sorry, were the two people you just went home with the witcher and the musician? The guy you hate?
Sabrina — 9 hours ago
What on earth is happening
Fringilla – 9 hours ago
She didn’t specify which two guys she went home with, but I’m pretty sure I just saw them all leave together.
Sabrina — 8 hours ago
I can’t believe drama is happening without me
Coral Lytta — 7 hours ago
its not drama drama is frin getting the number of someone with a green hair when she specifically said she’d sworn off of green hair for at least a year
Sabrina — 7 hours ago
omfg
Fringilla – 6 hours ago
Coral!! Where are you, I’m not letting you get away with this! They’re cute! You can’t shame me.
Coral Lytta — 5 hours ago
update everyone we got a car home and frin has been texting green hair (jesu) the whole way home if youre reading this its too late for me it was nice knowing u
Sabrina – 3 hours ago
Loving this. Just blew up half a field with Anica. She says hi
Sabrina – 2 hours ago
Hey yen I am seeing this mystery enemy of yours on tiktok people filmed his set
Sabrina – 2 hours ago
He’s hot good job
Sabrina – 2 hours ago
But why is he playing a fucking lute
Coral Lytta – 1 hour ago
morning all yennefer please send pics of ur hot date(s)
Fringilla – 15 minutes ago
Are we not addressing that Sabrina and Anica blew up a field?!
Sabrina — Just Now
Lol
8:24am
Sunday, April 3rd
167 Messages from CITY WITCHERS GETTING LAMBERT (AND GERALT) DATES… Showing 16
Lambert – 10 hours ago
Okay I made him laugh and now I’m in the bathroom what the fuck now??
Eskel – 10 hours ago
Pay for the bill, leave a good tip for that waiter for saving your ass, and then ask him if he wants to go back to yours. You’ve done this before, Lamb.
Coën – 10 hours ago
He’s been flirting with you all night, you’ll be fine.
Lambert – 10 hours ago
Fuck Okay If you never hear from me again it’s because I died of embarrassment
Lambert – 10 hours ago
Bye forever
Eskel – 9 hours ago
Drama queen. Hey Geralt how’s it going?
Coën – 9 hours ago
He’s in it too deep. He probably watched that guy play live and just died.
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Sex is so awesome
Eskel – 6 hours ago
Congrats bro. I’m sleeping now.
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Don’t you wanna hear about how great sex is
Eskel – 6 hours ago
I know it’s great, Lambert. I’ve had sex before
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Are we sure are we super sure you had sex cause like I just had GREAT sex possibly the best
Coën – 6 hours ago
It is two in the morning. I am begging you to shut up
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Put us on silent so I can talk about how great sex is
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Ha beat you to this one Geralt bet you didn’t have sex with someone hot tonight. HA
Lambert – 6 hours ago
Okay gotta go round two bye
8:24am
Sunday, April 3rd
Geralt – 10 hours ago
You coming back to the table?
Geralt – 10 hours ago
If I’m gone when you get back let me know when you get home
Geralt – 10 hours ago
You did really good, Jaskier. I’m proud of you
TikTok – 2 hours ago
You have 25,634 new followers!
TikTok – 1 hour ago
You hit 2.3 million views! Click here to see what people are saying…
Spotify – 15 minutes ago
You have 5,785 new followers and 806,216 new listens on Toss a Coin EP
Maybe: Yennefer – 5 minutes ago
It's Yennefer, send me that selfie of all of us you took, I wanna freak out my group chat
Geralt, Maybe: Yennefer
Maybe: Yennefer – 4 minutes ago
I can’t believe I’m the one doing this, but I guess we need a group chat.
To: Geralt, Maybe: Yennefer
Message: 1 image
Here’s the selfie for you both!! Use it wisely ;)
A Sorceress, A Witcher, and a Handsome Bard Walk into a Bar…
Yennefer – 3 minutes ago
Geralt get me apple juice while you’re up
A Sorceress, A Witcher, and a Handsome Bard Walk into a Bar…
Yennefer – 2 minutes ago
Jaskier, this chat name, you cannot be serious
A Sorceress, A Witcher, and a Handsome Bard Walk into a Bar…
Geralt – Just now
Haha
A Sorceress, A Witcher, and a Handsome Bard Walk into a Bar…
Geralt – Just now
:)
#geraskefer#geraskier#witcher fanfiction#geralt x jaskier x yennefer#Novigrad Exchange#chubbykatsudon#enemies to lovers#friends to lovers#Ensemble fic#Butterbard's Fics#lambden
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thus, with a kiss... [tom hiddleston x reader]
➽ pairing: teenage!tom hiddleston x fem!reader (y/n) ➽ word count: 1.4k ➽ summary: you convince your best friend to let you read some poetry he’s written, but you aren’t prepared for the words he wrote. ➽ warnings: a poor understanding of how eton college functions whoops ➽ a/n: i need a soft british boyfriend who writes me poetry!!
I sensed him before I saw him. It was only a single second head start, but I whirled around to see Tom behind me. “Woah, you scared me,” I laughed. “You can’t creep up on girls like that, man!”
“Who said I was creeping?” Tom asked, a smile splitting his face wide. He threw an arm around my shoulders, then added, “Maybe you were.”
“Why would I be the creeper?” I asked.
“You’re on my school’s grounds,” Tom began. “You didn’t tell me you’d be visiting.”
It was true, I hadn’t told him. Tom and I had been great friends for years, ever since we started at sister schools-- his the boy’s, mine the girl’s. Even though we didn’t attend classes together or live in the same place, we often saw each other at school discos and about town. There was no real reason for me to be there, other than wanting to see Tom. I’m sure he had gathered that much already, though, so I sighed. “Anything wrong with that?” I asked. “Your grounds are so much nicer than ours.”
“That’s true,” Tom said. Under Tom’s playful arm, I could smell his cologne and deodorant, and I bit the inside of my cheek. There was a hint of cliche to being hopelessly in love with your best friend and I hoped that I hid it well; otherwise, I would be too embarrassed to ever see Tom again. “But your school has nicer-looking students.”
I rolled my eyes. The fact that Tom was an endless flirt didn’t help my case. He was cheeky and quick-witted, and his strawberry-blond curls and blue-green eyes drew in every girl he met. Not only that, but he was incredibly affectionate and kind. I wasn’t sure how he was with other girls, but he always had to have his arm around me when we were together. He always claimed it was to help soothe his shoulder that he had hurt that day in rugby (somehow, every time we saw each other, he had hurt himself playing rugby earlier that exact day), but I didn’t mind much. He would hold my hand when we crossed the street, would pull out my chair for me and push it back in, and, often, if he was able to sneak me into his dorm (he was the class head and could get away with a lot), he would let my lay with my head in his lap as we did our own things.
“Alright, Hiddle, quit the flirting,” I scoffed. “Are you on your way to a class?”
“No,” Tom replied. “Just taking a walk. That’s allowed, right?” A smile played at his lips, and it made me smile as well.
“I suppose so,” I said. “Just, you have your notebook under your arm, I assumed.”
Tom looked down at his other arm as if unaware that he was carrying a leather-bound notebook, and he looked back at me. “Truth be told,” he began. “I was going to sit at that bench--” He gestured to a bench off the walking path a few meters in front of us, “And write a bit.”
“A bit of what?” I asked. Tom had casually mentioned writing here and there recently and I hadn’t pushed, but curiosity was getting the better of me. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I added quickly.
Tom laughed, the tops of his cheek turning pink. He was embarrassed. “Don’t laugh,” he began.
“Never,” I replied.
“A bit of poetry,” Tom told me. “I’ve done it for a while, but I’ve gotten really into it lately.”
“Nice,” I said. “Why did you think I’d laugh at that?”
“Because it’s ridiculous?” Tom scoffed, sitting himself down on the metal bench. I sat next to him, and his arm returned to my shoulder, but not before he rubbed his eyes.
“What? No,” I said quickly. “Tommy, that’s not ridiculous! That’s actually very sweet. The mark of a sensitive man, I think.”
“I should be studying,” Tom mumbled, absently toying with the corner of his notebook. “But I just… You ever get an idea and it sticks around in your head until you get it out?”
“Of course,” I said. “Why do you think I talk so much?”
Tom gave me half of a smile, more of an acknowledgment of a joke than an appreciation of it, and he mumbled, “I just have a lot going on lately, and getting it out helps. Writing verse makes me feel… Better. I’m not sure why, but it’s different than a diary.”
“Tom, you don’t have to explain,” I giggled. “I understand. Really, I do. If you need to talk about anything, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Y/N,” Tom said, giving me a tight smile.
“With that…” I began. “Do you think you could read me some? Only if you want to, of course.”
Tom’s pale cheeks flushed brilliant vermillion, and he laughed. I loved Tom’s laugh. His tongue stuck out just a little bit and his eyes wrinkled up, and the sound of it always made my chest warm. I think I was past whipped for my best friend; I was fully in love.
“I mean…” he began and ruffled his blond curls. “It’s cringy stuff. Nothing like The Bard.”
“I don’t expect The Bard,” I giggled. “C’mon, Tommy, just read me one. Please?”
Tom laughed softly and he shook his head. “You’re so lucky you’re cute,” he told me, and he opened up his journal. He flipped a few pages, then went back and scanned a page, then returned to flipping through it. I noticed his hands were shaking fiercely, and I tilted my head.
“Tommy, are you cold?” I cooed lightly and took his hand in mine. January was always miserable in London, and I recognized the flush on his nose. “Jesus, your hands are freezing. Let’s go inside and have some tea—“
“I’m fine, Y/N,” Tom told me. “Here, just… Read this.” He passed me the leather bound journal and tapped at a certain passage. Then, he stood up and, clasping his hands in front of his mouth, began to pace around the bench. Anxiety? Why?
But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Y/N is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing and think it were not night.
Oh. That would explain it. “Tom,” I began, looking up from the journal. “Is this… What is this?”
“I really wish I had done this differently,” Tom mumbled, and he returned to his seat next to me. “But, Y/N… This is dumb. It’s nothing. Nevermind.”
“Tommy!” I exclaimed and grabbed his hand. “No, it’s not! You wrote a verse from Romeo and Juliet, one of the most beautiful love stories ever written, and you put my name in place of Juliet’s. That’s not dumb, and it’s not nothing! Are you… Do you like me?”
Tom’s face was fully red now, and there was no chance of excusing the weather. “For a long time,” he mumbled. “Since we were in nappies. But you always had boyfriends and I never… I sorta gave up after a while. Eddie and William give me shit about it all the time--”
“About what?” I asked. “Your having a crush on me?”
“But it’s not just that,” Tom mumbled. “I am so much further gone than just having a crush. I am…”
“In love with you,” I finished.
“Yes,” Tom said. “I-I understand if you don’t--”
“Don’t what?” I asked. “Don’t feel the same? Tommy, I do. I-I never told you because… Fuck, I thought I was imagining things. But I feel a lot better now that I know you feel the same way. I love you too, Tom.”
The smile that split Tom’s face was blinding. “Right,” he said with a little laugh. “So… Would you--”
I cut him off with a hand on his face and a kiss on his lips. Tom reciprocated instantly, pressing his hands to my hips and holding me tightly. I had dreamt of this for so long, and my heart was bursting with the feel of him. He wasn’t my first kiss, nor I his, but something about it felt special. The kiss broke only a moment later, and I pressed my head into the crook of his neck. “Does this mean I get to read more of what you’ve written?” I whispered, and Tom playfully tickled my side.
“Oh, my love,” Tom whispered and kissed my forehead. “You can have whatever you want from me.”
#tom hiddleston#tom hiddleston fanfiction#tom hiddleston x reader#tom hiddleston x y/n#tom hiddleston fluff
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a light to burn all the empires
I was really hoping to write something short and cute before work and @toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account gave me such a good idea...
modern au
---
Jaskier had just unpacked the last of his books and set them up on the shelf when The Incident occured. He was about to flick on his electric kettle for some tea when his neighbor’s music suddenly started blasting full-volume, startling the mug out of his hands to shatter against the unforgiving linoleum floor.
He could hear every word through the thin drywall:
“Well it rains and it pours when you’re out on your own.
If I crash on the couch, can I sleep in my clothes?
Cause I spent the night dancing, I’m drunk, I suppose;
If it looks like I’m laughing I’m really just asking to leave...”
Jaskier stormed into the hallway and knocked on his neighbor’s door, the black-and-white cow print shards of his treasured mug held aloft in the other hand. When the door opened and 6′2′’ wall of muscle with long white hair and gorgeous, light hazel eyes stood before him, he nearly changed his mind about any sort of reprimand.
Then he heard the music crashing out into the hallway and bolstered his resolve. “Your music was so loud that it scared me half to death. One of my mugs got broken! A favorite!”
“Oops,” hot neighbor apologized, blushing. Fuck he’s even cute when he turns red. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“Do you have any superglue I could use? Or could you turn your music down?”
“Yeah, uhm. Yes to both. Come on in. Are you the new tenant in 12A?”
“Mhm,” the brunette held out his hand, “Name’s Julian, but everyone calls me Jaskier.”
“Why’s that?” the Hunk asked, shaking his hand. Jaskier nearly fainted; that was a firm and definitely attractive kind of grip.
“Not sure,” he shrugged, trying desperately not to blush. “Just like Jaskier better, that’s all.”
“Fair. I’m Geralt. Sorry again about the mug. I get really uhm... intense when I work out and sometimes I forget that other people live in this hall.”
Yeah, I bet you do get intense, Jaskier thought, watching his new neighbor’s biceps flex as he reached for the junk drawer and pulled out a thin tube of glue. He also took a step to the side to turn down his junky speaker and MCR faded into pleasant background noise.
“I could repair it for you and return it tomorrow, as an apology gesture?”
“I’ll allow it,” Jaskier smiled. He handed over the broken pieces of ceramic and watched as Geralt’s enormous digits somehow maneuvered them with the greatest of ease. He was surprisingly graceful despite taking up almost the entire kitchen with the mass of his shoulders and woah. Those thighs and that ass could kill someone if they weren’t emotionally prepared.
Which Jaskier definitely hadn’t been.
“So what made you move in to this shit-hole?” Geralt asked. His tongue was poking out from between his teeth as he applied a bit of glue to the first piece.
“I work nearby.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, I have to get back to my kettle because it’s probably boiling by now, but it was nice meeting you, Geralt. Feel free to stop by for tea if you’re ever lonely.”
“Will do, Jaskier. It was really nice meeting you, too. See you tomorrow,” he gestured to the mug. “Hopefully it’s dry by then.”
---
When Jaskier turned around to hand Geralt his mug of steaming green tea he found the gentle giant’s nose buried in one of his poetry books. “Oh, I love that one!”
“Carol Ann Duffy is a favorite,” Geralt rumbled in that deep, sexy baritone of his. Jaskier could hear him talking through the walks sometimes, usually playing video games late at night. He’d fallen asleep to the gentle hum of Geralt’s WoW battle strategies plenty of times over the past two weeks.
It was oddly intimate
“Mine, too.”
“Although the way she romanticizes Shakespeare’s relationship with his wife is interesting. She has no problem tearing these other fictional and mythological men apart, but she hesitates when it comes to Shakespeare. Is it literary respect? Is it just to switch up the tone of the poetry?”
“You know, I wonder that myself,” Jaskier beamed. Holy shit, he’s also brilliant!? “I think every student of literature wants Shakespeare to be a good person, even if we know he was a product of his time just like everyone else.”
“Don’t get me started on Merchant of Venice,” Geralt grumbled, placing the book back on the shelf and accepting his tea from Jaskier. “I can go on for hours.”
Jaskier settled himself onto his shitty couch and patted the lumpy cushion next to him. “Well, I have nowhere to be.”
#geraskier#meet cute#modern au#geraskier modern au#and they were neighbors#geraskier fluff#mcr lyrics#yeah i'm emo what about it#thanks for the inspo stanny#geraskier ficlet#neighbors to lovers#idiots to lovers
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Scars - JonMartin (TMA)
“What about this one?”
Jon hummed softly as Martin traced the scar that crossed over his shoulder. He had almost forgotten about it, and Martin gently running his thumb over it sent a wave of remembrance over his body, shivering slightly at the flash of the blade in his mind.
“That one was from Melanie. She had been afflicted with the Slaughter because of a ghost bullet, and I got stabbed trying to get it out, since we woke her up.”
Martin laughed softly, and Jon didn’t want that laugh to end. Martin’s voice was honey on the ears, and Jon wanted to relish in the sweetness of it. He hadn’t heard a laugh in weeks while they were living in the safe house, and now that it’d made an appearance he wanted so desperately to make him laugh over and over again. Anything to hear that sweet, deep, viscous laugh that was so unlike Martin’s normally mezzo speaking voice.
“What’s so funny, sir?” If not for the tone, maybe Martin would have stopped laughing; but Jon’s tone was nowhere near annoyed, instead showing off a light-hearted amusement. Dare he say he also heard love in it.
“I just… think you were a little stupid for trying to cut it out of her while she was asleep.”
“Oh trust me, I regretted it after I got hurt. But after that… I mean, we got our Melanie back, so it was alright.”
“The Melanie that hates your guts?”
“Alright, you, don’t remind me.” Jon looked over him and suddenly turned on his side. “My turn to ask.”
Jon hadn’t realized how many little bruises and scars Martin had. Martin wasn’t normally one for taking off his clothes, but as he grew more comfortable, and since they were isolated in that safe house Daisy allowed them to stay in, Martin grew accustomed to walking around the house without a shirt or without trousers. Sometimes both. Pleasantly surprising, as Jon always got a good look at his lover’s body, but definitely a point when Jon started to notice. All of the indentations, the bumps, the raised marks that decorated Martin’s body alongside the plethora of freckles that dotted his back like constellations in an evening sky.
“There’s really not much to ask about, but go on ahead, Jon.” Martin looked at him like he’d hung the moon. Of course, to Martin, he did.
“Alright… Let’s start with this one.” He gently took Martin’s hand and caressed a scar on his thumb gingerly, as if one wrong move would open up the wound even though it had long since closed, skin cells binding together and forming the puckered scar.
“Right! A cooking accident when I was younger. I was making food for my mother, and I cut my hand with the knife.”
“Not surprising.” Jon chuckled softly and pressed a sweet kiss to the scar, looking up at Martin with pretty green eyes that he hoped held the world’s biggest pool of affection.
“Quite the klutz, as my mother says,” Martin responded, waggling his finger gently at Jon when he moved his mouth away. “I think dinner that night was supposed to be grilled chicken, but after that accident and a proper ton of crying, we ordered takeout. I’m sure it tasted way better than anything I could have conjured up in the kitchen, I’m a right abomination.”
Jon couldn’t help it. He laughed once Martin took a pause, and Martin broke out into a gleeful smile. Jon’s laugh was so unlike his normal voice. No matter how tired or upset Jon sounded, whether the exhaustion of being The Archivist pervaded his entire being, Jon’s laugh was… god, it was gorgeous. That was as simple as Martin could get, but if Martin had used his poetry? There’d be fifty different comparisons he could make, and he wouldn’t even be able to reuse a single one. Every emotion related to enamorment crossed his mind when he heard a true laugh from his lover, and it was overwhelming in all of the right ways. As Jon’s laugh died down, Martin couldn’t help sweetly pressing a kiss to his jawline, feeling the bristles of his beard and falling even more in love by the second.
Jon finally caught his breath and calmed down enough to continue raking his gaze over Martin’s uncovered body. If he wasn’t looking for something in particular, he’d spend time counting the numerous dots that resembled raindrops on a window. In fact, Jon wasn’t a poet, but he would dare mention that every time he smelled the petrichor, he thought of Martin.
His thought process was interrupted by a long scar that covered his shoulder. “What about this one?”
“... Hm. I don’t really remember, if I’m being honest.”
“How do you not remember? It looks painful.”
“Jon. I am literally the most careless person when it comes to bumping into things, it’s not even funny anymore. I wake up with random scars every day, and bruises and scratches are not really concerning anymore.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. I get a couple of those, mostly from bumping into tables.”
“Honestly, yeah, it’s as simple as that.”
“Well… what about this one?”
Jon brought a hand up to trace an almost invisible scar that had caught his eye. It was well-hidden by the eyebrow hairs Martin had, but the top of it came into view, peeking out as if to say hello with its silent greeting. Martin was silent for a minute, his expression sort of going flat. Not blank, like Jon had learned was Martin’s clueless face. It seemed to be one that Martin got when thinking about the Lonely.
Trauma.
“What was that?” Martin asked. His voice barely kept itself from wavering, and he cleared his throat as he snapped from his reverie. The entire scene flashed before his eyes in that moment, and he could hardly stop it.
“That … that scar. On your eyebrow. Did… did you hit your head or…?” Jon was resisting the urge to look in his head. As tempting as the door was, he had promised to refrain from it. Oh how tempting the door was, the flood of knowledge pushing against the barrier as if it was putting a heavy strain on the metaphorical wood. Jon could practically reach out and touch the knob and it’d all come spilling out, and Jon would be overwhelmed with whatever had entered into Martin’s head that was oh so tempting, so close to his reach—
“I uh… When I was taking care of my mother, I ran into something,” was all Martin said. “Well, i-it was less of running into and she uh… I forgot something of hers that she needed, it was uh…”
Martin was clearly having trouble describing the scenario, and Jon almost felt bad for asking. He gently reached forward and caressed a hand against his cheek.
He flinched away, and it was at that moment, Jon knew this was more than what he was describing.
“She uh— she was upset, and rightfully so I mean— I was— I didn’t mean to do it, really, but it was— it was really bad. I did really bad and I deserved it—,”
“Martin,” Jon started, but it was almost as if Martin didn’t even hear him. His breathing was starting to pick up.
“—After all, sometimes I just— sometimes I’m just a bad son, and I need to be told what’s right—,”
“Martin, honey…”
“—And don’t even get me started on when I make the wrong meal—,”
“Martin.”
Jon didn’t realize that he’d raised his voice a bit until Martin looked at him, tears in his eyes, and he quickly began to try and rectify his mistake.
“Martin, I am… I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice… You were spiralling, I just… I wanted to get you out.”
The man next to him nodded silently, but he didn’t seem convinced. “I-I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t intend to upset you…”
“Hey, hey…” Jon gently took Martin’s face in his hands. “You didn’t upset me at all, I promise. I’m just worried about you…”
“I… Why?”
“Because… I care about you, a lot. And I’m here for you. Seeing you like this… I want to make it all better, and I know I can’t but… I hope you know that I’m here for you.”
“... Oh, Jon…” Martin’s tears were free-flowing now, and they dribbled down his cheeks and onto the sheet of the bed. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“You did everything. Sometimes I wonder what I did myself to catch your attention.” Jon gently caressed Martin’s cheek, thumb tracing over his lover’s cheekbone with a feather-light touch. God forbid anyone hurt his Martin again, that’s for sure. Jon would raise hell for the love of his life.
“Martin, I need you to tell me when things I do bother you, okay?”
“... Of course.”
“Martin…”
Martin squirmed feverishly under Jon’s look. “I… I know.”
“I understand that it’s hard… we want to do anything we can to please our loved ones. But you have to talk to me… I want you to be happy, and if I do something that bothers you, you need to tell me.”
“And if talking’s hard?”
“... Write a note. Just… give me something, okay?”
Martin sighed deeply. He knows inside that Jon is only trying to help, but this feels like such a monumental task that even only hearing what was requested of him exhausted him to his core. Just the thought of talking about it, it felt like a burden on both himself and the other person, and to do that to Jon of all people? For starters, Jon was going through all of this with Jonah Magnus, and then hiding in the safe house. Plus Jon was prone to anger, what if he didn’t understand? Not everything Martin worried about made sense, he knew that, and Jon had a tendency to dismiss him, especially back when they were still working together in the Institute.
“Martin?”
Jon’s voice, sweet like a melody, brought him back to his senses, and those gentle eyes, greener than a meadow in the middle of summer, sunken in with sleep yet vibrant in color still. It made him feel a little comforted. Yes, this Jon… this Jon was different. Jon wasn’t under the stress of work, he wasn’t asking for Martin to do deceptively hard tasks that just took everything out of him. Martin didn’t have to be his employee here, just his friend and someone to love. And that made things a thousand times better.
“Yes, I’m… I can do that. It’ll be hard, but… I’ll try.”
Jon smiled, and for a second, all was right. Martin almost forgot about everything in the world, just focused on the sweet expression in front of him. Sweeter than sugar, most days. Martin leaned forward and kissed Jon’s forehead before gently pushing his hands away and wiping the tears off of his face.
“Did you know that tears are actually good for the face? They can clean your face and actually help clear pores, leading to less acne.”
Martin scoffed and laughed a bit. “Jon, please.”
“Sorry, sorry! I just thought it was interesting.”
Martin was laughing once again, softer but still kind and sweet, and everything felt right.
From here on, Jon decided he would do anything he could to keep Martin happy. He didn’t know what it would take, but he knew he would try his hardest, even through… whatever was going to happen. It was his vow.
#a little hurt and comfort#jonmartin#jmart#jonmartin tma#the magnus archives#TMA podcast#tma#the magnus archives writing#fanfiction#fanfic#jon sometimes needs to learn boundaries#martin needs to learn to set them#adhd/autism solidarity#scars#angst but also not#sometimes we need to cry and that’s okay#martin tma#martin blackwood#jonathan sims#jon sims#jonathan tma#season 4 tma#the magnus archives season 4 spin off#pre-eyepocalypse#martin blackwood deserves the world
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Wangxian: The Autumn Chrysanthemum
Post-Canon, Rated G, 1.5k - read on AO3
Background Info: The Chongyang Festival, or the Double Ninth Festival, is a lucky date for longevity, celebrated with customs such as climbing mountains and drinking chrysanthemum wine. The word for 'nine,' jiu, sounds like the word for 'long (time),' creating a link between the meanings.
* * *
Wei Ying raised the jar of liquor to his lips. The sweet, floral liquid swirled inside him, sending a rush of heat, then coolness through his chest. A small, sticky dribble slid down to his chin. He wiped it off.
“The chrysanthemum wine is good,” Wei Ying said. “Very rich.”
He turned to the man beside him. The sight of the gentle curves of his face, his tall, steady frame draped with light blue robes—this image filled Wei Ying with warmth that met the unique coolness of the flower’s liquor, the currents flowing into each other and relaxing his entire body.
He smiled. “Lan Zhan, do you remember the first time we shared a drink?”
Lan Zhan stirred a bit. His lashes lowered as he glanced toward Wei Ying’s feet, raised as their eyes met for a brief moment. Then he looked back out to the landscape stretching before them, a vast green valley beneath the mountain they had climbed, dots of the autumn’s scarlet and golden colors reflecting in his eyes.
“I remember that you used a talisman to coerce me.”
Wei Ying choked on the wine a bit, until his coughing melted into a syrupy chuckle. “Of all things you could’ve chosen to reminisce about, you had to pick that.” He drew in a breath of crisp air and sighed. “Why must you incriminate me so? Tell me that you secretly felt exhilarated by breaking the rules, or that you wished you had let me play with your headband, or that you liked calling me Wei-gege. Don’t leave me to say all the sappy memories myself.”
A flock of geese flew overhead, their wings stroking the morning sun and blending with the sound of the mountain breeze.
“All these things, I remember fondly,” Lan Zhan said.
“So do I.” Wei Ying swirled the jar of liquor, watched the pale, honey-colored liquid encircle itself. “You know, the Chongyang Festival is the only time I would drink chrysanthemum wine over Emperor’s Smile.” He shot a grin at Lan Zhan. “Otherwise, I would always prefer this one splendor I know from Gusu.”
The corners of Lan Zhan’s mouth crept upward. “Flattery will not bring you more to drink.”
“Aiya, you see right through me.” In one swift movement, he locked arms with Lan Zhan and nuzzled his cheek into Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Lan Zhan’s breath slowed, a comfortable swell against him. “I already have too much of one certain splendor from Gusu. Better not to have more.”
Lil’ Apple hummed quietly behind them. The donkey was tired after long months of wandering with Wei Ying, until finally meeting with Lan Zhan at the halfway point to Gusu. And actually, Wei Ying was tired too, for they had only returned from their travels a few days ago.
He sank deeper into Lan Zhan’s side.
“When I was traveling with Lil’ Apple, I kept dreaming about our days in the Cloud Recesses. I…I miss it. Back then. How we were all so young. Not even as old as A-Yuan is now.” He lifted the jar up to eye level and shook his head at it. “You know, I think this wine is making me a little too nostalgic.”
Lan Zhan’s arm softened in Wei Ying’s hold. “Chrysanthemum blooms in autumn when other blossoms are fading.” He tilted his chin up slightly, looking out over the trees changing colors in the valley. “Naturally, upon drinking, one would remember moments passed.”
“Mm, you’re right.” Wei Ying lifted his head from Lan Zhan’s shoulder to join him in admiring the scenery. “I shouldn’t forget the meaning of Chongyang, should I?”
“Jiu yue, jiu ri,” Lan Zhan said.
“The ninth day of the ninth month.” Wei Ying waved the jar farther out in front of them, lifting it higher, as if offering it to the valley. He called out loudly like a proclamation. “Two nines—two jiu’s—two long times—just like the two long lives we will share together!”
He smiled, his eyelids feeling heavier as he lowered the jar and leaned against Lan Zhan once more.
“I am happy you have returned,” Lan Zhan said, his voice quivering a bit, like a pond suddenly overcome with ripples at the final entrance of a skipping stone. “Wherever your future takes you, I am happy for it.”
Lan Zhan had never been one to repeat himself. But this sentiment, he had said more than once in the days since Wei Ying returned from his travels, always with that slight tone of turbulence. Listening to these words might have done more to move the soul than drinking chrysanthemum wine.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying chided. “My future takes me to you, and nowhere else.”
A warm stillness spread through them, passing from one man to the other through their intertwined arms.
“You’ll have to help me with that, though,” Wei Ying added. “I need to build up Mo Xuanyu’s golden core so I can cultivate to immortality with you.” He chuckled. “Who would’ve thought that after everything, I’d wind up as a student at the Cloud Recesses yet again?”
Lan Zhan’s bangs blew in the breeze, waving gently over his cheeks. “At last, you come back to Gusu with me.”
Comfort bubbled inside Wei Ying at those words. He let it fill the cavern of longing that time had dug deeper and deeper into him.
“I am. I am so, so glad to come back to Gusu with you.”
They watched the morning sun rise higher over the valley. A splotch of golden color from a small field of chrysanthemums lay below them, glowing brighter, almost caramelizing, as the sun’s rays strengthened.
“Have you heard of the poet Tao Yuanming?” Wei Ying asked.
“Tell me.”
Wei Ying paused, suspicious that Lan Zhan knew of the poet already and was just pretending. But perhaps he would be content to listen anyway.
“Well, he wrote a lot about the beauty of chrysanthemums. He appreciated their noble nature, their power for healing.” Wei Ying swirled the jar of wine again. “He was a lot like me, really.”
“You have written chrysanthemum poetry?” Lan Zhan said with a small smirk.
Wei Ying laughed sheepishly. “Ah, no, no, I haven’t. Sorry to disappoint.”
Lan Zhan gave him a fond look that said, I know. Continue.
“Okay, let’s see.” Wei Ying stroked his chin, making a show of thoughtfulness. “As Tao Yuanming was growing up, he was surrounded by hardship. Clans were fighting with each other, overthrowing each other, wreaking violence and betrayal at every turn.
“He joined the civil service to help his people, but all he met was hypocrisy. Scheming, thievery, wars.
“Then, his sister died.”
Lan Zhan’s frame grew tense, as did Wei Ying’s own body.
“The death of his sister was too much for him, and the government officials had only ever abused his good intentions, so he decided to flee public life. He went to the countryside to become a meager farmer, and started a new family.
“Generals came by and asked him to rejoin the civil service, but he refused. He could not compromise his principles by returning to that world. Instead, he lived in poverty, for the single richness in his life was the ability to admire nature and write of its beauties.
“Sometimes he felt lonely.”
Wei Ying breathed in the mountain air, along with the calming scent of tea leaves and pine. This scent usually filled the Cloud Recesses, but now it hung from Lan Zhan beside him, steadying him.
“However, there was a visitor who would come to Tao Yuanming’s farm. This visitor would bring him liquor, and simply sit with him, enjoying his company.”
The faint surface of a low wooden table seemed to grow in the space between them, the chatter of guests at a restaurant, the sting of spicy peppers on soft tongues, the crinkling sound of A-Yuan playing with a toy butterfly.
“So Tao Yuanming grew fond of liquor, and he drank it in front of the chrysanthemum blossoms. He found peace and gratitude where one would have thought he had nothing.”
Having concluded the story, Wei Ying looked to his side.
After a long silence, Lan Zhan said, “In these things there lies a deep meaning. Yet when we would express it, words suddenly fail us.”
“Wow!” Wei Ying’s eyes widened, and a grin spread across his face. “So profound! You should be a poet like Tao Yuanming, Lan Zhan.”
A terse, barely-audible huff escaped Lan Zhan. “You speak highly of the artist, yet do not recognize his words.”
“That’s Tao Yuanming’s poetry?”
Lan Zhan’s only answer was to gaze back onto the sunny valley, an air of amusement floating in the breeze around him.
“Oh, well. I suppose that’s what I get for trying to impress you.” Wei Ying took another sip of liquor, felt its heat and coolness rush through him.
“Here, you can have the last bit.” He held the jar up to Lan Zhan’s lips. “Hanguang-Jun should drink the chrysanthemum wine of the Chongyang Festival, so he has a long life with me.”
Lan Zhan’s eyes twinkled, the same golden color as the wine.
Wei Ying tipped the jar of wine between Lan Zhan’s lips. Then he placed his own lips on Lan Zhan’s to savor the chrysanthemums a little longer.
* * *
What is there I can do to assuage this mood? Only enjoy myself drinking my unstrained wine. I do not know about a thousand years, Rather let me make this morning last forever.
-Tao Yuanming, "Written on the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month"
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, you can be a supportive sibling like Jiang Yanli by visiting me on AO3!
I am not of Chinese descent, so feel free to inform me of any cultural missteps.
#i wrote this so long ago and forgot to post it. here it is#my writing feels so different looking back lol#mdzsnet#mdzs#cql#the untamed#wangxian#wei wuxian#lan wangji#mdzs fanfic#the untamed fanfic#cql fanfic#mdzs fanfiction#the untamed fanfiction#cql fanfiction#wangxian fanfic#wangxian fanfiction#emilu fics#emilu creations
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Hours had passed since the "math duel" and the sun had began its descent, setting the town ablaze with a warm orange glow. Krel had spent a portion of the evening exploring, or rather wandering, throughout more of the town, observing it's people. Many of the humans were out in pairs at this hour, some of the pairs had included smaller versions of themselves in whatever activities they were partaking in. He had spied a young pair of, well, human girls at the park, almost identical except in the tones of their skin and the color of their hair, and a pair of adults he assumed were their parents seated on a bench not far away, sitting at polar ends from each other on the bench conversing on their communication devices, otherwise leaving the two children on their own.
The girls themselves didn't appear perturbed or at all bothered by their parents behavior, more entertained by the images on the platform they made with the unusual writing untensils in their tiny hands. Well, all Earthly untensils were unusual in Krel's perspective; pencils, pens, markers, but ones that the two girls used were different even from those. These were maybe the length of an unused pencil but far thicker than a marker and... powdery? His head tipped as he watched one blow away part of her line, the colorful powder pushed into the air in one big gust, as she redrew the line. Her fairer toned sibling patted a hand on her clothes, a blue colored handprint left behind on the green fabric. Both girls took notice of the mark and giggled, the first girl Krel was watching pressed a hand to her own clothes and left a pink handprint similar to the other's blue. The action brought a smile to his face, it has been a while since that happened.
He eyed the girls' parents again. Would it be rude if he just started talking to the children? Their parents didn't seem to be very attentive at the moment. Doesn't that sound familiar? But he was curious about their weird, colorful writing tools. Hm, maybe if he just kept a decent distance as he spoke to them. He didn't want to come off as strange.
"Excuse me," he approached the girls, kneeling to their height at what he believed was a respectable distance. Both girls looked at him, shifting as if they were preparing to run at the first opportunity, Krel wasn't exactly surprised by the reaction seeing as a lot of the commercials on the picture box involved something called 'stranger danger' and he was, afterall, a stranger to them. But he pointed at their drawings, from a closer examination the colorful etchings turned out to be crude imitations of other Earth creatures, a lot of them with long ears and roundish tails and a few like clouds with legs. "What is that you are writing with?"
The wariness in their eyes wavered as they looked down at the drawings around them and then at the untensils in their hands.
"You mean chalk?" The yellow-haired one asked, pointing her free hand to the blue powdery stick she held.
"Chalk," Krel echoed thoughtfully. "And you, ah, draw with it?"
"Yea, dummy," her sister answered. "Haven't you used chalk before?" They gave him identical looks of confusion only someone their age could.
"No, actually, I haven't." Krel answered back quietly. "We don't have anything like 'chalk' where I am from." He looked down at their drawings again, noticing colors other than pink and blue, there was a yellow circle he figured was the sun judging by the green landscape below it and many other colorful dots he supposed were plants. His head tilted so the image wasn't completely upside down in his perspective. "You have some very pretty drawings."
"Do you want to try?" The yellow-haired girl asked, holding out her chalk stick to him.
He eyed the shrunken piece of blue in her open palm. "A- are you sure?"
"Sure!" The girl chirped, a smile spreading over her features, a matching one on her sister's as well. "We do this all the time, its fun."
Krel took the chalk from her, rolling it and turning it in his hand, blue powder stuck to his palm wherever it touched. He looked up to see the girl reach behind her sister and pull out another stick of chalk, purple this time. They went back to scribbling on the bricks around them. He watched as their creativity grew and spread, narrowly crossing over each other's work and somehow still blending together.
Looking down at the emptiness around him where their chalk hadn't yet touched. What would he draw, he wondered. Things considered artistic escaped him, even on his planet; he couldn't understand poetry, the closest he gets to crafting is inventing gadgets, even basic drawing on a telepad wasn't something he had much skill in. What could he draw? Well, shapes are pretty simple.
He started with a triangle, Earth's history was full of them according to Kubritz and her research teams. Ancient tombs and monuments to societies that have long since passed, the triangle was acknowledged as the strongest structure, those words rang true clearly. A square, the basic form of most present day structures; there wasn't anything too spectacular about it, a little more space than a triangle, sure but meh. Then a circle, a shape Krel was most familiar with, there wasn't a screen or viewing monitor in Akiridion-5 that did not have circles, and even then there were links that connected them to more circles. On Earth, circles meant unity to some and a means of 'alien' communication to others - Kubritz.
"Can't you draw?" The brown-haired girl asked as she crawled over to look at his work.
"I am not very talented." Krel admitted. "But drawing with chalk is fun."
"Try drawing your family." Her sister suggested as she joined them. "That helps me sometimes."
Krel hummed at that logic. It was sound enough, even if he was currently at odds with his family and it was an extremely delicate situation. But they are human children, it was probably best to go along with it.
He started with Aja, forcing himself to recall her human form; it wasn't perfect, especially since he was limited to one color but he knew. Next his mother, whose disguise he's only seen a handful of times so this may be a little more difficult. That was nothing to drawing his father. How does one draw face fur?
The girls giggled at the etching.
"That one looks like a monkey." The yellow-haired one pointed to his etching. His gaze roamed over the attempted drawing and felt laughter bubbling in his chest.
"It seems you are right." Oh, how was Krel going to look at his father's face without laughing now?
He looked around them, seeing that the sky was gradually getting darker, getting closer to the time that younglings would be taken back to their homes. The girls' parents were still occupied with their own priorities, poor girls.
"I suppose I should go," he sighed, giving back the chalk he was given, "you will be going home soon." Krel did not expect such saddened expressions at his words.
"Do you have to?" The brown-haired girl asked, watching him stand up.
"I'm afraid so." He dusted the blue powder on to his jeans. "But I'm sure we will see each other again."
"Really?" The yellow-haired girl asked excitedly.
"Of course," Krel chuckled. "I wander around when I have free time." He watched as they shared a look, tipping his head as they stood as well, the yellow-haired one picking up the blue chalk and holding it out to him again.
"My name's Abby," she said, bouncing a little on her heels as she shook the chalk at him.
"And I'm Gabby." Her sister added proudly. "You can have the blue one, then we can draw again next time. Right?"
A smile pulled at his lips again. It would be a shame to see their faces fall again in sadness. He took the chalk from Abby. "That sounds fun. My name is Krel, it was nice to meet you both."
They waved at him as he walked away, pocketing the chalk he was gifted. Maybe he can find out where they get it next time so he can obtain more himself. He admired the blue powder that tainted his palm, opening and closing his hand, it was somehow amusing how the color clung to his flesh. It was almost as if his real body was peering through, if only.
After a bit of wandering, the sky growing darker, and some of the street lights were blinking to life Krel found himself at a back alley behind some stores that surrounded the park, if his memory of the town map was correct. It was empty of any lifeform that was human as he stepped in, looking around at his surroundings carefully; four-legged creatures that he was told were cats saw his approach and ran off into hiding; even smaller creatures scurried away behind them, leaving Krel alone with the garbage bins of two different sizes, the walls of the buildings were clean aside from the occasional stain near the bins or moss that grew more toward the ground.
He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so but he pulled the piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the equation from the math duel, following it with his correct work and answer. Satisfaction washed over him as he wrote his answer, the right answer, his original answer. He was still a bit stuck on his why's during the duel, he knew he did a good thing for Seamus so what did it matter anymore. Why did Seamus stare at him when it was over?
Krel's hand moved to write another equation, it was more complex but watching the letters and numbers come into being it made sense to him, it always made sense to him, similar to cataloging past events and his planning for the future. It was comforting as he continued the equation, spreading it further along the wall, blue clear against the red brick but still convoluted. Had he been less taken in with his work he probably would have felt more guilty about how much of the chalk he was using up. He didn't notice the approaching person behind him until they addressed him.
"Kubritz?"
Krel whipped around, instinctively taking up a defensive battle stance startling the newcomer. That was... Seamus? And was holding an item in each hand, they didnt seem to be weapons though so he could relax somewhat. Not completely though, he has noticed around the education prison that some human males in their age group tended to be, well, boorish and found amusement in harassing other males they perceived as weak, and Krel's human form unfortunately suited that perception. Primitive. He'll be sure to correct that.
"Uh... hey," Seamus waved one of the things he held, the action stiff. His eyes flicked beyond Krel, looking over the equations behind him. "What're you working on?" His gaze followed the equation to the start, lingering on the work shown. "Looks complicated."
"You have no idea." Krel wasn't trusting this interaction, not that there was any reason to.
"Hey- Look, you can relax, uh, whatever move that is," Seamus gestured to Krel's posture with whatever it was he held. "What is that anyway? Judo? Jujitsu?"
Krel eased his stance but kept a leery eye still on the human. "Nothing you have ever seen, I assure you." He answered in little more than a monotone.
"Ookay...?" The human coughed, taking a few meeger steps toward him with a hand extended outward. "You want a burrito? I dunno if you've eaten yet or anything but it's an idea right?" He gave a pitiful laugh as he stopped only a few feet away, the thing in his hand slumping over his fingers like it was trying to slip out of his grip.
As a being of energy, Krel had no need to consume organic materials, but he has been curious. On another hand Earth has a history in poisoning consumables for enemies, again not that it should affect him, maybe.
A sigh escaped Seamus, seeming to notice Krel's reluctance. "I just want to apologize for my behavior." He said, "You didn't deserve it. You earned the grade fair and square."
"I suppose I should say that I'm relieved you've gained some sense." Krel retorted, not completely convinced.
"Okay... I earned that." Krel saw Seamus' grip tighten around the 'burrito', his restraint was admirable. "But you didn't have to let me win, so why did you?"
Krel finally took the burrito, examining it for a moment before tearing the aluminum wrapping like he's seen other humans do and bite into it. The texture was strange, soft, soggy; the taste was savory, it was weird feeling the crunch of vegetables but overall it wasn't bad but he didn't have much in expectations, so, another point for Earth.
"Wanna sit?" Seamus gestured to the the sidewalk. Krel didn't object, taking another bite of his burrito and joining him on the cold cement just a yard or so from a flickering lamppost.
"I had nothing to gain," he answered finally, getting a startled look, "from winning the math duel. Nothing to lose either, unlike you."
The human's head ducked almost sheepishly. He must have recalled how loud his father was in bellowing their agreement. If it could have been called that.
"Again, I'm sorry," he declared. "My dad just has high expectations. Very high."
"Understandable."
"Is it really?"
Krel frowned at him. "Just because my parents are not present does not mean I don't have my own problems with them."
Seamus' face turned even more guilt ridden. "R-right, sorry," he stammered, a red hue spreading over his features. He was quiet for a moment, taking large distracting bites of his own burrito. The silence allowed Krel a moment to gather his thoughts about the present situation, and possibly plan for what could happen next. Maybe he could somehow make Seamus an ally, like Aja had with the majority of their peers, to keep his disguise here. It certainly would make things easier than researching every tidbit about this mudball to blend in while Morando outsources the search for Gaylen's core. The question was how to do so.
"You," Seamus spoke up again, breaking the silence between them, "you came from a warring country, right, like Aja Tarron and her family?"
The words brought a bitter curl to his lips. Her family, may as well be, ironic, consider she used to run away from her family at every opportunity.
"Yes," Krel answered softly. "Maybe even the same country, if luck would have it." Some luck that would be.
"What happened? I-if you don't mind me asking."
The expression on Seamus' face was different from before; softer, solemn, perhaps even sympathetic. It's been a clear background to his class that Krel escaped from a war torn country with no family besides Morando who was discharged due to injury during the fight. Could this be the opportunity he needed to make Seamus his ally? To make a 'friend'? In one quote Krel had heard, he now understood. When opportunity knocks, it would be wise to open the door.
"I-it all happened so fast," Krel began, quickly coming up with details to twist the story from the traumatic reality. "It happened on the coronation day for the royal heirs; my parents both had high political and military positions so my sister and I were allowed good seats to see the crowning," he kept his voice low, allowing some of the emotion he kept at bay to fill his words, "everyone was excited, we all had high hopes. The princess hadn't made her appearance yet when the attack happened." Krel swallowed thickly as the real memory came to mind. The running, his parents ordering him and Zadra to find Aja, falling behind, and being left behind. "It was chaos; people were running everywhere, trying to find each other and to find shelter, soldiers and their weapons, the cannon fire..." his eyes were leaking again, it was too much already with so little spoken. What was wrong with him? "I- I was too slow, my... my parents- my sister, gah, what is wrong with me?" He took the fabric of his shirt, quickly trying to wipe away the streaming liquid, his chest felt heavy, his core ached. Krel hadn't felt like this since he first found Aja and their parents on Earth. His head hurt.
A hand touched his shoulder making him freeze up. "It's okay." Seamus' voice was calm, relaxing even. "You've been through a lot, huh?"
Krel sniffed, trying to regain some composure before answering. "You have no idea."
#tales of arcadia#3below#krel tarron#aja tarron#general morando#morandos prodigy au#king failkov#queen coranda#seamus johnson#trollhunters#space camp#this is getting so long so imma make a part 3
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Frayed Wires (Nathan Bateman x Reader)
FRAYED WIRES (Nathan Bateman x Reader)
(so i decided i may turn the drunk texts thing into a series? i decided at least to do one with Nathan because...well...it’s Nathan. the poem he quotes is Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was incidentally married to Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein (or: The Modern Prometheus) which is also kind of appropriate for Nathan and anyway i sat down today and this happened.)
Word Count: 2122(ish)
Summary: All you want to do is sleep. All Nathan wants to do is talk.
Warnings: Language, naturally.
(Nathan’s texts are in bold. Your texts are in bold and italic.)
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
You reached blindly for your phone as it rattled on the bedside table. You had no idea what time it was but you did know it was the middle of the night, your phone should not be going off, and you had gotten entirely too little sleep. Like, maybe two hours worth. You were so tired and groggy that you made the mistake of checking your messages before you actually even thought about what you were doing.
Do you ever think about the meaning of life?
I mean like really think about it.
Why we’re here, why the sky is green and the grass is blue?
No wait that’s not right.
You sighed and buried your face in the pillow. It was 3:27 in the morning and Nathan was texting you. Which was just odd anyway, since he knew where your room was and it was much more his style to just walk in and start a random conversation with you in person.
He was probably drunk.
And now he could see that you had read the messages, so you were going to have to reply, or he really would show up at your door. Technically it was his door, it was his house, you just worked for him and stayed there, but the point was you were not in the mood to deal with him at all right now, and most decidedly not in the flesh.
You rolled your eyes before sending him a reply. You really should just ignore it, but...you were annoyed. Nathan was annoying. And it was now 3:30 in the morning and you were going to push a few buttons. Figuratively AND literally! your sleep-deprived brain cheered.
And things like why is water wet and air is invisible?
YES exactly see that’s why I want you.
I’m sorry?
Your brain. I want to pick you up. Your brain I mean. Pick your brain.
You just want me for my brain, huh?
You have a very nice brain.
Yep, Nathan was definitely drunk.
Not that him being drunk was anything out of the ordinary. But a few hours ago, when you were both in the lab testing some of his most recent ideas about the AI code, he had seemed...normal? Well, normal for Nathan anyway. He wasn’t irritated, he wasn’t condescending, he was actually (you honestly could not believe you were even thinking this) pleasant to be around.
You had been working for Nathan as his personal assistant for a few months. It was a promotion for sure over being a code slinger in a cubicle, but sometimes you honestly wondered what made you say yes to this bizarre existence. It was a beautiful house, beautiful scenery, interesting and highly intellectual conversations...when Nathan was sober.
There was also something you could never quite put your finger on. Something that was shifting as the weeks went on and you spent more time working alongside Nathan in the lab. As you spent evenings eating sushi and steaks and whatever else you were in the mood for that night (most nights, he actually let you choose the menu, you realized.) As you took afternoon walks around the estate, just taking in the scenery. As you debated various philosophies and ideas and theories and tried your damndest to prove Nathan wasn’t always right about everything. He almost seemed like he appreciated it all, but he would never say anything.
And you weren’t about to open that can of worms. Especially when he wasn’t sober.
How drunk are you right now?
On a scale of shitfaced to really fucking blitzed I would say I’m feeling no pain.
Jesus Christ. Well that was obvious. It was obvious just from the fact that he was texting you. Nathan was so uptight about security and data leaks and wiretapping and signals being hijacked (he’d admitted to doing it himself, so he did have a point) but had decided, after much insistence from you, that rigging the cell phones to only work inside the compound was an acceptable idea. It was so vast, you’d said, and what if something happened and one of you was all the way across the house or down in the lab, how were you supposed to let the other person know? It made sense at the time.
Now you were vaguely regretting it.
You could count on one hand the number of times you’d actually considered your boss to be pleasant to be around, and you still had your thumb left over just in case you needed to add to that tally.
At least personality wise. He was definitely pleasant to look at. Very pleasant.
You coughed and cleared your throat. That was not a line of thought to travel right now. The proper course of action was to get him to stop texting you.
A few minutes passed in glorious silence. Maybe a new, shiny thought had occurred to him and he was madly writing it down on a Post-It note. Maybe he just got bored and went to get a new drink. Maybe he’d finally just passed out and---
What are you thinking about?
Dammit. How to make you shut up, your brain snapped back. How to get you to let me sleep. How good your arms and shoulders look in that tank top after you’ve been hitting that punching back and you’re flushed and sweaty and…. Oh no. No no no. Stop it right now, brain.
Nathan hated to beat around the bush. Straightforward was the best policy with him, right?
How to get you to shut up and let me sleep.
Wonderful, glorious silence for exactly forty-six seconds.
Bro...that’s...so not cool.
Okay, this was getting ridiculous. Why were you participating in this? Why was he? You narrowed your eyes and looked toward a corner of your room. You hoped he could see you glaring into the camera that you knew was there and that he was watching while he was texting you. If not, you were sure he would watch it in the actual morning and you hoped the look was withering enough to make him think twice. Probably not. Because this was Nathan Bateman.
Your incredibly narcissistic, incredibly intelligent, incredibly attractive...stop it brain.
But he was pushing your buttons right back. Neither of you could ever really back away from an exchange like this..
I’m not your “bro”, Nathan. Please knock this shit off.
Dude, it’s a figure of speech.
I’m not your dude, either. Please just stop talking.
What’s wrong with dude. Dude is a gender neutral term, anyone can be a dude. Guys are dudes, chicks are dudes, dudes are dudes
Yeah, well, you’re kind of being an asshole, dude.
Dude. Chill.
Turning my phone off now.
No, wait, don’t. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.
Now that was...unexpected. Nathan Bateman just apologized to you? For being a drunk asshole in the middle of the night? Your eyes narrowed again. Suspicious.
You’ll stop texting me so I can go back to sleep?
No not that. I’ll stop calling you dude.
Oh for the love of...you closed your eyes and briefly considered the merits of hurling your phone at the surveillance camera.
Nathan, seriously, can we please just leave this until the morning?
A whole minute of wonderful, glorious, blessed silence this time. You couldn’t believe he might be considering this.
You were right.
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away
If a brain cramp was an actual thing, yours would most certainly be doing it now. You could barely even process it. He was drunk as hell and he was quoting poetry to you? You supposed you probably shouldn’t be entirely surprised, he’d quoted Oppenheimer once in a worse stupor (which you could only quantify because he had actually passed out that time.)
Are you fucking serious right now.
What.
Are you fucking quoting Ozymandias to me right now?
I am.
You couldn’t get the color of the sky right earlier, and now you’re just flawlessly quoting philosophical Romantic poetry at me?
I am.
You are not a normal person, Nathan Bateman.
What is normal anyway, besides really fucking boring? Who wants to be normal?
I would like to be somewhat normal, at least between the hours of midnight and 8am.
See, I knew there was a reason I liked you.
That was the second time he said that, you noted. You found it hard to believe. Nathan liked his work, his routine, his own brain. He liked talking about his work and how smart he was. Other than telling you that you were doing a great job, he barely handed out a single compliment, and if he somehow accidentally did, it was so backhanded you weren’t sure you could actually define it as one.
You mean you like my brain.
Well, yeah, your brain is fucking amazing. It has to be if you work with me.
I work for you, Nathan, not with you. But thanks?
No, no, see, that’s where you’re wrong. You work with me. We’re like partners. None of that employer employee bullshit.
Oooookay now I am one thousand percent sure you are completely piss drunk.
I am but that doesn’t make it any less true.
You could almost hear him saying those words in your head. You could see the way his eyebrows went up, the intensity in his eyes, the way he held his finger up to make the point.
The thought made your brain go slightly fuzzy, and not from exhaustion. Because now you were wide awake. Damn him.
Okay, Nathan, I’ll bite. What do I have to do to get you to stop doing this right now?
There was a pause before he answered, and you swore you’d heard a phone alert that wasn’t your own. It sounded like it was coming from...oh no, he wasn’t…
Getting tired of typing. Can I come talk to you for a while?
Are you outside my door right now?!
You heard the phone chime very clearly this time. He was, definitely.
I am.
You sighed, deeply. So deeply.
Is that really a good idea?
I think it’s a great idea.
Nathan, being serious here.
You could have sworn you heard him sigh from the other side of the door. He could have just come inside. It was his house, his keycard worked on all the doors.
But the door didn’t open.
So am I. Please can I come in? My mind just won’t shut off and I really am fucking drunk but talking to you is helping but tired of typing shit out, I’d rather say it to you.
I wanna see you. And tell you how sexy your brain is.
And that I like you for more than your brain.
And you knew in that instant there really was only one way to get him to shut up. And it was to just let him talk. It made sense, in an oddly Nathan kind of way. What’s the worst that could happen, really? He’d come in, you’d talk, he’d eventually pass out, maybe you could get a couple more hours of sleep, and then in the morning you’d either talk about it on a very deep cerebral level or you’d just pretend it had never happened at all.
A press to the door release button on the side of the table and the latch let go. The door opened, revealing Nathan standing on the other side. Still wearing what he’d been wearing in the lab earlier that night, black lounge pants and that tight white henley he seemed to love so much. The corner of his mouth turned up in the most miniscule of smiles, but it was there.
You were about to toss your phone back onto the bedside table, when the text alert went off again. You shot an exasperated look in his direction, but gamely checked the message.
Did you mean what you said before? About biting?
You glanced up at Nathan and saw that the sliver of a smile had taken over most of his face and his eyebrows had raised to emphasize his question.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t text him back. You just nodded your head to the empty spot next to you in your bed.
You had a feeling you weren’t going to get any sleep tonight after all.
~end~
taglist: @anetteaneta @rosemarysbaby13 @darksideofclarke @girlwiththemostcake
(taglist is open, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for future fics)
#oscar isaac#oscar isaac characters#nathan bateman#nathan bateman x reader#nathan bateman x you#ex machina#ex machina fic#writing#fanfic#drunk text fic
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All this bad blood, won’t you let it dry?
ao3 link here
Talia Al Ghul had been born to an assassin and raised to be an assassin. She was all sharp edges and cutting smiles. She was not raised to be empathetic or soft, with rounded edges and kind smiles, she was raised to be a weapon. She was the best, because she was a woman, and had to be better. Ra’s Al Ghul never thought the best of women, and Talia had sought to prove him wrong. So she killed more, she became a vicious killing machine, heartless, ruthless, without remorse. She removed all the parts of her that cared and shoved them deep inside her, until she became alien to them. She trained tirelessly until she could beat any adversary with no trouble, until no one could beat her. Until there was no error for her father to zero in on. Begrudgingly, he saw Talia’s potential. He admired it, Talia could see it, and she felt proud. Talia was named after the Greek muse. She was well versed in ten different dialects, including Ancient Greek and Latin. Thalia was the muse of comedy and idyllic poetry. Her name meant “the flourishing”. Some days, Talia wondered if this was the Universe’s version of a sick joke. She was the furthest thing from flourishing. She was a killing machine, created by her father, and by herself. She’d cut herself from anything that made her human.
Talia never expected to fall for Bruce Wayne. It was supposed to be a simple mission, but that had quickly gone sideways. She’d fallen, and no matter how she pretended she hadn’t, she couldn’t. And stupidly, so stupidly, she fell pregnant. She never stopped beating herself up for making such a preventable mistake. Of course, after that, she just had to leave Bruce. She couldn’t drag him into her life. She loved him too much for that, and she always knew and feared that she’d have her heart broken if she ever fell in love, because in the end, she couldn’t take someone she loved down with her. She never forgave herself for dragging Damian into that life, but at the same time she was grateful she had someone to care for, someone she loved more than life itself by her side. She faked a miscarriage, and watching her relationship with Bruce crumble to ashes right in front of her, by her own doing, broke her heart.
She took her son back home, to Ra’s Al Ghul and the League of Assassins, knowing she was taking away his freedom with every step she made. Talia named him Damian, a name she and Bruce had chosen for him together. He could no longer be a part of their son’s life, but she allowed him this. Their son was a perfect mix of the both of them, and looking at him was a constant reminder of what Talia had lost. He had her sharp face and green eyes, bright and intelligent, but his dark hair was entirely his father’s.
Her father had started training her from a very young age. Maybe since she was no more than a toddler, still wobbling around and discovering the world around her, eyes wide with wonder and babbling cheerfully. She assumes so, because that was when Ra’s started training Damian. They’d trained the wonder out of him the way they did out of her. Damian had just learned to walk, wobbling around the headquarters when Ra’s took him to one of the vast training rooms for the first time. Talia had been there, because he was her son, and the future leader of the League of Assassins. He was as much under Ra’s tutelage as he was under hers.
It didn’t take long for the laughter and excited squeals that would occasionally echo around the headquarters to stop completely. Talia had noticed, and she felt something tug at her heart. She had been sure she’d cut herself off from feeling, because it made her sloppy and she couldn’t bear to be anything less than perfect. Even with Bruce she had been cold and numb, but Damian brought something out in her, deep down from the depths of her heart and subconscious where she’d shoved every feeling and emotion she knew. She felt angry that she regretted bringing Damian to the League. She didn’t know if she felt angrier about bringing him to the League or at her traitorous heart for feeling remorseful. But in the end, she never stopped regretting.
Damian was three and a half and had come back from his training with his grandfather shaking and covered in cuts and bruises. The moment Talia saw him, she almost took him directly to Gotham and Bruce, and away from the League and Ra’s. He had hugged her and started crying. She hugged him fiercely and told him he shouldn’t cry, because Ra’s did not accept any sign of weakness. In that single moment, nothing mattered except Damian, and however loyal she’d been to her father and the League would never compare to how loyal she was to her son. She wanted to take him far away from Ra’s and the League that sought to turn her son into an assassin just as ruthless as her. She did not.
Damian was four when his mother told him he’d be climbing to the top of the mountain, and that he could not fail. Damian knew what failing the exercise meant, and so he climbed the mountain. He broke his wrist, and more than once he’d almost fallen off the edge, and he was shaking from a deep chill that settled in his bones and left only days later, but he had succeeded. He’d cried when they’d wrapped his wrist and Talia slapped him and told him not to cry, not to show weakness. She’d apologized and hugged him, running her fingers through his hair later, scolding herself for hitting Damian, and promised him she’d never do it again. He’d looked at her with his bright green eyes, that matched hers almost identically and told her he believed her.
At six, he was put in front of a computer and taught to access any and all information, and he was assigned tutors who taught him to read and write. He was the son of Talia Al Ghul and she wanted him to be competent in more than killing. She had argued with Ra’s about his education, an argument she’d eventually won. When it came to Damian, she rarely lost arguments. Months later, Talia watched Damian break into NORAD completely undetected. She’d told him she was proud of him and Damian almost preened under the praise, and Talia felt herself smile. It was a smile only reserved for her son, and it was a smile he loved to see.
Damian did not misbehave. Ra’s had taught him early on what kind of punishment disobeying brought upon him. He was only punished when he messed up. Ra’s only glared in disappointment, but Talia did not tolerate failure. Her son could not be anything less than the perfect Al Ghul legacy. There was no room for error. The first time he’s messed up, she’d only yelled at him, warned him to do better, to start again. But he kept messing up, all the time. He would hold his sword wrong, or his footwork would be off, or he’d let himself get tackled to the ground because of a careless mistake. She forgot the promise she made him, then, when she slapped him and told him to do better. She apologized later, but he just would not listen! And it seemed slapping him was the only way to make him understand what she needed him to do.
Ra’s was not a kind father, nor a kind grandfather. He was an assassin. He had never been Talia’s father except in blood, and it was the same for Damian. Ra’s made his assassins terrified of him, and nothing else. Damian was not his grandson, he was a weapon to be molded, to be trained to fear nothing except the wrath of his grandfather. As Damian grew older, Ra’s trained him for longer hours, and harder, hitting harder, unrelenting. Talia sometimes assisted to their training lessons, watching her son attentively. In those moments, watching Damian take down his opponents, she felt proud. Proud of her son for living up to his Al Ghul and Wayne heritage.
Damian was on the tail end of five years old when Talia first ordered him to kill the man he’d been sparring with. The man begged and sobbed as Ra’s placed a gun in Damian’s toddler hand, his green eyes wide and fearful, his whole body trembling. He hesitated, the gun remaining aimed at the man at his feet, and Ra’s threw a knife at Damian. It landed in his thigh, though Damian had barely flinched, and Talia straightened her back a little more, proud that her son hardly flinched in pain anymore, though her mood soured when Ra’s scowled and ordered him to kill the man. She did not hesitate. “Kill him, Damian,” she told him. Damian’s small chest rose and fell with his deep inhale and he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out and Damian flinched back, Ra’s tutting under his breath and Talia’s face pinching. Her son could not-- should not-- fear killing his opponents. He was an Al Ghul. He was the heir. He was an assassin. It was in his blood, and she would not tolerate weakness. Later that evening, Damian broke down sobbing and would simply not stop. Talia, already short of temper, slapped him and told him an Al Ghul was never afraid to kill and left him alone. When she came back later in the evening, Damian’s tears were gone, but his cheek was purple and bruised. She hugged him and apologized for hitting him, ignoring the slight tremors that still ran down his small form.
To be an assassin, one could not fear death. Fearing death could result in abandoning your post to save your life, a traitor and a coward’s path. And Talia would be damned if she let her son taint their name like that. He knew their family name was important by now. She kept repeating it to him, that he was a Wayne and an Al Ghul and that he had to live up to his name, to bring honor to them. Ra’s had repeated over and over that death was simply a possible outcome, not a frightful thing they should be afraid of and run from when Talia was young. Fear of death meant for a sloppy assassin. Talia did not fear death, and it was a thing most well taught at a young age. The members of the League of Assassins should fear nothing save for the wrath of Ra’s Al Ghul. In case of capture, and torture for information, the only thing an assassin should fear is not the possibility of dying once they’d outlived their utilty, but the fear of what Ra’s would do to them if they were to ever divulge any information. That was why it was imperative to Ra’s that every assassin built up their pain tolerance, his children and grandchild included. Damian, still a child and at great risk of dying too easily, was first given small doses of poison that were progressively upped to higher and higher dosages. Talia wondered if maybe she was a bad mother for not feeling guilty watching her child writhe and cry out in pain for hours on end. Maybe she was, but she was an Al Ghul, and she was not an ordinary woman, much less mother, and Damian was not an ordinary child. She, Ra’s and one of Damian’s special trainers were in charge of his pain tolerance, and familiarizing him with every torture technique. It took a year before Damian stopped crying when he left the training room.
Talia had done everything right. Maybe it was something she’d told herself so often over the years it became her reality, or maybe she simply refused to admit she was lacking in certain departments. She’d taught Damian how to read and write, had requested the best tutors to teach him different languages and mathematics. She’d taken him on morning runs early in the morning before the sun warmed the dry earth around them to build up his stamina. She’d taught him to escape any trap or bonds and how to survive harsh weather. But maybe, she thought as she watched her ten year old son sitting in the car next to her, she’d taken away something else. He was the perfect assassin-- even more efficient than her when she’d been his age. But maybe making him the perfect soldier, a ruthless killing machine like her, had cost something she was not aware of. His face betrayed no emotion, he was simply staring out the window, though she doubted he was cataloguing the city, mapping the route they were taking to see Bruce Wayne-- Damian’s father. He was staring at something that only he could see. Neither of them had mourned Ra’s death, though she supposed neither of them had time for that. Deathstroke was hunting them now, and she had to keep Damian safe, and she knew of only one person other than her capable of doing that. Damian was ten years old. It should be normal for a ten year old to mourn a lost family member, but his face was blank. He was not forcing the emotions away, it was simply as if he did not have any emotions to feel. Maybe that was what she had taken away when she’d pushed him to be better, to be perfect, to honor his family name.
Maybe Talia had been too harsh, too sharp-edged, but there was nothing she could do about it now. His father would have to suffice. Maybe Bruce Wayne could teach Damian things she herself had failed to teach him. Talia had just wanted her son to be perfect. He was born perfect, she had no doubts of that, but she did not know how to properly manifest that out loud, she never had, just like Ra’s had no either. Maybe Bruce could do that.
#talia al ghul#damian wayne#ra's al ghul#bruce wayne#batman#dcu#dc#look at me#back at it with the headcanons#i will never stop#yall i wrote this in one hour#its 1pm and i drank a monster energy drink and had 3 hours of sleep and sat down and wrote this#youre welcome#batfam#batfamily#i could.....do one for each of them.....#jk jk.....unless.....#batfam headcanons#dc comics
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Hi!What do you think about Demetri/Alec/Felix dating a hybrid?I mean, I had this idea since i read the last book but what if they found their mate when they went to check up on Joham?And one of his daughters is a redhead with unreal green eyes and shes even more beautiful than Heidi or Rosalie? Hybrids are more beautiful than vampires they say.Maybe has a gift too?I think this is an idea the entire fandom went over and i think its cool so if you want to, could u write some headcanons about it?
Hi hey hello! I definitely did enjoy writing these headcanons. Sorry they took a wee while but I hope you like!
Alec: He will be aged up to the movie version in this since hybrids fully mature to look like adults 😊
This boy is insatiably curious
You fascinate him
You’ve been alive a while but your experience is so different to his, you’ve lived so differently under your father’s influence
Expect long nights telling him every detail of your existence, what it was like to grow up so fast with your sisters, with Joham, knowing your brother only through notes and the occasional visit
He has learned by now that you come as a package deal with your sisters, but this is something he understands. As he and Jane shared a womb, so shall they share a life
Constantly tries to get you to eat human food because oh my god you can eat it without gagging? + “And this?” “Alec I can eat human food, it just tastes like cardboard.” “Even this?”
The first time you sleep in his presence he has this awestruck expression. He’s not watched anyone sleep in all the time he’s been immortal and doesn’t remember what it was like to sleep himself. All those faces you make as you dream send his mind absolutely reeling because what are you thinking about? What do you dream of? Is it bizarre in your head? What he wouldn’t give to catch a mere glimpse of your dreams…
Jane is…difficult. She wants to like you, really she does, but the only other hybrid she knows belongs to the Cullen’s and that whole fiasco is a sore spot as a Volturi defeat in her mind (and no one defeats her coven)
The first time you get a small scrape Alec FreAkS out because oh god you’re bleeding the whole room is going to be after your sweet sweet blood and…and it’s too sweet…you, you really don’t smell all that appealing like a regular human, hell, Santiago’s not even noticed? What?
Always grumbles and complains your too hot when you cuddle (you’re a solid 40°C after all) but secretly loves your warmth. He’s been frozen for centuries and you’re his very own hot water bottle + Does get a wee bit annoyed when you make him spoon with you later into the relationship because vampires aren’t be able to supposed to sweat but he SWEARS venom is leaking from every pore in his body because you make the bed an oven
15/10 from this boy, adores having a hybrid mate, you are the perfect snuggle buddy for him and just the right amount of human to make him feel like he’s doing a good job protecting you (even though you’re a hybrid and almost as strong as he is, it’s an old timey thing and he died a pubescent boy, let him feel like a man please)
Demetri:
Honestly? He forgets half of the time
“Absolutely not, I will not risk you coming hunting with me!” “I need to hunt and I will not be letting you stop me, bloodhound.”
When they had first gone to find Joham Demetri had been more than curious, the differences in his mind between vampire and hybrid stark considering they’d almost caused a war with the Cullen’s
He replayed the trial over and over in his mind as he followed the strangely vibrant tenor straight to…his mate?
Excuse you?
It swings one way or the other for the initial getting to know period, either he’s treating your fragile ‘human’ self like glass or your ‘vampire’ self is being thrown against the nearest wall because the man has urges and you’re more than happy to satisfy them
You were mostly raised by your sister, living the nomadic life of a vampire with visits to your father now and then when he wanted to check on your development, so you pair spend long hours discussing all the places you’ve been and things you have seen + Since Demetri is far older he has lots more stories to tell so these evenings eventually turn into him telling stories while you end up in a variety of situations. Sometimes he’s holding you to him in bed while he waits for you to fall asleep, other times he lights the fire and you sit curled up together on the sofa before it.
Your favourite Storytime setting by far is the window seat, where you can lean back against his chest and be blanketed by the diamonds his skin reflects in the sunset
You don’t really like human food all that much, but in an effort to woo you he spent all day watching videos and messing up recipes until he had perfected (if you count perfected as collapsing in on itself in places and a little bit raw in the middle) a chocolate cake to welcome you to Volterra for the first time
There was a little flour on his jaw still when he presented it to you and his eyes were all big
He had this smug little smile too
Too smug considering the state of the cake
You’ve been treated to baked goods ever since and Demetri has gotten rather good at his new hobby
110% watches you sleep but not for nefarious reasons. You talk in your sleep and Demetri has compiled a secret list of things you say for his eyes only + His favourite so far is “Felix no, put that poor duck down.” + You didn’t remember where that had come from so it remains without context, and Demetri has made a myriad of stories each more outlandish than the next as to where that quote came from
Loves to lay his head on your chest and listen to your fast, fluttering heartbeat, you get bonus points if you play with his hair
Doesn’t even bother tracking you by tenor anymore, you radiate heat, he knows when you’re near because he gets warmer
You’re rather self-concious that you live among the Volturi without being gifted + Demetri is always quick to remind you that your very nature is the most extraordinary gift in itself
Overall a very good match for a hybrid, you’re never bugged by endless questions like your sister is with Alec but you do need to remind him sometimes of your dual-species label, you need blood as much as you need sleep
Felix:
This character follows a specific idea of appearance stated in the request
Felix absolutely adores you, your perfect for him in every way!
Someone small and durable? Sign him up!
Your attitude is as fiery as your hair, which is a good thing because Felix needs someone as stubborn as he is
His head is as thick as his arms
The minute he sees you he’s completely under your spell which surprises only those closest to him – the mans a giant teddy bear as you now well know
Felix takes things nice and slow, he’s never been a fan of rushing into things when it comes to romance, and is very much intro traditional ways of wooing you + The first thing you receive is a simple letter, elegantly written in a large spidery hand. You were already smitten with the beefy man by the last line, the flowers that arrived a week later really weren’t necessary but very much appreciated
Your hybrid nature is perfect to him because for once, his height difference with you doesn’t seem so scary. He can’t help being big, but at least with your durability he doesn’t have to worry about crushing you
Felix is considered a grunt, muscle and little else, but he’s shared with you his passion for reading and poetry – you never tire of the poems he creates for you
He’s a very proud man so expect to be shown off to all the Guard and basically everyone you ever meet + “Enough of your chatter! You know your crime, now face your punishment!” “ I wouldn’t test my mate if I were you.” “Are you really going to reveal such a tactical weakness? They could target her.” “…I wouldn’t test this extremely beautiful and talented woman I am in no way connected to if I were you.” “Smooth Felix, really smooth.”
Once you feel comfortable with Felix, you show him your gift and its extraordinary effects – his eyes widen at the vivid, ethereal shade of green your eyes turn as you lift a hand and coax all the flora in the room towards you, you can expect him to never shut up about it once he knows + “Can you make another one?” “Not unless I hunt first.” “And then you can make me another flower?”
Felix, it turns out, is a giant goofball when he’s at home. You’re so used to seeing the tense guardsmen it is a complete shock to you when you start living with him in Volterra and see how carefree he is within the walls of his own home
You try not to condone his prank war with Demetri since they both get in trouble for it but you can’t resist helping out from time to time…you can tie off water balloons quicker than he can so you make a good accomplice
Felix doesn’t really touch you in public but he does steal kisses to assert his claim on you. He’ll kiss your forehead whenever he enters or exits a room you’re in, presses kisses to your cheek when you pass each other in the corridor
He reserves a kiss on the lips of any kind for when he’s leaving for a while if in public, like if he’s preparing for a mission with the guard for example, but when you’re alone expect to constantly be coddled by him. He wraps himself around you like a blanket and Will. Not. Let. Go!
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